Outies

by Pournelle, J. R.

  This morning, as she wound her way down the inevitable Brigham Young Way intersection with John Smith Lane, Linda stopped to ponder the inordinate number of cracked window panes, missing insect screens, unsealed fire extinguishers, and untrimmed hedges. Dirt, leaves, and graffiti marked an imperceptible but inexorable transition into Moorstown. Where once had stood a demarcation line, like foursquare farmland abutting a wilderness, was now more like the brackish pooling of an anastomosing river into a saline estuary—impossible to tell, through mangrove roots or cypress knees, where river left off and sea began. If anything, although drearier, simple lack of possessions made for neater exteriors outside the Moorstown buildings.

  Linda’s teeth set. This change was not the result of some long decline. She could date it, and document it. It was very recent indeed. In another era, she would have been housekeeper to a great estate on New Washington or Sparta, aware at any moment of the location and condition of each and every piece of crockery. This state of affairs offended her sense of order.

  It had taken about an hour-and-a-half to complete her peregrination, and she set out briskly to reach her office, a temporary partition in a temporary building erected in haste forty years before, by eight o’clock sharp. She could, of course, have simply gone back to retrieve Kermit the Magnificent, but a brisk constitutional along the banks of the river was part of her routine, for she made several more checks and paperwork stops at the various warehouses that intervened.

  As she turned toward the meadows, she could barely make out several figures at the forest’s edge. Clearly, something was amiss. At this point, she should be hearing the Doppler mumble of Jodie calls carrying over the bright morning air, and preparing to dodge a couple of hundred running feet bearing down in banana-yellow glory. She squinted, and as she drew close enough to make out faces she broke into a run.

  “Marul! Jeri! Sheila! What’s wrong!”

  Legrange stood abruptly; frantically waved her back; alternately stabbing toward the ground with one finger, then pointing up into the tree. “Lindy, stay back!”

  But with Legrange’s attention occupied, Marul, too, jumped to her feet, and in one motion bolted into Linda’s arms, as Linda’s touch screen bounced across the path into the grass. Linda’s feet froze in place as the girl’s arms enveloped her; gripped her, and her own body shook with the force of Marul’s sobs.

  “He kill me! He kill me! He say it is stain on his honor! Lindy!, Lindy! You have to help! Please, you have to help! Please, help me get to Uncle Ollie!”

  “Jeri?”

  Legrange hesitated only a fraction. Two hundred troops had already seen what happened. “The run came down through here, and plowed into this poor kid just as she slipped and fell in the—” she looked down at Marul, “in his—” and looked again, “as she slipped and fell. There.” Legrange pointed to the skid marks in Hugo’s blood. “She says his name is Hugo? I got the call, and came around. The XO had already released the troops.”

  Linda nodded. “Can I—can we—it’s hard shouting like this.”

  Legrange nodded and pointed to a safe path around, through the trampled mess made by the troops, where any clue was well-buried now. Linda gently peeled Marul’s arms apart and tried to take her hand, but the girl clung to her side like a toddler as they made their way to Legrange.

  “So she was alone here, with about a million soldiers. Male soldiers?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, not all male. You know, it’s about sixty-forty on a Brigade run.”

  “And the front rank was?”

  “Command staff, of course.”

  “Then why weren’t you—”

  “DO. I was duty officer. So Sergeant….” She trailed off, as Linda groaned.

  “Did anyone touch her?”

  Legrange turned. “Sergeant Thompson?”

  Sheila was staring at the ground. “Yes Ma’am. Me.” But she did not look up.

  “Anyone else?”

  “Not really.”

  “What do you mean, not really? Did they, or didn’t they?”

  “Ma’am. It happened pretty fast. I mean, the guys just wanted to help, you know? They didn’t do nuthin.’ Just put their jackets on her, helped her sit down.”

  But Linda was already shaking her head. “Oh, Sheila.”

  “I know ma’am. I know. I’m so sorry. It happened so fast. I was at the back and it took me a minute to get up there. And we was kind of—well, even me. You know.”

  Linda followed her eyes up into the tree, nodded, sighed.

  “She’s right. He’ll kill her.”

  “Who?”

  “Her father.”

  “Oh, surely that’s ridiculous.”

  Gently, Linda cupped Marul’s chin and turned her face toward Legrange. The sun was higher now, reaching beneath the bonnet’s cowl. One eye was black; the cheek below mottled purple and green. “He did this to her because she waved when they ran past. She wasn’t even on the path. She wasn’t within thirty paces of them. Imagine what he’ll do if he finds out that she was manhandled by a bunch of unrelated, healthy, young men, without a chaperone.”

  “But it’s ridiculous! I mean, it’s utterly irrational. Nothing happened. Nothing could have happened. There’s a hundred witnesses.”

  Linda sighed. “Jeri, you are missing the point. This isn’t rational. It’s not about whether or not ‘anything’ happened. In his twisted view, something did happen. An honor violation, plain and simple. So somebody has to pay. And since he’s an MP TCM fundy himself, it’ll be the girl who pays, not his troopy buddies.”

  “But how does it ‘defend his honor’ to kill his own child?”

  “If it makes you feel any better, he’ll probably cry when he does it. But he’ll do it. They talk a lot about defending church and family, but in the end, it’s really all about themselves.”

  “But that’s—illegal. He’ll get himself court-martialed.”

  “Nevertheless.” She smiled thinly. “And maybe he won’t do it himself. Or maybe he’ll do it, but somebody who owes his family a favor will confess to it and serve the time. In any case, it’ll get done.”

  The police sirens, wailing in the distance, suddenly lurched closer. The morning traffic was breaking up.

  “So what do we do? We need to do it fast. The civvies will be here any minute.”

  “I’ll take her to her Uncle.”

  “Her Uncle? But won’t he just hand her over to her father?”

  Linda was already shaking her head, but Legrange suddenly blanched and interrupted whatever she might have said. “Oh God. The MPs. I brought two with me.”

  “Did they see her with anyone?”

  “Yes. No. Wait.” Legrange struggled with fatigue, trying to remember who had seen exactly what, exactly when. “Sheila?”

  “No, ma’am. When you got here, I was sittin’ with her on that log. And the jackets was already on. And her face was all hid anyway. She was lookin’ down at the groun’.”

  “What about the rest of the troops?”

  “Ma’am, I bin sittin’ here thinkin’ on it. It happened so fast, but see, when she fell, she got up lookin’ away from anyone. An she’s wearin’ that big ole’ bonnet. An’ then I was with her on that log, an she was mostly lookin’ down. An’ those boys with the jackets, they was our boys. They weren’t none of that MP shit. Sorry ma’am. I jus’ don’t like them boys. They make me a lot of trouble over nuthin.’”

  Legrange merely nodded. Thompson went on. “So, I don’t think anybody could say for certain it was her. I mean, some of ‘em might know there’s a girl walks this way every mornin,’ but mos’ of the regulars, like me, was way at the back and didn’t see nuthin.’”

  “Are you sure? She told you her name, didn’t she? Didn’t they hear that?”

  “No ma’am. I don’t think so. Even Major Trippe was all, like, do this, do that, come here, go there. He ran off with that detail, and sent Theo to get you, but nobody really talked to her ‘cept me, an,’ an’�
�Honey, did you even tell me your name?”

  Sharply, emphatically, Marul shook her head no.

  Legrange thought a moment. “Did you tell anyone your cousin’s name? Before I got here, I mean?”

  No, again.

  Legrange turned to Thompson. “So the banana boys with the jackets know that she recognized the body, but that’s all?”

  “Ma’am I think that’s pretty much it. I mean, I think a bunch of people might know that she recognized him, but only those boys with the jackets, and me, and you even heard his name. And nobody knows her name but us.”

  But Marul started shivering again, uncontrollably, and new tears welled. “Wayan! Wayan knows!”

  Linda was already in motion, grabbing Marul’s hand, towing the girl behind her. “That’s it. That sniveling little shit will tell. He’s a typical, pampered, spoiled brat of an eldest son, and he’ll delight in telling. Her Uncle’s her only chance.”

  Legrange jogged after her, shouting, “But how can he help?”

  Linda stopped abruptly, incredulous. “Jeri, haven’t you put this together? That’s Hugo Azhad in that tree. Ollie Azhad’s son. Marul’s cousin.” And when the penny still did not drop, “Jeri, Ollie Azhad. Chief of TCM Contract Security. His youngest sister married the piece of crap that did this to her. You see how that boy was murdered. It’s nothing to do with Marul. This isn’t personal. It’s professional.”

  “But they’ll want a witness statement!”

  “I’m getting this girl out of here. They don’t need her. She witnessed nothing. You could get anybody in Saint George to identify that boy. Anybody local.” And with that, they sprinted for the bridge.

  Legrange jogged to a stop, turned, walked back to Sheila Thompson. Thompson’s face was stone. “Ma’am, that girl was jus’ walkin’ by. Didn’t see nuthin’, didn’t know nuthin’. I will swear that to a Magistrate.”

  Legrange smiled wanly. “What girl was that, Sergeant Thompson?”

  7

  Forty Thieves

  You follow the laws because they are your laws—not always, because you perhaps cheat on your tax forms, but normally you do. Nationalism encourages good behavior.

  —Benedict Anderson

  Bonneville, New Utah

  They wound their way through the city center, working vaguely uphill, finally squeezing into streets so narrow that they must have dated to Foundation times. Individual buildings gave way to long, massive walls punctuated by small, massive doors. The streets became rougher, then narrower, then rougher again, until the street proper ended at a cul-de-sac broken by footpaths fanning off into the blackness. The lads were no longer grinning. As he dismounted, the driver rummaged under his feet—until Asach stopped him with one curt shake of the head.

  “But—”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “But this is—”

  Asach smiled, and finished the sentence. “—my world, now. It is possible, you know, to leave the Ward, and leave the Stick, and live to tell the tale. Think of it as a Mission.”

  The Lads nodded sheepishly, and fell in step behind Asach.

  They wound down a short alley, turned a sharp left, and halted before a door barely visible in the black. Asach balled a fist and pounded three dull blows. They were swallowed up into what sounded like a vast cavern within.

  They waited. The Lads fidgeted, standing back-to-back facing opposite ends of the alleyway. Asach smiled privately, without moving. Eventually, footsteps echoed within, a light snapped on above them, and a disembodied voice said, “Yes?”

  “Is Michael in?”

  “Who asks?”

  At which point Asach pushed back the cloak hood and stared up into the button camera. “Quinn. Asach Quinn. And two friends. If he’s there, we’ll just go on back to—”

  But the door burst open before the thought was finished, and a tiny man was already pulling Asach into the compound with one hand, waving the others to cross the threshold with the other, and shouting to two even tinier women across the courtyard.

  “My dear friend! My dear friend! What brings you here! What brings you here! We did not think we would ever—Lena! Bring—Asach? What do you need? We will—Lena!—How came you to be here? How can we help you, my friend?—Lena, get the—”

  “Sleep.”

  “The cots! Lena, three cots!—I am sorry my friend, the rooms are all—”

  “The roof is fine. Better, even.”

  “Lena! Three cots! On the roof! And towels. And—are you refreshed? Do you desire—”

  “We’ve eaten,” Asach lied.

  “Just tea, then! Lena, hot towels, and tea!”

  Much banging and clanking ensued just out of vision, as the little man finally turned full attention to the little entourage, one hand patting the center of Asach’s back to punctuate each sentence. For a moment, he looked downcast.

  “You know there is trouble in the House?”

  Asach scanned the immaculate courtyard, floors, square columns, walls washed white with gypsum. Lamplight flickered over the intricate lacework, carved from soapy rock, that covered each ground floor window. Stone steps, made from solid blocks stacked one above the other, led to the second story, where the pattern was repeated in carved wooden shutters, now thrown open to the nighttime air. In the opposite corner, a river of basalt, clad in green tracery, plunged from the roofline, through the balustrade, to the entry yard, as backdrop to a gentle spray and fall of water. The stone was cratered with fist-sized holes. Warm air gushed through, was cooled by passage through the mist, and made a gentle breeze as it sank into the courtyard. The Lads gaped, dumbfounded.

  “Trouble? What trouble could there be, here in Heaven?”

  The little man grunted. “As I love you, do not blaspheme.”

  Asach smiled.

  “Michael’s mother—”

  “She has returned?”

  “No.” He frowned. “No. She has withdrawn her share, and so Michael cannot—”

  “But surely the major work is done?” Asach scanned the fresh plaster, restored shutters, rebuilt staircase, waterfall fountain. Even the cross, carved into the lintel beneath which they had passed as they entered, was carefully cleaned and repainted, with polished stones set into each of the trefoil tips that terminated the corners of each arm. Above it was inset a glazed tile depicting an eye: blue-green iris, black pupil, enclosed within a triangle overlaid on radial rays of aquamarine and white. The script enwrapping all was archaic, flowing, not at all Anglic. Asach made out: May His Eye be upon us.

  “Ah, Excellency. It requires so much to run this household, and Michael—”

  “Do not call me that. I work for a living.”

  Asach’s voice had not risen one decibel. Nevertheless, all three men winced, but relaxed again under Asach’s jolly smile.

  At which point, Lena arrived with tea, accompanied by a mountain of little cakes. They huddled together around a pretty stone table, dragged to the cool corner beside the waterfall. The Lads said nothing, and drank no tea, but finally removed their shades and wolfed their way through the mountain, pausing occasionally to cup a handful of water from the fountain.

  The little man was Nejme Silelyan; Lena was his daughter. The tea-and-cake elf was his wife, Mena, who bubbled forth briefly, smothered the top of Asach’s head with kisses, then disappeared again, Lena in tow. The household was in a frenzy, preparing for a wealthy group expected the following evening. A small army, under Mena’s direction, was pressing linens; making beds; airing rooms; dressing suites. A group of what, the Lads could not quite make out: Asach and Nejme shifted among languages, none of them Anglic or Tok Pisin. The Lads did not ask. If they needed to know, they’d be told. If they did not need to know, it was best that they not find out.

  “Michael of course resents having to—to—to—”

  “To run a hotel?”

  Nejme’s eyes sparkled. “For me, it is not so…it is only...it is a way, you know? but for Michael, it is—demeaning. Well, no
t demeaning, exactly, but—”

  “Oh, I can imagine Michael’s views. Is that why he’s away?”

  “Oh, no. Michael—”

  But not wishing to tax Nejme’s hospitality, before the last cake was devoured, Asach rose, declined three offers to remain at table, and motioned The Lads to follow. They trudged up the stairs, then around a turning into an unrestored, ramshackle staircase that took them up to the flat, beaten-clay roof.

  The view of the city was stunning. Up there, above the urban canyons, it was windy, and the night was turning cool. It was amazingly soothing to hear late evening traffic in the distance. Fireworks sparkled over some celebration or other further off in the hills. A wedding was going on down below, with attendant laughter, chatter, music, song, arrivals, departures, and fireworks of its own. Finally, a muezzin made the midnight call to prayer, the aching poetry of that timeless call to God washing over the sleeping Lads, who neither heard nor stirred. It was everything Asach remembered a wonderful time in New Utah to be: that easy-going mix of Mormon and Muslim; High Church and Himmist. Heaven, in fact.

  What had happened?

  Bonneville, New Utah

  Next morning, after washing down nutty-flavored mush with hair-raising coffee (for Asach) and bright red tea (for the rest of the household), Asach sent The Lads on a payback mission. The house Stirling was acting up. It sucked up heat from a solar collector on the roof, and used it to pump water, power the house electrics, and run an air compressor for mechanical jobs. Or, it sucked up motion from the rooftop wind turbine, and used that to pump heat out of the house in the summer, and into the house in the winter. However, at the moment, it was doing none of these things with any great efficiency, providing The Lads with potential hours of fascination as they poured over house energetics diagrams.

  If that failed, according to Nejme, there was a coop daisy field not far away? Set up on the bulldozed remains of an old industrial warehouse, with the collection tower retrofitted into the old crane deck? The daisies were small, self-orienting parabolic dishes. Anyone could add one (for a fee). Anyone could buy power from the coop (for an even bigger fee). But the coop had not yet wired this neighborhood, and Michael had not wanted to bear the expense, personally, of a rooftop line? So the house was dependant upon the (thankfully low-maintenance) Stirling? So if it needed a part, maybe The Lads could run down to the souk and get it fabricated? And if not, maybe lug some backup cells down to the daisy field, and wave their TCM badges around?