Shadowline

by Glen Cook

  Several glasses of water and a blanket helped. When he felt human enough to talk again, Kindervoort went on as if nothing had happened. “Moyshe, I think it’s important that we work out something between you and Amy. Both on the personal and social level.”

  “Uhm.”

  “Will you talk to her?”

  “I’ve been trying for a week and a half.”

  “All right. Easy. Easy.” He thumbed his intercom. “Bill? Send Miss Coleridge in now.”

  Amy burst through the door. “What happened? I heard? . . . ”

  Softly, so Moyshe could not hear, Kindervoort explained. Amy’s concern became mixed with dismay. She moved to benRabi. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live. Unfortunately.”

  “Moyshe. Moyshe. What’re we going to do?”

  “I’m going to say I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  The apologies and explanations came easy with the edge off their emotions, though Amy remained sensitive. Her problem, as Moyshe had suspected, had caused her a lot of grief.

  Kindervoort thoughtfully absented himself. In an hour or so they concluded a cautious truce.

  Fourteen: 3047 AD

  The Olden Days, Academy

  Perchevski stared out the window as the airbus banked into its Geneva approach. Something was happening down by the lake. A cluster of flashing red lights hugged the shore.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot. Air Traffic Control has asked me to relay a Security Service warning. There’s trouble on the northbound traffic tube. Terrorists have occupied Number Three Station. They could try to retreat through the tubeway or take passenger hostages. The tube is open, but you’ll have to use it at your own risk.”

  Perchevski watched the flashing lights and darting gnat figures of Zone police till the bus dropped too low. Later, as he crossed the tarmac to a waiting hovercar, he heard the shooting. An occasional explosion drowned the titter of light weaponry.

  “They’re putting up a fight,” said the rating leaning against the groundcar. “Sir.”

  “Sounds like. What do they want?”

  The rating shrugged, opened the passenger side door. “I don’t think anybody asked, sir. The Zonies don’t bother anymore. They just shoot them and get ready for the next bunch.” He closed the door, moved to the pilot’s side. “Company office, sir?”

  “Yes. Who are they? How did they get in?”

  “A new mob, sir. Call themselves the Ninth of June. I don’t know what it means.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “They broke through at Checkpoint Ahrsen yesterday. Usual surprise attack. Another mob hit there the day before and the Zonies didn’t get everything put back together fast enough. They always find a way. We had a bunch come in by hot air balloon last year.”

  Perchevski left the car for the office where he had helped Greta Helsung catch her rainbow. He checked in, said he was returning to Luna Command, and glanced over what they had on the girl. An hour later he was headed for the lakeside launch pits. He drew the same driver. This time the rating regaled him with a saga concerning his conquest of a “pink patch lady.” She had loved him so much she had almost enlisted.

  “Pink patch” people were Old Earthers who worked in the Zone but lived outside. The uniform patch was their entry permit. Each was Kirlian keyed to prevent terrorist use.

  Perchevski was back in his lunar apartment before bedtime next evening. He took a pill and put himself out for twelve hours. Old Earth and his mother had been a miserable mistake.

  He did not check his calls right away. He did not want to risk finding a summons from the Bureau.

  There was none. The only messages were from Max and Greta. Max was missing him. Greta was scared and lonely and amazed by everything.

  Perchevski reacted to Greta’s call first He remembered how frightened and lonely he had been when he had come to Academy. Even hating home, he had been dreadfully homesick.

  He made a call to Academy Information, learned that Greta had been assigned to a training battalion, but the battalion had not begun training. The rigorous discipline of Academy would not isolate her for weeks. She could have visitors. She would be allowed a weekly visit from her sponsor after she began training.

  “Things have changed since my day, Lieutenant,” he told the woman handling his call.

  “Since mine, too, Commander. We’re getting soft.”

  “Maybe. Seems like a step in the right direction to me. I’ll be there this evening. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me surprise her.”

  “Whatever you say, Commander.”

  “Thanks for your time, Lieutenant.”

  He settled back in his bed, stared at the ceiling, and wondered why he was sponsoring a kid he hardly knew. Sponsorship was serious business. His reponsibility under Lunar law equaled that of a parent.

  “Will you sponsor?” the man had asked, and he had responded without thinking.

  How could he do right by Greta? In his line of work . . . Maybe Beckhart would move him to a staff post.

  “Old buddy, you backed yourself into a corner this time. How do you get into these things?”

  Ah, what was the worry? Greta would be locked up in Academy for four years. She would have no chance for anything but training and study. His sponsorship would not amount to anything but quotations in her files. She would reach the age of responsibility before she graduated.

  Maybe he knew that unconsciously when he agreed.

  He called Max. No answer.

  He donned his Commander’s uniform and took the high-velocity tube to Academy Station. The tube passed through the core of the moon. Academy was Farside.

  Though he still used the Perchevski name, he had abandoned the Missileman’s uniform after High Command had announced von Drachau’s raid. There seemed little point to the pretense.

  The Bureau apparently agreed. No one had called him on it.

  The tubeways were the gossip shops of Luna Command. There strangers whiled away the long transits by dissecting the latest in scandal and rumor. It was there that Perchevski first heard the March of Ulant discussed seriously.

  Max had talked about it, of course. But Max was a civ. Max had been retailing fourth-hand merchandise. The people he overheard were Planetary Defense Corps general staff officers from worlds far centerward of Sol. They were in Luna Command for a series of high-powered defense strategy seminars.

  Cold fear breathed down Perchevski’s neck. The what might be debatable, but he could no longer deny that something spooky was going on.

  He had been seeing the colorful and sometimes odd uniforms of the local forces everywhere he had gone lately. There were even a few from worlds not part of Confederation.

  No wonder there were rumors of war.

  He checked in with the local office when he arrived. He was wearing the ring, of course, but redundancy of action and mistrust of technology were Bureau axioms. A staff type told a computer terminal where he was, then in boredom resumed watching a holodrama. He caught a bus to Academy’s visitors’ hotel.

  Academy was an almost autonomous fortress-State within the fortress-world of Luna Command. Nearly ten percent of the moon’s surface and volume had been set aside for the school, which trained every Service officer and almost half of all enlisted personnel. Academy contained all the staff colleges, war colleges, and headquarters of special warfare schools which kept the Service honed to a fighting edge. At times as many as two million people taught and studied there.

  Perchevski had spent eight years in Academy, glimpsing the outside universe only rarely. Passes had been few in his day. Going out usually meant having to take part in some very active training exercise. There had been no time left over for sightseeing.

  He was supposed to have graduated as a dedicated, unquestioning Confederation warrior. He supposed even the best systems made mistakes.

  He enjoyed his venture into the old, familiar halls, remembering incidents, recalling classmates he had not thought of
in years. He was amused by all the bright, freshly scrubbed young faces behind those snappy salutes.

  Greta’s battalion was quartered not far from the barracks his own had occupied. He spent an hour ambling through school days memories.

  It was late when he located the officer of Greta’s Training Battalion. The date-letter designation on the door could be interpreted to tell that Greta’s was the forty-third officer candidate unit activated in 3047. He whistled softly. They were taking candidates at a wartime rate.

  There must be something to the rumors.

  Nothing else would explain why Greta had been assigned to an officer training unit almost instantaneously.

  A rating was closing the office. “You the officer looking for the Helsung girl?”

  “Yes, Chief. Sorry I’m late.”

  The petty officer muttered something sarcastic.

  “That attitude going to relay itself to the middies, Chief?”

  “Sorry, sir. It’s been a bad day.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “Alpha Company. Room Twenty-five. We’re just starting the battalion, sir. It’s one of your remedials, for candidates without a Service background.”

  “Thanks, Chief. Go ahead and close up. Ill only stay a few minutes.”

  Perchevski entered the barracks block. Generations of midshipmen had passed through it. The air was heavy with age. And human scent. He found A Corridor and followed it, glancing at the name tags on the cubicle doors. He located helsung, greta: hamburg, earth, paired with james, leslie from someplace on Sierra called Token Offering. No one answered his knock.

  He followed the noise of a holoset on to the company commons. Some twenty youngsters were watching holo or playing games without enthusiasm. Homesickness thickened the air.

  Greta sat in a vinyl-covered armchair. She had heels pulled up against her behind. Her arm embraced her knees. She had an air of infinite sadness, of unspeakable loneliness.

  A ten-year-old with a boarding school voice snapped, “ ’Ten-shut!”

  “As you were, people.”

  Greta hurled herself at him. She flung her arms around his neck. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  “Easy, girl. Don’t break anything.” He felt better about himself suddenly. It was great to have someone glad to see him.

  “How come you’re here? I thought you were going to see your mother?”

  “I did. We were both disappointed.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I didn’t expect much. Come on. Sit down. How’s it going? What do you think of the moon?”

  “I haven’t seen anything yet. Everything’s bigger than I thought it would be. What’s happening back home?”

  “Nothing new. Homesick?”

  She shook her head.

  “Fibber. I was here too, remember? And I still get homesick. That’s why I go back sometimes. Of course, I came up with Neil Armstrong . . . ”

  “Don’t tease me.”

  “All right. Tell you what. I talked to your company commander . . . ”

  “Old Greasy Hair? I hate him already.”

  Perchevski laughed. “You’ll hate him a lot more before you’re done. He’s going to be your father, mother, priest, god, and devil. Look, do you want to see the rest of the moon? You won’t have a chance after classes start.”

  “Don’t you have something better to do? You’ve got your job, and your own friends . . . ”

  “I’m on vacation. Sort of. And I don’t have many friends here.”

  “I don’t want to put you out.” A skinny little black girl with pigtailed hair, wearing a ragged woolen smock, was staring at them. “Oh. Leslie. Come here. This is Leslie James, Commander. My roommate.”

  “Hi, Les. Where is Token Offering? I visited Sierra once, but I don’t remember it.”

  The girl said something into a mouth full of fingers and retreated.

  “She’s shy,” Greta said. “Her parents must be dead. She came from an orphanage.”

  “We’re all orphans, one way or another. Navy is our family.”

  Greta looked at him oddly. Then, “Can we take her with us if we go?”

  “Uhm. You’re starting to understand already. I don’t know. It might be complicated. I’ll ask if you want.”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay. I’d better go. It’s past visiting hours. I just wanted to see how you were. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Thank you. For everything.” Her hands were soft and smooth and warm.

  He spent the evening entertaining fantasies he would never pursue.

  The inside man never ages. He spends the rest of his life in love with the soft, smooth, warm girls he knew when he was young and just becoming aware of what marvelous creatures females are.

  “Where do you want to go, girls?” They were at Academy Station. Perchevski was watching Greta try to people-watch without being offensive. Oddly uniformed folks surrounded them.

  “I don’t know,” Greta replied.

  Luna Command was no sightseer’s paradise. It had no spectacular ruins or monuments. The real sights were outside, the mountains and craters of the surface.

  He took the girls to Tycho Dome and for a ride on one of the surface trains. He treated them to the best restaurants and hotels. Greta’s response was gratifying, Leslie’s remote.

  He ran out of ideas after two days. All but the alien digs, and he had promised those to Max.

  Max could take the pressure off. She would have ideas . . . He took the girls to her shop.

  “Hello, Walter,” Max said. Her voice was chilly. She stared at Greta. Greta did not notice. She was engrossed in the showcases.

  “Hi, Lady. Anything for me?”

  “Same old stuff. Is that what you’ve been doing since you got back?”

  “Come on, Max! She’s sixteen. Greta, come here. I want you to meet Max. Max, Greta Helsung and her friend Leslie.”

  Greta was not imperceptive. “Hi, Max. The Commander is my sponsor.”

  “Your sponsor? You never told me you had a kid, Walter.”

  “I’m a man of mystery, Love.”

  “How come she calls you Walter? Your name is Cornelius.”

  “Because he’s a man of mystery, dear,” Max replied. “Everybody has a different name for him. He’s some kind of spy. I don’t think he knows his real name himself.”

  “Max . . . ”

  “Wow! Really?”

  “Yes. Really. Max, you talk too much. I came here to see if you still wanted to go to the Farside dig.”

  Someone entered the shop behind him. Max said hello.

  “Hi, tall, blonde, and desirable. Thomas? Is that you? What the hell are you doing here?”

  Perchevski turned.

  Mouse had come in. He gave Greta an admiring once-over. “That’s right. You know Max, don’t you? Max, I really want that Manchurian collection, but you’re going to have to come down on it. It’s just not worth twelve thousand.”

  “I can see what you want. Hands off. She’s your buddy’s kid. And I can get fifteen if I send it out to Amonhotep.” To Greta she explained, “This is one of your old man’s buddies. He’s a spy too.”

  Perchevski shook his head. “She’s in a Roman candle mood today, Mouse. I come in to ask her out and she plays mad dog with me. I didn’t know you were a collector.”

  “Lot of things we don’t know about each other.” That seemed to close the subject.

  “Mouse and I were in the same battalion in Academy,” Perchevski told Greta.

  Mouse gave the girl another admiring look. She moved closer to Perchevski, as if feeling for a protective shadow. Mouse smiled gently and resumed arguing with Max.

  Perchevski wondered how he could demonstrate, to her satisfaction, that she was not in competition with inconquerable youth.

  “Max, you want to go to the Farside digs or not?”

  “When it’s convenient.”

&nb
sp; “Are you really a spy, Commander?”

  “I guess you could put it that way, Greta. How about after work, Max?”

  “You sure you won’t be busy?”

  Perchevski closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath, released it. Be patient, he told himself.

  “What’s your real name?” Greta asked. Mouse watched, his expression unreadable.

  “Honey, sometimes I’m not sure myself. Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter. If you need to get in touch, just call the number I gave you. If I can’t get back to you, one of my friends will.”

  “But . . . ”

  “Forget it. Subject closed. Max, are you going to the digs or not?”

  “You don’t have to get snappy, Walter. Yes. I’m coming. What about you, Mouse?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You want to see that new chamber? They think it might shed some light on the Sangaree. There’re some primitive murals that might be of human origin. On a Noah’s ark theme, with spaceships. Or aren’t you the culture type?”

  “Sure. Why not?” He looked at Perchevski as if in appeal.

  “I don’t know, Mouse. Maybe it’s the change.” Why was Mouse attaching himself? Because of the Sangaree remark? Or because the Old Man wanted somebody to keep an eye on him? After what had happened on The Broken Wings, Beckhart would be wondering about him.

  The girls slept during the tube trip. Perchevski and Mouse played chess on Mouse’s pocket set. Prodded by Max, Mouse related several anecdotes about Perchevski while saying nothing about himself. Perchevski let him set the limits.

  Max did not seem the least interested in his former partner.

  Both men loosened up on sips from a flask Max dug out of her jumpsuit. “Emergency rations,” she claimed.

  “Good thinking,” Perchevski told her.

  “What is this? A class reunion?” she demanded toward trip’s end.

  Mouse and Perchevski had begun playing remember when. They were reliving the Great Sunjammer Race of ’29, in which they had crewed a ship and had beaten the best starwind yachtsmen in Confederation. That fluke victory was one of the brightest of Perchevski’s memories.

  He and Mouse had been a team then, almost friends, and for a few days afterward they had been closer than ever before or since.