Just as Max figured, when the time came to pair off combatants, Ben drew the mouthy white guy. Max prepared to be entertained.
Now that it came to the crunch, the guy didn’t have much to say. The screen high on the gym wall showed two names, Benjamin and Swanson, with zero points each. Max would never call himself an aficionado of combat matches, but he had a basic appreciation of the moves and an expectation of how the match would go. The two combatants would each show respect for the other; this was, after all, a friendly match. Then there would be some sparring followed by what looked to an outsider like nothing more than a scuffle. Max didn’t expect it to get beyond the scuffle stage. Benjamin would doubtless put his opponent on the mat pretty quickly. He didn’t like to play with his food.
Ben nodded to his opponent, but instead of returning the nod, Swanson launched himself at Ben. He’d obviously heard Ben’s reputation and wasn’t giving him any leeway. Ben gave as good as he got. Swanson rocked, gathered himself together, and went in low and hard. It didn’t look like a training match; it looked like a street-fight, and an ugly one at that. Ben jerked his head away, and a spray of blood painted itself across his singlet. Swanson stepped back. Ben tried to lunge forward, but his move was, for Ben, uncoordinated. His legs had turned to rubber and he went down. There was a cheer from the coppers on the side of the mat and they pounded Swanson’s shoulder as he returned to their ranks. To their ranks and through them.
Something was wrong. Ben had hit the floor and not moved. Ronan was running forward, med-kit in his hand, and Swanson was not turning around to see what had happened to his opponent. He was walking through his colleagues and out behind them, heading for the door.
Oh, shit!
Max was close enough to grab Swanson’s sleeve as he headed for the door. Something clattered to the floor. Swanson shrugged him off and was gone. Max looked down. On the floor was a bone knife, or rather, Max thought, an ossio one. It would have been undetectable on the security scanners. He bent and picked it up carefully with two fingertips and turned to where Ben was sprawled, surrounded by friends.
“Ronan,” he called. “I think Swanson stabbed him with this.”
Ronan turned to take the knife, and Max saw Ben was lying as still as death.
Tengue appeared at Max’s elbow. “You’re a tracker, right?”
“I’m a Finder.”
“Can you find Swanson?”
“I touched him. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can.”
“With me.”
Tengue took Max by the arm and thrust him out into the wide concourse that ran through Blue Seven. “Which way?”
Max heard running feet and turned as a squad of ten arrived with Gwala, Hilde Hildstrom, and Franny Fowler in the lead.
“This way.” Max felt the tug that told him where Swanson was. He’d expected the man to head for the main exit, but instead he was going deeper into Blue Seven. The area enclosed by security walls was big, but not big enough to hide in forever. Max broke into a run, following the pull.
“Up there!” Tengue directed his squad and they overtook Max. He was about to caution them to wait, but then he realized they were heading for the antigrav tube to the upper docking cradle. That only made sense if . . .
If there was a ship waiting there for Swanson.
Max’s brain caught up to what his gut had been trying to tell him since he saw Benjamin lying still on the mat. This was not a scared man trying to put some distance between himself and a crazy accident.
The security squad all beat Max to the antigrav tube and thrust themselves up into it, pulling themselves hand over hand, quick and slick. Except for Tengue, they all wore buddysuits, while Max was in civvies, a casual tunic over trousers. He could see they were all extending their lobstered helms and adjusting full faceplates as they reached the top of the tube. A buddysuit wasn’t a full space suit, but it would give some protection for maybe five minutes in an emergency, such as grabbing a fleeing assassin as he tried to get to a waiting ship.
Max steadied himself at the top of the tube. All of Tengue’s squad, minus Tengue, who wasn’t equipped, had gone through the airlock. All Max could do was wait for it to cycle and see who returned. He counted the minutes. At two and a half, Franny Fowler and three guards staggered through.
“What’s happening out there?” Tengue asked.
“Small flyer.” She wheezed and bent over, hands on knees.
Tengue rubbed her back. “You all right?”
“Will be. Lungs.”
Max remembered that Fowler had undergone reconstructive surgery the previous year for chest burns. “You need to sit?” he asked.
“Gimme a minute. How long has it been?”
“Since they went through the airlock? Four minutes.”
“Shit and double shit. Come on, guys.” She straightened and pressed her face up against the thick window into the airlock.
At four and a half minutes the airlock light turned red, then began to flash red, then red and green and finally turned green. Hilde, Gwala, and three others crowded together with Swanson dangling between them.
“You got him. Well done,” Max said.
“We got him,” Gwala said. “But it would only have been well done if we’d got him alive.”
Chapter Eleven
HOMECOMING
ON SOME LEVEL BEN UNDERSTOOD HE WAS dying. It didn’t worry him. Death was what it was. Always harder for those left behind. That wouldn’t be him this time.
Of course, there were things in life he still had to do. He’d never found time to take Cara away somewhere to have fun. Since the day they met, they’d been on the run, or fighting off attacks, or keeping their heads down, or sorting out the aftermath of a battle. Always doing things for the good of others, never for themselves. The Free Company and Crossways could have managed without him for a little while. They were going to have to manage without him now.
Was that a regret? Maybe. He had few regrets.
There were things he could have, should have done that would have made a difference. Killing Crowder would have been one of them. He’d had the opportunity once and rejected it. The second time he’d not hesitated, but Crowder had survived. He should have made sure. One more dart would have done the trick.
And though Crowder was no psi-tech, himself, he had the Trust’s resources. He must be the one behind the Telepath attacks. No one else would have access to a triple-threat specialist like that.
What a stupid way to die. A gym exercise.
His family would mourn, of course: his brother Rion, farming on Jamundi with his elder son, Kai; Nan, who had been both mother and father to Ben and Rion after their parents were lost in a ship transiting the Folds; Ricky, Rion’s younger son, who was currently with Nan. The boy would never settle down to be a farmer, but he was bright and talented. He could do anything with his life.
Leaving Cara would be hard, though he suspected he wouldn’t know much about it once he’d passed over that final threshold. She was resourceful. She’d find some meaning to her life. She’d probably already found it: Sanctuary. Wenna would run the Free Company and Cara and Jussaro would save the psi-techs—their own first and then as many others as could be saved. He felt an upsurge of pride. That was his Cara, an indomitable spirit. With or without him, she had a goal and would achieve it.
From a distance, he heard Ronan’s voice. “We’re going to put you under now, Ben. Hold on. We’ve got you.”
Not for much longer.
It was the image of Cara that he took with him into the blackness.
The Bellatkin emerged from foldspace one hundred klicks out from the station. Cara enlarged the view on her screen. Despite all the repairs that had been carried out since the battle, it still looked fragile to her. Buried beneath the surface of her memory was the pounding of ordnance, the tearing of metal, and the shatter of ceramic lay
ered upon the shrieks of the people and the pressure of fear that threatened to overwhelm her mind. No matter how good her shields, she was an Empath. That amount of fear and panic would leak through even the best defenses.
*Ben?* She reached out mentally but couldn’t find Ben.
*Wenna? Looking for Ben. He’s not off-station, is he?*
*Cara, good timing. He’s in sick bay. Ronan’s with him. Looks like an assassination attempt nearly succeeded.*
*Nearly?*
*Better get here fast, girl.*
With Cara’s urging, Jake clipped a little time off his estimated two hours by circumventing the docking tailback. He hooked onto one of the external docking cradles one level up from Blue Seven. A small flyer on a long tether caused a slight delay, but Jake maneuvered around it and clamped the Bellatkin onto the docking ring.
Cara hit the tube ahead of Jake and Jussaro and raced through Blue Seven to the med-center. She slammed through the outer door. “Where’s Ben?”
Max caught her with an arm across her shoulders before she could burst into the treatment room. “In there. Ronan’s given him an antidote.”
“What? Start from the beginning.”
Max told her what he knew, what he’d seen from the sidelines and then how Tengue had caught Swanson, unfortunately dead.
“It turns out the ossio knife had a toxin on it,” Max said. “Ronan said they wouldn’t have found the antidote without having the knife.”
“But they found it in time, right?”
“Ronan thinks so.”
“Thinks so!” She stood up and peeped through the clear pane in the door. She couldn’t see much. Ronan had his back toward her, and she could see a couple of med-techs and a tall, thin woman whom she didn’t recognize. She tapped on the window. One of the nurses said something and Ronan turned, saw her, and beckoned her in.
Wenna was sitting in a corner. She stood up as Cara entered, but Cara only had eyes for Ben.
“He’s unconscious, but he’s stable, so far,” Ronan said, inserting himself between her and Ben. “Thanks to Dr. Grant, Dockside Medical’s best toxicologist.”
“Actually, their only one,” the thin woman said. “Glad I could help.”
“So far?” Cara touched Ben’s arm. It felt reassuringly normal.
“The next couple of hours may be crucial. You can stay with him if you like. We need to wait for him to wake up.”
“But he will recover. Yes?”
“I hope so. If it hadn’t been for Max getting hold of the knife, we’d have been stuck, but I think we gave him the antidote in time.”
“When I said you and Ben should get a room, Carlinni, I didn’t mean one like this.” Jussaro stuck his head around the door. “Is he okay?”
“Ronan hopes so.”
“I’m going to get some real sleep, but you know where I am if you need me.”
“I’m going, too,” Wenna said.
“Wenna.” Cara turned. “You were here all the time.”
“I didn’t do much except get in the way and worry.” She stepped forward and hugged Cara briefly. “You can get in the way and worry for a while.”
“Is he . . . ?” Max appeared in the doorway.
“Away with all of you,” Ronan said. “You’re making the place untidy. Cara and medical staff only. Speaking of untidy . . .” Ronan eyed Cara’s clothes. “Don’t think much of the new uniform. Desert dress, is it?”
“Dustbowl chic.” Cara patted her skirt layers. “Complete with added dust and Eau de Crestedina. I’m starting a new trend.”
“Can someone bring Cara some clean clothes, please,” he called after Wenna’s retreating back.
Wenna brought clean clothes.
Ada Levenson delivered coffee personally, and a bowl of risotto.
“Whatever you hear, I didn’t really laugh when he hit the deck,” Ada said. “Though if it sounded like I did, I’m sorry. Tell him I’m sorry for the coffee, too. From now on he gets it exactly as he likes it.”
“I’ll tell him. I’m sure he didn’t take offense.”
“Well, as long as he knows. . . .”
“He knows.”
Ronan came to check his vitals.
Cara asked, “How’s he doing?”
“No change.”
“That’s good, right?”
“It’s not bad.”
Every quarter hour, Ronan checked and Cara asked. The answer was always the same, “No change.”
At last, sometime late in the evening, Ronan’s answer came with a smile. “He’s doing a little better.”
“He’s going to be all right?” Cara asked.
“We’ll know for certain when he wakes up.”
“I’ve been away for too long. I should never have left.”
“You had something to do that needed doing.” Ronan was in on what she and Jussaro had been searching for. “Did you find Hartwell? Did you get what we needed?”
“Yes, and yes. Hartwell’s not coming back, but Jussaro has the unlock codes. All that time away. I missed Ben so much.”
“You both had responsibilities. It happens. All his readings are edging toward normal. He’s strong. Don’t worry.”
But, of course, she did.
She sat by Ben as evening turned to night. The bedside chair was a recliner, and Ronan must have dropped a blanket over her when he found her dozing because she awoke feeling unexpectedly cozy.
Ten minutes later, Ronan himself arrived for a final check. “I’m going to get some sleep, but I’m only in the next room if I’m needed. Tilda Duncan will be doing Ben’s vitals throughout the night, so call me if you need anything.”
“I will. Thanks, Ronan.”
Crowder rode the glass elevator upward. This was his fourth meeting with outgoing president Duma, but they were still no closer to signing an agreement over platinum, and there was always the question of tax. Crowder was beginning to think he might not be able to resolve the one without addressing the other. He’d spoken to Tori LeBon and had set the tax division working on the problem of how to give Duma the concessions he required without it costing them more.
If LeBon had taken more of an active interest in renegotiating this deal three years ago, before Olyanda became an issue, he wouldn’t have to try and put things right now. LeBon was too cautious to lead the Trust board. It needed someone with more vision—himself.
The elevator slid to rest at the eighteenth floor.
“Mr. Duma, I’m sorry. Have I kept you waiting?” He knew he had. He’d done it deliberately.
“Not at all. I only arrived a few minutes ago.”
They shook hands, Crowder’s fleshy pale one against Duma’s wrinkled brown.
Crowder offered refreshment. Duma accepted. They exchanged the usual pleasantries.
“And how are your grandchildren, Mr. Crowder?”
“They are well, and yours?” With a multitude of them, Malusi Duma’s answer might be protracted, but asking after family was the polite thing to do.
“They are all well except for my next to oldest. He’s in some kind of scrape on the far side of the Galaxy. I’m sure he’ll manage to get himself out of it.”
“Ah, one of your troublemakers and rabble-rousers, is he?”
“I rather think he is. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Malusi Duma grinned, which suddenly made him look twenty years younger.
“Now, about the platinum,” Crowder said.
“You still want it?”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“There are cheaper sources now. Olyanda for instance. I hear they’ve come in at twenty percent below current market prices.”
Crowder knew when he was being played. What did the bastard know about Olyanda? He covered his thoughts with a polite smile. “We wouldn’t dre
am of abandoning a trusted supplier in favor of one which didn’t have a track record.”
“How refreshing to hear that attitude. Now, if we may move on to more pressing issues of taxation . . .”
The Trust was officially registered as a corporation on Burnett, a small but economically sound planet with extremely low rates of taxation. They had, in effect, created their own tax haven, nominally independent, but owing everything to the Trust. It made their South African tax liability ridiculously low. Duma had been after them for years. Now that he was about to leave office, he’d redoubled his efforts. Their meetings were always very cordial, but Duma was relentless. Crowder had offered to bring Tori LeBon into the dialog, but while she left it up to Crowder to negotiate, she had the element of plausible deniability.
Also, if negotiations all went to shit, Crowder was under no illusions that he would get the blame. She would throw him under the bus without a second thought. The higher he climbed, the more unsteady the corporate ladder became. The last few rungs were the worst. If he could keep his grip and his head and make it to the top, he’d be able to rest. That top job was meant for him.
He smiled at Duma as the talks began, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
The image of Cara brought Ben back.
She was by his side, in a recliner chair, covered by a gray blanket and snoring gently. Maybe snoring was too coarse a word for the heavy breathing that comes with exhausted sleep.
“Am I dreaming?” He coaxed words out of a dry throat.
No. If he was dreaming, he wouldn’t be seeing Cara asleep. She’d be lying next to him, naked, eyes bright and eager. He felt himself stirring at the thought. Maybe he wasn’t dead, after all, or maybe this was some strange sort of afterlife, certainly one he’d never expected. He weighed the two possibilities and decided on balance that he was probably still alive.
“If you’re dreaming, so am I.” Cara tilted the chair upright, dropped the blanket on the floor, and swung toward the bed so her face was on a level with his. “I’ve called Ronan. Don’t move. You’re attached to so many tubes and wires you’re like the center of a giant cat’s cradle.”
Nimbus Page 10
