Kill Ratio

by David Drake

  Yates jostled into her, keeping the anthropologist upright by accident as they stumbled along. “Huh?” he said.

  As Ella opened her mouth to speak, the blond woman fell with a greasy smack and a shouted curse that proved she'd pulled the tape away from her mouth. “No, run,” she said, leaping to her feet before the man could help her. “He'd demo-charged Spenser's office, and I just pushed the timer. Maybe” - another bellowed curse - “maybe the bastard'll be inside when it - “

  “Here's - “ Ella began. Her eyes had readapted enough that the door at the base of the access shaft was a lighted rectangle, though it didn't illuminate the few meters between itself and the escapees.

  There was a thump. Air slammed the trio down as it rushed back the way they had fled.

  The lower level of Sky Devon blazed with deep red light so intense that it covered the volcanic explosion that gave it birth.

  Jan de Kuyper's instructions were to ensure the destruction not only of the project director but of every bit of equipment, data, and virus pertaining to the project as soon as the Club had what it needed. The Afrikaner had never been one to underperform a task of that sort.

  The directed charges placed around the walls and in the ceiling of the sealed laboratory compressed everything within into a ball of superheated gas. The blast with which the gas re-expanded ripped a hole into the sunlit level above

  and seared the backs of the three escapees even though they were lying flat and a hundred meters away.

  “God,” said Sam Yates.

  At first Ella thought he had whispered, but she realized that only a shout could have been heard through the ringing of her ears. “Your clothes,” she said. “We have to get away from here.”

  There was light again, through the bulged roof and from insulation and organic matter smoldering closer to the center of the explosion.

  “God,” repeated Sam Yates as he and Yesilkov numbly began to dress over the tags of cargo tape that still clung to them.

  Ella wished she had something to do with her hands also. It would have taken her mind off what she was sure was the smell of Jan de Kuyper, incinerated by the blast he had prepared himself.

  Chapter 29 - A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

  “God,” Yates said again, this time with a pejorative tinge to his voice.

  They'd been moving fast, away from the explosion in no certain direction, here where none of them knew their way around. Yesilkov had patched up the torn crotch of her pants with scraps of cargo tape.

  Ella didn't care to know how those pants had gotten that way - what she'd seen of Yesilkov's condition had been more than sufficiently abhorrent.

  Appalling, really, this whole thing was. And now when she'd only said to Sam, “I've got a friend up here - Taylor does - who'll get us fresh clothes and out without asking - “ Yates had interrupted with that cold disgusted look that shot between him and Yesilkov, a disparaging shake of his head, and the single spoken word.

  “God,” he said again, leaning against a corridor wall, his chest heaving and sweat running down his flaring jaw, “that's all we need - your friends. Who the fuck's Taylor, anyway?”

  “Taylor McLeod,” Yesilkov said before Ella could respond, a derisive, I-told-you-we-couldn't-trust-her implication in her voice. Yesilkov, too, was winded. Her chest was heaving. Her breasts didn't seem so saggy with her uniform shirt over them. But the bruises Ella had seen there seemed to shine through the intervening cloth, somehow.

  “That's right,” Ella blurted defensively. “A little help from my friends won't hurt. We obviously need all the help we can get. We're somewhere - none of us know exactly where - in Sky Devon's corridor system, and we don't know even where we're going; there's just been an explosion to which we're party. Spenser is - “

  “I don't know 'bout you, honey, but Spenser's where I'm goin'. Now.” Yesilkov straightened with a wince as her hands went to her hips.

  Sam Yates was still watching Ella in the indirectly lit corridor as if the light were too bright for his eyes. Ella said “Sam ...” pleadingly, hoping for understanding. “McLeod just detailed a man to me, somebody with some clout here. All he wants in return is - “

  “Not now, Bradley, okay?” Yates told her, and then reached out to touch Yesilkov's shoulder. “You all right, Sonya? You up to this?”

  Ella had no idea what “this” the two of them were discussing, but it was serious.

  “I'm okay, Sam. No sweat. I'll meet you back at the colony when I'm done. But I don't want her smarmy friends 'helping' me or feeling they've got the right to debrief me afterward. I - “

  “Ella, tell me you didn't fill this guy in on us.”

  “I didn't, Sam, honestly I - “ Why did she feel so defensive? She'd just been trying to help, to save their lives. She had saved their lives, damn it, and they were treating her as if she'd betrayed them.

  Yates didn't even give her time to finish her sentence. “Go on, Sonya, go.”

  “Right, don't worry about hardware - I'll use what's at hand,” Yesilkov responded, her fingers going to her shoulder to clutch Yates' there.

  Ella Bradley averted her eyes; if the two of them were going to embrace, she didn't have to watch it. A hot flush crawled up her neck: here she was, in the middle of chaos, in the aftermath of an explosion that could very well have killed them, and what bothered her the most was whether Sam Yates was going to kiss that Slavic cow.

  Whether they did or not, she didn't see. She did see Yesilkov swing off down the corridor as if she knew where she was going - how to get to Spenser's from here.

  And Yates was saying, “Now, let's talk about this 'friend' of Taylor McLeod's - who he is, how much he knows, how much McLeod knows.” There was a severity in his voice that made Ella retreat three paces, until her back hit the corridor wall.

  “Sam Yates,” she said, blinking back surprising tears, “how dare you talk to me this way? Taylor only wants to know who's at the bottom of this - who's calling the shots. He thinks you'll be out of your depth with them. And we need somebody ... to clean up after the mess you make, at the very least. You run around killing people and having firelights and blowing up labs, and then it's me who's out of line.” She covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head, suddenly wordless.

  “I should have expected this. You think like a bureaucrat, an organizational type. You are one. Come on, we're going back to the Moon. Hopefully without checking in with your 'friend,' whoever - “

  “Peck Smith.”

  ''Of course.'' Yates was even more severe. “Is that 'Lord Pecker-Smith,' or will a simple 'sir' do?” He took her roughly by the arm and propelled her down the corridor in Yesilkov's wake.

  The other woman was nowhere in sight, and that realization prompted Ella to say, “Yesilkov's going to Spenser's, is that so? Why? Spenser's surely on her guard now. We - I broke in there, used a stunner on her, I - “

  “You what?” Yates laughed out loud. Then sobered. “We'll be on that shuttle too long to risk Kathleen Spenser finding out we're passengers - we'd be sitting ducks.” Around the corner ahead, Ella sighted a lift whose indicator lights were lit. By its doors was an information routing plaque, the sort that said YOU ARE HERE beside a blinking light.

  “You didn't answer me, about this Peck-Smith.” Yates crossed his arms once he'd hit the elevator's call button.

  “You didn't answer me about Spenser. That makes us even.”

  “Oh yeah, I did,” said Sam Yates with a level stare that chilled Ella to the bone. “When we get to a phone, maybe you ask your hotshot friend to get us a priority booking on the next Moon-bound shuttle, and an open return ticket for

  Yesilkov, so's she doesn't get stuck here if things get complicated. Or doesn't your friendship extend that far?”

  Ella Bradley faced Sam Yates squarely. “If I understand you, what you're implying . . . What do you want me to say to them: this woman Yesilkov's going to commit a felony and we'd like her not to be bothered about it?”


  “Yeah, that'll do. Or diplomatic immunity, some shit like that - only if it's necessary, of course. You said that's what Peck-Smith is for - cleanup.”

  Not after cold-blooded murderers. But she couldn't say that. With a sick feeling in her stomach, she answered, “I'll call him and say that it's imperative that your Lieutenant Yesilkov not be detained in any way - not questioned or searched. That's all I'm willing to do.” She crossed her own arms. She certainly wasn't going on record as an accessory to murder. Taylor wouldn't approve. It just wasn't the way these things were done.

  In the main docking hub she'd make the call. Like this corridor, it would be nearly deserted: the explosion had invoked emergency procedures. People were staying away from areas that might be dangerous. She ought to do that herself.

  She would have, except that anyplace Sam Yates was could become a danger zone on a moment's notice. She was no safer here with him than she'd been back in the lab with de Kuyper, or than she'd be when she settled into her shuttle seat for the journey back to the Moon.

  Chapter 3O - COLLISION COURSE

  Karel Pretorius rounded the corner into the corridor leading to Kathleen Spenser's apartment with all the savoir faire he'd have displayed were he about to face the Club in all its muscular glory.

  He wasn't unaware that Spenser's lab had exploded - it was the talk of the docking hub. As soon as he'd stepped off the inbound shuttle, he'd stepped into a circus of emergency procedures that wouldn't keep a gnat safe on the veldt: nervous security guards; women in fire-retardant suits; civilians gripping emergency breathing apparatus in sweaty hands. As if a nose-mouth unit with an hour's worth of air would save you if Sky Devon puked its life-support into vacuum.

  Pretorius was angry, and his stride was quick because of it. He'd come to get the virus for Earth release - the virus: not the Arab-killing test batch, but the real thing, the virus that used sickle-cell tendencies as its beachhead; the virus that would free all of Africa of its plague of blacks.

  Nothing could be allowed to abort this project. He was withholding judgment until he found out how badly the timetable had been disarrayed by the lab explosion. There was still a chance that the entire matter wasn't a blunder - just Spenser covering her tracks in a ridiculously overpowered fashion. If so, the woman had outlived her usefulness.

  Spenser had done that in any case, he admitted to himself as he reached her door and knocked loudly.

  In less than a minute the door opened and Pretorius was facing not Spenser, but a man - a man in a smock, with a harried look on his face.

  “Who're you?”

  “Out of my way,” Pretorius said, and shouldered by the smaller man in the blue smock.

  The force of Pretorius's shoulder physically displaced the lab-coated fellow, and he staggered backward.

  There, beyond the man, was Spenser, sitting cross-legged amid the litter of some struggle, dabbing at her nose with a bloody cloth.

  Pretorius hardly heard the door close behind him. His quick eyes sorted through the mess and saw strips of cloth, as if Spenser had been bound by -

  From behind the smaller man grabbed him by the arm and tried to spin him around. “I said, who are you?” It was not the lab-coat's tone, but his projectile weapon, a In-Power that was probably loaded with rubber bullets, that got Pretorius' attention.

  Rubber bullets of the sort used on space habitats were deadly.

  He said in a rumbling, languid tone meant to diffuse the tension in the other man, “I'm Karel Pretorius, a business associate of Kathleen's.”

  “Business, my ass,” retorted the lab-coat. “You don't know me, I'm just a hired hand, right? Well, you'd better take a good look, friend. I'm the only person left on this project with a shred of - ''

  Pretorius, as the other man spoke, had reached into his coat pocket. He fired without withdrawing his weapon, a composite kinetic-kill revolver with no metal parts that shot poisoned projectiles illegal under all international conventions, but undetectable by conventional security means.

  The lab-coat clutched his gut, even as the report echoed in the small apartment, and crumpled.

  Pretorius didn't even wait to make sure he was dead. He turned immediately to Spenser and said, “I assume the Plan is not impaired by what's happened in the lab?” as if he hadn't just killed a man while she watched.

  Spenser scrambled awkwardly to a standing position, still dabbing her nose as she screamed, “Plan! Plan! What Plan?

  There is no Plan, not anymore, you racist jackass! It's failed utterly, you fool. Don't you know the lab blew up? Don't you appreciate what that means? I - “

  Pretorius didn't wait to hear more. He shot the woman where she stood, again through his coat pocket, and turned to leave.

  Somehow, he hadn't heard the door open. So he was shocked when he saw the pale-haired female security guard standing there with a man in expensive civilian clothes who looked unruffled by what the two must just have seen.

  Confronted with two possible, and possibly capable, antagonists he hadn't been expecting, Pretorius instinctively started to drag his composite pistol from the pocket of his jacket.

  It fouled.

  He heard the woman say, “I hope you've seen enough, Smith. I'm makin' my own call.”

  And then he saw that the woman was wresting a security revolver from the man's hand and pointing it. ...

  Karel Pretorius was still trying to free his pistol from his pocket, or the snagged hammer from the lining of the coat, when a bullet smashed into his forehead, making further effort useless. His dying spasm caused the hammer to come down on the firing pin of his gun, and it went off despite the silk caught on the hammer. The shot discharged into his foot, but Karel Pretorius didn't feel a thing. He was already dead.

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 31 - CRISIS COMMITTEE

  “An' then ol' Pecker tells me he don't mind me takin' the original, if y' please, so long's he's got a copy of Pretorius' list to shoot Downside to McLeod's office.” Yesilkov grimaced and shook her head, easing gingerly down into one of the chairs opposite the holotank in Yates' office. “Wasn't nothin' I could do about it, Sam, after she brought them in on this.”

  Yesilkov glared archly at Ella Bradley, over by Yates' desk, and Yates couldn't help but follow the security lieutenant's gaze. Hell of a note, having this case “followed” by the brie-and-Chablis spook set. Out loud he said, “Well, we weren't complaining when we needed them. I bet you weren't, Sonya, when he handed you that gun at Spenser's, or a ticket out of there right after, no questions asked.”

  It sounded good, but even Yates didn't believe it. Bradley had complicated things mightily by bringing in her school-tie buddies. The way it made Yesilkov and him feel wasn't the least of it.

  And Bradley knew that. She was drifting around Yates' desk, her fingers trailing over its surface as if she were saying good-bye to it. She'd been too quiet, had Bradley, all the way back from Sky Devon. And until Yesilkov walked through that door, bristly and mean, Bradley had been in some sort of black funk where Yates couldn't seem to reach her.

  He really wished Ella would say something - anything. Come to her own defense, to her friends'. Chew Yesilkov out. Whatever. She didn't, though. She just watched her fingers stir the papers on Yates' desk.

  Maybe the mess in Spenser's lab got to her worse than I thought. Or Spenser herself ... It could well have been that, he admitted. And he couldn't blame Ella: they'd gone after Spenser in cold blood, and gotten her. And Ella's precious friend had helped. Done a damn fine job of helping. No, he didn't blame her, no matter the repercussions of letting a man like Taylor McLeod have something on you - have a file on you which meant that if he ever asked you to jump, you couldn't even argue about how high.

  Water under the bridge, Yates told himself. And he really didn't think it was Ella's fault - she'd done what she thought was right.

  But Yesilkov did. “So it's about them and their damned copy,” said the security lieutenant when no one else broke the leng
thening pause. “I want little Miss Connections here to get on the line to her boyfriend and make sure they don't 'help' us right out of the game. Or into our graves.”

  “Something Peck Smith said,” Ella Bradley spoke suddenly, her voice devoid of inflection, “must have given you the wrong idea, Lieutenant. McLeod hasn't even moved up his return flight - he's not due back for another week. I had a message from him on my answering machine to that effect. So you're jumping to conclusions.”

  “Yeah, what kinda conclusions?” Yesilkov was rod straight in her chair.

  “That his office,” Yates put in, uncomfortable enough with the tension to admit he'd better try to defuse it, “will interfere. My guess is, they're happy enough to let us take the weight. They won't come in again unless they're asked - by Bradley. That right, Ella?”

  “That's right.” This time there was a slightly rising inflection underscoring Ella's words. Her chin raised, she sat primly on the corner of Yates' desk. “I'm sure they'd prefer that you forget Mr. Peck Smith, or that Taylor's office was involved in any way. I know I would.”

  Yesilkov made a face and crossed one booted ankle over her other knee. “Right-o, sport. It's forgotten.”

  “Come on, you two,” said Yates with a sigh. “Sonya, if you'll haul out the damn laundry list that's got you so riled up, maybe we can get down to work.” Whatever was on that list, it had caused Smith, as McLeod's representative, to back off while at the same time being uncharacteristically forthcoming. It wasn't usual, from what Yates knew of spooks, for them to get specific about sensitive data they acquired. Or to let other people walk away with that data, to take whatever action those outsiders chose.

  Yates had a distinct hunch that if Ella Bradley hadn't been in this up to her pretty neck, neither he nor Yesilkov would have gotten out of Sky Devon alive.

  A sidelong glimpse of Ella told him nothing but that the NYU anthropologist was still uneasy. She'd been like that ever since they'd gotten home, though. It wasn't anything Yesilkov had said. . . .