by Chris Bunch
“Who is Eleven?”
“I know nothing about any Mar Eleven.” Wrathers realized she’d slipped, but Yoshitaro seemed to take no notice.
“You weren’t scrambling?”
“For the thirty-third time, I wasn’t scrambling anything! Look, I’m a citizen of Cumbre, and you, whoever you are, army or what or secret police, you can’t just grab me like you did, and then take me somewhere without even making charges against me or anything and leave me in a dark cell for hours, and ask the dumbest questions over and over!”
A red light on the box lit.
“We’ve got enough.”
“Good,” Njangu said. “Keep it running, just in case. And send in somebody to take her out.”
Yoshitaro stood.
“What are you going to do to me now? You’d better not torture me or anything, or else I’ll sue you, when I’m free.” Wrathers realized she was getting hysterical, couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“What now?” Yoshitaro said. “We’re going to keep you around for, oh, a day or so if things go well. Then you’ll be released, with no charges being filed. You can go back to doing things the way you did, although I sort of suspect your job with the Air Traffic Department might be eliminated shortly. Even bureaucrats don’t like spies.”
“You just grabbed me, and took me here … and … what did you want? I didn’t answer your questions!”
“You didn’t have to,” Njangu said.
• • •
“Take it, Mister Yoshitaro,” Caud Angara said. “You did the footwork, you deserve the glory.”
Njangu took a very deep breath. This was the largest operation he’d ever been in charge of, and it didn’t help that there was only one chance of success.
The night air around Chance Island swarmed with Griersons, civilian-appearing lims, lifters, all carrying armed and ready soldiers, all on a single frequency. In space, satellites were listening, as was every passive sensor the Force had access to.
A technician punched numbers into a com. It buzzed twice, then a click came. A second technician fingered a sensor.
Pon Wrathers’s voice, recorded in the interrogation room, then synthesized, said:
“Mar Eleven. Scrambling.”
The first tech hit another sensor. Garbled words, still recognizable as Wrathers’s voice, came through speakers, then stopped.
Other techs at a control bank worked hurriedly. One grinned, lifted his thumb.
Two moments of silence, then: “Did not translate. Resubmit.”
Again the transmission roared. There was no error in coding — the ‘cast was nothing more than garble. Njangu, not knowing what setting Wrathers’s scrambler should be set on, had been afraid to get trickier.
The receiver went suddenly dead.
“Got him,” a tech said. “The transmission went to somewhere around Lanbay Island, then got bounced back to the main island. The response was from right … here.”
His finger touched a large-scale map. “Tungi. And I’ve got a precise DR.” His mike was open to all Force units. He touched a screen, and a large-scale photo projection of the village came up. “Right here. On this mansion.”
Njangu keyed his own com.
“Garvin, you’ve got that. Take him out. I’ll take care of the backup around Tungi.”
A mike double-clicked, and blacked-out Griersons dived toward the mountain village.
• • •
Ab Yohns stared at his transceiver. Hair on the back of his neck and wrists prickled. He hesitated, then leaned over, and twisted a key in a slot. He went to the stairs, to a large switch sealed in a plastic box. Yohns snapped the cover off, hit the switch, then went up the stairs hastily. Behind him, the smell of burning insulation and charring circuitry grew.
Yohns went out of the villa. Toward the ocean, high in the sky, he could make out black dots diving on Tungi. Then he heard their drives, getting louder.
Yohns grinned, thought, A little late, fellows, and ran into the jungle, to where his small lifter was hidden.
• • •
“I have a transmission from Tungi,” the technician reported.
“Track it!” Njangu ordered.
• • •
The first Grierson landed half a dozen meters from the sprawling villa above the village. Other I&R craft slammed down nearby, blocking all exits from Tungi.
Garvin and a squad of troops doubled out of the rear ramp of the Grierson and leapfrogged toward the villa, blasters ready. No fire came to meet them.
“Sir,” a soldier said. “I smell smoke. Something’s burning!”
Garvin sniffed. “Sure is.” He keyed his com. “Get the fire brigade in here. The quarry’s self-destructing!”
• • •
Njangu buckled himself into the high-speed lifter, once a civilian lim, listening to the ‘cast on a belt transceiver. Beside it, he had two holstered pistols.
“Sibyl Base, you got a location on that cast from Tungi?” he asked. Waiting, he turned to the pilot.
“Running Bear, get us in the air. Like yesterday.”
The lim’s drive whined, and it jumped forward, airborne even as the com crackled a response to Njangu’s question.
• • •
“Sybil Base,” Garvin said. “This is Janus Six. The whole goddamned house is going up, and there’s no firemen here yet. We’re losing everything, over.”
“This is Sibyl Base. Fire response still one-zero away. Do what you can, over.”
Another transmission overrode it.
“Janus Six, this is Sibyl Six Actual. Screw the house and get back in the air.” Njangu gave coordinates. “And haul ass. The game’s afoot.”
• • •
Ab Yohns took his lifter into the clearing, pushed his way into brush, and grounded. It was about two hours after dawn. He got out, took a small sender from his pocket, pressed it again.
Dirt shifted, and a square section of the clearing lifted, slid aside. Inside was a thirty-meter yacht, drive already warming, nav position set for one of the asteroids off G-Cumbre, all accomplished by his first transmission after fleeing Tungi.
From the asteroid he’d signal for pickup, then wait for Redruth to come get him.
Yohns took a moment to admire his cleverness. Years ago, he’d had work crews dig a wine cellar in his villa, the crew imported from Leggett City. He’d done the finishing work and installed the electronics himself.
Similarly, he’d had another crew of workmen, these picked up from the city’s casual labor pools, excavate the foundations and storage for a hunting camp here on the shore of Mullion Island east of Chance Island.
The prickling that’d sent him into flight was gone. In half an hour, he’d be beyond Confederation reach, and on his way to being a very rich man in Alena Redruth’s empire.
Behind him, Njangu Yoshitaro lifted out of cover, aiming a long-barreled pistol. He pulled the trigger, and the dart spat across the clearing, taking Yohns in the neck. Yohns had a second to slap a hand to what might’ve been an insect bite, then dropped bonelessly. Njangu holstered the dart gun, drew his blaster.
“Let’s roll him up, Running Bear.”
The big Amerind stood, stretched. “Damned glad I’m not one of your I&R folks. I think a snail ate my balls off while we were waiting.”
They went across the clearing to the slumped Yohns.
“We’ll strip him down, check everything, including his mouth to make sure he’s not loaded with a lethal pill,” Njangu said. He took plas cuffs from a pouch. “Then we’ll wrap him like he was for the roasting.
“Which he is.”
CHAPTER
4
The two guards escorted Ab Yohns into the room, went out, and closed the door. The compartment was comfortably fitted, and might have been a living room, except there were no windows or coms.
Sitting, very relaxed, were Njangu Yoshitaro and Jon Hedley.
“Sit down,” Hedley said. “There are drinks over there. N
othing with alcohol in it.”
“I’ll decline.”
“If you want,” Njangu said, “I’ll have a drink out of any of them. They’re not drugged.”
Yohns smiled, sat down.
“I assume the effects of the knockout shot have worn off,” Hedley said. “The doctor assured us you’ve had normal functions for some hours now.”
“I’m fully functional,” Yohns said. “This is most civilized.”
“Why not?” Hedley said. “We’re professionals, and assume you are, too. My name’s Hancock, and this is Dexter, by the way. He’s the one who came up with the scheme that trapped you.”
“Ah?” Yohns inclined his head. “Well done.”
Njangu nodded.
Hedley stood. “I wanted to introduce myself, reassure you that you’re in the hands of the Confederation, and will be dealt with according to all legal considerations, or as many as circumstances permit.”
“Thank you, Mil Hedley,” Yohns said. “I recognized you from the holos.”
“Alas, how flipping fame spreads,” Hedley murmured. “Dexter, you may take it from here.” He smiled, and left.
“I don’t believe I recognize you, however,” Yohns said.
“As the boss said, the name’s Dexter.”
“Very well … Dexter.”
“In Tungi, you were known as Ab Yohns,” Njangu said. “Your real name?”
“Frankly, I’m not sure I remember what my real name is. People in my profession frequently find cause to use aliases. Let’s leave it at Yohns, since I’ve been comfortable with that label for quite a number of years.
“What is in store for me, if I might ask?”
“Like the boss said, you’ll be taken care of, if you give us what we want. Which I assume you already figured out.”
“Which is?”
“Everything you’ve got about Larix, Kura, Protector Alena Redruth and his forces.”
“I’m afraid you’re in for a surprise.”
“How so?”
“Have you ever seen Redruth in person?”
“I even had a chance to shoot at him once,” Njangu said. “Missed.”
“You’re far ahead of me. I doubt if you’ll believe me, but I’ve never met the man.”
“No belief is a nice, comfortable way to put it,” Njangu said.
“But no more than the truth. I was hired, through a third- or fourth-hand party a long time ago, back on Centrum, by the Protector. I gave him good service, was well paid for it. When the situation loomed toward intolerable, I decided to depart the Confederation and spend some quiet time on the frontiers until things settled out.
“I looked in the area of my employer’s worlds. I wasn’t sure I wanted to live on either Larix or Kura, because, as I’m sure you know, kings fear their spymasters. I thought it might be well to be a little distant from his attentions.
“Redruth himself suggested I emigrate to Cumbre, where I could continue to provide services, since he has a strong desire to add this system to his holdings.
“Perhaps I will chance a glass of water.”
Njangu poured a glass, sipped, then gave it to Yohns.
“I came to Cumbre with no more than an earth-hour’s layover on Larix. I could perhaps give you my memories of the spaceport, but not much more. As for his worlds, what I know is from holos and gazetteers. You certainly know more about his military than I do.
“I’d planned eventually to flee to Larix. That’s where the monies he’s paid are deposited, so I’ll hardly be desperate for work. He would have found a place for me if for no other reason than to keep me from mischief.”
“There are drugs to check what you’re telling me,” Njangu said, still skeptical.
The corner of Yohns mouth twitched.
“There are, indeed,” he said, a bit of a rasp in his voice. “But they’ll do no more than confirm what I just said. I’m afraid I’m a bit of an empty vessel.
“But that isn’t to say I want to be thrown into a dungeon with the rats, and have whatever tortures, psychic or real, wreaked on me. I despise pain.
“As your commander said, I am a professional. I’m more than content to be tucked in whatever comfortable prison you have on some distant island, and give as much help as I can while you pursue your venture against Redruth. That should ensure my continued survival, in a measure of comfort.”
His voice suddenly sounded a bit unsure. “Do you think such an arrangement might be possible?”
Njangu, carefully blank-faced, stood.
“I’ll discuss this with my superiors. I’m afraid we can’t leave you in this room, by the way. It’s not as secure as others. Someone will escort you back to your previous compartment in a few minutes. Tomorrow we’ll continue our discussion, and perhaps in the meantime you’ll think if you don’t remember a bit more than you said about Larix and Kura.”
Yohns was on his feet, holding out a hand.
“I’m sure we’ll work well together.”
Yoshitaro didn’t want to take his hand, but did.
He went out to where the guards waited. “Take him back to the clank. Oh yeah. Put him on a suicide watch, round the clock.”
“Yes, sir, Cent.”
• • •
Njangu rolled to his feet, the pistol always under his pillow in hand as a fist thundered at the thin door.
“Yeh?”
“Cent Yoshitaro!” It was the Bachelor Officer Quarters’ Charge of Quarters. “It’s an emergency!”
Njangu had the door unlocked and open in a second.
“Sir,” the CQ said, “II Section says you’re to go to what they said was the prisoner’s quarters at once.”
• • •
“That’s a hard way to go,” Mil Hedley said, looking down at the bloody corpse. “Damned if I think I’d have the flipping guts to chew through my own tongue and then just quietly bleed to death.”
“I don’t understand why he killed himself,” Njangu said.
“Who knows?” Hedley said. “Spies aren’t the most stable people. Maybe he didn’t believe us when we said we weren’t gonna toss him in an iron maiden just for laughs.
“More likely, he started thinking about how an oh-so-clever agent got his flipping ass trapped by a bunch of infantrymen with dirt under their fingernails, and his ego told him it couldn’t handle things.”
“I had a suicide watch mounted,” Njangu said, holding back his anger. “He asks for some fresh water, and both guards go out of the cell. I know two troopies who’re going to be mounting suicide watch on each other on the smallest frigging reef on this frigging planet.” Promise made, he forgot about the two for the moment, looked back down at Yohns.
“All this goddamned work,” he hissed. “To end up with — ”
“With nothing,” Hedley said. “Except he won’t be hanging over our shoulder, watching, anymore. But he could’ve been so much, much flipping more,” he said.
Yoshitaro remembered the extent of Yohns’s claimed knowledge.
“Maybe. Or maybe not.” An idea came. “Or maybe we can still get some miles out of his sorry ass.”
“Like how?”
Njangu turned a profile to Hedley. “Don’t I make an utterly lovely Ab Yohns?”
CHAPTER
5
Asteroid Glyph-Hander
The yacht belonging to the late Ab Yohns matched orbits with the dumbbell-shaped asteroid, then landed. A velv held position about three kilometers away from the asteroid.
“Finished with engines and all that nautical rot,” Ben Dill said.
Njangu Yoshitaro got up from the copilot’s chair. “Damn. I was sure you were gonna stack it up on that rock on final.”
“You see your problem?” Ben asked. “You’re in the hands of the finest pilot humanity has produced since, oh, mebbe Orville and Wilbur Lilienthal, and do you show proper respect? Hah! I say again, hah!
“Your biggest problem, Yoshitaro, is that you’ve never learned to fly, so you have n
o method of judging a natural birdman like myself.” Dill caught himself. “Yoish, but I’m a dolt.”
“No kid.”
“No, I mean I went and volunteered to fly you out here for your rendezvous with destiny, and it never occurred: You’re playing Ab Yohns. Who was a spy. And a pilot, or else he wouldn’t of had this here yacht.”
“Don’t remind me of the holes in my cover.”
“What’s gonna happen if somebody asks you to spin a few fast orbits around Larix?”
“I’m going to develop the worse case of vertigo you’ve ever seen.” Yoshitaro went to the passenger compartment, opened the hatch. “All right, gentlepeople. You can sweep in here now.” Four sterile-suited technicians went to work on the pilot’s compartment as they’d done the rest of the ship. Every surface had been cleaned twice of all fingerprints. After that, prints from three or four hands, most blurred, were strategically placed. Then Yoshitaro’s prints went everywhere. Now Dill’s fingerprints were scrubbed from the controls, and Njangu, on command, touched and pressed things here and there.
Dill made his farewells, clambered into a suit, and jetted up from the yacht’s skin toward the waiting ship. The technicians made sure there were no stray hairs, spittle, or waste in the yacht’s cycling system, then followed him out.
Yoshitaro was alone, half a system from anything.
“The stage is set,” he muttered. “The musicians have tuned up. The spotlight’s on the goddamned podium.”
He crossed into the fresher, looked at his semi-new face not for the first nor the fifteenth time since the doctors had finished. His hair now had a gray streak at the temple, and his skin had been weathered, aged. Yohns had supposedly been in his late forties. Yoshitaro thought he could pass for mid-thirties, maybe a bit older, and hoped Redruth didn’t have Yohns’s birth certificate handy. He also hoped that the medicos could, as promised, reverse their craft when he came home.
“The maestro comes into the spotlight. Taps his baton. There’s silence in the hall.”
Yoshitaro punched a sensor, and Yohns’s bleat for help spat toward Larix.
“The maestro lifts his baton, and goes ass over teakettle into the orchestra pit as the first kazoo begins playing.
