CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE SITUATION LOOKED even worse from the street than it had from the car. Even granting the two of them awesome powers of mayhem and confusion, Miri was ninety-five percent certain that they wouldn’t be able to fade through the checkpoint. She didn’t bother to ask her companion for the official figures.
Nor did he offer them, just stood at her shoulder in the pool of shadow they’d chosen as their observation point and silently watched the procedure.
After a time, she felt him shift next to her. “Let us get a drink.”
She turned her head, but it was impossible to see his face in the inkblot they occupied. “Sounds like the most useful thing we can do,” she agreed. “Maybe two or three. Then we can come back and try to bull on through. Won’t hurt so much when we get perforated.”
She heard the shadow of his laugh as he moved out onto the sidewalk. “No faith, Miri.”
“None,” she said, catching up. “My folks weren’t real religious, either. Are we really gonna take a kynak break with the cops and the Juntavas within eight seconds in every direction?”
He turned down a slender alleyway at the far end of which multicolored neons promised cheap warmth and noise.
“Why not?” he asked.
Or, she translated, do you have a better idea?
She didn’t, so she followed.
THE THIRD BAR was noisiest, full nearly to overflowing with men and women in leathers and other work clothes. It was the perfect place for them to hide, though there seemed barely enough room to accommodate two more bodies, no matter how small.
Val Con hesitated at the door, weighing the scene, while Miri stood at his shoulder, watching the crowd absently. She stiffened suddenly and he snapped his eyes to her face, looking for a clue to the trouble.
She was grinning and leaning a bit forward, eyes squinted against the smoke. In a moment, she turned to him, grin undiminished.
“Tough Guy, you’re a genius. Let’s go.” She started forward.
He dropped his hand, gently encircling her wrist. “Tell me.”
“Part of that mob in there’s the Gyrfalks—my old unit.” There was no missing the excitement in her voice. She jerked her wrist and he let it go. “C’mon, Tough Guy.”
He followed, afraid of losing her in the press of bodies and the eddying smoke as she pushed and wove her way through, moving with the stride of a person with a goal in sight.
What the goal was, Val Con couldn’t tell. He was satisfied to keep her in sight, and re-established himself at her left shoulder when she caught up against a temporary body-jam.
The jam sorted itself out and she moved on, he maintaining his position as they broke out into the center of the room.
There it was less crowded, though a goodly portion of available floor space was taken up by the biggest Terran that Val Con had ever seen: Eight feet tall if he was an inch, shoulders wider than Edger’s shell, chest and ribcage said his planet of origin had been just a tad light on oxygen, and there was not an ounce of fat on him. His shoulder-length blond hair was tied back with a black cord. His full beard was curled and very likely perfumed. He was drinking something brownish from a liter pitcher, an arm draped possessively across the shoulders of a slender dark woman who would have dwarfed any man but this one.
Miri strode straight up to the blonde godling, Val Con just behind her; she stopped with legs braced and hands on hips, head craned upward.
The godling finished the contents of the pitcher and extended a long arm to deposit it on the bar. His lapis gaze fell upon the face of the woman before him.
“Redhead! By the highest, iciest, most diamond of the Magnetas! By the deepest hellhole of Stimata Five! By—”
Words failed him and he reached down, encircled Miri’s waist with his huge hands, and threw her upward as if she were a doll; he caught her and gave her a kiss that might have drowned someone less alert.
She captured his ponytail, yanking on it and smacking the side of his head with the flat of her hand.
“Jason! Put me down, you overgrown bumblebear!” She swatted him again and Val Con winced with the force of the blow. “Put me—”
“Down,” Jason finished, placing her with the utmost gentleness atop the bar. “Of course, my darlin’. Down it is, and nicely, too. Ah, it’s a sight for a man’s heart to see you, my small—but there’s something amiss! Barkeep! A kynak for the Sergeant, on the double! Or will you have a triple, my love?”
“A single,” Miri said, collapsing crosslegged to the bar and waving a hand at Val Con. “And one for my partner, too.”
Jason’s eyes lit on the little man in dark leathers, noting the gun belted for a crossdraw from the right, but seeing no other hardware. The stranger was slender, though with a certain whippiness about him that said he’d do well for himself, hand-to-hand. A fighter, and no nonsense. The sort of person one would want at Redhead’s back.
He shifted his attention to the beardless golden face, encountering eyes as warm and cuddlesome as shards of green glass: Jealous, then. Not the best trait possible, since partners were not always lovers, but who cared, if it kept him sharp?
“Partner, is it?” he drawled, turning back to Redhead. “Bit exotic for your taste, I’d have thought . . . .” No reason not to hone the little man a shade finer. He looked around. “Barkeeper! Ah, here we are, my love . . . .”
The barman shoved a glass into Miri’s hand and held the other out to Val Con, who looked into the dark depths and dared a sip. He was not quite able to control the shudder that ran through him.
Miri laughed. “Like this—” she told him, knocking back a quarter of hers. “Don’t taste it, for pellet’s sake! It’ll kill you.”
“It may, in any case.” He tipped a brow, half-smiling. “How well does it burn?”
She laughed again, then turned where she sat, holding both hands out to the woman who approached.
Small by Terran standards and built along the lines of a bulldog, her very short hair a glossy, unrelieved black, her blue eyes set at a slant in a rosy-cheeked, plain face, she looked efficient and practical. She took Miri’s hands, leaned forward, and kissed her gently on the mouth.
Miri returned the kiss with evident pleasure and kept one of woman’s hands captive as she turned back. “Tough Guy, this is Suzuki. She’s my friend and Senior Commander of the Gyrfalks.” She waved a casual hand at the blond godling. “That’s Jase.”
“Oh, cruel, my small,” the godling cried. “Heartless, heartless. When I think of the nights I spent sleepless without you—”
“Without me what, you noshconner—on guard?” She turned back to the woman. “Why do you put up with him?”
Suzuki appeared to give it some thought. “I believe,” she said finally, in a voice that should have been too soft to carry through the surrounding din, “that it is because of the beard. The care he takes of it! The hours spent grooming and perfuming it! Even in the heat of battle have I seen him fondle it. Yes.” She nodded. “I do think it’s the beard. Though, of course,” she added, as one being completely impartial, “the snoring is nice, too. Do you remember, Redhead, when we were on that frontier—Sintathic?—and we needed to set no guards at night, because the animals were so frightened of Jason’s snores?”
There was laughter from the group that had gathered around them and Jason dropped his massive head into his hands and moaned in mock agony.
More laughter from those around and Val Con allowed himself to relax infinitesimally, putting aside also the desire to set a knife into the godling, for the principle of the thing. He acknowledged a liking for Suzuki: It would be an honor, indeed, to serve in a troop of her command.
He shifted position to the left of the bar, put down the glassful of horrible stuff—and became aware of someone standing much too close, trapping him next to the counter. He turned the slight amount he was allowed and frowned at her.
She grinned: a mid-sized Terran; large, the way a lifter of weights is large; a gun on each hip and the hilt of a survival blade showing at the top of the right boot; breasts straining taut the cord that laced her shirt. Her grin broadened and she extended a blunt hand to stroke his arm from shoulder to elbow.
“A pretty toy, Sergeant,” she said over his head. “We fight for him, yes?”
Miri laughed, snapping off another quarter of her drink. “We fight for him, no. Go away, Polesta.”
“Come, Sergeant, you know me. It will be fair, this fight—a thing for the songs, eh, no matter which may take the prize. Would you pass the chance of a meeting between two such as we?”
“With pleasure. Where’s your partner? You’re drunk.”
Sensing an opening, Val Con shifted balance cautiously, but, drunk or not, Polesta was alert and blocked the escape route with a casual hip.
“The Sergeant will not fight me?” she demanded. There was a strong feel of ritual about the question. Val Con tensed, anticipating Miri’s answer.
“Now you’ve got it!” she said admiringly. Then, dropping her voice and putting a snarl in it, she said, “Get out of here, Polesta. I don’t fight drunks and I don’t fight crazies, so you’re safe on two counts.”
“The famous Sergeant will not fight,” Polesta announced to the room, which had grown much too quiet. “So, I take my prize by forfeit.”
He dove, trying to get around to the right of her, lower than her normal reach—and was blocked for an instant by a pair of leathered legs. He felt her fingers knot in the hair at the nape of his neck to jerk him back, throat exposed.
Unbalanced, he didn’t struggle; he got one leg where it belonged and braced himself for the twist—
She brought her mouth to his and kissed him—harshly, thoroughly, with lots of tongue and amid roars of laughter from the gathered onlookers.
He kicked and twisted, not giving a blazing blue damn if it broke his neck, but the move for some reason surprised her and she lost her grip.
He landed on his feet next to the bar, back stiff, eyes glacial. His face had lost color, Miri noted, and every line of him expressed outrage. Not the polite killer here, but a man in a towering fury. She rolled to her feet silently on the bar, ready to back his play.
Deliberately, he turned his back on Polesta and took up his glass from the bar. He turned back and took a swig of kynak. He rinsed his mouth.
Then he spat.
Turning away again, he gently replaced the glass on the bar.
Huge laughter burst from the crowd as Polesta’s face went red as a Teledyne sunset. “No one insults me so!” she cried, and swung.
He dodged, making use of the space that had suddenly opened around them to get far enough away from her to have room to move.
She swung again, and he grabbed her arm as it rocketed past, twisting his body so, inspiring Polesta to the heights. At the last moment he clenched himself to take the sting out of the maneuver, and let her go.
She hit the floor six feet away with a sound like an infant earthquake. Val Con took a deep breath as a man separated himself from the now-silent crowd and went to the inert warrior. After some cajoling, including a few brisk slaps to the face, Polesta was gotten to a sitting position, though she still seemed rather groggy.
Val Con drifted back to the bar, people slipping out of his way, and settled his back against the solid plastic at Miri’s right hand, ignoring Jason’s gape. He felt drained—almost exhausted—and wondered briefly why this should be so. The throw had used very little of his own strength, trading as it did on his opponent’s momentum.
Miri shifted at his side, and he looked up at her face.
“Pulled your punch.” It was a statement, not a question.
“You wanted me to rehabilitate myself,” he reminded her, hearing the snap in his voice. He held out a hand. “Give me some of that stuff.”
She gave him her glass, and he drank what was left, properly. He drew a hard breath and let it explode out of him.
“Awful, ain’t it?” she said, taking back the empty and handing it to Jase, who raised his eyebrows. She jerked her head slightly; he assumed a martyred look and went in search the bartender.
The crowd had split into other patterns now. Across the room, Polesta’s partner had managed to get her to her feet. Suddenly, she pushed away from him and started purposefully, if unsteadily, toward the bar.
“Where is he? Run away, eh? Thinks it’s done, does he? I’ll—”
Her partner jumped in front of her, hands on her shoulders, heels braced. She shook like a mastiff and he held on; he continued to hold on even when she raised her fist—and lowered it.
“Well?” she yelled at him. “I’m insulted. And I should take it, eh? Be meek. Be mild.”
The man shook her, though she did not appear to feel it. “Polesta, the Sergeant was right. You’re drunk. You made a mistake. He showed you it was a mistake. It’s all over, okay? No harm done.” He glanced over his shoulder, catching the green gaze of the man at Redhead’s right.
“A mistake,” he repeated, urgently.
“A mistake,” Val Con agreed gently. “No harm done.”
Some of the dreadful tension left the man; he returned his attention to Polesta, pushing at her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get some coffee and something to eat. We’re due to move in another hour. You’ll lose your kit again if you don’t sober up some before then . . . .” Talking so, he led her away to claim a table near the back of the room.
Val Con took the glass Miri put in his hand and finished off half in a swallow.
“I think you’re right,” he said.
“About which?” she asked, noting with approval that his face once more had the proper depth of color and that his shoulders had loosened up a little.
He put the half-empty glass on the bar and twisted his head to grin up at her. “I need a haircut.”
She grinned back. “Maybe. Might grow it a little longer, instead, and tie it up with a ribbon, like Jase.”
“No, thank you,” he began, but then the subject of this conversation was with them and he cut off what he’d been about to say.
“What say we all grub together,” Jason boomed “We got a little over an hour before we shuttle out—”
Miri reached up and captured an ear. “Before you what?”
“Shuttle out. Did you think we were going to stay on Lufkit, my small? No wars here—Now, darlin’, don’t twist it off, I’m attached to it. Part of a matched set, as they say.”
She released him and slid to the floor. “Where’s Suzuki?”
“It’s what I’ve been telling you, love. You and your partner have been invited by Senior Commander Rialto and Junior Commander Carmody to dine with them in the admittedly limited elegance of the back dining room of this establishment, there to talk over old times and weep into our kynak.”
“Tough Guy—”
He was at her shoulder. “Let us, by all means,” he murmured, “dine with Suzuki and Jason.”
IT’S POSSIBLE, Val Con thought, leaning back in an unsteady plastic chair and sipping carefully from a steaming mug, that the only reason people drink kynak is because even coffee tastes good afterward.
He set the mug back on the table and sighed very gently. Across from him, Suzuki smiled.
“I have not yet thanked you for saving Polesta’s life,” she said in her soft voice.
His brows twitched together. “Saving her life?”
“That kill has four moves, does it not?” She didn’t wait for his nod. “All who watched saw that you executed but three—and so Polesta lives. I am thankful for that because she is one of the unit’s strongest fighters—a berserker. It is unfortunate that the traits that make her so valuable in action cause her to be such a trial when we have been inactive.” She paused to drink coffee.
“I admire the skill with which you were able to subdue her,” she continued. “I would not have thought it possible, short of killing, which is why I believe Redhead would not fight.”
Miri snorted. “That waste of time? Best thing anybody could do would be put her away. She’s bats, Suzuki.”
“Valuable, nonetheless. As you well know. I did not say you would come out the loser in such an encounter, my friend, but that you would not take from me what you know I consider essential to the unit.” She laid a hand on Miri’s arm. “You chose your partner wisely.”
Miri laughed and picked up her mug, forestalling the need for an answer.
“Besides,” Jason commented, “Polesta’s probably so mad now she’ll take on the other side all by herself when we hit Lytaxin. Give the rest of us a paid vacation.” He shook his head at the little man, both admiring and envious. “My lad, you are fast.”
“Best remember it,” Val Con returned, retrieving his mug and finishing off the contents.
Jason laughed and turned away. “So, then, Redhead, what about signing back on, taking that promotion we offered you? Lytaxin’ll be a job o’work—I won’t lie to you, my small—and we’ll be in sore need of you. I don’t doubt you’ve found civilian life a trial—and travel’s expensive when the client’s not paying.” He held out a large hand. “What about it, Redhead? A lieutenant’s badge and the chance to get shot at first? You’ll not turn it down?”
Miri looked at Suzuki, who nodded. “We would welcome you back. You know that. We cannot offer your partner what he has not earned, but he is a skilled fighter and we would be happy to add him to the roster. There is no reason why he should not be at your shoulder.”
No, Val Con thought, the equation flaring like iced lightning. No, it’s a bad solution, Miri!
She touched Jason’s and Suzuki’s fingers lightly. “Ask me later,” she told them. “I’m glad you want me back.” She tipped her head. “Favor?”
Suzuki nodded. “If it is within our power.”
Miri glanced at her partner; he was wearing his no-expression expression, and her stomach tightened a little as she turned back to Suzuki.
“We need to get to Prime without publicizing it,” she said. “Port’s got some kind of damn check going. We can’t pass it—you can ask why, but it’s a long story.” She paused, waiting for the question.
Suzuki drank coffee. “You want us to sneak you through the checkpoint and onto Prime?”
“Yeah.”
The Senior Commander of the Gyrfalks shrugged. “I see no reason why it cannot be done,” she said, looking at her Junior.
Jason grinned hugely and leaned precariously back in his chair to stretch. “Piece o’cake.”
“See to it, then.” She glanced back at her friend. “Other favors?”
“No—yeah. Can the Treasury afford to buy some jewelry? I need cash, not geegaws.”
Suzuki’s eyes dropped to touch the snake-shaped ring and rose again, quizzically. Miri laughed.
“Other jewelry. Everybody’s entitled to one geegaw.”
“Well, let’s go find Ghost and see what she says.” Suzuki pushed away from the table and laid her hand on Jason’s shoulder in passing. “Want to start getting everyone together? It’s time.”
“Nag, nag,” he muttered, coming to his feet. “I’ll just take Tough Guy with me, shall I? Have him ride up with Yancey’s bunch.”
Val Con rose slowly. “Miri.”
He hesitated, then shrugged irritably. “Dock 327,” he told her. “Level F. Meet me there, fifteen minutes after we hit.”
She turned away, taking Suzuki’s arm. “Sure,” she said.
* * *
“How long,” Daugherty demanded, “is this going to go on?”
“Until they tell us to stop?” Carlack hazarded.
“Which could be in the next twenty years. Or maybe not.”
Daugherty had been on duty since early morning, just ten minutes short of finishing her shift when the order had come through: All Personnel to Man Port Access Yards Until the Present Emergency Has Been Resolved. She had cause to be bitter, Carlack thought, but none at all to be dramatic.
“The Chief of Police thinks they’ll have ‘em before the night’s out. They’re desperate criminals, I heard on the band. Every cop on-world’s looking for ‘em, so they’ve gotta try and get off. The Chief was real sure they’d try it as soon as they could.”
Daugherty said something uncomplimentary regarding the Chief of Police’s personal habits. She added, after a moment’s further consideration, a rider that hinted at a far more accurate knowledge of anatomy than of practical genetics.
Carlack sighed and considered sending down for more coffee and some sweet rolls.
“Oh, blessed Balthazer,” Daugherty whispered, but it didn’t sound like a prayer.
Carlack looked up. “What?”
“Mercenaries,” she snapped, on her way to the door. “Hundreds and hundreds of mercenaries, coming in the wrong damn gate!”
SENIOR COMMANDER HIGDON was in a foul mood. This was not necessarily a bad thing; certainly, it was not unusual. A methodical man and a high stickler, he did not relish being delayed, nor did he allow the considerations of mere civilians to outweigh the obligations of the lowest soldier in his troop. He so informed the two models of civilianhood who had dared stop him as he entered the port gate at the head of his unit, demanding that all wait, line up, and show papers.
Commander Higdon did not approve of papers.
Daugherty gritted her teeth. “Police orders, Commander. No one to shuttle out without showing papers and being cleared. There are desperate criminals on the loose and the police think they’ll try for the shuttle. Chances of catching them once they’re on Prime go way down. If they manage to get on a spacer, they’ll never be brought to justice.”
“And a good thing that would be, too!” the Commander said with obvious relish. “Society is killing off all its good stock—its ‘criminals’! Hunting them down and killing them off. We’ll be a society of cows, if the police and the lawmakers have their way. Ought to hunt them down and nail their hides to the shed! To hell with all of ‘em.” That settled to his satisfaction, he turned to his Junior to relay the march order.
“Be that as it may,” Daugherty pursued, “we’ve got our orders and we’re going to do our job. How do we know you haven’t got those crooks mixed in with your outfit, there?”
“I wish I might!” Higdon returned. “Can always use a good fighter. As for your orders—to hell with them, too. I’ve orders of my own, and a deadline to meet, and I’m afraid I have the means to convince you that my necessities are the more pressing.” He raised his hand.
There was a large sound in the night—the sound, Daugherty realized suddenly, of many, many pellet guns being brought to ready.
She opened her mouth, not at all sure of what she was going to say—and was saved by the appearance of a smallish round-faced woman in standard leathers who marched up to the maniac at the head of the line.
“What in the name of all that’s damned is the hold-up?” she demanded. “We’ve got a schedule to keep, Higdon.”
“This civilian and I were just discussing that, Suzuki,” he said. “She seems to think we’re required—that each and every one of us is required—to show papers before boarding shuttle for Prime.”
“What?” The woman turned to Daugherty, who wished briefly that she’d never been born. “We are expected. We have a private shuttle. We are short on time. We take our own chances. No more delays.” She walked away.
Higdon raised his eyebrows at the two before him. The man, he saw, was decidedly pale. The woman was made of sterner stuff, but she was obviously well aware of her personal inadequacy in the face of an armed and at-ready unit of seasoned mercs.
She stepped aside, dragging the man with her. “Okay, Commander. But I’m required to inform you that we will report your infringement to the Chief of Police.”
Higdon laughed and brought his hand down. Safeties were snapped on and firearms returned to holsters. In good time, the Junior gave the order to march.
Line upon line of them marched across the field to the private shuttle, entering the hatch in good formation. In a much shorter time than one might imagine, the last of the mercs had entered the hatch; the door was sealed and the shuttle lifted.
Daugherty, who had been on the line with the nearest police unit, reported this fact. The cop on the other end looked bored.
“It’s not real likely the mercs are hiding ‘em,” she told Daugherty. “The Chief’s got ‘em figured as loners. I’ll let him know they wouldn’t stop for the check, but it probably ain’t worth a fuss. They’ve had this lift scheduled for the last ten days. No surprises.”
YANCEY, it turned out, was the slender brunette Jason had been with earlier in the evening. She grinned at Val Con, spoke a word of admiration for his skill, and handed him over to a man with bluish-black skin and a shock of bright orange hair.
“Tough Guy’s your partner ‘til we hit Prime, Winston. Don’t let anybody break him.”
He jerked a thumb at his charge. “Him? Better he makes sure nobody breaks me!”
Yancey laughed and went away, and Winston tapped Val Con on the arm. “C’mon, youngster. Gotta pick up my kit and get in line.”
They did so, waiting in line rather longer than Val Con liked, though he spent a good deal of time craning his neck around tall Terrans, looking for a short, slender figure.
“Sonny,” Winston told him finally, “you can leave off worryin’ about Sergeant Redhead. First of all, she’s the toughest somebody in this whole damn unit—that’s counting Polesta. Second of all, Suzuki’d skin alive whoever let somethin’ fatal happen to her; and then Jase’d stomp’em to a grease spot.”
Val Con grinned. “I guess I’m wasting my time.”
“Yours to waste, boy. It just does seem—uhp! Here we go.”
They moved down the slender alley, out into the main thoroughfare, and down to the port—not so much marching as walking in rhythm, as a unit.
Short of the port gate, they stopped, and the sounds of an altercation came to them faintly. The sounds of weapons being armed was rather louder and Val Con felt himself draw taut. Where was Miri?
Winston dropped a light hand to his arm. “Just relax. It’s only Higdon throwin’ one of his tantrums. Man’s got the rottenest temper this side of Yxtrang. Just ain’t happy ‘less he’s feelin’ mean. I don’t know how he keeps his unit, and that’s a fact—you gotta think about more’n bonuses and pillage-right when you sign on, I think. ‘Course, there’re lots of people around, an’ every one of ‘em’s got their own idea ‘bout what’s right—” He paused, and the sound of safety catches being clicked back into place reached their ears.
“Now we’ll get on.”
They made their way through the gate, across the field, up the ramp, into the shuttle, and down a hall, where they had to find something to grab onto—standing room only.
Val Con stopped by a strap set too high in the wall and braced his legs. Shortly, the ship clanged as the hatch closed, the lights dimmed, and he heard the subsonic whine as the engine gyroscoped into full power
“You okay, boy?” Winston asked.
“I’m fine.”
The shuttle lifted.