There is another embrace between Nev and Davidge, Kita standing next to them, her arms around them both. I hurry from the salon, horrified by the torture Estone Nev has chosen for itself and enraged at Falna for placing Estone Nev in the position of having to make such a choice.
“Where is happy paste when you need it?” Min had said as it lay dying in that shell hole near Douglasville. The words come to me as I walk the endless colored corridors and ways of the transient quarters’ level, looking for someplace to put my head, some event in which to bury my feelings. There are some shopping pavilions selling things I neither want nor need. I find myself in an entertainment kiosk lined with books, buttons, disks, decks, vids and viewers. I soon realize that I do not have the calmness necessary to read a book, listen to a disk, or watch a vid.
As I try to make up my mind where to go to explode, a vid viewer behind me ends its sample program and fades to a news program. Leading the news from Vikaan, the eleven-day truce between the Amadeen Front and the Mavedah ended six hours ago, reports the USE-DC Quarantine Force, when a Black October assassination team attacked the relatively untouched Drac community of Namdas in the Silver Mountains of the Southern Shorda, slaying all the inhabitants, including the children.
A face fills my view and it belongs to Reaper. “Great! I found you.”
“Yes.” At this moment a human face is not what I want to see. I seem paralyzed, stretched between the desire to kill every human within reach and the knowledge that Reaper is on my side.
“I did a name search and out popped a couple of old friends of mine from the Tsien Denvedah. If we can get them to come along, they’d be important additions to the team. I posted a message and they’re hanging out at the end of one of the incomplete spokes. Want to come along and do the selling?”
“I do not feel much like selling anything right now, Reaper.”
The former assassin studies me for a moment, then smiles. “You heard about the truce falling through. I know what you need, Ro.” He cocks his head toward the tram landing. “C’mon. These guys hang out with a rough crowd and I need someone to watch my back.”
My good sense calls to me to go back to my quarters and go to bed, but it is such a small voice. I join Reaper on his quest to renew old friendships and perhaps to pick a fight.
THIRTY-FIVE
Up and down are twisted at the station. The wafers at the ends of the spokes seem to be up because that is the way the artificial gravity points our heads. The hub seems like down, because our feet are pointed in that direction. Beyond down, however, are seven more ups. After consulting a directory at the hub, Reaper and I take the uncompleted Niym spoke out to the farthest completed wafer. Niym 44. On the tram car our fellow passengers seem divided equally between Vikaan Police Security and miscreants bound for excitement, chaos, and destruction. I number myself, of course, among the latter.
Beginning with the Niym 44 platform, the eight main corridors are jammed with establishments selling drugs, sex, games, and exotic items of every kind and combination. Flashing colored lights share the strange-smelling corridors with darker stretches illuminated with illusion lights that haze and randomly delay photons making a dreamy multi-dimensional oasis before the next set of blinding lights and ear-shattering sounds.
Halfway out the radius along Corridor Six, we turn left off the radius and walk along a mid-circle corridor through deep purple illusion lights until Reaper turns into an establishment called Jadai Diea, which is a word play on Jetai Diea, which means Chamber of Masters. Jadai Diea means Chamber Pot.
Inside it is dark, the music jumpy, the air thick with the smoke of several different kinds of burning herbs. I see seven or eight Dracs, the rest are humans and Vikaans. Reaper stretches up on his toes to see over the heads of the crowd, then he turns, pokes my arm, and moves his way through the press of bodies. As I follow, I see in the center of the dance floor, suspended above it, three naked beings together in the white light, a man, a woman, and a Drac, moving in unison as they undulate in an unbelievably erotic dance. Someone puts a drink of some kind into my hand, and with my awareness melted down by the three dancers, I drink it not knowing, or caring, what it is.
Reaper’s hand jerking my shoulder brings me back to the unreality of the Chamber Pot. I finish off the drink and follow him to the back of the establishment, the tips of my fingers and toes apparently going numb. From bits of overheard conversation, bits of uniforms, weapons, and the artwork adorning the walls and ceiling―and floor―I realize that a substantial majority of the guests in the club are former or current mercenaries in the employ of the Dracon Chamber, Vikaan, and perhaps one or two other quadrant powers.
At the edge of the crowd, the tables begin, and they rise in tiers, Vikaan waiters and waitresses moving between them, casting drinks and drugs into the crowded tables, harvesting credit slips, promises to pay, and an occasional wad of money. At the second tier from the top, there is a table with four persons sitting at it: three humans and a Drac. Two of the humans are female. The woman with blond hair is sleeping with her head on the table. The other, with very black hair, is singing a strange song to herself. The man is leaning back in his chair, his mouth open, either dead or passed out. The Drac is half-crushed on happy paste, its eyes having difficulty moving in unison. As Reaper stops at their table the somewhat less comatose woman looks startled, ends her song, sways as she reaches beneath her right arm with her left hand, looks down in confusion, and laughs. “I’m wearing a dress!” Looking up, she says, “Reaper, you creepin’ son of a bitch, what’re you doin’ here?”
An evil glint in his eye, he grins. “I’m here to say hi, and maybe put you and your Drac onto a good thing.”
At that she reaches beneath the table, but before she can straighten up, Reaper has a pistol, the muzzle of which is a hair’s breadth from the end of her nose. She becomes quite still and smiles broadly. “I s’pose it wouldn’t hurt to listen.” Very slowly she sits upright, places her hands on the table, and looks at the Drac. “Cudak, honey, look who’s come to visit.”
The drugged-out Drac jerks its head about in a random search of the club’s interior, its gaze eventually settling on Reaper’s face. As it does, Cudak’s lower jaw falls open, sobriety returns in a flash, and it reaches inside its jacket. The pistol is now aimed between Cudak’s eyes. “Whatever you pull out of there, Cudak, better be a suppository,” says Reaper, “because whatever you have in your hand is going to be shoved right up your ass,”
The Drac raises an eyebrow in disdain and answers, “Reaper, you never did understand that, unlike humans, Dracs don’t have assholes.”
“That doesn’t alter my plan, Cudak. Just let me know where you want yours.”
Cudak hesitates for a moment, then removes its hand from inside the jacket holding nothing but fingers. I look around the club and several unpleasant looking persons are looking in our direction and muttering among themselves. I poke Reaper’s arm. “We seem to be drawing attention.”
“Half of ‘em are probably owed money by these two. Let me know if anyone looks like they want to play,” he answers without looking away from either Cudak or the woman. “Ro, I’d like to introduce you to the former Mrs. Ernst Brandt, Sally Redfeather, and her cuddle-bumps, Gay Cudak. Sally, Cudak, this is my comrade, Yazi Ro.”
“Spook?” asks Sally.
“Not easily,” I answer, causing the others to laugh.
Reaper lowers his weapon and half-turns to me, his gaze still fixed on his former mate and correspondent. “Sally wants to know if you’re in intelligence work. You are.”
“Yes,” I answer. A waiter comes, places a round of drinks in front of all who are still conscious, and looks to Reaper, who reaches into his pocket and drops a few credits on the Vikaan’s tray. As I pick up my drink, I nod toward Gay Cudak and its human. “Are you two working at all, or simply doing career research for employment in the exciting world of drug rehabilitation?”
As Reaper bursts out laughing, Sally’s
large dark eyes study me as though measuring me for a shroud. The cruder elements behind me increase their muttering level, one of them calling out, “You got trouble, Sal?”
“Either that or a job,” she answers. “I’ll let you know.”
Reaper surveys the immediate area, pulls out two chairs, and nods his head toward the chair on the right. “Have a seat.”
As both of us sit down, Reaper puts his weapon away inside his jacket and leans back in his chair. “I’ve joined up with Ro and his buddies. They have a gig that might suit the pair of you right down to the ground.”
“Where, when, how?” asks Cudak.
“How much?” adds Sally.
“Amadeen is where,” answers Reaper, drawing a low whistle from his ex-wife. “When is pretty much right now. We’ll be leaving in a day or two. How is a little more complicated.” He looks at me and says, “The short version, spunky.”
How to stop a war in twenty-five words or less. “We form a neutral force that polices truces and finds and eliminates violators. Object: peace.”
Sally keeps me fixed with her eyes as she seems to nod approvingly. “How much?” she asks again.
Reaper frowns, glances at me, and looks into the distance as he drums his fingertips on the table. “I guess we really haven’t gone into that much.”
Both Cudak’s and Sally’s mouths drop open in astonishment. “You don’t know?” demands Cudak. The Drac faces its lover and says, “Reaper doesn’t know. The human cash register is signed up to do spooks in the hottest pit in the quadrant, and he doesn’t know.”
Sally looks at me and says, “Sign us up, Yazi Ro. I just got to see what it is that got the Reaper working for something besides money.”
I finish my drink and nod toward their two companions. “What about them?”
Sally looks at the man and jabs his arm. Getting no response, she jabs him more forcefully, toppling him from his chair into the woman sleeping with her head on the table, causing both of them to fall to the floor. Sally shrugs and looks back at me. “They don’t want to come.”
Their quarters are in a room in the rear of the club next to the kitchen. It is nothing more than a cot in the corner of a storage area. Next to the cot, sitting on a case of toilet cleaner, is an elderly Drac. When we enter, the Drac gets to its feet and points to two backracks completely packed and standing together like two soldiers on parade. In Drac it says, “I have them packed, Sally. You will not find a spot of dirt or a strap out of place. No one stole anything. I stood guard.”
Sally pats its face with her hand. “You did well, Toack. I’m proud of you,”
The old Drac blinks its eyes at Reaper for a moment then turns to the cot. “I made this up. No wrinkles. See, no wrinkles at all.”
Sally takes off her dress, folds it into a flimsy white box, and begins putting on tan trousers, soft brown boots, and a brown jacket. “Toack, the cot is yours again, and I’m leaving you the dress. You ought to be able to sell it for a good price. Cudak and I are leaving on a mission.”
Toack frowns and says, “A mission; can you tell me about it?”
“I know very little; only that it is on Amadeen and the object is peace.”
Cudak puts on its backrack as Toack slowly shakes its head. “Lost. Ask the masters. They know. Amadeen is lost.” The old Drac looks up at Reaper and seems to study him closely. “You are one of my human children, aren’t you?”
I look at Reaper and I see tears in the big man’s eyes. “Yes, Jetah. Ernst Brandt, Seventh Officer, Ilcheve.”
“Ernst,” says Toack, the name apparently unfamiliar to it. “I apologize, but I should know you. I know all my children. I can’t remember their faces, though. So many things gone.” Toack sits on the cot and keeps repeating, “All my children. All my children.”
Reaper stands with his feet apart, his left hand hooked into his belt, and his right hand open and placed over the center of his chest; the salute of the Tsien Denvedah. After a moment the old Drac notices, struggles to its feet, and returns the salute.
As the four of us work our way through the crowd to the entrance, Reaper is deadly silent, his attention on his own shadows. Cudak and Sally are ahead of us and keep going as a hairy five-fingered hand reaches out of the crowd, plants itself in my chest, and stops me. The hand is soon followed by a human face with a jaw that looks capable of gnawing the stones out of the Talman Kovah. “Excuse me, squid,” he says, “but the last time you streaked through here, you picked up a drink that was meant for me and didn’t pay for it.”
I remember a drink, but the details are fuzzy. Since I want no trouble, I reach for my moneyfold as I say, “I apologize if I have taken something that is not―”
Reaper interrupts by pushing me aside, a curiously calm expression on his face. “Do you have a problem, comrade?” he asks almost politely.
The fellow with the prominent jaw eyes Reaper and says, “This is between me and the Drac, kizlode. Piss off.”
Sally reaches out a hand between me and the jaw and pokes Reaper. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” says Reaper. “It’s always nag, nag, nag.”
“Do you think―” Cudak attempts to interject, but the jaw reaches out a hand and shoves it in the face, sending Sally’s lover into a rather large Drac, knocking it to the floor. Before I can see the resolution of that little drama, Reaper hauls back and punches the jaw’s nose, and suddenly personages, Drac, human, and Vikaan, that I have never before seen, met, or harmed, are throwing punches in my direction. I swing back, land a number of significant blows, when a shadow appears above me. As it smashes into my face I realize it is the top of a table. As my consciousness evaporates, I see Reaper, smiling through a prolific nosebleed, smashing someone’s head against a deck support as Sally and Cudak remove their backracks to join in.
THIRTY-SIX
Days and stitches later, Amadeen is a tiny white disk visible among the stars. Still we work as though preparing for a test upon which the fate of the world depends, which it does. The swelling from my fractured cheekbone down, Cudak and Sally continue their studies as we hurtle toward the destiny fashioned by our talma.
Sally Redfeather is an assassin and investigator, having once been partners with Reaper. Cudak is an interrogator. It will be Cudak’s task to screen applicants and see if they are capable of being trained, becoming either spy, assassin investigator, additional interrogator, or sleeper. The sleepers will be members who will go back to their own villages, homes, or units and function normally until the call comes either to obtain information, make an identification, or hit an identified target near them, either neighbor, associate, friend, comrade, or family member.
While we train on the computers and rework our plans, Gay Cudak remains reading and apparently memorizing everything he can about everything and everybody. All of the worthless information the USE-DC Quarantine Force academics collected about Amadeen, Cudak devours. Long after the rest of us quit to get some rest, Cudak is before its computer studying.
Davidge and I work on plans, backup plans, contingency plans, necessary supplies, weapons, training, logistics, and so on until I am hardly able to keep my eyes open. Leaning back in my seat, I see Davidge once again staring off into the distance. “Is there something else?” I ask.
The human glances at me and smiles. “Momentary enlightenment, Ro. It suddenly occurs to me that, of our current numbers, the one who is the least qualified to be running this crew is me.”
“It is your talma,” I protest.
“It’s our talma, Ro.” He shrugs and shakes his head. “Which still leaves me mystified. I’ve never led anyone, organized anything, or did any of the kind of work this talma seems to call for. You have experience in combat on Amadeen; Moss and Beneres have more recent combat flight experience, as well as smuggling skills. Ghazi knows computers; Reaper and Sally have actual experience as investigators, and Cudak as an interrogator. On top of that, all of you have youth while my skills
concern living isolated in a cave trying to keep little Dracs from cutting off their own fingers before they reach adulthood. I can’t understand why any part of this talma depends on me.”
I throw up a weary hand and say with a smile, “If you knew the path, Uncle Willy, it would no longer be the path.”
Davidge laughs, stretches, and cocks his head toward the passenger quarters. Through a yawn, he says, “Maybe my real job is to find the person who is supposed to run this outfit. Anyway, we’re beat. In another twenty hours we should either be on Amadeen or a trillion ionized particles floating around in space. Let’s knock it off for awhile.”
I head for my quarters marveling at the things that separate persons and the things that bring them together in love, friendship, business, and war. As I reach my quarters, I look opposite my door and see that Cudak’s door is open. Cudak is sitting at its small desk, one of the tiny hand-portable computers before him. “Cudak, why don’t you get some rest?”
It glances at me, grins, and stretches its arms. “You may be right, Ro.” It lifts and shakes an insulated flask. “I have some hot tea left. Would you care to share a cup?”
“That would be good.” I enter the room and sit in the chair next to the desk. Cudak stretches again, pours the tea into two cups, and offers me one. I sip at it, my mouth filling with the taste of warm rains and Khama flowers, “This is delicious tea, Cudak. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing. Here. Have a candy.” It holds out a small box containing a few wrapped gum fruits. I look at them and cannot imagine from where they must have come.
Enemy Papers Page 60