by Chris Bunch
The crowds were screaming, running, women and men going flat, and there were alarms howling.
Lir paid no mind, quickly went thorough the corpse's pouch, took everything, then was up and running, leaving the blaster across the body.
"Thanks," Njangu said, shutting off the com and turning to Garvin. "The showgirl… her name was Chapu, by the way… just died."
"Bastards," Garvin said, sorting through the contents of the shooter's pouch.
The com buzzed again, and Njangu took it, spoke briefly.
"That was Fili," he said. "Expressing his sympathies, even though he's sure it had nothing to do with politics or him, just some mental case."
"Yeh," Garvin said, flatly.
Njangu picked up the com, told the ship's com center to hold all outside calls, but log them, joined Garvin in examining the meager contents of the pouch.
"Too much money," he murmured. "Nice crisp credit bills, nonconsecutive numbers. A for-hire job. Ho. What's this. A com number?
"Maybe his bosses forgot to shake him before he went out, eh?"
He went back to the com, told the center to connect him with that number.
"It's NG," he reported, said into the mike, "try the old code of adding one or subtracting one number." He waited. "Nothing connects going down one. Try up one." Again, he waited, then swiftly broke contact. "Here we go. Add one number, and we just happen to get a voice that says 'Constitutionalist District Four, Maya speaking.'
"Sloppy, sloppy work."
"Yeh," Garvin said.
"You know," Njangu said, "in a properly run democracy, that wouldn't be anything more than minor evidence."
"Which is why I'm damned glad I'm not running a democracy," Garvin said grimly.
Chapter 8
"Sorry to hear about your casualty," the slender man with the carefully trimmed moustache said to Erik Penwyth. He wore an expensive but somewhat shabby civilian suit like a uniform.
"We circus people don't think like you soldiers," Erik drawled. "We don't take what I suppose you call calculated risk into account. P'raps we should, though," he softened his response, burying his flash of anger. "Considering some of the risks taken."
"But I gather the woman who that madman shot was no more than a decoration," the man said. "Hardly someone who gets in a cage with monsters."
"I guess we all die, sooner or later," Erik said. "Here. Stand you a drink?"
"Thanks," the man said, and motioned to the human barkeep. "Whiskey. And a glass of charged water."
Penwyth nodded to the bartender to refill his brandy and ginger, although he was still getting used to the local brandy, better than anything native to Cumbre, and the mix, far gingerier than expected.
The man took his drink, lifted it to Erik.
"As we used to say… here's to a nice, neat war, with quick promotions."
Erik smiled, drank.
"Although," the man said, "none of us in the Club have ever seen a real war."
The Armed Forces Club's walls were decorated with old weaponry, regimental banners, holos of stiff men looking proud.
"Just riots, a few raiders, every now and then a district or a world deciding it can go on its own and needs reminding about the proper order of things," the man said. "Oh, by the way, I'm Kuprin Freron. Retired T'ousan, last duty assignment with the General Staff."
"Erik Penwyth. I'm one of the publicity hounds."
"I know," the man said, started to go on, changed the subject. "What will your people do about the tragedy?"
"What should we do?" Penwyth said carefully. "The killer was some lunatic who killed our trouper, then got shot down by an unknown civilian. That's what your holos say, anyway."
Freron raised an eyebrow. "I wonder about that quote unknown civilian end quote. We have very stringent gun laws here on Delta… although it certainly never seems to stop a criminal or one of our political thugs from arming himself with anything he wishes for his villainy."
"Crooks everywhere generally don't worry about breaking small laws," Penwyth said. "But I still don't understand what you're saying."
"I just thought that you offworlders might have your own… resources… when trouble happens, which is good, since I doubt if our authorities will do anything about searching for the people everyone knows are behind this bloodshed."
"Perhaps we do," Penwyth said. "If so, they've never told me about anything like that. By the way, you said you know me, but I don't remember us having met."
"We haven't," Jabish said. "I heard about your show, and the largesse your circus has extended to some of the charities the Club supports." He glanced to either side, saw no one was close, dropped his voice.
"I've also heard that you've been inquiring about the Confederation."
"Surely," Penwyth said, alarms going off. "We're loyal citizens… although it's certainly been a long time since we've been able to show our loyalty. Traveling people like order. And, speaking personally, I'm most curious how something that huge can vanish, seemingly overnight."
"Soldiers also like order," Freron said. "You know, I was lucky enough to do an intelligence course on Centrum itself a long time ago.
"And one of my jobs on the Staff, before the damned politicians decided there was more profit going our own way, was liasing with the Confederation attaches."
"Interesting," Erik said.
"I thought so at the time," Freron said. "And think so now, as I'm considering writing my memoirs.
"Because I kept thorough records. Very thorough records of everything I encountered dealing with the Confederation. But right now, it seems that no one is terribly interested in these anecdotes of the past."
"I always was, as a kid," Erik lied. "Somehow adults always had better things to talk about than us lads did." He wondered where the word "lads" had come from, decided that was the kind of word Freron would use. "But you said something about keeping records?"
"I did, and I suppose that was illegal, then, since a lot of the Confederation material I have was fairly classified then.
"Now it's just dusty fiches, although some might find it interesting."
"Such as?" Penwyth said, wishing to hell he had a bug detector in his pocket to see if Freron was Tiborg counterintelligence, trolling.
"Oh… historians, perhaps. People who're making the Confederation a subject of study, for whatever rea-sons. People who're well funded, since my pension hardly extends as far as I'd like."
"T'ousan Freron," Erik said, waving to the bartender. "You interest me greatly. Perhaps we should find a table and discuss this matter."
"Call me Kuprin."
Garvin was rather pleased that about half of his circus quietly came up and asked if he was going to do something about Chapu's murder, and if so, could they help.
He was, but he only needed nineteen, all chosen from I&R. They boarded one of the circus lifters in the late afternoon and flew into the capital, landing very quietly, on the roof of a building overlooking Constitutionalist District Four headquarters. High above, two aksai were flying cover, Dill and Alikhan as pilots.
Four soldiers, the best Shrike gunners in the Force, their modified missiles hidden in innocuous-looking cases, plus their gun guards, went down from the roof and found firing positions in alcoves and alleys.
Six others, lugging Squad Support Weapons, the tripod-mounted blasters, and their assistant gunners went to firing locations near the three entrances to the precinct building, under Lir's direction.
Then they waited, ducking into cover anytime any of the planetary police lifters came past.
Garvin and Njangu had chosen to land just after normal quitting time.
"That'll let the innocent, which means the small-scale sorts, get out before the fun starts," Garvin had said.
"What, just to be cynical, about the secretary whose boss ordered her to work late?" Njangu said.
Garvin looked at him coldly.
"Sorry," Yoshitaro said. "I didn't mean to throw shit in the game."
/>
It was just dusk, and about a third of the windows across the way were still lit when Garvin opened the com to his troops.
"Shrike element… fire as instructed."
Two of the missiles were aimed at the fourth story of the five-story building, the other two at its mid-section.
Launchers whooshed, and the missiles arrived before their sound. The explosions sent shock waves across the capital, shattering windows for blocks. The building rocked, and its facade cracked, fell toward the street, forcing one SSW team to run.
Flames flickered from three floors of the building.
There were screams, shouts, and men and women ran downstairs into the street.
"SSW, clear to fire."
Perhaps politics on Delta was a young man's occupation, but Garvin doubted it. He'd given orders for the SSW teams to pick out anyone middle-aged, anyone who looked expensive, and especially anyone who looked like a Constitutionalist goon.
A police lifter rounded a corner, and a gunner put a burst into its engine. It bounced off a parked lifter, crashed. The cops piled out and, no fools against auto-blasters, ran like hell.
Dill's voice came into one of Garvin's earpieces.
"Boss. Time to scoot. I've got some things that look like fire engines and maybe some military lifters in the air headed yours."
Garvin thumbed to the aksai channel.
"We're pulling out. Stay in the air until we're gone, then go on home." Then, without waiting for acknowledgment, he went to the grunt channel.
" 'Kay, troops. We're gone."
The women and men cascaded back up the stairs to the roof, piled in the lifter as Njangu took it up a few centimeters, dancing against the rooftop, then at full power down an avenue, below the roofs, and away.
In minutes, they were back at the field and Big Bertha.
"Any idea on casualties?" Montagna asked, a bit angry for not having been chosen, as they landed.
"Not nearly enough, whatever it was," Lir said harshly.
Garvin swallowed half a liter of sport drink.
"All right, friends," he told Liskeard, Lir, and Yos-hitaro. "That's evened things up a little. Now, recall anybody that's in the city back home, get the troops to start packing and the midway struck aboard. We'll be gone by midnight, and Tiborg Alpha Delta can find its own path to hell."
"Hang on a second, boss," Njangu said. "Could you maybe gimme a moment of solitude?"
Garvin hesitated, then nodded. The others filed out.
"We just got a spanner up our asses, I think, as far as beating feet," Njangu said. "Erik just wandered back, a little buzzed, with something interesting."
Yoshitaro told him about Penwyth's evening with Freron,vthe retired staff officer. Garvin started to open another sport drink, curled his nose.
"This calls for alcohol."
" 'Deed it do," Njangu agreed, found two beers in Garvin's cooler, and opened them.
Garvin drank mightily.
"Why do I ever consider putting anything healthy inside me," he wondered, "when the evil stuff tastes so much better? 'Kay. So we've got somebody with… maybe… some good intel, high-level or fairly high anyway, on the Confederation. Ten years old, though."
"Older than ours, but surely at a higher level than anything the Force has, isn't it?" Njangu said.
Garvin nodded.
"But that'll also mean we'll still be targets for those assholes," he said.
"Which set?"
"Does it matter?" Garvin said. "A Constitutionalist bolt'll do you just as dead as one from… what's our boy's party… the Social Democrats, right?"
The com buzzed, and Njangu fielded it, listened, hung up.
"Speaking of which," he said, "we've got our pet candidate, ol' Dorn the Mouth and his aide pounding on the gangway. Shall we let 'em in?"
"Why not?" Garvin said, draining the beer and tossing it into the cycler. "I don't guess we can just up our hooks and scamper, now can we?"
"Not until we find out if this guy we're suborning is honest and subornable, or some kind of goddamned counteragent," Njangu said. "Though I'm not much more fond of the idea of hanging around than you are."
There was a knock at the door, Garvin touched the sensor, and a wide-eyed Dorn Fili, flanked by Brek, hurried in.
"Great gods," Fili said. "You people are dangerous!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Dangerous and careful," Brek said. "I suppose you haven't heard about somebody blowing up a Constitutionalist headquarters an hour or so ago."
" 'Fraid not," Garvin said. "We've been concentrating on our own right now, and getting ready for poor Chapu's funeral."
"They're saying over a hundred and twenty-five Constitutionalist workers were killed, and the attackers used rockets and fully automatic blasters, like the army has," Fili said. "I've heard of ten for one… but…" He let his voice trail off.
"Sounds like," Njangu said to Garvin, "there must've been some kind of industrial explosion, hmm?"
"Is that it?" Garvin asked innocently.
"This evening we were discussing whether or not we'd lose you," Brek said, "which we could easily understand, and were wondering if we could convince you to stay if we provided some of the security elements of our party."
"Your circus has added a new note to the campaign," Fili said. "Adding holo bits of your various benefits has raised viewership on what otherwise might be considered nothing but political natterings, and we'd hate to have you leave before the victory celebration."
"We're not leaving yet," Garvin said. "We made a deal, and we'll hold to it."
"Good, good," Fili said heartily. "Especially the final rally for our party workers. That'll give them a huge morale boost for the last week of the campaign."
"And, as I've said," Brek added, "you'll have full security cooperation from us."
"We'll use you," Njangu said. "Outside the ship. No outsider with guns inside. Period."
"You're certainly confident enough about being able to defend yourselves… and my workers…" Fili said doubtfully.
"We are," Njangu said. "Especially since if everyone's thinking that unfortunate accident had anything to do with us, that should calm the waters."
"Don't be too sure," Brek said. "The Constitutionalists have been in office for a while, and they'll take some convincing to change their ways."
Garvin remembered what Director Bertl had said about their having lost a sense of proportion… and then about the possible trail, so far the best they'd come across, toward Cumbre.
"No," he said again. "We're staying. Although there'll have to be a discussion about our fees."
"Migods," Darod Montagna said weakly, "you certainly get passionate after action."
She unwound her legs from Garvin's thighs, and he rolled on his side.
"Do I?" he said, running a thumbnail down her breasts and across her stomach.
She drew in her breath sharply.
"Can I say something? And then I've got a question."
"Talk."
"I won't be able to unless you stop kissing my nipples," she said. "First, is something I want you to know, that I'm not going to think that what we're doing has anything to do with anything other than what we're dong, 'kay?"
"Odin's birdhouse, but I'm glad you went and joined the army, so you could learn to express yourself clearly," Garvin said.
"You know what I mean," Darod said. "Now, let me change the subject before you turn on the lights and see that I can blush better'n you.
"What're we going to do about these idiots here?"
"Nothing," Garvin said. "Finish our contract and go on our way."
"I don't know what you and Njangu have got running… it's none of my business. But I think it blows giptels for the people of Delta to have nothing better than these two parties, who seem to pass the looting back and forth."
"I figure it's pretty much the people's business to change things when they want," Garvin said. "Soldiers trying to play God end up getting themse
lves all screwed up."
"Even if, say, Lir and I just happened to build this thingie that just happens to go bang? And we just happen to plant it in the capital building for next inauguration, which is a known time and date, and it's easy to set up a thingie with a long det fuse? And just when the old scum are giving things over to this Fili and his new scum, there's a real loud bang? Wouldn't that help?"
"You're forgetting about the Directors, who seem to be the power behind the throne," Garvin said. "And I really sound like I know squat from politics, don't I?"
"We could figure something out and get them, too," Montagna said stubbornly.
"First one bang, then another, then we'll have to find a third bomb… like I said, here we'd go, playing holy redeemer," Garvin said.
"Garvin, I'm trying to think, and while that feels good, especially there, I'll…"
"You'll what?" Garvin said muffledly.
"Try not to make as much noise coming this time," Darod said, and moaned.
"We may have erred," Director Bertl told his aide. "All that little transmitter does is tell us about the ship's location.
"I would like to have better data about people as… immediate… as these circus people. They seem much more than happy wanderers from a distant planet."
"I wondered about that as well," the aide said. "And have something… or, rather, someone, ready to go."
"As usual, you anticipate my thinking," Bertl purred.
"Now, here's the hot setup," Njangu told the assembled women and men. "The Social Democrats, who we shouldn't have gotten in bed with in the first place, but it's too late to cry over spilt drugs, are giving us security out the gump stump.
"I've seen their assembled legions, and they're about what you'd expect from a bunch of politicos— mostly big apes with glowers and hair growing out of their ears. If they've got any smooth suckers, they're keeping them around the throne.
"But that's fine with us," he said, winking at Maev, in the front row. "Let them swirl about and attract any baddies' attention.
"You pros, you shooters, are going to stay invisible.
"Until the shit comes down," he said, his good humor vanishing. "Then we obliterate the bastards."
