by David Weber
Victor replied with a murmur himself, quoting one of Kevin’s own maxims: “ ‘And there’s nobody easier to outmaneuver than a maneuverer.’ ”
“Exactly,” said Kevin. His eyes went to the only window in the room. It was a small window; grimy as only a cheap Loop hotel window ever gets. The view beyond was completely obscured, which was not the least of the reasons Kevin had insisted on a hotel in the Loop. Windows which can’t be seen out of can’t be seen into either. Not, at least, without specialized equipment.
Of course, the SS detachment on Terra had such equipment—and plenty of it. But the equipment was under the control of an SS officer and couldn’t be checked out without his permission. A certain Citizen Major Gironde, as it happened.
“Dollars to donuts,” Kevin mused, “the girl escaped. I can’t think of anything else right now that would stir up Manpower’s headquarters. Not in the middle of the night, anyway.”
Victor was confused again. “What are ‘dollars’? And ‘donuts’?”
“Never mind, lad,” replied Kevin, shaking his head. “Are you ready?”
Classical allusions might have been above Victor’s head, but the last question wasn’t. Instantly, his face was set in stone, hard and firm as unyielding granite.
By now, Ginny was lying half-erect on her elbow, her cheek nestled in the palm of her hand. She gazed up at Victor’s face admiringly. “Anybody ever mention you’d make a great poster boy for an SS recruitment drive?”
Ginny’s repartee usually left Victor confused and embarrassed. But not this time.
Hard; firm—unyielding as granite.
Durkheim
Durkheim was awakened by the insistent ring of the communicator. Silently, he cursed the Mesan idiots who were careless enough to call him at his own residence. Granted, the communicator was a special one, carefully scrambled. Still—
He only spent a few seconds on that curse, however. Soon enough, he had other things to curse the Mesans for—and not silently.
What did you expect—you morons!—using Scrags? I can’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to think—
But he didn’t indulge himself for very long in that pointless exercise. For one thing, the Mesan on the other end was indifferent to his outrage. For another, Durkheim himself had always understood that his plan was too intricate to be sure of success. So, from the very beginning, he had designed a fallback.
After breaking off his contact with the Mesan, Durkheim spent an hour or so staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. He didn’t bother to turn on a light. He found the darkness helpful in concentrating his attention, as he carefully went over every step of his next maneuver.
Then, satisfied that it would work, he even managed to get some sleep. Not much, unfortunately. The problem wasn’t that Durkheim couldn’t get to sleep—he’d never had any trouble doing that—but simply that he had to reset the alarm to a much earlier hour. He would have to be at work by the crack of dawn, in order to have everything in place.
Helen
It didn’t take Helen long to find the lair of her three would-be assailants, even moving as carefully as she was. The place was less than a hundred yards distant, just around the bend in the channel.
She spent five minutes studying it, before she crept forward. The “lair” was just that—a habitation fit more for animals than men. The lean-to propped against the sloping wall of the channel reminded her of a bird’s nest. Made by a very large and very careless bird. The shack—even that term was too grandiose—had been assembled from various pieces of wreckage and debris, lashed together with an assortment of wire and cordage. At its highest, it was not tall enough for even a short adult to stand up. From one end to the other, it measured not more than fifteen feet. There was no opening at her end, so Helen supposed that whatever entrance existed was on the opposite side.
She hesitated, but not for long. Her water was getting low and so, soon enough, would her food. There might well be something in that lean-to, however unpalatable. Besides, she had no choice but to go past it—unless she wanted to retrace her steps back toward her captors—and so she might as well investigate it along the way.
The decision made, she moved quickly, racing toward the lean-to on quick and almost silent feet. If there were more men lurking within, she saw no reason to give them any more warning than necessary. One or two, she was certain she could handle. More than that, she could outrun them.
But there were no men in the lair to pose any danger to her. Instead there was something infinitely more dangerous—a moral dilemma.
The boy, she thought, was probably not more than twelve years old. Hard to tell, due to his bruises and emaciation under the rags. The girl was perhaps Helen’s own age. But that was even harder to determine, despite the fact that she wore no clothing at all. The girl didn’t have bruises so much as she seemed a single giant bruise.
Helen removed the filthy blanket and gave the girl a quick examination. The examination, for all its brevity, was both thorough and fairly expert. Her father had also seen to it that Helen received first aid instruction.
When she was done, and despite her recognition that an immense complication had just entered her life, Helen felt relieved. Immensely relieved, in truth. Less than half an hour earlier, for the first time in her life, she had killed people. Despite her concentration on her own predicament, some part of Helen’s soul had been shrieking ever since. Now, it was silent. Silent and calm. If ever men had deserved killing, those men had.
Since she entered the lean-to, the boy had huddled silently against one side, staring at her with eyes as wide as saucers. Finally, he spoke.
“You won’t hurt my sister, will you?” he whispered. His pale eyes moved to the battered figure lying on the pallet. The girl, for her part, was conscious. But she was just staring at Helen through slitted eyes, as if she were blinded by the light. “I don’t think Berry can take much more hurting.”
He started to cry. “I don’t know how long we’ve been here. It seems like forever since they caught us. We were just looking for food. We weren’t going to steal any from them, honest. I tried to tell them.”
Helen heard the girl whisper something. She leaned over.
“Go away,” were the words. “They’ll come back soon.”
Helen shook her head. “They’re dead. I killed them.”
The girl’s eyes popped open. “That’s a lie,” she whispered. “Why are you lying?”
Helen looked at the boy. “What’s your name?”
“Larens. People call me Lars.”
Helen jerked her head. “Go down the channel, Lars.” She pointed the direction. “That way. Just around the bend.”
He didn’t hesitate for more than a few seconds. Then, scurrying like a mouse, he scrambled out of the lean-to. While she waited for him to return, Helen did what she could to help Berry. Which wasn’t much, beyond digging out some food and wiping off the grime with the cleanest rag she could find. Fortunately, while Helen didn’t find much food there were enough water bottles that she was able to use some of it to wet the rag.
Throughout, other than an occasional hiss when Helen rubbed over a particularly sore spot, Berry kept silent. The girl was obviously weak, but Helen’s principal fear—that the girl’s wits were gone—soon proved false. As best as she could, given her condition, Berry tried to help by moving her limbs and torso to accept the rag.
Still, it was obvious that the girl was in no condition to walk. Helen wondered what was taking Lars so long to return. But while she waited she started assembling the makings of a stretcher. Or, at least, a travois—she wasn’t sure Lars would be strong enough to hold up his end of the thing.
“What are you doing?” whispered Berry, watching Helen dismantle part of the lean-to. Helen had found two rods which she thought would make a suitable frame. She had no idea what they had been originally, nor even what they were made of. Some kind of artificial substance she didn’t recognize. But, for all that they were a bit m
ore flexible than she would have liked, they were about the right length and, she thought—hoped—strong enough.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Helen explained. “There are some people chasing after me. Just as bad as those three. Worse, probably.”
That news caused Berry to sit erect. Try to, at least. The effort was too much for her. But, again, she gave evidence that her mind was still intact.
“If you—you and Lars—can get us maybe two hundred yards, there’s a crossover to another channel. And after that—not far—there’s another. That one leads up, and then down. That’ll be hard. I’ll try to walk, but you’ll probably have to carry me. But if we can get down there it’s the perfect place to hide.”
For a moment, something like pride seem to come into the battered face. “That’s my secret place. Mine and Lars’. ” Softly: “It’s a special place.”
Helen had already decided that she would have to take the two children with her. In truth, the “decision” had come automatically—even though she understood that she was almost certainly ruining her chances of escape. Now, for the first time, she realized that Lars and Berry would be an asset as well as a liability. She was quite certain that they were two of the small horde of vagrant children who were reputed to dwell in the lower reaches of the Loop. Castoffs of castoffs. They would know the area—their part of it, at least—as well as mice know their cubbyholes and hideaways. Helen would be moving slower, but at least she would no longer be moving blind.
She heard Lars re-entering the lean-to.
“What took so—”
She closed her mouth, seeing the object Lars was gripping. She recognized the knife. It had belonged to one of her assailants. Lars had apparently wiped it off, but the blade was still streaked with drying blood.
Lars’ eyes were bright and eager. On his hands and knees, he scurried over to his sister and showed her the knife.
“Look, Berry—it’s true! They can’t ever hurt you again.” He gave Helen an apologetic glance. “I think they were already dead. But I made good and sure.”
Berry managed to lift her head and stare at the knife. Then, smiling for the first time since Helen had met her, she laid her head back down. “Thank you, brother,” she whispered. “But now we have to help Helen go away to our special place. There are more men coming to hurt her.”
Less than ten minutes later, they were on their way. Lars, somewhat to Helen’s surprise, proved strong enough—or determined enough—to carry his end of the stretcher. He had trouble at first because he refused to relinquish the knife. But, soon enough, he discovered the obvious place to carry it.
As they stumbled as quickly as they could down the channel, Helen found it hard not to laugh. She’d read about it, of course, in her beloved adventure books. But she’d never actually thought to meet one—especially twelve years old! A pirate, by God, with the blade clenched between his teeth to prove it.
Suddenly, she felt better than she had since she was first abducted. She actually had to restrain herself from whooping with glee.
Durkheim
Victor Cachat reported to work as early as ever the next morning, Durkheim noted. The young officer’s new found vice hadn’t affected him that much, apparently. Quite the little whore-chaser the boy had turned into, according to the reports.
But Durkheim didn’t let any of his amusement show when he summoned Cachat into his office, immediately upon his arrival.
“We’ve got a problem,” the SS commander snapped. “And I need you to fix it.”
In the time that followed, as Durkheim spun his tale and elaborated his instructions, Victor Cachat leaned forward in his chair and listened attentively. Durkheim, though not generally given to humor, almost found himself laughing. Cachat could have made an ideal poster boy for an SS recruitment drive. Young and earnest officer of the Revolution, eager and willing to do his duty.
And though Durkheim noticed the hard, dark gleam in the eyes of the officer across the desk from him, he thought nothing of it. Simply the natural ruthlessness of a young zealot. Ready, at an instant’s notice, to strike down the enemies of the Revolution with neither pity nor remorse.
Anton
By the time Anton reached the rendezvous, he was utterly lost. Not in the sense that he had any trouble following the directions given to him by Lady Catherine’s messenger. Anton had years of experience finding his way through the three-dimensional maze of giant warships under construction, guided by nothing more than blueprints or verbal instructions. But when he walked through the door of the small coffeehouse at the end of an alley in the Old Quarter, he couldn’t for the life of him have told anyone if he was headed north, east, south or west. He thought he still knew up from down, but he was beginning to wonder about that.
He wasn’t entirely pleased, then, to see Robert Tye bestowing upon him that particularly obnoxious grin by which the expert greets the tyro. Tye had taken a different route than he. But, though they had left at the same time, it was obvious the old martial artist had been comfortably ensconced on his seat at the table for quite some time.
But Anton didn’t give Tye much more than a sour glance as he strode up to the table. His attention was riveted on the other two people sitting there. In the case of one, because he was fascinated. In the case of the other, because he was flabbergasted—even outraged.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Lady Catherine,” he added, a bit lamely.
Cathy started to bridle, but Jeremy cut her off.
“Didn’t I say it?” he remarked cheerfully. “The good Captain’s sweet on you, girl.”
That remark caused both Anton and Cathy to choke off whatever words they had been about to speak and glare at Jeremy. The ex-slave bore up under the burden with no apparent effort.
“Those who speak the truth are always despised,” he added, turning to Robert. “Isn’t that so?”
Tye said nothing, but the smile on his face as he reached for his coffee indicated his full agreement. Anton and Cathy looked back at each other. Cathy seemed to flush a bit. Anton didn’t—his complexion was quite a bit darker than her ivory pale skin—but he did straighten stiffly and clear his throat.
“I am simply concerned for the Countess’ safety,” he pronounced.
“Isn’t that what I just said?” asked Jeremy. “Why else would a proper Gryphon highlander give a damn about the well-being of an idle parasite?” He cocked an eye at Cathy. “Well… parasite, at least. You can hardly accuse the lady of being idle.”
Anton restrained his temper. Partly, by reminding himself of his daughter. Partly—
Damn the imp, anyway! But there was a trace of humor lurking under the irritation. Anton could not deny that the impudent little man—like a sprite, he was, both in size and demeanor—had cut rather close to the truth.
Bull’s-eye, actually, admitted Anton, as his eyes moved back to the countess. This morning, Cathy was not wearing an expensive gown made of thin material. She was dressed in much heavier garments—pants and a long-sleeved shirt—suitable for outdoor hiking. The outfit was obviously well-used and fitted her comfortably.
Cathy, Anton knew, was in her fifties. But she was a third-generation prolong, with the youthful appearance that such people carried for decades. Although most people would have said her outfit did nothing for her tall, slim figure, Anton thought it made her perhaps even more appealing than the gown she had been wearing the previous evening. The practical clothing fit her plain, open face to perfection. Young, healthy, vigorous—a woman who enjoyed life to the fullest.
He found himself swallowing, and groping for words.
“I am concerned, Cathy,” he muttered. “This is likely to be dangerous.”
“Not for the two of you,” announced Jeremy. “And her presence here is essential anyway.” He gestured politely to the remaining chair at the table. “Sit, Captain Zilwicki. There is news—and a change in plans.”
That announcement drove all other thoughts out of Anton
’s mind. He slid into the chair and leaned over the table, planting his hands on the edge. “What news?” His enormous shoulders, hunched with apprehension, made his square and blocky head look like a boulder perched atop a small mountain.
Finally, Jeremy’s grin went away, replaced by a much kindlier smile. “Good news, Captain. For now, at least. Your daughter has escaped her captors.”
Anton had been holding his breath. Now, he let it out in a rush.
“Where is she?” he demanded, half-rising. He had to restrain himself from reaching across the table and shaking the answer from Jeremy. Fortunately, years of habit as an intelligence officer did not completely desert him. His was the one trade which, along with philosophers, always understood the precedence of epistemology.
So, after a moment, Anton lowered himself slowly back into the chair. “How do you know?” he demanded.
Still smiling, Jeremy shook his head. “I’ll not give you an answer to that question, Captain. Not that I don’t trust you, of course.” The impish grin made its reappearance. “Heavens, no! But after this is all over, I’m afraid you might remember that you are an officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Manticoran Navy and feel compelled to strike a blow on your Queen’s behalf.”
Jeremy was not the first person who had underestimated the intelligence hidden beneath the Gryphon highlander’s thick-headed appearance. It did not take Anton more than five seconds to make the connections.
“I was right,” he stated flatly. He glanced at Cathy. “You told him our conversation?”
She nodded. Now it was Anton’s turn to bestow a grin on Jeremy. And if his grin could hardly be called impish, it had something of the same devilish humor in it.
“It was a rogue Peep operation. And you’ve been in touch with the Peeps. The ones who aren’t pleased with the rogue.”