Duel Identity

by Tom Clancy

  It was like a nightmare! Leif couldn’t even engage his opponent’s blade. Whenever he tried to put his saber against that damned rapier, the assassin’s blade somehow eluded him, always coming back in line to attack.

  The point bored in again, and Leif tried a circular parry, hoping to deflect the rapier while bringing his own point into position to attack.

  It was as if the intruder were reading his mind. Their blades never touched, the rapier’s point moving in a counter-circle to keep Leif in danger.

  The nick Leif had taken felt as if someone were dabbing it with acid. Could the point of his opponent’s sword be smeared with poison? No, it was just good, honest sweat, pouring down his chest-and unintentionally rubbing salt in his wound. That was the least of Leif’s problems. Sooner or later one of the attacker’s weapons would penetrate Leif’s defense. And that meant that shortly, Leif himself would be penetrated by either forty or twelve inches of cold steel. Each time he managed to evade an attack, his adversary was moving in, the point of the rapier coming closer, and closer, and closer.

  Every instinct was screaming at him to run, but there was no way he could turn his back on this killer, even in veeyar. He tried a desperate improvisation, unwrapping some of the tapestry around his left arm and flapping it in the assassin’s face.

  Maybe I can put a little distance between us, Leif thought just as he collided with an old wooden chair.

  Every once in a while a thronelike chair or heavy trestle table was stationed along the corridors, maybe for variety in the scenery. It was just Leif’s bad luck to blunder into one of them now.

  The assassin leaped forward to finish the fight.

  A blast of thunder nearly deafened Leif. But he wasn’t so out of it not to notice his attacker suddenly flying back, tumbling like a marionette with all its strings cut.

  Leif glanced over his shoulder to see Sergei Chernev- sky. The Russian boy was in his usual Hussar’s uniform, but instead of his sword, he held a huge, old-fashioned revolver. That was the source of the roar that had nearly taken out Leif’s eardrum. “What-” he began.

  “I took the guard duty tonight,” Sergei explained. “I get to see enough diplomatic balls. Maybe I find something more interesting, instead.” He gestured toward the flattened assassin. “Like this.”

  Saber back at the ready, Leif approached the man in the black cloak. The rapier lay a foot from one hand, the dagger even farther away. His former adversary didn’t look as though he’d be getting up anytime very soon.

  Leif kicked the weapons out of reach, then cautiously prodded the prostrate form. The cloak shifted, revealing a neat hole in the intruder’s chest. Leif didn’t want to see where the bullet came out. Probably not a pretty sight.

  The excess of adrenalin still humming through Leif’s veins had him turning on Sergei. “What did you go and kill him for?” Leif shouted. “Now we’ll never find out who sent him!”

  “I thought I was saving your life,” the Russian boy replied simply.

  “Oh,” Leif said. Undoubtedly true. Still-“Couldn’t you have wounded him?”

  Sergei gave him a look. “Or maybe knocked both weapons from his hands with a pair of shots?” He gestured with the heavy horse pistol. “What I have here is more like a cannon than a real gun, my friend. I count myself lucky I hit him instead of you.”

  The clumping of heavy boots echoed up the stairway. At least the guards on the other floors had heard Sergei’s shot, even if they hadn’t noticed Leif’s life-and-death fight.

  Leif was still suffering from the aftereffects of his battle. His hand was trembling so badly that it took three tries before he could sheathe his saber.

  He shook his head. Clashing blades were all very fine in competitions with rules or in holo or in literature. But this hadn’t even been steel to steel dueling-just a silent, murderous attempt to turn Leif into mincemeat. Tonight he’d almost been exiled from Latvinia-in about the hardest way he could imagine.

  Leif clenched his hands, trying to still them. He’d joked about what seemed to happen to him whenever he touched a sword in Latvinia. But it really began to seem as though the sim was as hostile to him as it had been to Roberta Hendry.

  He pushed that thought aside as he turned to Sergei. “Do you think we can keep this quiet for the time being?” he said as royal guardsmen appeared from the stairway. “It’s not just that we’d be breaking up the party downstairs-some people might get ideas if they heard about an assassin being stopped this close to the royal apartments.”

  Sergei ran an eye over the arriving military men. “No problem,” he assured Leif. “Most of these, I think, are nonrole-playing characters. Everybody who wants to be anybody was going to the ball tonight.”

  He touched the insignia at this throat, “In any event, I outrank them. Let’s see what can be done.”

  Leif figured that any statements that had to be made could be taken care of the next day. Sergei accompanied him up to his room, but even so he cautiously peered into shadows and checked out dark doorways all along the route. Once he was safely locked in, Leif synched out. Then he sat up on his computer-link couch, stretched, and headed immediately for a shower. He no longer had the nick under his clavicle, but his clothes were drenched with cold sweat.

  Even though he could barely keep his eyes open, he knew that dried sweat would itch like crazy all night if he didn’t deal with it. Leif went to bed, tossing and turning from an unending stream of nightmares.

  In the worst of them, he faced the murderous assassin again. But this time the ever-moving blade of the killer’s rapier didn’t just move as if it were alive. It was alive, turning into a poisonous cobra which leaped and bit him right under the collarbone….

  Leif found himself half out of bed after that one, his head on the floor, both hands clutching at his chest. His heart was pounding as if he’d run up the stairs to the top of the Washington Monument.

  “Don’t know which is worse,” he mumbled, stumbling for the bathroom. “Slaney’s goofball veeyar creation, or the sims my own subconscious is sticking me with.”

  One thing was sure. He literally had Latvinia on the brain. Leif looked at the clock, shook his head, and padded down the hallway to the kitchen.

  His father was just finishing breakfast as Leif came in-he was eating doctor-approved cereal and skim milk instead of the bacon and eggs Magnus Anderson preferred. Leif sniffed the air, but it seemed there was no coffee for him to wake up and smell.

  Magnus Anderson held out the cup in his hand. “Tea,” he said with some disgust. “The latest advice from my doctor. I’m not sure the stress of deprivation and caffeine addiction isn’t doing more damage than good.”

  “I need more of a caffeine jolt,” Leif said, making a beeline for the coffeemaker, where he gathered together the makings of a full pot.

  “You were in bed early enough-tucked in by the time I got home,” Leif’s father said. “Although I know you consider anything shy of eight-thirty in the morning uncomfortably close to dawn, you should have gotten a decent night’s sleep. What’s up?”

  “Nightmares,” Leif replied, regretting it even as the word left his lips. “I had a pretty intense sword fight in Latvinia last night, and I relived it-with worse details- in my sleep.”

  “When veeyar first came in, a lot of people were afraid that would happen to their children-the little ones would be too stimulated.” Magnus Anderson gave his son a dubious look. “I never heard you complain about such a thing before.” He hesitated. “If this sim is upsetting you, maybe it would be just as well if you stayed out of it.”

  Leif shook his head. “I’m not going to let a bunch of electrons scare me away/’ he said. “Besides, there are real-life consequences to consider. Megan O’Malley would skin me alive if I pulled out now.”

  His father shook his head. “Your most dependable motive,” he said in a dry voice. “Cherchez la femme.”

  That was actually a popular French line-“search for the woman.” Leif did
n’t know how to interpret or answer that, but luckily he was spared. Magnus Anderson glanced at his watch and put his cup down. “Early morning meetings.” He sighed. “Do you mind dealing with these dishes before your mother sees them?”

  Leif shrugged. “I’ll take care of them. Don’t worry about it, Dad,” he said. “Look on the bright side. With luck, they may drag you off to a power breakfast at that meeting of yours.”

  His father grinned. “I can only hope so. It would be rude of me to refuse such hospitality.”

  Leif saw his father out the door, returned to the kitchen, and poured himself a cup of coffee. The refrigerator was noticeably lacking in the makings of a hearty breakfast-clearly Dad was trying to avoid temptation- but Leif dug out some frozen egg whites. Adding chopped scallions and a heaping helping of ham bits, Leif constructed a reasonable omelet. There was fresh bread in the refrigerator, so he had toast. Washed down with a couple of cups of coffee-not to mention a generous dollop of catsup, the meal went down easily enough.

  Leif spent a while fumphing around the apartment, catching snatches of several morning holonews programs, checking the weather, walking around. He couldn’t seem to sit down and pay attention to anything.

  Finally he took another shower, dressed, and looked at the clock. Maybe it was a little early-

  Leif shook his head and went to the computer-link couch. He lay back, experienced the usual disorienting buzz between the ears, and opened his eyes in Latvinia. Apparently the Baron Albrecht von Hengist was an early riser today, too. Leif’s virtual self was washed, shaved, and dressed-in a more informal uniform today. There was no trace of breakfast in the room, but Leif pushed that thought away. Instead, he went to the writing desk and dashed off a couple of notes. Then he rang for a servant.

  “Please deliver these to the princess and the prime minister,” he said to the valet who appeared.

  “Sir-Her Majesty requested your presence as soon as you were available,” the uniformed flunky replied.

  Instead of being herded to the throne room, Leif was led upstairs to the royal apartments. Megan met him in a book-lined study. Sitting with her was the Graf von Esbach.

  “It seems we owe you another debt, Baron,” the prime minister said. “Had you not apprehended that assassin, last night’s festivities might have ended very differently.”

  Leif raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I was merely offering the fellow some healthful exercise,” he said. “Young Chernevsky was the one who ended the men- ace.

  “By ending the intruder’s life.” Von Esbach shook his head. “I would give a great deal to have that fellow alive and talking.”

  Megan finally spoke up. “I only learned of these events this morning.” She surprised Leif by acting like a turn-of-the-century heroine, taking his hands and leaning forward.

  “No harm done, Your-”

  “I got an urgent priority message on my system, from our friend Alan,” she said to Leif in a low voice. “Not good. I am not a morning person.”

  “I had hoped you wouldn’t hear anything until I could investigate,” Leif began.

  “Quite impossible,” von Esbach interrupted, giving Leif a fishy look. “Colonel Vojak was quite annoyed that you tried to cover up the affair. Especially considering your friendship with that anarchist.”

  “Miss Gamba?” Leif said in puzzlement. “What connection could there possibly be-”

  “Anarchist literature was found on the dead man’s person,” the prime minister said solemnly. “I regret to say that the news has apparently leaked to the public at large. There is only one anarchist of note at large in Latvinia. I fear a good many people believe last night’s attack was instigated by Miss Gamba.”

  “That’s-” Leif bit off the rather vulgar word he’d been about to use. “Ridiculous,” he finally said. “We don’t even know who was the fellow’s target.”

  Who had the black-cloaked figure been after? Was the assassin aiming for the ailing king? Had he intended to ambush Megan? Or had this fencing wizard appeared merely to make Leif’s life miserable?

  “As for Miss Gamba, however one might disagree with her politics, she has certainly conducted all her activities in the open,” Leif went on. “To accuse her of conspiracy-”

  He was interrupted by applause from the doorway. How long had Alan Slaney been standing there? “It is most gallant of you to defend your friend,” Gray Piotr said. “However, we must face facts. With the amount of bad feeling against the young lady, we cannot guarantee her safety in Latvinia.”

  Alan, in his role as Gray Piotr, nodded to von Esbach. “I’ve sent a detachment of soldiers to bring her from the hospital to the palace. However, as soon as we can arrange it, a special train should take her out of the country.”

  The prime minister nodded. “Mob violence can be an ugly thing.”

  “I believe our guest has even now arrived,” Gray Piotr turned back to the doorway. A squad of soldiers in plain gray and green marched in, surrounding a stretcher detail. Reclining on the stretcher was Roberta Hendry. She still seemed half-paralyzed after her brush with the lightning bolt. But her eyes blazed with fury.

  “This isn’t over,” the dark-haired girl croaked.

  “It’s only for your own safety, dear woman,” Gray Piotr said. “Heaven forfend that anything worse happen to you in our little land.”

  In a more businesslike tone he asked the officer in charge, “Has the train been prepared?”

  “Sir, it should be ready soon,” the soldier replied.

  “Excellent.” The man who would be king turned to Megan. “Cousin? I realize my actions might seem highhanded. But I think they’re preferable to riot-and murder.”

  Megan nodded uncomfortably. Gray Piotr linked arms with the prime minister. “Von Esbach, perhaps you should come along to make sure all the legalities are attended to.”

  Leif and Megan watched the small parade move off.

  As soon as they were alone, Megan burst out, “Can you figure out what’s going on there?”

  “More important, do you think that your friend Alan knows what he’s doing?” Leif asked. “He can try humiliating and shutting her up here in Latvinia, but Roberta has serious juice out in the real world. Her parents know half the movers and shakers in Washington, and that includes plenty of bigwigs at AHSO. If she lodges a complaint-”

  “What?” Megan demanded. “They can’t pull the plug on the sim.”

  “But they could change the rules for all the Special Interest Group members,” Leif replied. “They could declare Latvinia off-limits for AHSO members. That would be one easy way to end the beta-test. Alan would have no customers. He’d have no way of getting a payoff for all the time he’s put in.”

  “Look-I don’t know what’s going on here.” Megan was definitely getting upset. “But I’m sure, whatever it is, it’s going on to further the plot.”

  “Yeah,” Leif said, “Sure.” Considering Megan’s worried mood, he didn’t add what he wanted to say.

  The question is, he thought, whose plot are we talking about?

  Chapter 10

  “Ouch!” Megan O’Malley yelped as her opponent’s blade whacked her right in the midriff. She stepped back, lowering her own saber as her free hand rubbed at her “wound.” That hurt, even through several layers of padded fencing jacket.

  “Reverse moulinet.” Her opponent remained on guard. And Megan wasn’t sure, but she suspected he was grinning behind his fencing mask.

  What made things worse, this was the balding, out- of-shape guy who usually couldn’t touch her. But then, that was the way the whole evening’s practice had gone. People had criticized her during the exercises, then picked on her during the free bouting section. And she wasn’t holding her own, so she could hardly blame them for it.

  Taking a deep breath, Megan brought her sword up, assumed the en garde position, and said, “Let’s go.”

  She did all right for a couple of minutes, and then, humiliatingly, the guy nailed her again! />
  “Megan!” Alan Slaney called. “Could I see you, please.”

  She went through the after-bout ritual-saluting, removing her mask, and shaking hands with her opponent-even though what she really wanted to do was punch in his face. Then she walked over to where Alan stood observing the room with his back to a wall.

  “What’s wrong?” Alan asked.

  “Nothing,” Megan answered. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Megan, I’ve been watching you tonight. Maybe you think you’re trying, but you’re just going through the motions. And when that happens, you get results like Ed there trouncing you. Alan shook his head. “Whether you want to admit it or not, there’s some sort of distraction coming between you and your fencing. And until you deal with whatever is bothering you, you might as well hang a big sign on your chest that says, ‘Please beat me up!’ Because that’s what every fencing partner you face will do.”

  “There is something wrong,” Megan confessed. “Something about Latvinia. But you said we’re not supposed to talk about it in the salle.”

  “That’s just to keep people from getting distracted. But if it’s making you fence like you’re sleepwalking, maybe we’d better talk about it,” Alan said. “I know your character has more duties than you might have expected. Is this about being virtmailed so early this morning?”

  Megan shook her head. “It’s about what happened after. That girl, Roberta Whatsername. Leif knows her. He says she’s not going to take being thrown out of the sim lying down.”

  Alan grinned. “That’s about all she could do, after being struck by lightning.”

  “That’s not all she can do out here in real life,” Megan explained. “Her Mumsy and Pater aren’t your ordinary set of parents. They’ve got endless resources. They also know everybody, and that apparently includes some of the muckety-mucks at AHSO.”

  “I’m well within my rights to boot her out. The responsible authority for any SIG or sim-which in this case is yours truly-is allowed to eject anyone whose activities demonstrably disrupt the basic concept agreed upon for simulation. Which is what Roberta was trying to do, starting the Russian Revolution about twenty years too early. It’s in the AHSO bylaws, to prevent participants from imposing their particular view of history-you know, the folks who expect to find hidden Viking colonies in America, or who demand to see alien gods from space building the pyramids. They’re free to develop their own alternative sims, but they aren’t allowed to ruin the party for everybody else in one that’s up and running according to a given set of rules.”