Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
CHAPTER 1
Walking up the wall had not been easy. But walking across the ceiling was turning out to be completely impossible. Until I realized that I was going about it the wrong way. It seemed obvious when I thought about it. When I held onto the ceiling with my hands I could not move my feet. So I switched off the molebind gloves and swung down, hanging only from the soles of my boots. The blood rushed to my head—as well it might, bringing with it a surge of nausea and a sensation of great unease.
What was I doing here, hanging upside down from the ceiling of the Mint, watching the machine below stamp out five-hundred-thousand-credit coins? They jingled and fell into the waiting baskets—so the answer to that question was pretty obvious. I nearly fell after them as I cut the power on one foot. I swung it forward in a giant step and slammed it solidly against the ceiling again as I turned the binding energy back on. A generator in the boot emitted a field of the same binding energy that holds molecules together, making my foot, at least temporarily, a part of the ceiling. As long as the power was on.
A few more long steps and I was over the baskets. I fumbled at my waist, trying to ignore the dizziness, and pulled out the cord from my oversized belt buckle. Bending double until I could reach up to the ceiling, I pushed the knob at the end against the plaster and switched it on. The molebind field clamped hard and I released my feet. To hang, swinging, right side up now, while the blood seeped out of my florid face.
“Come on Jim—no hanging about,” I advised myself. “The alarm will go off any second now.”
Right on cue the sirens screamed, the lights blinked, while a gargantuan hooter thundered through the walls. I did not tell myself that I told me so. No time. Thumb on the power button so that the immensely strong, almost invisible, single-molecule cord whirred out of the buckle and dropped me swiftly down. When my outstretched hands clinked among the coins I stopped. Opened my attache case and dragged it clanking through the coins until it was full of the shining, shimmering beauties.
Closed and sealed it as the tiny motor buzzed and dragged me up to the ceiling again. My feet struck and stuck: I switched off power to the lifting lug.
And the door opened below me.
“Somebody coulda come in here!” the guard shouted, his weapon nosing about him. ‘The door alarm went off.”
“Maybe—but I don’t see nothin’,” the second guard said.
They looked down and around. But never up. I hoped. Feeling the sweat rolling up my face. Collecting there. Dropping.
I watched with horror as the droplets spattered down onto the guard’s helmet.
“Next room!” he shouted, his voice drowning out the splat of perspiration. They rushed out, the door closed, I walked across the ceiling, crawled down the wall, slumped with exhaustion on the floor.
“Ten seconds, no more,” I admonished. Survival was a harsh taskmaster. What had seemed like a good idea at the time maybe really was a good idea. But right now I was very sorry I had ever seen the newsflash.
Ceremonial opening of new Mint on Paskonjak … planet often called Mintworld … first half-million-credit coins ever issued … dignitaries and press invited.
It had been like the sound of the starting gun to a sprinter. I was off. A week later I was stepping out of the space terminal on Paskonjak, bag in hand and forged press credentials in pocket. Even the massed troops and tough security had not tempered my madness. The machines in my case were immune from detection by any known security apparatus; the case projected a totally false image of its contents when radiation hit it. My step had been light, my smile broad.
Now my face was ashen and my legs trembled with fatigue as I pushed myself to my feet.
“Look calm, look collected—think innocence.”
I swallowed a calm-and-collected pill that was coated with instant uppers. One, two, three paces to the door, my face flushed with pride, my gait noble, my conscience pure.
I put on my funky bejeweled spectacles and looked through the door. The ultrasound image was fuzzy. But clear enough to reveal figures hurrying past. When they were gone I unlocked the door, slipped through and let it close behind me.
Saw the rest of my party of journalists being pushed down the corridor by screaming, gun-waving troops. Turned and marched firmly away in the opposite direction and around the bend.
The guard stationed there lowered his gun and pointed it at my belt buckle.
“La necesejo estas i tie?” I said, smiling smarmily.
“What you say? What you doin’ here?”
“Indeed?” I snorted through widened nostrils. “Rather short on education, particularly a knowledge of Esperanto, aren’t we? If you must know, speaking in the vulgar argot of this planet—I was told that the men’s room was down here.”
“Well it ain’t. Da udder way.”
“You’re too kind.”
I turned and strolled diffidently down the hall. Had taken three steps before reality penetrated his sluggish synapses.
“Come back here, you!”
I stopped and turned about, pointed past him. “Down that way?” I asked. The gas projector I had palmed when my back was turned towards him hissed briefly. His eyes closed and he dropped; I took the gun from his limp hands as he fell by. Placed it on his sleeping chest since it was of no help to me. Walked briskly past him and pushed open the door to the emergency stairs. Closed and leaned against it and breathed very deeply. Then took out the map that had been in the press kit and poked my finger on the symbol for stairs. Now, down to the storeroom … footsteps sounded below.
Up. Quietly on soft soles. A change of plan was very much in order since the alarm had sounded, ruling out a simple exit with the crowd. Up, five, six flights until the steps ended in a door labeled KROV. Which probably meant roof in the local language.
There were three different alarms that I disabled before I pushed the door open and slipped through. Looked around at the usual rooftop clutter; water tanks, vents, aircon units—and a good-sized smokestack puffing out pollution. Perfect.
The moneybag clunked as I dropped all my incriminating weapons and tools into it. My belt buckle twisted open and I took out the reel and motor. Attached the molebind plug from the suspension cord to the bag, then lowered it all down the chimney. Reaching down as far as I could I secured the reel mechanism to the inside of the pipe.
Done. It would wait there as long as needed, until all the excitement calmed down. An investment waiting to be collected you might say. Then, armed only with my innocence, I retraced my course back down the stairs and on to the ground floor.
The door opened and closed silently and there was a guard, back turned, standing close enough to touch. Which I did, tapping him on the shoulder. He shrieked, jumped aside, turned, lifted his gun.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” I said sweetly. “Afraid I got separated from my party. The press group …”
“Sergeant, I got someone,” he burbled into the microphone on his shoulder. “Me, yeah, Private Izmet, post eleven. Right. Hold him. Got that.” He pointed the gun between my eyes. “Don’t move!”
“I have no intention of that, I assure you.”
I admired my fingernails, plucked a bit of fluff from my jacket, whistled; tried to ignore the wavering gun muzzle. There was the thud of running feet and a squad led by a grim-looking sergeant rushed up.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant. Can you tell me why this soldier is pointing his weapon at me? Or rather, why you are all pointing your weapons at me?”
“Grab his case. Cuff him. Bring him.” A man of few words, the sergeant.
The elevator they hus
tled me to had not been marked on the map issued to the journalists. Nor had the map even hinted at the many levels below the ground floor that penetrated deep into the bowels of the earth. The pressure hit my eardrums as we dropped—about as many floors down as you usually go up in a skyscraper. My stomach sank as well as I realized I had bitten off a good deal more than I could possibly chew. Pushed out at some subterranean level, dragged through locked, barred gates, one after another, until we finally reached a singularly depressing room. Traditionally bare with unshielded lights and a backless stool. I sighed and sat.
My attempts at conversation were ignored, as was my press pass. Which was taken from me along with my shoes—then the rest of my clothes. I pulled on the robe of itchy black burlap that they gave me, dropped back into the chair and made no attempt to outstare my guards.
To be frank this was a kind of a low point, made even lower when the effects of the calm-and-collected pill began to wear off. Just about the time my morale hit bottom the loudspeaker gurgled incomprehensible instructions and I was hurried down the hall to another room. The lights and stool were the same—but this time they faced a steel desk with an even steelier-eyed officer behind it. His glare spoke for him as he pointed to my dissected clothing, bag, shoes.
“I am Colonel Neuredan—and you are in trouble.”
“Do you always treat interstellar journalists like this?”
“Your identity is false.” His voice had all the warmth of two rocks being grated together. “Your shoes contain molebind projectors …”
“There’s no law against that!”
“There is on Paskonjak. There is a law against anything that threatens the security of the Mint and the Interstellar Credits produced here.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Everything that you have done has been wrong. Attempting to deceive our security with false identification, stunning a guard, penetrating the Mint without supervision—these are all crimes under our law. What you have committed so far makes you liable for fourteen concurrent life sentences.” His grim voice grew even grimmer. “But there is even worse than that—”
“What could be worse than fourteen life sentences?” Despite my efforts at calm control I could hear my voice cracking.
“Death. That is the penalty for stealing from the Mint.”
“I haven’t stolen anything!” Definitely a quaver now.
“That will be determined very shortly. When the decision was made to mint five-hundred-thousand-credit coins every precaution was taken to prevent their theft. Integral to their fabric is a transponder that listens for a specific signal at a specific frequency. It answers and reveals the location of the coin.”
“Stupid,” I said with more bravado than I felt. “Won’t work here. Not with all the coins you have made—”
“All now safe behind ten feet of solid lead. Radiation-proof. If there are any other coins not in our custody the signal will sound.”
Right on cue I heard the pealing of bells in the distance. The iron face of my inquisitor was touched by a fleeting cold smile.
“The signal,” he said. We sat in silence for long seconds. Until the door burst open and the hurrying guards dropped a very familiar bag onto the desk. He lifted the end slowly and the coins jangled forth.
“So that’s what they look like. I never …”
“Silence!” he thundered. “These were removed from the minting room. They were found suspended in the chimney from the smelter. Along with these other objects.”
“Proves nothing.”
“Proves everything!” Quick as a snake he grabbed my hands, slammed them onto a plate on his desk. A hologram of my fingerprints appeared instantly on the air above.
“Any prints lifted from the coins?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Many,” a spectral voice responded. A portion of the desk top rose up bearing what appeared to be photographic prints. He looked at them and for the second time I was treated to the sight of that frigid smile as he dropped the prints through a slot. A second hologram floated in the air beside the first, moved over and merged with it as he touched the controls.
The double image flickered and became one.
“Identical!” he said triumphantly. “You can tell me your name if you wish. So it can be spelled correctly on your tombstone. But only if you wish.”
“What do you mean tombstone? And what do you mean death sentence? That’s illegal by galactic law!”
“There is no galactic law down here,” he intoned with a voice like a funeral march. “There is only the law of the Mint. Judgment is final.”
“The trial …” I said feebly, visions of lawyers, appeals, torts and documents dancing in my head.
There was no mercy in his voice now, no touch of the tiniest of iceberg smiles on his lips.
“The penalty for theft in the Mint is death. The trial takes place after the execution.”
CHAPTER 2
I am still young—and it did not look like I was going to get any older. My dedication to a life of crime had led to a far shorter lifespan than could normally be expected. Here I was, not yet twenty years old. A veteran who had fought in two wars, had been imprisoned and drafted, who had been depressed by the death of my good friend The Bishop, been impressed by Mark Forer the great Artificial Intelligence. Was that it? Had I had it? No more to life than that? All over.
“Never!” I shouted aloud, but the two guards merely gripped my arms the harder and pushed me along the corridor. A third armed guard went ahead and unlocked the cell door, while the one behind me prodded my kidneys with the barrel of his gun.
They were good and they took no chances. They were big and mean and I was small and lean. Shivering with fear, I was crouching even lower. Once the cell door was open the guard with the keys turned towards me and unlocked my handcuffs.
Then gasped as my knee caught him in the stomach and knocked him back into the cell. At the same time I grabbed the two guards beside me by the wrists, crossed my arms with a single spasmodic burst of effort that pulled the two of them crashing together; their skulls bonked nicely. At the same instant I lashed backward—catching the fourth guard on the bridge of his nose with the back of my head. Everything happening at approximately the same time.
Two seconds ago I had been bound and captive.
Now one guard was out of sight, groaning in the cell. Two more holding their heads and howling, the fourth one clutching a bloody nose. They hadn’t been expecting this: I had.
I ran. Back the way we had come and through the still-open door. Hoarse, angry cries were cut off as I slammed it shut, locked it. The thick panel shook as heavy bodies thudded against the other side.
“Got you!” a victorious voice shouted and rough hands grabbed me. He could not know by touch that I was a Black Belt. He found out the hard way.
Eyes closed, breathing easily, he just lay there and made no protest as I stripped him of uniform and weapons. Nor did he thank me when I draped my burlap robe over his pale form, hiding his black lace undies from prying eyes. His clothes were not too bad a fit. Not too good either with the cap tilting forward over my eyes. But it would have to do.
There were three doors leading from this room. The one that I had locked was pounding and bouncing in its frame: next to it was the one that we had come in through. It didn’t take much intelligence to use the unconscious guard’s keys to open the third one.
It led to a storage room. Dark shelves, filled with nameless objects, vanished away into the distance. Not too promising—but I was in no position to choose. I executed a quick leap back to the entrance door, unlocked it and threw it open, then dived ahead into the storage room. As I closed this final door behind me, even before I could lock it, there was a mighty crash and screams of anger as the assaultees finally broke the door down.
Misdirection wouldn’t last long. Run past the shelves. Hide here? No—there would be a thorough search. A door at the far end, bolted on the inside. I opened it a cra
ck and looked at the empty room beyond. Opened and stepped through.
And stopped quite still as the guards who were flattened against the wall all pointed guns at me.
“Shoot him!” Colonel Neuredan ordered.
“I’m unarmed!” My gun slid across the floor as I threw my hands into the air. Fingers quivered on triggers—it was all over.
“Don’t shoot—I want him alive. For the moment.”
I stood frozen, not breathing until the trigger fingers relaxed. Looked up and quickly found the security bug in the ceiling. Must be one in every room and corridor down here. They had been watching me all the time. A good try, Jim. The Colonel grated his teeth horribly and stabbed a finger in my direction.
“Take him. Chain him. Bind him. Bring him.”
This was all done with ruthless efficiency. My toes dragged along the floor as I was whisked back to the cell, stripped at gunpoint, thrown to the floor with my black robe thrown on top of me. The door clanged shut and I was alone. Very much alone.
“Cheer up, Jim, you’ve been in worse trouble before,” I chirped smilingly. Then snarled, “When?”
Back in the pits again. My abortive attempt at escape had only gained me a few bruises.
“This can’t be it!” I shouted. “It can’t all end just like this.”
“It can—and it will,” the Colonel’s funereal voice intoned as the cell door opened again. A dozen guns were pointed at me as a guard brought in a tray with a bottle of champagne on it and a single glass.
I watched in stupefied disbelief as he twisted the cork out. There was a pop and a gush as the golden fluid filled the glass. He handed it to me.
“What’s this, what’s this?” I mumbled, staring wide-eyed at the rising bubbles.
“Your last request,” Neuredan said. “That and a cigarette.”
He took one from a package and lit it, holding it out to me. I shook my head. “I don’t smoke.” He ground the cigarette under his heel. “Anyway—champagne and a cigarette—that’s not my last request.”
“Yes it is. Forms of last request are standardized by law. Drink.”
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