by Sharon
Val Con was moving silently down the hall. She saw with a certain amount of relief that his gun was out, as well. Following him reluctantly, she considered whether it was worthwhile mentioning that there was no one alive on this tub.
Robertson, she asked herself, very earnestly, you psychic?
No, Sarge, she replied.
Good, she approved. Now, get the lead out and cover your partner's butt.
* * *
THE INFORMATION THAT a half-hour's intensive research had provided on the Clutch was clarifying, but not encouraging.
Hostro's lawyer, when appealed to, gave him to understand that the word of a Clutch person in matters of contract was considered wholly binding. In the nine hundred Standards that Terrans had been dealing legally with the Clutch, the Clutch had never broken their word in any matter.
"I wouldn't worry about it, Justin," his lawyer told him comfortably. "The Clutch promises, the Clutch delivers. Never known to be an exception; no one's ever heard one lie . . . ."
Justin Hostro thanked his man of business cordially and cut the connection, turning his attention to the files that the efficient Matthew had so rapidly obtained for him.
There was a great deal of speculation regarding the exact social structure of the Clutch—it was generally felt to be highly complex and extremely competitive. Justin Hostro scanned the data rapidly, searching for he knew not what.
Fact: At one time the warlike Yxtrang had considered the Clutch fair game. There were many documented attacks of Yxtrang upon Clutch vessels as late as eight hundred Standards before.
Then, the attacks ceased. It was observed to be the general rule that, given a Clutch vessel and an Yxtrang chancing across each other in normal space, no incident occurred. The Yxtrang passed on, as did the Clutch.
Justin Hostro had an uneasy feeling that he knew why this was so. And if the Yxtrang were afraid of the Clutch...
He closed the file and sat quite still, his hands folded precisely before him, his eyes regarding the scene just beyond the edge of his desk.
He was still lost in that regard when Matthew announced Edger and Watcher's return.
* * *
THE ONLY PERSON left on the Terran ship was in no condition to be rescued. In fact, Miri thought dispassionately, about the only thing he was in condition for was colander duty. Whoever had shot him had been insanely thorough about it.
Val Con straightened from his examination of the body, shaking his head. "Yxtrang," he said. The word told a wealth of stories, none of them happy.
"How do you know?"
He waved a hand. "They use tiny pellets with fins on them to cut as they enter; their guns are bored for maximum spin . . . ."
She sighed. "Think I'd learn not to ask you these questions." She spun slowly, checking out the storage hold in which they stood. "How'd they get in?"
"Matched speed and latched on." He shrugged. "It would be easy to force a storage hatch, since the mechanism is built not to withstand abuse—"
The ship shuddered with the impact of a locking magnet on the hull, and from the next hold came the anguished groan of machinery being forced against its will.
"Oh, hell," Miri breathed.
Val Con was moving, swinging back toward the hallway. "Go!" he snapped. "Get back to the pod!"
She stared at him. Run? It was no good to run from Yxtrang.
He grabbed her arm, pivoted, and let her go with a push. "Go! Get the hell out of here!"
She ran, sensing him, swift and silent, at her right shoulder, and was absurdly relieved.
Suddenly she realized that Val Con was no longer with her.
Miri braked, cursing, and flattened her back against the wall, trying to see in both directions at once. Two feet downhall was a side corridor. She forced herself to think back: When exactly had he vanished?
It was impossible to know: He had been there, and then he had not. But he'd been gone before she'd passed that intersecting hallway, or so she thought.
From the holding section came the voices of men and the sound of boots against metal floors. Miri bit her lip. If she managed to top the best spurt of speed she'd ever had, she might reach the pod in time to figure out how to seal the latch against them.
Val Con's back there, damn his eyes! she cursed silently.
Miri unglued her back from the wall and moved cautiously down-corridor. She was four or five feet farther from the pod when the first shot was fired. She froze, listening to the sounds of confusion and voices yelling—Terrans!—and heard another sound that he could not have anticipated.
Several pairs of footsteps were still bearing down on her position.
Miri spun and dove for the cross-corridor.
* * *
JUSTIN HOSTRO ROSE and bowed to Edger, then indicated a seat.
The T'carais inclined his head in response and remained on his feet. "The decision I am here for as a simple one," he told the man. "I expect that you will be able to tell me what you have chosen in very few words. It is hardly worth the effort to sit, in such a case."
Hostro bent his own head and cleared his throat. "It is my decision, as an Elder of the Juntavas, to let your kin go with their lives. A message to this effect has been relayed to those I sent to search.
"I should, however, inform you that I am the most minor of Elders of my Clan and cannot, therefore, speak for the more senior Elders. It was their word that set me and my—immediate family—to work on the apprehension of these members of your Clan. The—eldest of our Elders is most anxious to obtain certain information from Miri Robertson, and it is reasonable to expect that such inducements to speech as he would employ would render her unlikely to live long.
"Thus, you should understand that, though I have agreed to let your kin retain their knives, Miri Robertson is still considered an outlaw by the eldest of our Elders. There is a price upon her head—small, should she die in the capturing; larger, should those who trap her be skilled enough to keep her alive. The man who is also your kin is of no importance to the Eldest. But, if he is still with her when she is taken his life will be forfeit."
Edger took several Standard minutes for consideration.
"I understand," he said finally. "It is enough for now that the immediate threat posed by you and your close kin is removed. You will, of course, provide me with the name and planet of the eldest of your Elders, so that we may discuss the matter fully, for all the families of your Clan."
Hostro licked his lips. Ruin. Ruin and most likely death. He looked at that future and considered the other he had been offered; then he took a breath and performed what was perhaps the only act of heroism his life had encompassed.
"Of course," he told Edger. "I would be delighted to provide you with an introduction to the eldest of our Elders."
* * *
THEY'D MANAGED TO cut Val Con off from the corridor. Four were in the ransacked far hold—three Juntavas and himself.
One of the three became a bit ambitious in his aim and acquired a slug in the arm for his presumption, but that sort of thing could not continue long. He had to get out. Soon. Sufficient time had elapsed for Miri to have reached the pod and sealed it, though she could not pilot it—a lapse in her education he intended to rectify the moment current difficulties were resolved.
He cracked his gun, sighed, and reassembled it. He had to move soon, even if nothing— Across the room, there was an empty click: The man stationed near the door was temporarily out of ammunition.
Val Con moved.
He put his last two pellets into the man who had aspired to marksmanship, and lodged his throwing knife in the throat of his companion, who was so foolish as to rise above his cover to take aim. Reversing his gun, he used it as a club, smashing toward the shooting hand of the one survivor.
The man saw it coming and dodged—but lost his gun as it slid out of wet fingers. Val Con flipped the spent gun to his right hand and brought Edger's blade to his left; glittering and sharp and deadly, it flashed in toward
the other's belly.
The man jumped back, rolling, and came up with a length of metal pipe in his hand.
Val Con slid to the left, but the Juntava was quick and swept out with the pipe, keeping him from the door.
Val Con dove forward, parrying with the gun—but the pipe shifted, snaking sideways and twisting, and the gun spun out of nerveless fingers as he danced clear, his face stinging where jagged metal had sliced it.
The Juntava sensed the advantage of his longer reach and swung the pipe again. Reaction threw Val Con's left hand up to ward off the blow, crystal blade in his grip.
And his opponent leapt back, swearing, his advantage negated: The knife had shorn away nearly a third of his weapon.
* * *
SHE COULD SIT down here and pick them off all day long and far into the night.
As a tactician, Borg Tanser admired her for it. As force leader, he hated her for the three men dead at the mouth of her snug little hallway. There were other alternatives, of course. For example, they could just leave and evacuate the air from the wreck.
He considered the various angles to that and decided against. The bounty was higher—a lot higher—if she was delivered alive. If only he could come up with some way of luring her out of that damn cul-de-sac!
Suddenly Tanser froze, head snapping back toward the holding bays. The gunfire had stopped. He crept several feet down-corridor to be sure.
Silence. And no hail from the men he'd left to take out the boyfriend.
Dropping back to the mouth of the corridor, he spoke into the ear of his Second and moved off with rapid caution, gun at the ready.
* * *
THE MAN SCREAMED as the blade sheared through the muscle and tendons of his upper arm, but he managed an awkward spin that sent him out of range and bought him time to take his weapon into his other hand.
Val Con flipped his blade, catching it by the point. It was not a throwing knife, but when one had no choice...
The explosion and the pain were simultaneous—he was spun half-around with the force of the blast. He loosed the blade at the man who stood, gun in hand, in the doorway, before blackness claimed him. He never felt the second blow as the pipe cracked across his skull.
* * *
MOREJANT STOOD OVER the fallen boyfriend, pipe still at the ready, his arm bleeding badly. Tanser threw him a clamp from the kit on his belt.
"Where's Harris and Zell?"
"Dead." Morejant rasped, seeming loath to relinquish his guard over the figure on the floor. "Would've had me in another minute—sure glad you come along." He bent over the body, peering, then straightened and looked at Tanser.
"Boss, I think he's still breathing. You wanna finish 'im off?"
Tanser's attention was on the knife buried to the hilt in the steel wall two inches from his head. He levered it free and whistled softly: the crystal was unmarred, the edge unbroken. He thrust it in his belt.
"Boss?" Morejant repeated
"Naw." Tanser holstered his gun and came forward. Leaning over, he got a grip on the back of the boyfriend's collar and heaved him up to hang like a drowned kitten, blood dripping off the front of his shirt and pooling on the floor.
"Wrap yourself up," Tanser snapped at the staring Morejant, "and get a gun. We're gonna talk to the Sergeant."
* * *
THEY'D BEEN HANGING back for the last fifteen minutes—still there, but out of range. Every so often one of them would lob a shot inside, just to see if she was awake, she guessed. She didn't bother returning the favor.
The lull in activity had given Miri the opportunity to reload her gun, check remaining ammo, and think deeply on the inadvisability of disobeying a superior officer, not to mention straying one step from her partner's side when it looked like they were in for a hot time.
None of these thoughts were particularly comforting, nor were they useful. She banished them and shifted position; her attention was abruptly claimed by a movement at the mouth of the corridor.
Miri raised her gun, waiting for the man to get into range. But all he did was heave the bundle he carried in his arms forward, so that it struck the floor and rolled, well inside her range.
She sat frozen, gun still steady on the figure at the mouth, eyes on the man who lay too still, legs and arms every which way, graceless.
No, she thought. Oh, no, Val Con, you can't be...
"Sergeant?" boomed the sitting duck at the top of the hall.
She did not raise her eyes. "What the hell do you want?" she asked, her voice flat with hatred.
"I just wanted to tell you, Sergeant, that he ain't dead yet. We'll fix that, though, if I don't see your gun and your belt tossed up here within thirty-five seconds."
She licked her lips. "How do I know he ain't dead now? Take your word for it?"
"That's your gamble, Sergeant, not mine. You got another fifteen seconds."
Jamming the safety up, she snapped to her feet and hurled the gun with all her strength.
It hit a foot short and skidded to a stop against Tanser's left boot. A moment later, belt and pouch repeated the maneuver.
Tanser laughed. "Temper, temper. Now, you just walk on out here like a good girl—real slow. Don't want you to trip and get yourself shot 'cause somebody thought you were tryin' something fancy. We lost five men between you and the boyfriend, Sergeant. Proud of yourself?"
"Hey," Miri said, stepping carefully over Val Con's body. Blood was a darker stain on the dark shirt; there was no way to know if he was breathing. "Everybody's got an off day now and then."
Chapter Twenty-Three
TANSER HIMSELF FORMED part of the guard that took her across to the Juntavas ship. With his own hands he shoved her into the holding cell and set the lock.
Miri made a quick circuit of the cell: metal platform welded to the wall, sanitary facilities stark in one corner, a panel that looked like a menuboard. She approached this, asked it for water, and was surprised when it provided a pitcherful, chips of ice circling lazily within. She drank deeply.
Suddenly the door slid open, admitting a gaunt man with a wrap of healtape around his right forearm, dragging a limp, dark figure by its collar.
The man hauled his burden inside, apparently oblivious to the trail of red in its wake, and dumped it at Miri's feet.
"Sorry, Sarge, but we only got this one cell, so you gotta share. Wouldn't fret too much though," he confided, "'cause like as not the boyfriend'll bleed to death pretty soon and you'll have the place to yourself again."
If he had hoped for a show of emotion, he was disappointed. Frowning, his eyes fell on the still, dark bundle and he drew back, aiming a kick at undefended ribs.
Her foot intercepted his, bootheel clipping ankle neatly and painfully. Morejant nearly fell, then caught himself and spun back to find her between him and the man on the floor, death in her eyes.
Snarling, he turned away to leave.
"Hey, hero."
"What?" He turned back, hackles rising at the look on her face.
She waved at the boyfriend. "What about a medkit? Happens I ain't in favor of my partner bleeding to death."
"Then strangle him," Morejant advised her. "Only one we gotta keep alive is you. Why haul more weight than we need?"
She shifted position and he jumped, scuttling through the door and slamming the lock in place.
* * *
THE TECH CLEARED the malfunction inside of five minutes and went away with her fee in cash and a fifteen percent tip for a job well done.
No sooner had she gone than the bouncecomm chattered and whirred and lit up the green light that was Tanser's crew acknowledging receipt of the message.
Jefferson sighed and turned away, intent on soothing his frazzled nerves with a few swallows of local brew—and spun back, nerves fraying even more.
The bounce-comm chattered and rattled merrily, purple eye lit: Stand By For Message Incoming . . . .
* * *
"Borg?"
"Yah?" Tanser looked
up from his meal to find Tommy holding out a sheet of hardcopy.
"Message from Jeff," the pilot said. "Just come in. Thought it might be hot."
Tanser put down his fork and took the sheet. "Thanks."
A minute later, he swore loudly and pushed back from the table, leaving the dining hall at a determined half-run.
* * *
IT WAS DARK and cold and it hurt to breathe the air. It was bad air: he could feel the pain of it sliding in and out of his lungs like knives. He should stop; it was wrong to breathe such air. Yet another wrong added to a long list of them . . . .
Drifting there in the cold and dark, it seemed that he moved away from the necessity of air, for the pain receded somewhat. Drifting still more, he perceived himself above a tunnel of even greater darkness than that in which he traveled. This new tunnel seemed to be lined with dark fur, promising warmth, and the diamond tips of the fur glittered and beckoned like stars.
Yes, he thought. I should go there, where there is warmth and stars and good, sweet air to breathe . . . .
It seemed to him that he drifted nearer this place of warmth and stars, and he was content.
Suddenly a flare of living fire crossed the darkness and the moment was lost—he was drifting upward, toward lightening blackness and the pain that cut at him like crystalline knives . . . .
* * *
MIRI HAD DONE what she could with water and a makeshift bandage torn from her shirt. The pellet had entered and exited cleanly, barely nicking a lung. With a medkit, he would have mended without trouble in a couple of days. But with only water and cloth, he would die. There was no way to stop the slow, stubborn flow of blood.
Wearily, she rubbed a bloody hand across her cheek and used her damp scarf to dab at the gash across his face. Not a serious wound, though it would have scarred—she killed that thought instantly.
His brows twitched, and she froze as he passed a tongue across dry lips. "Who?"
"Miri."
"Not dead?" His lashes fluttered, as if he were struggling to lift their great weight.
