Poul Anderson - Shield

by Shield (Lit)

  "No," Koskinen said.

  "What? "She stirred.

  "Sorry. Perhaps I am too trusting. Or perhaps you aren't trusting enough. But when I signed for the Mars trip, I took an oath to support the Constitution." He climbed achingly to his feet. "I'm going to call MS to come get me."

  She rose too. "No, you don't!"

  He clapped a hand on his generator switch. "Don't draw that gun," he said. "I can shield myself faster than you can shoot, and outwait you."

  She stepped back, reached in a pocket and pulled forth the detonator. "Can you outwait this?" she countered unsteadily.

  He gasped and made a move toward her. "Stop where you are!" she shrilled. He thought he heard a snick as she thumbed off the safety. "I'll kill you before I let you turn that thing over to him!"

  Koskinen stood very still. "Would you?" he breathed.

  "Yes . . . it's that important ... it really is, Pete. You talked about your oath. D-d-don't you see—Marcus—he'd destroy what's left of ... of the Constitution?" She began to cry, he heard her, but he could make out in the night that she still clutched the detonator.

  "You've got everything wrong," he pleaded. "How do you know Marcus would act that way —or be able to if he wanted? He doesn't even have Cabinet rank. There're other branches of government, Congress, the courts, the President. . . . I can't outlaw myself just because—an opinion— you aren't giving them a chance, Vee!''

  Silence fell between them again. He waited, thinking of many things, feeling his aloneness. Until she caught her breath with a gulp and said in a thin little voice:

  "Maybe. I can't tell for sure. It's your machine, and your life, and—I suppose I could always go hide. But I wish you'd really satisfy yourself . . . before you walk into their parlor ... I wish you would. Once you're there it'd be too late. And you're too good for what might happen to you."

  Dave, he remembered. For a long while he stood, shoulders hunched beneath his burden, thinking about Dave Abrams. Anyway, I've been too passive. That's a shirking of responsibility, I suppose—but mainly, I'm fed up to the eyeballs with being pushed around.

  A minor part of him was surprised to note how resolution brought back physical strength. He spoke quite steadily. "Okay, Vee, I'll do what you say. I think I know how, too."

  She slipped the detonator back into her pocket and followed him mutely to the street. They walked several blocks before turning a corner and seeing a cluster of darkened shops with a public call booth outside. She gave him some coins—he had none in this suit—and posted herself by the door. Her cheeks gleamed wet in the dull lamplight, but her lips had grown firm again.

  Koskinen called first for a taxi. Then he punched for local MS headquarters. The telltale glowed crimson; government agencies always recorded calls. He didn't make a visual transmission. No sense in betraying his changed appearance before he must.

  "Bureau of Military Security," said a woman's voice.

  Koskinen stiffened. "Listen," he said. "This is urgent. Get your tape immediately to whoever's in charge. This is Peter Koskinen speaking, from the USAAS Franz Boos. I know you're looking for me, and I'm back at large with the thing you're after. But I'm not certain I can trust you. I tried to call a shipmate of mine, David Abrams, a couple of nights ago, and learned you'd hauled him in. That sounds suspicious to me. Maybe I'm wrong about that. But what I've got is too important to hand over blindly.

  "I'm leaving now. I'll call again in half an hour from somewhere else. At that time I want you to have a hookup ready which will include Abrams. Understand? I want to see Abrams personally and satisfy myself that he's okay and not being unjustifiably held. Got me?"

  He switched off and stepped from the booth. The taxi was already there, as he had hoped. Vivienne had prudently tucked her gun and holster into the coverall; the driver wouldn't have come near if he saw that. As it was, he wore a helmet and had a needier just like Neff's friend—dear God, only two nights ago? Standard equipment for low-level hackies, evidently. Koskinen and Vivienne got in. The driver said into a microphone—a blankout panel, doubtless bulletproof, hid him from the rear seat—"Where to?"

  Koskinen was caught off guard. Vivienne said quickly: "Brooklyn, and fast."

  "Got to swing wide of the Crater, ma'am. Wider than usual, I mean. Some kinda ruckus going on there, so Control's re-routed traffic."

  "That's okay." Koskinen leaned back as much as the unit he wore permitted. They swung aloft. MS would probably have a car at the booth within minutes, but that would be too late. They might then check with Control, but the chances were that the computer would already have removed the fact that this one cab had stopped at that one corner from its circulating memory. Investigation of the various taxi companies would take more tune than was available. So I am on top of the situation, Koskinen thought. Barely.

  "Brooklyn," the driver said after a short while. "Where now?"

  "Flatbush tube station," Vivienne instructed.

  "Hey, I'll getcha anywhere in the borough as cheap's the tubeway, now we're here, and a lot quicker."

  "You heard the lady," Koskinen said. The driver muttered something uncomplimentary but obeyed. Vivienne gave him a handsome tip when they left. "Otherwise he might get so mad he'd check with the cops, hoping we are wanted," she explained as she boarded the escalator with her companion.

  The gate took money and admitted them. They entered the tube, stepped onto the belt and found a seat. There were a few other passengers—workmen, a priest, several Orientals who looked out of withdrawn eyes at the Western gut down which they traveled—but not many. The city wouldn't really awaken for another hour.

  Vivienne regarded Koskinen a while. "You're looking better now," she remarked.

  "I feel a little better, somehow," he admitted. He slipped off the screen unit and laid it at his feet.

  "Wish I could say the same." Her own eyes were bloodshot and edged with blackness. "I'm tired, though." She sighed. "Tired down into my bones. Not just the chase tonight. All the years behind me. Was there ever a small girl named Veevee in a room with blue ducks on the wallpaper? It feels more like something I read once in an old book."

  He took her hand, wordlessly, and dared slip the other arm across her shoulder. The dark head leaned against him. "I'm sorry, Pete," she said. "I don't want to go soupy on you. But do you mind if I cry a little? I'll be very quiet."

  He held her closer. No one else paid any particular attention. He remembered the oneness of the ship's crew, and of the Martians, and eventually with the Martians—not a loss of freedom, rather an unspoken belongingness which gave meaning to a freedom that would otherwise have been empty . . . perhaps the grisliest thing he had found on Earth so far was the isolation of human beings from each other.

  But what else could result, when a man was one atom in a deaf, dumb, blind, automated machine?

  They rode with no special destination until his watch said it was about time to call MS again. Occasionally Koskinen switched the seat onto cross-tube belts chosen at random. Vivienne had dozed a few minutes and seemed refreshed thereby. She walked springily with him to the gate when they got off.

  Below the escalator, he looked around. They had come into a better district. The buildings on their side of the street were fairly new, with curving setback walls of tinted plastic, broad windows, and balconies. Across the avenue marched the cyclone fence that enclosed the parkscape around a Center. That pile dominated the scene like a mountain, but Koskinen^ hardly noticed. He was too struck by the grounds themselves, grass ablaze with green, flowerbeds of red and blue and yellow, the graciousness of trees, beneath a sky that had turned pale in the east. I'd almost forgotten that Earth is still the most beautiful planet, he thought.

  A uniformed guard watched them idly from behind the fence. A few early—or very late—ground cars whispered along the street; trucks and trains weren't allowed here. There was a cab stand close by, so no reason to phone for getaway transportation again.

  Why getaway? Koskinen resis
ted. Why not simply a ride down to the MS office?

  He wet his lips, made himself ignore his pulse, and entered the corner booth. Vivienne waited outside, guarding the shield generator. Her gaze never left him. He punched the number.

  "Bureau of——"

  "Koskinen," he said roughly. "Are you prepared to talk to me?"

  "Oh! One moment." Click. A man's voice rapped: "This is Colonel Ausland. If you'll go on visual, Koskinen, I'll switch you over to Director Marcus himself.''

  "Okay." Koskinen put in the extra coin. "But bear this in mind, I don't have the machine. If you trace this call and snatch me, my confederate has instructions to take off for parts unknown. Unknown to me too, I'd better add.''

  The screen showed him an indignant face which quickly gave way to another—heavy, bushy-browed, with distinguished gray hair, Hugh Marcus in Washington. Koskinen had seen so many news pictures in his youth that he recognized the man at once.

  "Hello, there," said Marcus quite gently. "What's the matter? What are you scared of, son?"

  "You," Koskinen said.

  "Well, you've obviously had some rough experiences, but——"

  "Quiet! I know damn well I haven't much time before your agents can get to where I am. I've been, treated pretty high-handedly, Marcus, and I want some assurance from a person I can trust that it was only because of circumstances and not because your bureau has grown too big for its britches. Got Dave Abrams ready to talk to me?"

  "Wait a minute. Wait a minute." Marcus raised one large manicured hand. "Don't start off half-programmed like that. We took Abrams into custody, yes. For his own protection, same as we wanted to protect you. He's perfectly okay——"

  "Let him tell me so. Quick, there!"

  Marcus flushed but continued mildly: "Why Abrams in particular? It so happens we can't bring him on such short notice. We tucked him away in a Rocky Mountains hideout, and saw no reason why he and the agents guarding him shouldn't get in some fishing. So they're off in the woods, and atmospherics are such that their talkie sets evidently won't reach our nearest closed-circuit relay."

  "I say you've shot him full of mind dope and couldn't wring him dry that fast. So long, Marcus." Koskinen reached for the switch.

  "Wait a second!" Marcus cried. "Will you talk to Carl Holmboe? We've got him standing by for you, safe and sound."

  The engineering officer—Koskinen swayed on knees gone rubbery. "Sure," he husked. "Put him on."

  The image changed. A balding walrus-mustached man regarded Koskinen, in his own screen, with a dazed expression.

  "Hello, Carl, "Koskinen said softly.

  "Oh. Pete." Holmboe's eyes flickered sideways. Did a guard with a gun stand beyond pickup range? "What's got into you?"

  "I'm not sure," Koskinen said. "How're they treating you?"

  "Fin. Shouldn't they be? I'm fine."

  "You don't look it."

  "Pete——" Holmboe swallowed. "Come on home, Pete. I don't know what the score is, except that you insist on being told they won't hurt you at MS. Well, they won't."

  Koskinen paused. Stillness hummed from the phone. Through the booth windows, he saw the western stars go out as the sun came closer. Vivienne had not stirred from her place.

  He forced tongue-and larynx into those deep croaks which were the closest men would ever come' to High Martian Vocal. "Carl, Sharer-of Hopes, is there a reality in what you attest?"

  Holmboe started. His face turned still whiter. "Don't call me that!"

  "Why should I not name you Sharer-of-Hopes, as our whole band named each other that night in the shrine with the Martians and the Philosopher's Sending? I will come to you if you tell me in the pledge language that there is no wrongness intended. "

  Holmboe tried to speak and could not.

  "Sharer-of-Hopes, I know the danger to yourself," Koskinen said. "Were that the only aspect of this plenum, I would come at once. But I believe, in the night way I learned on Elkor's tower, that more is at hazard than life."

  "Go swiftly and far," Holmboe told him.

  He shook himself, leaned forward, and barked in English: "Lay off that stuff, Pete. You must be having a brain typhoon or something, the way you're acting. If you want me to swear in Martian that it's safe to come here, okay, I've sworn. So quit making a jackass of yourself.''

  "S-sure. I'll come," Koskinen said. "I, uh, I have to stop and get the machine from the person I left it with. But then I'll go straight to the nearest MS office." He drew a breath. His throat felt thick, as if he had swallowed the bomb that was chained beneath it, and his eyes stung. "Thanks, Carl," he said somehow.

  "Yeah. I'll be seeing you."

  I hope so.

  Koskinen blanked the screen. Maybe Carl was off the hook now. Maybe he'd gained a little time for himself to ... to do whatever came next. Existence grant that this be. There had been so much death.

  He left the booth. Vivienne seized his hand. "What's the word, Pete?"

  He picked up the unit. "Let's get away while we can," he answered sharply.

  X

  She stood silent for a little while. The sun, not yet visible, touched the heights of the Center with rose and gold and filled the street with light. Traffic had not increased much; the residents of an area like this seldom needed to get up early. Here there was no gut-growl of megalopolis, like that which never ended in the slums. Rather, the city sounds were like a gentle great breathing. Against that background, Vivienne made him think of a dark angel prowling just beyond the walls of that paradise which had cast her out.

  "Where?" she asked. "Upstate, Zigger's place?"

  "God, I don't know. I hate to ... do nothing but run away. We need help."

  Her laugh was sarcastic. "Who's going to give it?" She caught his hand. "Come on, Pete! MS'11 trace that call. They'll have somebody here inside of minutes."

  "I told them I was going to them."

  "They'll check here on principle. Come on!"

  Light flared off a window in the immense building opposite. Koskinen blinked. It was as if the sun itself had flashed him a signal. "Yes!" he almost shouted.

  "What?" Wide eyes, gold-flecked brown, searched his face. "You thought of something?"

  "Uh-huh." He started walking rapidly toward the taxi stand.

  The cabs were new and shiny here, the drivers unarmed. "That line doesn't enter the slums," Vivienne warned.

  "We're not going to the slums."

  "Hacks can be dangerous, Pete. They receive all public announcements. As soon as MS broadcasts an alarm for us, the cabbies will see it. Ours might very well remember us——"

  "We haven't much choice, I'm afraid. The tubeways are too slow, if MS should decide to go directly after us. And they can be stopped, can't they? I don't want to sit trapped in a tunnel, waiting for a squad to investigate my coach."

  Her mind sprang ahead of him. "We want to go somewhere top-level, right?" she asked. He nodded. "Okay," she said, "I'll take a chance that you know what you're doing, because there isn't tune to argue. But let's act typical rather than unusual. We can pretty well conceal our faces, too. Then I don't think we will be remembered. Here, give me that generator." She took it easily in one hand. "I'd likelier carry a piece of apparatus than you. I'm a girl you picked up while slumming, you see, just after I'd gotten off work. Lord knows I look it, in this outfit. And you still look fairly respectable; that dark suit you're wearing doesn't show how dirty you really are."

  "What do you mean?" he asked, bewildered.

  The sky was now so bright that he could see her flush. But she said in an impersonal hurry, "We've been touring the low-level taverns tonight." At his continued gaping: "Look, you fool, you're the wastrel son of a multi-billionaire. There are enough of that breed around! Play the part ... oh, hell, you poor bumbling innocent, follow my lead."

  They neared the taxis. Koskinen's mind boggled when Vivienne's free hand traveled up his back, ruffled his hair, and pulled his mouth down to hers. But it made clear what her idea was.r />
  Still nuzzling each other—even at that instant he could admire the skill with which she confronted the cabman with the back of her own head and the mere top of his—they halted. The driver chuckled and pressed the door button.

  The woman shoved the generator into the rear and climbed after it. "Really, Tom, I've got to get back to work," she whined. "The boss'll skin me alive as is, because I didn't deliver this test rig to his place yesterday like I was supposed to."

  Koskinen couldn't think of any response. Her fingers pinched him savagely. "Oh!" He entered behind her. "Uh, don't, don't worry about that, uh, sweetheart. I'll see to it that he's, uh, satisfied."

  "Gee, it must be nice to have money," she purred. The door closed behind him. The driver punched for top speed, uppermost Controlled level, and the surge pressed his passengers yet closer together.

  He gave her a clumsy bear hug. "Oof," she whispered. "Easy, there, bruiser." His nostrils filled with the warm odors of her, hair that smelled like sunshine and skin like—he had no comparisons. The heart racketed in him and he must force breath past the fullness hi his throat.

  From the corner of an eye, without much interest, Koskinen glimpsed the rising sun. In that light megalopolis became a romantic, tower-pierced mist-land, where the two rivers and Long Island Sound lay like molten silver. There were not many other cars to be seen. The taxi fled eastward, faster than he wished. Before long the city gave way to gardenscape rolling back from wide beaches, only an occasional Center breaking its serenity. When this area was rebuilt, none but the wealthiest could afford to live there, and they did not let industry return.

  The bulk of Centralia marched over the horizon. "What flange, sir?" asked the driver. He had to repeat himself twice before Koskinen heard, checked his memory, and stammered, "T-T twenty-third. West side, that is."

  "Very good, sir." The driver called ahead for permission from the chief of guard. It was granted without fuss; taxis came here often enough. He slanted his vehicle downward, touched wheels to flexiplast, and let the machine proceed under ground guidance to a disembarkation ramp.