Jellyroll Jones, as great men went, was an accident. He never
had been a hero. He came in near the foot of the list of space-age
memorables. His most singular act had been that of arriving on The
Broken Wings before anyone else. Native school children were taught
to consider him a hero, in the mold of a space-faring Magellan, but
his myths bore no relation to the truth. His discovery had been
sheer happenstance, and against his will. His ship had crashed here
because of damage the guns of a Palisarian Directorate police
corvette had done his astrogational computer. He and his
crew—the women represented by the fountain nymphs—had
hidden here for a few months. Unable to take the heat, humidity,
and stench any longer, they had radioed for help. The corvette had
collected them. Old Jellyroll had died in prison.
Moyshe paused in a shadow. He studied the statue and the dancing
tips of water columns visible above the trees.
“Jarl’s on,” his comm man told him.
Moyshe took the hand radio. “Jarl? Where are you?
We’ve got people after us.”
“Be there in five minutes, Moyshe.”
BenRabi heard strange sounds behind Kindervoort’s voice.
“What’s going on, Jarl?”
“Roadblock. Trouble with the natives. We’re talking
them down.”
“Don’t take too long. We’re only a jump
ahead.”
Nicolas, hand comm against his ear, shook his head.
“Mike’s three blocks from here. Says they might be
pulling out. Maybe they read our signals.”
“Jarl, we look okay for now. They’re maybe running.
We’ll be waiting on the north side. You get anything on
Mouse?”
“Not yet, Moyshe. Out.”
“Out.” BenRabi returned the hand comm, studied the
park through nighteyes. It seemed peaceful enough. He started
toward Jellyroll. Flash.
“Shit. Not again.” From the frying pan into the fire
twice?
Maybe not. The shot had not been directed his way.
There were more shots. Someone was fighting in there. Mouse? It
looked like a baby battle, a duel, two men moving between shots.
One was armed with a stunner only.
“Nick, hold on here. I’ll check it out.”
Moyshe trotted toward Jellyroll.
The action seemed to be among the fountains beyond the statue.
BenRabi pushed through the trees. He tried to spot the duelists,
but they had stopped shooting. Was it over? He slipped toward the
statue. Jellyroll would make a good, high observation point.
The firing broke out again. The stunner seemed to be among the
far trees. The lasegun was among the fountains. The lasegunner,
illuminated by the fountain lights, was moving very carefully.
Moyshe climbed three meters up Jellyroll’s pedestal,
slithered into a prone position between the old bandit’s
feet. It did make a nice vantage point, but would be hell to get
away from fast. He edged forward, trying to spot the duelists.
Though the farther man was in darkness, Moyshe found him first.
The nearer remained veiled by the flying jewelry flung up against
the ever-shifting colors of the fountain lights. The water
susurrated hypnotically as it tumbled back into the pools.
A lasebolt crackled through the branches of a pine. The gentle
breeze brought smoky resin scents redolent of evergreen forests.
The farther duelist snapped a shot in reply. His face was visible
for an instant.
Mouse.
No doubt about it this time.
Storm clutched his left arm as he dodged to a new position. What
the hell? benRabi thought. What’s the fool doing out here
with nothing but a stunner?
Mouse’s opponent shifted position.
“Ha!” benRabi gasped. “It is her.”
The Sangaree woman had had cosmetic surgery, but her catlike,
sensuous movements remained unchanged. She just could not hide that
deadly animal grace.
He tried to draw a bead on her. “Welcome back,
sweetheart,” he murmured. He was not at all surprised to see
her. This was another passage in her death-dance with Mouse and
himself.
She did not know another dancer was about to cut in. He grinned.
A fragment of an old personality returned. He became the hard half
of Gundaker Niven again.
“Ha!” She was hurt too. Her left side sported a wet,
hasty bandage. Mouse had gotten close once, but had missed his
kill. Surprising. That was not like him.
It said something about how good the woman was.
BenRabi got a good bead. He had no trouble shooting. The woman
yowled, jumped like a broken-backed cat, collapsed on the colored
concrete. Her muscles jerked spastically, then she slowly stiffened
into the almost-death typical of a solid stunner shot to the
head.
Moyshe looked down at his weapon. “Good shooting, cowboy.
Mouse!” He shouted to make himself heard over the fountains.
“She’s out.”
“Moyshe?” Storm called back. “Is that
you?”
“Yeah.” Mouse sounded weak. “You hurt
bad?”
“I’ll live.”
Storm came into the open, stumbling toward the statue. He thrust
his wounded arm into his jumper for support, carried his stunner
like a revolver. He paused beside Marya, stared down.
“Checkmate. Finally.” His gaze flicked to the statue,
back down.
BenRabi shouted, “What the hell happened? I been running
myself dead trying to find you.”
“She sucked me in. Showed herself, took a shot, then ran.
I lost my head. I ran right into it.” He glanced up again,
his expression odd. “But she made a bigger mistake, eh? Let
her gut override her brain.” Mouse smiled wickedly. His lips
stretched in a ferocious duplicate of the woman’s vampire
grin. “You know the funny part, Moyshe? She was working with
McGraws. That’s scary when you think about it.”
Mouse fell silent. He stared at the woman for a long time, as if
loath to end the feud.
Though benRabi did not like it, time had proven the next move
necessary. She had been given two chances. Twice she had come back
for more. If Mouse did not end it here, they would have the
hellsbitch on their trail again, all fangs and claws once more.
She and Mouse were two of a kind, Moyshe reflected. Only death
would stop either of them.
“You’ve got to be realistic,
Thomas . . . Moyshe,” benRabi mumbled to
himself. “What’s got to be has got to be.”
He waited. Mouse remained reluctant. Time stretched.
Personnel carriers rumbled in the street outside the park.
Moyshe looked back, expecting to see Kindervoort.
Wrong. Marines. But just as good.
Back to Mouse. Was he stalling because he did not have a lethal
weapon? He could use hers. Or his hands.
Then he understood. Mouse was thinking about his Holy Grail, the
hatred that had driven him so long. He would not yet know about
Homeworld, but killing Marya would be symbolic of the process he
had initiated. Symbolic of attaining his lifelong goal. Jupp would
be the weapon . . . Marya might be the last of
the ancient enemy he would encounter.
The end of a road is always a disappointment, Moyshe
reflected.
Poor Mouse. Down deep, where he lived, he knew that when Marya
went there would be nothing left to hate. His Grail, for all its
distant sparkle, was just another empty cup.
“Where do we go from here, Tommy?” he asked
softly.
In the shadows between Jellyroll’s legs,
benRabi/McClennon could do nothing but shake his head. He did not
know.
Moyshe/Thomas’s mind was becoming pandemoniac. The outside
pressure was off. There was nothing to hold the dissociation in
check. He was this man for a moment, then that. Alyce crawled
through his brain like a maggot through rotting flesh. Something
within him kept shrieking I want, and not letting him know
what. Sudden storms of emotion racked him, always without
detectable cause. Anger. Hate. Love. Sorrow. Joy. Despair. A moment
of each, whap! like the impact of a fist, then gone, as if some
storehouse had been broken open and all the containers inside
dumped at random.
He wrapped his arms around his head and moaned softly.
He croaked, “I don’t know, Mouse,” it seemed
an hour after his partner asked his question. BenRabi wanted to
say, “Stars’ End, and back to the high rivers,”
but the other characters inside kept telling him he would never see
a harvestship again, would never track another herd, would never
again go into Contact, would never build that secret service for
the Seiners.
That Alyce creature must have been a hypnotic key, he thought.
She was supposed to unlock all the spooks hidden behind the
barriers Chub had been unable to penetrate. But the key had not
opened the lock all the way. No more than Mouse had back when, when
he had tried before their scheduled return to Confederation.
Something had shorted out. Something was trying to take him back
not just to Thomas McClennon before this mission, but all the way
back, to a day when he had not as yet undergone any personality
programming.
He did not want to make that journey. He wanted what he had
found in the high rivers between the stars. He fought. Deep inside,
he howled and clawed like a wild thing tangled in a hunter’s
net.
There were angry shouts in the street whence he had come. The
Marines were disarming his men. Ordinary precaution, he supposed.
His team had been operating outside its “reasonable
jurisdiction.”
Mouse made his decision. It favored discretion. He stooped to
recover Marya’s weapon . . .
“Don’t!” The voice was soft enough not to be
heard far, yet commanding. BenRabi/McClennon shrank into the
shadows of Jellyroll’s legs. His Amy Many-Names had appeared.
She bore a nasty little pistol. Her features were as cold as
Mouse’s became when he went into assassin’s mind.
Mouse looked at her, saw the absence of emotion, slowly
straightened. He did not drop his stunner.
“Where’s Moyshe?” she snapped. “The
grubs will be after him. I’ve got to find him first.
He’s suddenly the key to everything. You two never really
crossed over, did you?” The words tumbled out of her mouth
almost faster than her lips could shape them.
Mouse did not answer. He just stared into Amy’s eyes,
holding them. He clutched his weapon and waited for her coldness to
thaw.
Or was he waiting for McClennon? Thomas was not sure. Mouse
might be turning his own peril into some kind of test.
McClennon was sure Amy’s determination would not persist.
She was not trained for it.
“Where’s Moyshe?” she demanded again. Her
voice rose, squeaked.
“Here, Love.” He eased from the shadows.
“Don’t move. Please?”
Her gaze darted his way, noted his stunner.
Mouse raised his weapon.
“No, Mouse. Not my wife, you don’t.”
Mouse stopped. McClennon’s tone halted him. He swung his
head for a cautious look at his partner.
“Moyshe, why?” Amy asked plaintively. Her weapon did
not waver a millimeter from dead center on Mouse’s chest.
“Why what, honey?”
“This betrayal. We gave you
everything . . . ”
“What betrayal?”
He could hear the I she was saying inside. She had opened her
fortress unvanquishable to him, and now his promises appeared
false. He had come to her bearing banners of love, false banners,
and had raped and plundered her soul.
He could hear her pain, but hadn’t any idea what had
brought it on. “What betrayal?” he demanded.
“What’s happened?”
“The Marines are arresting everybody. ‘Interning
them,’ they call it. Your Beckhart sent Gruber an ultimatum.
We open Stars’ End for Navy or he nova bombs the
Yards.”
No, McClennon thought. There’s something twisted here.
Something not quite straight. Not that Beckhart would not make the
threat. He would, and would follow through for the sake of the
Stars’ End weaponry. He was a man who believed in his
mission. But the timing seemed askew.
Or was it? The Starfishers and Sangaree were inextricably
entangled at Stars’ End. Beckhart was free to move against
the home ground of either. It was a remarkable opportunity.
Earlier, he had gloated about having hit Homeworld’s
sun . . .
Damn! Damn! Damn! he thought.
The agent part of him, the old intuition, put together
everything Beckhart had, and had not, said, and threw forth one
incontrovertible answer. The Admiral had been after Stars’
End from the beginning. From the moment he had summoned Cornelius
Perchevski from his interlude with his quasi-daughter
Greta . . .
As Moyshe benRabi it had been his mission to come up with
leverage Beckhart could use to force the Seiners to open the
fortress world to Luna Command.
He had been doing the Admiral’s work even when he had
thought he was working against the man. Damn! Damn! Damn!
And he did have the lever the Admiral needed. Beckhart had
given that away in threatening Gruber.
The Admiral needed the location of the Seiner Yards. Mouse must
have told the Old Man his partner could clue him in.
Gruber would yield to the threat. Not gracefully, but he would
yield. No sane man would do otherwise once the fate of Homeworld
became known.
Gruber would surrender. The single most commonly known fact
about Beckhart was that he was a man of his word with a threat. He
would use the bomb if refused. But McClennon was sure the Old Man
was running one colossal bluff right now. He could not have the
coordinates of the Yards. Three Sky was huge, even if he knew to
look there. Insofar as Thomas knew, there were just three people on
The Broken Wings who could tell Beckhart what he had to know. Jarl
and Amy would not talk. He was in one hell of a tight place. The
Starfishers did not call their nebula Three Sky among themselves.
McClennon doubted that one in a thousand knew that landside name,
and not one in a hundred of those the coordinates for the Yards
themselves. Mouse did not know. McClennon had acquired the
information entirely by accident, while arguing with Amy.
“Where’s Jarl?” he asked. He wondered how
effectively his orders had been carried out after he had alerted
the fleet. Well, probably. Amy was carrying on like they were the
only red pass people left.
Tears rolled as she replied, “He’s dead, Moyshe. He
killed himself. Only about fifteen minutes ago. I got away while
they were distracted.”
“While who was distracted?”
“The military police.”
So. That roadblock had been a setup. And Jarl, intuiting
Beckhart’s thrust, had gone the only way he could to avoid
checkmate.
And Amy intended eliminating another information source.
Him.
Where was the harvestfleet? Had Beckhart gotten his bluff in on
Payne too?
Then what would Amy do about herself? Put a lasebolt through her
own brain? She was capable. She seemed a bit self-destructive.
What if Beckhart’s claims about a centerward race were
valid? That meant the whole human race, as well as several
neighboring races, were threatened with extinction.
It seemed a lot more than Seiner freedom lay on the line.
The weight of the decision he had to make seemed as heavy as
that Atlas had borne. Heavier. Hundreds of worlds might depend upon
his choice . . . Ambergris and the
Stars’ End weapons. They might make all the difference.
What to do?
He leaned against Jellyroll’s leg and stared at the
symbols of the sides of his conflict. Which should he betray? Which
should he destroy?
It was in his hands alone now, and there was no evading the
decision. He could not let it ride in hopes it would sort itself
out. No god from a machine would swing down on a wire to relieve
him of his burden.
He had always had a yearning to become a hero, even for the few
shooting star moments Confederation culture allowed. He would
become one to the trillions if he delivered Stars’ End and
its arsenal. He would stand beside Jupp von Drachau, destroyer of
Sangaree . . . But that would make him
Iscariot to millions of Starfishers.
His fingertips sensually caressed his weapon. There lay all
solutions. In the gun. The final argument. In the words of ancient
Mao, “All power comes from the mouth of a gun.” War and
violence, he thought. A certain breed claimed they solved nothing.
Those folks ignored the fact that dead men seldom argued.
He remembered a small Ulantonid nun, seen in passing in the
Blake City spaceport on Carson’s an eon ago, while he and
Mouse had been waiting to join the Starfishers. She had served a
dead man . . .
He was vacillating. Avoiding decision. Riding a period of
stability for all it was worth.
One squeeze of a trigger would settle a trillion fates. His
friend? Or Amy, his love?
Those symbols remained as motionless as the man between whose
legs McClennon stood. They waited too, aware that, for the moment,
he was possessed of godlike power.
Mouse had, McClennon was sure, known the ramifications for some
time. Perhaps since before the mission had begun. Mouse stared at
Amy’s weapon, half hypnotized by the death lying there. Death
had never touched him . . .
He had been immune for so long . . .
Amy was pale and growing paler. She had had time to think, to
see some of the possibilities, and to grow scared. Her gun hand
quivered.
Mouse began moving, almost imperceptibly bringing his stunner a
little farther forward.
“Wait!” McClennon snapped. “This is silly.
There’s a way out.”
They looked at him, their faces grave and baffled.
His finger danced on his stunner’s trigger. Amy squeaked
as she fell. Mouse looked infinitely surprised. Shaking, McClennon
peered into the street beyond the trees behind him. The Marines
seemed uninterested in the park. Good. If the men just kept their
mouths shut . . .
He scrambled down, collected weapons, stunned Marya again. Her
breathing indicated she was partially recovered, and probably
gathering herself for something.
He had to keep the three of them out of the way while he twisted
the Admiral’s tail. Maybe he could salvage something for
everybody, though Beckhart would resent it all to hell.
But, dammit! It wasn’t necessary to have big winners and
losers. Everybody could lose a little and win a little and come out
ahead in the end.
Beckhart would give in if he could not catch up fast enough. He
had to have those coordinates soon, or see his whole intrigue blow
up in his face.
McClennon laughed. He was going to get the best of the Old Man,
and that was as rare as roc’s eggs. Still chuckling, he threw
Amy over his shoulder and headed for the tight darkness of Old
Town.
She would come out of this hating him, but by doing it this way
he would give her more than he ever could with love.
He searched his mind for signs of instability. All the gears
were in place and working smoothly. Some sort of balance had been
achieved. Not a natural one, but one that looked good for a while.
He was now a little of everyone he had ever been, and a little
more, too.
He hoped it would last long enough.
Jellyroll Jones, as great men went, was an accident. He never
had been a hero. He came in near the foot of the list of space-age
memorables. His most singular act had been that of arriving on The
Broken Wings before anyone else. Native school children were taught
to consider him a hero, in the mold of a space-faring Magellan, but
his myths bore no relation to the truth. His discovery had been
sheer happenstance, and against his will. His ship had crashed here
because of damage the guns of a Palisarian Directorate police
corvette had done his astrogational computer. He and his
crew—the women represented by the fountain nymphs—had
hidden here for a few months. Unable to take the heat, humidity,
and stench any longer, they had radioed for help. The corvette had
collected them. Old Jellyroll had died in prison.
Moyshe paused in a shadow. He studied the statue and the dancing
tips of water columns visible above the trees.
“Jarl’s on,” his comm man told him.
Moyshe took the hand radio. “Jarl? Where are you?
We’ve got people after us.”
“Be there in five minutes, Moyshe.”
BenRabi heard strange sounds behind Kindervoort’s voice.
“What’s going on, Jarl?”
“Roadblock. Trouble with the natives. We’re talking
them down.”
“Don’t take too long. We’re only a jump
ahead.”
Nicolas, hand comm against his ear, shook his head.
“Mike’s three blocks from here. Says they might be
pulling out. Maybe they read our signals.”
“Jarl, we look okay for now. They’re maybe running.
We’ll be waiting on the north side. You get anything on
Mouse?”
“Not yet, Moyshe. Out.”
“Out.” BenRabi returned the hand comm, studied the
park through nighteyes. It seemed peaceful enough. He started
toward Jellyroll. Flash.
“Shit. Not again.” From the frying pan into the fire
twice?
Maybe not. The shot had not been directed his way.
There were more shots. Someone was fighting in there. Mouse? It
looked like a baby battle, a duel, two men moving between shots.
One was armed with a stunner only.
“Nick, hold on here. I’ll check it out.”
Moyshe trotted toward Jellyroll.
The action seemed to be among the fountains beyond the statue.
BenRabi pushed through the trees. He tried to spot the duelists,
but they had stopped shooting. Was it over? He slipped toward the
statue. Jellyroll would make a good, high observation point.
The firing broke out again. The stunner seemed to be among the
far trees. The lasegun was among the fountains. The lasegunner,
illuminated by the fountain lights, was moving very carefully.
Moyshe climbed three meters up Jellyroll’s pedestal,
slithered into a prone position between the old bandit’s
feet. It did make a nice vantage point, but would be hell to get
away from fast. He edged forward, trying to spot the duelists.
Though the farther man was in darkness, Moyshe found him first.
The nearer remained veiled by the flying jewelry flung up against
the ever-shifting colors of the fountain lights. The water
susurrated hypnotically as it tumbled back into the pools.
A lasebolt crackled through the branches of a pine. The gentle
breeze brought smoky resin scents redolent of evergreen forests.
The farther duelist snapped a shot in reply. His face was visible
for an instant.
Mouse.
No doubt about it this time.
Storm clutched his left arm as he dodged to a new position. What
the hell? benRabi thought. What’s the fool doing out here
with nothing but a stunner?
Mouse’s opponent shifted position.
“Ha!” benRabi gasped. “It is her.”
The Sangaree woman had had cosmetic surgery, but her catlike,
sensuous movements remained unchanged. She just could not hide that
deadly animal grace.
He tried to draw a bead on her. “Welcome back,
sweetheart,” he murmured. He was not at all surprised to see
her. This was another passage in her death-dance with Mouse and
himself.
She did not know another dancer was about to cut in. He grinned.
A fragment of an old personality returned. He became the hard half
of Gundaker Niven again.
“Ha!” She was hurt too. Her left side sported a wet,
hasty bandage. Mouse had gotten close once, but had missed his
kill. Surprising. That was not like him.
It said something about how good the woman was.
BenRabi got a good bead. He had no trouble shooting. The woman
yowled, jumped like a broken-backed cat, collapsed on the colored
concrete. Her muscles jerked spastically, then she slowly stiffened
into the almost-death typical of a solid stunner shot to the
head.
Moyshe looked down at his weapon. “Good shooting, cowboy.
Mouse!” He shouted to make himself heard over the fountains.
“She’s out.”
“Moyshe?” Storm called back. “Is that
you?”
“Yeah.” Mouse sounded weak. “You hurt
bad?”
“I’ll live.”
Storm came into the open, stumbling toward the statue. He thrust
his wounded arm into his jumper for support, carried his stunner
like a revolver. He paused beside Marya, stared down.
“Checkmate. Finally.” His gaze flicked to the statue,
back down.
BenRabi shouted, “What the hell happened? I been running
myself dead trying to find you.”
“She sucked me in. Showed herself, took a shot, then ran.
I lost my head. I ran right into it.” He glanced up again,
his expression odd. “But she made a bigger mistake, eh? Let
her gut override her brain.” Mouse smiled wickedly. His lips
stretched in a ferocious duplicate of the woman’s vampire
grin. “You know the funny part, Moyshe? She was working with
McGraws. That’s scary when you think about it.”
Mouse fell silent. He stared at the woman for a long time, as if
loath to end the feud.
Though benRabi did not like it, time had proven the next move
necessary. She had been given two chances. Twice she had come back
for more. If Mouse did not end it here, they would have the
hellsbitch on their trail again, all fangs and claws once more.
She and Mouse were two of a kind, Moyshe reflected. Only death
would stop either of them.
“You’ve got to be realistic,
Thomas . . . Moyshe,” benRabi mumbled to
himself. “What’s got to be has got to be.”
He waited. Mouse remained reluctant. Time stretched.
Personnel carriers rumbled in the street outside the park.
Moyshe looked back, expecting to see Kindervoort.
Wrong. Marines. But just as good.
Back to Mouse. Was he stalling because he did not have a lethal
weapon? He could use hers. Or his hands.
Then he understood. Mouse was thinking about his Holy Grail, the
hatred that had driven him so long. He would not yet know about
Homeworld, but killing Marya would be symbolic of the process he
had initiated. Symbolic of attaining his lifelong goal. Jupp would
be the weapon . . . Marya might be the last of
the ancient enemy he would encounter.
The end of a road is always a disappointment, Moyshe
reflected.
Poor Mouse. Down deep, where he lived, he knew that when Marya
went there would be nothing left to hate. His Grail, for all its
distant sparkle, was just another empty cup.
“Where do we go from here, Tommy?” he asked
softly.
In the shadows between Jellyroll’s legs,
benRabi/McClennon could do nothing but shake his head. He did not
know.
Moyshe/Thomas’s mind was becoming pandemoniac. The outside
pressure was off. There was nothing to hold the dissociation in
check. He was this man for a moment, then that. Alyce crawled
through his brain like a maggot through rotting flesh. Something
within him kept shrieking I want, and not letting him know
what. Sudden storms of emotion racked him, always without
detectable cause. Anger. Hate. Love. Sorrow. Joy. Despair. A moment
of each, whap! like the impact of a fist, then gone, as if some
storehouse had been broken open and all the containers inside
dumped at random.
He wrapped his arms around his head and moaned softly.
He croaked, “I don’t know, Mouse,” it seemed
an hour after his partner asked his question. BenRabi wanted to
say, “Stars’ End, and back to the high rivers,”
but the other characters inside kept telling him he would never see
a harvestship again, would never track another herd, would never
again go into Contact, would never build that secret service for
the Seiners.
That Alyce creature must have been a hypnotic key, he thought.
She was supposed to unlock all the spooks hidden behind the
barriers Chub had been unable to penetrate. But the key had not
opened the lock all the way. No more than Mouse had back when, when
he had tried before their scheduled return to Confederation.
Something had shorted out. Something was trying to take him back
not just to Thomas McClennon before this mission, but all the way
back, to a day when he had not as yet undergone any personality
programming.
He did not want to make that journey. He wanted what he had
found in the high rivers between the stars. He fought. Deep inside,
he howled and clawed like a wild thing tangled in a hunter’s
net.
There were angry shouts in the street whence he had come. The
Marines were disarming his men. Ordinary precaution, he supposed.
His team had been operating outside its “reasonable
jurisdiction.”
Mouse made his decision. It favored discretion. He stooped to
recover Marya’s weapon . . .
“Don’t!” The voice was soft enough not to be
heard far, yet commanding. BenRabi/McClennon shrank into the
shadows of Jellyroll’s legs. His Amy Many-Names had appeared.
She bore a nasty little pistol. Her features were as cold as
Mouse’s became when he went into assassin’s mind.
Mouse looked at her, saw the absence of emotion, slowly
straightened. He did not drop his stunner.
“Where’s Moyshe?” she snapped. “The
grubs will be after him. I’ve got to find him first.
He’s suddenly the key to everything. You two never really
crossed over, did you?” The words tumbled out of her mouth
almost faster than her lips could shape them.
Mouse did not answer. He just stared into Amy’s eyes,
holding them. He clutched his weapon and waited for her coldness to
thaw.
Or was he waiting for McClennon? Thomas was not sure. Mouse
might be turning his own peril into some kind of test.
McClennon was sure Amy’s determination would not persist.
She was not trained for it.
“Where’s Moyshe?” she demanded again. Her
voice rose, squeaked.
“Here, Love.” He eased from the shadows.
“Don’t move. Please?”
Her gaze darted his way, noted his stunner.
Mouse raised his weapon.
“No, Mouse. Not my wife, you don’t.”
Mouse stopped. McClennon’s tone halted him. He swung his
head for a cautious look at his partner.
“Moyshe, why?” Amy asked plaintively. Her weapon did
not waver a millimeter from dead center on Mouse’s chest.
“Why what, honey?”
“This betrayal. We gave you
everything . . . ”
“What betrayal?”
He could hear the I she was saying inside. She had opened her
fortress unvanquishable to him, and now his promises appeared
false. He had come to her bearing banners of love, false banners,
and had raped and plundered her soul.
He could hear her pain, but hadn’t any idea what had
brought it on. “What betrayal?” he demanded.
“What’s happened?”
“The Marines are arresting everybody. ‘Interning
them,’ they call it. Your Beckhart sent Gruber an ultimatum.
We open Stars’ End for Navy or he nova bombs the
Yards.”
No, McClennon thought. There’s something twisted here.
Something not quite straight. Not that Beckhart would not make the
threat. He would, and would follow through for the sake of the
Stars’ End weaponry. He was a man who believed in his
mission. But the timing seemed askew.
Or was it? The Starfishers and Sangaree were inextricably
entangled at Stars’ End. Beckhart was free to move against
the home ground of either. It was a remarkable opportunity.
Earlier, he had gloated about having hit Homeworld’s
sun . . .
Damn! Damn! Damn! he thought.
The agent part of him, the old intuition, put together
everything Beckhart had, and had not, said, and threw forth one
incontrovertible answer. The Admiral had been after Stars’
End from the beginning. From the moment he had summoned Cornelius
Perchevski from his interlude with his quasi-daughter
Greta . . .
As Moyshe benRabi it had been his mission to come up with
leverage Beckhart could use to force the Seiners to open the
fortress world to Luna Command.
He had been doing the Admiral’s work even when he had
thought he was working against the man. Damn! Damn! Damn!
And he did have the lever the Admiral needed. Beckhart had
given that away in threatening Gruber.
The Admiral needed the location of the Seiner Yards. Mouse must
have told the Old Man his partner could clue him in.
Gruber would yield to the threat. Not gracefully, but he would
yield. No sane man would do otherwise once the fate of Homeworld
became known.
Gruber would surrender. The single most commonly known fact
about Beckhart was that he was a man of his word with a threat. He
would use the bomb if refused. But McClennon was sure the Old Man
was running one colossal bluff right now. He could not have the
coordinates of the Yards. Three Sky was huge, even if he knew to
look there. Insofar as Thomas knew, there were just three people on
The Broken Wings who could tell Beckhart what he had to know. Jarl
and Amy would not talk. He was in one hell of a tight place. The
Starfishers did not call their nebula Three Sky among themselves.
McClennon doubted that one in a thousand knew that landside name,
and not one in a hundred of those the coordinates for the Yards
themselves. Mouse did not know. McClennon had acquired the
information entirely by accident, while arguing with Amy.
“Where’s Jarl?” he asked. He wondered how
effectively his orders had been carried out after he had alerted
the fleet. Well, probably. Amy was carrying on like they were the
only red pass people left.
Tears rolled as she replied, “He’s dead, Moyshe. He
killed himself. Only about fifteen minutes ago. I got away while
they were distracted.”
“While who was distracted?”
“The military police.”
So. That roadblock had been a setup. And Jarl, intuiting
Beckhart’s thrust, had gone the only way he could to avoid
checkmate.
And Amy intended eliminating another information source.
Him.
Where was the harvestfleet? Had Beckhart gotten his bluff in on
Payne too?
Then what would Amy do about herself? Put a lasebolt through her
own brain? She was capable. She seemed a bit self-destructive.
What if Beckhart’s claims about a centerward race were
valid? That meant the whole human race, as well as several
neighboring races, were threatened with extinction.
It seemed a lot more than Seiner freedom lay on the line.
The weight of the decision he had to make seemed as heavy as
that Atlas had borne. Heavier. Hundreds of worlds might depend upon
his choice . . . Ambergris and the
Stars’ End weapons. They might make all the difference.
What to do?
He leaned against Jellyroll’s leg and stared at the
symbols of the sides of his conflict. Which should he betray? Which
should he destroy?
It was in his hands alone now, and there was no evading the
decision. He could not let it ride in hopes it would sort itself
out. No god from a machine would swing down on a wire to relieve
him of his burden.
He had always had a yearning to become a hero, even for the few
shooting star moments Confederation culture allowed. He would
become one to the trillions if he delivered Stars’ End and
its arsenal. He would stand beside Jupp von Drachau, destroyer of
Sangaree . . . But that would make him
Iscariot to millions of Starfishers.
His fingertips sensually caressed his weapon. There lay all
solutions. In the gun. The final argument. In the words of ancient
Mao, “All power comes from the mouth of a gun.” War and
violence, he thought. A certain breed claimed they solved nothing.
Those folks ignored the fact that dead men seldom argued.
He remembered a small Ulantonid nun, seen in passing in the
Blake City spaceport on Carson’s an eon ago, while he and
Mouse had been waiting to join the Starfishers. She had served a
dead man . . .
He was vacillating. Avoiding decision. Riding a period of
stability for all it was worth.
One squeeze of a trigger would settle a trillion fates. His
friend? Or Amy, his love?
Those symbols remained as motionless as the man between whose
legs McClennon stood. They waited too, aware that, for the moment,
he was possessed of godlike power.
Mouse had, McClennon was sure, known the ramifications for some
time. Perhaps since before the mission had begun. Mouse stared at
Amy’s weapon, half hypnotized by the death lying there. Death
had never touched him . . .
He had been immune for so long . . .
Amy was pale and growing paler. She had had time to think, to
see some of the possibilities, and to grow scared. Her gun hand
quivered.
Mouse began moving, almost imperceptibly bringing his stunner a
little farther forward.
“Wait!” McClennon snapped. “This is silly.
There’s a way out.”
They looked at him, their faces grave and baffled.
His finger danced on his stunner’s trigger. Amy squeaked
as she fell. Mouse looked infinitely surprised. Shaking, McClennon
peered into the street beyond the trees behind him. The Marines
seemed uninterested in the park. Good. If the men just kept their
mouths shut . . .
He scrambled down, collected weapons, stunned Marya again. Her
breathing indicated she was partially recovered, and probably
gathering herself for something.
He had to keep the three of them out of the way while he twisted
the Admiral’s tail. Maybe he could salvage something for
everybody, though Beckhart would resent it all to hell.
But, dammit! It wasn’t necessary to have big winners and
losers. Everybody could lose a little and win a little and come out
ahead in the end.
Beckhart would give in if he could not catch up fast enough. He
had to have those coordinates soon, or see his whole intrigue blow
up in his face.
McClennon laughed. He was going to get the best of the Old Man,
and that was as rare as roc’s eggs. Still chuckling, he threw
Amy over his shoulder and headed for the tight darkness of Old
Town.
She would come out of this hating him, but by doing it this way
he would give her more than he ever could with love.
He searched his mind for signs of instability. All the gears
were in place and working smoothly. Some sort of balance had been
achieved. Not a natural one, but one that looked good for a while.
He was now a little of everyone he had ever been, and a little
more, too.
He hoped it would last long enough.