by Sharon Lee
The boss nodded, looking serious. “Right, you did say that. Not a problem. Bring her out. I’ll get rid of her for you.”
“Ah.” He turned his head slightly and spoke over his shoulder. “Natesa.”
“Sir?”
Jim whipped around, staring—and sure enough, there she was, all in black, like before, the fancy gun glittering in its holster. Behind her, standing just in front of the clusterfuck rug, was a big, rugged looking guy, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes half-closed, looking slow and sleepy and stupid, like really big guys usually were. If he was armed, his vest was covering the weapon.
“Natesa,” the little guy was saying, moving his hand to show her the boss. “Here is Mr. Moran. He represents himself as someone able to be rid of you.”
“He is,” she said composedly, “in error.”
“Are you certain?” the little guy asked. “I wish us to be plain, Natesa. I had understood that our contract was exclusive. If I find that you are also in the employ of Mr. Moran, I shall be most displeased.”
“I have never seen Mr. Moran in my life,” the pro answered, still in that completely composed voice. “Nor do I wish to see him again.”
The boss’ face went purple, but he only nodded again, and said to her, real serious, “We can deal. Tony.”
Tony was the quickest shot on the boss’ staff. Jim saw him go for his business piece—and way too many guns went off.
There wasn’t any time to draw, no time to really understand what had happened, before it was all over.
Jim was standing, arms held out from his sides. Natesa the pro was standing, too; her pretty pistol pointed at him. The big guy was standing, not sleepy-looking at all, holding a cannon in one hand, the business end covering the street door. The pretty man with the blue earring was standing, palm gun also pointed at Jim. There wasn’t a mark on any of ’em—the little guy’s jacket wasn’t even wrinkled.
The publicity committee hadn’t done so good.
Tony was on the floor at Jim’s right. There was a neat little hole centered between his eyes. His gun was still in the holster.
Boss Moran—former Boss Moran—was in a heap under the rug he’d threatened to burn. His weed was crushed, like somebody’d stepped on it, a couple sad little curls of smoke twisting up from it.
Jim swivelled his eyes, made out an arm and a loose gun on the floor, which was probably all that was left of Veena and Lew.
“Your compatriots are dead, Mr. Snyder,” the little guy said, and his voice was kinda breathless, like maybe he’d run a couple blocks. The gun, though, that stayed steady, and even if it hadn’t, the pro wasn’t havin’ no trouble at all with her aim. “If you attempt to draw a weapon, you will join them. Am I plain?”
Jim licked his lips. “Yessir.”
“Good. Now, I have a proposition for you—”
“Company,” the big guy interrupted quietly. Jim turned his head cautiously, and saw Gwince in the doorway. It didn’t take her long to figure out what’d happened. Jim saw her take stock of the three holding guns, her own pointed peaceably at the floor. She nodded at the big guy.
“Boss?” she said.
He jerked his head to the left. “He’s the boss.”
If Gwince thought she’d never seen anything in her life lookin’ less like a boss than the fancy guy in the blue jacket, she didn’t say so. Instead, she nodded to him, and said again, real respectful.
“Boss. I’m Gwince.” She frowned at the mess on the floor. “You want we should get rid of that for you?”
“Shortly, perhaps.” The boss’ voice was back on the smooth, not breathless at all. “First, however, you and your partner have a choice to make. Please bring him inside and close the door. Take care not to rumple my carpet.”
“Yessir,” she said, and leaned outside, keeping one foot in the store. “Hey, Barth! Boss wants ya!”
He came quick enough, which is how you stay alive, in the employ of bosses, checked on the edge of the doorway, eyes flickering around the room while Gwince moved behind him, closing the door real slow, so as not to muss the boss’ rug.
Gwince was no dummy, and Barth was some quicker than her. He wasn’t in the room two heartbeats before he had the situation scoped and the little guy pegged, with a nod and a soft, “Boss.”
“Barth,” the boss returned, softer. Then, considerably sharper. “Please tell me if any of the deceased had kin.”
Barth’s forehead rumpled and he shot a look at Gwince. “Kin?”
“Family,” the boss said, even sharper. “Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, children—anyone who valued them—and who will miss them, when they are discovered to be absent.”
“Well . . . ,” said Barth, “Tony had a girl, I think . . .”
“Not anymore,” Gwince interrupted. “Smacked her around once too often, and she went and found somebody else to pay the rent.” She frowned down at the bodies on the floor.
“Veena—unnerstand, I don’t know if it’s her or her money he’ll miss—but she always sent some of her draw to her brother. Lew—” she shrugged. “Lew ain’t got nobody that I ever heard about. The boss . . .” Her eyes flicked to the little guy’s face. “Beg pardon, sir. I meant to say, Moran—might be some of the other fatcats’ll miss him. I don’t run at that level.”
“I see,” the boss said. “Do you know how to contact Veena’s brother?”
“Yeah, I do. You want I should break the news to him?”
“Eventually, perhaps I shall. We will also wish to take her possessions to him and to discover the sum he was accustomed to receiving from her, so that a payment schedule may be arranged.”
Gwince blinked. “Payment schedule? Boss, unless I read this wrong, Veena went down shooting at you and your crew, here.”
“Indeed. She died in performance of her duty. Her pension shall be assigned to her brother, as her surviving kin. These others . . .” The boss glanced to Natesa, who inclined her head. “We shall publish their names in the newspaper, and also an announcement of the . . . change of administration.”
“Newspaper?” Jim shook his head, keeping a careful eye on Natesa’s gun. “We ain’t got a newspaper.”
“We did though,” Barth said, excited. “Sleet, musta been eight, nine years ago. Only thing Randall did before Vindal come along and promoted herself was shut down the gab-rag and make the guy who owned the print shop into a public example. Vindal, she got busy with building up the border guards an’ all . . .”
The boss held up a slim, pretty hand, his big ring glittering like something alive. Barth gulped into silence.
“Is there a printer in this territory?”
“Oh, well, sure,” Barth said, nodding. “Sure, there is, Boss. Just she ain’t never done a gab-rag, is all.”
“But she may be able to adapt herself to the concept. Very well.” The boss lowered his hand, and moved his eyes. “Mr. Snyder.”
Here it come. Jim squared his shoulders and tried not to look at the pro holding the gun on him. “Yessir.”
“I believe that you are a man who values his life, Mr. Snyder. Am I correct?”
It took Jim a second to figure out what he was hearing, but once he did, he nodded enthusiastically.
“Good. Then this is what we shall do. You and I are going into the back room. I will ask you questions and you will give me truthful answers. When my questions are satisfied, I will arrange for you to be escorted across the border.”
Jim goggled. “You’re sending me outta the territory?”
“I am. I don’t wish to seem discourteous, but, since the two of us are dealing in truth, I must confess that you are not at all the caliber of citizen I wish to tenant my streets. However, you did not draw on us, and so you have earned your life. Conditionally.”
The boss sure did talk a twist. Frowning, Jim worked out his meaning, and arrived at the theory that the new boss valued initiative just like the old boss had, and that Jim hadn’t shown all that well.
�
��Hey, it ain’t so bad over on Deacon’s turf,” Gwince said cheerfully. “You’ll do just fine, Mr. Snyder.”
Easy for her to say, Jim thought. Nobody was talkin’ about throwin’ her off the turf she’d grown up in. On the other hand, looking at Natesa’s gun and cold, patient face, it didn’t look like he had much of a choice.
“OK,” he said to the boss, trying to sound like moving turf was nothing. “We can deal.”
“I am delighted to find it so,” the boss said, and pointed at the back wall. “Please go with Natesa. I will join you very soon.”
Natesa moved her gun, inviting him to walk ahead of her. He did that, and the big guy lifted the rug away from the door so they could pass.
“Mr. McFarland,” the boss said when the big man had dropped the carpet back across the doorway.
“Sir?”
“You will please ascertain if Gwince and Barth have value to my administration. If they do not, or if they choose not to remain in my employ, they may also be escorted to the border and passed without toll. If they wish to remain, and you find them valuable, please consider them attached to your department.”
“Yessir,” the big man said easily. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you, Mr. McFarland,” the boss said, and left them.
“OK,” the big guy said. “My name’s McFarland, like you heard. Which of you don’t wanna stay on? Sing out, now; don’t be shy.”
Gwince looked at Barth and Barth looked at Gwince. They both looked at the deaders on the floor and then back to big Mr. McFarland. Neither one said anything.
“Right, then.” He put his hand-cannon away in its holster and nodded at the floor. “First job we got is to clean out those pockets. Then, we’ll straighten up and put everything back neat, the way the boss likes it.”
“Yessir!” they said in unison, and in matching tones of relief, and moved forward to tackle their first job for the new boss.
The woman Gwince was the key that gained them entry into the late Mr. Moran’s so-called ‘mansion’, much more than those on the ring retrieved for him from the dead man’s pocket.
By the time Pat Rin had met and taken provisional allegiance from the house staff; spoken to the printer, hastily summoned from her shop, covered over with ink and ill-concealed terror, regarding the necessity of a newssheet and the contents of the first issue, which would—“yessir, Boss, no problem at all”—be available on the street tomorrow at no later than one hour beyond dawn; and located the boss’ private office, it was dark on the—on his—streets. Natesa and Cheever McFarland were engaged in other parts of the house—Natesa on a “security check” and Cheever interviewing others of the staff. Well enough: Duty awaited him as well.
The office was on the second floor, a dank and dismal chamber—cold, as it was cold everywhere on this wretched planet—the walls of which had once, perhaps, been painted white. The desk was rust-colored plastic, the filing cabinet was red plastic, the two chairs—one behind the desk, one in front of it—were blue plastic and yellow, respectively. The floor was also plastic, and in need of a scrubbing. The rug—for there was a rug in this room that otherwise showed him neither books, nor comm unit, nor teapot, nor potted plant, nor any other human comfort—the rug was nothing short of astonishing. Merely, it was a primitive of tied and woven rag, rectangular in shape, yet made with some artistry, so that it was cheerful without being over-bright; pleasant and easeful on the eye.
Pat Rin gasped, his vision suddenly clouded. There was someone—someone within the few ghastly blocks of this wretched, filthy city that he was now pleased to call his—some one of his people had heart enough to have produced a thing of beauty. He shook his head, banishing ridiculous tears, and walked, somewhat unsteadily, over to the file cabinet.
He pulled open the top drawer with difficulty, and stood staring, confronted not with a row of neatly labeled files, nor even a disorderly mess of papers. No, the top drawer of Boss Moran’s cheap, unlocked filing cabinet was filled to capacity with cash of every denomination, mixed all helter-skelter, as if it had just been flung within, and the door slammed shut.
The second drawer held a similar outrage. The bottom drawer held coins.
Pat Rin closed it and straightened. Idiot, he thought. Not even a safe? Sighing, he crossed the room to the desk
The blue chair was grubby, the plastic mesh seat stretched, the plastic legs bowed alarmingly. Pat Rin pushed it to one side.
There was a small book lying in the center of the desk; for one mad instant he thought he had discovered Moran’s personal debt-book—but, there, Terrans did not keep debt-books. Most especially, he suspected, recalling his researches into the place—not to mention the tales he had from Natesa and Cheever—did the worthy citizens of the planet Surebleak fail of keeping debt-books.
He picked the thing up and opened it, frowning as he riffled the pages. Very quickly, he ascertained that what he held was Moran’s Insurance Book, listing all the businesses in the territory, what they owed and what they had paid.
It was a singularly frustrating document, written with some blurred and blurry charcoal-like substance; the notations ranging from barely lettered to indecipherable. Pat Rin emerged from his study not much informed on the topic of the profit to be had from Insurance sales on Surebleak, and with a nasty ache over his eyes.
Sighing, he rubbed his forehead and deliberately sought out the cheery, unassuming little rug on the dirty plastic floor.
The pain in his head flared, and he was seeing—not the floor in the office of the vanquished Moran, but the floor of his store in the aftermath of the gunplay, the gleaming plastic surface littered with the bodies of—the bodies of his kin.
There—Anthora, her arm blown off at the shoulder; here, Shan, a pellet hole between his frost-colored eyebrows; there again! Quin, half of his face torn away—
Retching, Pat Rin raised his hands before his eyes, blocking out the horrific sight; and hearing again the pale-haired man’s inflexible, emotionless voice: “Your kin are dead. Nova yos’Galan, Anthora yos’Galan, Shan yos’Galan, Kareen yos’Phelium, Luken bel’Tarda . . .”
There was a sound in the doorway, audible even over the voice of his enemy, chanting the names of his dead. Pat Rin spun, the gun coming neatly into his hand, and in one smooth motion, he raised it, aiming—
At Juntavas Sector Judge Natesa, called The Assassin.
It spoke well of her skill, that she neither went for a weapon nor drew his fire by assuming the attitude of prey. Merely, she paused in the doorway, black eyebrows arched above black eyes, and inclined her head.
“Master,” she murmured in the mode of student to teacher. “It pleases me to find you so well guarded, as I was just now coming to scold you for deserting your oathsworn.”
Pat Rin lowered the gun, heartbeat roaring in his ears, stomach roiling. He fussed over the placement of the palm gun in his sleeve, and answered her without looking up, in Terran.
“I had thought my oathsworn intent upon their own business.”
“Certainly, Mr. McFarland and I were performing our various duties, to insure that the house would keep you safe,” she said, keeping to the High Tongue. “Yet Mr. McFarland tells me he had left Gwince at your back.”
Another word from her in the language of home and he would—he would do something irreparable. Pat Rin took a deep breath and found the courage to meet her eyes.
“If you please. I prefer to converse in Terran.”
Something moved in the black eyes; she inclined her head before he could identify it and murmured. “As you wish.”
“Yes.” Pat Rin cleared his throat. “Gwince stood her duty well. When I had done speaking with the staff and with the printer, I dismissed her to her meal, and perhaps to her bed.” He glanced away, resting his eyes cautiously on the rag rug. “She has taken losses today.”
“To hear her tell it, perhaps not,” Natesa said drily. “However, you may be pleased to learn that she rose to meet Mr. McFarland�
�s expectations of her. It could not be expected that she would refuse a direct order from the boss, but she did seek out her department head to inform him of her dismissal.”
“Whereupon you were dispatched to scold me,” Pat Rin concluded, and moved his shoulders. “Well, I am pleased that Gwince proves herself able. But I do not intend to live with a constant guard at my back.”
“Then you do not intend to live,” she said, leaning gracefully against the doorframe and crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “I am disappointed.”
He inclined his head, eloquently ironic. “I am, of course, grieved to hear it.”
Natesa sighed, sharply. “Illuminate my error, that you draw on me twice inside a single conversation.”
And it was not, he thought, her error, but his own. Error understood too late, with his feet irrevocably upon a path that demanded he deal violent death to people who had never heard of Liad, or Clan Korval; Plan B, nor even the Department of the Interior. People who had brothers. People who might live well for several years on the profit made in selling the piece of trumpery he wore upon his finger—provided they weren’t murdered for gain in the meanwhile.
“I beg your pardon,” he said to his oathsworn, being certain that his tone was inoffensive in offering the unaccustomed Terran phrase.
“That is no answer, Master,” she chided, her eyes intent upon his face.
Indeed, it was not—and Natesa was wise enough in custom to know he owed his oathsworn more than pettishness and ill-temper. And yet, what might he tell her that would not reveal he who held her honor in his hands as the madman he undoubtedly was?
Sighing, he showed her empty palms. “I beg your pardon,” he said again. “I—people have lost their lives today, for nothing more than my necessity. Shall my Balance go forth as it must, more will die—and those before ever I lay hand upon my enemy.” He moved, suddenly restless, pacing ’round the desk to stand staring down at the rag rug. From Natesa he felt a vast patience, which soothed him oddly, and moved him to speak more fully.
“Balance—you understand that Balance must go forth. This—Department—must be answered.”
