by Paul Chafe
“I'm sorry—”
“You're sorry?” Trina snorted. “What have you got to be sorry about? She wanted me. She wanted me so much, more than anything, enough to break the law. I know she wanted me. She loved me. And then she left me, just left me by myself, unregistered. Do you know what it means to have no ident?” Her voice was choked full of long buried hurt. “I'm nothing. Dirt. Even dogs get licenses. She just left me, eight years old. How can you do that to someone you love?”
Tskombe came up behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. The girl stiffened at his touch but didn't move away. Tears welled up in her eyes, and then she was sobbing, silently at first, and then openly. He put his arms around her, feeling awkward, and held her. It seemed that he should say something, but there was nothing to say so he just let her cry.
After a while she looked up, cheeks damp but no longer crying. “I have an aunt, my mother's sister, but she was with the Navy and couldn't come. She sent a card to the funeral, that was all. So Jendi took me home, looked after me, but she had no money either. It got bad with her husband. When I was ten I had to leave. I always know when it's time to go. So what were my options? I ran with a gang and we stole things. I could do it and it didn't matter if I got caught. They feel sorry for you when you're little and cute.” She laughed bitterly. “But I'm not little anymore, and an unreg caught stealing, that's a quick ticket to a brain blank.”
“So you came here.”
“I moved up in the gang. Miksa, he was the leader, he ran the gang, and I was the planner. I always knew the good places, where someone would slip up, when it was safe to move, when the ARM were watching, or one of the other gangs. We did well, and I was Miksa's girl. But he got jealous. Boys don't like girls smarter than they are, and it was time to go again. I was thirteen, that's old enough to sell your body. I'm lucky; I'm pretty enough to work a place like this. Mac and Moira…” She looked away. “There are a lot of worse places. They don't beat me up, they don't… they don't do a lot of things that places like this do to their girls. I make the customers happy, I do what they want, and I have a place and food and clothing.” She looked up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of judgment, of condemnation of her choices. “Look, I don't like starving. It's what I have to do, so I do it.” She looked down again, nestled closer against his chest. “It's nice that you didn't just take me. Most men…”
He hugged her tighter, not wanting to know what most men did. “It's alright.”
“Why didn't you?”
“I'm lockstepped.” Not quite true, but explaining everything about Ayla would be too complex, and telling her she was too young would be hurtful.
“Most of them are too.”
“Not like I am.”
“What's her name?”
“Ayla.”
“What's yours?”
“Quacy.”
“Quacy.” Trina looked at him, looked away again, her eyes very distant. “Ayla's very lucky.”
Tskombe nodded. “I hope so.”
The padcomp on the table chimed and Trina went over to check it. “Your time's up. You have to thumb out in five minutes or they'll charge you again.”
“Are you going to be okay?” The words seemed empty.
She laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, I'll be fine. I know how to survive. You come back tomorrow and I'll have your hookup. A good meat surgeon and a line one keyjock who can get the records fixed. I know who to tab.”
“Listen. Thanks.”
“Sure.” She smiled wanly, shyly. It seemed she was about to say something but she didn't, and Tskombe had to go. There was a handmeal and a bowl of nondescript pudding waiting by the door, not worth the fifty he'd been charged for it, but he wolfed it as he walked. Downstairs he pushed his thumb on Moira's pad to clear his account. She smiled at him. “Was Trina good for you?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, she was. I'd like an appointment with her tomorrow evening.”
“Of course!” Moira beamed. “We're happy to see a regular. Trina's one of our best.” She keyed her desk. “You're set for twenty-thirty tomorrow night.”
Tskombe went out into the oppressive heat of the evening. The immediate hue and cry of pursuit was gone, and the growing darkness would make it harder for the cameras to pick him up. He'd be safe, for a while, but he still needed to get off the street. He was hungry as well, despite the meal, but he couldn't buy anything without revealing where he was and restarting the chase. That was a sobering thought. He wasn't an unreg, but without being able to access his own money he might as well be. If all went well Trina would have that problem solved by tomorrow night; he could go hungry that long if he had to. In the meantime he still needed to get out of sight, just in case a hoverbot saw him.
A block farther he found a flickering holo over a set of dirty stairs. At the bottom a dented metal door done in chipped black paint. The holo said Deca-Dance, a bounce bar. Good enough to start with, not the kind of place they'd come looking for him. Inside the music was loud. Overhead a dozen cubes showing a dozen channels ranging from sports to cheap sex. He didn't particularly fit the crowd, but that didn't matter for his purposes. On the dance floor slick young toughs jockeyed to get closer to the provocatively dressed women gyrating in the grav field in the center. The women were studiously ignoring them, pretending the only reason they'd come was to dance with their companions. There'd be a fight before the night was out. That was fine by Quacy; he wasn't going to get involved. He found a quiet corner under the sound dampers, by the end of the bar away from the dance floor. He waved away a waitress before she could take an order. A place like this wouldn't care if he didn't buy anything, so long as he didn't start trouble. No one was going to come looking for him here, that was the main point. He needed to watch, spend some time seeing who might be a connection, who was just a prole. If Trina didn't come through for him he'd have a backup plan already in motion.
It took less than fifteen minutes to prove him wrong — someone was looking for him. The lieutenant commander was in Navy dress uniform and he stood out in the dressed-to-shock crowd like a pop flare in the night sky. He drew eyes as he searched the room, drew more as he came across to Tskombe. That was a bad thing, the two misfits together, an invitation to get tumbled. Some of those slick muscles would be users needing their iron, and some of them would be armed. He scanned the crowd, picking up the ones taking a read on the newcomer. For a moment he considered just leaving, but he wasn't about to get busted. The Navy wasn't the ARM, and he was alone, and dress uniform wasn't what you wore to nail a fugitive. The Navy wanted to talk to him; fine, he'd talk to the Navy. The timing didn't make a difference, except to his mood. But when it came right down to it that was the Navy's problem and Tskombe wasn't too worried about that.
“Colonel Tskombe, UNF.” Not a question.
And the tumble would happen outside. No sense hurrying into that. “How did you find me?”
“That's classified. Just be glad it's me and not the ARM.” The Navy didn't waste words. “I understand you've been trying to get transport to Wunderland out of channel.”
Tskombe shrugged. “I was going to leave when you walked in, but I didn't. What doesn't happen isn't a crime.”
“I can't imagine you're that naïve.”
Tskombe snorted. “So what's it going to be? Conduct to the prejudice of good order and discipline?”
“An enthusiastic prosecutor might turn it into treason.”
“Aren't you going to quote chapter and paragraph?”
“Is it necessary?”
Tskombe said nothing, let the throbbing music fill the silence.
Navy waved for the waitress. “You're aware you're risking your career.” It wasn't a question.
“Not really your problem, is it?”
“I'm interested in the reason.”
“Do you know the history?”
“You were on the diplomatic mission to Kzinhome. Your report was interesting reading.”
Tskombe turned to face
the other man. “Then you know Captain Cherenkova is still there. She may still be alive.” He looked the crisp uniform over, put emphasis on his words. “She's one of your people.”
Navy pursed his lips. “Left behind by you. On an alien planet full of predators. Do you believe she's alive?”
“I won't speak for the UNSN, but the UNF does not, Strike Command does not…” Tskombe felt his jaw clench, hands unconsciously balling in to fists. “…I do not leave people behind.” He took a deep breath to calm himself, spoke more slowly. “She was alive when I saw her last, that's enough for me. I'm going back to get her.”
“So what do you propose to do? Fly there singlehanded, penetrate the defenses, search the entire planet for her?”
“If I have to.” Tskombe turned away to watch the dancers, ending the conversation.
The lieutenant commander leaned on the bar, refusing to let it be over. “And how do you propose to do that?”
“That's my problem, isn't it?”
“On the contrary, delivering combat troops to the objective is very specifically a Navy problem.”
Tskombe made a dismissive gesture. “The UN, and through it the Navy, has very specifically declined to accept this problem.”
The waitress came over. “Vodka and tomato juice.” Navy looked at Tskombe. “And single malt scotch, if I recall?”
“You've been studying.”
Navy nodded to the waitress, who tabbed her beltcomp and slid off to collect the drinks. “Can I ask your position on the issue of punitive and preemptive strikes against the kzinti?”
“Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Lieutenant Commander Khalsa, fleet strategist. That doesn't mean anything, since I'm not here representing the fleet.” He gestured for the bartender.
Tskombe looked over the dress uniform. Khalsa wore the torch insignia of naval intelligence. “Had me fooled there.” The Navy man also had two combat bars on his service medal ribbon, unusual for a staff officer, but he wore no campaign ribbons. “Where did you see action?”
“That's not really relevant.” Khalsa spread his hands. “Suffice to say that in a very short time you have made yourself some enemies, Colonel, and I am not one of them.”
“Does that make you my friend?” Tskombe didn't bother to hide the sarcasm.
“Answer my question and we'll see.”
“Preemptive strikes? I think they're a mistake right now.”
“Your own report says a militant faction has taken over the Patriarchy.”
“My own report also states that the Patriarch of Kzin commanded his…” Tskombe groped for the word. Brasseur would know of course, but Brasseur was not here. He fought down the feelings that thought forced to the surface. “…his leadership to cease hostilities.”
Khalsa nodded. “The Patriarch killed in this palace coup.”
“That's the one.”
“Just so I understand your position, you think we should leave ourselves vulnerable to the militants who've just taken over the kzinti government because the former leader favored peace.” The waitress arrived with their drinks, and Tskombe took his and sipped.
“No, fleet strategist. I think we should very aggressively defend human space and send any ratcats who stick their nose over the line home by the molecule. That isn't the same as a preemptive strike. Maybe war is coming, maybe it isn't. Let's not make it inevitable.”
“And why do you feel it isn't already inevitable?”
“I didn't say I felt that way.”
“So how do you feel?”
Tskombe drained his scotch. “None of your damn business.” It occurred to him to wonder how much his feelings for Ayla were interfering with his judgment. Pouncer had made it clear Kchula-Tzaatz wasn't bound by Meerz-Rrit's pledge. That didn't necessarily mean he would attack, although he'd spoken aggressively at the Great Pride Circle. If Kchula-Tzaatz was already moving to engage human space, preemptive strikes were not only justified but would save human lives, millions of human lives. The only problem was, open war would erase any chance Ayla had of seeing human space alive again. He put the emptied shot glass back on the bar top. How many lives would I see sacrificed to give her the slightest chance of surviving? It wasn't a comfortable question for a man sworn to defend his species, but he couldn't deny what he knew in his heart. I would see worlds die for her. The answer was made no more comfortable by the knowledge that he would not hesitate to sacrifice himself if that were necessary. “Are we done?”
There as a long silence while Khalsa sipped his drink, lips pursed. “I want you to meet someone.”
“I don't.” Enough was enough.
“What if that someone could get you to Kzinhome?” Navy was still talking.
Tskombe laughed without humor. “You need something more overt to arrest me. Why bother with entrapment? Just do it.”
Khalsa put his drink down. “It's like this, Colonel. You might be useful to me, or you might not. That depends on some decisions you're going to make in the next hour, starting with this one. If you decide to be useful to me, we proceed. If not, I go find another way to accomplish my purpose.” He leaned closer. “There are other people taking an interest in you, who see you as a potential threat. We watch them, and that's how I happen to know about your call to Captain Jarl Nance in Personnel. It isn't a matter of concealing your intent, of giving them not enough evidence to hang a charge on. If they decide you're dangerous they aren't going to trump up charges. There won't be a trial or a sentence, you'll just vanish. Permanently. Right now, I'm betting they've decided you're dangerous.”
“Why would I be a threat to anyone?”
“Because of your report. There are those who stand to gain through a declaration of general war with the kzinti. Your report is worth gold to them, as long as they can interpret it the way they want to.”
“You're speaking of Assemblyist Ravalla.”
“I very much doubt you'd find evidence to link him to this group.”
“That doesn't mean he isn't linked.”
Khalsa cocked his head. “Perceptive.”
“The question is, why, if my report is so valuable, they'd want me out of the way.”
“Because they can take what you've written and present it as they like. They can hold it up to the world and demonstrate the treacherous nature of the kzinti. 'Look, they killed our ambassadors! Look, they've been planning another invasion! Let's kill them all now!'”
“That's not what my report says.”
“Exactly. But it is how it will be presented, so long as they can be sure that you aren't going to contradict them. There's nothing worse to an ideologue than someone pointing out uncomfortable facts. Before you called Jarl Nance you were a question mark, someone to be watched. Now you're a danger, someone to be controlled. I may be reading that wrong. Maybe they'd be just as pleased as I would to see you go to Kzinhome, to provoke the kzinti further, and to die so they can make you a martyr.”
“At least everyone involved seems to have a confluence of interest. Why do you want me to go to Kzinhome?”
“My group foresees several possibilities. An associate of mine would like to find out what you think on some issues, and that will narrow down the range.”
“That's not an answer.”
“No, it isn't. For my own reasons I may be willing to get you to Wunderland and connect you there with someone who can get you to Kzinhome. That will have to do for now. Do you want to talk to my associate, or do you want me to leave? I'm not here to impose my company on you.”
Tskombe considered that for a while. “I'll talk to him.”
Khalsa shook his head. “It's not a him.” He thumbed for their drinks and they left the bar. Some of the inhabitants watched them leave, but none followed them. Maybe they sensed danger, maybe Tskombe had overestimated the risk. Unknowable. They took the pedestrian level south to the Southside Terminal, then walked to the shore. Cameras were few and far between in that section of the city, and it was easy to keep in
shadow dark enough that the computers wouldn't tag a hit on Tskombe's face. The sea wall that surrounded Manhattan was made of fibercrete, sloping steeply up fifteen meters from the perimeter to a broad, flat top. It was crested with a five-meter expanse of some dense, rubbery material — the exposed portion of a huge, inflatable dam that could be pumped up to buy the island city another five meters of protection against a storm surge. If the dike failed, the entire island would be under water. Tskombe wondered why anyone ever built on land below sea level, but of course it hadn't started that way. Cheaper to build a wall than move the city, the first time high tide came into the streets. And it kept on being cheaper to improve the wall over hundreds of years, as the icecaps shrank and the oceans rose, until the flood defenses were as huge and sophisticated as any medieval fortress, and the ocean surrounded the city like a besieging army, patiently awaiting the inevitable weakeness. Eventually storm and tide would align to overwhelm the seawall, and most of the city on Manhattan Island would be erased forever. Millions would die, but even that tragedy would go unnoticed in the wider devastation such a storm was sure to wreak on the eastern seaboard of North America. A quarter of the world's population lived on land now coveted by the oceans, and every coastal city had its seawall. By the time a storm grew big enough to overwhelm Manhattan's many others would already be gone.
And the world would pause and mourn for a day, and the next day go about its business, because the loss of ten million souls would be made up in a month's Fertility Allotment, and many would secretly thank the weather gods for bringing them a birthright certificate they would otherwise never have seen. It had happened before, to Tampa, to Sydney, to a host of smaller places whose names Tskombe had never known. It would happen again. Earth was a restless planet, and people swarmed in flood zones and fault zones and pyroclastic flow paths for the simple reason that they had to live somewhere, and there were too many people.
