by Brian Daley
The kid snatched his hand out of the way and shoved himself to his feet with old-hand-Lunie grace. "Think again; it could be worth it. I know things. I see things, and I hear even better than I see."
Alacrity pointed to his right boot with his brolly. "Then d'you see this! Know where it's going in another second if you don't lose yourself real fast?"
The kid moved aside with fending motions of his hands. "I'll be here if you change your mind. I'm Quirk; I give good advice."
Alacrity threw a growl at Quirk as the duo went on. Alacrity was headed, as best Floyt could surmise from his recollection of the place, to where Simoleanna Coup's quarters had been. Sim, a winsome, feisty young Forager woman equally at ease in streetfighter's clothes or sequined evening gown, was very taken with Alacrity, and vice versa, during the brief stopover months before.
In that extreme end of the vacated warren, where no squatters had yet staked claim, the pillaging had gone on in earnest. The only light was from the occasional porthole or skylight, the harsh sunbeams cutting through the stale gloom.
The boxtowners had been through like locusts, stripping away furnishings and anything else that wasn't welded down. There was more of the nitwit vandalizing: a mural marked with urine; elaborate wainscoting pried loose and pulverized. When the underclass got a chance to work off its frustration, savage emotions broke loose, and there were bloodstains to prove it.
Alacrity wasn't surprised to find that all the air ducts in that section had been shut down to bolster circulation in the occupied areas. "The fights over air will be worse than the ones over plumbing?" Floyt inquired, and Alacrity nodded.
"But why didn't the Sockwallets sell off all this property before they left?" Floyt asked. "All this material—the lashup itself?"
"The real estate's public land, I guess." Alacrity was squinting at the walls as he went along. "Foragers can't just dismantle a lashup and drag it along with them, and people know that. So why pay for something that's going to be available for free when it's abandoned? When somebody with resources wants the buildings, they just come for them, and I wouldn't want to be living here then, pal."
"But surely somebody could find some good use for the place."
"The Lunies already did: they're letting all the trash pile up in one place. You heard Inspector Grissom; Luna's booming and that means a shortage of space. A big new boxtown eases the strain. You evict the riffraff, they come here, and you rerent your property for three times what you were getting. Yeah, I bet New Upsie's a real popular idea."
"Not around here. Listen, what are you hunting for?"
Alacrity had stopped by a hatchway. "Forager cues."
With the light spill from a nearby viewbleb to search by, Alacrity scanned the bulkhead by Sim's door, past pathetic scrawlings and retarded vileness left there by the looters. He went past something, then came back, bending close. There were simple code-runes, hidden in among the other clutter.
"What do they say, Alacrity?"
Alacrity chuckled, reaching out to pat Floyt's shoulder. "Everything's fine. They heard!"
"Heard what? Come, come now! I don't hold out on you, do I?"
Alacrity turned to him with a sober look. "No, that's true, you don't. Sorry, Ho."
Floyt suddenly wanted to bite his own tongue. He fought the impulse to make a clean breast of the White Ship matter; boxtown was no place for it and, more importantly, he couldn't face the idea of devastating his friend.
"The Sockwallets heard about us, and the Camarilla, and how the conspirators are being sniffed out," Alacrity was saying. "Sim says they're satisfied with the revenge."
"To be honest with you, I'd almost forgotten about that."
Two Camarilla assassins had made their way into the lashup to get Floyt and Alacrity, only to be killed themselves. But the sanctity of the lashup was violated and a number of Sockwallets injured. Gunny Readyknob and the other Foragers stressed that Alacrity and Floyt were obligated to let the Sockwallets know to whom they owed revenge.
"I'm glad they saw it that way," Floyt admitted. One less thing to worry about. "Do the cues say anything else?"
Alacrity was bent to them again. "They're headed for Gaeltacht to start a new lashup. We're welcome anytime, as adopted Sockwallets, for an hour or forever."
"That makes me feel good," Floyt began as they started back the way they'd come. "But I'm not sure staying here is such a good idea, even if you do know your way around boxtowns."
"I'll go along with that," Alacrity declared. "We've drawn too much attention to ourselves. And anyway, the main thing I had in mind was finding those cues."
"Fine."
"There's something else, Ho. You're right about not holding things back."
"Forget I said that," Floyt said quickly, conscience squirming. "I had no right to, you see, because—"
"What I want to say is, you've got a right to know what's coming. Y'see, I have to make my way to a planet called Windfall, because I'm old enough now to vote the one share of stock in the White Ship that my folks left me. And that means I can finally get into a meeting of the Board of Interested Parties of the White Ship."
"And that's good?"
"It's step number one of getting control of the Ship. So, our next move is finding a way to get to Windfall. I figure we'll make the rounds, get ourselves a couple of berths as able-bodied breakabouts in a ship bound out that way."
"And then on to Spica, where the White Ship is, right?"
"Yessir. On Windfall there's this guy, Lord Marcus Perlez. He was my father's, oh, godfather, I guess you could say, or mentor. Anyway, he's got my share in trust. With some luck, maybe he'll help us get to Spica."
"That would be wonderful."
"So now you know most of what I do. Tell you the rest as we go."
Floyt writhed inwardly, but as he had in Mindframe, he held back when he might have blurted the truth. Alacrity's whole life was focused on becoming Master of the White Ship, on recovering his family's heritage. It was what kept him going and saved him from the terminal despair that claimed his father. How do I tell him that I know, know for sure, that it will never be—that he'll fail? the question pounded in Floyt's head.
He couldn't. So he said, "Alacrity, you may be able to land a billet as a breakabout-able, but there's not much chance of my doing it."
"I was worried about that too, even though you picked up a lot while we were shipping in the Pihoquiaq and Astraea Imprimatur. But I took a look at some of the shipping newsblurbs at Lunaport. Didn't you notice how busy the place was?"
"I wasn't really paying much attention."
"Luna's economy's going straight up, and there're more ships making port all the time. And when there're fortunes being made right and left, that means people are jumping ship, salivating for their share. I'm betting there'll be a couple of berths for us, bound offworld and in the right direction."
"So be it," Floyt seconded. "Even if we end up shoehorned into the cuddy of another Monitor-class."
Alacrity slapped his back. "We'll blow up that bridge when we come to it!"
Floyt laughed, and postponed the truthtelling, unwilling to mar the good feelings of the moment, to rob Alacrity of soaring hope. They wended back through the warren. There weren't as many people around as there had been; Alacrity became guarded and watchful. He tucked his brolly into carrying loops on his pack and pulled the Captain's Sidearm.
Floyt drew the Webley.
"If you shoot, be real careful," Alacrity muttered.
"I remember, I remember," Floyt said nervously, recalling the Foragers' draconian rules against using firearms inside the lashup. For all their ingenious work, it was still a makeshift place. One shot in the wrong spot and a seal or hatch or dome might go, and perhaps kill every soul in it. "Where do we go from here?"
"There're a few different routes to the entrance, but there's only one way out."
* * * *
When they neared the pressure-quonset they found Quirk, the young beggar, still on the pile o
f plundered carpeting. Now, though, he sat tailor fashion, wrists resting on his knees, watching for their approach.
"Another showed up in boxtown, another outsider," Quirk informed them with a yawn.
"Looking for us?" Floyt demanded as they stopped short. Alacrity swung his gaze this way and that.
"Who else?"
"Where is he? Did he say anything?" Floyt asked.
Quirk was silent, giving Floyt a languid smile, making the fingertip-rubbing gesture again. "Play 'im, pay 'im," Alacrity said. "This isn't begging; it's a business expense."
Floyt gave Quirk a one-oval piece, then hesitated, wondering if he should dicker. Alacrity made an impatient, boiling sound and snatched another coin out of his friend's palm, slapping it onto the kid's.
"Is he coming this way?" Alacrity narrowed his eyes at the boy; the alley runner nodded and pointed to a passageway.
"You're sure it's only one? He's alone?" Quirk nodded as if Alacrity were a halfwit. "So what's our best route back to the main airlock?"
Quirk explained quickly, showing that he knew every turn and cranny in New Upsie. All the two had to do was cross through a lesser dome, use the length of water conduit that had been fitted out as a passageway for a shortcut, and make their way through a prefab hangar that the Sockwallets had turned into a rec center.
"Good, good." Alacrity nodded. "And which hatch do we take?"
But when Quirk turned to indicate, Alacrity grabbed him in a choke hold, dragged him down from his perch, and put the muzzle of his pistol to the kid's head.
"You're so sure it's safe, you little pustule, you go first." Quirk fought for a moment then relaxed, knowing he couldn't break free. Floyt was still gaping. Alacrity half carried, half frog-hopped the kid to the hatch he'd pointed out, not difficult in the low gravity.
"Okay, Ho; stand to one side and hit the control. I'm going to shove Mr. Information, here, through first."
Quirk began struggling wildly again, even though it was hopeless. "All right, leave it closed," Alacrity grated. "Secure it if you can do it without making noise!" He slammed Quirk on the floor in a heap and knelt on him, clamping the boy's wrists together with one big, knob-knuckled hand.
The Captain's Sidearm had a long, heavy rib running from its muzzle to the base of its handshield, a deflector for defense against edged or blunt weapons in hand-to-hand combat. Alacrity did something to the pistol one-handed; a glittering pistol-bayonet sprang forth from the deflector. Alacrity put the point against the base of the kid's right eye, with the weight of his shoulder hovering over it.
"Last chance, alley runner. How many are there?"
"Three, with guns," the kid said woodenly. "Two in a crossfire on the other side of that hatch, the other keeping watch on the back route, to the far side of the main dome."
Alacrity yanked Quirk to his feet, bayonet at his throat. "And how much did they pay you?"
"Hundred lunars."
Alacrity was impressed. "In advance?"
"Ten in advance, the rest later. I figure ten's better'n nothing."
Alacrity shook Quirk angrily, flopping him around easily. "You gullible asswipe! Can't you see they were going to shoot you, too?"
He looked around, then lugged Quirk off in the direction of a looted machine shop they'd passed. Floyt caught up as Alacrity bounce-shuffled Quirk along. "That hatch has a manual lock, Alacrity, but it would've been louder than Marley's ghost, and I couldn't figure out how it worked." He was almost whispering.
Alacrity was used enough to Floyt's obscure Terran references to understand what he meant about noise. He nodded again. "That's okay; cover our backs." Floyt did, skate-hopping sideways, bringing up the rear with the Webley pointed back the way they'd come,
Alacrity came to the machine shop, which he recalled from their previous visit. There were storage lockers built into the wall. He opened one and jammed Quirk inside, then slammed it shut and made sure it latched securely.
Floyt was surprised the boy hadn't put up more of a struggle until Alacrity said through the locker door's little vent grating, "We should kill you and you know you have it coming. If either of us gets hurt, the other's gonna come back here and shoot a few more holes in this locker door. In the meantime, think about what a screwup you are."
Back in the passageway, Floyt said, "How did you know? That he was lying, I mean?"
Alacrity smiled evily. "He's satisfied with just two ovals, especially when he sees you've got more right there in your hand?"
"Too eager, hm?"
"Let it be a lesson to 'im, He'll be older and wiser by the time his gangmates locate him. If. Look, how much do you recall about the layout of this dump?"
"Enough to know we haven't got too many options. How long do we have before those triggermen come after us?"
"Not long. I think if we can go through that aeroponics shed—remember, the one made out of the booster tank? We can outflank them."
The aeroponics shed had been stripped of all but its bulkiest fixtures. As the two skimmed carefully through the echoing darkness, Floyt found himself whispering, "There's just one thing, Alacrity."
"What's that?"
"What if they lied to Quirk, too? What if there're more of them and they aren't all waiting back there where they told him they'd be?"
The sudden tension of that thought might have been the edge that had Alacrity alert enough to hear movement. Or it may have been that the other ambushers overheard Floyt's remark and opted to move before their prey became spooked, even though the pair was still some distance away. In any case, Alacrity caught the sounds and threw himself and Floyt behind a holding reservoir.
A second later the shed was lit, its air cooked by sniper volleys. The assassins were using scatterbeams and pulsed lasers; there was little Floyt and Alacrity could do except keep their heads down, sweating from the heat and from fear.
"All right, Firing Studs!" someone yelled. "Come out now and we take you alive. Elsewise, we do it the hard way!" Floyt made to take a quick peek, but Alacrity pulled him back,
"Your choice, Fitzhugh; Floyt!" The firing began again. The two ducked molten globs from structural members that had been hit, and intense heatwaves. The massive reservoir provided adequate cover for the moment, but Alacrity feared for bulkhead and seal integrity, especially now that there were no fearless Sockwallets dedicated to protecting their lashup at all costs.
One shooter's angle of fire changed. "They're trying for position," Alacrity murmured grimly, perspiration beading his face and dripping from his nose.
Without leaving cover, Floyt angled his gun barrel up and fired away, ricocheting off the heavy-gauge metal ceiling, sending spanging composite fragments whining through the shed. It was a horrible risk, but it worked; the assassins' fire halted and the advance was stopped for the time being.
Alacrity gathered his nerve and edged his pistol around a corner to let fly, risking having his hand burned off or the Captain's Sidearm blown up. The monster handgun's blast pounded their ears; by design, it gave off light and muzzle blast like a cannon, for shock effect.
There was a lot of scuffling as somebody hustled for cover. Alacrity fired twice more. Floyt took the insane chance of popping up and squeezing off unaimed shots, the Webley jumping in his hand.
Whoever the assailants were, they were busy staying low. Floyt emptied the revolver's cylinder, hot propellant and bullet shavings spraying from the chambers, as Alacrity pulled him back the way they'd come. Alacrity kept up the fire, unleashing the furious blare of the Captain's Sidearm around the shed pell-mell, making the air broiling hot, keeping the attackers' heads down.
Until one of them gets desperate enough to rush us, Floyt fretted, working on the hatch. He got it open as Alacrity hosed the energy gun back and forth, alley-broom style, raising the temperature to blistering, backing along after Floyt. Alacrity jumped to cover on one side of the hatchway as Floyt shouldered it shut from the other, shots roiling and spattering from it as it swung to.
&nb
sp; "No lock, fug-all!" Floyt panted. "It's been stripped."
Alacrity backed away from the hatch, muzzle trained on it. "We can't stick around. Go to the next hatch and reload; I'll cover."
Floyt skimmed off in that direction. Alacrity checked his weapon. The charge indicator still read three-quarters full. Alacrity hoped he was getting a true reading; a fizzle now would be very embarrassing and harmful to his career goals. He backed and side-hopped, face streaming, to rejoin Floyt.
Floyt was at the next hatch along their route of retreat, nearly set. He had his top-breaking pistol open, holding it by its down turned barrel, reloading two bullets at a time. He had his tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth in concentration, but he worked quickly and calmly.
He's changed a lot, Alacrity thought again as he took a crouched firing position on the other side of the hatch.
"What now?" Floyt asked, closing the revolver. "If we go back, I bet we'll find the other ambushers have that route blocked, too."
"I'm stumped," Alacrity admitted. "They sure got everything covered in a hurry."
"Yes, it seems they're thorough."
"Uh-huh. You want to know what I don't get? That part about 'Firing Studs.' Firing Studs? New one on me."
Floyt had his slug pistol cocked and ready. "Oh, that; that's one of Sintilla's expressions. People end up calling us that in Castle of the Death Addicts."
"Wha—? Fancula, doesn't anybody have anything better to do than read those damn books?" He hunkered around to peer through the lock, into the next stretch of passageway they'd have to negotiate.
"It sounds as if someone decided to read up on his quarry," Floyt judged.
"Stop the clock!" Alacrity was looking at him pop-eyed. "They read the book; what if they believe all that pasture decor that Tilla made up about us?"
"Well, then they're probably a little apprehensive just at the moment. In the book we are truly remarkable fellows. Part of it takes place here in the lashup, as a matter of fact. It developed that you knew the secrets of the subsurface shuttle system of the Lunar Ancients."
Hissing and scorching sounded at the hatch behind them, covering fire for a rush by the opposition.
