Backshot

by David Sherman

  “One reason I signed up was to go to strange places, eat strange foods, and meet strange people,” he said softly.

  “And kill them,” she added even more softly. Gossner’s eyebrows twitched up. “That too.” He glanced around, but no one was close enough to have overheard.

  The interior of Ramuncho’s was muted: dim lighting, green-on-green damasked wallpaper above dark wood wainscotting; thick, sound-absorbing carpet covered the floor; folding screens placed here and there that could be opened to provide a modicum of privacy. A diminutive and graceful fluted flower vase with blossoms neither of them recognized stood on every table. The task light centered on each table was so soft that even the snow white cloths that covered them seemed muted. The maître d’ gave them a moment to look, then was happy to seat them without a reservation; it was past the lunch rush and many tables were available. He began ushering them to a table to one side of the main dining room, though not against the wall.

  “Oh, could we have that table, please?” Dwan smiled sweetly. He looked where she pointed, a table with a discreet “reserved” sign in front of the windows onto the street, and cocked his head for a moment’s thought before saying firmly, “Most certainly, madame.”

  “I bet a lot of famous people walk past these windows,” Dwan gushed.

  “They assuredly do,” the maître d’ confirmed. “And come in, as well. Why, at this very table,” he said as he held a chair out for her, “our President, the great Jorge Liberec Lavager, sometimes dines.” He deftly removed the “reserved” sign.

  “Really?” Dwan squealed, eyes wide.

  “Sometimes. Ramuncho’s is his favorite restaurant, you know, though most often when he comes he dines in a private room in the back.”

  “Do you, do you think he’ll come in today?” Dwan said so rapidly her words ran into each other.

  “Could I meet him?”

  “Ah, but no, madame. I had to pause before allowing you this table, as I had to remember whether he was in New Granum at this time. But I remembered that a member of his staff called to say he wouldn’t be dining here today as he is away on government business. The President must often go to other parts of the country, you understand.”

  “So you’re saying,” Gossner said with casual-seeming interest, “that you normally keep this table reserved for him?”

  “Indeed, sir.” The maître d’ nodded. “As well as the private room he often uses.”

  “Really!” It didn’t seem possible, but Dwan’s eyes opened even wider. “That’s amazing.” The words came out in an awed whisper.

  “The President eats here often enough to have both a table and a private room reserved for him,”

  Gossner said, sounding impressed.

  “It’s true, madame and sir. We at Ramuncho’s are quite proud of having our President’s patronage.”

  “I believe it.”

  A moment later the maître d’ left them. A human rather than robot waiter took their drink orders and left them with menus. They sat at adjoining sides of the table rather than opposite each other. Dwan leaned toward Gossner and her eyes flicked toward the maître d’, who was back at his podium.

  “How do you think he manages that?” she whispered.

  “Manages what?”

  “To be officious and obsequious at the same time.”

  Gossner managed to look at her with a straight face. Sometimes the Queen of Killers surprised him, and that was the second time of the day. Who would have thought Bella Dwan even knew the word obsequious, much less was able to use it correctly?

  “I think they program that into maître d’s at the factory,” he finally whispered back. She giggled and returned her attention to the menu. Damn, but her giggle sounded downright girlish. If Gossner hadn’t known her so well he would have thought . . . No, it wasn’t possible for the Queen of Killers to turn human just because she was on an independent assignment, away from other Marines. One leaf of the menu had the standard fare found throughout Human Space, the facing leaf was local dishes, presumably made from native foodstuffs. Suddenly, Dwan leaned in again, her eyes glittering. “What do you think ‘Alborda Tag Bika Here’ is?”

  “Where?” Gossner searched his menu, narrowed his search when she said, “Halfway down the local menu,” and found it. He shook his head. “I have no idea, there’s no description.”

  She leaned close and said under light giggles, “It looks like somebody who doesn’t know the language tried to write ‘false large bull balls’ in Hungarian.”

  Gossner couldn’t manage a straight face this time, he had to blink in surprise. “Hungarian?”

  “You know, Hungarian. The old European language? From Earth?”

  “I know what Hungarian was.”

  She smiled sweetly. “But you didn’t think I did.”

  “I’m surprised you can read it.”

  She grinned impishly. “I can do a lot of things you don’t know about.” She wiggled on her seat, as though pleased at scoring a point.

  He twitched his eyebrows—that wiggle reminded him too much of her twitching bottom as she headed for the water closet that morning—and said “I guess so,” then returned to the common foods on his menu. After a moment he said, “It’s probably not a good idea to order the reindeer steak here.”

  “Oh? Why not?” Dwan looked honestly interested. They spoke in soft voices so they couldn’t be overheard by the staff.

  “It’s a Thorsfinni’s World dish. This far from Thorsfinni’s World, there’s no telling what kind of meat they might use. For all we know, it’d turn out to be a cut of kwangduk.” He shuddered.

  “Have you ever had kwangduk?”

  He nodded. “Once. In a stew. It’s not an experience I care to repeat.”

  She laughed lightly and whispered, “And here I thought you were a tough Marine.”

  He grunted, then continued examining the menu. After another moment, he said, “We’re on a strange world with its own cuisine, what am I doing looking at the items I could get anywhere? I’m going to just ask the waiter to recommend something made from local ingredients.” He shook his head. “They’ve got ‘Grande Milho Bolo’ listed as an entrée. I think that’s Portuguese, and it sounds more like a dessert than an entrée.”

  Dwan gave him a gracious nod. “I’m surprised you can recognize Portuguese. I think asking for the waiter’s advice is an excellent idea.”

  “I’ve been around,” Gossner muttered, and started to look for the waiter; the waiter was at his elbow before his head made more than a quarter turn.

  “Yes sir, are you ready to order?”

  “Listen,” Gossner said, stifling his surprise that the waiter could reach him so quickly without him noticing his approach, “everything on the menu sounds so good that I don’t know what to order.” He stopped and shook his head. “No, they don’t. My wife and I,” he put a possessive hand on Dwan’s; she turned her hand palm up and interlaced her fingers between his, “we just got here and really don’t have any idea of what the local foods are. But we want to try them. What do you recommend?”

  “Oh, sir and madame! May I recommend—” The waiter began spouting words in no language Gossner knew, but he recognized the “dalman” in the description of appetizers, “rambuck” and “lambhawk,” and the word “sauce” somewhere in the middle, and the final description concluded with, “—to perfection.”

  The waiter looked at them with proud expectation. Gossner and Dwan exchanged a glance, she gave a nearly imperceptible nod. He turned to the waiter and said, “Thank you, that sounds—very interesting. We’ll start with the dalman appetizer, and share the rambuck and lambhawk entrées.” He also ordered a half-bottle of a local vintage.

  “You will be delighted, sir and madame.” The waiter took the menus, dipped his head and shoulders in a bow, and glided away to place their order. Once he was gone, the sniper and her team leader leaned in close enough their shoulders touched and their heads nearly did as well, and looked at Center B
oulevard, the buildings across the way, and the byways between the buildings. Gossner didn’t say anything at first, he was still a bit shaken by the way the waiter had appeared as soon as he began to look for him. He wanted to be very careful of what he said in the vicinity of people who could move that stealthily. Dwan picked up on his unease and touched the corner of her brow to his.

  “Listeners?” she asked in the soft voice combat troops develop that is clearer than a whisper, but doesn’t travel as far.

  “Possible,” Gossner said back.

  She left her head where it was, they’d look more natural if they were in intimate contact while not speaking than if they sat silent while not close. They studied everything they could see without turning their heads, committing everything to memory—a sniper’s memory. The waiter came back with a trio of dishes and, with a flourish, placed one in front of each of them. One held two shelled arthropoids, the dalmans, and another a sauce neither of them recognized. The waiter showed them how to crack the dalman shells and pluck the meat from them. The third dish, he demonstrated, was for the empty shells. They’d barely had time to finish the dalmans when the entrées arrived, delivered by four waiters; one controlled the cart, two placed empty plates in front of them, then set plates with the food within easy reach of both, the fourth opened a bottle of wine and poured for Gossner to approve, then filled both their glasses. Gossner said, “Thank you,” and the quartet bowed themselves away. Neither Gossner nor Dwan had any idea what it was they were eating, but both enjoyed it tremendously.

  “Thank you, Mother Corps,” Gossner murmured when they were finished. Dwan cocked an eyebrow and gave him a simpering smirk. “Already?” Then she turned to the original waiter who was approaching with the dessert tray. Gossner groaned when he saw the tray; he hadn’t considered the possibility of dessert while he was eating most of the two entrées served to them. Even so, he managed to eat a slice of pie filled with some local fruit that vaguely reminded him of apples, while Dwan had something that looked fatally chocolate.

  “Now you can thank Mother Corps,” Dwan said softly when they finished their desserts and coffee and the bill had been presented.

  Gossner looked at the total and nearly blanched. He could never afford prices like that on his own income, and he hoped the Marine Corps’s accountants didn’t challange this particular expense too vigorously. He paid, including an appropriate gratuity, with one of the creds they had been given to cover expenses.

  On the way back to their hotel, Dwan said, “When we get back to our room, it’ll be your turn to strip down to your skivvies and take a nap while I watch.”

  Gossner tightened up and stared straight ahead, not daring to speak or even look at her. She laughed aloud at his discomfort.

  Room 1007, New Granum DeLuxe Inn

  The first thing they did when they got back to the hotel was to scan for observation devices. When they didn’t find any, Dwan checked for messages from the Admiral Nelson while Gossner lay down for a nap, but he didn’t strip to his skivvies. Dwan giggled at him once—damn, but if he didn’t know who that giggle came from—then reverted to the professional she was. The Admiral Nelson had no messages for them. He’d eaten enough that he didn’t feel like going out again right away when Dwan woke him after a short nap, but she had other ideas.

  “Up and at ’em,” she said, poking him in the ribs when he rolled over after her first attempt to make him get up.

  “I rank you,” he mumbled, “you don’t tell me when to get up.”

  “Do you remember what I told that customs agent at Kraken Interstellar when we got here?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “I said I was going shopping. We’ve got all those creds, and I intend to spend my share of them on things other than fine dining.”

  “So go shopping.” He snuggled more comfortably into his pillow.

  “Ivo,” she said sweetly, “do you know what a newlywed husband’s job is when his new bride goes shopping?”

  “What?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Pack animal. Now get up and come to lug and tote for me. It’ll look very suspicious if anybody notices a brand new bride shopping without her hubby to carry for her.”

  Gossner groaned, but he knew she was right. He rolled over and sat up. “Yes, dear. Give me a minute to wash the sleep out of my eyes.”

  She looked at her wrist. “One minute. I’m timing you.”

  “I never would have guessed you’d turn into a nag as soon as you got married,” he grumbled as he made his way to the water closet.

  She laughed.

  * * *

  They got back to the hotel four hours later. Sergeant Ivo Gossner was loaded down with parcels. The parcels weren’t heavy—after all, they only contained a few souvenirs and lots of clothing, mostly women’s clothing, souvenirs which were lighter than a similar amount of men’s clothing would have weighed—but there were so damned many of them. Gossner felt like he’d been dragged around to more stores than there could possibly be in downtown New Granum, and something was added to his burden in each of them.

  Lance Corporal Bella Dwan, on the other hand, carried only one oversize handbag slung over her shoulder containing two small packages with what she referred to as “female necessities that you needn’t worry your sweet little head about.”

  Gossner dropped his burden on the bed and they chatted inanely about the shopping expedition while they scanned the room for bugs.

  When they didn’t find any, he said, “You’re going to get yours when we get back to Camp Howard, Lance Corporal.”

  “All these new clothes! Would you like me to model them for you, sweetheart?”

  He tried to glare at her, but was distracted by an odd crinkling at the corner of her eyes. What was that?

  If those weren’t the eyes of the Queen of Killers . . .

  “I’m going to find a way for us to get out of here without being seen,” he said gruffly, and left.

  “Don’t be long,” she said. “I’m hungry after all that shopping.” She turned to her purchases and went through them while he was gone.

  He was back in less than twenty minutes and nodded his approval at how she was dressed. The colors of her shirt and pants were muted, matte grays and blacks, yet their pattern was festive. They looked like they’d been designed for a conservative dresser who nonetheless wanted to look filled with gaiety. She had laid out similarly patterned and colored garments for him. The patterns and colors would make very good camouflage at night.

  “At least the whole shopping trip wasn’t a waste,” he said as he picked up his clothes and headed for the water closet to change. She made a face at his retreating back. After eating they returned to their room, and slipped back out a few minutes later.

  Near Ramuncho’s Restaurant, New Granum

  The streets were brightly lit and noisy with lively vacationing tourists and locals out for an evening of theater, dining, or partying in nightclubs. People constantly brushed against and bumped into each other in the boisterous crowds and had to shout for their companions to hear them. But in the service and access alleys behind and between the buildings, it was quiet and dark. There was nobody to note the two shadows that occasionally seemed to hump bigger than they had been and move from here to there, and nobody could have heard the shadows, because they were as silent as shadows should be. Gossner and Dwan moved slowly and carefully, sliding soft-shod feet over the pavement, searching for obstructions and objects that might make noise when they stepped. They probed ahead and to the sides with their hands for obstacles their feet wouldn’t encounter. The pavement seemed to hold the usual amount and assortment of detritus to be found on city alleys, haphazardly lined with frequently overflowing trash receptacles. Almost anybody could be excused for tripping, kicking, or bumping into noisemakers while negotiating them in the night—or during the day, for that matter. But Gossner and Dwan weren’t almost anybody, they were Force Recon Marines, and knew how to move silently though worse plac
es than this; unlit city alleys posed no problem for them. They didn’t speak until their reconnaissance was complete, and they vacated the shadows of the alleys for the shadows of a nearby park, where whispered male and female voices from the bushes wouldn’t cause comment.

  “Two places I can do it from,” Dwan said when they were huddled close in a clump of low-lying bushes. Their backs were to a windowless wall and they could see all approaches to the bushes. “But in one of them, I have to be too close to the street, there’s too good a chance someone will spot my mazer.”

  Gossner grunted softly in agreement. “Civilians bother me,” he said back. “If there are people on the street, someone might walk into your line of fire while you’re shooting and block enough of your shot to just make the target sick.”

  Now that they were really planning it, Jorge Liberec Lavager was no longer President Lavager, he wasn’t even a person; he was simply “the target.”

  “I need a higher place. Maybe farther back.”

  “I thought I saw something while we were at lunch. Let’s go and check it out.”

  “Lead the way.”

  They went back into the service alley, to a building that backed onto it opposite one of the access alleys that gave a view of the front of Ramuncho’s Restaurant. During the day, Gossner had gotten the impression it was vacant. A broken ground-level window gave them access to the building’s basement. They had to move by touch in the darkness, but that was not difficult because the basement seemed to be empty. The stairs to the ground floor were sound and the door at their head ajar; it squeaked slightly when Gossner eased it open, but he lifted up on it and the squeaking stopped. They inspected the ground floor, which was easier than finding the stairs in the basement because of the street light that came through the front windows. The ground floor was empty. The second floor was also empty. Gossner squatted and brushed his fingers against the floor. “It hasn’t been vacant long,” he whispered.

  “No dust.”

  Dwan nodded, and went to look out the back windows. Right away, she found one she liked for the mission. Then she wanted to check the third, top, floor. As they expected, it was vacant as well. Their inspection of the spaces behind Ramuncho’s wasn’t as successful, even though they found several spots from which a sniper could fire through the windows of the back rooms—they didn’t know which windows were to the private room Lavager normally used. Reconnaissance complete, they returned to the hotel.