by Sharon Lee
“Pilot, I see many lessons ahead for both of us!”
Cheever only nodded as the waiter warmed both their mugs from his pitcher, and offered news of fresh pastries and doughnuts to finish the meal.
***
PAT RIN’S NAME gained them entry at Field of Fire, where the hostess was pleased to find them a place in the members only section as guests of the house.
The hostess also offered to waive the range fee in return for his signature in the guest book. It was seldom that a Liaden shooter of his caliber called on a Terran establishment such as this, and the signature of the reigning champion of Tey Dor’s would enhance the melant’i of the house. Whether he could afford to indulge the house in this, Pat Rin left for later, merely bowing polite acknowledgment of the offer.
They were then walked down a long, transparently walled hall, the hostess intent on convincing Pat Rin of the joys of the establishment. As they passed several dozens of lanes, some lighted and occupied, some lighted and empty, and some dark, all with a variety of targets visible, she continued her spiel, explaining that Field of Fire was not the largest range in number of shooting lanes on planet—no. But it was the best equipped, certainly, holding a complete set of house weapons from light to heavy, including dueling pistols of many calibers. There were also tuning and repair smiths on duty at all times, and instructors.
She paused there, recognizing a potential faux pas, and covered by extravagantly sliding a keycard into a section of wall marked “Club Members Only.”
Beyond the door there was better lighting, upgraded carpeting, and a small canteen, manned by an alert looking young man. The individual lanes fanned away from this concourse, eight on each side of two small central shooting theaters capable of accommodating four marksmen at once.
Only one of the single lanes was occupied, and through the thick plastiglass a man could be seen laboriously packing an armored travel bag with an array of small pistols. On the floor next to the shooting stand was an identical bag, sealed.
Their hostess escorted them past the semi-circle of observer’s seating to the theater on the left, activating the keyplate and lights with a card and—after the door slid soundlessly aside—motioning them down the ramped entranceway to the sunken shooting floor with its equipment benches and controls. She made no attempt to descend to the floor herself: only shooters were allowed in the fire-zone.
“I think you gentlemen will be comfortable here,” she said. “The range isn’t scheduled until this evening. You’re cleared for up to three hours of shooting; the timer starts with the first shot or when you invoke the tracking computer, whichever comes first. Once again, we will be pleased to waive all charges, should Lord Pat Rin care to sign our guest book.”
Pat Rin accepted the keycard and the code as she left, and in short order he and Cheever McFarland had arranged their equipment, donned the club-supplied ear protector headsets and began the straightforward testing-and-truing of what the Terran termed “the hardware”.
On Cheever’s bench sat two massive chemical LaDemeters and several dozen cartridges, a much smaller and also chemically powered double-barrel derringer-style boot-pistol with its bright shells next to it, and a brace of standard pellet pistols, three extra charges for each sitting by. In his hand was what appeared to be a large—even for a Terran of Cheever’s not-inconsiderable size—survival knife. Before each of his three shots with it he turned and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and as soon as he finished the third shot he carefully reloaded it, sheathed it, and immediately slipped it back into his boot.
He moved on quickly, though not as stealthily, to the derringer, squeezing off shots quickly and accurately, the gun almost hidden in his big hands. The noise of its firing—like that of the knife-weapon—was a sharp snick, even through the ear protectors. The chemicals left a slightly smokey haze and an acrid odor, which was quickly cleared away by the air filtering system.
Pat Rin was still working with his first weapon, a standard caliber Liaden dea’Nobli pellet pistol. While the caliber may have been standard, the pistol itself was a work of art, with filigree metal work, a custom jay-bead quick-sight, and grips of lovingly hand-shaped kreel-horn. Each shot produced a quiet whap through the ear protectors, though the accompanying magnetic whine seeped through without hindrance. His “show gun,” the dea’Nobli was more accurate than many clans’ dueling pistols and more costly than most.
The targets varied from stationary bull’s-eye, to gallery-like mythic creatures, to moving human silhouettes, chosen by the shooter’s whim. Satisfied with the dea’Nobli against the bull’s-eye, Pat Rin was about to bring up something more challenging when the rhythm of his companion’s shots altered—and stopped.
The big man’s hand motion was discreet but clear. Lowering his gun, Pat Rin turned and saw that they’d drawn a pair of observers, who were lounging in the chairs on the other side of the plastiglass, mugs and food on the table before them.
The man was certainly Terran—not quite perhaps of Cheever’s size, but larger than the average male of the race, with the dark and beginning-to-wrinkle complexion of one who has been overexposed to solar radiation. An ex-mercenary perhaps, or a native of one of the back-worlds, his face was strong-featured, square jawed, and not overly intelligent.
The woman was . . . most likely . . . Terran, and also dark, though it appeared her complexion was of birth rather than burn. Her hair made a black silken cap ’round her neat head, her features were fine, and she had quick ebon eyes, which at the moment rested upon himself with more than casual interest.
“Just sat down,” Cheever said, sotto voce. “He’s muscle, but if she ain’t a pilot I’ll eat my license. They both got bags, but she’s . . .”
“She is carrying a gun under her right arm,” Pat Rin finished for him, “which is why the vest seems a bit bulkier than one might expect on so warm a day. The man is, as you say, a bodyguard.”
The woman raised her hand, perhaps indicating that they should feel free to continue with their practice.
“I believe it is time to take a break, Mr. McFarland. Please do me the honor of saving our records. Then we shall see what we may discover of our visitors.”
“Gotcha.”
Pat Rin engaged the safety on the dea’Nobli and left the pretty gun lying ostentatiously on the bench, feeling the accustomed weight of the hideaway in his right sleeve as an unexpected comfort. Cheever McFarland at his back, he touched the keypad and stepped out into the concourse.
Cool air assailed them, and the increasingly familiar odor of coffee.
“There was no need to disturb yourselves on our account, Master,” the woman said in lightly accented Liaden as they approached. Seated, she bowed, gracefully approximating the mode of novice to master, which was surely flattery. “We will be using the other theater in a moment, but it is rare for us to see such shooting here.”
Pat Rin inclined his head. “We had not intended a demonstration, and I fear the shooting may not have been up to our best. We have been some time traveling.”
“Ah, all the more impressive!” The dark eyes measured him, then she turned, motioning to her companion, bespeaking him in Terran no less mannered than her Liaden—“Julier, my manners have failed me. Please—fetch our guests coffee and a snack—or perhaps tea for the master.”
Pat Rin eyed the woman speculatively, and held up a hand. “Allow me to send Mr. McFarland, as well,” he said, following her into Terran. “He understands my taste in coffee.”
She gave him a half-smile and shrugged a proper Terran shrug. “Of course you will wish to send someone to attend your interests.”
Pat Rin glanced to Cheever.
The pilot nodded, waiting for the bodyguard to rise. They walked side-by-side to the canteen, not quite bristling, like two strange cats thrown together on unknown turf.
The woman leaned toward Pat Rin, inclined her head in a motion that became a formal bow.
“Master, it is ur
gent that we speak—alone. I am Natesa. I believe our interests coincide.”
***
THE TWO BIG MEN fidgeted, uncomfortable in their sudden roles as spectators, as the door sealed with a slight hiss.
“They are nervous of this,” Natesa said as she walked with him down the ramp to the shooting floor. “It speaks well of them.”
“I suspect we all four have some concerns,” Pat Rin murmured, picking the dea’Nobli up from the bench. “Mr. McFarland tells me that you are a professional shooter and likely a first class pilot.”
“Ah, and my guardian informs me that you are a better shot than you appear.”
Pat Rin sent an exasperated glance toward the two-man audience, and Natesa laughed, soft and musical.
“I thought you might appreciate the level of assistance I am equipped with when the locals insist. Julier is a good man in a barroom brawl—as I suspect Mr. McFarland is—but he is perhaps in the second tier, both of shooters and of intellects, unlike Mr. McFarland.” She smiled, and pointed. “I shall take the blue side.”
Pat Rin appraised her coolly as she finished unloading the weapons from her bag. These disposed to her satisfaction upon the bench, she turned to face him fully, raising one hand, fingers spread wide, in the old, old, gesture of peace.
“By your leave, Master. I should test these as well.”
From beneath her vest she pulled a palm gun, laying it carefully on the bench, its muzzle aimed, without a doubt, down the lane. The design was not familiar; and it was unclear from its lines whether it was a chemical weapon. Natesa reached beneath her vest once more and brought forth a tiny and strange weapon—which was immediately recognizable, despite that he had held one only once, and that many Standards in the past.
He raised an eyebrow, and she inclined her head, not without irony.
“I thank you for your care; you may rest assured that I know this is not a toy. It is best that we be plain with each other. I am called Natesa the Assassin—among other things—and that”—she pointed—“is a triple caliber pellet weapon. A single shot. Very high energy. Perhaps the equivalent of one of Mr. McFarland’s special loads.”
So. Pat Rin drew a careful breath, conscious that the stakes had risen, though not, or so he thought, out of all reason.
“I am not,” he said to the woman’s intelligent dark eyes, “a professional. Certainly I carry nothing to . . .”
She raised her finger to her lips with a sibilant Terran shush.
“You are correct, of course,” she said, with a brisk nod. “Neither of us can be expected to display all of our weapons and backups. However, you should know that I see two of your hideaways.”
He inclined his head, coming the lofty lordling. “My thanks.”
Her lips twitched, and she bowed once more.
“Shall we say best of fifty?” she asked. “Mixed targets? I have here a match in caliber for your pellet pistol.”
“Of course.” He checked the charge on his weapon as she checked hers.
“Shall we alternate? Use the same targets? Or shoot duo?” he asked, automatically looking at the floor to be sure of his footing.
“Duo,” she said promptly, and moved a hand toward the targeting switch. “I choose this. You choose the targets.”
And that, Pat Rin thought, was a gambit. The gamester in him rose to the challenge: the best refutation of a gambit is acceptance.
He reached to the controls, punched his choices in, and held his finger on the presstab as he looked over to her.
“We shall have duplicate heavy game. The pace to be energetic. The distances to vary identically. If you agree.”
She nodded rather than bowed, her face merely comely. “Indeed, heavy game. An excellent choice.”
He raised five fingers to indicate the delay to start, activated the presstab, and stepped back to the line.
Numbers flickered on the ceiling, counting down. The lights dimmed. The targets came up.
Heavy game.
The first target swung out of the floor, at the far end of the alley, a crouching image of a man bringing a sighted rifle to bear. Pat Rin’s shot was quick, and automatic. One shoots between the arms, below the stock, as close to the throat as one can. The target spun away, replaced by something out of the left wall—two men, side by side, with pistols, followed by a young girl with pistol, skip the young boy with the flowers in his hand, try the head shot on the figure with a gun sheltering by a tree trunk.
He was aware that in the other lane the targets came out at the same time, and that it seemed the sound of her gun was overlaying his . . . but the targets came on.
Pat Rin was sweating, the dea’Nobli’s charge near exhausted, the targets each taken down in their turn, allowing the boy with flowers, the old man with his broom, the couple with their ice-licks, and the two tiny creatures—perhaps they were dogs?—to hold their ground.
In a moment, the scores.
Natesa whistled lightly. Blue side: 297 points. Green side: 298.
“May I?” she asked, reaching toward the controls.
Pat Rin bowed, and the assassin brought up the fine scores.
“So, Master. We each have fifty live targets. We each score fifty respectable hits. My times were—see here—slightly faster. Your shots were exceedingly accurate, if slower. Mine were all good enough.”
Pat Rin bowed. “Your shots were all quicker than mine, and with heavy game, this is important. I will tell you that I noticed you overcorrecting a drift to the left at the end. Without that, you would have certainly had the three hundred.”
She laughed then, and bowed lightly.
“Master. You see well enough to watch both our targets. And why the drift to the left, if you can tell me?”
He looked at her carefully, raised a finger and indicated that she should spin about. She shrugged and did so, coming to rest facing him, dark eyes quizzical. He moved his finger again, miming a slower spin, which was perhaps an error: he was momentarily distracted by her shape; and the tilt of her shoulders and head made it plain that she had noticed.
“I believe it is clear,” he said in Liaden—in the mode of master to master. “Your vest bound you slightly as you worked. It is that very flat item above your left kidney that is the problem.”
“Ah.” For an instant only was Natesa the Assassin nonplused, then she bowed, deeply, in the mode of novice to master. “I am instructed.”
She straightened and gave him a serious look.
“Let us inspect weapons a moment,” she said, “and speak looking down the alleyway so that none behind us may read our lips.”
Now it was come. Whatever it was. Pat Rin bowed agreement and proceeded to field strip his pistol.
“Master of Tey Dor’s,” she said softly, her hands busy and sure at her own weapon, “please consider me at your disposal. If you have need of transport, or a safe house; for additional bodyguards, for a cash advance—” She shot him a quick, dark glance. “Understand, I have discretion. More. I have jurisdiction. Much may be contrived, if you have need.”
“And you offer from the goodness of yourself, no doubt . . . .” he murmured, glancing across to her.
She raised her head and looked fully into his face.
“If you like, you may consider this a formal offer of the Juntavas—an extension of the aid-and-comfort you may perhaps have heard.” She paused.
That she was a Juntava did not surprise him—he had supposed as much. That she came to him with this generous and open offer of aid was—distressing. Still, it was best to hear her out, so that he might know what protections he might need to find—elsewhere.
Bland-faced, hands steady on his weapon, he inclined his head—courteous invitation to continue.
Natesa sighed. “Ah. I feared you would see it thus. Master, hear me—I repeat it: our interests coincide. I know, I know—the old agreement. But many things are . . . not as they have been.” She held up a hand, her face earnest.
“So, I will tell you: th
e Juntavas discovers that there is something very wrong on Liad. Korval-in-person disappears from the breadth of space, but for you—perhaps you are the bait in a trap?—and the silly young cousin. Korval ships ply their routes, but we note the changes in long-established patterns, the captains redistributed, the crew-members put ashore, the heavy weapon pods mounted.
“In other sectors, confusions begin to grow, which seem to our analysis related to the . . . alterations in Korval’s behaviors. We hear of—certain people one is wise to avoid; of some of those who have dealt with particular Liadens turning up—not ruined or shamed—but dead.”
Plan B, thought Pat Rin, and then said it, softly: “Plan B is in effect. Korval is beset, Natesa the Assassin. We have gone into hiding.”
“Yes?” Her eyes gleamed. “But you have not gone into hiding, Master. And the Juntavas has made a study of Korval. We do not expect that the dragon is meek in its exile. We anticipate decisive action, from an unexpected quarter—and that soon.” She paused, her eyes yet on his face.
“Understand me, Pat Rin yos’Phelium. As a Sector Judge I am able to provide what you may need. Whatever you may need. And if you should lead us to your kin, that the Clutch turtles may be satisfied that the Juntavas treats with honor, so much the better for us all.”
“Sector Judge?” he repeated the unfamiliar title quietly, slowly fitting his gun back together.
“Yes, yes.” Impatience was evident in her voice. “I am—a power. When there are disputes over territory, or of proper ownership of particular objects or properties, I am called in to find the answers, to make things smooth again. And if there is a problem which cannot be solved by discussion, I am empowered to solve it as I may.” She paused as she concentrated on something finicky within her weapon.
“This is why I walk with Julier, who is a gift of the local boss while I am on planet. The boss wishes to be certain that I will agree with him when need be.”
She glanced at him as the snick-click of the new charge going home broke the silence.
