The Death of Wisdom

by Paul Brunette

  "Coalition women! Hello!"

  "Here! Sir, have a piece of guncrab!"

  "Oh, don't mind if I do," Drop Kick said.

  "Actually," Coeur said, to the effusive crowd that had waylaid them at an open-air market, "we're trying to reach the bootstrap enclave. Can we reach that along this road?"

  "Oh, yes. Just head right up the road and veer to the left."

  'Thank you," Coeur said, excusing herself from the boisterous crowd and prompting her people ahead of her.

  "Friendly folks, aren't they?" Snapshot said afterward, as they headed out of town and up the road.

  "Well, they did see the ship come down, so maybe they thought we were bringing something," Drop Kick said, munching on a crab leg. "Say, this is good."

  The real reason for the high opinion they were held in became clear later, when they were met by Wing Nut, the Coalition agent in charge of the two-story enclave.

  "It's probably the new electric lights we installed," he said. "Did you see the cables for the lights in the streets?"

  "I suppose we did," Coeur said, "come to think of it."

  "But we understood Xezor was TL-8," Physic said. "You mean these people didn't have electric lights?"

  "Xezor is nominally TL-8," the agent said, leading them out to seats on a comfortable veranda overlooking the sea "But Free Xantreeb was never well-developed, and being a breakaway state didn't help. By repairing their old fusion generators, and teaching them how to maintain them, we're giving the islanders the power to be self-sufficient, instead of dependent on the whim of offworlders."

  "Do you mean the Guild?" Coeur asked.

  "Hell yes, I mean the Guild! I've been sending intelligence notices back to the Coalition for months, but nobody seems to think they're much of a threat."

  "Have you actually met Guild agents here?"

  "No, but they're all over the place. This kind of planet attracts them like flies."

  "What do you mean?" Snapshot asked.

  "Well, just think about it. The big islands depend on old fusion power that doesn't work, so they need replacement parts—a Guild market. The Xantreeb Republic is planning to reconquer all the breakaway islands and needs weapons—a Guild market. Bruhamen is even thinking about selling exclusive rights to its starport to the Guild."

  "How are you responding?" Coeur asked.

  "Well, I'm not in charge of the entire Coalition mission here—just Free Xantreeb—but pretty much our plan is to empower people with their own technology. In the long run, that'll give us strong, independent friends while the Guild keeps its friends dependent on offworld products."

  "Sounds good," Coeur said. "But I've got to talk to you about why we're here."

  "Aren't you a supply ship?"

  "No, Are you familiar with Seabridge Nest on Ra?"

  "Oh, sure. The Hiver research station."

  "It's been all but destroyed by biological weapons."

  "Oh my Cod."

  "And we think the Guild's to blame. I want to find their base, Wing Nut, and take it out."

  Wing Nut leaned back in his chair.

  "That could be tough. Nobody knows where the Guild is staging from."

  "Time is limited. Wing Nut. If the epidemic from Ra isn't stopped, it could decimate the Hiver population. We need to find its point of origin soon"

  "We could intercept a Guild freighter," Drop Kick suggested, "or sneak aboard one and rough up the crew until they tell us where they're from."

  "Real subtle," Coeur said. "No, I don't think so."

  "Well," Wing Nut said, "it is a fact that Guild agents have dealings with the governments of Greater Xantreeb and Bruhamen. Perhaps you could snoop around there."

  "We do need those supplies we were talking about," Coeur said to Snapshot. "Tell you what. You take Drop Kick and a couple of Marines over to Bruhamen in the launch to check it out. Physic, you help Crowbar put the top on the air raft and take it over to Greater Xantreeb to poke around there."

  "A word of caution," Wing Nut said, suddenly. 'The Bruhamen can be a trifle touchy. It might be best if you try not to antagonize them."

  Coeur thought about that for a moment, looking at Snapshot and Drop Kick.

  "On second thought," Coeur said, "why don't you take Physic to Bruhamen and Crowbar can take the Marines with him."

  "Afraid we'd start a fight, sir?" Drop Kick asked.

  "You'd damn well better not. Come on, let's go. Wing Nut, we'll be in touch..."

  Just then, as they were rising to go, a gust of wind whipped in through the veranda, intensifying the sulfu- rous stink of the air for a moment. The Hornet crew were noticeably more put off by the smell than Wing Nut, a fact that caught Coeur's attention.

  "That is some foul air. Is it always this bad?"

  "Actually," Wing Nut said, "it's often worse."

  "Must be hell on the lungs."

  "Yes, it is. The doctors tell us we're taking years off our lives by working here without filter masks, but we see it as a sign of fraternity with the natives. And you get used to it eventually."

  "Hopefully," Physic said, "we won't be here that long."

  "Any idea what we're looking for?" Mercy asked Crowbar, spotting land off to the right of their air raft's bow.

  "The skipper just said to poke around," the engineer replied, studying a computer map in the seat beside hers, "Steer right 20 degrees."

  "Where will that take us?" Whiz Bang asked, stretched out in the two rear seats and just waking up after a four- hour trip.

  "Pantera. it's one of the best ports in Creater Xantreeb."

  "Got good beer there?" "It's a port, Whiz Bang. You know, sailors?"

  "Oh, right. Of course they have beer."

  "Pity we didn't bring Bonzo," Mercy said. "He could have been our designated non-drinker, instead of me."

  "Soy's touched," Whi2 Bang said. "Rather work on the radio than go cruise a port. Weird."

  Crowbar shook his head slightly, smiling.

  "How about customs?" Mercy asked. "Is there some place we have to check in?"

  "Not according to Wing Nut. It's pretty much a free port."

  "Well, whatever kind of port it is, I can't pick up an air traffic channel," Mercy said. "Suppose they don't have one?"

  "I wouldn't take a chance. Go NOE."

  "Affirmative."

  In the enclosed air raft, whipping along at 600 kph, there was little impression of speed, but that changed drastically as Mercy cut to a safe 150 kph and dipped down low to skim the waves at five meters.

  "That's better. At least we won't plow into any airplanes here."

  "We'd shrug 'em off," Whiz Bang quipped. "Our side armor's almost as thick as the sled's."

  "Good Marine reasoning," Mercy said. "I'm picking up vessels and structures at three klicks."

  'That'll be the port. Steer there."

  "Slowing to 30. Be there in five."

  The port was a handsome facility, tucked Into a safe harbor and supporting even more ship traffic than Port Adrian on Ra. Civen the higher overall tech level, these ships tended more toward hydrofoils and surface effect craft, though, and steering clear of them proved a

  considerable challenge to Mercy.

  "Hey, why's that guy in that boat waving at us?"

  "Slow down, Mercy. I'll open a window and find out."

  In the process of opening the window, Crowbar saw a sign on the side of the boat:

  HARBOR PILOT

  "Hey, you lug!" the fellow yelled. "Get that thing off the bayl What do you think this is, an airport?"

  "Sorry!" Crowbar yelled back. "Which way's safe?"

  The pilot used both hands to wave them left, then hurled a variety of salty invectives that were cut off by Crowbar's closing of his window, "|eez," Whiz Bang said. "Switch to decaf, mister."

  "No, he's right," Mercy said. "I'll take us up on land and park somewhere."

  Parking was easier than they'd thought it would be, given their greeting on the harbor. Moving in among gr
ound cars and cargo trucks (the latter were about the same size as the air raft), Mercy improvised traffic signals with her running lights and asked Crowbar where they were headed.

  "This is a warehouse district," Crowbar observed. "Keep going. Stop at the stop signs."

  "Yeah, thanks."

  "Let me get this straight," Whiz Bang said, feeling the outline of the gauss pistol he kept in his windbreaker. "Is this the country where they have fist fights every five minutes?"

  "No," Crowbar said, "that's Bruhamen."

  "Where they sent the sarge," Mercy added. '"Cause he's so peace-loving." "Hey, I'm peace-loving Whiz Bang said. "I just like to blow things up, that's all."

  "Yeah, perfectly normal."

  "Heads up," Crowbar said.

  "What, cops?"

  "No, another air raft. Co up a block and turn around."

  Although Crowbar wasn't a Marine, Mercy respected his experience. Lancers especially seemed to have a sense for where to find things in a port, even if it was a port they'd never been in before.

  "Bars, bars, bars," Crowbar said, as they came around the block as indicated. "Yeah, this is good. Set down in front of that garbage bin."

  "For the shade?"

  "No. Give us some cover in case people start shooting at us and we have to run."

  The Marines shot concerned looks at the engineer "Just kidding. But remember, wherever we go, use the Bruhamen credits we got from Wing Nut "Understood."

  Though there was only one other air raft parked on the narrowstreet, other vehicles told Crowbar that offworlders were in the area—a Lancer Astrotech tracked ATV, for instance, and a grav bike with a titanium steering bar lock. Clearly, this was an alternative landing area for traders who didn't have a taste for the rough goings-on at Bruhamen.

  "Nice bike," Whiz Bang said, as they debarked from and locked their air raft.

  "Come on," Mercy said. "Theft's not in the RC charter,"

  Though he didn't let on until later, Crowbar didn't expect to learn much from the places they dropped into.

  Only after they'd tried warming up to three different crews—without success—and gotten himself and Whiz Bang mildly tanked in the process, did the engineer explain.

  "It doesn't pay to be too friendly," Crowbar said, over a beer at a back booth in the fourth tavern they'd visited. "Traders, they work a subsector for a long time before they get comfortable."

  "There was that last fellow," Mercy said, looking across at Crowbar and Whiz Bang on the other side of the table. "Said he might know something about Guild contracts if we came back next week."

  "just shining us on, probably. Besides, we don't have weeks to spend at every planet in the subsector."

  "Oh, well," Whiz Bang said, resignedly, tossing back a jigger of scotch.

  Across the smoky room, however, something had caught Crowbar's eye.

  "See something?" Mercy asked.

  "Over there. See that guy at the corner barstool?"

  Mercy nodded, perceiving the fellow. A rather pathetic sight, the plastered fellow appeared to be having an unsuccessful argument with the bartender while his rear end made a struggling effort to maintain its purchase on his stool. The argument, occasionally loud enough to hear, seemed to revolve around the fellow's inability to cover his tab.

  "Now see that tattoo on his arm? Look familiar?"

  "Not really. Looks like he tried to get it erased, though, whatever it was,"

  Whiz Bang, three years older than Mercy, had an easier time recognizing what Crowbar did, "Hey, that looks like one of those old Dawn League tattoos: D-L, over a field of shooting stars and a galaxy. Kind of appropriate, the shooting stars bit."

  "Yeah," Crowbar said. "Wait here."

  Abandoning the booth, Crowbar maneuvered around an intervening table and up to the bar beside the drunk.

  "Another lager, sir," Crowbar said, interrupting the scrap between bartender and patron.

  With a surly look, the bartender moved away to get the drink.

  "You an engineer?" Crowbar asked the fellow with the tattoo.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "An engineer."

  "Oh."

  The bartender returned with the beer, and Crowbar promptly paid him with a Bruhamen coin. Then the bartender returned to badgering the fellow beside Crowbar.

  "Look, Pitstop, you're not getting a drop. Not until you pay up."

  "Hey," Pitstop said, finally feeling his butt lose the battle with his seat, but saved from falling by Crowbar's supporting hand. "Thanks, mister—aren't I good for it? Haven't I always paid you before?"

  "Before isn't now. And maybe I just don't like looking at you anymore."

  "I don't mean to intrude," Crowbar said, "but how much is this tab you're talking about here?"

  "Fifty Xantreeb guilders."

  More than I've got...

  "Take Coalition credits?"

  "Where the hell'd you get those?"

  "Found'em in the street," Crowbar said, digging in his pants and flopping two 50-credit notes on the bar. "God knows what I'll do with 'em."

  As if regarding curious objets d'art, the bartender examined the bills closely.

  "That used to be the Dawn League, right?"

  "Cot me. Nice hologram over the watermark, though."

  "Yeah, that'll cover the tab," the bartender said, folding and pocketing the bills. "But you, Pitstop, you've had enough for one day."

  "Ah—fikken."

  "Easy," Crowbar said, steering Pitstop away from the bar and back toward his booth while the bartender turned away. "Here, have my beer."

  "Oh, I couldn't impose on your generosity...could I?"

  "Yes, you can," Crowbar said, steering Pitstop toward the space vacated by a waiting Whiz Bang, "But you're not driving home, however you got here. We'll give you a lift."

  Once sealed, Pitstop wasted no time downing the beer, only afterward perceiving the individuals around him.

  "Good afternoon, ma'am."

  Mercy nodded.

  "So," Pitstop said to Crowbar, "how'd you know I was an engineer?"

  "Because you drink like a fish. I know; I used to, too."

  "It's the jump drive that gets you. All the hours watchin' the valves—guarding the red line—not a drink in sight—" Pitstop shivered, "No thanks; I'll pass."

  "What do you do now?"

  "Fix power plants. Lotsa old power plants here."

  "Yeah, I can imagine. How about before that?"

  "Oh, space. Been around, here and there." "Ever..." Whiz Bang said, "...been in the Dawn League?"

  "Hey!" Pitstop said, giving a bleary-eyed sidelong glance toward Crowbar, "Who are you, mister? Whoever, you are, you sure didn't find no Coalition note In a gutter."

  "Sorry, name's Glaive Crowbar said, shaking Pitstop's hand. "And let's just say we're spacers, looking for a particular type of cargo,"

  "What's that?"

  "Dirty weapons," Mercy said. "Nukes, biologicals."

  "Oh, man, I don't know about that."

  "What do you know about?" Crowbar asked.

  "I didn't get mixed up in any dirty stuff, Mister,,,"

  "Glaive," Crowbar repeated, offering his first name as his last.

  "Mister Glaive. Until the end, that is. That's when they got rid of me."

  "Why was that?"

  "Slaves," Pitstop said, in a hushed voice. "It was collecting slaves I didn't like,"

  "Slaves?" Mercy asked.

  "For free Traders, probably," Whiz Sang said, "No, not for Free Traders, Was contract work for the Guild,"

  "Really."

  "Yeah, we'd round 'em up and Bring 'em back here. Then the Guild would take 'em back to their planet."

  Crowbar controlled his sudden excitement belter than his mates.

  "So the Guild took 'em somewhere else."

  "Yeah, that's what we figured. And it wasn't just people either—they'd take animals too, for the collection of that Empress Solee up in Shenk." "Sounds pretty disgusting' Mer
cy said.

  "It was—some of the poor bastards were just women and kids. It really gets ya to think about it."

  "Right. But you were saying about this Guild base. Ever been there?"

  "Oh, hell no. Guild people get stupid real quick when you ask 'em questions like that."

  "Probably don't want uninvited guests," Crowbar speculated.

  "Yeah, well, you can kinda tell where it must be. Somewhere out past Marax, I reckon, 'cause our skipper said we didn't have the range to get there by jump-2."

  "Is your skipper around?"

  "Oh, no; he's dead. Somebody cut his throat after he said that,"

  The Marines and Crowbar shared ominous stares.

  "Guys, I'm sorry, but I really gotta get to the head,"

  "Oh, sorry," Crowbar said, getting out of the booth quickly and following Pitstop toward the lavatory. When they returned to the booth, Mercy and Whiz Bang perceived a strong smell of vomit tainting Pitstop's alcoholic breath.

  "Well, I think it's time to take Mr. Pitstop home. Let's be off, people,"

  Having flashed Coalition currency around a port in Guild-friendly territory, Crowbar decided not to overstay his welcome at Pantera, After flying Pitstop back to his workshop/apartment by the waterfront, and seeing him safely tucked into his moldy bed, Crowbar suggested Mercy steer back toward Free Xantreeb as expeditiously as possible.

  "You okay to fly?" Crowbar asked Mercy.

  "I'm fine, sir. Remember, I was a good girl and didn't drink."

  "Hell," Whiz Bang said, "a drunk Mercy's twice as good a pilot as anyone else half as drunk."

  Whereupon the gunner fell asleep, a condition that he would remain in for the remainder of their four-hour flight. Perceiving that he was asleep—by his loud snoring—Crowbar then gave in to curiosity about something that had puzzled him for a long time.

  "Mercy, I don't know if this out of line, but I've been wondering about something. After the sled got wrecked, you didn't seem as upset as I thought you'd be,"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, it was the skipper who was driving the sled when it got wrecked. I kinda wondered if you blamed her for wrecking it."