Maylo had been waiting for Jurvis to move. From the moment her husband had pushed the backup weapon into her hand she had known what he wanted her to do. The safety was off as the handgun cleared the table, barked twice, and threw Jurvis back onto the floor. His blaster went off, burned a hole through the ceiling, and fell from his lifeless hand.
The other men, their weapons half-drawn, found themselves looking down the bore of Booly’s semiautomatic service pistol. It looked like the entrance to a railway tunnel and neither one of them moved.
“That’s enough, wouldn’t you say?” Booly asked conversationally. “I suggest that you boys two-finger those weapons, drop them on the bar, and retire to the opposite side of the room.” Both men did as they were told—but they didn’t like it.
Maylo stood first and used her weapon to cover the patrons at the bar. Booly rose second, was careful to stay out of his wife’s line of fire, and kept an eye on the rest of the room.
Then, side by side, they backed out of the saloon. Once clear they turned and ran. Booly dodged around the first corner he came to. Fifty or sixty revelers had spilled out of another establishment and onto the street. The couple dived into the crowd, pushed their way through, and turned to look. There was no sign of pursuit. “Nice work,” Booly said approvingly. “The bastard kept his eyes on my right hand. He never saw it coming.”
Maylo nodded, tried to come up with an appropriate remark, and threw up instead.
Booly waited for the heaves to stop, wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders, and took her home. Then, after a couple of hot showers, they went to bed.
High above them, sitting within the transparent dome which topped his rocketlike home, Captain John Walker sat and stared at the stars. They were a long way off—and he missed them very much.
Booly was the first to rise the following morning. He had just stepped out of the shower, toweled himself dry, and reentered the room when he noticed the envelope on the floor. It had been shoved under the door and bore an embossed “W.”
The officer picked up the envelope, took one look at the name that had been printed across the surface of the white paper, and felt something heavy fall into his stomach. Rather than being addressed to Lonny Fargo, as it should have been, the envelope was made out to “General Bill Booly.”
Booly ripped the flap open, withdrew the note, and read the text:
Dear General,
It would be an honor if you and Ms. Chien-Chu would join me for breakfast. Take the lift to the top.
Sincerely,
Captain John Walker, Ret.
Somehow, some way, their host had not only seen through the carefully constructed identities but done so in very short order.
Booly woke his wife and waited until she had showered before showing her the note. Maylo’s almond-shaped eyes widened as she read both the name on the envelope and the note within. “Damn! What are we going to do?”
Booly shrugged. “There doesn’t seem to be much we can do except get dressed and join Captain Walker for breakfast.”
Twenty minutes later the couple stepped into the small capsule, touched the button labeled “6,” and felt the car jerk into motion. Like many of the mechanical systems on Nexus the lift tube was a one-of-a-kind solution engineered by a local resident. It took a while for the platform to reach the top. When it finally did, and the door opened, Booly and Maylo stepped out into a bright sun-splashed room. A single glance was sufficient to see that the transparent dome afforded an excellent view of Four Points, the river, and the valley through which it flowed.
“Good morning,” a smooth-sounding voice said. “I’m glad you could join me.”
Booly turned to discover that an android, the same android they had met the day before, had emerged from a small galley-style kitchen. It took a moment to absorb the robot’s words. The officer frowned. “Captain Walker?”
“Yes,” Walker said. “I no longer occupy the body my mother gave me and choose to make do with this one instead. Arturo served me for many years, but parts became scarce, and I was forced to take him off-line. Moving into his body seemed like a fitting way to honor his memory.”
Booly accepted the cyborg’s cool metal hand, shook it, and stood to one side as Walker moved to greet Maylo. The notion of honoring a machine, much as if it had been a person struck the officer as odd, but so what? Everything about Walker was strange.
“Please,” the ex-spacer said, gesturing toward a well-set table, “have a seat. My caloric requirements are rather modest these days . . . but there was a time when I enjoyed a good hearty breakfast. The food is in the warmer . . . I’ll bring it out.”
The cyborg disappeared behind the freestanding partition that screened the galley leaving the couple to exchange looks and wonder what would happen next.
True to his word Walker took two plates out of the warmer, removed a couple of items from a small reefer, and placed everything on a tray. “Here you go,” the ex-spacer remarked placing the food on a circular table. “Bon appétit.”
Booly took one look at the locally produced eggs, bacon, and toast, realized he hadn’t had a real Earth-style breakfast in a long time, and proceeded to dig in.
Though still in the process of recovering from the violence of the night before Maylo forced herself to take a few bites.
Walker, who seemed to derive satisfaction from watching his guests eat, took advantage of the interlude to tell a series of stories about meals eaten on distant planets. Most were quite amusing and time passed quickly.
Fifteen minutes later, after the last bit of egg had been wiped off Booly’s plate and coffee had been served, there was a moment of silence. Booly chose to break it. “The breakfast was excellent . . . thank you. Now, let’s get down to business. You know our true identities. How?”
The challenge was apparent but Walker was unmoved. “When I was forced to retire certain parties approached me and offered a part-time job. I agreed to keep my ear to the ground, submit regular reports, and assist with special projects.”
Booly eyed the cyborg over his coffee cup. “You work for Intelligence.”
Walker shrugged. “Something like that . . . although I can’t reveal the details.”
“No offense, but why should we believe you?” Maylo inquired.
“Because I know who you are and why you’re here,” the cyborg answered simply.
“That’s just great,” Booly said cynically, “except for one thing. Military Intelligence reports to a general who reports to me . . . and when we put this mission together your name never came up.”
“That’s because I don’t work for Military Intelligence,” Walker answered evenly.
“I’ll bet he works for the Confederacy’s Department of Intelligence (CONINT),” Maylo said thoughtfully, “which reports to the president himself.”
Booly knew that the Confederacy’s various intelligence-gathering groups had a tendency to feud with each other, which meant that Maylo could be right. “Is that correct? You report to CONINT?”
“Sorry,” Walker replied stolidly, “I’m not in a position to either confirm or deny your wife’s theory. The main thing is that I know you’re trying to locate two extremely important items—and I think I can help.”
“All right,” Booly said reluctantly, “let’s say we believe you . . . What would you suggest?”
“The Syndicate has hundreds of suppliers,” the cyborg replied evenly. “I can’t prove it but I believe that one of our locals, a woman named Prosser, is one of them.”
“And where,” Maylo inquired, “would this Prosser person be found?”
“Carly Prosser maintains what amounts to a junkyard adjacent to Shantytown. But the junk is little more than a cover. The real business has to do with other items that move in and out of her hands.”
“Okay, we’ll check it out,” Booly agreed. “But keep this in mind . . . Before we call on Ms. Prosser, we’re going to upload a message to our ship, telling the crew that we are about to pursu
e a lead supplied by you. If we disappear, or wind up dead, some very unpleasant people will come to call on you. Understood?”
Walker’s face was incapable of displaying emotion but the annoyance was clear to hear in his voice. “I’ll bear that in mind. Don’t forget that today is Hump Day. When the siren sounds you will have fifteen minutes to get inside the walls. After that they stay locked until the stampede has passed. “And one more thing . . . The gentleman you killed last night has friends all of whom are on the lookout for you.”
Booly raised his eyebrows, and the cyborg nodded. “That’s right, I make it my business to know what’s going on around here. These folks are bad news, so I suggest that conclude your business with Prosser as quickly as possible, and get the hell out of here.”
Booly nodded. “Thanks for the advice. We’ll do the best we can.”
Later, safely ensconced in their room, the twosome sent a radio message via the shuttle’s com gear, confirmed receipt, and did what they could to change their appearance.
Maylo dressed down, trading the flashy-looking clothes she had been wearing for a pair of plain blue overalls, a utility belt, and a pair of sturdy boots. A lot less makeup, a billed cap, and some carefully applied grime served to complete the disguise.
Booly went in a slightly different direction by trading his jacket for a hump-hide vest, passing the backup weapon to Maylo, and sticking the sidearm down the back of his pants.
Then, walking thirty paces apart, the couple headed for the north gate. Four Points was packed with rowdy visitors. There weren’t very many places to go but that didn’t prevent them from patrolling streets, swilling beer, and shouting at each other. Maylo knew the crowd would make it difficult for their enemies to see them, but the reverse was true as well, a fact that made her nervous.
The north gate was open, but most people were entering the settlement rather than leaving it, and Booly was stopped. The gatekeeper had an unkempt beard, a huge belly, and a world-class case of halitosis. “Hold it right there, stranger . . . Where you headed?”
“Shantytown.”
The local raised both of his bushy eyebrows. “Shantytown? Are you sure? Most of the folks from down that way are inside the walls by now. You never know which way the humps will turn—and last year they took Shantytown apart.”
“Thanks,” Booly replied. “I’m running an errand that’s all . . . I’ll be back in thirty minutes or so.”
The gatekeeper shrugged. “It’s your skin, pal. If you’re still out there when siren goes off, run like hell. The doors close fifteen minutes later—and there ain’t nobody that’s gonna open them up.”
Booly nodded, thanked the man for his counsel, and stepped out through the portal. A well-packed trail led to the left and the officer followed it away from the gate. Bones, thousands of them, marked both sides of the path. Some lay on the surface, gradually wearing away under the assault of wind, rain and snow, but many remained at least partially buried in the reddish soil.
Booly paused, saw Maylo, and waited for her to catch up. Someone either dropped or threw a bottle off the wall fifteen feet to the west. It shattered and glass flew in every direction. The couple looked up to find that the top of the wall was lined with drunks. Everyone wanted to watch the humps and space was at a premium. A woman waved and Maylo waved back.
Meanwhile, having been alerted by the gatekeeper, a man named Canty watched the couple through binoculars. The people around him had them as well so no one thought it strange. Though not exactly friends with Jurvis—he couldn’t think of anyone who was—Canty had backed the bully the night before. A consistently good thing to do in the past.
Now, only halfway through the following day, people who had witnessed the encounter had taken to calling him “half-draw Canty” because of the speed with which the man called Fargo had frozen him in place.
The answer, the only one that would shut them up, was to put both of the off-worlders in the ground. A task that worried him at first but not anymore. Canty grinned, murmured some words into a handheld radio, and signaled for one of the street vendors to bring him a beer. It tasted cool and crisp.
Booly and Maylo walked along the edge of the depression left by the previous year’s stampede and followed it to the left as the wall narrowed to a point. The hump run continued straight through Shantytown and out onto the plain beyond.
The place was pretty much deserted, and for good reason, since the humps could be expected to make short work of the wood shacks, shipping crates, and tarp-clad lean-tos that the residents had left behind. Trash, including bits of paper, scraps of plastic, and pieces of clothing lay thick on the ground.
Booly wound his way through the maze of temporary structures until he saw the salvage yard Walker had spoken of. It was normally protected by a nine-foot-tall razor-wire fence, but that was to deter people rather than animals, and most of it was down. Three rolls of wire lay against one of the settlement’s walls—and two exoskeleton-clad men were busy removing the last section of fencing from a row of sturdy-looking metal poles.
A black woman, her hair shot with gray, stood and watched them. She wore a pleated vest, a wide leather belt, culottes and a pair of steel-tipped boots. The megaphone in her hand suggested that she was ready to give instructions, and it was Booly’s guess that this was the woman they were looking for.
Booly looked at Maylo, she nodded, and they advanced together. Prosser couldn’t possibly have heard their footsteps, not over the noise being made by the exoskeletons, but she turned anyway. She had high cheekbones, large green eyes, and a generous mouth. It smiled. “Citizen Fargo, I believe? And Citizen Star? I wondered when you’d show up.”
Booly was surprised but knew he shouldn’t be. They had been shopping their wares all over town after all so it wasn’t surprising that someone like Prosser would have heard about it. He smiled. “You’re very well informed. Yes, as you probably know by now, we have some cruiser-class spares for sale.”
There was a shout. Prosser looked up toward the top of the wall and waved at someone she knew. “Come with me . . . The humps aren’t due for an hour yet. Let’s have a cup of tea. Some of the folks on the wall can read lips.”
The twosome followed the junk dealer down an aisle formed by stacks of salvaged ductwork and into a metal shipping container. It was outfitted as an office although most of the contents had been packed into trunks. A kettle simmered on a two-burner stove. The dealer gestured toward a pair of ragged-looking chairs. They had graced the dining salon of a small liner once and still bore the company’s crest. “Have a seat . . . I’ll be right with you.”
Five minutes later Booly found himself having a sociable cup of tea with what he would later learn was one of the Syndicate’s most important suppliers.
“So,” Prosser said gently, her eyes flicking from one face to the other, “what exactly do we have? There are a lot of parts in a cruiser most of which are relatively easy to find or fabricate. Some of them are stacked right outside the door. My interest, if any, lies in the 5 percent that are a little more difficult to find.”
Booly nodded. “I know what you mean. This is the good stuff . . . I’m talking four accumulator coils, three jump actuators, six transfer modules, two shift locks, one screen matrix, and a nav interface. All like new.”
Prosser raised both eyebrows and took a sip of tea. “I’m impressed. Where did you get all this stuff?”
The officer cocked his head. “Where do you keep your money?”
Prosser laughed. “Point taken. The source doesn’t matter. Are the components available for inspection?”
Booly nodded. “Whenever you like.”
“And, assuming I had a buyer, could you deliver the shipment on my behalf? I have a freighter—but it’s at least four weeks out.”
The soldier felt his pulse race. Would he deliver them? Hell yes, he would deliver them! Along with a ship packed with Naa commandos! It wouldn’t do to appear too eager however so Booly narrowed his eyes. “May
be, if the price is right.”
Prosser raised her cup by way of a salute. “Don’t worry, it will be.”
The siren sounded a fraction of a second later. Prosser stood. “There’s the signal—it’s time to get out of here.”
Booly and Maylo stepped outside. The dealer turned her stove off, emptied the cups into a bucket, and placed her tea set into a well-padded box. With that accomplished it was a simple matter to pull the steel doors closed, latch them in place, and walk away.
There was no sign of the exoskeleton-clad workmen as the threesome made their way back toward the north gate. Booly assumed they had finished their work and reentered the city.
There was no need to run since there wasn’t far to go but Prosser set a brisk pace nevertheless. The people who lined the top of the wall yelled everything from obscenities to words of encouragement as the party followed the bone walk up to the gate.
Canty, still perched above, watched with a rising sense of anticipation.
Prosser frowned when she saw that the gate was closed, pounded on one of the double doors, and yelled the gatekeeper’s name. “Hurley? Where the hell are you? Open the door!”
But there was no response as Booly felt the ground tremble beneath his boots, looked toward the east, and say the rising cloud of dust. The humps were on the way.
“Hurley!” Prosser shouted. “We have five minutes yet! Open the door!”
But there was still no response. Onlookers looked at each other, wondered what to do, but were reluctant to take action. That’s when Canty appeared directly over the gate. He had to shout in order to make himself heard. “So, how does it feel, Fargo? Knowing you’re going to die?”
“I don’t know,” Booly yelled back. “You tell me!”
For More Than Glory Page 29