Delivery Schedule #3
Emboldened by the knowledge that there was no one left in the security room to see the feed of him dragging bodies down the hall, Marx wrestled both of the security officers with him into the drop chute. He rode the chute down to the floor he’d come in by and left the men to be found or not, the bright green numbers in his mind playing the number ten across his eyes whenever he blinked. No one could get into the security room, even if someone did trip an alarm.
That done, Marx pressed the security ring he’d stolen from one of the security men against the sensor in the drop chute and rode it as high as it would take him. Once the room exploded, the entire Institute would shut down, and it had occurred to Marx some time while he was dragging bodies out of the security room, that if he could manage to be high enough, he could likely climb out onto the roof when the security room plunged down into its safe area. From there, his starter fob should be able to bring his flyer right to him.
The flyer, thought Marx grimly, as stepped out of the drop chute, would be enough to get him down from the Institute roof, but from there he would have to walk. It was safer if he was thought to be dead, his flyer abandoned in the delivery area of the Institute that had almost-but-not-quite blown up. He’d been meaning to take a quiet job in some deep space commercial liner’s boiler room, anyway. A nice, quiet job. Something that only involved explosions if he didn’t do his job.
Marx took in a deep breath and hunkered down behind the corner closest to the blast area. Yes, a nice, quiet job; that was what he needed. Something uncomplicated and easy to do. Something strictly legal. Hadn’t the Doubtless been looking for boiler-room bodies just a week ago? A nice way to get offworld, and no fear that he’d end up in trouble working there, after all.
One, said the bright green numbers in Marx’s mind. He covered his ears with his hands in preparation for that round, green zero, and was thrown sideways in a great rumbling of sound that hit him physically, one minute earlier than expected.
Patient #76
He woke late, feeling refreshed. The room was bright around him, and it seemed to tremble as he sat up.
Slowly, he said to himself, and found that the world was still after all. He looked around the room to give himself time to adjust to sitting up, and saw that there were two travel cases packed and standing by the door.
“Oi,” said a voice from somewhere above him. “Not gonna fall over this time?”
He looked up and saw the suspicion of movement through the grating above his bed. The grate was tiny, not even big enough for someone to stick their head through, with only a small hole in one corner; but he was quite sure that was where the voice had come from.
He said: “What do you mean, this time?”
There was a momentary silence before the voice said: “Thought Marcus might’ve got you this time. Don’t remember talkin’ to me earlier?”
“I wasn’t talking to anyone earlier,” said the boy, glancing down at his timepiece. “I’ve been asleep since…well, about this time yesterday, I think. Who are you?”
“Never you mind,” the voice said sharply.
There was a scrabble above him, then silence. Master Li gazed thoughtfully up at the grating, then got up to dress. It was probably for the best; his father wasn’t the sort of person to appreciate people in the ceilings. His father also wasn’t the sort of person to appreciate weakness, which was why Master Li found himself in a mental institute. Master Li had been very careful to give right answers to all the questions asked of him, and to show that he was entirely, mentally healthy. He had only a fuzzy memory of that temporary weakness that had brought him to the Holstrom Institute, but he had a very sharp and compelling list of memories of his father to reinforce the idea that any weakness would be shown no mercy from now onward.
Imprisonment, either here or at home, was nothing—if that was all there was to consider. As much as Master Li’s father dealt with any perceived weakness promptly, did he have a way of making sure that any perceived rebellion or disobedience was promptly squashed. If Master Li was so inconvenient as to remain too long at the Institute, his father would make sure that time was spent as unpleasantly as possible.
And so, Master Li had been very, very careful. As he programmed his travel cases to the correct co-ordinates and rose to face the door, it seemed that his care had paid off. Still, he was mildly surprised when the door opened easily for him. He had half-expected it to be locked. It was enough of a surprise to stop him in his tracks, and having stopped in his tracks, to feel that there was something uncomfortable about his clothes. Something sharp and pointy and abrasive. Something in his pockets.
Master Li’s hands patted the front of his pockets cautiously—slid into the pockets and emerged. He looked at his right hand first, but he already knew from the shape and weight of it what it was. It was a magnetic screwdriver. Where had that come from? It wasn’t unusual for him to have a magnetic screwdriver in his pocket, but this particular screwdriver was battered and chipped; dirt-encrusted. Master Li was very certain that all his magnetic screwdrivers were at home, tidily arranged by strength, and very, very clean. He put the screwdriver back in his pocket and opened his left hand to find a foggy glass bauble that cleared as the warmth of his hand faded from the glass.
Master Li looked at that glass bauble for some time. It was an interesting thing; a rectangle of glass that had been embedded with what looked like bubbles depicting something different depending on which set of surfaces he looked through. Looking through one set, it was a lion; through the other sides it was a unicorn.
He stared down at it until he heard footsteps approaching the end of the hall, then slipped that back into his pocket as well. The bauble was another thing his father wouldn’t appreciate. If Master Li had answered questions carefully and watched his expressions in the sessions during his brief period in the Institute, he was now going somewhere he would have to watch his expressions and answers from waking until sleeping.
Today, Master Li was going home.
Guest Passes #34 & #35
“I thought you said we were going to hide in the bushes.”
“If we hide in the bushes we’ll miss all the fun,” said Arabella. “The carrier has nice big viewscreens and the height is convenient; we’ll have a much better view from here.”
“A much better view of what, exactly?” began Mikkel, just as a circular section toward the back of the Institute’s roof exploded. It blasted upward in a perfect cylinder of dust and debris, and a moment later Mikkel heard the sound of its destruction; a deep rumble that thrummed along the air. Having exploded, the cylinder sank rapidly until all that could be seen was a perfect, open circle in the Institute’s roof.
“I haven’t seen one of those in action before,” Arabella said, sounding pleased. “Isn’t it tidy!”
“That’s one way of putting it,” said Mikkel, slightly stunned. “What on earth did that?”
“I’m not sure,” said Arabella, “but frankly, I’d bet on it being either Kez or Marx that made it happen.”
“Is that—is that someone climbing out?”
“That’s probably Marx or Kez, too,” said Arabella, irrepressibly. “Well, sir; do you think you’ve seen enough?”
“More than enough,” Mikkel said.
Marcus Solomon
“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Marcus, looking up from the monitor. “I need to do a few more tests to sound out the reach of her abilities, but this is a reasonably good demonstration, I think. Today’s episode was the first I’ve caught on record.”
“How do you keep her contained?”
Marcus smiled slightly. “As far as I can tell, that’s a self-contained problem with very specific controls. I have no fear of losing her so long as I can control her surroundings.”
“What do you want for her?”
“Unfortunately, she is not for sale.”
Silence. Marcus wasn’t afraid of it; he let it stretch until his guest said with
an offended tilt of his head, “The Li family has looked after you very well, Marcus Solomon.”
“It has, and I’m very grateful. However, the Cheng family has also looked after me very well, and as you know, I don’t take sides. I’ll sell to either of you, but in this case Uncle Cheng spoke first.”
Uncle Li’s mouth was tight. “I see. Uncle Cheng may find that he regrets that. The girl may find she regrets it, too.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t do anything untoward in such a neutral ground as my Institute,” Marcus said, smiling gently.
“There’s no need for me to muddy waters here,” said Uncle Li, with a short laugh. “There are worlds enough out there in which to work. Will Uncle Cheng be as understanding if he finds out you’re treating my son here?”
There was a deep and shuddering explosion somewhere beneath the floor, and Uncle Li sprang to his feet, as pale as someone of his dark complexion was capable of being. The maxi-plex monitor beside Marcus gave a small pop and gave up the ghost in a static flash to black.
“There’s no need to be alarmed,” Marcus said, without so much as blinking. “I must assume that we’ve managed to upset Kez in some fashion or other—it’s nothing to regard. Transport has been arranged and your son will be ready to leave in a few minutes. Shall we?”
External Communications: Holstrom Institute
I’ve had reports of an explosion at the Institute. Trust you and yours (and mine) are safe?
The Institute thanks Uncle Cheng for his concern. There’s nothing to worry about; however, the incident has considerably slowed down the processing of all private requests. We can perhaps agree that it was a highly unfortunate incident.
I would also like to remind Uncle Cheng that the Institute is neutral ground. Should it cease to be so, any and all jobs currently in progress will be rescinded, and all information pertaining to such sent to the relevant authorities.
I understand. When can I expect further information?
The project for which you’re requesting information has experienced a temporary setback in the form of information lost in yesterday’s blast. Steps are underway to produce a secondary incident. The next report can be expected by the end of the month, providing all goes well.
Let’s work well together, Uncle Cheng.
Time Out
“KINDA PEACEFUL IN HERE, ain’t it?”
“Peaceful?”
“Yeah. Sorta sleepy.”
“Sleepy?!”
“Ain’t no need to yell at me!”
“Maybe I’m getting old—”
“Yeah, maybe. Ow!”
“Maybe I’m getting old, but having my craft overrun by a menagerie of off and onworld animals who all have the same ideas on who and what’s dinner isn’t the sort of day I’d call sleepy.”
“Ain’t been et yet, though, ’ave we?”
“If you’d been any slower cranking the manual close on the door, we would have been.”
“Yah. You’re welcome an’ all. You woulda been dead, splat on the ground like that. Wot’d you fall over?”
“The doorway. And there’s no need for that feral grin, kid. Why is there a mob of wild animals running around loose on my craft?”
“Ain’t my fault!”
“Did I say it was?”
“You looked at me.”
“There was a power surge when we got away from the Slider, just as we passed Fifth World.”
“There’s summink thumpin’ on the door, Marx.”
“A power surge, then an incoming information stream.”
“—reckon they’re tryin’ to get in again—”
“So I ask myself, what sort of a power surge calls out a return surge that brings information with it?”
“—’t’least we ended up in the cabin. Got bunks’n’ everythin’—”
“That was what I asked myself. Know what the answer was?”
“You shouldn’t talk to yourself, Marx. Ain’t ’ealthy.”
“A transporter surge. That’s what sends out an energy surge and brings back another one. Kez—”
“It was only a little one. Just wanted to get a pet.”
“You sent out a wide-range transporter to bring in a pet?”
“Marx? You okay? Your face looks funny.”
“My face looks funny. Good grief, my face looks funny!”
“Got one, didn’t I?”
“You got two dozen of the beasts! Pets? You’re lucky you weren’t lunch!”
“You wouldn’t let me keep—”
“If you start talking about that ensign again—”
“Shoulda let me keep ’im then, shouldn’t you?”
“Are you saying you’re going to keep bringing home exotic animals unless I let you have that ensign as a pet?”
“Yeah.”
“If we get out of this alive, I’m going to—never mind. All right, kid; you’ll have to shift us out.”
“Yeah. ’Bout that.”
“What about it?”
“Ain’t no need to get excited. ’S’just that we’re a bit close to that Fixed Point to go messin’ about in the Other Zone.”
“Come again?”
“Oh, didden I mention that?”
“What Fixed Point? Where? C’mere, kid!”
“Oo-er! ’Elp! Leggo, you ’orrible man!”
…
…
“I didden mean it, Marx! Ow, there ain’t ’arf a lot of blood, is there? Wot you duck for?”
“Oh, I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“You shouldn’t sigh when you go a bloody nose; you’re makin’ bubbles wiv yer nose.”
“Kez.”
“…ain’t like I did it on purpose…”
“Kez.”
“…an’ ’ow can I ’elp it if some crazy mucker locks up a bit of the Time Stream near us anyway…”
“Kez.”
“…always blamin’ me fer stuff—wot?”
“I’m not blaming you for the Fixed Point.”
“Oh. Well, I s’pose it’s one ours, anyway, so maybe it is.”
“It’s what?”
“Didden I tell you ’bout them?”
“No. No, you did not tell me about them. Wait, them? There’s more than one?”
“Yeah. ’Bout five or six, I reckon. Don’t think we’ve done all of ’em yet, though; I only remember ’bout two.”
“Why is there one here?”
“Beggared f’I know. We prob’ly did summink weird wiv time.”
“You think?”
“You got that nasty gleam in your eye again, Marx. Oo-er! It’s comin’ through the vent!”
“Get down, kid!”
“Oo-er! Ow! Cold! Ow!”
“Stay there. There’s another one in here somewhere. Don’t lick the sting!”
“But it ’urts, Marx! Oi. Is its ’ead meant to do that?”
“Probably not. Heads do funny things when they’re separated from their bodies.”
“Would your—”
“No. We’ll keep my head where it is, thanks. Flaming heck!”
“There goes the other one!”
“Saw it.”
“Get it, Marx!”
“Shut up, kid. Ow! Flaming heck!”
“Oo-er! Its head went pop too!”
“Don’t point that grin at me.”
“Flamin’ ’eck. They was pretty fast.”
“They were pretty fast, weren’t they?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a real turn of speed on ’em.”
“Yeah.”
“Reckon there’s more of ’em?”
“Yeah.”
“Kez—”
“Mind yer ’ead!”
“Ow! Flaming heck! Where did that come from?
“The speaky-hole. It got real little then real big. Reckon it’s under the bunk.”
�
��What is it?”
“Dunno, but it’s got claws. Real big ones, too. Yah!”
“Don’t hit me, hit it!”
“Flamin’ ’eck, it didn’t ’arf go, did it?”
“What did you hit it with?”
“Your spanner. You know it was under your pillow?”
“I feel better sleeping with a weapon under my pillow when you’re in the same craft.”
“’Zat right?”
“Don’t look so proud of yourself; it wasn’t a compliment. Is anything else coming through?”
“Dunno. Reckon that last one is dead, an’ all the rest of ’em are too big to fit through the ’ole. Oi. Wot was that?”
“It was a harrowed groan.”
“Wot’s that? One of them beasties?”
“It was me, you flamin’ horrible little mucker! I’m too old to be scrambling around my own ship to escape a mob of animals who want my blood.”
“…ain’t yore ship…”
“What?”
“Stole it, didden you? Oo-er! Put me down! Wot you doin’, Marx?”
“I’m feeding you to the mob out there so I can get out of this cabin alive.”
“This ain’t no time fer jokin’! Oi! That’s mine!”
“It’s not; it’s my shifting spanner. You just stole it.”
“Orright, beg parden I’m sure!”
“My ship. My spanner. Now pipe down and help me with this—wait, what was that?”
“Maybe it’s that ’arrowed gron again. Maybe it’s got into the floor.”
“There isn’t any floor to get into, just—schkor!”
“Well, parden you.”
Memento Mori Page 18
