Miranda's Demons

by Ian Miller

  "Magnificent blue dome," someone offered. The group suddenly looked up, and gave gasps of surprise.

  "A lame man with a withered hand could come from nowhere to rule one of the greatest warrior kingdoms ever," Harry remarked. "He obviously had initiative."

  There were cries of agreement.

  "But initiative is not enough," Harry added quietly but firmly. "One needs assertiveness, the ability to put oneself forwards, to see a chance, and push obstacles aside. The very essence of a good corporate executive, would you not agree?"

  The agreement was urgent and unanimous.

  "My corporation has five openings for such people," Harry lied, "but . . ."

  He smiled to himself as he saw he had their undivided attention. "See the girl with the long black hair, in the blue track suit? The sort of person I'm looking for could get into that queue between her and the persons three and four behind her . . ."

  The group looked across, and saw that Marisa would soon enter the vault. They immediately charged towards the line, without hearing Harry's final, " . . . without causing total chaos."

  Marisa just entered the vault when the group arrived. They had little trouble pushing in, but more in staying. They almost started a riot. A sound of whistles could be heard, and the local police came running. The entrance to the vault was closed while the problem was sorted out, and just before Marisa emerged, the police dragged the young tourists away. Harry had hoped that the two men following her, being two deeper in the queue, might be held as witnesses, but one of them passed something to the senior policeman, and the two were allowed to continue.

  As expected, the two men followed Marisa, rather than the route of their tour. Harry caught up with his driver again as they entered Pendjikentskaya Street, and he quickly instructed him to park his car further down the street. Harry would follow at a discreet distance. All went well, until Marisa went into her third stall. The two men were talking to three others, and suddenly Harry realized he had seen these men before. There were five of them, not two. One of the group began looking around, and Harry stepped back into another stall.

  "I need a weapon," he muttered under his breath.

  "Certainly, sir. You've come to the right place. We have the very best collection of genuine Timurid weapons in all of Samarkand. Perhaps this knife for only thirty fecus?"

  Harry looked around in surprise. He had stepped into a small shop specializing in selling weapon souvenirs, and before him was a smiling, almost fawning, middle-aged man holding a tiny toy knife. "Thirty fecus?" Harry asked in surprise.

  "Thirty fecus is nothing to a man of your standing," the man said as he waved the knife, "and it's certainly not excessive for such a finely crafted genuine souvenir. But I tell you what. If you'd consider taking something else, I could perhaps reduce it to twenty-five. I can see . . ."

  "I was thinking of something bigger than that," Harry shrugged, thinking to dismiss the man. He could see the outline of Marisa across the road, and the men were still outside so he could not leave yet.

  "Oh, most certainly sir. A sword, perhaps?"

  "Perhaps," Harry replied, as he remained staring out into the street.

  "How about this! A piece of fine craftsmanship. It's a beautiful ornament for your study or lounge, and only two hundred . . ." he paused a little, and when he saw that Harry's face had not blanched, he quickly added, "and fifty . . . sorry, seventy fecus."

  Harry looked at it. "Take it. Feel the exquisite workmanship."

  "It's got Chinese writing on the end of the handle," Harry noted, with amusement.

  "Ah, yes," the man said, nodding his head. "Samarkand was an important stop on the trading route with China. The old silk road went right by here. How about two hundred and forty for this fine piece of . . ."

  "The edge is blunt," Harry noted, almost absent-mindedly.

  "But look how nice and bright it is. It's guaranteed to hold this appearance for your lifetime. Look, things are tough for me. How about a hundred and eighty?"

  "I'm sure it'll hold its brightness," Harry said, as he waved it away. "It's because of all the chromium in the steel. And don't even try to insult me by telling me they knew how to make chromium alloys in the fourteenth century."

  "I only said it's a genuine souvenir," the man said. "What do you expect for –"

  "I've never seen a genuine sword," Harry shrugged, "but I know that isn't one, and I don't even want to . . ."

  "You want to see a genuine one? If you buy something for twenty fecus, I'll let you handle one."

  "Oh, no," Harry started. Another swindle!

  "You make me sick," the man spat, as he could see Harry had no intention of buying anything. "You corporates take in huge salaries, you come here, you waste my time, you turn off other customers, and you won't even buy a thing. Twenty fecus wouldn't –"

  "Hey, I'm sorry if you lost a customer," Harry interrupted. "Look, here's fifty fecus. I don't want to buy any of this souvenir rubbish, but you can have the money, and I'll look at your sword. I know it's not going to be genuine, but I need to stay here a couple of minutes, and . . ."

  The man grabbed the banknotes, then stooped down behind the counter where there was a large steel safe. The door opened, and he drew out an old black-brown scabbard with an undistinguished handle.

  "Go on, draw the sword," the man offered.

  Harry took it, and as he drew the curved sword from the old scabbard, he saw the steel glisten coldly. He turned towards the centre of the room and swished the curved sword through the air.

  "Different, isn't it?" the man smiled. "Here, I'll jam a folded magazine into this. Strike it!"

  Harry looked at the target, swung, and watched the magazine fly loosely across the room with a dent in its side.

  "Hey, my young warrior, you use it like an old stick. Take one of these chromium ones. For you there's no difference."

  "What do you mean?" Harry asked, for the first time, looking seriously at the man.

  "You complain about no edge! So I give you one with an edge, and what do you do? You beat with it. Move your wrist, so the edge runs across the target, not into it!"

  Harry looked thoughtfully at the sword, then, after a couple of practice swishes, he picked up the magazine and set it up again. This time, when he swung, the magazine flew, but with a great cut through it.

  "Not so bad, my young warrior. Once that sword was used to make the great piles of skulls that made Timur's enemies cower in fear. Now it savages paper. Please, the sword back."

  "How much would this cost?"

  "More than you can pay, my young warrior. Much more."

  "Just for curiosity, how much?"

  "I wouldn't take a fecu less than twenty-five thousand," the man smiled.

  "I'll take it."

  "Don't waste my time, you couldn't –"

  "Yes, I can," Harry said urgently. The men were moving towards the doorway. This would be their move on Marisa. "See, a diamond card! I put it in your machine. You punch in the sum, and my palm print immediately authorizes the payment. Twenty-eight thousand, if you do it in the next five seconds!"

  The man looked amazed. "Thirty?"

  "Now!"

  "Done," the man said, as he punched in the number. Harry placed his palm over the screen, there was a pause, then the green light flashed. Transaction completed.

  "Hold the scabbard," Harry called as he rushed to the door. "I'll be back in a minute."

  As he rushed across the street he heard Marisa's scream. The blood rose up his neck as he charged through strings of beads across the doorway. The scene before him seemed almost comical, except that it was so serious. In the far corner, Marisa had somehow covered one of her assailant's head with a large blue cloth. A second man was falling backwards, having been kicked in the groin. A third was a meter away, his arm out, pointing a pistol towards Marisa. The two others were standing back, yelling words of encouragement to the man with the cloth over his head, words presumably to the effect of, "C'mon!
She's only a girl!"

  Harry leaped forward, his left foot landing in the centre of the clear space. He pivoted on the foot, throwing all his weight behind the blow. The sword flashed, he pulled back with his wrist, and the startled man fell back, blood pouring from the stump. The pistol, still in a hand, cluttered to the floor. Sensing one of the spectators behind him, Harry pivoted on his left foot, dragged his right shoulder down, and swung around, throwing all his weight from the hip above into a backhand sweep. The edge of the sword crossed the lower ribcage of his attacker, who doubled up as the sword cut deeply. Blood, muck, and viscera poured out as the man doubled over and fell to the floor, legs thrashing, and the hands clutching in futility the ebbing life.

  Harry turned to the man in the green tracksuit, who had so far done nothing. He pointed the sword towards him, his hands trembling slightly with the adrenalin pumping through him. "On the ground!" Harry snarled, "Alive or dead!"

  The green suited man fell to the ground. Harry turned to the others. The man who was still clutching his groin made a move towards the doorway. Harry flashed the sword across his face, and then bound back to cover the other man who had at last freed himself from the cloth. This man seemed frozen with fear, or indecision, but he suddenly unfroze and lurched forward. The sword flashed again and the man fell to the floor, blood pouring from the back of both legs.

  "Ground!" Harry spat at the other. The point of the sword was still trembling. He took a breath and raised the sword. The man took one look at the sword, the blood, Harry's face, then he complied.

  "You all right?" Harry asked, looking across to Marisa. She was standing at one end of a bench, staring in disbelief at the scene before her.

  "You were following me?" came the stunned response.

  "I guess I was," Harry allowed himself a little smile. "Call the military police," Harry ordered the shop owner. "These thugs are off to Tashkent," he added, for Marisa's benefit.

  "Military?" came the puzzled reply from the shopkeeper.

  "Commissioner Kotchetkovas's orders," Harry replied, waving a piece of paper he had taken from his pocket. "If you want to earn her displeasure, just ignore them." Then, as he turned to Marisa, he added, "Yes, I was following you. The Commissioner thought something like this might happen . . ."

  "And she chose you?" came the puzzled interruption from Marisa.

  "I volunteered," Harry admitted. He felt quite pleased with Marisa's admiring looks.

  "You did? But why put yourself at risk? You know this isn't your fight, and it's all political. Think of your family, when the corporations find out."

  "Perhaps I don't like what's happening to you," Harry answered evasively. No need to point out he did not care in the slightest what a corporation thought. Much better to gain more admiring looks.

  Marisa gave him a strangely warm look, then reached over and hugged him. "My Sir Lancelot," she smiled, and then added with a frown, "but I still don't see how you got to be chosen."

  "The Commissioner accused me of rigging that first simulator combat," Harry laughed, "which of course I didn't, and –"

  "I know that," Marisa smiled warmly. "Anyway, however it happened, thanks. If you hadn't come, I'd be dead, and," she added, suddenly becoming impersonal, "that would have caused very bad political consequences. Harry, you've done a great service to –"

  "I saved my navigator," Harry interrupted, "and, I hope, a friend."

  "More than that, if you want," Marisa said, as she reached across and kissed him, then, noting Harry's stunned response, she stepped back. "I'm sorry. I . . ."

  "Don't be," Harry smiled warmly. "I've still got to keep an eye on this lot, though," he added, "and I suppose for any more that turn up."

  "It looks a little as if I'm going to have to be a virtual prisoner," Marisa responded sadly. "I thought I'd fooled them, but they still followed me."

  "They saw you change flights at the airport. It was a good move, but they did the same thing. They probably had it prearranged that they could pre-empt any flight."

  "Then I can't go anywhere," Marisa said sadly. "They can always do that."

  "Not necessarily," Harry added. "Where would you like to go?"

  "Somewhere like Rome," Marisa shrugged. "You see, we don't have this sort of ancient history in Brazil."

  "I can get you there," Harry smiled, "and nobody will follow."

  "And why not?"

  "Because I can fly a space grazer. There's only room for two aboard, and it goes where I want it to go."

  "You'd do that for me?"

  "Of course I would. And if you ask the Commissioner nicely, and tell her you're sure it would help enlarge the Federation, I'm sure she'll make the craft available."

  "It's a date," Marisa nodded, "but I guess soon I'll have to get back to the airport. Could you hurry up these police, and –"

  "We'll stay all day," Harry interrupted. "There's still some more sights to see, and I'd like to go out to Ulug Beg's observatory. Fly back with me. I'll need a navigator, anyway."

  "You got here without a navigator," Marisa snorted, "but I'll be pleased to stay here with you."

  "Good, then we'll get some coffee, and . . . That doesn't appeal?"

  "One of these days I'll have to make you some coffee, so you know what it's supposed to taste like. But for you, I guess I can stand some more dishwater." She was about to move closer to Harry when the first of the military police arrived. Harry produced the brief orders written by the Commissioner, and the two found themselves free to go.

  Chapter 11

  Harvey Munro was less than pleased with Troy's new report. The attempt to have the Brazilian killed had failed. Worse, the agents Troy had used had been imprisoned, and were under military interrogation. Worse still, somehow that wretched Kotchetkova had found staff in this prison who could not be bribed. One person had tried, and that person was now in prison. Even worse still, Harvey had to admit, he had formulated the plan, and as far as he could tell everybody had done what was expected of them.

  What had gone wrong? Apparently some Australian had come charging in brandishing a genuine Timurid sword, and had disarmed, literally, the only man with a gun, killed another, and disabled two more all in the space of about five seconds. Perhaps one gun was not enough, but it was not that easy for a corporate to get a gun in Uzbekistan. And you would not normally expect five men to fail to deal with one woman, let alone expect someone trying to be a medieval warrior to intervene.

  There were only two pieces of good news. The first was that this last prisoner had at least had the sense to use his cyanide pill. With a bit of luck, there was no way back to Troy. The second was that Troy had discovered that Lansfeld and Robeiro were to take three days leave, in Rome. That was good work. Apparently he had found a disgruntled Colonel who had been passed over for higher promotions, and was quite amenable to having additional fecus at his disposal.

  Troy had offered to go to Rome and finish the job himself. Perhaps, Harvey thought, this was a sign of improvement in Troy. Perhaps! However, after some more thought Harvey realized that Troy would be unsuitable, because Kotchetkova would investigate, and if Troy were in Rome at the same time he would probably be arrested. On top of that, this would be Troy's first operation in the open, and he would probably make a mistake.

  No! Open operations required two things. The first was skill and experience. The second was the absence of any connection to Harvey Munro. Troy might argue about the first qualification, but there was no debate about the second. Troy would stay right where he was, and be seen to be staying right where he was.

  Chapter 12

  Natasha Kotchetkova pushed another pile of paper onto the small trolley. Had she subscribed to a conspiracy theory, she would have believed that Streckov's supporters were trying to prevent her going into space by burying her in paper here on Earth. And it was all so useless: boring! boring! boring! Except for one, which was merely bizarre. A memo from Garrett, requesting her to test her new weapons somewhere other
than in a public place.

  The public place was the forum, in Rome. The bodies of some heavily armed thugs inexplicably appeared one morning. Each had enough firepower on them to level a small town; each body was neatly decapitated, and not by any ordinary means! The bones in the neck had been severed, apparently by something at around three thousand degrees centigrade. Garrett had no idea how the bodies got there, which was not unreasonable. Garrett had concluded that some new Defence weapon had been used, which was unreasonable. Still, it was something that could be ignored.

  "Commissioner. Lieutenant Lansfeld wishes to see you."

  Natasha Kotchetkova looked up from her papers. "Tell Lansfeld to use the proper channels," she muttered. Lansfeld might have been useful, but that did not mean he could just walk into her office any time he liked. Too much familiarity had to be stopped.

  "Commissioner?"

  "Yes?"

  "Lansfeld said . . ." The man stopped, unsure of how to continue.

  "What did he say?" Natasha said, slightly less forcefully. She recognized that the quickest way to get rid of a tiresome interruption was to let the interrupter complete it.

  "I know this is out of place, but . . ."

  "Get on with it!"

  "Lansfeld said that when you didn't want to see him . . ."

  "What?" The impertinence! She might have to demonstrate the danger inherent in prediction!

  "I was to tell you he thought it could be more important than the last time he didn't follow proper procedure," the officer blurted out.

  "You'd better send him in then," the stunned Commissioner said, after a moment's hesitation. She watched quietly as Lansfeld marched in and saluted. "Well?" she said after a pause. "You have my attention. You'd better have something worth while to warrant this."

  "Unless I am mistaken," Harry said quietly, "I think I might have found a connection to whoever it was that liberated Mars. At any rate, I have seen him do a miracle, and in principle he has promised to do one for you."