by Glen Cook
A Pyrrhic victory. We won, but there is nothing to celebrate. Our joy dies.
I'm ready for collapse, yet hours pass before I rest. First, I search for Mouse, find him in D.C. Central, un-
conscious on a stretcher, his arm crudely bandaged and splinted. Then it's back to my team, patching pipes. There is so much to do, just to keep Danion alive. But power we eventually restore, life support we repair, drives we jury-rig. It's not too hard. The damage is more to people than plant (over half the crew is gone). The surviving service ships are recovered. A watch for sharks is set, but those nightmares have gone to places of easier hunting.
There is no time for mourning, so fierce is the battle for life. We save Danion, but abandon the Star's End project. The war with sharks may well be lost.
Months pass. Something dread approaches: time to return to Carson's.
It is five months since I want drank of the blood of my soul. Five peaceful months. I belong, finally—but I'm afraid to ask to stay. For weeks I worry asking, decide, undecide. I'm so terribly afraid of being turned down; and a little afraid of being accepted.
Even the days are gone now. We're down to the hours, and still I haven't asked, still I haven't found the courage to seize what I need. I think of creche days, of story time, of heroes who were never undecided, never afraid— all from the past. There is no room for heroes in the kaleidoscope universe of today. (Strange. I'm suddenly certain that was one of the things I've sought: heroism, to be a hero. The Broken Wings was as close as I came... . But that conjures visions of Maria.)
The ship for Carson's departs in two hours. What can I do? I know what I should, but still I fear committal, rejection. I don't want to leave, but what if staying is a mistake? The questions I ask myself would fill a book.
Finally, with just an hour remaining, I seek Mouse. He never has doubts, no matter how much he fears— paranoia has its rewards. Maybe he can help.
We've seen little of one another since the battle. I've spent most of my time in Operations Sector, still forbidden him (I'm being used as a mind-tech—are they expecting I'll stay? Or is it just because they're forced by circumstances?), so he is bright when I arrive. "Hey, how about chess while we're waiting?" he asks. He is addicted. "Nobody else will play." He is still an outcast.
Maybe a game will relax me. I nod. He's very excited, shaking a little. I hardly notice. Over opening moves, I try to broach my problem. "Mouse, I want to stay... ."
He looks at me strangely, as if with mixed emotions, as if he expected this, but was hoping for something else. "Let's talk about it after the game. Drink? It'll unwind you."
A man about to undergo acceleration and temporary null-gravity shouldn't, but I nod. He goes to a cabinet, gets a bottle of something pre-mixed. While he's getting glasses, I look around. Everything that is Mouse is gone, except the chess set. So nice to be sure. My gear is packed, but I still haven't sent it to the service ship... .
A glass breaks. Mouse curses, gathers the pieces, curses again as he cuts himself. Wish he'd quit using his bad hand. ... I see why. With his good he's pushing gooey stuff into and over Security's bug—we hunted it up one day after Star's End, when we wanted to talk. He brings the drinks, returns to the game.
It's a slow one. He studies each move so carefully. I down several drinks, grow relaxed, turn off the troublesome part of my mind. I get involved. I'm holding my own. Unusual. He's far the better player, but he seems remote, disturbed. Time swiftly passes.
Sudden, rapid moves. My queen goes, then, "Check-mate!" The alcohol no longer helps. This defeat just adds to a growing depression, a small symbol of my big-time losing. A moment later, while boxing the pieces (he fumbles with his bad hand), he says, "I kept this out, hoping we'd play on the way back. You want to stay?" "Yes."
"That's why I'm here." He turns. I see the fumbling wasn't purposeless. In his good hand is a Fisher weapon. I groan.
"You should've figured, Moyshe. Wheels within wheels." (Maybe I did down deep, and came to Mouse for an easy answer.) "Psych figured you'd fall, figured you'd get where I couldn't. So they sent you out as a remote data-collecting device—and I'm your keeper. That is the worm gnawing around the core of all the rotten plans." This is a long speech for Mouse. He's doing something more than trying to explain—maybe he doesn't like what he's doing. "We're friends, so let's play it gentle, eh?"
Yes, gentle. As in chess, he outskills me here. I'm the half of the team who always does the "soft," people stuff. He does the "hard." He may like me, but he will, and easily can, kill me if I don't cooperate. I look at his face. There's pain there. There's something he wants to tell me—maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want to go himself. I'd best not push if he's under stress. Hell overreact. My shoulders slump forward. I surrender. Back to being a chip in the stream.
Dread voice through Danion, godlike, calling us to the departure station for pay-off and check-out. Mouse pockets his weapon. "Sorry, Moyshe."
"I understand." But I don't, of course.
He nods at the door. We go. I give him no trouble all the way, even when opportunity occurs. I'm sure I could do something in the crowd there. But I've surrendered all. No home. Guess I'll never have one. Back to being a chip in a universe like Sierran rivers raging. Back to the beginning.
No home. ...
"Mr. benRabi?" Here's a man coming through the press, my bags in his hands. "You left these."
I know this man. He's Security, the fellow who first took me into Operations Sector. He steps between Mouse and me. Landsmen mill excitedly around us, talking excitedly of home, rushing to the paymaster when their names are called. I don't really notice in my shock.
"The gun, please?" There are several of them now, all around. Mouse surrenders his weapon meekly. "I told Beckhart it wouldn't work." He looks shattered.
"We'll have to hold you."
There's a stir among the landsmen, a confused shout, screams. A Seiner twists past me, falling, an expression of incredible surprise on the unburned half of his face. Now there's screaming, running, Security men plunging into the crowd... .
"Wheels within wheels, and this was mine," Mouse says. "I thought Beckhart would have a fail-safer aboard." (Fail-safer. Trade term for a fanatic sent on a mission, unknown to the mission, to assassinate agents about to defect or be captured. Didn't know we used them any more. Sure didn't think Mouse and I were that important.) "Sorry, Moyshe. I couldn't tell you. Had to have you thinking I meant what I was doing." Did he? Or was he just bending with the breeze? "Had to spot him before we went over. Otherwise ..." He shrugs, then smiles. So do I. I'll believe him.
There're more shots, then the Seiners catch their man —now we're home free. Home, after all—and with a friend.
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Document ID: 25f514fb-6c1a-1014-999d-d4776b9ef2ba
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Document creation date: 07.06.2008
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