Mouse sat in the crawler operator’s seat, watching Cassius
and Pollyanna. Polly kept zigging round, unable to stand still. She
kept looking at Cassius strangely. And Cassius kept smiling that
funny, boyish, embarrassed smile.
Mouse was a little surprised at Walters too. Cassius never
thought out loud. Not about the way he felt.
Walters asked Pollyanna, “You know the character in
The Merchant of Venice, the Jew, who does the soliloquy about his
right to hurt like anybody else?”
“Shylock.”
“Yeah. Shylock. That’s me. I’m like him.
I’ve got a right to be human too. It’s just that
I’m so old and been in this business so long that I
don’t show it anymore.”
“But that wasn’t what Shylock was really talking
about. He was just trying to rationalize the revenge he was taking
on . . . ” She shut up.
Mouse did not know Shakespeare, but he got the feeling Pollyanna
had reached the sudden conclusion that Cassius and this Shylock
were alike after all. He lifted a leg onto the control panel,
leaned back, chewed the corner of a fingernail. “You’re
not going to start singing your death song, are you?” he
asked Cassius.
“Me? Never. I may not be completely happy with my life,
but I sure as hell plan to stick around as long as I can. No,
I’ve been thinking about getting out of the mainstream. If
this kind of life has been in it. I might become a crazy old hermit
on a mountain somewhere, coming down to prophesy at the villagers
once a year. Or run off to the Starfishers. Or become a McGraw or a
Freehauler. Anything to get away from the past. I’d just as
soon do my fade before Confederation starts investigating the
Shadowline, too. I don’t have the patience to deal with those
people. That’s why I left the Corps.”
“Somehow,” Mouse said, “I can’t picture
you being anything but what you are. What about those bombs?
Wouldn’t you say Michael’s had enough time to
decide?”
Dee, still standing in the middle of the cabin, had not spoken
for a long tune. Only his eyes had moved, watching every muscle in
Cassius, Mouse, and Pollyanna. And the weapon hanging with such
apparent negligence in Cassius’s hand. “What’re
you going to do?” he whimpered.
“Now, if it was up to me and I could do what I
want,” Cassius replied, “I’d kill you. But I
won’t. Unless you don’t start talking about those
damned bombs. You’ve had your time. Talk. And talk
straight, because you’re going to be out there beside
me when we disarm them. How are they armed? How did you plan to set
them off?”
The tractor’s comm buzzed, demanding attention.
“Mouse, get that. Michael, start talking.”
“Guarantees, Cassius. I want guarantees,” Dee
countered. “You don’t know what he’s like. You
don’t know what he’ll do if I don’t set them
off.”
“Who?” Mouse asked.
Dee ignored him. “He’d destroy the whole universe to
get you and the Storms. He’s been a raving madman since you
killed Rhafu.”
“All right, damn it. I’ll keep you in my closet if I
have to. Just tell me how to get rid of those bombs.”
“Your word?”
“What do you want? Me to cut my wrist and write it in
blood? You’re getting too good a deal now, and you know
it.”
“They’re radio-controlled. My driver has the
trigger.”
“How long before he pushes the button?”
“He won’t. He doesn’t know he has it. I
screwed up. I was too sure I’d find Gneaus here.”
“Ah.” Cassius chuckled evilly. “Fooled
you.”
“You promised.”
“Cassius,” Mouse said, “here’s a little
something to brighten your day. Helga’s surrendered Festung
Todesangst.”
“What?” Michael demanded.
“That’s the word from Naval Intelligence.”
“For God’s sake, why?” Dee demanded. “I
don’t believe it. She would have blown her
scuttles . . . ”
“I don’t know why,” Mouse said. “The
report came from the Corps, filtered through Intelligence. They
didn’t explain. They just said it was a standoff, with Helga
threatening to blow the scuttles and the Marines hanging on but not
pushing her so hard she’d really do it. Maybe she got wind of
what happened at Twilight and decided it wasn’t worth it
anymore. She suddenly just gave up.”
Michael frowned and shook his head. “What the hell’s
the matter with her?” he muttered to himself. “The
spoiled, self-centered twit. Just because she got what she wanted.
We needed . . . ”
Cassius was frowning, too. “It’s got to be a trick.
She put the bombs on timer or something. Dees are always up to
tricks.”
“Cassius, they got Benjamin and Homer out. They look like
they’ll be all right. We’ll be able to resurrect
them.”
“Uhm? Good. Maybe. If she didn’t have them
programmed, or something. What kind of deal did she make? It
can’t be anything good for us.”
Michael turned on Mouse. The Dee cunning took control of his
face. He shook with anticipation, sure his daughter would have made
a worthy trade.
Mouse smiled at him. “Nothing. No deal. Just plain
surrender. Like she didn’t have anything to live for anymore,
so she quit.”
“But? . . . ” Cassius started to
ask.
Mouse glanced at Michael, who seemed appalled. “They
killed her, Cassius. Beckhart himself shut her support systems
down.”
“Dead?” Dee asked in an incredibly tiny voice.
“My little girl? All my children? You’ve killed all my
babies?” Mouse sat up as a mad light caught fire in his
uncle’s eyes. “You murderers. My wife. My
children . . . ”
“They all got a clean death,” Mouse snapped.
“Which was damned well better than they deserved. They
brought it on themselves.”
Cassius took a step toward Dee, staring into his eyes.
He spoke slowly, twisting the knife. “He’s right.
They should have died a thousand deaths each, in fire. And even
then they wouldn’t have hurt enough to suit me.”
Pollyanna screamed. “Mouse!”
Dee plunged forward.
Cassius was not expecting it. He suffered from the lifelong
misconception that a coward could not act in circumstances where he
did not hold the upper hand.
Michael Dee was a coward, but not incapable of acting.
Cassius’s instant of delay cost him his life.
Dee knocked the pistol from his hand, caught it in the air,
fired one lucky, nose-destroying shot before Mouse slammed into him
from the side and sent the weapon skittering across the cabin.
Cassius fell disjointedly, slowly, like an empire, almost in
pieces, as if different parts of his body were being acted upon by
varying gravities. His mechanical voice box made skritching,
clacking noises, but no sound that could be interpreted as anger or
a cry of agony. He piled up in a heap, twitching, voice box still
making those strange noises.
Mouse and Dee thrashed about on the deck, the youth cursing
incoherently and weeping while he tried to strangle his uncle.
At first Dee fought in pure panic. He scratched, kicked, bit.
Then reason set in. He broke the stranglehold, writhed away,
unleashed a kick that hit Mouse over the heart.
Mouse got onto hands and knees. He put all his strength into
attaining his feet. The deck rushed toward him instead.
Dee poised for a killing kick to his throat.
“No.”
He turned slowly.
Pollyanna held the weapon that had killed Cassius. Her hands
shook. The weapon’s muzzle waggled uncertainly, but
threatened.
“Pollyanna, dear, put it down. I won’t hurt you. I
don’t want to. Promise. This’s between them and me.
You’re not part of it.”
He used his silkiest voice. And he may have meant what he said.
He had no real reason to harm her. Not then.
“Stand still,” she said as he started toward her,
hand reaching for the weapon. She was terrified. This was the
moment for which she had been living. This was the instant for
which she had put herself through a personal hell. “I am part
of it. I owe you, August Plainfield.”
Dee’s whole face seemed to pucker with consternation.
“You don’t even remember, do you? You bloody,
cold-hearted snake. You don’t even remember the name you used
when you murdered my father.”
“What on earth are you talking about, child? I’ve
never murdered anyone.”
“Liar! You damned liar. I saw you, Mr. August Plainfield
of Stimpson-Hrabosky News. I was there. You gave him drugs and made
him tell you about the Shadowline, and then you murdered
him.”
Dee went pale. “The little girl at the
hospital.”
“Yes. The little girl. And now it’s your
turn.”
Dee attacked, diving first to one side, then bearing in.
Had he remained where he was, waiting, Pollyanna might never
have pulled the trigger. In the crux, when it came time to take a
life in cold blood, she was not as ready as she had thought.
Dee’s sudden movement panicked her. She shot wildly,
repeatedly. Her first bolt hit the control console. The second
pierced Dee’s leg. He pitched past her with a shriek of pain
and despair. She fired again, wounding him again. Then again. And
again.
Groggily, not even quite sure where he was, feeling like someone
had tied an anvil to his chest, Mouse again forced himself up off
the deck. He shook his head sharply, to clear the water from his
eyes and get them into focus.
He saw Pollyanna pounding Dee’s ragged, almost
unrecognizable corpse with the butt of the spent weapon while
babbling incoherencies about Frog. He dragged himself over, took
the weapon away, folded her up in his arms and held her head
against his chest.
“It’s over now, Polly,” he murmured.
“It’s over. It’s all over. He’s dead now.
They’re all dead but us.” She cried for almost an hour,
the hysteria-sobs gradually becoming the great, deep,
soul-wrenching grief-sobs, and those eventually diminishing to
sniffles, and finally, to nothing but the occasional whimper of an
injured animal.
“You just stay here,” he whispered when she
finished. “I’ve got work to do. Then we can go
away.” He rose, went to the comm panel, found a frequency
which worked, and resumed command of the Legion.
Mouse sat in the crawler operator’s seat, watching Cassius
and Pollyanna. Polly kept zigging round, unable to stand still. She
kept looking at Cassius strangely. And Cassius kept smiling that
funny, boyish, embarrassed smile.
Mouse was a little surprised at Walters too. Cassius never
thought out loud. Not about the way he felt.
Walters asked Pollyanna, “You know the character in
The Merchant of Venice, the Jew, who does the soliloquy about his
right to hurt like anybody else?”
“Shylock.”
“Yeah. Shylock. That’s me. I’m like him.
I’ve got a right to be human too. It’s just that
I’m so old and been in this business so long that I
don’t show it anymore.”
“But that wasn’t what Shylock was really talking
about. He was just trying to rationalize the revenge he was taking
on . . . ” She shut up.
Mouse did not know Shakespeare, but he got the feeling Pollyanna
had reached the sudden conclusion that Cassius and this Shylock
were alike after all. He lifted a leg onto the control panel,
leaned back, chewed the corner of a fingernail. “You’re
not going to start singing your death song, are you?” he
asked Cassius.
“Me? Never. I may not be completely happy with my life,
but I sure as hell plan to stick around as long as I can. No,
I’ve been thinking about getting out of the mainstream. If
this kind of life has been in it. I might become a crazy old hermit
on a mountain somewhere, coming down to prophesy at the villagers
once a year. Or run off to the Starfishers. Or become a McGraw or a
Freehauler. Anything to get away from the past. I’d just as
soon do my fade before Confederation starts investigating the
Shadowline, too. I don’t have the patience to deal with those
people. That’s why I left the Corps.”
“Somehow,” Mouse said, “I can’t picture
you being anything but what you are. What about those bombs?
Wouldn’t you say Michael’s had enough time to
decide?”
Dee, still standing in the middle of the cabin, had not spoken
for a long tune. Only his eyes had moved, watching every muscle in
Cassius, Mouse, and Pollyanna. And the weapon hanging with such
apparent negligence in Cassius’s hand. “What’re
you going to do?” he whimpered.
“Now, if it was up to me and I could do what I
want,” Cassius replied, “I’d kill you. But I
won’t. Unless you don’t start talking about those
damned bombs. You’ve had your time. Talk. And talk
straight, because you’re going to be out there beside
me when we disarm them. How are they armed? How did you plan to set
them off?”
The tractor’s comm buzzed, demanding attention.
“Mouse, get that. Michael, start talking.”
“Guarantees, Cassius. I want guarantees,” Dee
countered. “You don’t know what he’s like. You
don’t know what he’ll do if I don’t set them
off.”
“Who?” Mouse asked.
Dee ignored him. “He’d destroy the whole universe to
get you and the Storms. He’s been a raving madman since you
killed Rhafu.”
“All right, damn it. I’ll keep you in my closet if I
have to. Just tell me how to get rid of those bombs.”
“Your word?”
“What do you want? Me to cut my wrist and write it in
blood? You’re getting too good a deal now, and you know
it.”
“They’re radio-controlled. My driver has the
trigger.”
“How long before he pushes the button?”
“He won’t. He doesn’t know he has it. I
screwed up. I was too sure I’d find Gneaus here.”
“Ah.” Cassius chuckled evilly. “Fooled
you.”
“You promised.”
“Cassius,” Mouse said, “here’s a little
something to brighten your day. Helga’s surrendered Festung
Todesangst.”
“What?” Michael demanded.
“That’s the word from Naval Intelligence.”
“For God’s sake, why?” Dee demanded. “I
don’t believe it. She would have blown her
scuttles . . . ”
“I don’t know why,” Mouse said. “The
report came from the Corps, filtered through Intelligence. They
didn’t explain. They just said it was a standoff, with Helga
threatening to blow the scuttles and the Marines hanging on but not
pushing her so hard she’d really do it. Maybe she got wind of
what happened at Twilight and decided it wasn’t worth it
anymore. She suddenly just gave up.”
Michael frowned and shook his head. “What the hell’s
the matter with her?” he muttered to himself. “The
spoiled, self-centered twit. Just because she got what she wanted.
We needed . . . ”
Cassius was frowning, too. “It’s got to be a trick.
She put the bombs on timer or something. Dees are always up to
tricks.”
“Cassius, they got Benjamin and Homer out. They look like
they’ll be all right. We’ll be able to resurrect
them.”
“Uhm? Good. Maybe. If she didn’t have them
programmed, or something. What kind of deal did she make? It
can’t be anything good for us.”
Michael turned on Mouse. The Dee cunning took control of his
face. He shook with anticipation, sure his daughter would have made
a worthy trade.
Mouse smiled at him. “Nothing. No deal. Just plain
surrender. Like she didn’t have anything to live for anymore,
so she quit.”
“But? . . . ” Cassius started to
ask.
Mouse glanced at Michael, who seemed appalled. “They
killed her, Cassius. Beckhart himself shut her support systems
down.”
“Dead?” Dee asked in an incredibly tiny voice.
“My little girl? All my children? You’ve killed all my
babies?” Mouse sat up as a mad light caught fire in his
uncle’s eyes. “You murderers. My wife. My
children . . . ”
“They all got a clean death,” Mouse snapped.
“Which was damned well better than they deserved. They
brought it on themselves.”
Cassius took a step toward Dee, staring into his eyes.
He spoke slowly, twisting the knife. “He’s right.
They should have died a thousand deaths each, in fire. And even
then they wouldn’t have hurt enough to suit me.”
Pollyanna screamed. “Mouse!”
Dee plunged forward.
Cassius was not expecting it. He suffered from the lifelong
misconception that a coward could not act in circumstances where he
did not hold the upper hand.
Michael Dee was a coward, but not incapable of acting.
Cassius’s instant of delay cost him his life.
Dee knocked the pistol from his hand, caught it in the air,
fired one lucky, nose-destroying shot before Mouse slammed into him
from the side and sent the weapon skittering across the cabin.
Cassius fell disjointedly, slowly, like an empire, almost in
pieces, as if different parts of his body were being acted upon by
varying gravities. His mechanical voice box made skritching,
clacking noises, but no sound that could be interpreted as anger or
a cry of agony. He piled up in a heap, twitching, voice box still
making those strange noises.
Mouse and Dee thrashed about on the deck, the youth cursing
incoherently and weeping while he tried to strangle his uncle.
At first Dee fought in pure panic. He scratched, kicked, bit.
Then reason set in. He broke the stranglehold, writhed away,
unleashed a kick that hit Mouse over the heart.
Mouse got onto hands and knees. He put all his strength into
attaining his feet. The deck rushed toward him instead.
Dee poised for a killing kick to his throat.
“No.”
He turned slowly.
Pollyanna held the weapon that had killed Cassius. Her hands
shook. The weapon’s muzzle waggled uncertainly, but
threatened.
“Pollyanna, dear, put it down. I won’t hurt you. I
don’t want to. Promise. This’s between them and me.
You’re not part of it.”
He used his silkiest voice. And he may have meant what he said.
He had no real reason to harm her. Not then.
“Stand still,” she said as he started toward her,
hand reaching for the weapon. She was terrified. This was the
moment for which she had been living. This was the instant for
which she had put herself through a personal hell. “I am part
of it. I owe you, August Plainfield.”
Dee’s whole face seemed to pucker with consternation.
“You don’t even remember, do you? You bloody,
cold-hearted snake. You don’t even remember the name you used
when you murdered my father.”
“What on earth are you talking about, child? I’ve
never murdered anyone.”
“Liar! You damned liar. I saw you, Mr. August Plainfield
of Stimpson-Hrabosky News. I was there. You gave him drugs and made
him tell you about the Shadowline, and then you murdered
him.”
Dee went pale. “The little girl at the
hospital.”
“Yes. The little girl. And now it’s your
turn.”
Dee attacked, diving first to one side, then bearing in.
Had he remained where he was, waiting, Pollyanna might never
have pulled the trigger. In the crux, when it came time to take a
life in cold blood, she was not as ready as she had thought.
Dee’s sudden movement panicked her. She shot wildly,
repeatedly. Her first bolt hit the control console. The second
pierced Dee’s leg. He pitched past her with a shriek of pain
and despair. She fired again, wounding him again. Then again. And
again.
Groggily, not even quite sure where he was, feeling like someone
had tied an anvil to his chest, Mouse again forced himself up off
the deck. He shook his head sharply, to clear the water from his
eyes and get them into focus.
He saw Pollyanna pounding Dee’s ragged, almost
unrecognizable corpse with the butt of the spent weapon while
babbling incoherencies about Frog. He dragged himself over, took
the weapon away, folded her up in his arms and held her head
against his chest.
“It’s over now, Polly,” he murmured.
“It’s over. It’s all over. He’s dead now.
They’re all dead but us.” She cried for almost an hour,
the hysteria-sobs gradually becoming the great, deep,
soul-wrenching grief-sobs, and those eventually diminishing to
sniffles, and finally, to nothing but the occasional whimper of an
injured animal.
“You just stay here,” he whispered when she
finished. “I’ve got work to do. Then we can go
away.” He rose, went to the comm panel, found a frequency
which worked, and resumed command of the Legion.