by Kage Baker
Night fell at length and the stars burned down at him. Ottorino put on the infrared goggles, and waited.
Just as the little quick moon had lifted above the horizon for its first transit, he saw them coming up the mountain. Two, as before. They were carrying something between them.
Ottorino drew out the flare gun and the knife, and set them at hand. He pulled himself into the crevice as far as he could manage, watching, waiting. It took them the better part of an hour to get up to their ledge.
Yes, the same two men, in their expensive gear. They set down what they had been carrying and collapsed on the ledge, stretching out. Everything in their posture and gestures said that they were gasping for air and cursing feebly, but Ottorino could no more hear them than if he’d been on the other side of the world. He focused on the thing they had brought up. It was a cylinder, perhaps two meters long. He thought he might just be able to get his hands around it. What was it for?
Still they lay there, apparently conversing on a private channel through their helmet systems. Now and again one waved his hand to underscore a point. Gradually they pulled themselves into sitting positions, leaning forward to massage their calves. They got to their feet and jumped in place, exercising to get their chilled blood moving again.
Far down the mountain, on the little strip of cleared terrain by the transport office, a set of lights winked on. Gas or steam vented, and the red lights gave the drifting fogbank a lurid cast. There was a shuttle down there, starting the preliminary procedures for liftoff.
One of the two men noticed it. He pointed. The other turned to stare down the mountain.
Then they moved quickly. The cylinder was lifted, a tripod was folded down from one side and set up. One man took something from a pouch and thrust it down one end of the cylinder. The mortar. It must be a mortar. With practiced speed they aligned it; they must have been up here last night working out the trajectory, and Ottorino realized almost too late that they were aiming their little rocket at the Empress of Mars.
Well-dressed thugs in expensive boots, planning sly murder at a distance. Industrial espionage, as well, but the murder was the main thing. This was part of history too, wasn’t it? Yet it was here and now and the deaths would be real, and the loss unbearable. One little breach in the dome, and the authorities would say it had been a meteorite, perhaps, that had wiped them all out in a moment.
Ottorino grabbed his flare gun, aimed at the mortar and fired, squeezing his eyes shut against the explosion of light that followed. Without waiting, he opened his eyes and grabbed his knife, and dove screaming to the ledge below.
The flare had struck the mortar and knocked it on its side before bouncing over the parapet of rocks to the slope below. There it burned, magnesium-brilliant, backlighting the struggle on the ledge. Ottorino drew on all of his strength and kicked the nearer of the two in the groin, kicking him again in his helmet’s faceplate as he doubled up. He turned to attack the other man but found himself leaped on from behind, a pair of arms going around his neck, a pair of gauntleted hands groping under the edge of his helmet for his mask.
It was weirdly like the bar fight they used to stage for audiences, back in Deadwood Gulch. Ottorino remembered the choreography. He, Tom Jackson, would be jumped by Ernst Hauser playing Hank Turpin, who would yank him backward as he brought up his Bowie knife. And the correct move was to drop to his knees and hurl Ernst forward, so that he went flying over his shoulders, and then to leap on Ernst where he fell sprawling, and draw his own Bowie knife . . .
No retracting blades here. No packet of stage blood, concealed under a calico shirt. The blade of the utility knife went in just above the man’s psuit collar. The blood sprayed out and froze where it landed, glittering like black rubies in the starlight.
Ottorino pushed away from him, gasping, but felt himself tackled from behind again before he could rise on his hands and knees. He rolled over, trying to drag his assailant under him, but the other man compensated and wound up kneeling on his chest.
Ottorino raised his hands, catching the other man by his wrists. Could he break the wrists? Could he shuck off the man’s gauntlets, without which his hands would go instantly numb with cold? Could he at least keep his grip, so that the man would be incapable of reaching for the dropped knife? He couldn’t see his enemy’s expression, he couldn’t hear his voice. There was only the weight on his chest, and the foreshortened looming figure lit by the flare, and the stars staring down at them . . . and still he clenched, clenched, and fought to keep hold while the man twisted his wrists within Ottorino’s grasp.
Then there was another figure outlined against the stars, raising something in its hands. It brought whatever it held down on his assailant’s helmet, with tremendous silent impact.
Ottorino felt the blow too, transmitted through the man’s body. He sucked in a painful breath as the man went limp, slid sideways and fell off him. Ottorino released the wrists at last. He grabbed his knife and pushed himself into a sitting position.
The newcomer tossed aside the melon-sized rock and knelt beside him. A woman. She could not pull off her helmet, shake out her beautiful hair and reveal herself; he could not sweep her into an embrace and kiss her. But Ottorino heard the fanfare in his head. He took Rowan’s gauntleted hand in his own and held it against his heart.
When she had helped him to his feet, he gestured at the mortar and rocket, trying to explain what the hired killers had been going to do. She nodded, but kept gesturing at her helmet. What was she trying to tell him? He looked down the mountain and saw the red lights still winking, the shuttle still poised. Waiting for a pair of passengers? Had they been going to fire their missile and then sprint down and away, to a hasty boarding? What did it use to be called? The getaway car.
She gave up trying to get her point across and put her arms around him, holding tight. He realized belatedly that she had been gesturing at the volume knob on his speaker. He reached up with stiff fingers and switched it on, and instantly her voice was there inside his helmet, murmuring away in PanCelt.
“. . . but I didn’t think you were real, but you are real, really truly real, and I’m so sorry I didn’t trust you and I love you, I love you, I love you . . .”
He understood the last part, at least.
CHAPTER 27
The Impact of the Cream Pie
The Kathmandu Post scooped all presses on both Earth and Luna with the story, but not by much. Chiring was careful to relay every salient fact as it was uncovered, and the facts screamed:
That the would-be murderers, though in no condition to be interrogated (one dead, one in intensive care with a massive stroke following a skull fracture) had nonetheless plenty of papers with them, identifying them as employees of one Ben-Gen Enterprises, a shadowy firm under long-term investigation by Interpol. Further:
That the contracts hiring the representatives of Ben-Gen Enterprises had been ordered, approved, and paid for (out of the British Arean Company’s operating budget) by one Edwin Rotherhithe, presently General Director of the British Arean Company’s colony on Mars. The mortar and small missile had also been paid for by Edwin Rotherhithe, in violation of all international legislation concerning possession of such weaponry. Further:
That the operator of the private shuttle, while refusing to admit complicity, stated that he had been hired to transport the two employees of Ben-Gen Enterprises from Mars to Luna, in secrecy, at a specific prearranged time and with the understanding that they carried no luggage. He readily offered his contract to prove this, a contract signed and approved by the aforementioned Edwin Rotherhithe.
______
Mr. Rotherhithe had been roused from a sound sleep by the call, though it was well into mid-morning when it came; he had taken to sleeping in, of late. He had stumbled out to his office in his thermals, unshaven, wondering where in the world Mr. Nennius had got to. And now he sat at his desk, transfixed by the massed holographic glare of the board of directors. He had already stammered out
his terrified denial, and was waiting through the lag time for their response. He might as well have been praying before images of wrathful saints in a stained-glass window. The waiting was unbearable; his nerves were screaming with tension by the time the image refreshed itself and revealed his persecutors still there, their positions only slightly shifted.
“What do you mean, it wasn’t your fault? Your name is all over these documents, General Director. The money was authorized using your private codes. And what was this other transaction with Ben-Gen? Do you think we’ll be able to hush that up?”
“And what’s this lease you signed with the Ephesian Church?” demanded someone else, with rising bile. “The Ephesians? You gave them assistance? The Ephesians, who sued us over Luna and won? And you authorized this Martian Agricultural Collective and all these concessions, what were you thinking? Who are these people? And what’s this lawsuit about, trying to get a Celtic Federation national committed to Hospital? Don’t you have a copy of the Aberrant Exclusion Act waiver? The judges have thrown it out and we’ve been fined! Do you realize what you’ve cost us?”
The transmission crackled out.
“No! No!” cried Mr. Rotherhithe. “This is all a horrible mistake. These were all your programs! Nennius introduced them, on your orders! Wait! I’ll bring him into the conference, and then he can explain!”
He sent his response and then looked around frantically. Where was Mr. Nennius? He had already been working away in Mr. Rotherhithe’s office every morning when Mr. Rotherhithe had arrived, and he generally stayed late working after Mr. Rotherhithe left. Mr. Rotherhithe found it strange he wasn’t here now, in fact. In fact—
Did Mr. Rotherhithe even have any idea where Mr. Nennius lived? Fumbling with the desk console, he called up the commcode directory for Settlement Base personnel. William Nennius, William Nennius, William Nennius—
But Mr. Rotherhithe found no William Nennius listed anywhere. He began to cry quietly.
He pulled up all the interdepartmental memos Mr. Nennius had sent out over the last couple of months, and found to his horror that his own name, and no other, had been affixed to every one of them. But wait! There was the feed from his office surveillance cams. That would save him, that would offer up as vindicating proof every single smooth convincing word Mr. Nennius had spoken to him!
He input a request for the recorded feed.
DELETED, was the reply.
In desperation he pulled open his desk drawer, hoping to find a scrap of paper, a jotted note, an initialed form, one shred of evidence that Mr. Nennius had ever existed. And there was one.
He drew it out and stared at it, bewildered. It was a playing card; the Joker, in fact. A rather odd Joker. Someone had drawn a classical statue, one he recognized vaguely. Greened bronze, empty eyes, one hand raised to proffer a fistful of lightning bolts. The Artemisium Zeus, that was what it was called. However, it had been drawn wearing a joker’s hat, red and yellow particolored, decked with little golden bells.
Across the bottom someone had printed, in block capitals: GOOD LUCK.
Mr. Rotherhithe sagged forward slowly, a big vessel pulsing visibly at his temple. “Help me,” he moaned. “Ms. Lash, help me. I’m sorry. I’ve been a wicked, wicked boy and must be punished.”
Weeping, he lowered his thermal bottoms and bent over the general director’s desk, waiting, praying for the hiss and crack of the whip. And that was the image presented to the board of directors, when the signal worked its way back and the channel opened to Luna.
“Who’s Nennius?” was the first thing the board chairman said. But not the last . . .
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person,” said Mary cheerily. “Only wish I’d been there to see it.”
“What do you reckon became of that Bill Nennius bastard, anyway?” said Cochevelou. “I’d have liked to given him a parting shot.”
“Probably dragged back Down Home on the same shuttle took Mr. Rotherhithe back,” said Mary. “The swine. Good riddance! Think we might persuade Perrik to come back down the mountain now?”
Cochevelou, rueful, shook his head. “He likes it where he is,” he said. “I went up to see him. Did you know? Couldn’t stand it anymore and climbed up to that cave. The biis whirled about me like confetti, but he didn’t let ’em harm me. Even let me in to see his place. The damn things have built him a whole efficiency flat in there. Dug conduits in to tap off your pipes, I’ll have you know. If that isn’t sly clever, I don’t know what is.”
“How is he looking, dear?” Mary put her hand over Cochevelou’s.
“Thin,” said Cochevelou. “Pale. But then again, he always was. He seemed so . . . calm. Looked me in the face, can you believe it? Says he’s never been so happy. It’s like . . . he was allergic to people, all his life. Never easy around them, always fretting and scowling and looking away. But now he’s peaceful. He let me in. Said I could even come back and see him. Isn’t that nice, now? Said I could expect money from him.”
“There’ll be a great deal of it soon, you know,” said Mary. “A lot of folk want biis Down Home, seemingly. Mr. De Wit’s handling the negotiations, with those people who own Polieos. That ought to make the clan happy.”
“Well, that’s the catch, though,” said Cochevelou, with the ghost of a smile. “Perrik says he’s left the clan. Formally resigned his membership. He’ll give his old dad all the cash he needs, says he, but devil a penny will he see lining the clan’s coffers. Just as well, really, now that we’re paying out so much to the Church.”
“Hmph,” said Mary, glancing over her shoulder into the kitchen. At that moment the lock opened and the Brick came in, stamping red dust from his boots.
“Set me up with a cold one!” he yelled, as he strode to the bar. “There’ll be dancing in the depot tonight! I just heard the news!”
“Which news?” Mary and Cochevelou both turned to stare. The Brick slapped down his gauntlets on the bar, grinning as he pushed his mask up over his head.
“Only that the British Arean Company’s been formally dissolved,” he said. “Bankrupt. Buggered. Defunct. Disgraced. Rotherhithe would be in prison, only he’s been sent to Hospital. He’ll see how the other half lives now, you can bet your life.”
“Which facility?” inquired Mr. Morton, setting a beer before him.
“Lambeth, I heard.” The Brick gulped his drink down. Mr. Morton shuddered.
“Oh, dear, Lambeth! That’s not a nice place. Not like dear old Winksley at all. Full of entirely the wrong sort of people, you know.”
“Keen mortification for him, I’m sure,” said Mary.
“No more British Arean Company,” said Cochevelou in wonderment. “What’ll happen to Settlement Base?”
“I heard they’ve brought in an outfit called Areco to sort it all out,” said the Brick. “You know what it’ll mean, don’t you? They’ll have to cut new deals with all of us. It might just as well be Uncle Tars with a big sack of fat new contracts!”
“Here’s to a new era!” said Mr. Morton, lifting his mug of batch. “Things are bound to improve!”
“And, before I forget,” said Mary to Cochevelou, “you might jog your ladies’ memories a little. Rowan sent out the invitations for Alice’s baby shower a week ago, and no one’s responded. I was wondering if maybe Ramsay had filed them under Inbox Junk or some such.”
Cochevelou went a little pale and peered into the bottom of his mug. “Oh. Well, Mary darling, the truth of it is—see—the truth of it is—”
“What?”
“The invitations got there, see, but the ladies had a good talk amongst themselves and decided maybe it was better not to go, what with you being excommunicated and all.”
“Excommunicated?” said Mary, thunderstruck. “I never.”
“You were,” said Cochevelou. “That Mother Glenda came round and announced it at Morrigan Hall, giving us the list about all the penalties spiritual and temporal for having anything to do with you at all. Don’t tell me yo
u hadn’t—”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Morton. “Oh dear. There was some hard copy, ma’am—one of those big girls brought it by, very unpleasant she was about it, too, and I set it—somewhere over here—it had such an ominous look about it, I confess I was a little intimidated—” He turned and began rummaging frantically through all the junk on the back bar.
“They never,” said Mary.
“I thought you were taking it remarkably well, so I did, never a hair you turned, and here it was because you didn’t know all along—” Cochevelou said.
“I probably just subconsciously deliberately forgot about it because it was so upsetting-looking—” Mr. Morton seized up a large black envelope. “Here it is!” He thrust it at Mary.
She took it reluctantly. It was an impressive object: black veltex cut and folded like an old-fashioned envelope, her name printed on the front in bloodred letters in the Font of Disfavor. The back was sealed with black wax, for Heaven’s sake, and the seal impression showed the Triple Hecate. It popped off and hung by one black ribbon when she opened the envelope.
A concealed sound chip promptly began playing the Curse Litany. Tinny contralto voices railed at Mary as she drew out the hideous document, and read the declaration that she was henceforth damned and excommunicate in the name of Diana, Inanna, Demeter, Isis, Hera, Astarte, Ishtar, et cetera, et cetera. At the very bottom, in a smaller font, were listed the toll-free commcodes she might use in order to appeal her sentence or begin negotiations to have it reversed, with fee schedules and payment plans.