by Allan Cole
In a matchup Tanya was strong enough to let that same wizard know he was in a fight. As for the lower ranks— well, let’s just say mages and beginning wizards might find themselves in definite trouble if they crossed spells with Tanya Lawson.
Although she was a Master Investigator in the United Worlds Police— the equivalent of a major in the other UWP branches— Tanya rarely used her powers, and then only grudgingly.
It was this little chip in her armor that gave her boss, Harry Cooper, a one star general aching to make it two, a target to attack.
Tanya frowned, thinking of the last time she and Harry had wrestled over the subject.
She remember how furious he’d been, how much his carefully cultured Don Juan act had been shaken…
* * *
“Why, why, why,” Harry moaned, “do we have to go through this every damned time?”
Tanya sighed. “It isn’t every damn time, Harry. Just some times. You of all people ought to know how busy I am. Every time I turn around you throw another case at me.”
The situation with her boss was further complicated by Harry’s notorious libido. He’d made some very definite moves on her. Moves she’d spurned politely but firmly, knowing as she did so that Harry wouldn’t take it well.
He was a Lothario of much low renown and it was said he kept a meticulous record of all his conquests. Regardless of how carefully Tanya spelled out “N… O…” she knew it wouldn’t appease Harry.
He’d play hurt, leap on her slightest mistake and jump for any perceived gap at the slightest opportunity.
In between he’d be a generally irritating pain in the ass, looking for any chance he could to criticize her.
That particular day was one of those times.
Tanya spread her hands. “How can I possibly take two weeks off for a seminar?”
“A seminar that happens to be about sorcery,” Harry growled. “A seminar aimed at advancement in the magical ranks to full wizardry.”
He slammed the desk. “And those are the kind you always turn down, Major Lawson.”
Tanya, not one to be alarmed by desk pounding, widened her eyes in surprise. “It’s just a coincidence, Harry,” she said. “It’s got nothing to do with anything.”
Harry shook his head in disgust. “Okay. One more chance. But by God I’m going to remember this conversation. You just try calling it a coincidence next time around.”
The next time would come soon enough and Harry would get mad and Tanya would make excuses. And there was always the complication of Harry’s sexual obsession. Although Tanya was beginning to wonder if her boss’s obsession might not be playing out in her favor.
There was a line which could not be crossed. So Tanya used that edge, made it one of her many weapons in the bureaucratic wars of the UWP. In the end it always came out the same and Tanya would once again sidestep the whole issue of sorcery.
Besides, when you got rock-bottom down to it, what could Harry really say? Tanya was every inch a professional. She was the best investigator on Harry’s staff and then some. It was well known by all that the more difficult the mission, the more Tanya would shine.
* * *
Tanya moved through her morning routine: coffee, quick exercises, breakfast, needle shower, more coffee, etc. She disdained the few items of cosmetics she kept on her shelf for “special” occasions.
In her closet, back behind the deep-green UWP uniforms, were a few feminine possessions. A fancy dress or two, accessories and evening wraps. In her bureau there were filmy things for underneath. But the truth was Tanya thought very little of all that frilly business. It was an insult to her identity. She liked her uniform, dammit! And in her civilian hours she dressed casually, like an athlete at rest.
Some of her old school friends said she shouldn’t dress so much like a man if she wanted to catch one. Tanya only nodded and smiled when they said this, remembering the days when these same friends argued long and hard in the dormitory about “women who define themselves by the male company they keep.”
Tanya just wasn’t interested. Men bored her. And they were so spoiled they weren’t worth the trouble of getting over the boredom. This is not to say Tanya was attracted to women. Nor was she sexless. She’d had her share of affairs, including a powerful, soul-shattering one that had ended tragically.
But Tanya was older and wiser now and scarred as well, so the ritual of meeting and mating only irritated the hell out of her. Tanya’s life consisted of work and friends, with a nice apartment to come home to where all her things— her eccentric things— would be just as she left them.
Best of all there wasn’t anyone waiting for her who’d lift a questioning eyebrow at her odd habits.
There was one other thing— one main thing— driving her. Tanya Lawson was determined that one day she would command the United World Police.
Although sometime she had to brush aside a most important question: Why the hell would any sane person want to be UWP chief? At its best it was a thankless job. And at its worst— well, better not think about it.
Now that she was dressed Tanya had time for one more cup of coffee. Sipping at the thick, strong brew, she picked up her trusty antique remote, pressing the button she’d labeled with the letter “N.” This stood for NewsNet, America’s galaxy-wide information system.
Again, instead of a magically-formed vidcast leaping up in the middle of the room, a good old fashioned TV flat screen winked into view on the wall. The satellite antenna system had cost her a fortune.
Thank God for Aunt Ann’s will, which had left Tanya well off enough to afford such things— the UWP not being known for its enlightened salary practices. But freedom had been Aunt Ann’s intent, bless her old feminist soul.
In this case the antique television set helped Tanya achieve her most fervent goal, which was: NOT A SINGLE MAGICAL CREATURE in her house!
The screen turned red. Before Tanya realized what was happening she heard the carefully modulated, normally pedantic, tones of a famous news commentator crack into high-pitched hysterics.
It was a rush in her ears, a trip hammer on her senses— words, ugly words, hard words, punishing words; words like rocks fetched for a village stoning. Never mind that America was a village of twenty billion citizens and allies making up twenty billion more. All this spread across a starry empire.
The commentator was saying:
“The Russians have finally shown their true colors, my friends. And that color is blood.”
As he railed on, the screen played the StarfunInc advertisement for the tour, showing impossibly beautiful young people boarding the “Honeymoon Special.” There were other canned shots of “fun on board,” “romantic, starlit nights,” etc. All setting the mood for the livecast.
“The fact is, my friends,” the commentator said, “in the whole thousand year history of the Cold War there’s never been an incident so cruel, so, so… unconscionable. Hundreds dead, my friends. And no graves for them in space to mark the place where they were martyred in Freedom’s Cause.”
As the commentator went on an artist’s animated rendering of the tragedy filled the screen. The space liner, StarFunInc emblazoned on its side, cruised through wondrous scenes of space. While in clever cutaways a Russian fortress— labeled the Borodino— lurked in the shadows.
“… All innocents,” the commentator said. “Honeymoon innocents. Out to start a new life. To create new families. American families. The very heart of our system of checks and balances and freedoms.
“Oh, you’ll hear the nay sayers crying in the days to come, my friends. Nay sayers who deny the evidence before their face. And from past history we know those Rooskie dupes in our society— our free society, God Bless America— will say it was only an unfortunate accident.
“They’ll say the proof is, there were also a few Russian citizens aboard the HolidayOne. But that’s all propaganda, my friends. Rooskie propaganda. And I don’t apologize for using the word. They’re Rooskies, damn them
. Cowardly Rooskies!
“And when all is said and done my friends … When all the investigations are complete … The facts will be borne out that the Rooskies were willing to kill their own people to get at ours.”
On the screen a simulated missile hit the starliner and the TV screen exploded into flames. And over this image the commentator said:
“We’re playing with monsters, my friends. No getting around it. I’ve said it time and again on this broadcast. The Rooskies are Satan’s toys. And the only thing they understand is force.
“You either have them at your throat… or under your boot…”
The NewsNet livecast was so packed with carefully crafted images and sound that it took Tanya several moments to recover from the shock and horror of it all.
Hate and fear were so strong they even bled through her ancient monitoring system. Then professionalism took over and she grabbed at the few nuggets of real fact offered in the newsfeed.
A cruise liner had been shot down in the neutral Frontier Zone. Mostly young people aboard… honeymoon couples… a direct hit so there was no mistake the spaceliner had been the target… all dead, except one boy… and an engine devil… No denial from the Russians… apologies offered by high officials for the tragic mistake…
After the horror that was HolidayOne had sunk in and Tanya got a grip on her emotions, she knew instantly the UWP would be called in to investigate.
She steeled herself to watch the replay of the simulated attack. The screen showed the scheme of HolidayOne. Green and red lines, bolstered by animated projections, indicated the Russian fortress and the trajectory of its missile.
Once again she was rocked as the animated missile struck and the screen was filled with fire.
And she wondered, What the hell were those Russians up to?
Her feelings were duplicated— and vastly exaggerated— onscreen as NewsNet sought the reactions of “average” Americans.
What followed was hysteria in the raw.
Weeping people— families and friends of the victims. Clenched fists, angry faces, mouths open in an endless cry for revenge. And there were experts on Russian perfidy. Guys who said, “I told you so” for pay. Shots of Online news heads, reading: “Tragedy In Space,” and “Russian Love Killers!” and “Americans Demand Action!”
Just then her antique telephone jangled into life.
Tanya took a breath— she’d been unconsciously expecting the call from the moment she saw the newscast.
She picked up the receiver. “Lawson.”
“Tanya! What the hell are you still doing at home?”
Harry’s voice was at the edge of panic. Tanya needed to calm him.
“And a helluva good morning to you too, Harry,” she said.
“Haven’t you heard what’s happened?” Harry snarled. “Or is that screwball antique wonder of a TV of yours still warming up?”
“Yeah, I heard,” Tanya said. “The Russians have gone and done a bad thing.”
“For crying out loud, Tanya,” Harry said, “don’t be so cool about it. This is a crisis, dammit. A crisis!”
And Tanya thought, patience, patience dear. You didn’t take Harry to bed with you, so clench your teeth and recall Mother Lawson’s Rule Number Seventy Two for Good Girls: you must not tell Harry he’s a complete ass and has no business running your section.
“I’m aware it’s a crisis, Harry,” Tanya said. “Civilian vacation liners don’t get shot down every day, last I heard.”
“So why are you still home?” Harry wanted to know.
Tanya choked back the many sharp retorts that immediately sprang to mind. Which would be followed by the entirely satisfying experience of slamming the phone into its cradle, crushing that harsh, foolish voice.
However, if she wanted to keep her job it was best to stifle those feelings.
So she said, smooth as she could, “I’ll be at headquarters in half an hour, Harry. Which is as fast as it can be done.”
Harry was thrown into a new tizzy.
“You’re not going to use that hellish machine of yours, are you? I mean, what if something happened? What if it quit all of a sudden and crashed? Then where would we be?”
Tanya wanted to say, then I’d be dead and the crisis would have to go on without me. Somehow I’m sure the UWP— and the galaxy— would survive.
Instead she said, “There’s no other way, Harry. Unless you don’t want to see me until tomorrow at this time, assuming the traffic’s light.”
“But…”
Tanya cut him short, going formal. “I’ll be at the office at seven-twenty, sir. Per usual.”
Then in a rush, “Sorry, sir, but if I’m going to be on time I have to leave now.”
She hung up. Maybe slamming the phone just a little bit.
Damn that Harry!
CHAPTER SIX
The trouble was he was too hyped for the job.
Here he was two long breaths away from “mission complete.” One more breath and he could “confirm kill.” It would take only a gasp for “Dustoff!” and then all he had to do was run like hell and dodge the usual barrage of enemy bullets.
Eight breaths— maybe ten, tops— and he’d be a Stealtime hop from the tallest, coldest depthcharger in alcoholic history. He intended to keep several columns of bar’bots busy supplying him for two blissful weeks.
Or maybe he’d get laid first. Screwed, blued and tattooed for two solid weeks. And then a nice drunk weekend before he had to report back for SleepLock at Geronimo Lake.
Okay, fine. Okay, sure, but what about a nice thick T-bone first? Rare with mushrooms and onions and steak fried potatoes. Ketchup. Hot sauce. Apple pie a la mode and black coffee to finish it off and every man a king, boys; every man a king.
All hail Davyd Kells!
But, damntheireyes, a kid was in the way. A wriggler in the beer. A bug under the saucer. A bone in his craw.
Once again Kells considered the target, finger firming on the trigger. He had the latest weapon, a laser bore SeekFinder, tweaked for a thousand yards— his favorite distance. He had a Goblinround primed and anxious. A gorgeous SpectreView of the past/present/future of the shot.
And in his sights was a greasy devil of a third rate Generalisimo. RooskieSymp all the way. Crosshairs fixed on the big obscene gold emblem right in the middle of the thick sweaty pelt matting El Supremo/Whatso’s chest.
This was a guy you dearly wanted to kill. Davyd could tell just looking at him that he was a sonofabitch through and through. Flak jacket open to his navel. Cajones of iron, muchacos, cajones of iron!
Big damned voodoo jewel glued to his forehead. Glowing like he was a witch, instead of a fraud with two copper wires stuffed up his arse.
And the gold chains! Davyd really took offense at the gold chains. A cascade of chains, a waterfall of chains, with a big fat emblem right in the middle. The one that made him general.
Kells hated generals with a passion only a major could feel. He’d gladly kill this guy. This El Supremo. Or Generalisimo, or whatever he was.
Side benefit— the Goblinround would also take out the two prissy aides on either side. Damned colonels, from the lightbars on their jackets. Davyd hated colonels almost as much as he hated generals.
Davyd breathed out long and slow, so slow that in hypertime he made less movement than the lizard crouched on the rock beside him.
Each expelled breath cleansed his body of all poisons.
Each intake fueled the high test hormones coursing through his system.
He was keyed. He was stoked. He was ready.
Too goddamned ready!
Was the kid gonna shoot, or what?
Davyd wanted to look across at the opposite hill where the rookie was hidden. But he didn’t dare take his eyes off the target.
He’d discussed it with the kid, whose name he couldn’t remember— he was just a kid, that’s all. Maybe he was nice, maybe he wasn’t, who gave a squat?
The point was, Davyd was sup
ervising the hit, backing him up if things went wrong. And he’d discussed the plan thoroughly with the kid, drumming every detail into his head.
There were three hit points in this kill. It could’ve been two if Davyd had set it up that way, but he’d made it three to put some goose into the kid. Give him confidence.
The first hit point was one breath away. The generalisimo was reviewing his raggedy troops, speaking loudly, throwing back his ammo vest and flak jacket. Hands on hips. Chest bared and aching for the Goblinround Davyd had for him. GhostProgged for his heart.
Boom!
That was hit point number one. Clean, simple and out of here.
Davyd took the breath and… the moment was on him.
His finger curled, adding the weight of a hair. One hair more was all he needed.
But he couldn’t shoot. He had to wait for the kid.
Then the moment passed as the kid declined first hit opportunity.
Never fear, Davyd Kells, the next chance was only seconds away.
He eased back. Recounted. Two, maybe three more breaths to go.
His mind reached out to the kid. Sitting on a secure hill opposite him that overlooked the headquarters of the main rebel force.
What rebels? Who cares? There’s always rebels and there’s always RooskieProp causes to blind them. Davyd wasn’t even sure what planet he was on.
It’d be an American ally, of course, or Father Zorza wouldn’t have sent him here.
Davyd blinked as the Generalisimo lurched away from his aides. Drunk and staggering across the parade ground to pass out medals and embrace his brave brothers of the cause. Just like Davyd knew he would.
He’d even spiked the Generalisimo’s drink to slow him down.
This is when the second hit point reared up.
And Davyd thought, pull easy, kid, but firm. The DeathSpirits are ready and waiting.
Then— shit!— the kid declined again.
Second hit point gone and stinking.
Davyd was pissed. He was keyed for the kill, hypothalamus pumping a flood.
What the hell was wrong with the kid? How had he gotten this far? What lard-arsed deskbound cretin had passed him up the line?