The Last Paladin

by Ward Wagher

  “You used to be in the security directorate, right?”

  “That is right,” Smythe said.

  “Then you have had the training. Is the shuttle secure?”

  “The Paladin’s cyber specialists manage the security systems.”

  “Then it is as good as anybody’s,” Jones commented. “We are going to have to bunk in the shuttle this trip. One of us will stand watch at the door of the boy’s suite at all times. One of us will be following him around. The third will be sleeping or whatever.”

  Smythe nodded. “Glad to help out. You are in command, right?”

  “Correct. Are you carrying?”

  Smythe pulled back the front of his jacket with a grin.

  “Is that a needle gun?”

  “I convinced the lab to let me carry one in the field. For testing, so to speak.”

  “I am impressed,” Jones said. “The research people are picky about who they allow to carry their new toys.”

  “They owed me a few favors.”

  “No doubt.”

  “One question, Jones. What is the threat level?”

  The security man took a deep breath. “The Arabians have managed to insert a team into the North American continent. Our intelligence indicates they are targeting the Paladin.”

  “That is not good,” Smythe exclaimed.

  Jones gave him a tight grin. “It will be not good for the team. The Paladin asked us to keep an eye on the boy since there is a risk that he might be set up for collateral damage.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “Who knows? Those people are certifiably insane. They are usually single-minded about their targets. We are rather surprised they decided to run this op. We have detected and stopped them every time.”

  “They only have to get lucky once, though, Sing.”

  “That is why we are paying careful attention.”

  “I have been here before,” Smythe said. “Let me walk the hotel with you so that you know where everything is located. If you can handle a sleepless night, I will just stay with you, or guard the door. I have had to look out for RWB on my own prior to this.”

  Jones sighed. “That is another thing they did not tell me.”

  “The usual briefing, I gather?” Smythe’s smile was sympathetic.

  “You know about those too, I guess.”

  “Where do we start?” Jones asked.

  “I suggest we get something to eat and then take something to Mr. Cathay. RWB usually spends a couple of hours in his room getting lubricated before the evening festivities. It will be a long night.”

  The hotel had several restaurants and the two men chose the one featuring quick sandwiches. The quality lacked the five-star level of the main hotel restaurant, but it was fast and edible. They sat around a table for two as they worked their way through the sandwiches.

  “So, what do we need to watch for?” Smythe asked, as he sipped his soft drink.

  “Watch for things that are out of place. People who don’t belong. People carrying weapons.” Jones thought for a moment. “The usual way is for people to impersonate the staff. That means you need to study the staff and figure out a half dozen factors that make them authentic. Those who try to slip in with a staff uniform will not be consistent with one of those factors. Often the differences will be subliminal. Something will not look right – you are not sure why, but that is the time to trust your instincts.”

  “Makes sense. What are the actual risks, do you think?”

  “The false positives will get you. Our principal is well known, and people like to rub shoulders with celebrity.”

  “Thinking some of the celebrity will rub off,” Smythe commented.

  “Right. There are those who seek a shortcut to wealth and power. They are attracted to Mr. RWB. Fortunately, we have a fairly quiet society. The urge to mind one’s own business is deeply engrained in the people. The third threat comes from those who simply do not like our principal or perhaps the Paladin and the Baughman family.”

  “Like the O’Blecks?”

  “Ha!” Jones barked. “Those people are congenital idiots. They have retained power for generations in the Carolina Free State, heaven knows why. They would be a good example of what I am talking about, except that they are too incompetent to be a threat. The Paladins have made them look like the idiots they are too many times. And, of course, they view it as someone else’s fault.”

  “People tend to do that,” Smythe commented. “It is never your fault, you see.”

  “Exactly. And those are the people who are really impossible to train. I have heard it referred to as a Reality Distortion Field.”

  Smyth laughed. “I had not heard that before. Mind if I use it?”

  Jones’ com buzzed. “Yes?”

  He listened to the voice on the other end. “Very well. Stay put. I am sending Smythe up to relieve you.”

  He put the com back in a pocket and looked at Smyth. “Our principal is on the move. Can you go up and take over for Richard at the suite?”

  “Of course.” Smythe stood up and picked up the paper bag containing Cathay’s sandwich. “I’ll take this to him.”

  Jones was waiting when RWB stepped out of the elevator. “Where to?”

  “The party, of course,” RWB replied. He immediately strode off towards the convention center that was attached to the hotel.

  Smythe walked up to Jones and waved at the elevator sensor.

  “Not the friendliest sort,” Jones muttered.

  “Oh, he is fine when he does not actively resent you.” And Smythe walked into the elevator.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Singman Jones considered the confluence of events that had brought him to this position in the latter years of the twenty-eighth century AD. The Baughman family had wielded the sword of the Palatinate for nearly two-hundred-fifty years. The Baughman Paladins had ranged from brilliant and extraordinary down to merely competent. But most people considered RWB as the problem child. Although it was dangerous to rely on tradition, there was nothing that required the Paladin to be a Baughman. In fact, each member of the prior dynasty, the Wiltons, had been elected by a consensus of the leadership of the Palatinate. And the Wiltons themselves had insisted upon it.

  Each new member of the Baughman dynasty had been duly elected by the leadership, but most considered it proforma. But when RWB came of age and showed no interest in the government, the talk began. The citizens of the Palatinate were bemused by the young man’s antics. The older, more proper citizens were horrified at the morals and partying. The younger people were entertained. No one was bored.

  In the five-hundred years since the founding of the Upper Midwest Palatinate, the world’s economy and culture had been knitted together under the leadership of the Paladins. Dozens of nation-states competed vigorously and sometimes with friction. Yet the Paladins seemed to intervene quietly and positively in ways that avoided outright war. The Earth was much less populous than before the Carrington Event of 2035 and the subsequent near-collapse of human civilization. The Paladins had eventually hammered together a free trade zone across the planet that enabled citizens of the various nations to travel freely. This allowed the people to finally surpass the wealth and freedom not seen since the Carrington Event.

  It was not unusual for people to travel over half a continent to attend a single event. Although shuttles were designed for intrasystem space travel, RWB liked to use his personal shuttle for even the short hops across North America. It was roomier and more comfortable than an aircar and faster. And now he attended a party in the ancient city of Vale in the nation-state of the Plains.

  “Is that noise coming from the party?” Jones asked RWB as he strolled into the convention area of the hotel.

  “I think so. The louder it is, the more fun.”

  “You can hear it clear into the lobby.”

  “This is going to be a great party. I see you rolling your eyes, Singman.”

  Jones decided he was making pr
ogress with his charge since RWB was now addressing him by name.

  “It is the pressure of the sound waves compressing my eyeballs, Sir.”

  “Ha!” RWB responded. “And lose the Sir. I am just me.”

  “Okay, me.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, RWB walked to one of the doors into the large room and flung it open. The rolling wave of noise pummeled Jones and he felt as though he was caught in a maelstrom. RWB opened his arms wide in the doorway and was greeted by a cacophony of shouts of RWB, which Jones heard over the din. The door closed, diminishing the sound somewhat. Jones decided to stay outside for the moment.

  RWB wandered through the party greeting friends and acquaintances. Servers circulated through the party with trays of favors. He lifted a drink and a cylinder of dragon-weed. The server held up a lighter and he took a healthy puff. His eyes started to roll back in his head, and he caught himself and expelled the cloud of smoke.

  “Good value,” he shouted to the server with a grin.

  The server smiled and moved on.

  “RWB, you did come!” shouted Glacie Hitchcock as she moved against him. “Just get here?”

  He nodded and smiled. Glacie thought of herself as his friend and sometime bedmate, but he really did not want to spend time with her during this evening. He could see her anytime he desired by visiting Wilton House. But there was no benefit to alienating a willing friend. They danced for a bit and chatted and when she went looking for another dose of something, he managed to lose himself in the crowd. And it was a crowd. There were nearly a hundred young people at the party. Many he recognized, but by no means all.

  He reveled in the opportunity to meet and interact with people who had no idea who he was. He prized anonymity when he could find it. At various times during the evening, he encountered a thin brunette with laughing eyes. Something about her captured his attention and he maneuvered himself to watch her.

  “Hi, I am Scout. Who are you?” He was suddenly face-to-face with the girl. She had an alto voice and a delicious British accent.

  “RWB,” he replied, temporarily tongue-tied.

  “But what do your friends call you?”

  He snapped out of the trance, which was hard to do after the alcohol and dragon-weed. “My friends call me RWB.”

  “Shall we dance?”

  “If you do not get too close. I tend to be hard on other peoples’ toes.”

  She laughed in a musical way, her voice going up and down the scale. “I have the same problem. This should be interesting. Perhaps we shall compare bruises after the party.”

  He found himself captivated by the girl with the musical laugh and the British accent. She made the party even more interesting for him in many ways. She guided him to sample the various delights on the server trays and the combination of drugs and alcohol. This allowed him to experience a multifaceted high and intoxication like none he had gained before.

  One thing that RWB did not like to lose was situational awareness. At midnight he eased away from the party and slipped out the door where he had entered. He wanted to be on the ski slopes in the morning and needed sleep and a clear head for that. In his own opinion, he considered himself a bon vivant and a libertine, but not a fool. He heard that rich British accent behind him.

  “Where are you headed, RWB? The party is still rolling.”

  He turned and grinned at Scout. “I have a date with the ski slope in the morning. So, I am turning into a pumpkin.”

  She trotted up and grabbed his arm. “Shall we turn into pumpkins together.”

  They turned and walked towards the elevators followed by a bemused Singman Jones. He had never seen the girl before, so he arranged to ride the same elevator car with the couple. RWB looked over at him and grinned.

  “Who is he?” the girl asked.

  “One of my minders,” came the reply.

  She studied Jones carefully and then returned her attention to RWB. Smythe did not appear surprised when RWB exited the elevator with a friend. He turned and unlocked the door for them. They walked in and closed the door.

  “Does that happen often?” Jones asked.

  “More often than not,” Smythe replied.

  “Fine. If you want to get some sleep I will cover the door.”

  “Do you want me to send Cathay up?”

  Jones shook his head. “No. He knows when he needs to spell me. We will probably need you here after breakfast.”

  “RWB usually checks out first thing in the morning before he heads to the ski slopes.”

  “Better and better. You can be here when he checks out. Cathay can help you with the baggage. And he has a lot of it.”

  Smythe chuckled softly. “I have never been able to figure that out. He does not change clothes that often.”

  “On your way then, Filip. Thanks for the help tonight.”

  “No problem, Sing. I am happy that we finally have decent security coverage for the boy. His usual haunts are not as safe as he thinks they are.”

  Jones watched Smythe head for the elevator and leaned back to endure the four-hour watch. He had stood enough watches during his time in the League marines that he accepted it as part of the job. The real challenge was staying alert during the long watch.

  RWB woke up as his com chirped at him. He had set an alarm so that he wouldn’t miss the early chance at the slopes. This resort put an extra effort in grooming the ski runs during the night so that the early morning skiers had a virgin slope to work with. He rolled over and saw that the girl he was with the previous night was not in the bed with him. He heard nothing in the suite, other than the ambient background noise. He slipped out of the bed and checked the fresher and the other rooms. She had gone. He pulled on a robe and walked over to the door. When it opened, Cathay turned to him.

  “What time did my guest leave?”

  “Almost exactly 4 AM, Sir.”

  “Thank you. I will be checking out shortly.”

  “As you wish.”

  “And you can call me RWB. You are Richard, right? And Sir is my father.”

  “We will be ready when you want to check out.”

  Without another word, RWB closed the door and walked across to the fresher. After a quick shower, he donned his winter wear and boots. He grabbed his skis and went to the door. Smythe and Jones stood talking to Cathay when he powered the door open.

  “You know what to do, Smythe?”

  “Right.”

  And RWB walked down the hall to the elevator. Jones smoothly swung in to follow him. Smythe and Cathay entered the room.

  “Just so you know the drill, Richard, we pack everything up, get RWB checked out and pack the shuttle. When he is done with his time on the slopes, he comes directly to the shuttle so we can lift off then. As soon as we get things packed, I will get preclearance so we can take off at any time.”

  “So, he leaves you to pack for him?”

  Smythe grinned at the guard. “Yes, as a rule. He only removes what he uses from the totes and he is not sloppy. I can usually get him packed again in about five minutes.”

  “You are the driver and you have to pick up after him?” Cathay looked at him with a crooked smile.

  “It is really not that bad. RWB is not inconsiderate. This is simply the life he has chosen to live. He is likable in his own way, and good to work for. I have enjoyed this job.”

  “Seems kind of snotty to me, Filip.”

  Smythe shook his head. “No. You will note he asked you not to call him Sir? He meant it. If he did not like you, he would simply ignore you. Everybody calls him RWB. He is not just folks, as you know. But he tries very hard to be that way.”

  “He seemed to ignore the three of us yesterday.”

  “That is the way he is. He actually pays attention to where you are. He communicates when the need arises. Otherwise, he seems to cherish his privacy.”

  “Something of an odd duck, then,” Cathay commented.

  “He is all of that.”

  RWB walked t
hrough the hotel lobby. As he passed the desk, one of the clerks held out a paper sack. RWB tossed a twenty Solaran note on the desk and grabbed the sack without breaking stride. Jones walked quickly to keep up. They stepped out of the back door of the hotel and walked towards the chair lifts. He stopped to step into his skis and test the latches. Everything looked good.

  “Since you did not bring skis, I would suggest you wait down here, Sing,” RWB said. “Can you ski?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Solarian Marines?”

  “That’s right.”

  RWB dropped into the chair lift as it came by. “Next time bring your skis.”

  Jones grinned as he walked over to a good vantage point. The little weasel was charming in his way.

  RWB looked around as the lift made its way up the mountain. He opened the paper sack and pulled out a fried egg sandwich. He munched contentedly as he surveyed the slope. It looked like the morning’s run would be wicked fast. That was fine with him. He had been on skis since he was six years old and was confident in his abilities. He wished Pop had given Jones and Cathay a little more advance notice. The marines trained their troops, among other things, to ski. He suspected Singman Jones would be a competent skier. But that was for next time.

  He hoped his new security team stayed with him. Smythe was very good, but he was honestly a bit nervous traveling with just a driver/guard. He hated to ask Pop for anything because of the strings that were invariably attached. But if his father was willing to fund a security team like this, he would not complain.

  At the top of the hill, he wadded up the paper sack and shot it into a trash receptacle. He then tipped out of the chair and headed down the hill. Yes, it was very quick today. He would have to pay attention. It would not do to have a spill and break something.

  The sub-zero air blew the last of the cobwebs from the previous night’s party out of his brain as he cruised down the hill. He decided that this was the highest form of living. He leaned into the skis and swept back and forth as he rocketed down the hill. He tucked in to reduce the air resistance and give himself that added margin of speed. Few other people were on the slopes this early, and so he did not have to pay attention to the traffic. Involuntarily, he grinned at the joy of it.