The Wind After Time

by Chris Bunch

  “Good,” Joshua said.

  “How big a stink is this going to make?”

  “Big,” Joshua said flatly. “Explosion in a casino… an island about volcanoed when a starship blew up… if they run DNA traces, there’ll be a pile of bodies to think about. But I think all they’ll be looking for is a gambler named Wolfe and his dancer friend.”

  “Wasn’t concerned about the proper authorities.” Libanos grunted. “Day I can’t make them dance my tune without knowin’ they’re jiggin’ is the day I’ll be ready for the long count.”

  “I was thinkin’ of your friends the Chitet.”

  “They didn’t make a full report,” Joshua said. “Not after they arrived here. My ship was monitoring all freqs, and there weren’t any out-system coms outside of Wule and Diamant. You should be clean.”

  “Let’s hope, anyway.” Libanos hesitated. “Do me a favor, Mister Wolfe. Don’t come back anytime soon, hear? Life gets a little exciting with you about.”

  “A little too exciting.”

  As they turned back to the Grayle, Wolfe noticed that Candia was looking at him oddly.

  * * * *

  “You’re sure the dancer didn’t have any idea you’re on a contract for us?” Cisco asked.

  “Positive,” Wolfe said.

  “So where’d you leave her?”

  “I don’t think you need to know that. Somewhere she’ll be safe. Somewhere quiet. She said she thought she’d like to try a little quieter life by herself. She said… things had changed.” Wolfe tried to smile but didn’t quite manage it. “Cisco, drop her, all right? She’s not a player. I want to know how many goddamned Chitet there are, and you keep ducking the question! How far do I have to run, how deep a hole do I have to dig, how many cubic feet of dirt do I have to pull in after me?”

  Cisco considered his words. “We don’t know.”

  “What do you mean? How many worlds do they have… how many ships… how many people? Those are pretty simple matters. And what in the hell are they doing icing people for these goddamned Luminas? What do they care about the Al’ar? Or doesn’t Federation Intelligence know that, either?”

  “We know the size of their culture. But we don’t know how many of them have gone outlaw or what they want.”

  Wolfe blinked. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, outlaw? I surely got the idea the woman who called herself Bori was speaking for the entire movement or culture or whatever the hell it’s calling itself.”

  “We think differently,” Cisco said.

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you. To be honest, I don’t know myself. All I know is I got the word, from people who’re far higher in the directorate than I am, that there’s only a few renegades who’re calling themselves Chitet, and we’re already in the process of rounding them up. We’re just giving them a little time and a little rope until we make sure we’ve got all of them in the net.”

  “The main Chitet culture is just what it’s always been. That’s an absolute.”

  “So one of your boys called whoever speaks for all the Order, and he said cross his heart, we’re all just reputable citizens, eh? About the level of analysis FI usually does.”

  Cisco made no response. Wolfe looked hard into his eyes. The intelligence executive met and held his gaze. Wolfe began to ask another question but changed his mind.

  “But that doesn’t alter the problem I’ve got,” he said instead. “It only takes one of them and one gun and I’m history.”

  “You’re under our cover, Wolfe. Don’t worry about them. I’ve already put the word out, and they’ll be dealt with. They won’t have time to be messing with you.”

  Wolfe looked unconvinced.

  “But that wasn’t why I wanted a face-to-face,” Cisco said. He got up, walked to one of the Grayle’s screens, and looked at the huge bulk of the Federation frigate that lay half a mile distant, outlined by far-distant stars. Then he turned back.

  “The contract has changed,” he said.

  “To what?”

  “We’ve had further developments I’m not able to tell you about. We’re doubling the fee, and I’ll give you some numbers that you can use to get whatever backup you need, anytime, anywhere.”

  “When you find the Al’ar, you’re to take him out.”

  Wolfe was on his feet. “The hell I will! I’m not one of your goddamned assassins!”

  “You’ve done it before.”

  “That was a long time ago!”

  Cisco grimaced. “I’m sorry you feel like that. You know, if I’d had done to me what those bastards did to you, I’d be more than happy to put the last one in his meat crate.”

  “You’re you,” Wolfe said. “No deal.”

  “You aren’t being asked, Joshua.”

  “And if I tell you to shove it, I’ll be out in the open for the Chitet?”

  “That,” Cisco said carefully, “and very conceivably worse. You don’t need FI for an enemy, even out here in the Outlaw Worlds.”

  Wolfe stared at him once more, and this time the man looked away.

  “Get off my ship,” Wolfe said, his voice calm.

  “You’ll keep the contract?”

  “You heard me.”

  Cisco took a microfiche from his pocket and set it down on the panel next to him. “Here’s the contact numbers you might need. You’ve also got open call on any FI warships in your area if it gets that bad.” He went to the open lock door and started to wriggle into his suit. Wolfe followed him, watched, made no move to help.

  Cisco’s gauntleted hand was about to snap the faceplate closed, when he paused.

  “I’d say I’m sorry, Wolfe. But this whole thing is big and getting bigger. None of us has any choice. Come on, man! This is for the Federation!”

  Wolfe made no response. Cisco snapped the plate closed and touched a sensor on the hull. The inner lock door irised shut.

  Joshua waited until he heard the outer lock cycle open, then went to a screen and watched Cisco being reeled across space toward the Federation warship’s yawning lock.

  He thought about what Cisco had just said and wondered again who in the government was so interested in Luminas.

  “The question is really, I suppose,” he said, “how many Chitet are inside Federation Intelligence?”

  * * * *

  “I see,” Joshua said thoughtfully. “So you really don’t have any way of knowing when I could book The Secrets of the Al’ar.”

  He waited while his words and image jumped through several subspace transponder units to the screen on the harried-looking woman’s littered desk.

  “Not really,” she answered. “I’m afraid Mister Javits is, shall we say, a bit eccentric. Perhaps that’s why he chose to use my agency instead of one of the larger ones.

  “All I can do is list your number and Carlton VI, and when Mister Javits contacts me, which he does on a regular basis, I’ll inform him of your interest. Then I’ll get back to you and we can arrange a contract, security deposits, and so forth.”

  “Certainly it should be no longer than an E-month, perhaps two. But in the interim,” the woman went on, “you have the show’s past itinerary, and you’re more than welcome to check with any of the promoters who’ve booked The Secrets. It’s one of my most popular attractions.”

  “I’d also like to see the show myself,” Wolfe said. “I’ve had friends who caught it, but I’ve learned to never book anything I’m not really enthusiastic about myself.”

  “I’ll upload the current tour schedule right now,” the agent said. “Mister Javits—I’ve never met him, never even seen him—seems to always be on the road.” She giggled. “Now, isn’t that funny that we still say that?”

  “It’s better than saying ‘on the ether’,” Wolfe said, “or ‘on the hyperspace’ and sound like Space Rangers of the Galaxy.”

  “I guess so.” The woman fingered sensors on her keyboard. “There. It’s on its way. Oh, wait. One change that won’t appear on what you’re ge
tting.

  “The Secrets was booked onto Trinite.” she said. “Mister Javits canceled that just two days ago.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “He said he has a friend there who told him advance sales and interest weren’t promising. He also said there was an outbreak of some rather worrisome virus in the capital, which is, umm, Diamant, which he’d as soon not chance catching.”

  “But he does that very, very seldom, so you needn’t worry, since I know you’ll do an excellent job of four-walling.”

  “I hope so. One further question. How many people does Mister Javits use on his tour? I’d like to know that so I can plan lodgings and so forth.”

  “To be honest, I don’t know that myself. I’ve only seen holos of the presentation. But you needn’t worry about putting people up. The show is entirely self-contained. It’s very automated, which is another of the attractions, especially for the younger set.”

  “All you need provide is an open area, permission from your local authorities for Mister Javits’s ship to port there and remain during the duration of the performances, and he’ll set up everything else, including a good-sized weatherproofed arena he carries aboard ship. He’s a very sophisticated showman.”

  “Thank you for your interest and time, Mister Hunt,” the woman said. “I’m sure you’ll be delighted you decided to book The Secrets of the Al’ar.”

  “I’m sure I shall.”

  The screen blanked, and Wolfe’s polite smile vanished.

  “So how did I avoid catching this mysterious virus?” he said thoughtfully. “And isn’t Mister Javits just the careful one?”

  “Ship, we’re going to do some plotting. Stand by.”

  * * * *

  “So The Secrets did play Mandodari, like Bori said,” Wolfe mused. “Now overlay the FI projections on where the other four Lumina first surfaced on top of the old schedule.”

  “Done.”

  “Any correlation?”

  “None within your parameters.”

  “Dammit!” Wolfe stood, stretched, walked to one wall, and opened a panel. He looked at the array of bottles inside, picked up a bottle of Laberdolive, read the label twice, replaced it, and closed the panel. He went to a second panel, opened the refrigerator door it concealed, took out a bottle of mineral water, and drank.

  “Wait a minute. How long after The Secrets show played Mandodari VI did Penruddock report his Lumina stolen?”

  “Nearly a year.”

  “Extend my time parameter to a year between the Luminas’ appearance and the tour. Now is there anything?”

  “All four appearances now coincide.”

  “Well, hot damn. I think we’re getting somewhere. Now overlay the Al’ar capital worlds and the show’s previous appearances. Any conjunction?”

  “Yes, on five.”

  “Including Sauros, where somebody filmed that Al’ar?”

  “Including Sauros.”

  “As a matter of curiosity, is there one of the Al’ar capital worlds within reach of Trinite?”

  “Affirmative. Estimated orbit … two jumps. Ship time, four days.”

  “But the Chitet and I messed up that one,” Wolfe said. “Now, take the current tour and plot Al’ar capital worlds around it.”

  “Done.”

  “How many match?”

  “All of them.”

  “Mister Javits, you aren’t that careful. What’s the nearest one we can reach in time to see the show?”

  “The nearest is Montana Keep. Estimated jumps… six. Internal time… two ship weeks. Date of appearance… three E-weeks. The Secrets of the Al’ar is booked to appear there for two full local weeks.”

  “Make the jumps.”

  * * * *

  Joshua remembered a painting. It had gone with his family on all of its assignments and was generally hung just inside the front entrance to their residences. The reproduction was a simple picture showing a clown and a young woman staring at him, an odd expression on her face. The boy had spent hours staring at it, imagining what had happened, who the two were, and what they meant to each other.

  The painting crashed to the floor, and the Al’ar soldier’s booted heel smashed down on it.

  He spoke into a microphone, and a cold synthesized voice came from the small box on his weapons belt: “Come now or face death! Take only what you are wearing! Nothing else is permitted!”

  Joshua’s father tried to protest, and one of the soldier’s companions backhanded him. His mother screamed then and was seized by two more of the squad.

  Joshua took one step forward, and three slender gun muzzles aimed steadily at his chest.

  “Young one, move no farther or you will die,” the soldier in charge ordered.

  As the Al’ar hurried them down the embassy steps, flames roared from the back of the building.

  Two of the Marine guards and their sergeant lay dead in front of the building.

  Something else rose in Joshua’s memory.

  A man’s white, pale hand sticking out of the dirt, an ornate, old-fashioned signet ring on one finger. Joshua stooped, slipped the ring off his father’s hand, stood. He took a deep breath, picked up the shovel, and finished filling in the grave.

  He turned to his mother and gave her the ring.

  “Do we say a prayer or something?”

  “Who do we pray to?” she asked harshly. “Can you think of a god worth the words?”

  He shook his head and took her arm, and they walked away, past the long lines of mounded earth in the camp’s graveyard.

  Then he remembered coming back from a work detail and seeing four men outside the hut he and his mother shared.

  “Don’t go in there, boy. Your mother died about an hour ago. We just buried her.”

  It was harsh, but it was the camp way.

  Joshua shook his head, disbelieving. “But she was able to sit up this morning! I fed her some broth.”

  None of the men answered.

  Joshua managed a breath through frozen lungs. “What did you do with the ring she had? It was my father’s.”

  “We didn’t find anything like that, son,” one of the men said, trying to sound kind. Joshua knew he was lying.

  Wolfe got up suddenly from the control chair and walked down the spiral steps and into the ship’s kitchen.

  Very deliberately, concentrating only on what his hands were doing, he began making a pot of tea.

  * * * *

  The mirrors of the workout room reflected two stools. On one sat the Lumina, flaming brilliantly. On the second was a ripe multistriped melon.

  The stone “burned” higher, and then, for an instant, there was the blink of a hand extending, fingers held together in a knife thrust.

  The tips of the fingers barely touched the melon, and it exploded, spraying juice and pulp across the room.

  Joshua Wolfe was suddenly visible in the mirrors.

  He stared at the shattered fruit, nodded once, and began to clean up the mess.

  Chapter Sixteen

  BOMBS ROCK LUXURY HOTEL

  1 Killed as Blasts Shatter Penthouse

  Press for More

  Two bombs exploded just after dusk today in two floors of Carlton VI’s most luxurious hotel, the Hyland Central, killing one hotel employee.

  Police are seeking the leaseholder of the hotel’s penthouse to aid in their inquiries.

  Dead was Peter Loughran, 45, a longtime employee of the hotel assigned to the night security detail.

  Police bomb experts said the twin devices were professionally made and set. The lieutenant in charge, whose name by government policy cannot be revealed, said,

  “It appears the first bomb went off in the Hyland’s penthouse and was triggered by Mister Loughran, making a routine check of the apartments as ordered by the penthouse’s tenant.”

  “A few moments later,” the lieutenant continued, “a second bomb, obviously linked to the first, destroyed a smaller room two stories below.”

  Police theo
rize that the penthouse’s leaseholder, Mister Joshua Wolfe, was the target of the attack and the bomb was inadvertently set off by Mister Loughran.

  The purpose of the second bomb is unknown at this time, and the room’s occupant, a Mister Samuel Baker, who held the room on a long-term lease, is being sought for questioning.

  Damage to the hotel was extensive and will require rebuilding of both floors the devices were detonated on.

  Little information was available on Mister Wolfe at press time. He was considered a model tenant who kept to himself and never caused trouble. Hotel records as to his profession and employment were non-existent, however, which has aroused police suspicions. He is currently believed to be offworld.

  Mister Baker was unknown to any of the hotel employees, and no information whatsoever appears available. The relationship between the two men, if any, is also unknown.

  Anyone with information as to the whereabouts of either of these men should contact Carlton VI planetary police at C-8788-6823-6789.

  * * * *

  34ERS 45MCS MDU89 QZ3RE… IT IS IMPERATIVE YOU COMMUNICATE SOONEST WITH YOUR STATUS, CURRENT DESTINATION, AND ANY FURTHER DATA WHICH MAY BE USEFUL, SO MAXIMUM FEDERATION SUPPORT CAN BE MADE AVAILABLE.

  CISCO

  * * * *

  “Standing by for response.”

  “There won’t be any.”

  Joshua crumpled the page from the one-time pad and pushed it into the trash destructor slot, then turned to the screen with the contract he’d been studying when Cisco’s message came in.

  “And they say there’s no such thing as slavery any more,” he finally murmured. He picked up the lightpen and signed it: Ed Hunt. Then he touched the transmit sensor,

  “Hi-ho. Hi-ho. It’s off to work we go.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Steam clouds hissed up and grew larger as the cargo ship’s drive nudged it toward the yellow pillars that marched from the shore deep into the jungle.

  “All contract workers, Lock Bravo for immediate disembarking. This is the last call.”

  The ship nosed up to the floating dock below the structure, and magnetic grapples clanged. The ship rolled slightly in the sullen surf that washed up on the beach about a hundred yards away.