Guardsman

by Pam Uphoff

Right. When I close the gate, there will be a gap in the pattern. I think I will be able to find this world.

  He opened his eyes and stretched. “I think I can find this world again, if you don’t want to involve Disco or Master Xen.”

  He grabbed a bubble as he walked to the ute. Stepped up and stuck it on the roof, opened it up and heaved himself up and rolled into it. Turned around and stuck his head out. “I’ll just leave a tiny hole, so I don’t lose time, and no one will know I’m here.”

  Aunt Rael sighed. “And with any luck, you won’t see your biomom doing things she hopes she doesn’t wind up doing. All right. Hold on, or . . . whatever.”

  ***

  Arno kept his head out as the ute drove at a fairly sedate pace. After the second time a pothole resulted in him thumping his head against the roof he withdrew a bit further. They passed a pair of squishy houses, and presumably another pair across the street.

  One water well for four houses, on the corner where their two-kilometer-by-two-kilometer farms meet. I should run the numbers, see how many people they were going to have to squeeze into these houses. Might be interesting for sociology next semester, to consider what family or unrelated-group dynamics the government might have been forced to impose in order to get every single person on the home world under a roof.

  Hmm. Mom, Dad, four kids, Grandmother and Grandfather. Possibly Aunt Rael and—eek!—Aunt Kael. For our extended family. With Rael and Kael probably elsewhere, on the job.

  Would eight people have been considered “full” or would they have shoehorned in more people? Orphans? Old people without families? Or, maybe Ebsa and his mom? Not that Ebsa wouldn’t have also been on the job.

  Yeah, I think I’ll run the numbers. I’ll bet they’d have been telling people to bring their tents. Or they’d have been sleeping in their cars.

  They drove past a second pair of houses, then his narrow view swung around and he spotted, as expected, two more houses.

  “Stay hidden.” Rael met his gaze firmly. “This could be a little dangerous, and I’d really prefer to not have to wonder where you are if I start throwing spells and what not. And eventually these people will get back to the One World, and I don’t want them looking for you.”

  “Right.” Arno let the opening close up a bit more, then shifted it around to follow her as she walked back behind the ute.

  She pulled out three metal bars, read the tags on them and opened one.

  Two people fell out. Limp, barely moving, not quite unconscious. A man and a woman.

  Aunt Rael leaned over the woman. “You have a broken jaw. Hmm . . . Drink this, and I’ll get the bone bits back where they belong, so it heals right.”

  Arno couldn’t see what she actually did, but the woman choked out some words that were probably obscene, then scooted away from Rael as Rael straightened.

  Another set of bars. A man leaped out, pancaked on the gravel and grass road, rolled over, looking around in disbelief. “What, what, where . . . who . . . oh shit!”

  “Indeed.” Rael opened the last handles and dumped a flopping, cursing man on the road. “Peeve? You and your buddies here are on an evac world. Stay here, and there’s a chance you’ll live long enough for people to forget they want you dead.”

  She turned her back on them and walked away. Arno spotted several flashes of power. They all splashed off the shield Rael held behind herself. She climbed into the ute and drove off quickly.

  She stopped again on the far side of the first houses they’d passed.

  The first bag yielded three people, two men and a woman. The woman had a gun in hand, and fired once before she collapsed on the ground. One of the men screamed and grabbed his side. The other dived for the gun . . . and dropped limply to the ground. So did the man who’d been shot. Aunt Rael pulled out a flask as she poked at the injured man. “Nothing critical.” She dripped something—Wine of the Gods! The Joy Juice!—into the man’s mouth and walked to the side to open another bag. Two women, backing away as they looked around. Another bag, three men. Belligerent, uncertain.

  “If I had any sense at all, I’d just kill all eight of you. Instead, I’m leaving you here on an Evac world. Learn to like it. You won’t like what happens if you return to the One World.”

  She walked back to the ute. One man started forward, but another grabbed him. “That’s her! Rael!”

  The ute moved out again and Arno stayed hidden until Rael turned and stopped in front of the gate. Then he rolled out and jumped through to check that no one was in sight on this side, and shift the barrier. Rael drove through, and he replaced it. Sat down and searched the inbetween. Found a spinning cone and bumped it over to crash into the two cones that formed the gate and break them loose.

  He opened his eyes. No white whirlpool.

  Arno looked back at Rael. “Would it be less noticeable if I put up a gate to a different Empty World?”

  She grinned. “Go for it!”

  He sank back into the inbetween. The pattern of gates, now with a gap. There was the Evac World, and right next to it . . . a nice dull world. Not a lot of life, but more than an algae world. Two cones, and he was holding up his comm in camera function to admire rather sparse greenery, but even the bare gaps worked, as one could easily imagine it to be a neglected gravel road.

  He scrambled up and hopped into the ute.

  “Well, that was tidy.” Aunt Rael grinned. “How about some lunch?”

  “You bet.” Arno looked back at the gate. “Two weeks till the election. Have they got time to organize more attacks?”

  “I hope not. Crap, I’m tired of this. Between the War Party and the One Firsters . . . at least the Isolationists are fighting fair this time. So far.”

  Arno swallowed. “I don’t remember the last elections being so vicious. Was that just blissful ignorance?”

  “No. It was much more civilized. I hope to hell the One Firsters lose big, and slink off into obscurity. Especially the Crow. That man’s dangerously narcissistic. And someone who will remain nameless has just lost his arranger.”

  ***

  “Damn well ought to have tied him up.”

  Dave nodded sympathetically, then turned to see what Scar was looking at behind him.

  Rael bounced up, grinning. “Don’t beat yourself up, Scar. We can’t control everything our bosses do. We just have to reason with them and do our best to keep them alive. And using an illusion was a very good idea.”

  Dave snickered. “I think he’ll listen a bit better, next time.”

  Scar sighed. “I hope so. Because I really hope I’ll be protecting him for the next twenty years. He’s sharp as a whip and wants all the right things.”

  Dave nodded. “I checked, there are three hundred and twenty-nine Modern Federalists running for Council seats. And a bunch at regional and local assemblies. I think that’s a good sign.”

  Rael nodded. “It is. Probably three quarters of them started out as Strong Federalists, but Orde’s followers were making inroads well before Izzo’s master stroke. Took me by surprise.”

  Nods from everyone around. Feol grinned. “I like to see brain and tactics in a president.”

  Major Eppa stalked up. “Scar, you need to learn to duck. Light duty for a week. Go sit in Izzo’s HQ and make sure no one gets in with a bomb. That blast in Italy has my nerves crawling.”

  Rael nodded. “And . . . well, Ycrw’s from Italy, but, well, he doesn’t have the background for that sort of mayhem. If it’s linked to him, and not a set up to make us suspect him, I’m not sure how to determine . . . well, I suppose it’s Interior’s baby, and dammit, my best inside information source is incorruptible.”

  Eppa chuckled. “I hope you realize how many of us have gone out of our way to meet your oft mentioned brother-in-law-the-cop since he moved to Paris.” He caught Dave’s inquiring look, and grinned. “Rael generally mentioned him with something along the lines of ‘I don’t even have to ask my brother-in-law-the-cop to know that’s a bad idea.’ Which
sort of tweaked our interest.”

  “Ah.” Dave nodded. “That would be the stepfather?”

  “Yep. Nice man. Solid.” Eppa grinned. “And he’s so tactful about his sister-in-law.”

  Rael snorted. “I used to worry that he was too honest for Paris, and he doesn’t fence, that I’ve ever seen. But he’s pretty canny, well he is a cop; no one’s tried to play him a second time.”

  “Umm, I should meet this guy. Anyone you respect that much . . .”

  Scar grinned. “Yeah. Why don’t we go drop by IR and ask about that explosion in Italy, and maybe just happen to meet this fellow?”

  Dave thought that over. I wonder what it looks like from the outside. “Yeah, we should do that.” He glanced at his watch. “We ought to be able to catch him before quitting time.”

  Rael rolled her eyes. “Have fun.”

  ***

  Subdirector of Investigation Ahxe Withione Blackpoint had a secretary . . . who was very obviously a Princess. Niin according to the little block sitting on her desk. Gray hair in a smooth professional cut, a hint of a wrinkle across her forehead were the only indications of age. She looked them over like she was figuring out the most efficient way to kill them, then took their names, then stepped to the door of the inner office.

  “Those Blackhorse Guards you were hoping to speak to have turned up on your doorstep.” She stepped back and waved them in.

  The subdirector stood and shook hands, waved them into seats. “Call me Ox and tell me what I can do for you gentlemen, who are apparently covering up an assassination attempt on Izzo yesterday?"

  Dave blinked. "We are trying to keep this election quiet and smooth. We’re investigating. No doubt in a few months some arrests will be forthcoming.” I hope. I wonder what Rael did with them? Well, probably they’re just . . . in stasis, so to speak, until she lets them out. “We were, thus, rather interested in this explosion in Italy.”

  Scar nodded. “Especially any chemical traces that we could connect back to the truck bomb here.”

  Ox leaned back and eyed them. “Really?”

  Dave swapped glances with Scar. “Actually I wanted to meet this paragon of virtue that Rael has so much respect for. Bomb-wise, I’m much more worried about any hint of a bomb factory, and any completed bombs that might be . . . in other hands.”

  “We have some alerts out and are discreetly checking anything that looks like these.” He tapped at his computer and brought up a picture on the wall. Still photos from the bomb factory. Showing the array of containers, the wiring and electronics connected to them, the vehicles, the chemicals stored in a thick walled room, the mixing room . . . all the bomb makers, no sign of who was taking the pictures.

  “Holy crap!” Scar looked and sounded appalled. “What, where . . .”

  Dave closed his mouth. I didn’t even think of recording anything! That woman is scary good. “Have those people been arrested? Is everything secured?”

  “No.” Exasperation in the subdirector’s voice. “This was dropped on us anonymously this morning, and claimed to be what had gone up in that blast yesterday. So we’re checking trash cans, mailboxes . . . One! Makes me wish I was still a beat cop in Low Town.”

  Dave nodded. “Have you identified any of the people?”

  “Yes. The local police recognized them. They’re all members of an extended local family with considerable underground, smuggling, and black marketing connections. These particular family members were thought to be gainfully employed and not connected to the criminal side of the family. No doubt I’ll be hearing more from the police investigators any time now.”

  Dave huffed a bit. “I suppose we ought to have put this off a bit, it’s early for results. But if you could keep us in the information loop we’d appreciate it.”

  Ox was still eyeing them.

  Crap. The guy knows we, well, I, know more than I’m saying.

  “So you both work with Rael?” He tapped at his comm. Nodded to Dave. “And of course, you know my daughter.”

  Dave nodded. “Crazy Redhead Number Two.” Daughter, not stepdaughter. “How’s she liking this Directorate School?”

  “Very much.” His eyes dropped to his comm. “Why don’t you two come meet the rest of the family, stay for dinner.” A toothy grin. “So I can dissect you in private.”

  ***

  Which turned out to not be very private.

  Izzo and his family, and lots of guards, were there too. No sign of Rael.

  Izzo and Ox swapped grins, and took them on a tour of the house, and ended in the basement with just the four of them.

  Dave looked from Izzo to Ox to Scar.

  Ox crossed his arms and gazed balefully at Izzo. “Covering up an assassination attempt, are we?”

  Izzo nodded. “Rael claims to be able to do it in a way that the perps can be prosecuted later.”

  Ox sighed. “No doubt involving a dimensional bubble.” His gaze moved to Scar. “And you helped?”

  Izzo shook his head. “He was close in guard, and made me send an illusion out of the car . . . which was a really good idea, as the sniper shot it.”

  Scar nodded. “Went right through magic physical shields and bullet proof glass and hit me. Not serious. The doc has the bullet, with evidence trail.”

  “And the sniper?” Ox asked.

  Izzo and Scar both looked at Dave. Ox switched his disapproving gaze as well.

  “Dimensional bubbles. For him and the spotter, and the weapons.”

  Ox pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well. That’s just going to be a really interesting court case. Now . . . I really hate to ask about the bomb in Italy.”

  They all looked at Dave. Who tried really hard to look surprised, and then indignant.

  Ox sighed. “Politics. Was anyone killed?”

  “No.”

  And a feminine voice from the shadows on the stairs . . . “How many bags of . . . dimensional bags does that woman have?”

  Ox’s secretary . . . with Izzo’s Gee Wiz behind her.

  “Fourteen.” Dave squirmed under their regard. “I asked.”

  “One!” Ox sighed. “And no doubt the One approves of anything Rael does. I should have stayed a beat cop. Let’s go eat dinner. I will add the infamous Lucky Dave to the people I wish I could arrest.”

  ***

  The four kids—Ox’s youngest was three years older than Izzo and Xiat’s twins—and his younger daughter a quiet twelve-year-old, were giggling over something.

  Xiat and Raod—Rael’s sister—were obviously good friends, with Xiat at ease in Raod’s kitchen.

  “Somehow I’d thought you stayed in Montevideo and Ox commuted?” Dave looked from one woman to the other.

  “Oh, I did, but of course I visited regularly, and met Ox’s Boss.” Raod grinned at Xiat. “You’ve been so busy, I haven’t had time to ask if you’re missing the Gothic Horror.”

  A snort from Xiat. “No, but the kids do. The staff there was wonderful and did their best to spoil the kids.”

  Izto grinned. “The nanny from heck quit. She didn’t want to come to Paris.”

  Xiaz nodded. “Miss Jackie is much nicer, and she’s been teaching us, because we’re traveling so much. So we don’t have to go to school.”

  “Yet.” Xiat put in.

  And we really appreciate that! We’re badly out of practice at guarding kids in a school setting. If Izzo’s elected . . . we’ll be getting plenty of practice. And if not . . .

  Dave looked over at Izzo. “Strictly in a private setting . . . what plans do you have, post-election, if you lose?”

  “Well, there are other elective offices—I think I can write off any appointments from anyone who wins—and . . . I have a few other ideas that I haven’t had time to sound out.”

  The two Princesses eyed him speculatively, but didn’t ask.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Election Day

  25 Shawaal 1415

  “For better or worse, this is the last time we have to d
o this.” Izzo stepped out of the limo, waving to the crowd. Calcutta . . . I remember the first time I was here! Chasing down those odd people, whom I was beginning to realize weren’t infiltrators from Comet Fall.

  His grin widened as he remember his first encounter with the survivors of Rangpur, eleven centuries in the past—and in deep trouble. Not that they didn’t escape after twelve-year-old Qamar power punched me off the train platform.

  Fortunately there was no train coming, and it all worked out in the end.

  He shook hands, spoke to the crowd for fifteen minutes, then ducked back into the aircar and was whisked back to the limo waiting at the corridor.

  Aukland, Sydney, Perth, Singapore, Peking, Tokyo yesterday.

  Because it simply couldn’t all be done in 24 hours. Even using the fast room to sleep. Which felt like cheating, but . . .

  Calcutta, Bombay, Delhi, Tehran, Dimasq, Cairo.

  The aircar, that had the guards chewing their fingernails, was riding on a low trailer. When he couldn’t speak right by the corridor, it was the only way to avoid hours in traffic.

  A fast wave in Paris, since he had to pass through anyway.

  Nairobi, Johannesburg. Leap the ocean to Montevideo, Caracas, New York, San Francisco.

  He took a breather in Honolulu, long enough to catch a solid eight hours asleep in the fast room, then a shower at the hotel, a change of clothes, and he was back to shaking hands and talking. Then they jumped to Anchorage in their twilight for one last speech.

  Four hours to midnight, when the polls would close.

  And then he was mostly done. Called in a couple of interviews while they corridored all the way to Paris.

  Where it was almost noon the next day, and the local polls had been closed for twelve hours. Often referred to as “half a day of second guesses and regrets.”

  He made his entrance, stopping at the top of the steps to wave and, shake a few hands, then into the party.

  Quite sober, so far. He glanced at the big screen, showing the countdown to the official results being released.