by Chris Bunch
Njangu checked a watch finger. “Going on three … maybe back to the beach, then something to eat, then nap ‘til this party, which we were told not to show up for until midnight.”
“I’ve been thinking about tonight,” Milot said. “No offense, Erik, but I don’t want to go there and step on my dick.”
“You won’t, my man,” Penwyth said. “It’s just going to be a bunch of people relaxin', not some horrid sort of formal banquet.”
“People who’re all rich,” Milot said.
“Not all. Some of ‘em are just pretty an’ available.”
“That’s not my kind of thing,” Ton said. “If it’s okay with you, I’d just as soon slide on out.” He looked sheepish. “I kind of want to go see what my family’s doing.”
“I’m with you,” Angie said. “I’d prob’ly do something stupid, some asshole’d say something, and I’d have to do him. You want company?”
Milot looked surprised, then nodded. “It’s just a little village, on the other side of the peninsula.”
“Issus?”
“Sure,” Milot said. “You know it?”
“When I was a kid,” Angie said, sounding wistful, “my ma took me there for … I guess it was three days. She and Da were having some kind of trouble. I remember we stayed in this little hut, and ate a lot of fish, and nobody bothered us. I liked it a lot. I thought things were like they must’ve been in the old days, before … well, before things got weird.”
“Hey,” Milot said. “Nothing’s changed much. Come on. You’d be welcome.”
Angie looked at Njangu. “I’m sorry, babe.”
“What sorry? Sorry you didn’t invite me?”
“I thought — ”
“There you go,” Yoshitaro said, “thinking again. You’re only a striker, woman, and you’re trying to do Mark II thinking with a Mark I brain. I love the tules, and since Milot has the manners of a toad, I’m inviting myself to go fishing, ‘kay?”
Garvin made a face at Penwyth.
“How about that shit? Forsook and forlorn by my best comrade.”
“Doesn’t bother me in the slightest,” Erik said. “No one ought to do what she or he hasn’t the inclination.”
Garvin dug into his pocket. “Here’s two … three hundred each, children. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
“Thanks, Father,” Njangu said.
“Don’t thank me,” Garvin said piously. “It’s all to the good … having too many people around who know me cramps my style.”
• • •
The unobtrusive man followed them back to their hotel, then found an alcove and took out a small com. He keyed numbers. There was a click, and a woman’s voice said “Report.”
The man keyed a second set of numbers into the corn’s built-in scrambler.
“They now wear civilian garb,” he said, and described what the five were wearing. “No attempt made to communicate with anyone. I tried to get close to them in the bar, but all I could hear was they were talking about the Force. I don’t know if it’s important, but they were talking about military things I don’t think an average soldier would know about.”
“Was there any indication on what they hoped to achieve with that carefully planned rescue of that child of ours?” the woman’s voice asked.
“Negative,” the man said.
“Continue surveillance, but take no other action,” the listener ordered.
“Understood.”
• • •
Ton Milot had stubbornly insisted on changing back into uniform before they caught the ‘rail over the mountains.
“Twenty percent discount for people in uniform,” he said. “Plus my folks’ll be pissed if I’m not looking purty.”
“If they expect purty,” Angie said, “we better bring along a plastic surgeon,” but she and Njangu had done the same.
“We’ve got half an hour ‘til the pod goes,” Milot said. “I called my folks and told them we were incoming.”
“ Yeh,” Njangu said absently, staring at the glass window of a shop.
“Entranced by his own reflection,” Angie said. “That’s okay, ‘cause he is pretty.” She squeezed his arm.
“Pass on pretty,” Yoshitaro said. “Don’t look back, but check our reflection in this next window.”
“Definitely three good-lookin’ sorts,” Milot said.
“With a tail,” Njangu said. “See that little guy back there … no, goddammit, don’t look!”
“Looks like not much of anybody,” Milot said.
“Good beaks don’t,” Njangu said.
“You’re being paranoid.”
“He was with us the last two turnings,” Yoshitaro said. “I’m paranoid.”
“Who cares? We’ve got nothing to hide,” Milot said.
“I always do,” Njangu said.
“So what do we do? Dry-gulch him?” Angie asked. “If he’s copper, we’ll get our butts in a tangle.”
“No. We’ll turn right here, and go down this block,” and the two obeyed him. “Cut in this store, then we’ll go back out the other entrance. Come on now! Run!”
The three darted around a corner. A moment later, the unobtrusive man appeared, looked about, muttered under his breath, went into a doorway, and dialed numbers on his com. When the ringing stopped, he said, “Three-one-one-five.”
“Listening,” the woman’s voice said.
“I still don’t know what they are,” the man reported. “But they lost me, very neatly.”
“They’re professional?”
“Looks like it.”
“Go back to the hotel,” the voice ordered. “There’s still two of them there. Team with Lompa, and this time stay with them!”
“There’ll be no more surprises,” the man said grimly.
CHAPTER
16
The silver monorails arced across the city, the center of the spiderweb a hangarlike stone building. The pod for Issus slid out of the station’s roof and the track climbed. Njangu saw the broad lawns around PlanGov Headquarters, then the Eckmuhl, the walled ’Raum quarter with its high-rising, shabby apartments leaning together, about to tumble into the narrow, winding streets.
The rail climbed the bluffs on nickeled pylons, passing close to the wealthy enclave of the Heights. Angie chattered away about the great mansions and the beautiful gardens. Njangu wondered for an instant why, if she were so fascinated by this wealth, she hadn’t wanted to go to the party tonight, somewhere down there.
Then he went back to worrying about that follower. Who? Some friend of the idiots we gave lumps to? Not likely — if they’d been able to find out where Njangu and Company were staying, they might’ve gotten twenty other yutzes and lurked in an alley. But just trailing us? No. Who else? Coppers? But why? The police could give a shit if a few waterfront goons get their body structure readjusted.
Military Intelligence? Njangu assumed, without any reason, the Force had spies. But he’d done nothing wrong, at least on this world. What about the others? Ton Milot? Fishing without a license? Angie Rada? For being oversexed? Balls. Which leaves … leaves nobody. At least nobody I can think of.
Njangu let it swirl around his brain once more, then dismissed the matter and looked out and down lush jungles, wondering what was hidden under the canopy, realized he’d no doubt find out shortly, either in the war games or the real patrols I&R ran against the bandits.
Njangu leaned back, and Angie put her head on his shoulder. That sparked another curiosity. Why hadn’t they just stayed in their hotel room if they hadn’t wanted to go to Erik’s friend’s party? Angie certainly was an interesting enough pastime. That had been a third option. Why hadn’t she suggested that? Did she think, maybe, Njangu wouldn’t have been interested. Why hadn’t he come up with the idea? Screwing was better than fishing from any perspective.
Oh well, he thought. Nobody’s dumber than a soldier. Of any sex.
• • •
“Good gods,” Njangu shouted, leani
ng close to Ton Milot, “did you tell them you’d been made commander of the fleet or something?”
“We’re pretty patriotic,” Milot shouted, and the band broke into another ragged but enthusiastic march. A very pretty girl, about two years younger than Milot, with brown wavy hair, clung to the soldier’s waist like a limpet. She’d been introduced as Lupul.
“Isn’t that the national anthem again?” Angie asked.
“I think so, so maybe we better stand up,” Njangu said. They did, weaving just a little bit.
Issus sat around a nearly enclosed bay, on a low cliff twenty meters above the water and docks. The houses were hardly Angie’s remembered “huts,” but simple wood-framed shelters with sharp-angled roofs. The center of the town was a turf-paved square with businesses, the monorail station, and the town hall around it. Njangu guessed it was some sort of D-Cumbre custom to put a park in the town center, and thoroughly approved.
It seemed every one of the village’s two-thousand-odd people were packed into the square, cheering their son who’d made good.
“Yeh,” Njangu agreed. “Patriotic. Pass the jug.”
“Better not,” Ton warned.
“Why not? Everybody’s a lot drunker’n we are.”
“Yeh,” Ton said. “But they ain’t going fishing. We are.”
“What’s this we shit?” Angie said, grabbing a passing flask and inhaling the clear, slightly oily-tasting local distillation with enthusiasm. “You got a midget in your pocket?”
“You don’t have to,” Milot said, “if you want to play the old weak, feeble, helpless woman excuse.”
“Uh-uh,” Angie said. “I’m no dummy. Water’s fine for a bathtub, but there’s waaaaaaaaaay too much of it out there for me. You big bwave men go into the vasty deeps.” She fluttered her eyebrows. “I’ll stay here and worry myself drunk.”
“Any possibility I could get away with the same line?” Njangu tried.
“Not a chance,” Milot said. “I’ve got to prove that I haven’t forgotten my roots, and you’ve got to prove your worthiness to be honored by Issus. First we fish, then we come back and there’ll be a big celebration.”
“What do you call this?” Njangu asked, waving a hand at the crowd.
“Just warming up,” Milot said.
“And what’re we fishing for, anyway? It’s getting dark.”
“We’re going after barraco,” Milot said. “They’re big, nasty mothers, carnivorous, that’ll go about, oh, eighty kilos or so. We harpoon ‘em.”
“Are they good eating?”
“The best.”
“What do they think about us?”
“The best.”
“Whyn’t we think about something a little smaller … and, maybe, safer,” Njangu suggested.
“Don’t worry,” Milot said. “I’ll be the one with the harpoon.”
“What do I do? Hold your hat?”
“Nope. You’ll be bait.”
• • •
Milot wasn’t being funny. Njangu Yoshitaro clung precariously to the pulpit railing, gently moving a lantern back and forth, while the lifter floated slowly just above the calm, phosphorescent sea. Ton Milot was beside him, a long, barbed spear roped to floats in one hand. Alei, Milot’s brother, was at the controls of the lifter.
Neither soldier wore his uniform, only a singlet and ragged shorts.
There were twelve other fishing craft out, lights gleaming, reflecting in flashing lines across the water. Behind them were the lights of Issus.
“Movement,” Ton warned. “Move the lantern around some more, like you’re a worried bird with a flashlight up its butt.”
“Why?” Njangu said. “I’m real happy with him staying down there.”
“Don’t you want dinner?”
“Sure,” Yoshitaro said. “A nice, yummy piece of fruit’ll suit me just — ”
He jumped as a slender silver arrow, teeth gleaming, came out of the water at him.
“Shit!” Njangu shouted, as Milot hurled the spear into the monster’s mouth. He staggered back, flailing for the railing, and toppled overboard. As he hit the water, something landed on top of him, something cold, smooth, and deadly. He kicked wildly, and the barraco hit him with his tail, and was gone. Njangu dived deep, kicking hard, then ran out of air and went for the surface. The lifter was about five meters away, and between him and it the barraco thrashed in its death agonies.
Milot and his brother clung to the lifter’s safety cage, roaring with laughter.
“Would you two idiots get me out of this,” Njangu shouted. “The son of a bitch might have a big brother.”
“Sure, sure,” Alei called. “Maybe there is a big brother, and we leave you in there to bring him up, eh? You’re the best bait we’ve ever had.”
“I’m going to kill someone,” Njangu promised, treading water, afraid to look into the dark depths below. “And I’m not particular who.”
• • •
“Damn,” Garvin said, eyeing the long line of sleek lims. “I didn’t know there was this much money in the whole friggin’ Cumbre system.”
“Best believe it,” Erik said. “Mines are pure gold, even if they don’t mine gold.”
“Now there’s something we didn’t talk about,” Garvin said, as they strolled toward the mansion’s gates. “If we’re cut off from the Confederation, who’s gonna buy the minerals? Isn’t all this geetus on thin ice?”
“Cumbre uses a lot of what it digs out,” Erik said. “And the Musth’ll buy anything that comes out of the ground to take back to their own worlds, They don’t give a rat’s earlobe whether it’s dug by their own people or by the ’Raum. This is secure wealth, m’friend. We’ll get by.”
“Evening, Mister Penwyth,” a uniformed security woman said. Erik nodded, and they went up the broad steps.
“The Bampurs do have real money,” Garvin agreed. “No stinkin’ security ‘bots here. And it’s nice to be with somebody they know.”
“What, automation?” Erik pretended horror. “When there’s always a lower-class flunky or a ’Raum to be hired? If we elite bassids started usin’ robots, who’d steal from us and blackmail our fool asses when they caught us in bed with somebody we shouldn’t be there with?”
“Careful, Striker,” Garvin said. “You’re startin’ to sound like a revolutionary.”
They went through the portico of the Bampur estate. Garvin thought he was still in the open air, and the columns on either side of him stood alone, then realized they supported a long, curving roof exactly matching the sky above.
“Clever, that,” Erik said. “In day, it looks just like daytime, at night, well, you can see for yourself.”
“Why’d the Bampurs go to the trouble?”
“Guess they don’t like rain,” Erik guessed. “Besides, the Rentiers — the very rich — aren’t as you and I, remember?”
“Thought you were rich.”
“Not this rich.”
“So how are they different?” Garvin asked. “Never had the opportunity to be around rich-rich much.”
Erik leaned close, and whispered: “They find really dumb ways to spend their credits.”
The columned walk curved down a gentle slope to a lake, with a mansion in the middle, on an island.
A covered causeway led across the water. A man crawled along the causeway toward them. “I’m a fish,” he explained. “Crawlin’ up … hic … stream t’spawn.”
“Did we maybe get here a little late?” Garvin asked.
“Nope. If we were late, good old Raenssler’d not even be movin'.”
“I see. Nice layout here,” Garvin said.
“When the Bampurs feel private,” Erik said, “they roll up the carpet and you’ve got to hail a boat to go a-calling.”
“Clever, I suppose.”
“I suppose. Ah-hah,” Erik said. “I knew Jasith wouldn’t steer us wrong. Listen. The band sounds drunk, so the party must be starting to catch fire.”
Garvin listened, nodd
ed. “Nobody could be that bad sober.”
They went into the mansion’s central room. It was huge, open on all sides with a twenty-meter-high domed ceiling. There were big now-raised storm curtains to let down in bad weather. Corridors spidered off here and there to other parts of the house.
The party was a swirl of people, some dancing, some drinking, some doing both, badly and well. Here a man sat staring at a holo of ballet dancers, sobbing bitterly, there a man leaned against a bronze life-size statue of an Earth mermaid, whispering his life’s story into its sympathetic ear.
Garvin tried to look cosmopolitan, but it was hard. Not only were there three bars around the room, but each had four bartenders. Human bartenders. Even more exotic were the human servitors, more than twenty of them in white coats. The Bampurs had a lot of money.
He wondered wistfully if there was any way he could get his hands on some of it, then forgot that, seeing the dark-eyed small woman who darted up to Erik. Jasith Mellusin wore a quite incredible outfit — a black form-fitting floor-length asymmetric gown made even more immodest by missing side panels. The dress was held in place by large silver five-centimeter clips from mid-thigh to under her arm. She clearly wore nothing underneath it.
“You didn’t forget me!”
Eric kissed her. “How could I? And I’m right on time, Jasith, as you told me to be. Have I missed anything?”
“Two or three fights … a couple of people went swimming … one proposal of marriage … three engagements broken. Very, very slow so far.”
“What could we do to enliven things?” Erik asked. “By the way, this is my fellow defender of freedom. Jasith Mellusin, Garvin Jaansma.”
Jasith evaluated the tall blond. “Are you with someone?”
“Just him,” Garvin said, indicating Erik, “and he’s no fun. He leads.”
“Erik, I think you just enlivened my evening,” Jasith said in her throaty near whisper. She linked her arm through Garvin’s. “Do you dance?”
“Like an angel,” Garvin assured her.
“What’s an angel?”
Garvin grinned sharkishly. “You and I are going to get along very, very well.” He bowed to Erik. “Thank you for the introduction, m’lad, and I believe we’ll circulate.”