“Look, I’m really, really, really tired and my everything hurts and we just more or less saved your arse,” I said, limping closer. “So I’d be grateful if you answered the plying question before I pass out.”
He gave me a sorrowful half smile and touched me gingerly on the shoulder. “Come with me. Let’s talk.” Warden made the slightest movement to follow us, but I stopped her with a look that made it very clear how little trac I was going to put up with at this point. She hung back, conceding this particular wordless argument.
He led me to an isolated spot just behind one of the arms of the Quantunnel archway, then began to pace in a small, slow circle around me, thinking. I watched him with a varied mixture of feelings. The constant warm thrill I had from being around my idol clashed with my newer sense of betrayal, and they were joined by a quieter little nagging thought that I had just accompanied him alone to an ideal spot for concealed throat slitting.
“I’m not Jacques McKeown,” he said eventually. “But.”
He seemed to dry up there for a while, so I gave him the prompt. “But you know who he is.”
He winced and wobbled a splayed hand noncommittally. “Ninety-nine-percent certain. And before you ask, I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t hate Jacques McKeown. He and I have more or less the same goal.” He looked up, as if he could see through the concourse ceiling to the stars beyond. “We want to keep the memory of star piloting alive.”
“But the memories are wrong,” I protested. “They’re not real. And those kids bought into the myth and almost got themselves eaten by Zoobs.”
Blaze clasped his hook with his good hand, face darkening. “Yes, all right. You’ve made your point. There’s still a lot of work to be done. But there won’t always be Zoobs. Or pirates.”
“And what happens after they’re all gone?”
He gave me an odd look. “Do you know what I realized when I left the Solar System? After Quantunneling put us all out of work, and I had to see all our peers debasing themselves in Ritsuko City Spaceport? I realized that the job of a hero is not to save the galaxy, or rescue princesses, or slay all the dragons. That may be part of it, but in the end, a hero only has one job, and that’s to make himself unnecessary.”
I looked at the floor. “If you say so.”
“Quantunneling took that away from us. But out here, we make ourselves unnecessary on our own terms. That’s how I see it.”
I coughed. “Can I be honest?”
“Of course.”
“I still think you might be Jacques McKeown.”
He did the cut-puppet-strings gesture again. “Look, what can I possibly do to convince you?”
“You could give all of Jacques McKeown’s money back,” I said, expressionless. “Since you want me to believe that you have absolutely no claim to it.”
For the first time in our personal acquaintance, I saw Robert Blaze show anger. A momentary twist of the corners of the mouth that he adeptly suppressed by pinching his eyes and taking a deep breath. “No. I am not entitled to the money. And neither are you. But the money is in my hands, and I have an important purpose in mind. So if you want it, you are going to have to fight me for it.”
“I don’t want to fight you for it. I want you to give it to me willingly after I tell you what I’m going to do with it.”
He frowned. “What are you going to do with it?”
I told him.
Only one loose end remained, and a few minutes later, Warden and I were leading him back to the docking bay. Daniel was conscious enough to be walking by himself as long as we pulled him by the arm, but he still hadn’t said anything, and his petrified gaze continued to be fixed on some invisible tormentor hanging permanently in front of his eyes.
“You want to do this right now?” I said.
“As long as Daniel is onboard, Mr. Henderson remains a threat to the station,” said Warden. “And I cannot fly a shuttle by myself.”
“Right, right. Just thought I might be entitled to at least a nanosecond of rest first, but there’s me getting ideas above my station. Where are we taking him?”
“One of the outlying Solar System outposts. I can tip off one of my more reasonable contacts with the Henderson organization to pick him up.”
“Are there reasonable people in Henderson’s organization? ’Cos so far I’ve met him, and you, and from that sample it’s not looking good.”
She was glancing around distractedly, not paying attention. “What?”
“Never mind. Speaking of contacts, do you think you could get me a new ID chip?” I waved my still-bandaged hand. “Nothing fancy. Just something that lets me use a bank account and park at Ritsuko spaceport.”
Her eyes focused on the bloodstain in the center of the bandage, now long dried brown, and one eyebrow came up. “And this is something you feel that I owe you, is it?”
“Look, you’re gonna have a go at working with Blaze, right? This is for a plan me and Blaze have for the McKeown money. Stop turning it into some psycho-div power play.”
We entered the docking bay. It was still empty of people but crowded with badly parked ships, so making our way through the overlapping nacelles, wings, and landing gear to the shuttle was like exploring a haunted forest. “Fine,” said Warden. “And will you be wanting one of your old names for it, or do you think it’s time for another fresh start?”
Daniel’s head banged musically on a low-hanging engine flap, since we were dragging him along without paying much attention, and Warden started at the noise, dropping into an alert crouch. Her hand slipped inside her suit jacket for a moment to grab the hilt of my blaster, which she was showing no sign of wanting to give back. “Keep it down!”
“Look, is there something on your mind?” I asked, carefully moving an unreactive Daniel’s head around the obstacle.
Warden glared and very, very slowly rose from her combat position. “It occurred to me that there are very few explanations for how the United Republic knew that Salvation Station had a completed Quantunnel gate,” she said, still looking around for threats.
We had reached the shuttle by this point, and she took up position by the airlock door as I fumbled with the lock. “What are you getting at?” I said.
“That Henderson may already have agents on or around the station.”
I froze in the act of turning the handle. I took a few paranoid glances of my own around the docking bay, then spoke in a much quieter voice. “And you didn’t think this was worth mentioning until now?”
“To be frank, McKeown, I thought it might have been you.”
I pinched my eyes in exasperation, just as Blaze had done earlier, and took a deep breath. “Of course you did.”
When I opened my eyes, Warden appeared to have grown two additional arms. Then I blinked, and realized that there was actually someone standing behind her. It was a man dressed in the uniform of the Interplanetary Security Service, and he had one hand on her forehead, pulling her head back. His other hand was holding a box cutter to her exposed neck.
I’d only just finished registering all of that when I heard the faintest of noises behind me, and a callused palm slapped against my own forehead, almost as a gesture of admonishment. A box cutter blade touched my Adam’s apple as I was forced to take an interest in the ceiling.
“So what do you make of this?” I said, with difficulty.
“It invites deeper consideration,” replied Warden.
Chapter 28
With some firm prodding in the small of the back, my captor made me walk. I let him steer me as I focused all my concentration on moving forward just slowly enough to not open my throat on his blade. With every step, a cold point pecked lightly at my jugular vein like an indecisive woodpecker. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Warden being moved alongside me, and behind us, a third ISS officer was leading Daniel along.
As the mind seeks distractions in these moments, I wondered why they wer
e using box cutters, rather than their standard-issue ISS blasters. Then I remembered that the ISS bureaucracy was strictly diligent about keeping track of issued ammunition and how it was used. The measures had been a response to the internal corruption that had arisen since the rise of Quantunneling, evidenced clearly enough by the fact that officers were doing side jobs for Henderson.
We turned a corner, and before us, squatting at the end of a tunnel of parked ships, the ISS ship lay in wait. The very same one that Henderson had commandeered to “rescue” us from Angelo, way back before our first trebuchet jump into the Black.
As we approached, the docking ramp began to lower, with what must have been deliberate slowness. Inch by inch, Henderson was revealed, partially silhouetted against the red warning light of the airlock.
He looked awful. His well-brushed hair was bedraggled, and from the darkening around his empty eyes, I doubted he had slept at all since we’d seen him last. His mouth smiled joylessly. He had discarded the reindeer sweater for a melancholy blue one with a single frowning snowman.
“I do hope we had a good vacation, boys and girls,” he said, voice quivering a little as he descended the fully extended docking ramp with his hands behind his back. “Daniel. Over here.”
I wasn’t sure if it was a greeting to his son or an instruction to the officer holding him, but either way, the pair moved past us and took up position at Henderson’s side. He gave his son’s hair a tousle, holding his hand there a little longer than necessary, maintaining eye contact with Warden throughout. Assured that his son was safe, relief flowed through Henderson’s body, untensing muscles as it went, although his face didn’t change.
“You know,” he said slowly, after a nice, long stare. “I respect a certain amount of independent spirit. I seem to attract a lot of yes men to my circle of subordinates. It makes it very hard to have a decent conversation. So, understand that I cherish these moments. And also understand that I’m really looking forward to seeing what kind of pressure I can get your blood spraying at.”
I was trembling. The point of the box cutter tickled my throat as I did so. I couldn’t see much of Warden with my head held in place, but I could tell that her lips were pressed defiantly closed.
Henderson chuckled hollowly at her expression. He took a step forward and put a hand to his chin, one finger tapping his cheek in mock contemplation. “But then again, that would be over so quickly, wouldn’t it? I feel like really making a project out of this, you know? Seeing how much of you I could turn into a model train set while keeping you alive, that kind of thing. What do you think, Danny?”
When Daniel didn’t immediately yell at him for being embarrassing, or indeed make any response at all, Henderson frowned, and looked him over properly for the first time since he’d arrived. His mood darkened again. “Warden, if you’ve hurt him in any way, I swear . . .”
He left it hanging, and she said nothing. Henderson knelt beside his son, placing his hands on his shoulders to shake them. His concern turned quickly to fear. “Danny? Dan? Speak to me! It’s Dad!”
“D-ad?” said Daniel, his eyes focusing as Henderson held his face in both hands and pushed his cheeks forward.
“Danny! What happened?”
Daniel frowned, apparently confused by the question. Then his eyes grew wide and urgent and he spoke, his voice growing in volume along the way. “I had the BEST TIME!”
Henderson leaned back, stunned, as if Daniel had responded with a head butt he’d narrowly dodged. “What?”
“I went into space and we got attacked and we got kidnapped by pirates and then I stayed on their station and they fixed my ship and taught me how to fly it and then we got abducted by aliens and they tried to eat me but Jacques McKeown came and rescued me and . . .” He stopped to suck in a fresh lungful of air. “And it was the best holiday ever, Dad! Thanks!”
Henderson had been gradually leaning backward throughout the speech, and by the end of it he was sitting on the floor, staring open mouthed. Then he seemed to notice me watching him and quickly got to his feet, flustered. “Well. Uh. Didn’t I tell you to trust your old dad? Get on the ship, now, time to go home.”
“Sure, Dad,” said Daniel, obeying without complaint.
Henderson watched him pick his way up the docking ramp, then pointed at each of his henchmen in turn. “You three. Go settle him into his cabin. Leave us.”
“Sir?” asked the one holding me.
Henderson’s expression froze, and then his cheerful persona returned in an instant. “Oh! I’m so sorry; I forgot you boys are new to working with me. Well, just for future reference, questioning my orders usually results in those orders getting carved into your scalp. Okay? So let’s try that again. Leave us.”
The box cutter blade came away from my throat rather hastily, leaving a light scratch, and the three ISS officers hurried for their ship. Henderson continued staring at them until they’d gone up the ramp, passed through an interior door, and vanished from sight, giving us one last fearful glance. They probably suspected that Henderson was about to do something so horrible to us that he needed maximum plausible deniability.
He kept his back to us for some time, tapping his foot. “That,” he said, not turning around, “has left me kinda thrown. Sixteen years, nothing but yelling and ‘I want this’ and ‘I want that’ and ‘you’re so embarrassing.’ I’ve never heard him say thanks. Not once. I never even realized that till now.”
He fell back into silence for so long that I wondered if he was expecting one of us to reply, but then he shook himself and let his arms drop to his sides. “Oh well!”
Then he was on me. He spun around before I could blink and grabbed my shoulder in a vise-like grip. Then his other hand thrust forward, cassowary talon exposed.
My head reflexively shot back, but the claw stopped an inch in front of where my eye had been. Henderson’s face was close enough that I could almost feel radiation coming off his orange skin, and his smile was pulled tight.
“Hm. No,” he said. “Not you. Can’t do that to him, not now. You get to live.” He patted me companionably on the shoulder with his gripping hand, then spun off me and toward Warden.
Again, he grabbed her around the shoulder, and again, his talon stopped moments before it hit. Warden didn’t recoil.
Henderson wasn’t even looking at her. His smile was quivering oddly, like he was about to burst out laughing, but there was moisture in his eyes.
“Gah!” he exclaimed as he let her go, tottering back and grinning sheepishly. “Can’t do it. Not feeling it anymore. I’m just too chuffed. Normally I’d cut out your finger bones and shove them up your noses until they hit brain just out of principle, but . . . Oh, I’m going to regret this by morning, I just know.” His face unexpectedly went completely serious, and he gave us both a death glare. “If I ever see either of you again I’m going to start blowing your limbs off before a single word is uttered, but as of now, I’m gonna leave and let live. Say thank you, Mr. Henderson.”
“Thank you, Mr. Henderson,” I said. Warden remained silent.
The death glare immediately went away again. He clapped his hands—having retracted the talon—and rubbed them together, grinning happily at Warden’s stony face. “Well then, I think I’ll leave you big, bad pirates to pick fleas off each other or whatever else you do in this cesspit. I have to find a bathroom with a functioning bidet.”
“Mr. Henderson?” said Warden as he reached the base of the ramp, finally breaking her silence.
He stopped and half turned, grin on full display. Then she blew his leg off.
She’d quietly drawn my pistol while his back was turned, and now fired all the remaining charge in one blast, deliberately aiming at the floor by Henderson’s foot. It wasn’t Solve All Immediate Problems level, but it was enough to warp the floor tiles and detach his right leg just below the knee.
The rest of him fell back against the docking ramp, his mouth wide open as his eyes boggled at the smoke rising fro
m his new stump. Then the pain hit, and his silent scream transitioned into a very, very noisy one.
Henderson’s leg, meanwhile, had landed just in front of us. Warden took two smart steps forward and picked it up by the ankle, keeping the gun trained on Henderson. “If I ever see you, or any of your agents, on this station or anywhere in the Black,” she said, in a tone of voice like she was merely laying out conditions for a business deal, “then I, too, will start blowing off limbs. Or rather, resume.”
“YOU’RE DEAD!” shrieked Henderson, clutching his knee. “YOU’RE DEAD YOU’RE DEAD YOU’RE DEAD!” The phrase appeared to be his equivalent of ow.
Warden hefted Henderson’s leg like a stick grenade and threw it over his head, into the red-lit gloom of the ship’s docking bay. He tried to follow it with his gaze, stunned. “I would move quickly, if I were you,” she said. “This station lacks the facilities for limb reattachment, and you may still have time.”
“YOU’RE DEAD!” Henderson shuffled his way up the ramp through a combination of hand plants, butt shuffles, and kicks of the remaining leg. Once he had established a rhythm, he screamed in time with it. “YOU’RE—DEAD—YOU’RE—DEAD—YOU’RE—DEAD!”
Warden jerked the gun once Henderson was in the cargo bay, and he started fearfully. He couldn’t reach the ramp controls from the floor, so he picked up his disembodied leg and slapped at the Close button with it. Warden kept the sights on him right up until the ramp clunked into place and he disappeared from sight.
Moments later—exactly the amount of time it would take to yell an order down a corridor—the ISS ship’s takeoff jets activated, and it gingerly extracted itself from the nest of badly-parked vessels. Then the horizontal thrusters kicked in with a burst like the yelping of a kicked dog, and it sped through the force field into space.
Warden relaxed. She let all the air out of her lungs in one long blast that seemed to go on for minutes, and when she was finished, she looked like she had lost a couple of inches of height. She offered me my gun, hilt first. “I think we are finally free of Henderson’s influence.”
Will Save the Galaxy for Food Page 31
