Armor (19 page)

“Thank God, Wice!” gushed one of the fallen, surveying what was left of the rescue party about him. Wice, the fat man with the blazer and, I saw then, the fat man from the trouble on the bridge my first day, ignored the show of gratitude. Others appeared beside him from inside the building. One of them had been the dark skinny one on the bridge. Wice motioned him toward the girl, motioned the rest toward the casualties.

“Clean this up. Now!” .he barked in that distinctive snarl. The others hurried to obey. I sighed. Wice was the name of my contact. Deeper and deeper.

In a few moments the area was almost clear. The dead had been dragged away. The wounded had been helped inside. Only Wice remained in the doorway, watching the skinny with the girl.

“Gettle!” whispered Wice impatiently to the skinny. “Is she awake?”

Gettle spoke without taking his eyes from her. “Well, I thought she was!”

Wice surveyed the area warily. “Well, never mind now.

Just bring her in. Come on!” he ordered bluntly. With one last glance around, he slipped back into the shadows of the doorway. Gettle pushed a lock of black hair away from his face and bent to lift the girl. She lolled lifelessly in his arms. Then they too were gone.

I gave them maybe two seconds before I started my splashing sloshing way across the clearing toward the doorway. I stopped just outside the opening, listening. I knew what was coming, but that didn’t mean I wanted to become a part of it.

I heard footsteps just inside the door on a rickety stairway that creaked and rustled rhythmically. I slipped inside and followed the sound. In the dim lamp shining down the stairwell I saw her make her move. He had had her in a fireman’s carry to negotiate the narrow passage. She began by driving an elbow into the back of his neck. . . collapsed stunned to his knees, arms up to protect his face. . . her feet dribbled against his chest. . . a flat handed smack against his forehead….

Then she leaped easily over him and trotted down the stairs and froze stockstill before me. Her eyes shown wide and . . . and spectacular in the lamp. So deep! So green! Emeralds floating, glistening….

I blocked her first forearm, sidestepped the kick and brought her shoulder out of position for the killing blow by pulling her roughly and unexpectedly to me. She gasped as her eyes, her incredible eyes, met mine. Was it recognition, astonishment at her effect on me? Was it a reciprocal delight? Maybe? Possibly? I blocked another forearm, slipped a flathand uppercut, twisted beside her kick and. . . . And did nothing. Nothing at all. I didn’t fight back, had no thoughts of doing so. I just didn’t want her to hurt me.

Or maybe, I thought suddenly, I just don’t want her to leave.

And as I hesitated with that thought, she left, slipping past me and out into the black afternoon and mud. She was gone.

I closed my eyes. Hers floated clearly still before me. Such eyes!

Gettle was coming to. I wrestled him out of his impossible position on the stairs.

“C’mon, Gettle. We’ve got to get to Wice!” I urged him.

“Hah? Wha. . . . Wice?” he mumbled, dazedly.

“Yeah, Wice! C’mon,” I added conspiratorially. “We’ve got to tell him what really happened.”

He sat up, holding his head. “What do you. . . Hey! The girl! Where’s the girl?”

“That’s it, Gettle! The girl’s gone off! We’ve got to tell

Wice. Hurry up, damn you!” I dragged him to his feet and shoved him a couple of steps up the stairs. He stopped, still hesitant. I shoved him again,

“Dammit, Gettle! You want him to find out from somebody else?”

That did it. Mumbling, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he staggered ahead, semi-waving for me to follow.

I did. And so we passed through much of the labyrinth that made up Wice’s lair. Gettle, weaving and stumbling and not quite running into things up ahead of me, led us down several faintly illuminated corridors and through several manned doorways. For the most part I ignored the scum standing guard. Occasionally, when one looked too alarmed at my presence, I would wink or shrug or smile and gesture obscenely at Gettle’s lack of coordination. That got me up several flights of stairs and through many ugly possibilities.

Suddenly, Gettle stopped. He slumped down to the floor before a handful of steps jury-rigged to make easier the transition from one level to another that was, on second glance, a joint between plassteel bulkheads from two different ships. He held his head with both hands. He rocked forward on his buttocks, grimacing in pain. She, Eyes, had really belted him. I stifled a smile and leaned forward to help him up. He glanced up at me in bewilderment. “Who are you?” he asked before recognition descended.

“You!” he screeched in an uneven, harsh whisper before I clamped my right hand around his throat.

I didn’t waste time with threats. I simply lifted him to his feet from there, gripping down on his throat as much as I figured he could take. Once on his feet I pressed the back of his head against the wall just beneath a lamp. His face looked green and scared. It had every reason to be.

“Wice!” I hissed meaningfully, flexing my fingers. “Wice!”

He didn’t even have to think about it. He gestured with one limp hand and off we went again. I removed my fingers from his throat but retained a firm grip on his left shoulder as we moved along he knew what was what.

The only hazard was a guard standing before the most impressive door we had passed so far. It was made out of something that was either wood or could pass for it. It was wide and squat and had a huge door latch. It was obviously the boss’s place. The guard eased forward from just off the side and raised a huge right arm in a gesture meant to slow us down for proper admittance procedure. I kicked him in the balls. We both stepped over him. Gettle worked the latch. I slammed him through the opening door and faced Wice, standing up angrily on the far side of his messy office.

“You! Crow” he shouted angrily and reached down for what I figured for the blazer.

I ignored him. I found what passed for an easy chair in that dump and plopped down in it across from the desk. Gettle was doubled over on the floor whimpering. I ignored him, too. Wice came around from behind the desk carrying the blazer. He stopped beside Gettle and glowered at the pair of us. He was mad.

“What’s the idea. Crow? You still trying to show everybody how tough you are?” He looked down at Gettle again and shook his head. “I’m getting pretty sick of you,” he added menacingly, tightening his grip on the blazer.

I lit a cigarette. “Does Borglyn know you’re using his blazer to carve up locals?” I asked calmly.

“The blazer’s mine,” he retorted furiously. “What I do with it is my business get that straight.” He slammed the pistol from one hand to the other for emphasis and then pointed the butt at me. “And get this, too. You keep stomping around here playing big man with my men and I’m gonna show you just how lucky you were that fust time!”

There was a loud banging on the stairs outside followed by five lackeys jamming themselves into the room. Gettle looked up at their approach and smiled sourly at me through bleeding lips. He stood up straight and joined them while they took turns staring back and forth between Wice and me and waiting for the order to “Sic ‘im!”

Wice gestured meaningfully in their direction before continuing. “You got it. Crow? We can get done what needs getting done or it can get tough. What’s it gonna be?”

I had been watching this whole deal from a distance, without feeling or rhythm. It was a longhated feeling, like being a step behind. It blundered me ahead badly.

“I’ll tell you, Wice,” I began, all thumbs. “I don’t much care. We can work if you want.” I tapped an ash to the floor. “But we don’t have to and I’m not sure I like the idea anyway.” And then I stood up, abruptly, anger roaring through me from out of nowhere. I slammed the cigarette to the floor, scattering sparks. “I’m tired of dealing with scum like this, with cowards and deserters and bullies. Your threats don’t mean anything to me. I can still go either way.” I pointed a shaking finger. “I pounded you once. I can pound you again. And I can crater this bunch at the same time!” I wheeled toward them “Who wants to be first?”

Gettle answered in a low, sinister tone: “Maybe everyone.”

“That’s fine, too,” I retorted, now shaking all over. Wice stared at me like I was crazy. Which, of course, I was. I don’t know. That cloudy picture! Wice, Borglyn, mewe were all so bizarre!

Especially me.

Wice kept staring for several moments, then relaxed. He sighed, shook his head. Was that compassion I saw in his eyes? Or flat pity?

“Say the word,” prompted Gettle, tensing.

“Shut up, Gettle!” barked Wice, suddenly angry again.

“Shut up and get the hell out. “

Gettle and company stared at him, unbelieving. But they left. Slowly for Gettle, hoping for a change of heart. It didn’t happen. We were alone.

Wice nodded toward the closing door. “Him I oughta let you stomp again,” he suggested, going back around to his desk.

“Didn’t the first time,” I offered, resuming my seat.

“Some girl was doing that on my way in.”

That froze him halfway into his chair. “What? Is she gone?”

I nodded. “We passed over his whimpers.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?”

“What for?” I asked, lighting another cigarette. “Far as I know, that’s her job around hereto teach your punks what tough is.”

He mumbled something angrily at me under his breath and left. I sat and smoked and listened to him growling orders to his people in the hallway. He came back in after a full minute of that and resumed his seat. He looked disgusted.

“If you saw the blazer, you saw the fight. You knew we wanted her.”

“That’s true, Wice,” I agreed.

His fat face got very red. Was that it? Was it my always just hating fat men?

“You rotten son of a bitch!” he growled, accusing. “What the hell do your little local feuds have to do with me? I’ve got nothing to do with that!”

He blinked. His anger disappeared. He looked genuinely surprised. “You mean you really don’t know?”

“Huh?” I blurted, as stupidly as I felt. “Know what?”

But he just shook his head again. “Never mind,” he said. He sat forward in his chair and reached for a cigar. His voice was businesslike. “What about the Project’s defense screens? Can you get to them?”

“I can do it. When do you need it?”

“Don’t know yet,” he said, lighting his cigar. “We may want to wait awhile.”

“How long?”

“Don’t know yet,” he repeated, eyeing me. “Maybe as long as a standard month. Can you handle that? What’s your setup over there with those people?”

“Just let me know.”

Wice puffed a couple of irritated puffs. “All right. Crow. Go ahead and play independent. But you may need me later on.”

“Not likely,” I replied coldly.

“Okay, dammit!” he retorted, stung. “Just tell me this much what do they know about me?”

“You?” I echoed, surprised. “Nothing.”

“Well, then, what do you plan to tell ‘em when they find out you’ve been coming here? Or did you really think there were secrets in a place this small?”

I felt my cheeks heating up with embarrassment. I hadn’t even considered the problem. Even worse, Wice could see that I hadn’t.

But he let it slide.

“Tell ‘em we met on Illyre,” he pushed on. “During your piracy trial.”

I sat up. “What do you know about that?”

“I know about it. Saw most of it. Cost me a half term’s worth of credits for court tickets.” He smiled then. “But I was there at the end.”

Now what the hell was this? Admiration? Damn the bastard! “Well sorry to disappoint you by getting off,” I said sourly, which was damned idiotic for me to say. But why the hell not? I was being an idiot, wasn’t I?

I stood up to leave before I got any worse. Between Wice’s insulting me and admiring me and my own dazed, thumb fingered lack of touch, I knew it couldn’t get anything else but.

I stopped at the door and looked back. Wice was eyeing me without emotion through die cigar smoke. I had a sudden adolescent desire to shatter that.

“Tell me, Wice, how did yon and Borglyn get together? Is there a regular meeting place for deserters?”

Wice frowned. He looked disappointed, as if. . . I had let him down.

“We met on Banshee,” he answered evenly. “A year ago.”

“A year ago? Wice, you’re full of bull! Banshee was destroyed two years ago!”

He stared. And then instead of looking insulted, he looked amused. A smile began to form at the corners of his mouth. “Destroyed? Is that what they’re saying?” The smile became a chuckle and then a laugh. “Destroyed, eh?”

“Well, all the Ants, anyway,” I added lamely.

That only made him laugh all the harder. A bitter, knowing laugh.

“What’s so goddamned funny, Wice?” I demanded desperately.

He looked at me and stopped laughing. But the smile, now bitter throughout, remained. “Never mind. Jack,” he said in a patronizing tone. “You wouldn’t understand.”

I jerked the door open angrily, stopped, barked acidly back: “Or care.”

He only nodded. “Or care,” he agreed reasonably. I went hurriedly out, slamming the door behind me. I made too much noise stomping away to be able to hear it if he was laughing behind me.

So bizarre. . . .

X

Grumbling, I retraced my steps back through the maze. The lain was over for now. The last bit of sunlight slanted out over the western bluffs and sparkled, steaming, on the grimy rooftops. There were several people out, milling around and surveying storm damage. Some were already busy with repairs. Much of their work appeared to my untrained eye as little more than glueing seams back together. I saw no more dying old men, no more fierce children. I figured I still had a couple of hours before my dinnertimeIshowdown with Holly and Lya. I decided to get a drink.

The way back was harder. Clouds soon obscured the last of the sun making it even darker than before. Yellow pools of light spilled out at me from doorways and windows and hatches opened wide to combat the heavy humidity. I was left alternately blind and blinded.