by Sharon Lee
“Yes; fortunate accidents, all.” Pat Rin sighed, and settled his shoulders more nearly against the back of the chair.
“Again, the family has discussed this . . . exhaustively. What we have decided between us is that I must be at the match—”
Penn began to say something—and subsided when Pat Rin raised his hand.
“I must be there. Natesa does not allow me to stand alone. Val Con and Miri accept their responsibility as my delm, and thus they will also be present. My mother and the mother of Val Con’s sister feel that they must be present. Indeed, if I correctly understand my mother, she feels that their presence may serve to remind of our work since the . . . invasion. The rest of the family will . . . recuse themselves. If, indeed, this syndication vote of which Mr. Golden, and, I assume, Mr. Valish, have heard whispers comes to pass, then we shall see what happens.”
“See what happens!” Penn exploded, unable to master his feelings any longer. “What’s gonna happen is that you and the Road Bosses are gonna get retired, an’ us an’ all the streeters who’ve come to sorta depend on there being more better days are gonna be slapped right back into the way it was, only worse than it was!”
“Will you? It is your planet, after all. If you wish coming days to continue to improve, then you must work toward that. We have all on the Council of Bosses been working toward better days and better ways, have we not?”
“Yeah, but—”
Penn closed his mouth. Light slid off his glasses, obscuring his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’ve all been planning and working in that direction. And, we do have those upgrades, and promises for yearly reviews. We got all these Scouts and mercs, and people who come in because we’re working toward better days. We got a Street Patrol now. We got that consolidated school. Thera was talking to Professor Waitley t’other day about what it might take to set up a—a secondary school. A college, maybe. Turns out the Professor’s specialty is the history of education . . .”
“Indeed.”
“Indeed.” Penn gave him a half-grin, then rose.
Pat Rin rose as well, and took the hand the other man offered.
“You and yours are the best thing that’s happened to this planet, maybe since the Gilmour Agency founded us,” he said, holding Pat Rin’s hand warmly. “Call it an invasion or call it a happy accident—thank you.”
“I don’t—”
“No, now, I know you don’t. You go ahead—you and the Road Bosses—and do what you gotta do. We got your back.”
Pat Rin felt tears rise to his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said.
Penn grinned.
“I’ll go get Joey and stop taking up room in your parlor. If we’re down to repeating thank-yous to each other, then our work here is done. You give Natesa my compliments, right?”
“I will, indeed. Please remember me to Thera.”
“No chance I won’t do that,” he said, as Pat Rin opened the door.
Mr. pel’Tolian stepped forward.
“Sir?”
“Mr. Kalhoon is leaving, Mr. pel’Tolian, if you would tell Mr. Valish?”
“Certainly. This way, Mr. Kalhoon. Cook has put by some fudge for your daughters . . .”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sherman’s Shootout
Novice Round
Kamele had seen Sherman, briefly, when they arrived at the so-called “little test ring,” set up in the small shooting hall.
She and Dilly stood in front of the rope line divider that utterly failed to keep onlookers separated from would-be shooters. In all, she thought there were about two dozen competitors, but it was hard to tell with all the milling about going on
Sherman strode in from the so-called big room, his usual grin a little thin, dressed in a bright and smartly tailored red coat. He’d smiled before he recognized her, or just as, nodded, and continued giving orders to his trailing minions, directing some to the back, some to get more of that, and others to, “Make damn sure those back doors stayed closed. We’re not gonna have somebody walk into the line of fire down here, got that? Novice round starts here in ten minutes!”
He’d looked up then, and really smiled at Kamele, then spun and pointed, coming up with a big voice, now, to be heard above the crowd:
“Contestants and official folks—if you got a ticket to shoot, you go on that side o’the rope and keep your papers where we can see ’em when. Gonna watch? This side of the rope, and leave us some room to walk through, right? Right!”
Kamele and Dilly moved together—Dilly being the official ’hand of the Professor—and soon they stood among a smaller group, but no less diverse, women and men from young to greying, all of them armed and ready to shoot.
Kareen had said that this shooting match would be an unparalleled opportunity to watch people in their natural environment—and she had been, as she often was, entirely correct. Kamele had no time for preshoot nerves: she watched and listened to the people, some dressed in clothes so worn that on Delgado the wearers would have been escorted off campus—if not to the Social Assistance Society—at their first encounter with a Safety. Or else the Simples would have come along and delivered them to some or another of the Chapelia holdings . . .
That thought unnerved her when her gaze settled on a young woman, a very young woman, standing pensively alone, staring down at her feet, caressing the barrel of her gun as it fit the holster, talking to it. Her clothes were clean but her shoes and shirt looked ancient, and far too thin for even a Surebleak summer day. Her hair was thick, and obviously clean, but it looked as if it had been washed and towel-dried, then left in an uncombed knot across her shoulder.
Kamele leaned in the girl’s direction. Dilly saw the lean, and leaned that way too, until a few silent steps brought them near enough to hear.
“Prizes t’good,” the girl was saying, “Twe’ll fine, be fine. Finah than Franch, finah than Onnie.”
The gun didn’t talk back, so if it was an automatic, it wasn’t on—and the novice section was set for production sight weapons anyway. From what Kamele could see, the girl’s weapon had seen hard use in the past; the bronze glow was scratched, though it looked like someone had recently tried to buff it.
Bustle happened, and noise, and a crew came by handing out water singles and snack bags to the contestants.
“Slight delay on account of the crowd for the other sections. The Boss and the Emerald got these for the contestants to ’pologize for the wait! And here, Deemo’s got name tags—wear ’em. Garcie, yours says Gracie ’cause Deemo wasn’t paying attention. Here.”
The woman who’d been talking to her gun looked up, muttering, “Thanks Deemo,” to some place where no one was, accepting the erroneous tag and slapping it carelessly under her slight bosom. Kamele saw her look at the snacks in their baskets, and her hands unerringly went for the high-value nuts and protein bars instead of the sweets most of the young were after.
Kamele accepted a ration of water and of nut bars, wondering if the woman would take it badly—
“Here, Garcie,” Dilly said. “Don’t need these over here—we ate afore we came.”
With a sigh of relief Kamele nodded a half-Liaden bow of thanks to her minion.
Dilly kept her water but offered the other woman a pair of cheese-and-meat chews; Kamele gave her nut bars to Dilly to pass on, recalling only too well the discussion she’d had with Kareen about the difference between Surebleak and a Safe World like Delgado. While she had never been hungry in her life, save by her own inattention to time, it seemed that Garcie took hunger as a given.
For her part, Garcie looked them both in the face, took in Kamele’s name tag, and nodded.
“Emerald’s good to us, so’s the Boss. I’m gonna work there one day! Taking night school when I can, so I get my numbers down right.”
Kamele was saved from replying to this by the loud and getting louder voice of Sherman himself, hidden from sight, but apparently on mic.
“We’re t
here, friends! It’s time to get this extravaganza extravagant!”
Sweat. Kamele wasn’t used to sweating on Surebleak, but here it was, and from concentration rather than nerves. The first round had taken the two dozen starters down to a dozen and a half, shooting six at a time. It was hard for the contestants to get an idea of how others were doing—it was shoot for numbers, aim for the target. The second round was smaller targets and larger distance; Kamele had stepped into that round feeling good about how she’d done the first—she’d had no flyaway shots, no extreme outliers. It was clear that some of the novices really were novices, but she was not among them.
By the end of that her arm ached a little, but the scores showed her in the top four of the dozen shooters left.
Dilly had dropped back to stand with the line officials and Kamele had lost track of her, bringing all of her concentration to her shooting. Third round brought the number of contestants down to eight, and they shot in four person lines. The grizzled man shooting at Kamele’s left dropped out after his first clip, shaking his head, and staring disbelievingly at his weapon. Not one of his shots had hit the live zone.
Five shooters entered the fourth round, Kamele among them. This was a two-tiered challenge: static targets for the first twenty-five shots, moving targets for the next. The audience had thinned as friends dropped away with their friends, and besides, the larger section, the open and the pro, was shooting now in the main building.
Kamele lifted her gun, marveling that she still felt comfortable, blinked the sweat away from her eyelashes, and allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. She hoped that when Theo did come home here to Surebleak, they would have time to shoot together.
Her smile deepened, for wasn’t that an odd thought from a professor of Delgado? The bell sounded and she brought her weapon up.
The static targets were hard enough, but . . . there, she did recall what she was told about the moving targets, which were, disconcertingly, sized and shaped like a human. The hits for this round were scored by . . . kill-factor.
That thought boggled her aim for a round, and part of the next before she recalled Jen Sar’s teaching about seeing what was really there. That same lesson had helped her elude a dangerous man and . . .
. . . and she was done the round.
There was some cheering, and she looked to see the numbers posted.
There were three contestants left: Professor Waitley was mid score, with Joachim Terryon two ahead on the round and Garcie Cheeble one behind. The others were twelve and fifteen back on fifty shots—clearly in another class.
Deemo walked to the front, and waved his arms . . .
“This is the hard one, folks—ten-shot match pistols, all loaded and ready. The targets are the smallest yet, and an extra pace on the distance. This time, since we got three, we’re going for an absolute winner—low score drops out, and will be third, next lowest’ll be second ’less we got a tie, an’ if we do, we’ll shoot off again, with the off hand. You get a two-minute break here, and then we go—No! Hold on another minute and we’ll start this round at fifteen hunnert sharp!”
Kamele holstered her pistol, feeling her fingers tingle.
How long had they been shooting? She didn’t want to drop her concentration to do the math, but her hands were tired. Her arms ached. Wait! Fifteen hundred? Could she have been shooting for four hours?
Beside her, Garcie accepted the match pistol, and hefted it. Kamele did the same with hers. Terryon took his negligently, and waved to someone in the audience, accepting cheers from whoever . . .
Garcie looked beat, that was what Kamele thought, but she addressed the match pistol politely.
“So, you the one? Just shoot where I point you. We’ll do fine.”
The match pistol felt light. It felt long, too. The sights . . . Kamele knew the theory of sights, open sights, had discussed them with Sherman; had talked of them with Hazenthull, and with Kareen. Suppose this strange gun pulled left or right, she thought, suddenly worried—and then laughing softly.
Well, and what if it did? She, Kamele Waitley, was already pleased. Getting to third place out of twenty-four, that was an accomplishment! Pretty good, as Dilly would say. There was, after all, not much chance that she’d be able to pick up an unknown gun and make it work properly. But already, she had something to tell Jen . . . Daav—and something to tell Theo. Wouldn’t her colleagues be . . .
“On the line,” shouted Deemo. “When the bell rings, go!”
The target was concentric rings with a star in the middle of the innermost ring. When the target was struck, a light showed at point of impact, for five seconds. With luck . . .
The bell rang.
To Kamele’s left, Garcie’s shot was first, but it was the shots to her right that distracted her, where Terryon fired without pause. Her own first shot was a little high and to the right; her second, corrected, a little to the left, still high; her third . . . Terryon was done shooting. There were cheers from behind, which she ignored.
Garcie shot again, and Kamele continued, shooting at a stately, comfortable pace. She rather liked the feel of this new gun, the recoil, the timing . . .
She finished, and the computed score was eighty-five. For all three of them. They’d need to reload and shoot again. It was 15:15 according to the scoreboard.
“Right there, you can all stop!”
There were armed men around—but of course there were! Only . . . these held long guns, and some were pointed at her and the rest—of a half dozen, they were guarding the crowd, and one was aiming his gun at her, directly at her.
“Just drop them pretty pistols. They empty anyway. Other ones, too, drop them on the floor. You, Miss School Professor, you trying to steal Surebleak from us. Think you can come in here and just take over? We’re through with that, you hear me?”
The man kicked the pistols they’d dropped away, cussing under his breath.
Kamele had no words, but the man had pushed closer, using his rifle barrel to point and wave her toward him, motioning in large circles—
“You get down on your knees, and you tell these people you’re sorry. Apologize. Loud. Be ashamed for stealing our planet. Maybe we’ll let you live and send you off. Let’s hear you do it; down right now!”
The shooting in the other arena had died away, and then a heavy staccato noise rumbled through, guns that were not pistols, guns that were . . .
There was nothing to say. She wasn’t afraid; she was too startled for fear. She nodded, moved a step closer, and looked up into his eyes, eyes that were black and bloodshot, and wide.
“I,” she said, slowly, measuring his stance, seeing his grip on the rifle tightening decisively. She had tunnel vision; she saw his nose twitch, and his grim, hating eyes.
He kept moving the barrel of the gun, sometimes toward her, sometime away, and pushing it as if he might strike her with the side of it.
“Louder! Bow to me, and on your knees. You got three seconds!”
Three seconds! There was no time to think, only to do.
“I,” she said again, loudly, and she bowed, finding the tuck-away grip in her boot. She pulled, and shot in a single motion, seeing him still bringing the barrel up—and seeing him fail to see as his throat gave way. She fired again as he fell back, heard other shots around her, saw his body jerking and blood everywhere, and finally someone pleading, in a corner, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
There was silence in the room for a moment and then Deemo calling out, “All clear, no shooting! Drop your long arms . . . get face down!”
Kamele raised her head and finished her sentence, “I will not bow to ignorance,” she said, and then looked to her backup, to be sure she was not unarmed.
“Don’t!”
There were several bodies on the floor being kicked for no cause—dead bodies; Kamele waved the crowd back, heard the sound of shots elsewhere, some heavy shooting, and Dilly came—
“Out the back door, Professor!”
Kamele scrambled to retrieve her pistol, her real pistol, saw Garcie standing stock-still, staring at the dead man they’d all shot.
“Wait, Dilly!”
She found Garcie’s bronze pistol where it had been kicked and took it to her, pressing it into her hand.
“Garcie! Here . . . there’s still shooting, we ought to go.”
“That was Onnie,” Garcie said, pointing at the bloody body. “Cousin . . . ’spected me to move in with him. Tolt me his friends gonna take over, tolt me he’d be a big shot, a Boss!”
Kamele tried to encompass it, found Garcie’s gaze on her face. Tried to say something sensible, but what? Had he been a friend? A lover? Was he . . .
“Kamele!” That was Dilly, pointing, toward the back door, opened now and with people streaming out of it . . .
“Your people.” Garcie pointed toward the hall to the big room, toward the noise of gunfire and echoing tumult. “They up there?”
“Let’s get you safe,” Dilly said, catching her arm, but Kamele nodded at Garcie, twisted her arm free, and rushed toward to the big room, where her people were.
CHAPTER FORTY
Sherman’s Shootout
Expert Round
For the first time in several standards, Nelirikk nor’Phelium felt under-armed. He’d come out, with the captain’s nod, to check on Diglon Rifle. Not that Diglon was likely to be in trouble, for that troop had become remarkably adaptable for one who had been ranked a mere troop. Diglon was with the cars, with a number of his poker friends with him until such time as the festivities were over.
Diglon was alert, standing as he ought, with his friends respectful of his duties. They acknowledged each other, time checked with a signal: fifteen hundred—meaning one more hour before the show would break up. The pro shooting finals would give way to the demonstrations shortly.
Scattered about, Nelirikk saw members of the Street Patrol. He nodded and they nodded back.
