Hangfire

by David Sherman

  "Juanita, come on along with us," Johnny Sticks urged.

  She pecked him on the cheek. "You run along, Johnny. I'll join you in a little while." She patted him in an intimate spot.

  Johnny's eyebrows rose and he smiled. He turned quickly and joined the bosses as they plodded down the torchlit passageway.

  The guards and torturers stood waiting for the woman's instructions. "Stand aside and let me work on them for a while," she commanded. Obediently, the guards retreated into the passageway, where they lit up smokes and the torturers settled down among their instruments with cold drinks.

  She pulled down Claypoole's trousers and grabbed him by the crotch. "Scream," she Whispered, "this has got to look real."

  "Fuck you," Claypoole muttered.

  "Goddamnit, holler, you idiot!" she whispered. "I want them to think I'm really hurting you."

  "Eat shit, you old bitch," Claypoole shouted.

  Juanita yanked on his jewels and Claypoole grunted. "Is that all you can do?" he asked through clenched teeth.

  She leaned close and bit his earlobe so hard her lips came away stained with blood. One of the guards watching from the passageway laughed. "I work for Nast, you idiot," she whispered, wiping the blood from her mouth. "Give me the code and I'll call for help."

  Claypoole snickered. "Get on with it," he said.

  "No, no, you goddamned fool, I am Nast's secret agent, Claypoole! Give me the goddamned code! I'll get your reader and call him in!"

  Claypoole stared at Juanita. She yanked his jewels again, harder this time.

  "You...?"

  The other prisoners were chained far enough away from where Claypoole was lying they could not hear what Juanita had been saying. "Rock, what the hell's going on?" Dean whispered.

  "Shut up!" Juanita screamed. She jumped up and kicked Dean in the head. He cursed foully but she turned back to Claypoole. She leaned over him, bracing herself on both arms. "Now Claypoole, listen to me," she whispered, her voice intense. "I don't blame you for not believing me." She brought her knee up between his legs to make the guards think she was whispering her hatred to the chained Marine. "But you have got to believe me! I am your only chance! I know Nast is somewhere on Havanagas, waiting for your signal. Tell me how to send it! I've got what he needs to put these bastards away forever." She leaned forward as she spoke, punctuating her whispered words with forceful slaps to Claypoole's face.

  Claypoole thought fast. It made sense. But if Juanita was the deep-cover agent ...? A nasty thought began to form in his mind. What was it that fat bastard had said? Sending the Marines here was a diversion of some kind? Anger surged through Rachman Claypoole. If this was a setup—

  "Knives in the Night, chieu hoi—"

  "What?"

  "C-h-i-e-u-h-o-i, chieu hoi," Claypoole whispered.

  Juanita stood up and signaled the guards. "I'm going to see Johnny," she said. "Get these fools ready for the show." She turned and walked out.

  "What was that all about?" Dean asked.

  Claypoole was not ready to tell anyone what had passed between him and Juanita. If he were wrong... "She likes me," was all Claypoole would say. Dean grunted and lay back against the stones.

  "I'm all fucked up," Pasquin groaned from his corner of the cell. "Oh, God, I'm no good with only one foot, guys. You'll have to carry me out in the morning." He lay back and groaned again.

  "We're going to stand together and go down together," Dean said. "Us and Mr. Prost there, if he can get up on his good leg. We're going down fighting, like Marines."

  "Guess this might be it for us, eh Joe? What a way to go!" Claypoole whispered. He lay back against the cold stone. Was Juanita telling the truth? If she were—a quick surge of hope flared up in his breast, but he suppressed it immediately. No, there'd be no last minute rescue on this mission. Why did Nast pick us? he asked himself angrily. Why did he put us into this shit? Marines would never do this to anyone. He shook his head. I gotta stop feeling sorry for myself, he thought.

  "I may only have one leg to stand on," Pasquin said with effort through the red cloud of pain enveloping him, "but we're a team, we're going out standing up and—oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it fucking hurts, guys!" His voice shook and he was breathing heavily and soaked in perspiration. The others did not even dare look at his leg.

  One of the guards approached them. No, it was Hugo, Johnny Sticks's man. He carried a small case and a pitcher of water. "Mr. Ferris wants you guys to look good tomorrow," he announced without preamble. "I'm gonna give your buddy and the bookman there a shot to knock them out and then apply these compresses to their feet. At least they'll be able to stand up tomorrow." He gave them all a drink from the pitcher and then plunged a syringe into Pasquin's good leg.

  "I don't need no goddamn—oh, Jesus, oh—" He slumped unconscious to the stones. Hugo did the same thing for Prost, who had not regained consciousness. Then he applied what looked like a shoe to the foot that had been broiled.

  "These compresses will harden so they can stand on their feet, and they're impregnated with a powerful analgesic that'll help deaden the pain," Hugo explained.

  "What's the plan?" Dean asked.

  Hugo hesitated and looked around. "You're going up against jackels, you know, dinosaur-like raptors? You know what happened to Nast's last agent? Prost is going first, on his own, to get the crowd stirred up. Then you three go. If by some miracle you should win, then professional gladiators will be sent in to kill you."

  "When?" Claypoole asked.

  Again Hugo hesitated. "Half past eleven, five hours from now."

  "Should we thank you?" Claypoole asked cynically.

  "No. I've made my bed. I follow orders, whatever they might be. But you guys don't deserve to go out like this, no man does. Go for their snouts. Good luck tomorrow," he whispered, and he was gone.

  Johnny Sticks was naked under his robe, throbbing with anticipation as Juanita stepped into his suite. "Did you enjoy your little session with the boys downstairs?" he asked.

  She walked over to where he was standing. "Of course, Johnny. I feel much better now." Sticks grabbed her and pressed himself up against her. She could feel him underneath his robe. "Johnny," she whispered into his ear, "I know how to send the signal to Nast."

  "What? They told you? How?"

  "Give me the reader and I'll show you," she whispered.

  Her hand touched him ever so lightly under his robe. Johnny was so wild he would have given Juanita his pistol. "It's over on the dresser," he croaked.

  She stepped to the dresser, and there among Johnny's personal items sat the reader. She picked it up and turned it on. Johnny came up behind her and pressed himself into her back. She whirled around and drove the blade of a tiny stiletto between his ribs. Johnny grunted in surprise and staggered backward. Juanita followed and stabbed him twice more. "Urk! You—" Johnny doubled over and grasped his stomach. The blood flowed between his fingers. He went to his knees, gasping and choking. "You—You goddamned—" He pitched forward on the floor.

  Absently, Juanita wiped her hand on her skirt. She scrolled through the table of contents. Ah, there it was, Knives in the Night. She smiled. Just what you'd expect a Marine to be reading. She activated the search function and punched in c-h-i-e-u-h-o-i. She wondered what the words chieu hoi meant. She never felt the bullet that crashed into the back of her skull. Poor Johnny Sticks was not as naked under that robe as she had thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The iron gate to their prison cell slammed open with a tremendous crash, snapping Dean out of the semicomatose state he had been in, not fully awake but not quite asleep either. He thought he had been dreaming, talking to his mother. She had been alive, in perfect health, and he was a boy again, looking up at her as she spoke. "Joseph," she had told him, "your Honor is in Fidelity."

  "All right, boys, your time has come," one of the guards grunted as he kicked the four men into upright positions from where they lay on the cold stone floor. "Look livel
y, look lively. In less than three hours now you won't be anymore." He and his several companions laughed harshly. They hauled each man to his feet, taking off the manacles and chains as they did.

  "I ain't worth a damn in the mornings without a cup of coffee," Claypoole said, stretching. Several of the guards laughed. They admired his pluck. Dean looked at him in admiration too. They were in desperate trouble and Claypoole was cracking jokes! A sudden wave of affection for his friend brought moisture to his eyes. Claypoole thought to himself, Where the hell is Nast!

  "Damn!" Pasquin said, "I can actually walk on this thing!" He tested his weight on his injured foot and it held, with little pain. "Remember," he told the others as the guards unchained him, "we're in this together."

  "Not him," a guard gestured to Prost. "He's going in first all by himself."

  Already people were gathering in the Coliseum stands above, taking their seats in the early morning freshness, relaxing, buying their breakfasts from the vendors who plied the aisles. Out in the arena itself, clowns initiated mock battles for the amusement of the early crowd. Even in their subterranean prison the Marines could hear the muted laughter, like the audio from a vid being played two rooms over.

  "Gate receipts are gonna top the record today," one of the guards remarked. "All right, into the showers with you birds."

  Held by three guards each, the four men were hustled into a modem shower facility adjoining the mock dungeon. The warm water revived them somewhat after their ordeal. "We can't jump them," Claypoole observed, standing under the cascading water. "Too many of 'em."

  "Listen," Claypoole told Prost, "the raptors' hamstrings have been cut, so they can't jump. We've encountered these things before. You do have a chance! Attack! Catch them off balance! They're only animals!"

  "Go for the snouts," Dean advised.

  "No talking, damnit!" one of the guards shouted.

  "I'm very afraid, gentlemen," Prost whispered.

  "So are we," Pasquin admitted, "but we're Marines, we've been shot at and shit at and this is the worst scrape any of us have ever been in, but we are not giving up! We are not going out quietly. Don't you give them that satisfaction, Mister Prost."

  "Actually," Claypoole said, "the worst scrape I ever been in was on Elneal, when we were lost in the Martac. Remember, Joe? We were—" He shut up when the other two looked at him very strangely. Well, they didn't know what he knew. "I got a score to settle with these bastards," he went on, "and no Wanderjahrian jackals and no gladiators are going to stop me. They got a fight on their hands today, by God, and we are gonna win it!" His voice rang off the walls, causing the guards to look at the four men suspiciously.

  "I told you guys to shut up!" a guard hollered.

  Claypoole's companions regarded him as if thinking, What the hell's gotten into him? Then they broke into cheers. "Kill! Kill! Kill!" they shouted and gave high fives all around. Dean, Pasquin, and even Prost felt a sudden surge of hope, so infectious was Claypoole's defiance. Claypoole thought, If Juanita's sent the message—But still he dared not tell his companions, in case the hope of their rescue proved false. He still didn't know if he could trust Juanita, if he'd done the right thing by giving her the code. Who can you trust? Claypoole asked himself. He looked at the other three and he knew.

  Nast had finally agreed to set up a shelter between the two Essays, so he could get all his men together for a preflight briefing. An aerial blowup of the coliseum had been projected onto a screen so all of them could see it. They had been studying smaller versions for three days and knew the place by heart. But Nast insisted on one more rehearsal.

  "They won't be expecting us," Nast said. "I'm going to be in the lead Essay. We'll land right here." He pointed to a spot in the arena just in front of the emperor's box "The bosses will be seated there, with their whole menagerie. Those walls are about four meters high. From the roof of an Essay that'll be an easy climb. We'll assault the mob bosses directly from the Essays. Number two will follow us in and provide security for the snatch. Do not fire unless you have to. We don't want to harm any of the spectators. But if you're fired on or if anyone tries to interfere with this operation, shoot to kill." They'd all heard that before too.

  "Any word from our Marines?" Chief Riggs asked.

  "No," Nast answered quickly. "Nothing. We have to assume they've been compromised So have my agents."

  "Then how're you going to get the evidence you need to put these rats away?" Brock asked.

  Nast paused for only an instant before he said, "I have enough evidence from their operations on a dozen worlds to extradite them from Havanagas."

  If he already had what he needed, then why—Chief Riggs asked himself. A sudden thought occurred to the old navy chief that made him start but he dared not give voice to it. "We'll snatch Draya, Ferris, and their henchmen and transport them to the Wanganui. She should be in orbit by now. I know, I know, customs will have queried Perizittes why he's here, and he'll tell them it's to effect emergency repairs to their Beam drive. I anticipated something like this might happen. We're off schedule, I know. But we have the element of surprise and we'll get them by the balls."

  Brock and several other policemen looked dubious.

  "Brock, you and your team'll be on the lead Essay with me. Soon as we're down, up you go and into the box. You all know what our targets look like; any doubt, secure or disable everyone. Don't let anyone get out of the boxes. Is that clear? If you have to shoot anyone to stop him from getting away, shoot him. We'll sort out who's who when we get back to the Wanganui."

  Brock looked at the officer sitting next to him and they exchanged glances. Was this a license to kill?

  "Chief," Nast turned to Riggs, "we go in as if this were a wartime combat assault. You know how to do that. When the prisoners are secure, you take off for the Wanganui immediately. The rest of us will remain on the ground until you can get back for us. Gentlemen, it might be a very hot hour down there for those of us who stay behind. Make sure you have plenty of ammunition. Chief," again he turned back to Riggs, who then briefed the men on how an assault landing would go, despite the fact they'd practiced dry runs many times over the previous days.

  Riggs explained again that they would go in at wave-top level at supersonic speed When they approached the coast of the continent where Rome was situated, they would rise to treetop level. That way they should be able to avoid any surveillance radars the mob might have in operation. Nast was not worried about armed interference while they were airborne, just that their quarry might get advance warning and get away.

  "Okay, men, thirty minutes to 8 hours," Nast announced when Riggs was done. "Team leaders, review your assignments with your men. Once we're away you can catch some sleep."

  Nast turned to go but Brock stopped him. "How're we gonna make an arrest that'll hold up in court if you don't have that evidence your agent was supposed to get for you?"

  Nast regarded Brock for a moment. Still the dumb street cop from back in, where was it, someplace called Fairfax County? "Welbourne, look at it this way. I'm the number two man in the Ministry of Justice. I have a phalanx of lawyers just waiting to go into action, and besides, the President of the Confederation bought into this operation months ago. But if that's not enough for you, there won't be any trial for these swine. They're going straight to Darkside, those who survive the raid. It's not the first time and it won't be the last. Now get with your men and get them ready. And Welbourne, the fewer of those rats that survive the assault, the better it'll be for the taxpayers."

  The four prisoners sat chained to a wall just inside the staging area. From outside came the hubbub of the crowd waiting impatiently for the games to begin. There was a sudden burst of laughter.

  "What time is it?" Claypoole asked one of the guards.

  "Eleven twenty-two. Eight minutes to show time." He laughed and came over to where the four sat. "Look. We're only following orders. We're not responsible for this. There'll be at least two jackals out there. You've got
a chance if you stick together and cooperate." He glanced sideways at Prost. "But he doesn't," the man whispered.

  "Where the hell are the cops when you need them most?" Claypoole muttered. The others laughed briefly, thinking it was Claypoole's dogged sense of humor, but he really meant what he said. Where the hell was Nast, anyway? On the other side of the planet? What could be taking him so long? Now he had serious doubts Juanita had ever sent the message. He could see her now, schmoozing with Johnny Sticks, laughing at how easy it was to get the code. More laughter from the crowd. "Jesus," he muttered, "don't any of those fools realize what's really going on down here?"

  "No, they think it's all done by special effects," Dean answered. "When Tara and I—" he stopped short. Tara. Burned at the stake. Anger bordering on madness swept through him. He got control of himself after a moment. "They don't think these fights are any more real than the vids all of us watch," he said in a tired voice.

  A very big man in gladiatorial armor came up to them. "If you survive the raptors, and you just might, you'll have to deal with us," he said "We'll kill you quickly, if you cooperate. That's all I can promise. Quick and clean."

  "I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir," Pasquin replied, "but you kill us and you'll know you've had a goddamned fight on your hands."

  The gladiator stared silently at the Marines, shrugged and touched a hand to his helmet's visor. "We who are about to die salute you," he whispered.

  "These guys take this stuff awful serious," Dean whispered. He thought the remark sounded extremely nonchalant and he was proud of himself for saying it. Claypoole wasn't the only one with a sense of humor.

  Pasquin had to laugh. "I'll miss you fools," he whispered to his two teammates. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke.

  "No! No!" Prost protested as two guards unchained him and hauled him to his feet.

  "These things never start on time," one guard said, grinning. "Your life has been extended by approximately two minutes. Hope you used the time to good advantage."