by Glen Cook
The firing broke out again. The stunner seemed to be among the far trees. The lasegun was among the fountains. The lasegunner, illuminated by the fountain lights, was moving very carefully.
Moyshe climbed three meters up Jellyroll’s pedestal, slithered into a prone position between the old bandit’s feet. It did make a nice vantage point, but would be hell to get away from fast. He edged forward, trying to spot the duelists.
Though the farther man was in darkness, Moyshe found him first. The nearer remained veiled by the flying jewelry flung up against the ever-shifting colors of the fountain lights. The water susurrated hypnotically as it tumbled back into the pools.
A lasebolt crackled through the branches of a pine. The gentle breeze brought smoky resin scents redolent of evergreen forests. The farther duelist snapped a shot in reply. His face was visible for an instant.
Mouse.
No doubt about it this time.
Storm clutched his left arm as he dodged to a new position. What the hell? benRabi thought. What’s the fool doing out here with nothing but a stunner?
Mouse’s opponent shifted position.
“Ha!” benRabi gasped. “It is her.”
The Sangaree woman had had cosmetic surgery, but her catlike, sensuous movements remained unchanged. She just could not hide that deadly animal grace.
He tried to draw a bead on her. “Welcome back, sweetheart,” he murmured. He was not at all surprised to see her. This was another passage in her death-dance with Mouse and himself.
She did not know another dancer was about to cut in. He grinned. A fragment of an old personality returned. He became the hard half of Gundaker Niven again.
“Ha!” She was hurt too. Her left side sported a wet, hasty bandage. Mouse had gotten close once, but had missed his kill. Surprising. That was not like him.
It said something about how good the woman was.
BenRabi got a good bead. He had no trouble shooting. The woman yowled, jumped like a broken-backed cat, collapsed on the colored concrete. Her muscles jerked spastically, then she slowly stiffened into the almost-death typical of a solid stunner shot to the head.
Moyshe looked down at his weapon. “Good shooting, cowboy. Mouse!” He shouted to make himself heard over the fountains. “She’s out.”
“Moyshe?” Storm called back. “Is that you?”
“Yeah.” Mouse sounded weak. “You hurt bad?”
“I’ll live.”
Storm came into the open, stumbling toward the statue. He thrust his wounded arm into his jumper for support, carried his stunner like a revolver. He paused beside Marya, stared down. “Checkmate. Finally.” His gaze flicked to the statue, back down.
BenRabi shouted, “What the hell happened? I been running myself dead trying to find you.”
“She sucked me in. Showed herself, took a shot, then ran. I lost my head. I ran right into it.” He glanced up again, his expression odd. “But she made a bigger mistake, eh? Let her gut override her brain.” Mouse smiled wickedly. His lips stretched in a ferocious duplicate of the woman’s vampire grin. “You know the funny part, Moyshe? She was working with McGraws. That’s scary when you think about it.”
Mouse fell silent. He stared at the woman for a long time, as if loath to end the feud.
Though benRabi did not like it, time had proven the next move necessary. She had been given two chances. Twice she had come back for more. If Mouse did not end it here, they would have the hellsbitch on their trail again, all fangs and claws once more.
She and Mouse were two of a kind, Moyshe reflected. Only death would stop either of them.
“You’ve got to be realistic, Thomas… Moyshe,” benRabi mumbled to himself. “What’s got to be has got to be.”
He waited. Mouse remained reluctant. Time stretched.
Personnel carriers rumbled in the street outside the park. Moyshe looked back, expecting to see Kindervoort.
Wrong. Marines. But just as good.
Back to Mouse. Was he stalling because he did not have a lethal weapon? He could use hers. Or his hands.
Then he understood. Mouse was thinking about his Holy Grail, the hatred that had driven him so long. He would not yet know about Homeworld, but killing Marya would be symbolic of the process he had initiated. Symbolic of attaining his lifelong goal. Jupp would be the weapon… Marya might be the last of the ancient enemy he would encounter.
The end of a road is always a disappointment, Moyshe reflected.
Poor Mouse. Down deep, where he lived, he knew that when Marya went there would be nothing left to hate. His Grail, for all its distant sparkle, was just another empty cup.
“Where do we go from here, Tommy?” he asked softly.
In the shadows between Jellyroll’s legs, benRabi/McClennon could do nothing but shake his head. He did not know.
Moyshe/Thomas’s mind was becoming pandemoniac. The outside pressure was off. There was nothing to hold the dissociation in check. He was this man for a moment, then that. Alyce crawled through his brain like a maggot through rotting flesh. Something within him kept shrieking I want, and not letting him know what. Sudden storms of emotion racked him, always without detectable cause. Anger. Hate. Love. Sorrow. Joy. Despair. A moment of each, whap! like the impact of a fist, then gone, as if some storehouse had been broken open and all the containers inside dumped at random.
He wrapped his arms around his head and moaned softly.
He croaked, “I don’t know, Mouse,” it seemed an hour after his partner asked his question. BenRabi wanted to say, “Stars’ End, and back to the high rivers,” but the other characters inside kept telling him he would never see a harvestship again, would never track another herd, would never again go into Contact, would never build that secret service for the Seiners.
That Alyce creature must have been a hypnotic key, he thought. She was supposed to unlock all the spooks hidden behind the barriers Chub had been unable to penetrate. But the key had not opened the lock all the way. No more than Mouse had back when, when he had tried before their scheduled return to Confederation.
Something had shorted out. Something was trying to take him back not just to Thomas McClennon before this mission, but all the way back, to a day when he had not as yet undergone any personality programming.
He did not want to make that journey. He wanted what he had found in the high rivers between the stars. He fought. Deep inside, he howled and clawed like a wild thing tangled in a hunter’s net.
There were angry shouts in the street whence he had come. The Marines were disarming his men. Ordinary precaution, he supposed. His team had been operating outside its “reasonable jurisdiction.”
Mouse made his decision. It favored discretion. He stooped to recover Marya’s weapon…
“Don’t!” The voice was soft enough not to be heard far, yet commanding. BenRabi/McClennon shrank into the shadows of Jellyroll’s legs. His Amy Many-Names had appeared. She bore a nasty little pistol. Her features were as cold as Mouse’s became when he went into assassin’s mind.
Mouse looked at her, saw the absence of emotion, slowly straightened. He did not drop his stunner.
“Where’s Moyshe?” she snapped. “The grubs will be after him. I’ve got to find him first. He’s suddenly the key to everything. You two never really crossed over, did you?” The words tumbled out of her mouth almost faster than her lips could shape them.
Mouse did not answer. He just stared into Amy’s eyes, holding them. He clutched his weapon and waited for her coldness to thaw.
Or was he waiting for McClennon? Thomas was not sure. Mouse might be turning his own peril into some kind of test.
McClennon was sure Amy’s determination would not persist. She was not trained for it.
“Where’s Moyshe?” she demanded again. Her voice rose, squeaked.
“Here, Love.” He eased from the shadows. “Don’t move. Please?”
Her gaze darted his way, noted his stun
ner.
Mouse raised his weapon.
“No, Mouse. Not my wife, you don’t.”
Mouse stopped. McClennon’s tone halted him. He swung his head for a cautious look at his partner.
“Moyshe, why?” Amy asked plaintively. Her weapon did not waver a millimeter from dead center on Mouse’s chest.
“Why what, honey?”
“This betrayal. We gave you everything…”
“What betrayal?”
He could hear the I she was saying inside. She had opened her fortress unvanquishable to him, and now his promises appeared false. He had come to her bearing banners of love, false banners, and had raped and plundered her soul.
He could hear her pain, but hadn’t any idea what had brought it on. “What betrayal?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”
“The Marines are arresting everybody. ‘Interning them,’ they call it. Your Beckhart sent Gruber an ultimatum. We open Stars’ End for Navy or he nova bombs the Yards.”
No, McClennon thought. There’s something twisted here. Something not quite straight. Not that Beckhart would not make the threat. He would, and would follow through for the sake of the Stars’ End weaponry. He was a man who believed in his mission. But the timing seemed askew.
Or was it? The Starfishers and Sangaree were inextricably entangled at Stars’ End. Beckhart was free to move against the home ground of either. It was a remarkable opportunity. Earlier, he had gloated about having hit Homeworld’s sun…
Damn! Damn! Damn! he thought.
The agent part of him, the old intuition, put together everything Beckhart had, and had not, said, and threw forth one incontrovertible answer. The Admiral had been after Stars’ End from the beginning. From the moment he had summoned Cornelius Perchevski from his interlude with his quasi-daughter Greta…
As Moyshe benRabi it had been his mission to come up with leverage Beckhart could use to force the Seiners to open the fortress world to Luna Command.
He had been doing the Admiral’s work even when he had thought he was working against the man. Damn! Damn! Damn!
And he did have the lever the Admiral needed. Beckhart had given that away in threatening Gruber.
The Admiral needed the location of the Seiner Yards. Mouse must have told the Old Man his partner could clue him in.
Gruber would yield to the threat. Not gracefully, but he would yield. No sane man would do otherwise once the fate of Homeworld became known.
Gruber would surrender. The single most commonly known fact about Beckhart was that he was a man of his word with a threat. He would use the bomb if refused.
But McClennon was sure the Old Man was running one colossal bluff right now. He could not have the coordinates of the Yards. Three Sky was huge, even if he knew to look there. Insofar as Thomas knew, there were just three people on The Broken Wings who could tell Beckhart what he had to know. Jarl and Amy would not talk.
He was in one hell of a tight place.
The Starfishers did not call their nebula Three Sky among themselves. McClennon doubted that one in a thousand knew that landside name, and not one in a hundred of those the coordinates for the Yards themselves. Mouse did not know. McClennon had acquired the information entirely by accident, while arguing with Amy.
“Where’s Jarl?” he asked. He wondered how effectively his orders had been carried out after he had alerted the fleet. Well, probably. Amy was carrying on like they were the only red pass people left.
Tears rolled as she replied, “He’s dead, Moyshe. He killed himself. Only about fifteen minutes ago. I got away while they were distracted.”
“While who was distracted?”
“The military police.”
So. That roadblock had been a setup. And Jarl, intuiting Beckhart’s thrust, had gone the only way he could to avoid checkmate.
And Amy intended eliminating another information source. Him.
Where was the harvestfleet? Had Beckhart gotten his bluff in on Payne too?
Then what would Amy do about herself? Put a lasebolt through her own brain? She was capable. She seemed a bit self-destructive.
What if Beckhart’s claims about a centerward race were valid? That meant the whole human race, as well as several neighboring races, were threatened with extinction.
It seemed a lot more than Seiner freedom lay on the line.
The weight of the decision he had to make seemed as heavy as that Atlas had borne. Heavier. Hundreds of worlds might depend upon his choice… Ambergris and the Stars’ End weapons. They might make all the difference.
What to do?
He leaned against Jellyroll’s leg and stared at the symbols of the sides of his conflict. Which should he betray? Which should he destroy?
It was in his hands alone now, and there was no evading the decision. He could not let it ride in hopes it would sort itself out. No god from a machine would swing down on a wire to relieve him of his burden.
He had always had a yearning to become a hero, even for the few shooting star moments Confederation culture allowed. He would become one to the trillions if he delivered Stars’ End and its arsenal. He would stand beside Jupp von Drachau, destroyer of Sangaree… But that would make him Iscariot to millions of Starfishers.
His fingertips sensually caressed his weapon. There lay all solutions. In the gun. The final argument. In the words of ancient Mao, “All power comes from the mouth of a gun.” War and violence, he thought. A certain breed claimed they solved nothing. Those folks ignored the fact that dead men seldom argued.
He remembered a small Ulantonid nun, seen in passing in the Blake City spaceport on Carson’s an eon ago, while he and Mouse had been waiting to join the Starfishers. She had served a dead man…
He was vacillating. Avoiding decision. Riding a period of stability for all it was worth.
One squeeze of a trigger would settle a trillion fates. His friend? Or Amy, his love?
Those symbols remained as motionless as the man between whose legs McClennon stood. They waited too, aware that, for the moment, he was possessed of godlike power.
Mouse had, McClennon was sure, known the ramifications for some time. Perhaps since before the mission had begun. Mouse stared at Amy’s weapon, half hypnotized by the death lying there. Death had never touched him…
He had been immune for so long…
Amy was pale and growing paler. She had had time to think, to see some of the possibilities, and to grow scared. Her gun hand quivered.
Mouse began moving, almost imperceptibly bringing his stunner a little farther forward.
“Wait!” McClennon snapped. “This is silly. There’s a way out.”
They looked at him, their faces grave and baffled.
His finger danced on his stunner’s trigger. Amy squeaked as she fell. Mouse looked infinitely surprised. Shaking, McClennon peered into the street beyond the trees behind him. The Marines seemed uninterested in the park. Good. If the men just kept their mouths shut…
He scrambled down, collected weapons, stunned Marya again. Her breathing indicated she was partially recovered, and probably gathering herself for something.
He had to keep the three of them out of the way while he twisted the Admiral’s tail. Maybe he could salvage something for everybody, though Beckhart would resent it all to hell.
But, dammit! It wasn’t necessary to have big winners and losers. Everybody could lose a little and win a little and come out ahead in the end.
Beckhart would give in if he could not catch up fast enough. He had to have those coordinates soon, or see his whole intrigue blow up in his face.
McClennon laughed. He was going to get the best of the Old Man, and that was as rare as roc’s eggs. Still chuckling, he threw Amy over his shoulder and headed for the tight darkness of Old Town.
She would come out of this hating him, but by doing it this way he would give her more than he ever could with love.
He searched his mind for
signs of instability. All the gears were in place and working smoothly. Some sort of balance had been achieved. Not a natural one, but one that looked good for a while. He was now a little of everyone he had ever been, and a little more, too.
He hoped it would last long enough.
Eighteen: 3050 AD
The Main Sequence
“What the hell is going on, Damon?” Beckhart’s voice had a saw-toothed edge. “Storm and the Sangaree woman were in that park. Storm called to say he was going in after her. McClennon’s men admit he went in. You chased the Seiner woman in there. Four people. Where the hell are they now?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the Major confessed. “We went in as soon as we knew where to look. They weren’t there anymore.”
“No shit? You’re aware that three of those people are professionals, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir. And two of them are ours, with no reason to run.”
“One of them. I’m not sure what McClennon thinks he is. It’s not his fault, but he has his head on backwards and it’s falling apart. He probably doesn’t know who he is or who he’s working for half the time. He’s the one I’m worried about. He needs psychiatric attention fast.”
Beckhart massaged his forehead. He was growing a bitch of a headache. Just when it looked like he had it nailed down… He had to snag Thomas or his woman before Gruber called his bluff. He had to show at the Yards before the harvestfleets extricated themselves from the standoff at Stars’ End. He had to move before the Sangaree raidfleet learned about Homeworld.
“Why the hell did that idiot Kindervoort have to go and kill himself?”
“He evidently had strong feelings.”
“They’re a stiff-necked mob. I’ve never figured them out. That damned Payne is still up there making nasty talk. With three squadrons sitting on his back.”
“Just pride talking, sir.”
“We screwed up, Damon. If we don’t find those people, alive, we’re had. We. Do I make myself clear?”
