by Sharon Lee
His comrades folded him gently into the backseat, for he was a big Terran, and they chatted with him, trying to fix his attention, and free her to drive.
“Tommee, tell me about breakfasts, keed,” they said—and when he laughed and said something half-finished, they had at him again, “What’s the name of that girl waiting for them Hundred Hours?”
“Here,” one said, soft-voiced under the rambling reminiscence of that lady’s charms. “Just a shot, keed, so’s ya walk on yer own, an’ don’t go falling over on us.”
Tommee laughed, hearing that, or some part of it. “Hellno! Don’ wan’ me fallin’ that’s sure! Take a platoon to carry me, eh?”
The soft-voiced one agreed, and there was the hiss of an injection, then a device came out of pack or pocket, and went around his arm—a monitor of some kind, Vertu thought, and dragged her attention back to her contracted duty.
The taxi-call channels were jammed with people trying to escape something, of hurried visits to the country. Regulars were calling her in vain, for the call channels were reporting her cabs out of service, except for perhaps Chim Dal, who had never answered his call to assist in today’s event.
Traffic was strangely light now, as if the Port and Low Port were emptied of all those who could go, as if the “side door” Commander Higdon had arranged truly opened upon some hidden corridors.
He had appeared, the commander, as Tommee was being loaded into her cab, and thrown what she thought might be a salute in her direction. She lowered the window as he leaned down.
“We’ve had a recall,” he told her. “Balance achieved.”
The boy, Tommee, for Vertu realized that for all his length, he was young, no older than her missing son . . . Tommee was singing now, and didn’t even stop when a pair of noises erupted from the men on either side of him, each grabbing for a comm of some kind, and then each searching about themselves for—
“Tommee, where’s the sidearm, my boy?”
“Right leg storage pocket, Danil, just like regs. Just cause I got hit a little don’t mean . . .”
Beneath Tommee’s voice, continuing at length, came a chime from Routing Info indicating information incoming. Vertu looked to the screens, at routes blocked out, streets unavailable.
Unavailable?
“Ma’am,” said the one called Danil, catching her eye in the screen. “Our guys are seeing something a little bit like a riot, where we’re going. You may want to just drop us off a few blocks away and we’ll—”
The voice was respectful, and also his words. This did not hide the fact that he and his uninjured companion on Tommee’s left both had weapons in-hand.
Vertu moved her foot, touching the floor stud that locked the partition, and brought the handgun out of the console.
“Is this an order, a robbery?”
The handgun . . . she’d fired it twice, the day she’d bought it, wondered if it would still work after all these years.
She drove on, knowing the cab’s protection was meant for urban dangers, civilians . . .
“No, ma’am,” Danil said. “Just that things may be out of hand towards the end of the trip . . .”
She barely spared him a glance as yet another route blinked out as impassable.
“I drive to Low Port, sir; a riot there is nothing new.”
No sooner the words were said than she regretted them, for Tommee, who by now held a firearm in his undamaged hand, began singing something in loud Trade about Low Port Tramps . . .
They were now just two blocks from the exit point, she and her fares, with Fereda behind, and several more cabs still continuing on in train. The city around them was darker than it should have been, the streets becoming crowded with what might well be a riot, with people of mixed station standing on the walks, and cars left idling on the side of the street, with—
The road in front of them erupted, scattering rock and road against the windshield.
“Grenades,” said one in the back, but by then she’d stopped the cab and unlocked all the doors.
“We’re out!”
That was to her, no doubt, and the two able soldiers were out, dragging Tommee with them, and the cabs behind were disgorging their passengers as well.
Vertu saw her daughter’s car begin to move—she’d not had a casualty disembark, after all. On the sidewalks, the soldiers were forming up.
“Anti-armor, get out of there!”
Vertu looked up, and there before her, perhaps three cab-lengths away, stood a man, an ordinary Liaden, well-dressed and calm. He met her eyes, his face perfectly composed, as he brought a tube to his shoulder, pointing it toward her, no—toward Fereda’s cab! There were sounds she knew were guns, sounds she knew was small-arms fire—
Her cab leapt forward under her command, Tommee and his comrades scattering as she aimed it for this calm, ordinary man. It was satisfaction she felt, in the instant that he changed his stance, and moved the tube, acquiring her cab as his target.
Vertu slammed the controls forward; the cab roared—
All around was brilliance and sound. The cab was lofted, tumbling backwards, restraints flashed into being, holding her tight and safe.
The odors were incredible, immediate. Dust covered her. The cab was wedged at an unfortunate angle, but around her the sounds continued. The windscreen was a spidernest of crazed glass, the whole car shaking with the force of Fereda’s pounding against the door. With her were Vertu’s last fares, the soldiers, with Tommee, who had not fallen down.
The door was jammed. Trussed tight in safety tape, there was little Vertu could do to aid in her own rescue. One of the soldiers took Fereda’s place, another pulling her back with a gloved hand on her shoulder. There was a scream of tearing metal, and the door—was gone.
Vertu had time to blink the dust out of her eyes, before the crash-tape retracted and she fell into her daughter’s arms.
“Mother!”
“Daughter, I am well.”
“You could have been killed!”
“So I could, and you! A moment!”
Amid the chatter of gunfire and larger sounds, Vertu snatched her gun from its holder and returned to Fereda’s side. Around them, the riot was a war zone; the soldiers gathering in positions against whatever enemy there was. The man with the tube, there he was, leveling it again, this time at her—
There was time to shove Fereda behind her; to raise the gun, to see his face, his anger and his intent—
“Whoa, now! Civlins!”
Something struck her in the ribs with enough force to knock her from her feet to the ground, and Fereda atop her.
A very tall man stood above them, gun leveled.
The explosion deafened her, disoriented her. Fereda went limp, and she feared—but no, it was only the shock. They shoved against each other, untangling and grasping at arms and shoulders, climbing to their feet, staring again at a street in disorder, and—Tommee!
The Liaden with the tube lay like an empty bread wrap, bloody back and side to them. Tommee was forward of his position, fallen after all—swearing, swearing, surely swearing in his peculiar Terran and in Trade, his legs—his foot—too far away from the rest of him . . .
He saw her—saw them—made a grimace that might have been a smile, saw the direction of her gaze, and followed it.
For a long moment, he looked at the red ruin of his leg, at the disconnected foot in its overlarge boot. He raised his head and met her eyes.
“Ma’am, thanks for the ride. ’Preciate. Reallydo.”
The soldier’s face, already ashen and staring upward, went pale and then bright as shadows flashed out of the day and color washed out of everything.
Vertu looked to the light above her, above them all, and there in the sky over the city was a dancing lance of purplish light, and another and perhaps more; and a boom like a thousand thunder strikes at once washed over her. Her eyes involuntarily shut against the assault of sound and light, and then she opened them, looking up to find the sou
rce, but there was no source now, just a blazing brightness in the sky. She thought it was done, but another lance of light fell upon the city, and another until at last the sky was full of sudden cloud and billowing smoke. The skyblaze was done now, but the world and the people still shook in aftermath.
* * *
“Dere’s a Kindal Decent Wyman comm street edge . . . cah checked . . .”
The news came from a guard with a comm set in each ear, who stood nodding and scanning, nodding and scanning—
Vertu looked up from the comfort of the gun and leather, the sounds coming together oddly, with almost as much meaning as “somebody ought to do something . . .” and for the same reason—it meant something to another, and she needed to respond. She was sitting on the curb, drained of energy, with blood still wet before her, in the street, strange clouds and a lingering scintillant light behind the smoke still rising from the strike zone.
This guard was not one she’d carried to the battle zone—this one was female, not quite as large as Tommee, with a multigun in open readiness—and she had only the barest distinguishable Terran, no Trade nor Liaden.
The words came again, this time perhaps aimed at Fereda, who leaned against her whole cab behind the shambles that had been the Delm’s Own Cab, but Fereda had not heard; was not listening, as Vertu could see with a quick glance. The girl stood with a gun-grip perilously showing from her jacket pocket, staring into the sky where the flash had taken color from the world and where now rose a column of darkness unsullied by the light of the setting sun.
Fereda had been crying, which was unseemly, but the mercs had the dignity not to notice, which gave Vertu a relief far beyond reason. That gave her strength enough to look into the guard’s eyes as she stood awaiting an answer, and replay the sounds she had uttered, seeking a sense which was suddenly plain.
“Chim Dal dea’San Clan Wylan,” she said, speaking as clearly as possible.
The guard blamed the headset for a miscommunication by tapping at it seriously—but again she nodded, and used her chin to point toward the Mid-Port end of the road, which was now unblocked of the half-dozen cabs still mobile.
“Yes’m, gots it, and ’mander Higdon gives goheath foyah, pair.”
Translation this time was easier. Vertu moved her hand to show that she had gotten the message, understanding that they were to go now. The gun and belt were heavy in her hand, but she had tried to give it back several times, and was every time refused. Tommee had been clear as they gathered him up—
“No’m,” he said. “I’m f’surgery, an’ got my backups. You had this, we’d all be better off. You take it, my gift. That’s mine own, an’ I give it to you, f—for your care. Pleased to be alive, ma’am, an’ you taking on anti-armor! You’d make merc if you wanted! I’ll sing your song, I will.”
They’d known what to do, his comrades, and she’d felt helpless as they’d used belts and tubes and collected what obvious parts of his legs as they could, and bore him away. The commander had come by a few moments later as she was still clutching her daughter to her, the two of them perhaps weeping into the privacy of the other’s shoulder. His face was clean but the uniform had been busy; there was blood—perhaps even Tommee’s blood—on his sleeve.
How someone could be businesslike under these mad circumstances she did not know, but he had been, and she returned it as best she could.
“You have my card and you have my thanks. Smitty told me you sent your cab against anti-armor, and saved his life. By the rocks, you could have been killed! Good work, ma’am. I’ll make it good—you understand? A new cab; repairs. You have my card. Get to me with a bill, hear?”
He’d attempted a bow, gave it up, saluted, and was gone. His aide also refused to take Tommee’s gun from her. “Ma’am, he knows it might be the last thing he gets to give if you have my meaning, and you took damage for him. He’s a newbie and his paycheck and his sidegun, it’s what he owns. If it was me, I’d keep it and sleep with it under my pillow!”
Vertu sighed, made sure of her grip on the leather belt that held Tommee’s gift, and walked unsteadily over to the cab, and her daughter leaning there. It had not escaped damage, this second of Wylan’s three vehicles—there were holes stitched down the driver’s door, a shattered window, a list to one side that spoke of blown stabilizers.
A bill, she thought wearily. For a new cab, and repairs.
Tomorrow, she would bill Higdon’s Howlers for the damage they had caused her. For now . . .
“Fereda,” she said, extending a hand to touch her daughter’s pale and soot-streaked face.
The girl blinked as if she suddenly came to her senses from a swoon, stepping sharply away from her cab, away from Vertu’s hand.
She turned her back, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Vertu gasped, heart stuttering at the violence of the act—worse than any she had witnessed this day. Worse even than that flash which had dazzled everyone and everything, more violent than the ground-shake, more violent than the noise when that arrived.
Heart-struck, Vertu drew a careful breath and exhaled. Surviving that, she drew another breath . . . and a third.
The leather was real in her hand, and she had to do, now, with what was real now.
There was a stain on the belt, and the gun was twice as heavy as her own, the one that Fereda held in such low esteem as to pocket it so clumsily that it might fall out. But it was hers, this gun. A gift, for her care. That was real.
The fighting had been short and sharp; she’d shot once or twice with the gun Fereda had, not because she knew who was shooting but because they were shooting at her, or her car, or her daughter, or bloody Tommee . . .
She did not look at the street. Instead, she paced forward until she faced her daughter, trying to ignore the dark clouds overhead and in her daughter’s visage.
“Fereda dea’San,” she said to set face and distant eyes, “we shall leave here together. On the morrow, if the planet is still here, we shall sit and speak together, telling over my errors.”
Her daughter shied away from the offered hand, but she began walking through the dust toward the end of the road, Vertu dea’San Clan Wylan, the Delm Herself, threw the gunbelt over her shoulder, and cinched the strap, walking as firmly as she could, stride for stride with her daughter.
This world, it made no sense any longer.
Tomorrow—tomorrow, she would do something about it.
* * *
Port City, Surebleak
The wind whipped by, the now-familiar sound rushing down the narrow sidestreets, becoming a brief moan before turning to a continual rattling susurration of air, grit, and weather. Her well-used coat wrapped as tight as the seals allowed, Vertu dea’San forged ahead into the morning, the dim light of the promised dawn aiding her very slightly as the day’s snow began with a gust and a swirl.
The coat was a regretful purple color, with a collar imitating any of five different animal pelts, none convincingly. Despite its age and aesthetic deficiencies, it was warm, hung well on her, and swept the path she walked without impeding her Liaden-length stride. Her tall-peaked hat was hand-knit and accidentally color-coordinated with her coat, with purple symbols of good luck splashed around the red-orange that was so often seen as winter colors here.
The hat was pulled down over her ears and tucked into the collar wrapped with the heavy ugly purple-and-orange scarf, which was also hand-knit locally. The hat peak was stuffed with an extra pair of light gloves in the top pouch, while her so-called wind gloves were still in her pocket, where their bulk warmed her hands and helped disguise her size, and perhaps her capability.
Being no-nonsense, she tried as much as possible to put aside the recognition that this morning might well be the coldest morning she’d experienced in her life, just as she’d put it aside yesterday. The boots did as advertised, being the most expensive of her recent acquisitions, and the only certifiably (as much as anything might be certified on Surebleak) new ones. Her other
outer clothes were used and comfortable, for she’d bought early, having whiled her time in the long lines by listening to the chat of those who were native. The wisdom of the natives was also to buy clothes somewhat large, for oversize became the perfect size when layered and layered again. The boots, of course, were harder to layer, but with them she wore thick socks—and had been glad of both on the first morning that the mush in the street tripped her—mush gone stone-hard and jagged on the overnight.
The weather had been unrelenting, windy and cold, for the past seven-day now, and the forecast for the morrow was much the same. The night winds would move over the seacoast, pushing moisture into the swamp regions, where it would gather energy from the barely frozen rivers, then push to and over the bowl of the city as the winds changed with the morning—and it would snow. The local at the bakery—Granita—promised Vertu that it had been a warm year so far, and that when real winter arrived, she’d wear her hood, sight loss or no, lessen she got herself some working blizzer goggles to hold on her face.
The street was not empty, but it being the dark of morning rather than the dark of night, it was much safer than it might have been a quarter spin before. The doors of the open bars were far fewer, and the doors of the day businesses shone with the white blue of guide-lights.
The door she wanted was across the street, and she looked both ways for traffic of vehicles, and then for people within intercept distance, and crossed to Brickoff Flourpower, where the door recognized her and whined open as she approached.
Behind the counter, Granita looked up with a grin. “There you are, more on time than I’d guess!”
Vertu bowed in her direction wordlessly, letting the warmth comfort her as she read the words to be a welcome. It was good to expected and greeted, and she found it happened more often on Surebleak than it had in Low Port, and more often in Low Port than many of the Higher places she’d frequented in Solcintra. Who expected the ragged to recall one’s usual time of arrival?