by Tom Clancy
They jacked out right after the train passed through the border customs station. Leif blinked to find himself lying in brilliant afternoon sun. It had been cloudy in Latvinia-an appropriate background for their goodbyes. Rubbing his face, he got off the computer-link couch and began wandering around the empty apartment.
What was he going to do with his newfound free time? He’d missed lunch with all the excitement over Roberta Hendry, but when he stepped into the kitchen, he discovered he wasn’t really hungry. Warming up the holo in the living room, he flicked through several talk shows, a holosoap, and finally landed on an animated show he’d been meaning to check out. It was about an aging costumed crimefighter, the third generation in the business, who wants to pass along the torch-and the cowl-to his son. But the young man wants nothing to do with chasing criminals.
The old man was definitely not pleased. His face seemed to lean out of the holo display, shouting. “You think crime will just disappear if you turn your back on it? Not in this city. So what are you going to do? Go away? Leave other people to deal with the problems? Run away with your tail between your legs?”
With a sharp order Leif cut the broadcast. This was not what he wanted to be hearing right now. He slumped back on the living room couch, staring up at the ceiling.
This is ridiculous, he thought. Sitting in front of the holo with nothing on. Maybe I should take up stamp collecting….
Abruptly Leif sat up straight. He’d thought of something to do-clearing out some of the folders in his virt- mail system. Besides messages going back and forth, that was where Leif’s Net robots were supposed to dump any information they’d been programmed to pick up.
Leif had a wide range of interests, from gossip about society friends to swimsuit models. His searchbots would wander the Net, finding a print reference here, a holoclip or a photo there, and deposit their finds into folders in a variety of categories. Now Leif began going through the files, deleting the obvious junk, filing other items, putting some aside to be examined further.
When he reached the “Fencing” folder, he hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.
You9 re not in Latvinia anymore, he told himself. The ceiling’s not going to fall in because you show an interest in swords.
Telling the computer to open the folder, Leif shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch. There were a couple of gossipy items about adversaries he’d faced on the fencing strip, an offer for bargain saber blades- Russian steel, not the best. He deleted that.
Then came a reference to a new fencing-related multimedia display. Leif always left standing orders for his searchbots to store references to fencing in historical holodramas. Hollywood swordfights were often ridiculous-they went on way too long, and usually used techniques that would never work against a real opponent. But Leif never missed a chance to check one out.
This was something different, however-a documentary titled Fencing: From Martial Art to Sport. Leif checked the ordering information. The price wasn’t exorbitant for a specialty item. In a few moments, Leif’s credit account was a slight tad lighter, and the documentary was downloading.
Leif told the computer to play his new purchase. It started with a scene of fencers bouting in a modern salle. Leif made a face. These guys weren’t all that good. Then the display shifted to a flatpicture engraving of an eighteenth century fencing school-the House of Angelo in London. A narrator explained that in this period, fencing was actually dueling practice. A flurry of images appeared-people from various eras getting skewered in duels.
The documentary editors were doing their best to keep the presentation visually interesting, but Leif felt his eyes glazing over as the story moved on about a hundred years, explaining how the rise of the middle class helped push the sword from its dominant position as a gentleman’s weapon. Engravings and painted portraits began giving way to photographs. Leif began fast-forwarding, stopping only when he saw a saber in someone’s hand.
He let the documentary run on when it discussed the influence of Giuseppe Radelli, the father of modern saber technique. But he sent the display zooming on again, slowing it to chuckle at the herky-jerky antics of a couple of fencers captured on flatfilm by somebody named Lumiere. He zipped ahead to another famous flatfilm swordfighting movie, The Mark of Zorro with a very athletic actor named Douglas Fairbanks.
Leif leaned forward on the couch. Something in that set of wildly flickering images …
He ordered the computer cue back to the earlier film, and then to proceed-slowly. He was just about to give up and fast-forward again when the computer displayed a hundred-and-something-year-old photograph. It was a short, thick-bodied guy with cropped hair and a funny- looking beard. He stood posing in an old-fashioned, almost prissy guard position, flat-footed, his free hand on his hip.
Leif knew where he’d seen that pose-and that face- before. He’d squared off against that guy in the palace gardens of Latvinia!
“Computer!” he barked, ordering the display back to that picture. “Does the presentation have any hypertext information on the subject of this photograph?
“Information available,” the computer replied. Leif silently blessed the scholarly heart of whoever made this documentary. “Subject is one Louis Rondelle, French military officer and fencing master-”
Listening to Louis Rondelle’s military exploits fighting German invaders in 1873, his training in the use of the sword, and the training he imparted to his students, Leif’s eyes grew steadily wider.
I was lucky to get off as lightly as I did, he thought ruefully. This guy could have probably taken my head off!
He stopped the presentation, asking the computer instead to display all portraits of fencing masters shown in the documentary from 1880 to 1900, along with any hypertext biographies.
Yes-he began to spot several other familiar faces, those tough-looking guys surrounding Gray Piotr at the Latvinian court. There was another bearded Frenchman- Georges Robert Aine. A fierce-looking Italian Master glared over a bristling mustache-Luigi Barbasetti. Leif remembered another Frenchman, Augustin Grisin, for his brilliantined receding hair, his sharp eyes, and the wry twist of his lips.
Then there were the two fencing masters stripped to the waist and squaring off for a duel. One had craggy features, a hook of a nose, and muscles in his back, shoulders and arms like a woodcutter. That was Athos de San Malato. His opponent, smaller with a rounder face, curly hair, and a mustache, was Eugenio Pini.
Leif even found the face of the assassin who’d almost killed him-who was, of course, renowned for his mastery of the centuries-old art of fighting with rapier and dagger.
“Holy cow!” Leif muttered. “No wonder I got my ass handed to me in Latvinia. Alan Slaney has surrounded himself with the Murderers’ Row of fencing!”
Chapter 13
P. J. Farris chuckled, ending his mad dash down the platform of the Herzen station, still waving to the departing Vienna Limited. To his left, the waiting locomotive gave a great chuff! of steam and began to move.
And behind him he heard a brief, surprised female cry.
That was Megan’s voice!
P. J. whirled around. Both Megan’s coachman and her bodyguard were down on the platform, while a quartet of well-dressed men dragged a squirming, cloak- wrapped figure toward the moving private train.
“The princess!” P. J. cried. “They’re abducting the princess!”
Most of the crowd on the platform was either unaware of the scuffle, or prudently avoiding it. Now people began to turn. One of the struggling abductors-the one who’d donated his cloak for wrapping Megan-threw away the club he’d used to take out her protectors. His hand darted into his frock coat, coming out with a shiny automatic pistol.
Two shots into the air, and the area around the kidnappers was magically cleared.
P. J. caught a glimpse of red and scarlet at the platform entrance as he fought a surge of panicked onlookers. “Guardsmen!” he called. “Kidnappers! They’re taking the p
rincess!”
The young Texan finally fought free of the crowd as the kidnappers unceremoniously bundled Megan onto the parlor car. Then they began leaping in themselves. P. J. loped along the now-empty platform, tearing open his long coat. Underneath, a bright red sash was wrapped round his waist-and the butt of one of his Army Colts stuck out from where the gun was tucked into the sash.
But where was his target? The abductors were now aboard. Gun in hand, P. J. ran to try and catch up with the departing parlor car.
From the front of the train, the engineer leaned out of the locomotive, aiming a pistol. P. J. snapped a shot. The trainman’s gun clattered to the platform as he clapped both hands to his face, lurching backwards. P. J. thought he’d taken the man out, but the train suddenly shot forward, moving at a speed that had to threaten the old Civil War-era locomotive’s boiler.
“Mr. Texas!” a semifamiliar voice cried. P. J. turned to see Sergei Chernevsky running toward him. The young hussar’s half-cape streamed in the wind. He held a saber in one hand, a horse pistol in the other. More soldiers clustered around the downed bodyguards.
“The prime minister had us stationed outside in case of trouble,” Chernevsky said. “This is far worse than we imagined.”
“They’re escaping!” P. J. interrupted. “We need horses!”
They headed outside to the street, where the cavalry mounts were tied up. But Sergei didn’t seem very hopeful. “That’s the spur line to the mines on Mount Doom,” he said, pointing to a craggy peak in the distance. ‘The tracks go back and forth-”
“Switchbacks,” P. J. said.
“And trains must slow down for them,” Sergei finished. “But the trainman-when you shot him, he fell across the locomotive’s throttle-it will not slow!”
P. J. was already untying the reins of the two fastest- looking horses. “Then climb aboard!” he said, swinging into the saddle. “We’ve got a runaway train to catch!”
Megan O’Malley didn’t get to see much of her abduction. One moment she’d been waving goodbye, the next-darkness surrounded her as the cloak was thrown over her. She’d been wrapped up like a mummy, but to judge from the quiet groans on either side of her, both bodyguards had been taken out.
She got to feel what happened next-three, maybe four sets of strong hands manhandling her along while she tried to wriggle free of the enclosing woolen folds.
Megan heard P. J. yell, and then a couple of gunshots. Then she was unceremoniously heaved into the air to land with a thump on a metal floor.
The other train, she thought. They’re making their getaway on the other train!
The clatter of feet around her told Megan that her abductors were boarding as well. Then she was half- dragged, half-rolled through a doorway and onto a carpeted floor.
We must be inside the parlor car, she thought.
Her bundled form was heaved up again, then dumped onto something that felt like a cross between a bench and a settee.
Megan immediately set to work trying to get free of the heavy cloak that enwrapped her. She managed to get her head free of the stifling folds, losing her hat and veil in the process. The inside of the railroad car looked like one of the more opulent sitting rooms in the palace. Patterned red silk covered the walls, broken by purple velvet drapes at the windows. Costly oriental carpets were spread across the floors. Several large armchairs were scattered about, besides the bench-style settee by the door where she’d been dumped. A large mahogany table dominated the center of the room, with two hurricane lamps to give light. The faceted crystal ornaments dangling from the lamps tinkled together as the train began to pick up speed and sent little refracted rainbows of light scattering through the car.
Three of her abductors stood by the table, where the apparent leader was shouting into a speaking tube. “We’re aboard, Zoltan. What? Running after? Well, shoot him, you fool!”
The fourth kidnapper loomed over her, looking like the villain in an old-time play in his black suit and tall hat. He was even twirling his long, black, waxed mustache.
“Now, my pretty-” the kidnapper began.
While he’d been preening, Megan had continued to work at getting free. Now she had one arm loose. She made a fist-and rammed it full-force into an area where no male likes to be punched.
“OOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWUUUGGGGGHr The kidnapper made a horrible noise, folding at the middle. He completely forgot about his mustache, clutching at a more personal part of his anatomy.
Megan was almost free of the cape, now. Her hand shot forward, snatching the hilt of the sword at the kidnapper’s waist as he sank to the carpeted floor. Rising up as he went down, she unsheathed a splendid straight- bladed saber. A Wilkinson British cavalry saber-a pair were displayed on the wall of the virtual training room in Alan’s salle.
The trio around the table turned to her as she kicked the cape away and stepped around her incapacitated captor, who was now groaning and pounding the floor.
Now the nearest of the three-big, blond, and cleanshaven-stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his own sword. “Don’t be foolish, Princess,” he began. “It’s three against one-”
But he was the foolish one, advancing into attack range with only a foot of his blade showing out of the scabbard. Megan lunged forward, her blade slicing into the muscles of his thigh.
Blondie collapsed with a surprisingly high-pitched cry, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood.
The remaining two had to get past the big mahogany table to come at her. They came round on opposite sides, swords drawn and ready.
To Megan’s left was a short, wiry guy with dark, intense features. She’d seen him around the salle sometimes, with Alan and the more advanced saber students. On the right was a beefy, red-haired guy with a huge handlebar mustache. He held his sword in his left hand and looked as if he knew how to use it.
“Frack this chivalry stuff,” Big Red growled, coming forward as the train lurched into greater speed. He brought his sword up and around in a swooping cut.
It was a frankly murderous blow that would have split Megan’s head like a melon-if it had landed. But the left-handed swordsman’s wide swing tangled his blade in the velvet drapes. And as he tried to pull free, Megan moved in a reverse lunge, stepping back to gain the room to thrust straight at Big Red’s shoulder.
Her saber pierced flesh and then grated into bone. Megan realized that her point was actually in the joint. She twisted, popping the shoulder the way she’d disjointed the legs on last Thanksgiving’s turkey.
That realization made her a little queasy as she faced the final kidnapper. Maybe it made her careless, as well. She never saw the guy she’d sucker-punched until he was right behind her, going for a tackle to sweep her feet out from under her.
Megan made an undignified landing, right on her butt. She managed to kick the sneak attacker right in the face.
But the last swordsman was looming over her, his sword upraised….
P. J. Farris rode crouched over his cavalry mount, urging the animal to greater speed as they galloped along the track right of way with Sergei close behind. They quickly passed through Herzen’s tiny manufacturing district and then were out of town. The train was well ahead, screeching through a mild curve in the tracks.
If they hit anything sharper at that speed, they’ll definitely derail P. J. thought unhappily. Unless the boiler blows up first.
In the distance he saw a knot of people standing by the tracks, some mounted, others holding extra horses.
Sergei saw them, too. “That is the real getaway,” he declared. “The train was to get out of town. Then they’d ride cross-country.”
But the planned rendezvous wasn’t kept. Despite wav- ings and shoutings up ahead, the locomotive thundered past. A couple of the waiting conspirators tried to spur after the parlor car. But when the rest spotted Sergei’s uniform, they scrambled into the saddle and began tearing out of there.
“We’re never going to beat that thing in a straight chase,” P. J.
called, watching the train outrun the pursuing riders. “Is there some way to cut across the way it’s going?”
Sergei pointed up ahead. “There’s a path that goes up the lower slope, but it’s very steep-better for mountain goats than horses.”
“We’ll have to try it,” P. J. replied. And take the chance, he thought.
Sergei’s path was even worse than advertised, a bare scratch up a steep, stony slope. At points P. J.‘s mount was just about jumping from rock to rock. The horse wasn’t happy, especially since its rider kept urging it to greater speed. P. J. wasn’t exactly delighted himself. One wrong move, and the horse would go down, probably breaking a leg. And that would mean shooting the poor animal, something he hated to do, even in a sim.
Considering how I’d look after the horse fell on me> I would probably need to be shot, tooy P. J. thought. Provided I didn’t break my neck first and save everybody the trouble.
The horse scrambled up onto the railroad tracks just after the train passed. P. J. hauled round on the reins and spurred his mount in pursuit. It was hard use for an animal, even a virtual one. The horse was blowing hard, its flanks lathered.
But P. J. didn’t have a choice-not if he was going to catch up with that train.
You know it can be done, he told himself as he galloped after the back end of the parlor car. Train robbers did it in the old days. Stunt men have been doing it for train robbery movies ever since.
He brought his horse level with the open platform at the rear, leaning out to grab hold of the steel ladder that led to the roof of the car. P. J. missed on his first grab. Urging his steed to one final effort, he matched speeds with the train, leaned out, and caught on. Kicking loose from the stirrups, he swung from the back of the horse, his hands cramping from their desperate grip on the steel rungs… .
Megan scooted herself backward along the floor, frantically parrying the hammer-blows her opponent rained down on her.
Tac-tac-tac-TAC! Somehow she managed to keep her blade in the way of each of his chopping attacks. He leaned back for another swing and was thrown off balance as the train lurched, screeching through a turn. Megan took advantage of the distraction, throwing herself under the mahogany table, scrambling across the width of it, finally managing to get to her feet.