Robert Charrette - Arthur 03 - A Knight Among Knaves

by Robert N. Charrette

  Walking along the fence, he saw that the outside was already so defaced with graffiti that he could barely tell the inspirational reclamation site posters from those offering corp-sponsored public services. One, less trashed than the others, caught his eye. It touted an open clinic sponsored by the Pend Foundation. John had seen that corp name on the sign by the hut, but other than that it was new to him. The poster claimed "No questions, no turnaways."

  That was what he needed.

  The poster had a map, complete with a you-are-here, and enough of it remained unobliterated that John figured he could find the place. A few minutes of walking proved him right. He was just congratulating himself on his luck in getting to the clinic without running into trouble, when he caught his reflection in the mirrorlike surface of the smoked TransShield™ doors.

  He stared. It was John the elf, pointed ears and all, walking up to the clinic. John might have left Faery, but Faery hadn't left him.

  He couldn't go into the clinic looking like he did. The poster's no-questions policy was for wonkheads, bubble dreamers, and shady sprawl scuts—people who had reasons to avoid treatment for fear of coming up in somebody's computer—and not for elves. How could it be? Elves didn't belong in this world. A living, breathing elf walking into a clinic for treatment would be big-time news, scientific as well as pure tabloid. There would be no escaping the media.

  Maybe his back wasn't so bad. He'd be okay. He'd always been a quick healer. He turned and kept walking, hoping he wasn't lying to himself.

  He'd been so glad to have the disguise spells broken and his true face revealed—and now, here he was, wishing he could hide it again. The darkness did its bit, and he pulled up the collar of the coat to help, but it wouldn't stay dark forever. He'd have to find a place to go to ground. He really didn't want to end up as the star attraction in a media freak show.

  There was one place where no one would be surprised to see that he was an elf—his slump in Providence. If he could get there, he'd be safe. Then he could get in touch with Dr. Spae; she'd had some medical training and she'd helped Bear. She'd help him. All he had to do was get back to the slump without any more trouble and everything would be fine.

  He wasn't lying to himself, was he?

  CHAPTER 18

  They had lied to him.

  That was one thing of which Holger was sure. Hell of a thing to be sure of. It didn't tell you anything. Not what was really going on. Not why it was happening. Nothing. The inily thing it assured was uncertainty. He was loyal to the Department! Yes. Yes, he was. Or at least—he had been. Loyalty is the greatest virtue.

  Loyalty was important. A very great virtue. But the greatest? What about honor? Loyalty. Loyalty to the Department. The Department was

  his life.

  Pankhurst staring at him over the sights of a police-model Arisaka Enforcer. Non-reg pistol. Undeclared. The image in his mind wavered. Not a street, but a firing range. Familiarity training. Everyone had an Arisaka and Pankhurst was firing. I lolger was confused. It happened on the range. No, on the mall. Shooting at him. The Department was his life.

  If Pankhurst was an indicator, the Department wanted his life.

  Loyalty to the Department sometimes demands sacrifice. On occasion, the ultimate sacrifice. He was loyal to the Department! Loyal! He would sacrifice himself if needed. But what was needed?

  He didn't have an answer. He wasn't even sure what questions to ask. Was he doing the right thing? Had he done the right thing? What had he done? The images were jumbled in his mind, and the voices had no answer for him. People who heard voices were not considered quite sane. What was the verdict on people who argued with those voices?

  The people around him on the street were casting their verdicts. They stared—unobtrusively, of course—and gave him a wide berth, avoided him, made him an outcast. They marked him, as well they should. Prudent of them. He was a marked man. He was a killer, after all.

  He stalked through their midst, the way opening for him.

  He had come to this city for Elizabeth Spae.

  Elizabeth Spae is a renegade. Elizabeth Spae is your target.

  She was a specialist. He knew that. Specialists were spooky, untrustworthy. He hadn't had a lot of experience with them, but he'd had more than enough. He'd had experience with Spae.

  A clarity of image: Magnus, briefing him. L'Hereaux was there. They were giving him his chance to get back into the active ranks of the Department, giving him his assignment: a renegade specialist by the name of Spae. The name meant nothing to him.

  Nothing? But he had known Spae before.

  Elizabeth Spae is your target.

  That's what they'd told him. But Spae wasn't what they had said she was. He had memories. Then again, maybe she was what they said. He remembered her with Mannheim, his mentor. No, that wasn't right. Mannheim was dead. Had been dead for years. He had been killed by magic. Why did Holger think Spae was involved in that? He'd met her after Mannheim was dead. Or did he only think that now? Could she have altered his memories? That must be it. She was a renegade; Magnus had told him so. She had betrayed him, betrayed the Department.

  Rogue agents are disloyal.

  but he wasn't.

  What about Linkwater? An accident, like the other one. Like Leftenant Barkins. That's all, just an accident. Holger wasn't a renegade. Spae was the renegade.

  Renegades must be recovered or eliminated.

  Department policy. It was a hard policy, but fair. Couldn't jeopardize all for one weakling. You had to do something about renegades. You had to act as soon as you knew who they were.

  E lizabeth Spae is a renegade.

  Yes, that was right. She was the renegade, not him. The Glock nestling in his armpit was the answer for her.

  Authorized sanction is correct.

  There was no magic he'd heard of that a specialist could use to stop a bullet. Specialists were scary, but they weren't untouchable. Not like those things, those nightmare things from the other place. Bullets couldn't hurt them. He couldn't do anything about them. But he could do something about her. Needed to. Spae was responsible for what was happening to him.

  Elizabeth Spae is your target.

  Target! He was fast, very fast. She'd never see the Glock leave the holster, never notice it until it was pointed in her lace. Then it would be too late for her. She'd scream. He could hear her screaming, knowing there was nothing more she could do to mess him up.

  But the face wasn't hers. A stranger's face. Not the target, lie looked for the target. She was out there. He knew she was! One of the crowd, hiding. He was ready, ready for her. She wouldn't trick him anymore. One shot, one clean shot, and she'd be out of his head forever.

  Out of his head.

  What the hell was he doing?

  He stood in the middle of a crowded street. People were running away. Some just stood and stared like stupid animals. Most cowered or sought cover as he wildly swung the pistol around. What in hell was he doing, pointing his weapon at innocent people?

  He slipped the weapon back into its holster and ran down the first side street he found, away from the crowd, away from what he might have done. He had been ready to shoot, he knew he had. He'd seen the face of the enemy on the faces of those innocents.

  God, what was wrong with him?

  No one followed him. There were no heroes in the crowd, for which he was grateful. After the first block he slowed to a fast walk. This street was less crowded, and no one here knew what he had done. He was a little surprised to find that he was headed toward the lot where they had left the car. On instinct, he guessed. Heading for the escape route.

  Not a bad idea.

  The car remained where they had left it. He unlocked the door and got in, thankful to be sitting, thankful to be quiet. He needed time to think. Rearming the security systems, he opaqued all the windows, activated the surveillance mask, and made himself an island of isolation in the midst of the city.

  But it was only a temporary refug
e. He knew that the car could be tracked, and sooner or later they would come looking for it. He doubted that it would be a good idea for him to be found with it.

  Just what had happened?

  Temporary insanity? Natural or induced? And if induced, by whom?

  Spae was the obvious candidate. Spae was pivotal in this. But what role was she really playing? He only had the Department's side of the story. Maybe it was time to hear the other side. He checked the chronometer. She would not have had time to reach her apartment building. He could intercept her.

  He made the plan into action, spotting her as she approached her building. She was more wary than she had been earlier in the evening, but there was nothing about the car to

  alert her. Still, she turned and looked at it as he slowed and pulled up to the curb. She didn't run, not even when he opened the door and greeted her.

  "I was wondering if I'd see you again," she said.

  "I hope we can talk."

  "That wasn't talking, back there."

  "I... know, but I think that it may be important that you and I talk. This street isn't the place to do it."

  "I'm not inviting you home."

  He didn't expect her to. "This vehicle is neutral ground, Doctor."

  She shook her head. "You've locked me in cars before, Kun."

  Had he? He didn't remember. "All right, then." He slid across to the passenger seat. "You take the controls."

  "So the autopilot can drive us wherever the hell it is you want to get me?"

  "The dogbrain is dead," he said, pointing out the shredded electronics under the steering column. He didn't want the car going to a prearranged location any more than she did.

  She remained suspicious. "Why should I trust you?"

  "I don't know."

  She blinked, surprised by his answer. "No prepared bullshit story?"

  "I could ask you the same thing."

  "Touche." She got in, leading with her walking stick, and closed the door. She kept the stick between them. "This a Department vehicle?"

  "Yes." Holger's eyes were riveted to her stick. He remembered strange lightning coursing across its surface, arcing away into—into something he refused to remember. By force of will, he kept his mind inside the car. "Its systems offer us privacy."

  "Except for its own little recordings, of course."

  "Same as the dogbrain."

  "Really? I don't suppose you can prove that?"

  He shook his head. Either she believed him or she didn't. There was no reasonable way to offer proof.

  "I suppose it doesn't really matter," she said. "You wanted to talk. Let's start with what the hell you're doing here."

  What was he doing? He wished he knew. If she meant what had brought him to Providence, that he could answer. "They sent me to bring you in. They told me you were a renegade, that you deserted the Department."

  "I resigned. If they're calling that desertion, they don't have a good grasp on reality. And if you believe everything they tell you, your hold is pretty tenuous as well."

  Holger had a good idea of just how tenuous his hold on reality was. Never show weakness to the enemy, Mannheim had advised him. Spae might or might not be the enemy, but the advice was sound just the same. "I'm no starry-eyed recruit, to believe my superiors are beyond reproach."

  "But do you believe what they told you?"

  "You admit that you no longer feel yourself bound to the Department. Do you also admit that you work for Lowenstein Ryder Priestly & Associates?"

  "That doesn't make me a criminal."

  "Are you aware that LRP is subservient to Metadynamics?"

  "Half the companies in this country are connected to Metadynamics. What's your point?"

  "Are you saying you didn't know?"

  "I haven't looked into their corporate connections. That kind of garbage isn't, important to me. I'm working for a legitimate firm. I'm doing research, the kind of research that the Department, in its infinite wisdom, kept interrupting. That's what's important to me. The Department doesn't own me. They never did. Magnus and his people have a little problem understanding that sort of thing."

  "What about your oath?"

  "What about it?" she snapped. "That oath was a contract. I was doing my part. I came back from the otherworld with more practical knowledge about how magic works than I had gotten in ten years with the Department. I wanted to get a handle on what I'd learned. That takes time. So do I get lab assistance, support of any kind, or even a goddamn pat on the head? No! I get interrogations, innuendo, and suspicion. They treated me like some kind of traitor. Hell, they even threatened to drug me, to verify the truth of what I told them. It looks like I got off lightly. You they treated like a laboratory animal and made you like it."

  "Laboratory animal? You know about the experiment?"

  "Is that what they called it? An experiment? Didn't they even give it one of their fancy code names? Code Cyborg, maybe? Or Machine Man? How about Implant Operative? What the hell did they tell you to get you to go along like a good little soldier?"

  "How do you know what they did?" He didn't even know all of it.

  "Your aura is corrupted," she said as if that explained everything.

  Aura was specialist jargon. Weird shit. If that was the kind of answer she was going to give, he didn't want to talk about it. "Let's forget me for the moment. I need to know, Doctor. Do you consider your resignation from the Department to be irreversible?"

  "Hell, yes."

  "And are you working with Metadynamics?"

  "I'm doing my own research with funding from LRP. If that money ultimately comes from Metadynamics, I don't know about it. If the Department has a problem with what I'm doing, they could have sent someone to talk to me. But rational discourse is not their style. You're the proof of that."

  "I'm talking to you, Doctor." Rationally, he hoped.

  "Look, I've been doing nothing that is contrary to the Department's interests. I haven't released proprietary information, and I haven't told them anything about the Department's programs, capabilities, or goals. As far as I'm concerned, the Department doesn't exist. I'm on my own. There's nothing illegal about that, and nothing that the

  Department has any legitimate control over. The Department is just a piece of my past that I'd rather forget. Got it?"

  "I hear you, Doctor."

  "If I understood what went down back there correctly, you're on the road away from your past as well. If that's true, I might know a place for you."

  "Recruiting me, Doctor?"

  "Look, Kun. I've got reason to be grateful to you, and not just for today. I pay my debts, when I can."

  Pay the debts you can. That's what an honorable man does. Don't worry about the rest. That's what a practical man does. Know the difference between the two kinds of debts. A wise man does. Mannheim's advice.

  "I'm not looking for work just now, Doctor."

  "Okay, then. Just remember one thing, and you can repeat it to anyone you think might be interested: I don't take kindly to people sending bullyboys to kill me just because I'm not doing my research in their laboratories. Don't start a war you're not ready to fight."

  With that she left the car.

  Holger slid over and tugged the door closed. His head buzzed too much with it open. Watching her walk away, he considered that his caution had been appropriate. Spae was only one woman, even if she was a specialist; she couldn't take on the Department all by herself. But her threat of war implied allies, which suggested that she was perhaps not entirely truthful about her connections with Metadynamics. They had the resources for a war with the Department, and the Department knew that, and feared it. Or did she refer to darker, more sinister allies from the otherworld? Though he had not set out to do so, he had broken with the Department. Though he would now need allies himself, he was not about to turn in that direction.

  He didn't like being adrift. What Spae had told him suggested that the Department had deceived him on more than one score. She al
leged a legitimate departure and recounted their continued interest in her with honest, forthright indignation. It had felt true to him.

  Assuming he could trust his judgment.

  And what about him? The Department had done something to him, something more than the simple enhancements the doctors had told him about. But how much more? And had they used magic? The thought of that possibility made him shudder. But whatever they had used, whatever they had done, who had given them the right? He had accepted the enhancements because he was loyal. He had thought that they would make him better at his job. And he had needed reconstructive surgery anyway, or so they'd told him.

  He couldn't remember any accident. They had said it was traumatic memory loss, but now he found himself doubting that statement. How much truth had he been told? Spae was right: oaths were contracts, to be upheld as much by one side as the other. What did the loyal man do, when his loyalty was used as a weapon against him?

  He didn't like the dark waters he was navigating.

  He didn't like the dark streets, either. Time had passed and full night had fallen while he had wandered, pondering his predicament. There were pieces missing, gaps in his understanding, but one thing that he understood too well: he couldn't use the car indefinitely. Its location could be monitored too easily. He hated giving up the peace that its security systems had offered him, but peace wasn't safety. He took what he thought might be useful—and safe—from the vehicle and abandoned it.

  He hadn't gone ten meters before the voices started in again. Whispers in his mind, warning him, suggesting that he wasn't doing the right thing, advising him to be careful, to think about seeing Dr. Gilmore. Gilmore could help him.

  Could Gilmore make the voices stop?

  Report.

  If he reported to Gilmore, Chartain would know, and Chartain wouldn't be happy about what had happened to Pankhurst and Linkwater.