by Chris Bunch
She watched his lifter take off, went back inside, poured herself another brandy, and sat down in a couch, staring down at Leggett City.
An hour later, the drink was still untouched. Jasith’s eyes suddenly widened. She went to the com, started to touch sensors. Then she stopped, thought for a few moments, and dialed another number.
“Scrambling,” she said when she heard a voice at the other end, then read the code from her display. “R-Three-six-seven.”
The voice blurred, then came back clearly as the scramble code was entered on the other com.
“Scrambled on code R-three-six-seven. What’s the problem, Jasith?”
The man at the other end was Hon Felps, personnel executive for Mellusin Mining and her late father’s former personal assistant.
Jasith said, “I want to access the GT-Nine-Seven-Three team.”
There was a long silence. The code, which Jasith was given after her father’s death, had been set up by her father years earlier. Every senior executive at Mellusin Mining was told that if GT973 was invoked by any member of the Mellusin family or their representative, they were to provide any, repeat any, service, without questions, comment, or records. In addition, Felps had told Jasith there were certain people on the Mellusin payroll, in innocuous functions, who had unusual training and background, and would carry out any, repeat any, service she needed.
Jasith had passed the code along to Garvin during the Musth War, but he hadn’t occasion to use it. But now …
“Are you sure … sorry, Jasith. Stand by. You’ll be contacted at your number shortly.” The connection went dead.
Jasith waited, thinking about her idea. A smile touched her lips. It wasn’t terribly pleasant. Then the situation became funny, and she laughed aloud, just as the com buzzed.
“Jasith Mellusin,” she said.
“T-One-Two-One,” an absolutely neutral voice came, most likely synthed. Jasith entered the code, then explained her plan.
• • •
The alarm chimed pleasantly, once, again.
Loy Kouro rolled over, reached for the cutoff switch, felt paper instead of plas. He opened an eye, and saw an envelope leaning against the clock.
Kouro sat up, and the blond head pillowed on his arm snorted in sleepy surprise.
How the hell did that get in here? I didn’t have anything to drink before bed — is Bet trying to surprise me or something?
He tore the envelope open. Inside was a card that looked handwritten, but was a script face:
• • •
Here’ wishing you the best of days, now, and hope-fully forever.
There wasn’t any signature.
Quite suddenly, the card burst into flames. Kouro yelped in surprise, dropped the card on the carpet as it burned into ashes.
Bet sat up. “What’s the matter, honey-bun?”
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
He’d never quite realized how irritating her nasal voice could be.
Kouro grabbed for the com, thought he should at least rinse his face off before tearing his security people apart. Growling in anger, he went into the ‘fresher, reached for the tap, saw more blackened ashes around it.
Another note. But it could’ve been a bomb. Like the other one might’ve been. And anybody who broke in could’ve had a gun or a knife instead of paper envelopes.
He opened the medicine chest, saw more ashes inside one of his headache remedy bottles.
The medicine could’ve been replaced with poison, and I never would’ve known.
Kouro’s hand started shaking. He held it on the washstand, pressing down hard, until it stilled. He grabbed his robe from its hook, pulled it on, heard crinkling. He dug into the pocket, found more ashes.
A poisonous reptile.
Almost blind in his rage, he grabbed the com, pressed the EMERGENCY sensor.
Alarms began shrilling. A voice came on.
“Response team on the way, sir. What’s gone wrong, if you can talk?”
“Somebody … somebody broke in,” Kouro gobbled, then the door slammed open. Two men in combat harness, blasters ready, burst in, flattened to either side of the doorway. One of his security officers crouched around the side of the door, weapon leveled.
“What is it, sir?”
“There’s been an intruder, goddammit! And he got right past you!”
“Get down and out of the way!”
“He’s gone, you stupid frigging idiot!”
The watch leader came to his feet, pushed past Kouro, saw nothing but the wide-eyed young woman in bed.
“What happened, sir? How did you know there was a break-in?”
Kouro gaped, then stammered, too livid to speak coherently.
Those goddamned Forcemen. Had to have been them. None of my other enemies has that capability. The bastards came right through the best guards I could hire, and they could do it again, and there’s nothing I can do to keep myself from being murdered, and I can’t press charges on some goddamned ashes and a weird story that nobody, not even Bet, will believe.
Goddamn them, goddamn them!
• • •
Prest’n picked up the com.
“Matin. This is Prest’n.”
“Loy Kouro here.”
“Yes, sir?”
“We’re killing the Larix/Kura story.”
“Whaaat?”
The only answer he got was the click as Kouro disconnected.
CHAPTER
15
“I’m not pleased,” Celidon snapped. “Nor is the Protector.”
“I hope it’s not me,” Njangu said, the quaver in his voice quite unforced.
“No, Yohns. You’re one of the few people the Protector and I are thinking favorably of at this moment.
“Have you heard the tales of the Gray Avengers?”
“The who?”
“Neither has the head of state security, not the commander of the Protector’s Own,” Celidon said. “It seems there are a certain number of soldiers — how many and their duty assignments is still unclear — within the Protector’s Own, who think Protestor’s Justice will not suffice to deal with the bandits we rounded up on Kura Four.”
“That’s absurd,” Njangu said. “Dr. Miuss is ready to start the treatment in a day, now that the prisoners are healthy enough not to die from the side effects of the drugs he’s going to use. The trial after that will be swift, sure, and deadly.”
“I know that, the Protector knows that, but these half-wits seem intent on taking matters into their own hands,” Celidon snarled.
Njangu looked appropriately shocked.
“The Gray Avengers’ intent,” Celidon continued, “so the initial reports say, is to seize the prisoners after the trial begins and peremptorily execute them in front of all the holos. Thus, supposedly, proving the Avengers’ loyalty to the Protector.
“Of course, if they think that, they’re truly foolish. The results of an action such as they plan can have a very different effect. Should, say, there be problems or setbacks in the forthcoming war against Cumbre, it would be very easy for the populace, properly instructed, to consider the gray Avengers the real spirit of our worlds.
“Assuming they’re ambitious, they might consider a coup, of course in the name of the Protector, intended to take care of those lacklusters and ninnyhammers who don’t support him to the hilt.
“No doubt certain people, such as Protector Redruth and myself, would be unfortunately killed during such a rising, which would mean the cabal of Gray Avengers would be forced to take charge of the government until the emergency’s over.
“It’s an interesting way to plot revolution. From within, not without, in the name of greater security for the people and their greatest hero.”
“They can’t be that clever,” Njangu said, “if you’ve gotten word of their plot.”
“Just rumors, gossip so far,” Celidon said. “But my agents are hard at work, within the palace itself. Since the bandits committed thei
r depredations on Kura Four, we’re interrogating any of the palace staff or the Protector’s Own who came from that system.”
“Why are you trusting me with this information?”
“Because, since you’ve more or less taken over the matter of these bandits, you might wish to check your security even more thoroughly than you have.”
Njangu walked to the window, looked out at the gray monotony of Larix Prime, appearing to think.
“Actually,” he said, turning, “I would rather steal the march on these conspirators, rather than patch the leaking dike here, there.” Yoshitaro thought, with a bit of pride, that his mixed metaphors were worthy of the Protector himself.
“You suggest?”
“The prisoners are currently housed in the palace prison.”
“It’s the most secure facility on the planet.”
“Not if there are conspirators inside the palace, as the rumor has it.”
“True. So you want to move them? Where?”
“Dr. Miuss’s sanitarium is very well guarded, and most secure,” Njangu said, “since a great number of the enemies of the Protector have been given to him for interrogation and treatment.”
“And the sanitarium’s not far from the Palace of Justice,” Celidon mused. “But the passage between Dr. Miuss’s enclave and the Palace of Justice would be open for attack.”
“Not necessarily. We move the prisoners to the sanitarium,” Njangu explained. “We tell the Protector’s Own they’ll be responsible for the security between the court and the sanitarium, allow them to prepare their positions and so forth.
“Then, when the prisoners have been softened up enough for the trial, we bring in conventional troops for route security, and return the Protector’s Own to their barracks. The Gray Avengers, assuming they exist, will no doubt be plotting to make their strike against the Protector’s Own, and their plans will be shattered.”
“Mmmh,” Celidon said, considering. “Not bad. Not bad at all. I suspect the Protector will be interested in your suggestions.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“It appears we did well, bringing you away from Cumbre, Yohns.”
“Thank you, sir.” Njangu made an awkward salute, and left Celidon’s office.
Very good, he thought. Very, very goddamned good. That gossip Maev picked must’ve cornered every fool with an eardrum to drop the tale about the ever-so-patriotic, never-to-be-found conspirators. Just as Njangu had hoped.
Now we’ve got the prisoners out in the open, where it’ll be easier to lift them, away from that goddamned unbustable jail they’re in now.
• • •
“Commander Celidon says that you had some interesting thoughts on matters that shouldn’t be discussed,” Protector Redruth said.
“I’d hoped you’d find them such, sir,” Njangu said.
“I did, indeed, and your suggestions will be implemented. Also, my current head of security has proven himself unqualified by his ignorance of this matter, and must be replaced. I propose you for the post.”
“Why … why, thank you, sir,” Njangu managed. “But may I ask a favor?”
Redruth frowned.
“Could my appointment wait until after these raiders have been dealt with? I think I have the situation well in hand with them, and Dr. Miuss and I are working well together. It would take a bit of time to familiarize a new official with the way you want the matter handled.”
Redruth thought, then nodded.
“Good thinking, Yohns. Finish one task before you start a second, as I always say. With you on top of matters, the bandits will soon become the public example I’ve promised.”
• • •
“You almost got too canny for your own good,” Maev snickered, turning off the sweep and tucking it in the dresser drawer. Both she and Njangu had become very adept at constantly checking for bugs, changing sweeps regularly, and never talking openly in a room with any sort of electronic device. Their bedroom bugs were fed taped harmless conversations, sex scenes, or snoring when matters of real importance had to be discussed.
“No shiteedah,” Njangu agreed, collapsing on the bed. “Teach me to be that efficient and almost get transferred. Such high-level conniving takes it out of a man. I am for a fast shower, a faster meal, and total unconsciousness.”
“Not for a while yet,” Maev said. “There’s another problem you’re going to have to deal with.”
“Not tonight. And it better not be you. I’m too tired to raise a smile.”
“Not me, oh stud of the greater universe,” Maev said. “It’s your companions.”
“Uk,” Njangu said.
“Brythe came to me today, and, rather hurt, wanted to know what my special bed talents are.”
Njangu groaned, rolled onto his stomach. For some reason he refused to analyze, since a short time after Maev had joined him, he’d found himself feeling … not guilty, of course, since there was no reason for guilt … reluctant, yes, that was the word, no doubt because of the complexity of what was going on, to visit his companions.
“You know,” Maev said, “you shouldn’t be deviating from normal practice, you deviant. That’s one of the first things a good counterintelligence agent looks for.”
“God give me true strength,” Njangu said, muffledly, head buried in the coverlet.
“She might,” Maev said. “I assume you’re going to rectify matters, you raving stallion you, and go hopping from bed to bed to bed tonight. I’ve heard tales about your proficiency. Perhaps you could leave a com on, and I could watch.”
Njangu sat up.
“You’d like that?”
“Don’t sound so shocked, my little libertine,” she said. “But no, I wouldn’t.”
Njangu wondered why he felt relief, why, in fact, he’d let this nonsense go on as long as it had.
“Tell them … tell them I got a social disease on Kura, and that you and I aren’t doing it either, but you know about this loathsomeness, and so I’m having you sleep in this room so nasty rumors don’t start.”
Maev came over on the bed, looked down.
“You mean you aren’t going to take my invitation to go screwing your little lights out?”
Njangu shook his head.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“And aren’t you just the most romantic of unromantics,” Maev said, lowering herself down on him. “Kiss me, you scoundrel.”
“Awright,” Njangu said. “But no more than a kiss. Like I said, I ain’t got no energy, and I’m telling major truth here.”
“We’ll see about that.”
• • •
The red-faced man in the black coveralls leaned close to Garvin. He tried to smile in a friendly manner, showed yellowing teeth and foul breath.
“Now, listen, son, you know your parents want you to tell me the truth about all those machines behind the midway.”
Garvin’s stomach was twisting, and he was fighting back tears. He looked down the long bench at his father and mother, expecting them to smile encouragingly, for him to keep his mouth shut. A Jaansma never talked to a diddly flatty, let alone a damned rozzer.
But instead, his father nodded, said, in a booming voice, “Tell the nice policeman what he wants to know.”
Garvin firmed his lips, then said, and wondered what his words meant, “Mil Garvin Jaansma, Service Number J-Six-Nine-Three-Seven-Zero-Four-A-Seven-Two-Five.”
The cop backhanded him, but the pain went through his entire body. Garvin jerked.
“Come on, son,” the policeman said. “You can do better than that. What was the name of the ship you landed on? What is your call sign? What were your targets on Kura Four.”
“Mil Garvin Jaansma, Service number — ”
He was no longer in the police station, but in a world of flame, canvas tearing around him, animals screaming as they burned. His parents danced in the fire before him, blackening, dying.
His moth
er’s ghastly skull face loomed:
“What was your ship’s name? How many raiders did you land? What is your call sign? What were your targets on Kura Four?”
“Mil Garvin Jaansma. Service — ”
The diddly flatties had cornered him in an alley, and none of the circus people was within shouting distance. Rocks and bricks thudded against his teenage body, a thug with a board smashed his fingers, and pain roiled through him.
The citizens were shouting questions:
“What was the name of your ship? How many men did you land? What was your call sign? What were — ”
“My name is Garvin Janus Six,” Garvin said. “The ship I landed on Kura Four had no name, but — ”
Garvin woke suddenly, as nausea swept him. He barely had time to roll off the gurney and reach the sink before he began vomiting.
None of the three — Njangu Yoshitaro, a hulking guard who called himself a nurse, Dr. Petteu Miuss — moved to help him. Garvin turned the faucet on, drenched his head, washed his mouth before the nurse slammed him back against his cell wall.
“You see, Garvin,” Miuss crooned. “You will tell us everything, sooner or later, and tell it in the manner we want to hear. This is only your second treatment, and already we know your call sign. Soon you’ll tell us about your men, about your mission, and exactly how you reached Kura Four.”
Garvin started to say something, vomited once more.
“The drugs I’m giving you are quite powerful,” Miuss said sympathetically. “And have pronounced side effects, both short-term, such as you’re experiencing now, and long-term. I can tell you, with prolonged dosage, the effects increase.
“You could ease your burden, and cooperate. Also, remember that the other members of your team, now that they’ve recovered their health, will also be undergoing treatment.
“You could spare them that discomfort.”
“Screw you,” Garvin managed. The nurse growled, came forward. Garvin ducked under his reaching arms, came up with a knee in the guard’s groin. The man yelped. Miuss, eyes wide in fear, hit a pocket alarm. But Njangu moved faster. He brushed the guard aside, somehow driving an elbow into the man’s ribs, hearing them crack. He hit Garvin on the side of the head, and Jaansma rocked sideways. A hard knife strike came in, and Garvin sagged. Njangu was about to strike to the back of his neck when Miuss yelped.
