"Done." Cholly thumped two heavy glasses down on the bar, and upended a bottle of vaguely brownish fluid over them. "So he let you loose on your own recognizance?"
"Yeah." Rod shrugged. "We just promised not to kill anybody before dawn tomorrow, and he said, 'Excellent. Why don't you have a look around the town, while you're here?'… That's enough!"
"As you will." Cholly waited a second longer, till the brownish fluid was almost up to the rims, then set the bottle down. "Yer trial's tomorrow at sunrise, then?"
"If you can call it that." Rod frowned. "Isn't that a little lenient, for a couple of suspected murderers?"
Cholly nodded. "Even here. I'd guess the General doesn't think you're guilty."
Rod nodded. "Is he hoping we'll escape, or something?"
"Where to?"
"A good point." Rod pursed his lips. "So we're just supposed to relax and enjoy life, huh?"
"That—or find evidence to clear yourselves. Hard to do that inside a cell, yer know."
Rod frowned. "It is, now that you mention it. We were planning to do something of that sort, anyway."
"Well, then." Cholly beamed. "The General knows his man, don't he? Let me know where I can help."
"Thanks. We will." Rod turned back to the table, set one of the glasses down in front of Yorick, sat himself down across from Gwen, and took a hefty swallow. Then he sat very still for a few minutes, waiting till the top of his head settled back on and the room came back into focus. When it did, he exhaled sharply. "What do they make that out of?"
"Something almost compatible with Terran biochemistry, I'm sure." Yorick looked a little defocused himself.
Rod took a deep breath, then a very cautious sip. He set the glass down gingerly, exhaled carefully, and sat back. "Now!" He looked from Yorick to Gwen and back. "You were both there; you heard everything I did. What was all that about?"
Gwen shrugged. "We chanced to be in a position suspect at a time when a man was slain, my lord."
"Yeah, but I highly doubt we were anywhere near this 'Sun-Greeting Place,' or whatever it is. Also, I don't believe in coincidences, especially not when they're so convenient."
Gwen frowned. "In what way dost thou think them opportune?"
"For our enemies."
"I'll drink to that." Yorick lifted his mug, also his glass.
"You'll drink to anything." But Rod clinked glasses with him, anyway. "Here's to the enemy—may he be confounded."
"Whoever he is." Yorick drank, then set his glass down and leaned forward. "But I'll agree with you, Major, somebody's definitely out to get you."
Rod stared. "When did I say that?"
"On our way from the castle," Gwen explained.
"Oh." Rod frowned. "Yeah, I did say something of the sort then, didn't I?"
"Does he get this way often?"
"Off 'n' on," Rod answered; but Gwen assured Yorick, "Tis only when matters of great moment preoccupy him."
"Oh." Yorick turned back to Rod. "Is that when you get paranoid, too?"
Gwen frowned."What is the meaning of that word?"
"Suspicious," Rod explained. "He means that I feel as though everybody's out to get me."
"Oh!" Gwen turned back to Yorick. "Nay; he is always in that condition."
"But this time, he's right."
They turned in surprise; that voice hadn't been one of theirs.
The newcomer was slender, and wore the same uniform as all the other troopers, but she made it look totally feminine. It couldn't have been deliberate: her blond hair was shorter than most of the men's, cropped close and showing her ears; but there was something in its styling, something about the way she held herself, something in the delicacy of her features that made her very clearly female.
"That's a professional opinion," she added. "They're out to get you."
"Who?" Rod demanded; but Yorick said, softly, "What profession?"
"Secret agent," she snapped, "spy." And to Rod, "You should be able to say better than I can. Who'd rather see you dead than alive? Not that it matters much; on this planet, anybody who's getting hassled is my friend."
Rod just stared at her, but Gwen pushed a chair out. "Sit, an it please thee."
The woman sat, scowling. "You've got a funny way of talking."
Rod said, "I hate to be blunt, but—who are you?"
"I'm Chornoi Shershay—and you'd better hear the whole of it. I was a government spy, up until about five years ago."
"Five years." Rod frowned. "That was just about the time of the PEST coup, if I remember…" He managed to bite off the sentence just before he said, "… my history rightly."
"Yeah." Chornoi nodded. "I was a secret agent for the LORDS party, digging up information for them and helping set up assassinations on some of their more outspoken enemies. I knew I was helping kill people, but I never saw it happen, so it didn't bother me much. I didn't think it would, either." Her face lost expression. "But after the coup, I suddenly found out I was part of the secret police, and the bosses ordered my squad to go hunt down a professor." Her mouth twisted. "He was a gentle old duffer, quiet and humble, and you could see from his house that he and his wife took good care of each other. We yanked him out of bed in the middle of the night, and kicked him out of his house into a darkened floater—and he was terrified, scared stiff but he never blamed us. Not a curse, not a word of anger, just stared at us with those wide, frightened eyes that knew, and understood…" She shuddered. "So they laid into him harder, of course. Even on the way to HQ, they were working him over. It was cruel, vicious beating until he was out cold. I was lucky—I only had to drive. But I still had to hear it…
"Then we landed on top of Base Building, and I had to help carry him inside. His face was so bloody and swollen that I wouldn't have recognized him. We laid him out on the table, ready for the sadists." Her face worked, then was still. "Oh, they try to pretty it up by calling it 'interrogation,' but it's still just plain torture. They clip electrodes on to them, instead of thumbscrews, but agony is agony. I didn't have to stay and watch it, but I felt soiled and debased anyway, as though I'd been turned into something less than human. They told me I could go back to quarters, but I went straight to the Boss, and told him, I quit.
"He sat back in that plastic-walled office behind his stainless steel desk, and just laughed at me. Then he said, 'You can't quit the Secret Security, Shershay. The only way you go out, is feet-first.'
'It's a deal,' I said, and I slammed out of his office. But I headed for the portal as fast as I could walk. I didn't run—that would have been advertising—but I walked very fast. He was as good as his word, though; I saw a gunman running to intercept me as I came in sight of the main portal. I just kept going while he pulled up and aimed at me, then I jerked to the side at the last second.
He wasted time trying to track me with the gun, then he squeezed off a shot, but the bolt didn't come anywhere near me. I lashed out with a kick, and caught him right under the chin with my heel. His head snapped back, and something made a cracking sound, but I landed on the other side of his body, and I landed running. Right out the door."
She paused for breath, trembling, and Yorick said softly, "How far did you get?"
"About a kilometer. Because there was a courier in a floater, just coming in. I kicked him out at gunpoint and took off—but I just went over the parapet, and down into the city, before they could get an intercepter after me. I was in the Old Town—the part where the streets go this way and that—organic, you know? I ducked in there, and was gone."
"You knew better than to stay there, though," Rod said softly.
"Of course." Chornoi shrugged. "Not that it made much difference. They had the cordon out by dawn, and a SecSec force behind me, tracking. I stepped up to a food-counter, to put down a bowl of soy-meal—and when I came out, they jumped me."
"Hard?" Yorick asked.
Chornoi glared at him. "Very."
She turned to Rod. "But I healed. Oh, I was still bleeding here an
d there when they hauled me up in front of the judge—that was only a couple of hours later. And, of course, SecSec had six witnesses who swore they'd seen me kill that gunman; they'd never been anywhere near him, of course. I think one of them had watched it on a security monitor, though. Which didn't matter, 'cause they played the recording—and the judge said, 'Re-form her.'"
Gwen frowned, not understanding; but Rod paled. "They were going to wipe your brain and install a new personality?"
Chornoi nodded. "And if I didn't live, what difference did it make? But I didn't even get that far. They slammed me into the floater, to go to the re-form center—but we never even lifted. There was a courier there, with a document. Seems the whole time I'd been in front of the judge, SecSec had been going to the Secretary-General, convincing him that secret police were military personnel—so they didn't bother re-forming; they just loaded me into a convict barge, and shipped us all out to Wolmar." Her mouth tightened. "It wasn't a pleasant trip. It lasted two weeks, and only three of us convicts were women. The rest of the soldiers tried to take turns on us." She glared at Rod. "But three is just enough to guard each other's backs. After we killed a couple, they held off. They tried to get the ship's brass to tie us down, but they told us they just steered the damn thing and made it go; we convicts were each other's problems." She shivered. "We had to take turns sleeping, but we got here intact."
"And here?" Gwen's eyes were huge.
Chornoi shrugged. "It's a little easier now. Oh, the other two—when they found out how much they could make, once the convicts were getting paychecks again—they set up shop. They own their own houses now, and each of them is richer than any man on the planet."
Gwen was pale now, and her hand trembled as she lifted her glass, then put it down. "Yet thou didst not—how didst thou say it…"
"Go into business." Chornoi nodded, eyes glittering. "But I had to fight 'em off every day, at first—two or three in any twenty-four hours, till I got a reputation. Now it's just two or three a week. The ones who survive out here are smart, though—they back off when it starts getting dangerous, so I've never had to kill one."
"Yet do they not come at thee in company?" Gwen whispered.
"That's why I was sitting back there." Chornoi jerked her head toward a table in a back corner. "I can see the door, and the whole room, but nobody can come at me from behind. They haven't tried, though." She took a sip of her ale, but grimaced as though it were bitter. "Gotta say that much for male chauvinism—when there're so few of us, each one is pretty precious. Any one of them might come at me by himself, but he doesn't want any of his mates to see him trying."
"They'd string him up by his toes," Yorick said quietly.
"Probably for target practice." Chornoi shrugged. "Better him than me."
She lifted her mug for a long swallow, then slammed it down. "So, there you have it. I can't walk through this burg without getting razzed, so anybody who's getting hassled, I'm on their side. Especially women." She nodded to Gwen. "And I think I can trust your man, because he's with you— so why would he want me?" Her mouth twisted in self-contempt. "Oh, don't give me that sympathetic look! I know I'm a hot enough item." She turned and glowered at Rod. "Maybe too hot. I want to get off this planet, so badly that I can't think of anything else—and you folks haven't been here before, which means you haven't been sentenced; so you might get to leave. You might be able to spring me."
Rod frowned. "I thought this was a military prison. Shacklar's just the warden. How can he have the authority to let you go?"
"He can do anything he wants—now," Chornoi said, with a mirthless smile. "PEST cut us off four years ago— right after I got here, in fact. They claimed trade to the outlying planets was a losing proposition—real losing, trillions of therms' worth. And a prison planet was all loss— it was much cheaper to kill the criminals. So they just stopped trade. The next freighter in brought us the news."
Rod frowned. "How come there was a 'next' freighter? I thought they stopped trade."
"We had a little trade going on our own, with some of the other outlying planets—but we had no more supplies coming in from Terra, no new machinery or spare parts. The good General-Governor made peace with the natives just in time."
"Thou canst sustain thyselves?"
Chornoi nodded. "The Wolmen bring in the food and fiber, and our men do the mining and manufacturing. But the end result is, we're not a prison planet anymore—we're a colony. And Shacklar's the Governor as well as the General, so he can do anything he damn well pleases with us. If he wants to let us go, we can go—but where to?" She waved an arm. "There's nothing out beyond that Wall but grass—and Wolmen."
"He won't let you leave the planet?"
"Oh, sure, if he thinks one of us should be allowed to— and if we can afford it." She shrugged. "He can't give away free spaceships, you know."
Rod exchanged glances with Yorick. "Well, when the time comes, we'll find some way to get the cash."
Yorick nodded. "I think the lady could be useful, Major. Real useful."
"Vacuum your brain," Chornoi snapped. "I offered to help you, not service you."
"Wasn't even thinking of it," Yorick said virtuously. "I meant knowledge-help. I know the basics about this planet, and about PEST…"
Chornoi"s mouth twisted. "Who doesn't?"
"Yeah, but, well, uh—about Wolmar. You've been here a few years, you know the lay of the land. It always helps to have a local on your side."
Chornoi shrugged. "I'm as local as they come around here. At least I know who's who, and where the bodies are buried—some of them, anyway. And I've spent time with the Wolmen."
Gwen frowned. "How didst thou come to that?"
"They looked safer than the soldiers—and they were, while I was on probation. But probation with each tribe gave me a year to get my feet under me, and tuck my emotions into place." Chornoi shrugged. "What can I tell you? It worked."
"So," Rod mused, "you're willing to help—if we help you."
"Yeah, if you'll help me get off the planet."
"If we can."
"Well, sure—if you can." Chornoi tossed her head impatiently.
"Of course," Rod mused, "if we do manage to get off this planet, you'll make us a marked crew. I mean, PEST has to have at least one agent here and if you leave, he'll blow the whistle. Then you'll have an assassin hot on your trail before you get past the first light-year."
"I understand that." Chornoi's tone was brittle. "I couldn't blame you if you didn't want to take the chance."
Rod shrugged. "I'm not too worried about it." Especially since we're planning to leave via time machine. "After all, there's no danger from assassins as long as we're on Wolmar—and without your help, we might not live to get off the planet."
Chornoi nodded. "I'd say that's true. You said it yourself—that Wolman's murder was too nicely timed. It had to be designed to put you and your wife behind bars—or into an early grave."
"We do have enemies," Rod admitted, "and I think they would be more interested in the 'early grave' option."
"We will rejoice in thine assistance," Gwen assured.
Chornoi gave her a peculiar look, but said, "Thanks, lady." And to Rod, "So what've we got?"
Rod shrugged. "A Purple corpse." He added a bleak smile. "Even though all Purples are present and accounted for."
Yorick spread his hands. "That's about all the information we have. Not exactly what you'd call a lot."
"Nowhere near enough," Chornoi agreed. "We've got to learn more before we can make any guesses about who really did it."
Yorick leaned back, fingers laced across his belly, thumbs twiddling. "Well, you're the local expert. Tell us—where do we get more information?"
"At the scene of the crime," Chornoi answered.
"Certes, 'tis no great need," Gwen protested. "Thou hast affairs of thine own to be about."
Maybe it was the word "affairs" that made the young private redouble his efforts. "Aw, come on, Ma
'am! I'm from Braxa! We used to make our own brooms there, all the time." He gave her a quick grin over his shoulder. "How else'd our mamas keep the houses clean?" He turned back to Gwen's broomstick. "See, it's just this little rope here that's come untied. All it needs is a proper square knot. Now, you just put your finger on it, right there…"
Gwen did. Of course, that necessitated bending over, and swaying closer to the young man. He swallowed hard, and gave the knot a jerk that almost broke the cord.
Behind his back, Rod was tossing a loop of rope up to catch around one of the inch-thick spikes that studded the top of the Wall, and beckoning. Chornoi clambered up it, hand over hand, with Yorick right behind her. Rod came last, and tossed the rope over the far side of the Wall. Yorick slipped down first, then Chornoi. Rod glowered down at the young sentry's back, then turned to leap, catch the rope, and glide down. He landed lightly, and Chornoi stared. "How did you do that? Without breaking your arches, I mean."
"Practice," Yorick grunted. "Come on, let's get out of here." He bolted across the open stretch of brightly-lit land, into the shadow of a copse fifty feet away. No alarms went off; the sentry was looking at something else at the moment. Rod held his breath, feeling the jealousy climb up to consume him. Then a whisper and a rustle, and he whirled about to see Gwen gliding in for a landing on her broomstick.
Chornoi turned around, did a double take. "How did you get here?"
"I trust that young man will count himself amply repaid for his kindness." Rod snapped.
"Husband, I prithee." Gwen laid a gentle hand on his forearm. "What choice was there? He'd ne'er ha' trusted Demoiselle Chornoi."
"True enough." Rod clipped off the words. "May I congratulate you on a successful flirtation—I mean, diversion. And I'll cut out that kid's liver and lights if I ever bump into him again."
"Truly, husband, 'tis unworthy of thee." Gwen's eyes were large with reproach. "Be mindful that the lad spoke to a Gramarye witch, and, moreover, one who can cast thoughts and feelings. Truly, the lad had no chance."
"In more ways than one," Rod sighed, "and you don't need to mention your powers to explain it. I suppose I don't have any right to be angry with him, do I?"
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