Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  “Lobo,” I sa­id. We com­mu­ni­ca­ted via a comm link that al­lo­wed me to sub-vo­ca­li­ze and so not be he­ard by tho­se ne­ar me. Any re­aso­nab­le se­cu­rity per­son wo­uld know I was tal­king to so­me­one, but that was fi­ne with me; if they be­li­eved I had bac­kup, they might be mo­re ca­re­ful, and the mo­re ca­uti­o­us ever­yo­ne was, the bet­ter. “Do­ugat and the fo­ur be­hind him are ob­vi­o­us. Ot­her pos­sib­le hos­ti­les?”

  “Since you stop­ped mo­ving,” Lo­bo sa­id, “one man to yo­ur left of the bu­il­ding has al­te­red his path to ta­ke him in yo­ur di­rec­ti­on.”

  I spot­ted the guy, who im­me­di­ately sat on a bench in a gar­den area and stu­di­ed the flo­wers the­re. He held his he­ad at an an­g­le that let him ke­ep us in sight. “Got him,” I sa­id.

  In a cle­ar vo­ice I sa­id to Jack, “Hold.”

  He did. He sto­od still and ap­pe­ared com­p­le­tely re­la­xed. Ma­nu fid­ge­ted but didn’t com­p­la­in. I ap­pre­ci­ated the boy’s wil­lin­g­ness to do as we told him.

  “Six mo­re in va­ri­o­us lo­ca­ti­ons bet­we­en you and the ro­ad ha­ve drawn slightly clo­ser,” Lo­bo sa­id. “Lo­ca­ti­ons on over­lay now. Swe­ep on­ce to mark them.”

  The con­tact in my left eye tur­ned the world a slightly dar­ker sha­de as the over­lay snap­ped on. I tur­ned slowly and sur­ve­yed the gro­unds be­hind me. As I did, small red dots ap­pe­ared on the chests of the fo­ur men and two wo­men Lo­bo sus­pec­ted. Each avo­ided lo­oking at me and fo­und so­met­hing ne­arby of gre­at in­te­rest, so I as­su­med Lo­bo was right. “Track them, the ob­vi­o­us fo­ur, and the one ne­ar the bu­il­ding,” I sa­id.

  “Done,” he sa­id.

  My or­der was un­ne­ces­sary, be­ca­use Lo­bo was a pro and knew his ro­le, but I co­uldn’t stop myself from gi­ving it. If we we­ren’t in the mid­dle of a mis­si­on, Lo­bo wo­uld ha­ve ha­ras­sed me abo­ut the re­dun­dancy, but he ne­ver mi­xed se­ri­o­us bu­si­ness and sar­casm.

  “We’re pro­bably mis­sing one,” I sa­id. “Se­cu­rity te­ams lo­ve pa­irs. Scan aga­in.”

  “A wo­man to yo­ur far left has wal­ked clo­ser to the man at the bu­il­ding’s ed­ge,” Lo­bo sa­id, “so she’s a pos­sib­le. No ot­her hu­man in the area is ex­hi­bi­ting any tel­ling be­ha­vi­ors. So, eit­her that’s all of the ex­ter­nal se­cu­rity or the re­ma­ining mem­bers are sig­ni­fi­cantly mo­re skil­led at blen­ding in than the­ir col­le­agu­es.”

  I lo­oked at the wo­man and smi­led. She re­ac­ted with a smi­le of her own and then tur­ned away, but the re­ac­ti­on was slow and for­ced.

  “Assume she’s a hos­ti­le,” I sa­id. “Mo­re are in­si­de, but we’ll go with this co­unt for now.”

  Dougat sto­od, an im­pa­ti­ent ex­p­res­si­on on his fa­ce.

  Jack glan­ced back at me, but to his cre­dit he sta­yed put.

  “Proceed,” I sa­id.

  Jack and Ma­nu he­aded to­ward the ca­nopy. “Mr. Do­ugat,” Jack sa­id in his most win­ning vo­ice. “How ni­ce to see you aga­in.”

  Dougat ig­no­red Jack com­p­le­tely and fo­cu­sed on the boy.

  Like any go­od mer­c­hant, Jack pa­used so his cus­to­mer co­uld ta­ke his ti­me to study the go­ods. Even as I ha­ted myself for thin­king of a child that way, I re­ali­zed that we we­re in it now and I had to stay cold to be ma­xi­mal­ly ef­fec­ti­ve.

  I co­uldn’t re­ad Do­ugat’s ex­p­res­si­on. I’ve se­en the very rich exa­mi­ne ot­her pe­op­le with all the pas­si­on of but­c­hers trying to de­ci­de which me­at scraps to fe­ed the­ir pets, lo­ok com­p­le­tely thro­ugh ot­hers, as if the stran­gers we­re no mo­re sub­s­tan­ti­al than mist, and sta­re with un­dis­gu­ised lust at new­co­mers they plan­ned to own. Do­ugat did no­ne of tho­se.

  Then I got it: Do­ugat vi­ewed Ma­nu as a po­ten­ti­al re­li­gi­o­us ar­ti­fact, so­met­hing pos­sibly pre­ci­o­us, de­fi­ni­tely puz­zling, a lit­tle hard to be­li­eve in, and yet won­der­ful if it pro­ved to be the re­al thing. Ho­we­ver rich the man was and ho­we­ver much he had pro­fi­ted from his in­s­ti­tu­te and his re­se­arch in­to Pin­kel­pon­ker, he was abo­ve all el­se a be­li­ever in the re­li­gi­o­us im­por­tan­ce of my ho­me world.

  That sca­red me mo­re than me­re lust or gre­ed wo­uld ever ha­ve tro­ub­led me. Not long af­ter I stop­ped wor­king with Jack, I spent qu­ite a whi­le with what is, in my opi­ni­on, the fi­nest mer­ce­nary com­pany an­y­w­he­re, the Sho­sen Ad­van­ced We­apons Corp., the Saw. Se­ve­ral of our ac­ti­ons pit­ted us aga­inst ar­mi­es of true be­li­evers de­ter­mi­ned to con­vert worlds to the­ir gods or, in so­me ca­ses, to pu­rify who­le pla­nets of the­ir he­at­hen non­be­li­evers, and they we­re fe­ar­so­me op­po­nents. I le­ar­ned to res­pect, fe­ar, and des­pi­se the ut­ter fa­na­ti­cal fo­cus of the­ir mis­si­on.

  “Are you re­ady to pro­ce­ed?” Jack sa­id to Do­ugat.

  Dougat sta­red at Jack as if he was se­e­ing ex­c­re­ment on his din­ner pla­te, then for­ced a bu­si­nes­sli­ke ex­p­res­si­on. “Yes,” he sa­id. “Let’s be­gin the in­ter­vi­ew.”

  “Should we get anot­her cha­ir?” Jack sa­id, in­di­ca­ting the two un­der the ca­nopy.

  “The in­ter­vi­ew is strictly bet­we­en the boy and me,” Do­ugat sa­id. “You and,” he pa­used to ma­ke a dis­mis­si­ve mo­ti­on in my ge­ne­ral di­rec­ti­on, “yo­ur as­so­ci­ate sho­uld wa­it whe­re you are.”

  Jack tur­ned and lo­oked at me. I sho­ok my he­ad slightly and tur­ned to di­rectly fa­ce Do­ugat.

  “Will yo­ur as­so­ci­ates al­so re­mo­ve them­sel­ves?” I sa­id. “Both tho­se fo­ur and,” I po­in­ted slowly to­ward the bu­il­ding and then ca­su­al­ly be­hind me, “the two clo­ser to the bu­il­ding and the six in va­ri­o­us lo­ca­ti­ons be­hind me?”

  Dougat smi­led for the first ti­me. “I must apo­lo­gi­ze not only for the si­ze of my se­cu­rity te­am but al­so for the cle­arly un­der­de­ve­lo­ped skills of its staff. I me­an the boy no harm. I ha­ve ene­mi­es, so I ge­ne­ral­ly don’t me­et out­si­de. My te­am se­emed a re­aso­nab­le pre­ca­uti­on. Ever­yo­ne will back away.”

  The ones I co­uld see in front of me wit­h­d­rew so they we­re far­t­her from the ca­nopy than Jack or I by at le­ast fi­ve me­ters.

  I tur­ned to lo­ok be­hind me and the con­tact sho­wed the ot­her six had al­so fal­len back.

  “Hostiles ha­ve pul­led back,” sa­id Lo­bo, who was mo­ni­to­ring the con­ver­sa­ti­on via de­la­yed bursts from tran­s­mit­ters wo­ven in­to my co­at.

  “Thank you,” I sa­id. To Jack, I ad­ded, “Yo­ur call.”

  Jack nod­ded and fa­ced Do­ugat aga­in. “Per­haps we sho­uld get the pay­ment out of the way.”

  Dougat smi­led aga­in, but this ti­me the ex­p­res­si­on was pu­re show. He tur­ned to one of the fo­ur men be­hind him, nod­ded, and fa­ced Jack aga­in when that man nod­ded in re­turn. “Check yo­ur wal­let,” he sa­id. “The mo­ney is in the lo­cal ac­co­unt you spe­ci­fi­ed.”

  Jack did, lin­ge­ring long eno­ugh that I was su­re he mo­ved the mo­ney at le­ast twi­ce be­fo­re he lo­oked up and smi­led with what ap­pe­ared to be ge­nu­ine re­li­ef. “Thank you. We’ll wa­it he­re whi­le you talk.” He drop­ped to one knee be­si­de Ma­nu. “All Mis­ter Do­ugat wants to do is ask you qu­es­ti­ons for abo­ut an ho­ur. An­s­wer them ho­nestly, and then we’ll go. Okay?”

  Manu stu­di­ed Jack’s fa­ce. “You’ll stay he­re?” He lo­oked at me. “Both of you?”

  “Of co­ur­se,” Jack sa­id. “We’ll be right he­re.”

  Manu kept sta­ring at me un­til I nod­ded in ag­re­ement.

  “Okay,” he sa­id. He wal­ked to Do­ug
at, glan­ced for a mo­ment at the man’s fa­ce, and then went over and sat on one of the cha­irs un­der the ca­nopy. Do­ugat sho­ok his he­ad and fol­lo­wed; I got the im­p­res­si­on he spent abo­ut as much ti­me aro­und chil­d­ren as I did.

  After Do­ugat sat, he of­fe­red Ma­nu a drink from a pit­c­her on the tab­le.

  Manu chec­ked with me, as we had dis­cus­sed, and I sho­ok my he­ad. The boy mur­mu­red so­met­hing-we we­re too far away to he­ar his light vo­ice-and le­aned back. The kid’s be­ha­vi­or con­ti­nu­ed to im­p­ress me; I’ve gu­ar­ded grown-ups with far less sen­se. We didn’t worry abo­ut the con­tents of the in­ter­vi­ew; Ma­nu had so many re­cor­ders in the ac­ti­ve fi­ber of his clot­hing that we’d be ab­le to vi­ew a full rep­lay la­ter.

  “Lobo,” I sa­id. “Alert me if any of the hos­ti­les draw clo­ser or if Ma­nu mo­ves. I’m go­ing to swe­ep the area vi­su­al­ly every thirty se­conds or so, and each ti­me I do I will lo­se sight of the boy bri­efly.”

  “You co­uld stay fo­cu­sed on him and le­ave the ot­hers to me,” Lo­bo sa­id.

  “Yes,” I sa­id, “but I won’t. My per­s­pec­ti­ve is sig­ni­fi­cantly dif­fe­rent than yo­urs, so I might ga­in da­ta you won’t, and by vi­sibly lo­oking I will ma­ke su­re Do­ugat’s te­am knows I’m on the alert.”

  As I fi­nis­hed tal­king, I tur­ned and bri­efly scan­ned all the way aro­und me. The hos­ti­les ap­pe­ared in my con­tact as I mo­ved. The si­tu­ati­on re­ma­ined calm. Ma­nu and Do­ugat con­ti­nu­ed to talk, the boy oc­ca­si­onal­ly ani­ma­ted, the man stu­di­o­us and ab­sor­bed. Jack sto­od abo­ut a me­ter away from me, as mo­ti­on­less as a rock car­ving, wat­c­hing the in­ter­vi­ew with a de­cep­ti­ve stil­lness.

  Jack was right when he re­min­ded me that he was bad at vi­olen­ce, but that didn’t me­an he was hel­p­less. He pos­ses­sed an ama­zing abi­lity to simply be in a mo­ment, to drink it in and fo­cus to­tal­ly on it, and in tho­se ti­mes he ap­pe­ared so still that you might be­li­eve he was physi­cal­ly and men­tal­ly slow. When he ne­eded to mo­ve, ho­we­ver, he was one of the fas­test hu­mans I’ve ever se­en, ab­le to go from mo­ti­on­less to full spe­ed al­most as qu­ickly as if he we­re a si­mu­la­ti­on fre­ed from the laws of physics.

  Over the next thir­ty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes we all kept to our ro­les. Do­ugat on­ce left the boy to ask Jack if they might run a bit over an ho­ur, and Jack ag­re­ed. Every in­di­ca­ti­on was that Do­ugat wo­uld be­ha­ve, do the in­ter­vi­ew, and let us go. I felt the strong ur­ge to re­lax, but no mis­si­on is over un­til you’re back ho­me sa­fely, so I ma­in­ta­ined my ro­uti­ne.

  I was bet­we­en swe­eps, sta­ring at the chat­ting boy and man, when Ma­nu grab­bed his he­ad, cri­ed lo­udly eno­ugh that we co­uld he­ar him, and ran to­ward Jack.

  Jack was mo­ving be­fo­re Ma­nu had ta­ken his se­cond step and re­ac­hed the boy qu­ickly. I was right be­hind them.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack sa­id to Ma­nu. He sta­red at Do­ugat. “What did you do to him?

  Dougat lo­oked ge­nu­inely up­set. “Not­hing,” he sa­id, “not­hing at all. We we­re tal­king, then for no re­ason I co­uld see he ap­pe­ared to be in pa­in.”

  Jack lo­oked down at Ma­nu. “Did he hurt you?”

  Manu was hol­ding his he­ad and sha­king it back and forth, mo­aning softly. “No,” he sa­id. “Not him. It’s not him. It hurts.” He lo­oked up, his eyes wi­de, and po­in­ted to­ward the ro­ad. “We can’t let it hap­pen. We ha­ve to stop it.” He grab­bed Jack’s hand and pul­led. Jack, Do­ugat, and I ex­c­han­ged glan­ces, and Jack de­ci­ded for us by let­ting Ma­nu le­ad him.

  “All hos­ti­les chan­ging co­ur­se and ap­pro­ac­hing,” Lo­bo sa­id.

  I grab­bed Jack’s arm with my left hand, and he stop­ped.

  Manu tug­ged hard at him. “We ha­ve to stop it!” he yel­led.

  I kept my hand on Jack’s arm and fa­ced Do­ugat. “Tell all yo­ur pe­op­le to re­turn to the­ir pre­vi­o­us po­si­ti­ons,” I sa­id. “I don’t know an­y­t­hing mo­re abo­ut this than you do, but it’s cle­ar the boy wants us to mo­ve. Ke­ep them back, and we will.”

  “Now!” Ma­nu scre­amed. “We ha­ve to!”

  Dougat nod­ded, tur­ned his he­ad, and whis­pe­red so­met­hing I co­uldn’t he­ar.

  “Hostiles re­tur­ning to pri­or lo­ca­ti­ons,” Lo­bo sa­id. “All cle­ar.”

  I let go of Jack’s arm.

  Manu saw me do it and im­me­di­ately pul­led har­der on Jack. Jack let him set the pa­ce. Ma­nu ran for the ro­ad, Jack in physi­cal tow and Do­ugat and I sta­ying as clo­se as if the fo­ur of us we­re trap­ped in the sa­me gra­vity well and ca­re­ening in­to a black ho­le. Ma­nu was crying and blab­be­ring, but bet­we­en his te­ars and the so­unds of us run­ning I co­uldn’t un­der­s­tand an­y­t­hing he was sa­ying.

  Five me­ters from the ro­ad he ra­ised his hand and sho­uted a sin­g­le long, hyste­ri­cal­ly elon­ga­ted word, “No­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­oo!”

  I lo­oked whe­re he was po­in­ting, and fo­ur events oc­cur­red in such ra­pid suc­ces­si­on that I co­uld se­pa­ra­te them only in af­ter­t­ho­ught.

  A ho­ver tran­s­port hur­t­led down the ro­ad from my right to­ward my left.

  A man step­ped from a crowd of pe­des­t­ri­ans in front of the truck, his he­ad tur­ned to his right as if sa­ying go­od­b­ye to a fri­end, cle­arly una­wa­re of the ve­hic­le spe­eding to­ward him.

  The tran­s­port hit the man.

  The man sa­iled in­to the air li­ke a flo­wer blown free of its stem by a strong wind, red blos­so­ming ac­ross his shirt as he flew over the crowd he’d just left. He lan­ded be­hind them, out of our vi­ew.

  Manu let go of Jack and ran for the ro­ad, but Jack ca­ught him with one long stri­de and grab­bed both his sho­ul­ders.

  “I saw it and I co­uldn’t stop it and we sho­uld ha­ve stop­ped it!” Ma­nu sa­id, te­ars flo­wing as qu­ickly and as un­con­t­rol­led as the words.

  Jack pic­ked him up, tur­ned him away from the sight of the crowd con­ver­ging on the ac­ci­dent vic­tim, and held him tightly. “It’s not yo­ur fa­ult,” he sa­id. “You did ever­y­t­hing you co­uld. You know we can’t chan­ge what you see.” The boy sob­bed and tri­ed to wrig­gle free, but Jack clung to him with a strength I’d se­en but al­so with a ten­der­ness I’d ne­ver wit­nes­sed. “It’s not yo­ur fa­ult.”

  Jack sup­por­ted Ma­nu’s we­ight with his right hand and held the boy’s he­ad to his sho­ul­der with his left. Ke­eping the boy’s he­ad tuc­ked the­re so he wo­uldn’t catch a glim­p­se of the ac­ci­dent, Jack tur­ned and wal­ked away from the ro­ad, to­ward the In­s­ti­tu­te.

  As he mo­ved, he lo­oked at me for a mo­ment, his eyes glis­te­ning, and then at Do­ugat. “Per­haps,” he sa­id to the man, “we co­uld spend a few mi­nu­tes in­si­de. I’m af­ra­id the in­ter­vi­ew is over.”

  For the first ti­me sin­ce the ac­ci­dent, I fo­cu­sed on Do­ugat. His fa­ce was wi­de with shock, but mo­re than shock, be­li­ef, the sort of ec­s­ta­tic be­li­ef I’ve se­en pre­vi­o­usly only on tho­se in the grips of strong drugs or stron­ger acts of re­li­gi­o­us or vi­olent fer­vor.

  “He is a se­er,” the man sa­id. “A true child of Pin­kel­pon­ker, may­be the only one in the known uni­ver­se. I’ve tal­ked to so many pe­op­le, he­ard so many sto­ri­es, but I co­uld ne­ver be su­re.” He ran in front of Jack and put up his hand. “You can’t le­ave. You can’t.” His pu­pils we­re di­la­ted with ex­ci­te­ment, and his bre­at­hing was rag­ged.

  Everything abo­ut him bro­ad­cast tro­ub­le. We ne­eded to le­ave.

  “Lobo,” I sa­id, “Co­me in fast, and pre­pa­re for full ac­ti­on on my com­mand.”

 
“Moving,” he sa­id.

  “As you can see,” Jack sa­id, an­ger cle­ar in his vo­ice, “Ma­nu is in no sha­pe to con­ti­nue. I’ll re­turn half of the fee if you’d li­ke, but I ha­ve to get him ho­me to rest. Even the easi­est vi­si­ons are hard on him, and this one, as you can cle­arly see, was not easy.”

  Dougat didn’t mo­ve. “He can rest he­re,” he sa­id, mo­re lo­udly than be­fo­re. “My pe­op­le will help in any way they can, but I can’t let you le­ave.”

  “Hostiles con­ver­ging qu­ickly,” Lo­bo sa­id, his vo­ice crisp and in­f­lec­ti­on-free in my ear. “I’m six se­conds out.”

  “Execute plan,” I sa­id.

  “Three mis­si­les hit­ting Do­ugat’s wa­re­ho­use now,” Lo­bo sa­id. The ex­p­lo­si­ons the­re wo­uld, we ho­ped, oc­cupy the mi­ni­mal lo­cal law, which pre­dic­tably ma­in­ta­ined its he­ad­qu­ar­ters ne­ar the al­ways tro­ub­le­so­me port are­as.

  I grab­bed Jack’s sho­ul­der and spun him to fa­ce me. Be­hind him I glim­p­sed se­ve­ral of Do­ugat’s men run­ning to­ward us.

  “Three se­conds,” Lo­bo sa­id.

  Jack nod­ded and grip­ped Ma­nu tightly.

  I drop­ped and swept Jack’s legs out from un­der him.

  Lobo ac­ti­va­ted the he­ads-up dis­p­lay in my left eye, and the vi­ew from his for­ward vi­deo sen­sors over­la­id my vi­ew of the ap­pro­ac­hing se­cu­rity men.

  I wat­c­hed with both nor­mal vi­si­on and that dis­p­lay as Lo­bo tran­s­for­med the In­s­ti­tu­te and its gro­unds in­to a fi­re zo­ne.

  Two low- yield ex­p­lo­si­ve mis­si­les left Lo­bo and al­most im­me­di­ately blew apart what I ho­ped we’d ac­cu­ra­tely iden­ti­fi­ed as a re­ce­iving area on the back of the bu­il­ding. No tran­s­ports we­re par­ked the­re, so with luck the area was unoc­cu­pi­ed. At the sa­me ti­me, the world went si­lent as Lo­bo re­mo­tely enab­led my so­und-bloc­king ear­p­ho­nes. I ho­ped Jack’s and Ma­nu’s wor­ked as well, be­ca­use a se­cond la­ter the how­lers roc­ke­ted out of Lo­bo and to­re up the gro­unds aro­und us.