Kzine Issue 10

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  “It wasn’t anything like that!”

  He roared with laughter. “The girl’s precious Azuria is dead and the Rebels are keeping it a secret. I don’t know if it’s funnier that someone like you would be in love with him, or that you’d believe the Isberians did it.” His laughter slowed. “Pity I’m not a spy. I’d love to take this back.”

  I felt it creep through me, felt my arms tingle and my hands twitch. In that moment, I hated him more than I’d hated anyone before, and likely more than anyone after. Even if he wasn’t a spy, the world wouldn’t lose anything if he were gone. I reached for the dagger and clutched it in my hand.

  The laughter stopped. “Hey, take it easy. I was just trying to make sense of your politics.”

  A minute passed. The birds flew back to jump between the rocks, and Sed came to push a wet nose under my hand. The man’s eyes didn’t move from mine.

  In times like this, the anger ebbs away in stages, but the hatred burns on. I didn’t speak again, and neither did he. Gradually the sun disappeared and the moon swung up full.

  We hadn’t bothered with a fire, and there was little to keep me awake. My eyelids were tugging down, so at last I pulled the second rope off the top of my pack.

  He watched. “Think I’m going to jump you in the night?”

  I didn’t feel like answering, so I just tied a noose in the middle and tossed it to him, keeping both ends myself. “You can leave your hands in front.”

  He snorted, but obeyed. I had to walk up close to tighten the knot, and as I turned to leave, he brought both hands down, grabbing my arm for a split second. I jumped and tried to jerk away, but he held tight just long enough for me to realize I couldn’t have pulled away. He let go with a smirk. “No need to worry, little girl. I’m not going to do anything. Just curious how good you’d be at protecting us if anything happened during the night.”

  I stayed quiet, but I tied one end to the Acacia and the other to my wrist a bit tighter than I had planned, and I slept with the dagger under the edge of my bedroll. Tired as I was, I still stayed awake long enough to hear his breathing deepen.

  I woke before him. Untying the rope from my wrist and taking the dagger, I relieved myself behind the bushes and stopped at the edge of the rock where I could see the snare. It was empty. As I returned, he held up his hands. “You going to untie me, little girl? Or you hoping to help me take a piss yourself?” “The rope’s not stopping you.”

  He snorted, but pushed himself to his feet awkwardly and untied the knot at the Acacia, walking over to stand in front of the cliff.

  “We catch anything last night?” He asked when he returned. I shook my head, and he grunted, digging in his bag to pull out strips of jerky. He tossed a couple to Sed, and I did the same. The dog wolfed them down.

  After we’d packed and I’d kicked dirt over the last remnants of the words from the night before, we set off. Being only a few hours from the turn, I figured it was easier to leave his hands tied. He didn’t ask about it again.

  The sun was a quarter of the way across the sky when we came to the turn. It was the moment I’d dreaded since Colonel Azuria sent me. I slowed my steps, grasping the bow and reaching for an arrow. He glanced over his shoulder. “Still think I’m going to try to jump you? You don’t think you could stop me, even with that thing, do you?”

  The hatred from the day before was still there. Cold. Something I could taste. “I don’t think you want to find out.”

  “You really want me to believe a nice little girl like you could kill someone?” He waved bound hands at me. “Besides, it’ll take time to nock that arrow. How long do you think it’ll take me to get to you while you do?”

  It was true, but I hated him for saying it. I hated Azuria for sending me on such a ridiculous mission which surely had to be a test. And above all, I hated myself for the truth of all of it.

  “We’re going that way,” I blurted, pointing in the direction of Harraras’ camp.

  It wasn’t the best response, or even a good one, but it cut off his threats. “Not terribly surprising, but it does leave me wondering why the charade of coming all the way out here instead of just killing me?” He waved ropes at me. “Why let me get my hopes up that your honorable leaders would actually let me live after the crime of running the same trap lines I’ve run for the last ten years?”

  I hated Colonel Azuria at that moment almost enough that if I’d known the answer, I’d have told him.

  My eyes jerked between the musket and him. “I don’t know. I’m just following orders.”

  “Just like you didn’t know yesterday when you said you were taking me to the border?” His arms bulged against the ropes. They held, but I cringed. “You want to tell me what’ll happen to me there?”

  I didn’t, but something of fairness dictated I did. “They’ll find out if you’re a spy.”

  His voice lowered almost conversationally and his arms relaxed, but he shifted his weight to one leg, sliding the other forward a few inches. “Is there any chance I can prove I’m not?”

  I shook my head. I’d seen too many prisoners brought in to think anything different. He showed neither surprise nor anger, but he shifted his weight to the other knee and took another half step forward.

  “Stay where you are.” I raised the bow, arrow ready.

  He stopped. “What’s in it for me to go with you, then?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “So, in other words, I should just grab that thing, kill you, and be on my way?” My fingers tensed around the bow. “How about if we just skip the step of me killing you and you let me go instead? Then we’ll both be happy, eh, little girl?”

  My mind raced through the old options and my mouth went dry. If I claimed I’d killed him, they’d want proof. If I said he’d escaped, my own life was worthless.

  He took a half step towards me.

  “Get back.”

  He paused to speak, hands raised as if to reassure me. “Not going to do anything to you, little girl, I just want to make sure you don’t do anything to me, either. Fair?”

  Another step.

  I made the decision then, in that second. Hours and days later, I tried to tell myself it was fear, and I tried to tell the other Rebels it was patriotism. But in truth, it was hatred.

  The shot pierced his shoulder just below his neck. He staggered back and his eyes went wide. I dropped the bow, as much in surprise at myself as the blood that was gushing. Sed bounded to him, whimpering, nudging his hand.

  He wasn’t dead yet. It took a few minutes. Unable to watch, I turned my back and covered my ears.

  When I made myself look at him, his arm bent over his chest, and his neck craned.

  It’s a strange thing to look at a man you killed. The hatred fades away with the breath, and there’s nothing but a shell. Even now, after I’ve struck down dozens with my own hand and slept easily afterwards, it doesn’t change the emptiness that comes when you look into their eyes.

  I took his shirt, red stained hole at the shoulder, to prove what I’d done. I’d still be called a failure, but at least not a traitor. I spent the rest of the afternoon piling rocks over the body.

  It was early in the evening when I passed by the other side of the Dome, but I thought only briefly of stopping. In the snare, a rabbit struggled against the rope.

  BAD HABITS

  by Colin Heintze

  The valet must have been new. A veteran would never have made that face when I pulled up in my dented hatchback, the kind that expressed a mixture of “really?” and “you’re joking, right?”

  “Don’t scratch it, eh kid?” I said as I palmed the keys into his hands. The kid nodded and gave me a sly look that either meant he was in on the joke, or a string of sarcastic quips were popping off in his head like corks at a Jewish wedding.

  It was a Tuesday in still-hot-as-hell October when I walked into the Golden Horseshoe to start my new job. The greeter approached me not five feet through the threshold and asked to c
heck my ID. I thanked him profusely for the kind assumption and told him I had an appointment with Nash Carmody, CFO of Kellogg Gaming Incorporated and head wrangler of the Golden Horseshoe Ranch Casino.

  “And you are…?” the greeter said.

  “Tom Maple.”

  The geezer took out his two-way and announced me to the boys upstairs. An incomprehensible garble came out of the earpiece, inspiring a few sagely nods from the greeter. He turned back to me.

  “If you would like to wait by the elevator, Mr. Maple, they’ll be right down to see you.”

  “Of course. Thank you for your help.”

  I spent a few minutes looking at the steakhouse decorum decking the walls – old wagon wheels, tin six-shooters and such – before the elevator dinged to a stop. The doors hissed open and two men stepped out.

  The first I assumed to be Nash Carmody. He was a good 6’8”, immaculately pruned, and had big smiling choppers that looked like he kept them in a glass of bleach next to his bed. The other looked like he’d be at home running down some daredevil on the streets of Pamplona. With his mallets balled at his sides and his chest puffed out, I half-expected to hear the seams on his blazer split at any moment.

  Carmody offered me a hand every bit as big and friendly as those choppers.

  “Thanks for flying in on such short notice,” he said.

  “Ah, it’s nothing. My business in Atlantic City is finished, you had good timing.”

  “I’m curious: did you catch him?”

  “Her, actually, and no. When security made their approach, she pretended to have a fit and threw her chips into a big pot at one of the poker tables. Legal said it’s impossible to prosecute since no one can prove the fakes weren’t put in there by one of the players.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Partials, nothing conclusive. Looks like she only handled them by the edges.”

  “Well, I hope she got the message.”

  “Oh, I suspect so. Unless she swims to Macau, no house will let her through their doors again.”

  The lumpy suit behind Carmody cleared his throat impatiently.

  “Oh yes,” Carmody said. “I want to introduce you to Bill Manzanero, our head of security.”

  Bill’s hand swung out like a gate at a railroad crossing. His shake was every bit as big as Carmody’s, but none so friendly. A firm handshake says ‘I’m to be respected’. Bill’s crusher growled ‘stay out of my way’. I did my best Carmody impression and smiled big and generous, letting him know that it would take more than a few sore knuckles to ruffle my feathers.

  Carmody seemed unaware, or unconcerned, with our schoolyard antics. He clapped a hand on each of our shoulders and said, “Well, Bill, since this is a security issue, maybe you could escort us to the security office?”

  “Sure,” Bill said, still clutching my hand. “Follow me, Mr. Maple.”

  We got off on the fourth floor and were taken to the master security room. Banks of monitors stacked four high, control panels to manipulate hidden cameras and microphones – Big Brother has nothing on casino security, I’ve always said. A man and a woman were sitting at their stations, eyes glued to the action on the screens.

  “Graham, Veronica, take lunch,” Bill said. The woman got up and went out. The man turned to Bill and put on his most dismal expression.

  “Aw, come on, Bill. It’s only 10:30.”

  Bill gave Graham one of those flinty, set-jawed looks I’d seen a lot of when I was in the army. Graham’s expression became more dismal than ever and he scuttled away to an early, and bitter, lunch.

  Bill turned the dials and set the video to the parts he had queued up for the meeting. On the video, a white-haired gentleman ambled over to one of the blackjack tables and took a seat.

  “That’s him,” Carmody said. “Barry Farquhar. Soon as he showed up on our radar, Bill had the ID checker report to us every time he came in.”

  I smiled. Where your average boat-and-RV slot-jockey might see an old man going through the motions, us in the business know that the greeter is equal parts customer-service agent, security guard, and spymaster.

  “This video,” Carmody continued. “Was taken last November. It’s the first we have of him, though he may have come in before then. We’re still going through the tapes.”

  On the monitor, I could see Farquhar gesticulating with his hands as he talked to the dealer. The dealer nodded and began throwing cards onto the table. Farquhar’s hands never stopped moving, whatever patter he was laying on the dealer growing more animated by the moment.

  “For three months, this is all he did. He would play the minimum bet, win or lose fifty bucks here or there. No reason to suspect him of anything.” Carmody said.

  “What’s he talking to the dealer about?”

  “Same story every time, every dealer. Something about a wife laid-up at home with a rare disease. Says only this expensive doctor in Switzerland knows how to treat it. He goes on about how he doesn’t even like cards – he’s just at his wit’s end trying to figure out how he’ll get the money for his wife’s treatment and figured he’s desperate enough to try blackjack.”

  “Load of crap,” Bill snorted.

  I ignored Bill and put my question to Carmody. Bill didn’t like being cut out of the conversation and fidgeted testily.

  “When did you figure on him being an operator?”

  Bill played the next tape in the queue.

  “Here,” Carmody said. “In July. He starts winning, and big.”

  I watch the monitor as Barry, after several hands of floating the minimum bet, pushed a large stack of chips onto the table.

  “Easy,” I said. “He’s counting cards.”

  Bill’s voice was high and agitated.

  “Obviously he’s counting cards! Christ, Nash, is this what we’re paying this guy for?”

  “Mr. Maple,” Carmody said, still sable-smooth. “Even if he was one of the very few individuals who can count into a six-deck shoe, it would only increase his edge over the house by about three percent. From what we’ve gathered on the video, he’s pushed it somewhere closer to twenty.”

  I whistled at the size of the figure and shook my head.

  “You’re right, Bill,” I said, figuring I’d throw him a bone. “He’s not just counting into the deck. He’s working some other angle.”

  Bill accepted my olive branch well enough, saying, “I checked with my counterpart at the Cabaret – Kellogg Gaming Incorporated owns that one, too – and they say he’s pulled the same act over there. Checking around, I come to find out he’s cleaning up at every house in town.”

  “Black-book him. He’s a card-counter, you don’t have to let him play.”

  “Exactly what I’ve been saying,” Bill said, more to Carmody than to me.

  “Of course, it may be prudent to find out how he does it.”

  “Listen to you, trying to milk us!”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Maple,” Carmody interjected, and not a moment too soon. The response I was cooking up to Bill’s accusation would not have cast me in a very professional light. “But you must understand our concern here. At the rate he’s winning, he’s not just working the system, he’s infiltrated it. We need to know how he came up with this system and, more importantly, who he’s sharing it with.”

  “You don’t trust your people?”

  “There’s simply no other explanation, I’m afraid. At the rate he’s winning, he would need inside help.”

  “At every house in town?”

  “Our ID guy says he has a Rhode Island license. Even these days, we occasionally get visited by the boys from Providence - you know the ones I’m talking about. Of course, we throw them out on their asses, but…”

  “I’ll need access to your personnel files, copies of your security tapes, and schedules for your dealers and pit bosses. I’m going to have to interview them.”

  “Done,” Carmody said.

  “And again, my fee: sixty dollars an hour, plus expenses.”<
br />
  “Agreed, but I expect daily updates. I need to see results, or I go with someone else.”

  Good luck with that, I thought. There’s only half a dozen men in the country that can do my job, and none of them at the fire-sale prices I’m offering. But, I smiled big and held my hand out to seal the deal. Carmody shook it with gusto.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. Maple.”

  “Please, call me Tom.”

  Eight days later I dragged myself out of bed for my nine AM meeting with Carmody. As I shuffled to the bathroom, still half-asleep, I wondered who had left the popcorn maker on. The haze of slumber dissipated and I realized we didn’t own a popcorn maker. I looked down and implored my joints to stop complaining. Between them and my esophagus, all I ever hear nowadays are complaints.

  I try to avoid mirrors more than Count Dracula, but a man’s gotta make himself presentable. I began my morning flagellations by dipping my head to see if my hairline had receded any further.

  I tried to rally the troops, saying, “Keep back them Confederate devils, boys! Whatever you do, hold that hill!”

  Useless. It’s Bull Run up there. When it’s all done, the few remaining troops will be the ones in gray.

  I had thought old age was something that happened gradually. For me, it was like I went to bed one night in July and woke up to see snow outside and Thanksgiving circled on the calendar. They say hardship can age a person faster than drink, and over the last few years I’d had plenty of both. The insect kingdom agreed with me and sent one of its emissaries skittering across the tile near my foot. I almost laughed.

  Dressed and groomed to the minimum standards of civilized society, I made my way to the living room. On the table, my wife had laid out all the reports I’d compiled over the last eight days in nice, little folders. I tiptoed into the bedroom and kissed her on the cheek. Her eyelashes were fluttering. Whatever dream she was having, I hoped it was a good one.

  On the way to the Golden Horseshoe I could feel the hatchback’s clutch slipping. The car crawled down the freeway, eliciting quite a bit of advice from some of my fellow motorists. One, as he passed me in one of those monstrous pickup trucks I thought only existed in beer commercials, shouted a suggestion that would take a few years of intensive yoga practice to make possible. I smiled and waved at him, imagining the kind of fireworks show that 30-gallon gas tank would make if he took the exit ramp a little too fast.