Mouse came around first. He saw McClennon sitting a meter away.
Thomas wore a grave expression.
Mouse groaned. “Christ! My head. What the hell
happened?”
“I shot you. Stunner.”
“Why?” Storm tried to sit up. He could not. He was
tied hand and foot.
“Aw, shit, Tommy. What the hell? Come on, cut me
loose.”
“I can’t.”
“What’s wrong with you, man? I spent four months
fixing it so we could get out. I could’ve left you behind . . . We bought the mission off, Moyshe. Tommy. With ten thousand percent
interest . . . Damned! My head. Get me some
aspirin.”
McClennon had them in his hand. A plastic cup sat on the dirt
floor between himself and Mouse. “Open your mouth. I gave you
a little too much. All of you. I had to shoot fast. I don’t
have your finesse.”
McClennon’s face settled into tired lines. He had had no
sleep. More water dribbled to the floor than passed Mouse’s
lips.
Mouse swallowed, but too late to avoid the aspirin’s
sour-bitter taste. He spat. “You’d better
explain.”
“I got backed into a corner, Mouse. I had to make a
choice. You were on duty when the Old Man finally got around to
laying the truth on the line.”
“Beckhart? Our own fearless leader, who was born without a
mouth?”
“Yes,” McClennon repeated Beckhart’s story
about the centerward peril word for word.
“Did you believe him?”
“He was convincing.”
“He’s always convincing. That doesn’t make him
any less a liar. And he’s the worst ever born.”
McClennon was surprised.. He had thought that Mouse shared his
belief in the Admiral’s basic honesty.
“Still, that little fable would shed a lot of light on all
the weird things that have been going on around Luna Command the
last four or five years. I never did buy that crap about Ulant
getting ready to hit us again. You sure he was telling the
truth?”
“You should have seen his eyes when he described the
Ulantonid intelligence tapes. But what really convinced me was
when he said they’re reactivating the Climbers.”
“No lie?”
“That’s straight.”
“Wow, What do you know about that?” Mouse shook his
head in amazement. It was a difficult task, lying on his side on
that filthy floor. “You were going to explain why I’m
lying here in this muck tied up so I can’t even scratch my
butt.”
“It came to a choice, Mouse.” McClennon’s
voice grew plaintive. “Between betraying Navy or the
Starfishers. When I heard Jarl was dead.”
“I don’t follow you, Tommy. In fact, maybe you
don’t either. You don’t look very stable. I think
we’d better get you to a Psych center.”
“I know. I can see what’s happening to me. Mouse, I
can’t stop it!” He closed his eyes momentarily.
“But I’m holding it off. I have to. Because when Jarl
killed himself, that only left two people who could tell Beckhart
where the Yards are. And he’s trying to bluff Gruber by
telling him he’s going to hit the Yards if the Seiners
don’t pony up Stars’ End and the harvestfleets. Me and
Amy, and maybe you, are the only ones who can give him the
coordinates.”
“I can’t, Tommy. That’s one nobody let me in
on. They didn’t trust me the way they did you. They
weren’t supposed to.”
“I didn’t know for sure. I might’ve left you
behind if I had. No. I couldn’t have. You know too damned
much about Angel City. You would’ve found me.”
“Tell me what the hell you’re doing.”
“I’m going to trade Stars’ End for the
Starfishers.”
“What?”
“I’m going to hide till he gets Luna Command to
agree to let the Seiners be. In writing. In public. Then I’ll
tell him where the Yards are and he can hold them up for
Stars’ End. That way nobody loses but me.”
“You’re out of your head, Tommy. You won’t
pull it off. He’s got too much time to find you. And
he’ll roast you alive when he catches you.”
“No. He’ll be damned nice to me. He’s got to
get me to talk. He doesn’t have any psych probe gear with
him, and he’ll probably hold off getting physical for a
while . . . ”
McClennon had made his decision in an instant. Every second
since he had been trying to justify it and find ways to make it
work. He guessed that he would have to stay missing for a week.
He had decided he would not move during that time, except to do
a few things that had to be done right away. No movement, no tracks
for the hunters to pick up.
“I got to piss, Tommy. Bad.” Mouse examined his
surroundings. “Christ! This is the hole where the Sangaree
used to hide the refined stardust.”
“And it wasn’t in our reports. What are you going to
do, Mouse? Try to jump me first chance you get? Or will you wait it
out?”
Mouse just looked at him. He had donned his poker face.
McClennon wore a half smile when he cut the cords binding
Mouse’s ankles. “Take your leak in the
corner.”
“With no hands?”
“They’re tied in front. Or hadn’t you
noticed?”
A tiny smile flickered across Mouse’s lips.
“You’ve been hanging around me too long. You’re
getting too cool.”
“Go do your business.”
“This place is going to get ripe.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
It was an earthen-floored cellar, already rank and humid.
Mouse stumbled as he walked. “Damned legs are numb.”
He unzipped, leaned against the wall, panted as he urinated.
A stunner blast could leave a man debilitated for days.
Mouse finished. He turned. “That’s a load off my
mind.”
McClennon let Storm take three steps before stunning him across
the thighs.
“Ah, shit, Tommy. Why’d you have to go and do
that?”
“Had to.”
“You’re getting hard, old friend.”
“It’s the company I keep.” McClennon looked at
the Sangaree woman. She was aware now, and watching with cold
gunmetal eyes. He untied her ankles. “Your turn.”
She rose and took care of it without a word. She did not
complain or seem surprised when he stunned her too.
Mouse demanded, “What the hell is she doing here,
anyway?”
“Let’s say I’m keeping a card up my
sleeve.” She and Mouse did not know that Homeworld had been
hit. She could be told and released. Her response might make a
spectacular diversion.
Amy took forever recovering, and it was with her he had tried to
be most gentle.
He was sorry as soon as she did come round.
Her he had not tied. He had thought it unnecessary.
He was playing chess with Mouse, using paper pieces on a board
scratched into the earth. He did Mouse’s moving for him. He
was losing, as usual.
“Behind you,” Mouse whispered.
Clothing rustled.
He hurled himself aside, rolled, grabbed his stunner, fired. Amy
moaned, fell. She dropped the length of pipe she had been about to
swing. It scattered the chessmen.
McClennon could barely tie her, so badly were his hands shaking.
She remained conscious but refused to talk. Neither Mouse nor the
Sangaree woman made any comment
Marya did smile a thin, hard smile.
The walls seemed to push in. For an instant he was not sure
where he was or what he was doing. Then, for a moment, he relived
part of his first visit to The Broken Whigs. His name was Gundaker
Niven and he and the Sangaree woman were bedmates again.
“Tommy?” Mouse said. “Tommy! Snap out of
it!”
That did it, for a few seconds. Long enough for him to see all
three captives trying to gain their feet, and Mouse dead last
in the race.
Cold calm washed over him. He shot all three. In the head. It
was dangerous, for them, but a lot less dangerous for him if he was
going into one of his episodes.
He went. And became quietly crazy for a while.
He was a Starfisher named Moyshe
benRabi . . . A Navy Gunner named Cornelius
Perchevski . . . A naval attaché named Walter
Clark . . . A sociologist named
Gundaker Niven . . . Hamon
Clausson . . . Credence
Pardee . . . Thomas Aquinas
McClennon . . . A boy wandering the cluttered
light canyons of a city on Old Earth and getting a stiff neck
looking up longingly at the stars.
Exhaustion overcame him. He fell asleep.
He wakened before his captives. His grasp on identity and
reality had recovered, but all those other men were still there
inside, clamoring to be released.
He wondered if he would be able to hang on.
He needed Psych attention bad.
His stomach churned and growled. He was hungry.
Food was the weak link in his plan. He had not yet obtained any.
He would have to risk capture to do so.
He checked the time. Sixteen hours had elapsed since he had
spirited the three out of the park. The Admiral would not have
panicked yet, he reasoned. It would be awhile before the streets
became too dangerous to risk.
He stepped down the stunner’s output and gave his
prisoners’ a few more hours worth of unconsciousness. Then he
took Mouse’s comm and went into the streets.
He made his first stop at a used clothing store, a marginal
charitable operation a few blocks from his hiding place. He
purchased worn, unstylish workman’s garb. He changed in an
alleyway. He repeated the process in a more stylish shop, and
farther away still deposited his Seiner jumpsuit in a collection
box belonging to the charitable organization. He worked hard to
keep the surly Gundaker Niven personality in the forefront of his
mind. When he was most successful he hunched slightly, spoke
crudely, and looked too tough to mess with.
He purchased a collection of small tools, then a large
woman’s wig which he trimmed to a style favored by
Angel City thugs. He placed a small bandage on one cheek and a
pebble in his shoe.
He no longer looked or moved anything like any of the people the
Marines were hunting.
Mobile patrols were everywhere, astounding the citizenry with
their busy-ness, but he was not stopped or questioned. They were
seeking a Starfisher.
They would get organized soon, he knew. It would be difficult to
evade them then.
Whenever he was safely out of sight, he used Mouse’s hand
comm to eavesdrop on their radio traffic.
They were confused. They had four people to find, but did not
know which was doing what to whom. Their interest of the moment was
to make sure no one sneaked out of the city. After the boltholes
were sealed they would launch their systematic search.
He wondered if he ought not to let Beckhart stew. The confusion
would give him an edge. But no. The Admiral would need time
to approach his superiors.
He stole an Out of Order sign off a public comm booth and
carried it several blocks to a functional booth. He hung it and
began making like a repairman.
The gimmicking took longer than he expected. The comm was of
local manufacture. He had to figure out the color-coding of the
circuitry. Then it became a classroom exercise. He installed
Mouse’s comm and closed the housing in minutes. He noted the
terminal number and departed.
Finding groceries required imagination. Home cooking simply was
not done. Rich and poor, Angel City’s people ate out or had
prepared meals delivered. Most food was artificial and recycled
anyway. Only a few Terran tropical plants were adaptable to The
Broken Wing’s atmosphere and climate. No local was gourmet
enough to have invested in the genetic engineering needed to adapt
a wider range of food plants.
He ended up buying field rations from a swamp dredger’s
supply house. The saleswoman said he didn’t look the type,
but asked no questions. The underworld used the swamp for its own
purposes. Curiosity could be harmful to a questioner’s
health.
He had no local money left when he returned to the cellar. He
had Seiner cash and Conmarks, both of which were negotiable, but
did not want to draw attention by spending outside currency.
Conmarks were never rare, but still . . . He
searched his prisoners and confiscated their limited wealth. Most
of that was Confederation’s interworld currency.
They submitted sullenly. No one was talking. He did not try
starting a conversation. He gave them another taste of the stunner
and returned to the streets.
He found a public comm and called the booth he had jiggered. The
handcomm there broadcast what he had to say.
The Admiral was not pleased with him.
Finished, he patrolled around and rented two small apartments
and an office, so he would have somewhere to run if the Marines
closed in on his cellar. And, finally, he braved Central Park by
night to steal an all-bands tactical transceiver/scanner from the
inattentive MPs.
He used an old crate for a seat and the cellar wall for a
backrest. He closed his eyes and listened as the tactrans scanned
the bands. He heard a movement after a while. He opened one eye.
Mouse was trying to sit up.
“Tommy, you can’t keep doing that. You’re
going to hurt somebody.”
McClennon turned the scanner down. “Sorry, Mouse. But I
don’t have a lot of choice.” He leaned toward the
transceiver. It was staying busy. His call had stirred Beckhart up
good.
How long would he have to stay lost?
Days passed. He lost track. One moment it seemed only a few had
gone by, the next it seemed a lot. Every hour was an eon trudging
wearily off into eternity.
He thought he was doing well. He had kept three willful, angry
prisoners hidden and controlled for days, Beckhart had not caught a
trace of him. He had driven his mental problem into a straight
jacket . . .
That jacket was not strong enough.
He was somewhere in Luna Command. A beautiful blonde, not more
than seventeen, clung to his left arm. She whispered something into
his ear. She called him Commander Perchevski. He was supposed to
know her. He did not. He wanted to attack her.
Another woman took hold of his right arm. She insisted his name
was Walter Clark. She wanted to take him away from the blonde
morsel.
The females released him and assaulted one another. They fought
over his name. He kept trying to tell them they were both wrong,
that he was really Credence Pardee. Or was it Hamon Clausson?
Wasn’t he Hamon
Clausson that time on Shakedowns? He forgot the women while he
tried to locate his ID badge. It had fallen off his tunic.
There it was, beneath the edge of the carpet. He yanked it out.
A kid with a somber, serious face stared off the card. The kid
said, “Gundaker Niven,” and grinned viciously.
He screamed.
There were men all around him. Some were a little shorter or a
little taller, a little heavier or lighter, but each one had stolen
his face. They pummeled one another mercilessly. Whenever one broke
free and charged him, the others piled on from behind.
He jumped, closed his hands around the nearest throat.
“I’ll kill them,” he gurgled. “I’ll
kill them all. Then they’ll leave me alone.”
He fought till he had no strength left. Weary, he fell to the
floor. Darkness descended.
He wakened in a dank cellar on The Broken Wings. Three people
watched with the cold, hungry eyes of vultures perched over a dying
thing.
He glanced at his watch. He had been out ten hours. What? They
had not jumped him? They were still here? He staggered to his feet,
took a step, fell as vertigo hit him.
He shook his head hard. The cobwebs broke up. They drifted away.
He looked around again.
Mouse quietly proffered the stunner.
Their eyes met. McClennon took the weapon. Mouse did not say a
word. He crossed his wrists and offered to be tied again.
Thomas said nothing either. Nothing needed saying. He retied his
friend and sat down to wait.
The hours groaned on,
He had not expected it to take so long. How long could the Old
Man hold out? Why was he being so stubborn? Giving in would not
cost him much. Confederation did not control the starfish herds
anyway.
He supposed Beckhart was trying to save a political coup that
would help overshadow the Homeworld abomination.
McClennon had to move only once to remain ahead of the search.
Then the Admiral ran out of stall time.
Von Drachau returned from Homeworld. McClennon caught the news
on his scanner. He guessed that it would not be long till the news
reached Stars’ End. That confrontation would dissolve. Gruber
would rush to defend Three Sky.
That old traitor time had turned its coat again.
He was not surprised when his hand comm crackled and Beckhart
came on. “Thomas, are you listening? This is Admiral
Beckhart. Thomas, are you listening?”
“I’m here. Talk.” That was all he said, for
fear they would triangulate his position.
“Thomas, you’ve got what you want. Personally
guaranteed by the Chief of Staff Navy.” He paused for
McClermon’s reply. Thomas did not speak. “Thomas, are
you there?”
“I’m listening, I said.”
“You’ve got what you want. What’re you going
to do about it?”
He had not thought beyond forcing their acquiescence.
How could he get it nailed down, on paper, publicly, without
them dragging him into some back room and running him through a
psychological grist mill?
“I’ll call back.”
He glanced at his prisoners. He had learned that he could not
serve two masters and remain loved by the bondsmen of either.
Amy’s hatred tortured him mercilessly. And Mouse’s
anger . . . But Mouse was helping, if only by
not doing anything when he had the chance. He had allowed
friendship to obscure duty, had let it make him give the benefit of
the doubt.
McClennon would not have made it otherwise.
But Amy . . . . She refused to see what he
was trying to do. She called him Judas.
Marya’s sullen displeasure he could bear. He had had
plenty of practice. Her sultry Sangaree face became a mild,
passive, resigned reflection of everything he saw in his wife.
With Mouse he had no long-run worry. Mouse would get over his
anger. He would forgive the treason. They were friends.
So, he thought. Time to face the Old Man. His wolves will be at
the door the second I tell him where . . .
“Admiral? McClennon here.”
“Thomas, I don’t have much time. You’re
getting what you want. Can we speed things up?”
“I want someone from the Judge Advocate’s
there.”
“What? You’re not being arrested. You’re not
even being charged. I went to bat for you, son. Just give me the
word. Where the hell are you?”
“I want him to witness, not to represent me.”
“Christ. Thomas, you’ve got my word. That’s
all I can give you. It would take a week to get one of those space
lawyers here. Now, pretty please, will you get
organized?”
Okay, okay. Maybe Beckhart was right. He was wasting time. And
the man was giving his word . . .
He told Beckhart where to pick him up.
Mouse came around first. He saw McClennon sitting a meter away.
Thomas wore a grave expression.
Mouse groaned. “Christ! My head. What the hell
happened?”
“I shot you. Stunner.”
“Why?” Storm tried to sit up. He could not. He was
tied hand and foot.
“Aw, shit, Tommy. What the hell? Come on, cut me
loose.”
“I can’t.”
“What’s wrong with you, man? I spent four months
fixing it so we could get out. I could’ve left you behind . . . We bought the mission off, Moyshe. Tommy. With ten thousand percent
interest . . . Damned! My head. Get me some
aspirin.”
McClennon had them in his hand. A plastic cup sat on the dirt
floor between himself and Mouse. “Open your mouth. I gave you
a little too much. All of you. I had to shoot fast. I don’t
have your finesse.”
McClennon’s face settled into tired lines. He had had no
sleep. More water dribbled to the floor than passed Mouse’s
lips.
Mouse swallowed, but too late to avoid the aspirin’s
sour-bitter taste. He spat. “You’d better
explain.”
“I got backed into a corner, Mouse. I had to make a
choice. You were on duty when the Old Man finally got around to
laying the truth on the line.”
“Beckhart? Our own fearless leader, who was born without a
mouth?”
“Yes,” McClennon repeated Beckhart’s story
about the centerward peril word for word.
“Did you believe him?”
“He was convincing.”
“He’s always convincing. That doesn’t make him
any less a liar. And he’s the worst ever born.”
McClennon was surprised.. He had thought that Mouse shared his
belief in the Admiral’s basic honesty.
“Still, that little fable would shed a lot of light on all
the weird things that have been going on around Luna Command the
last four or five years. I never did buy that crap about Ulant
getting ready to hit us again. You sure he was telling the
truth?”
“You should have seen his eyes when he described the
Ulantonid intelligence tapes. But what really convinced me was
when he said they’re reactivating the Climbers.”
“No lie?”
“That’s straight.”
“Wow, What do you know about that?” Mouse shook his
head in amazement. It was a difficult task, lying on his side on
that filthy floor. “You were going to explain why I’m
lying here in this muck tied up so I can’t even scratch my
butt.”
“It came to a choice, Mouse.” McClennon’s
voice grew plaintive. “Between betraying Navy or the
Starfishers. When I heard Jarl was dead.”
“I don’t follow you, Tommy. In fact, maybe you
don’t either. You don’t look very stable. I think
we’d better get you to a Psych center.”
“I know. I can see what’s happening to me. Mouse, I
can’t stop it!” He closed his eyes momentarily.
“But I’m holding it off. I have to. Because when Jarl
killed himself, that only left two people who could tell Beckhart
where the Yards are. And he’s trying to bluff Gruber by
telling him he’s going to hit the Yards if the Seiners
don’t pony up Stars’ End and the harvestfleets. Me and
Amy, and maybe you, are the only ones who can give him the
coordinates.”
“I can’t, Tommy. That’s one nobody let me in
on. They didn’t trust me the way they did you. They
weren’t supposed to.”
“I didn’t know for sure. I might’ve left you
behind if I had. No. I couldn’t have. You know too damned
much about Angel City. You would’ve found me.”
“Tell me what the hell you’re doing.”
“I’m going to trade Stars’ End for the
Starfishers.”
“What?”
“I’m going to hide till he gets Luna Command to
agree to let the Seiners be. In writing. In public. Then I’ll
tell him where the Yards are and he can hold them up for
Stars’ End. That way nobody loses but me.”
“You’re out of your head, Tommy. You won’t
pull it off. He’s got too much time to find you. And
he’ll roast you alive when he catches you.”
“No. He’ll be damned nice to me. He’s got to
get me to talk. He doesn’t have any psych probe gear with
him, and he’ll probably hold off getting physical for a
while . . . ”
McClennon had made his decision in an instant. Every second
since he had been trying to justify it and find ways to make it
work. He guessed that he would have to stay missing for a week.
He had decided he would not move during that time, except to do
a few things that had to be done right away. No movement, no tracks
for the hunters to pick up.
“I got to piss, Tommy. Bad.” Mouse examined his
surroundings. “Christ! This is the hole where the Sangaree
used to hide the refined stardust.”
“And it wasn’t in our reports. What are you going to
do, Mouse? Try to jump me first chance you get? Or will you wait it
out?”
Mouse just looked at him. He had donned his poker face.
McClennon wore a half smile when he cut the cords binding
Mouse’s ankles. “Take your leak in the
corner.”
“With no hands?”
“They’re tied in front. Or hadn’t you
noticed?”
A tiny smile flickered across Mouse’s lips.
“You’ve been hanging around me too long. You’re
getting too cool.”
“Go do your business.”
“This place is going to get ripe.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
It was an earthen-floored cellar, already rank and humid.
Mouse stumbled as he walked. “Damned legs are numb.”
He unzipped, leaned against the wall, panted as he urinated.
A stunner blast could leave a man debilitated for days.
Mouse finished. He turned. “That’s a load off my
mind.”
McClennon let Storm take three steps before stunning him across
the thighs.
“Ah, shit, Tommy. Why’d you have to go and do
that?”
“Had to.”
“You’re getting hard, old friend.”
“It’s the company I keep.” McClennon looked at
the Sangaree woman. She was aware now, and watching with cold
gunmetal eyes. He untied her ankles. “Your turn.”
She rose and took care of it without a word. She did not
complain or seem surprised when he stunned her too.
Mouse demanded, “What the hell is she doing here,
anyway?”
“Let’s say I’m keeping a card up my
sleeve.” She and Mouse did not know that Homeworld had been
hit. She could be told and released. Her response might make a
spectacular diversion.
Amy took forever recovering, and it was with her he had tried to
be most gentle.
He was sorry as soon as she did come round.
Her he had not tied. He had thought it unnecessary.
He was playing chess with Mouse, using paper pieces on a board
scratched into the earth. He did Mouse’s moving for him. He
was losing, as usual.
“Behind you,” Mouse whispered.
Clothing rustled.
He hurled himself aside, rolled, grabbed his stunner, fired. Amy
moaned, fell. She dropped the length of pipe she had been about to
swing. It scattered the chessmen.
McClennon could barely tie her, so badly were his hands shaking.
She remained conscious but refused to talk. Neither Mouse nor the
Sangaree woman made any comment
Marya did smile a thin, hard smile.
The walls seemed to push in. For an instant he was not sure
where he was or what he was doing. Then, for a moment, he relived
part of his first visit to The Broken Whigs. His name was Gundaker
Niven and he and the Sangaree woman were bedmates again.
“Tommy?” Mouse said. “Tommy! Snap out of
it!”
That did it, for a few seconds. Long enough for him to see all
three captives trying to gain their feet, and Mouse dead last
in the race.
Cold calm washed over him. He shot all three. In the head. It
was dangerous, for them, but a lot less dangerous for him if he was
going into one of his episodes.
He went. And became quietly crazy for a while.
He was a Starfisher named Moyshe
benRabi . . . A Navy Gunner named Cornelius
Perchevski . . . A naval attaché named Walter
Clark . . . A sociologist named
Gundaker Niven . . . Hamon
Clausson . . . Credence
Pardee . . . Thomas Aquinas
McClennon . . . A boy wandering the cluttered
light canyons of a city on Old Earth and getting a stiff neck
looking up longingly at the stars.
Exhaustion overcame him. He fell asleep.
He wakened before his captives. His grasp on identity and
reality had recovered, but all those other men were still there
inside, clamoring to be released.
He wondered if he would be able to hang on.
He needed Psych attention bad.
His stomach churned and growled. He was hungry.
Food was the weak link in his plan. He had not yet obtained any.
He would have to risk capture to do so.
He checked the time. Sixteen hours had elapsed since he had
spirited the three out of the park. The Admiral would not have
panicked yet, he reasoned. It would be awhile before the streets
became too dangerous to risk.
He stepped down the stunner’s output and gave his
prisoners’ a few more hours worth of unconsciousness. Then he
took Mouse’s comm and went into the streets.
He made his first stop at a used clothing store, a marginal
charitable operation a few blocks from his hiding place. He
purchased worn, unstylish workman’s garb. He changed in an
alleyway. He repeated the process in a more stylish shop, and
farther away still deposited his Seiner jumpsuit in a collection
box belonging to the charitable organization. He worked hard to
keep the surly Gundaker Niven personality in the forefront of his
mind. When he was most successful he hunched slightly, spoke
crudely, and looked too tough to mess with.
He purchased a collection of small tools, then a large
woman’s wig which he trimmed to a style favored by
Angel City thugs. He placed a small bandage on one cheek and a
pebble in his shoe.
He no longer looked or moved anything like any of the people the
Marines were hunting.
Mobile patrols were everywhere, astounding the citizenry with
their busy-ness, but he was not stopped or questioned. They were
seeking a Starfisher.
They would get organized soon, he knew. It would be difficult to
evade them then.
Whenever he was safely out of sight, he used Mouse’s hand
comm to eavesdrop on their radio traffic.
They were confused. They had four people to find, but did not
know which was doing what to whom. Their interest of the moment was
to make sure no one sneaked out of the city. After the boltholes
were sealed they would launch their systematic search.
He wondered if he ought not to let Beckhart stew. The confusion
would give him an edge. But no. The Admiral would need time
to approach his superiors.
He stole an Out of Order sign off a public comm booth and
carried it several blocks to a functional booth. He hung it and
began making like a repairman.
The gimmicking took longer than he expected. The comm was of
local manufacture. He had to figure out the color-coding of the
circuitry. Then it became a classroom exercise. He installed
Mouse’s comm and closed the housing in minutes. He noted the
terminal number and departed.
Finding groceries required imagination. Home cooking simply was
not done. Rich and poor, Angel City’s people ate out or had
prepared meals delivered. Most food was artificial and recycled
anyway. Only a few Terran tropical plants were adaptable to The
Broken Wing’s atmosphere and climate. No local was gourmet
enough to have invested in the genetic engineering needed to adapt
a wider range of food plants.
He ended up buying field rations from a swamp dredger’s
supply house. The saleswoman said he didn’t look the type,
but asked no questions. The underworld used the swamp for its own
purposes. Curiosity could be harmful to a questioner’s
health.
He had no local money left when he returned to the cellar. He
had Seiner cash and Conmarks, both of which were negotiable, but
did not want to draw attention by spending outside currency.
Conmarks were never rare, but still . . . He
searched his prisoners and confiscated their limited wealth. Most
of that was Confederation’s interworld currency.
They submitted sullenly. No one was talking. He did not try
starting a conversation. He gave them another taste of the stunner
and returned to the streets.
He found a public comm and called the booth he had jiggered. The
handcomm there broadcast what he had to say.
The Admiral was not pleased with him.
Finished, he patrolled around and rented two small apartments
and an office, so he would have somewhere to run if the Marines
closed in on his cellar. And, finally, he braved Central Park by
night to steal an all-bands tactical transceiver/scanner from the
inattentive MPs.
He used an old crate for a seat and the cellar wall for a
backrest. He closed his eyes and listened as the tactrans scanned
the bands. He heard a movement after a while. He opened one eye.
Mouse was trying to sit up.
“Tommy, you can’t keep doing that. You’re
going to hurt somebody.”
McClennon turned the scanner down. “Sorry, Mouse. But I
don’t have a lot of choice.” He leaned toward the
transceiver. It was staying busy. His call had stirred Beckhart up
good.
How long would he have to stay lost?
Days passed. He lost track. One moment it seemed only a few had
gone by, the next it seemed a lot. Every hour was an eon trudging
wearily off into eternity.
He thought he was doing well. He had kept three willful, angry
prisoners hidden and controlled for days, Beckhart had not caught a
trace of him. He had driven his mental problem into a straight
jacket . . .
That jacket was not strong enough.
He was somewhere in Luna Command. A beautiful blonde, not more
than seventeen, clung to his left arm. She whispered something into
his ear. She called him Commander Perchevski. He was supposed to
know her. He did not. He wanted to attack her.
Another woman took hold of his right arm. She insisted his name
was Walter Clark. She wanted to take him away from the blonde
morsel.
The females released him and assaulted one another. They fought
over his name. He kept trying to tell them they were both wrong,
that he was really Credence Pardee. Or was it Hamon Clausson?
Wasn’t he Hamon
Clausson that time on Shakedowns? He forgot the women while he
tried to locate his ID badge. It had fallen off his tunic.
There it was, beneath the edge of the carpet. He yanked it out.
A kid with a somber, serious face stared off the card. The kid
said, “Gundaker Niven,” and grinned viciously.
He screamed.
There were men all around him. Some were a little shorter or a
little taller, a little heavier or lighter, but each one had stolen
his face. They pummeled one another mercilessly. Whenever one broke
free and charged him, the others piled on from behind.
He jumped, closed his hands around the nearest throat.
“I’ll kill them,” he gurgled. “I’ll
kill them all. Then they’ll leave me alone.”
He fought till he had no strength left. Weary, he fell to the
floor. Darkness descended.
He wakened in a dank cellar on The Broken Wings. Three people
watched with the cold, hungry eyes of vultures perched over a dying
thing.
He glanced at his watch. He had been out ten hours. What? They
had not jumped him? They were still here? He staggered to his feet,
took a step, fell as vertigo hit him.
He shook his head hard. The cobwebs broke up. They drifted away.
He looked around again.
Mouse quietly proffered the stunner.
Their eyes met. McClennon took the weapon. Mouse did not say a
word. He crossed his wrists and offered to be tied again.
Thomas said nothing either. Nothing needed saying. He retied his
friend and sat down to wait.
The hours groaned on,
He had not expected it to take so long. How long could the Old
Man hold out? Why was he being so stubborn? Giving in would not
cost him much. Confederation did not control the starfish herds
anyway.
He supposed Beckhart was trying to save a political coup that
would help overshadow the Homeworld abomination.
McClennon had to move only once to remain ahead of the search.
Then the Admiral ran out of stall time.
Von Drachau returned from Homeworld. McClennon caught the news
on his scanner. He guessed that it would not be long till the news
reached Stars’ End. That confrontation would dissolve. Gruber
would rush to defend Three Sky.
That old traitor time had turned its coat again.
He was not surprised when his hand comm crackled and Beckhart
came on. “Thomas, are you listening? This is Admiral
Beckhart. Thomas, are you listening?”
“I’m here. Talk.” That was all he said, for
fear they would triangulate his position.
“Thomas, you’ve got what you want. Personally
guaranteed by the Chief of Staff Navy.” He paused for
McClermon’s reply. Thomas did not speak. “Thomas, are
you there?”
“I’m listening, I said.”
“You’ve got what you want. What’re you going
to do about it?”
He had not thought beyond forcing their acquiescence.
How could he get it nailed down, on paper, publicly, without
them dragging him into some back room and running him through a
psychological grist mill?
“I’ll call back.”
He glanced at his prisoners. He had learned that he could not
serve two masters and remain loved by the bondsmen of either.
Amy’s hatred tortured him mercilessly. And Mouse’s
anger . . . But Mouse was helping, if only by
not doing anything when he had the chance. He had allowed
friendship to obscure duty, had let it make him give the benefit of
the doubt.
McClennon would not have made it otherwise.
But Amy . . . . She refused to see what he
was trying to do. She called him Judas.
Marya’s sullen displeasure he could bear. He had had
plenty of practice. Her sultry Sangaree face became a mild,
passive, resigned reflection of everything he saw in his wife.
With Mouse he had no long-run worry. Mouse would get over his
anger. He would forgive the treason. They were friends.
So, he thought. Time to face the Old Man. His wolves will be at
the door the second I tell him where . . .
“Admiral? McClennon here.”
“Thomas, I don’t have much time. You’re
getting what you want. Can we speed things up?”
“I want someone from the Judge Advocate’s
there.”
“What? You’re not being arrested. You’re not
even being charged. I went to bat for you, son. Just give me the
word. Where the hell are you?”
“I want him to witness, not to represent me.”
“Christ. Thomas, you’ve got my word. That’s
all I can give you. It would take a week to get one of those space
lawyers here. Now, pretty please, will you get
organized?”
Okay, okay. Maybe Beckhart was right. He was wasting time. And
the man was giving his word . . .
He told Beckhart where to pick him up.