The Loved and the Lost (36 page)

“I'll come with you,” he said.

Shamira could see how happy he was observing these fools. He really was an ardent people-watcher. That's why he was such a good artist. “No, you go along,” she said. “I'll come back as soon as I can. But, how about a goodbye kiss . . .”

“Owwwfff!” came a grunt up the alley, followed by an inebriated laugh.

“Shhhh!” Chinza hissed.

Ugilino had tripped and spilled the contents of the basket. Kingsley turned to see a giggling Ugi on his knees, collecting the now dusty bread and sausage. Kingsley quickly tiptoed toward them, shaking his head and laughing at the two clowns.

“. . . a goodbye kiss?” Shamira finished saying, but to herself now. “Oh well.”

“Shamira, are you coming?”
Lincoln's voice asked with urgency.

“Right there,” she said turning and starting to run.

‘He really isn't a bad person,' Kingsley thought to himself. Ugi was gathering up the bread, banging the dust off with his hands and shoving the bread back in the basket. He stood and even spit on the sausages to clean them.

“You stay here,” Chinza whispered as Ugilino got on his feet. “I want to surprise him.” The soldier was sitting against the wall, slumped sideways, one arm flung out to the side and his sword still in its scabbard.

Ugi stood still, a moronic grin of anticipation on his face. Kingsley was right by him, looking closely at his face, his artist's eye taking in the unsymmetrical cheekbones and broken nose, wondering what harsh experiences made them that way. He looked over and watched Chinza slowly draw out his sword and tiptoe the last few feet to his comrade. Kingsley noted how everything looked black and white in the near dark, like ancient, pre-color photographs. Chinza reached out with his blade, grinning back at Ugi one last time before playing his prank. Ugilino tittered, spittle ejecting from his mouth. Then Chinza put the sword point under the other soldier's lowered chin and pushed gently.

“Eh! You ready to die hungry, ya sleepin . . .”

The soldier keeled over, his head unceremoniously hitting the dirt. There was a wet sound and something black splashed onto Chinza's boot. “Wha . . .” More black on the sword point. He pulled it back, his eyes going wide. “Blood!” he said and moved quickly to the door. It was ajar and he pushed it open. “Brother . . .” he began to shout.

Two men spun their heads toward them, looking up from the dead face of Lieutenant Raguso, whose throat was horribly carved from ear to ear.

Kingsley felt an instant chill flash up his spine as he caught his breath, horrified.

Chinza, without hesitation, turned on his heels and ran. “Attacked! We're being attacked!” he screamed into the night. He ran right through Kingsley and knocked into Ugilino, who dropped his basket and ran too. “Wake up, we're being attacked,” Chinza shouted as he ran back up the alley, putting distance between himself and Ugi.

Kingsley started running towards the house. The assassins were following. Kingsley touched his communications node.

“Hansum. The shop's being robbed. They've killed the soldiers there. Wake up the guards. They're asleep on the porch. Then bar the door!” Kingsley had caught up to Ugilino and heard Hansum giving orders over his transplant. Chinza was now to the end of the alley. He started to turn the corner.

“Wake up you bastards,” he screamed to the guards on the porch. “There's . . .” he stopped dead, a sword now sticking clear through him. Ugilino and Kingsley screeched to a halt as Chinza's arms jerked out and the sword his father gave him flew high in the air. It rose in an arc and landed point down in the dirt, right between Ugilino and Kingsley. As Chinza slumped, the sword was pulled out from him and the blade's wielder stepped forward.

Kingsley's hand flew to his temple, touching his communications node.

“Hansum. It's Feltrino! Feltrino's here. Don't open the door. I think the guards at the door are dead!”

“Hello, ugly one,” Feltrino said to Ugilino, who looked quickly behind him. Two men were blocking the alley. Ugilino fell to his knees.

“Feltrino, please don't kill me,” he begged, crossing himself.

Feltrino signaled to one of his men, drawing a hand across his throat. The smaller one, wearing a deerskin jacket, walked toward Ugilino, his bloody dagger raised.

Kingsley bit his lower lip and felt one of his hands rise up to his emergency node. The other lowered to the sword in the ground.

Already running up the steps, Hansum clicked his communicator.

“Lincoln, make sure the Mistress stays in that room. You and Sham get her and the Master off the bed. Have the Master help you take the bed apart to barricade the stairs. I'll get Guil in there too.”

“But that means we have to come out of phase.”

“Just do it!”

Hansum was already up the stairs and in the room with Guilietta and the younger Hansum. He pressed his emergency node, causing a blue spark and snap. The younger Hansum, lying with his arm curled over his sleeping wife, spun around to find a hand clamping onto his mouth and a face he had often seen in the mirror staring down at him.

“I'm here to save Guilietta. Feltrino's outside.”

With that, the younger Hansum spun further around in bed, reaching for his sword on the floor. The older Hansum reached down and put his hand on the hilt first. “You let me handle that. I'm better than you now.”

The younger Hansum got up quickly. “Tell me what's going on.”

“No time for details. You get Guil into the other bedroom. My Lincoln and I will hold them off till help arrives.” Before Hansum could go out of phase again, the younger man spoke.

“Where's Pan? Your Pan? Use his friggin' laser, like he did at the river.”

“We're alone here for a while. No A.I.s. Bad timing.” He touched his node and was disappearing as he said, “I won't let it happen to her again . . .” and he was running through the walls. As he entered the other bedroom he watched Shamira and Lincoln coming out of phase. The Signora had a sheet wrapped around her face, her blubbery cheeks and tightly closed eyes the only parts showing.

“Something bad is going to happen,” the old woman was crying. “Something bad is going to happen.”

The Master was sitting, his back to Shamira and Lincoln, trying to comfort his wife.

“No, my dear. All is well, all is . . . Carmella, Marucio. I didn't hear you come in.”

“There's trouble, Master,” Shamira said. “Feltrino's outside,” at which the Signora flung off the sheet and screamed shrilly.

“Master, let's get the Signora on the floor,” Lincoln said. “We must use the beds to block the stairs.”

“Come Mistress. Off the bed,” Shamira urged. “Sit on the floor.”

As the older Hansum watch from out of phase, he racked his brain on how to proceed. He looked at the sword in his hand, realizing it was from the Podesta's own collection. What would Mastino do if he were in this predicament? He bit his lip with resolve and clicked his communications node.

“Lincoln, I'm going downstairs. When the other Hansum comes in, have him help with the barricades, but don't, I say, don't let anyone come help me. Do you hear? Nobody!” He turned and was gone through the wall.

As the Master was helping Lincoln move his wife, he looked at Lincoln oddly.

“You look . . .” he started, but his wife saw something too.

“Such strange clothes, Carmella. Such strange eyes,” the Signora said, and she winced as they sat her on the floor.

The younger Hansum entered, helping Guilietta walk. As soon as they had her on the floor, a pounding started at the front door.

“Master. Romero. Quickly. The bedframes and mattresses from both rooms,” Lincoln ordered. “Barricade the top of the stairs.”

Shamira grabbed the straw-filled mattress off the bed and the men heaved the heavy bedframe on its side. They muscled it across the floor and through the doorway, ripping down the curtain, Shamira right behind. Manhandling the frame, they wedged it tightly into the narrow passage.

“I will go down and confront him,” the Master said. “I'll give him my gold and as many lookers as he . . .”

“That's not what he wants now, Master,” Shamira said sternly. “He's here to kill Hansum, I mean Romero.”

“No!” Guilietta screamed from the bedroom. The Signora started praying.

The pounding on the door became more fierce.

“Still, I shall confront him,” Agistino insisted.

“Husband!” the Signora cried.

Lincoln and the younger Hansum were already pulling the bed out of the other room, setting it on end against the other frame. Master della Cappa tried to squeeze through, but Hansum and Lincoln pulled him back.

“Leave me . . .” Agistino shouted. The pounding at the door now sounded like someone was battering at it with an ax.

“You must stay here and hold the barricade, Master,” the younger Hansum said, squeezing himself past the upturned bed. He broke one of the slats from the base of a frame.

“No Hansum,” Lincoln shouted, making a grab but missing him.

The door to the house burst open and there was Feltrino, standing menacingly, his clothes drenched in blood. He stepped in, his fierce look turning to a grin when he saw Hansum on the steps.

“A stick?” he commented, stepping forward. Right behind him was his captain, sword and knife in hand, equally bloody. “This time no talk . . .”

There was a crack in the air, a flash of blue, and then a quick guttural grunt of agony. Feltrino spun around as more blood spurted onto his face. It was his captain's, who now stood with a big red smile across his neck. The sword that had put it there was now pressing into Feltrino's chest. As the captain slumped dead to the floor, Feltrino slowly turned to see the man who had bested him.

“Apprentice!” he gasped, then flashed a gaze back to the stairs. The same face looked back at him from both places. “How?”

“Drop your weapons and lie down with your hands behind your back,” commanded the Hansum with a sword. “I said . . .” he pressed the sword harder, causing Feltrino's skin to tear. Feltrino complied. “Tie his hands,” he said to the other Hansum. As the younger Hansum came down the steps, he grabbed a coil of rope from a peg. As he approached Feltrino, the older Hansum commanded, “Wait,” and he placed the blade straight on top of Feltrino's spine, like he had seen him do when he murdered Lieutenant da Silva. “Part of me hopes you make a move, Gonzaga,” Hansum said in a voice that told the prince this was not the same man who spared his life at the river. Feltrino strained his neck and looked up at both Hansums, and then went limp. The younger Hansum tied Feltrino's wrists together very tightly.

“Now tell me what's . . .” the younger Hansum began, but his other self talked over him.

“I saved her. Finally,” the older Hansum said to himself in Earth Common. He exhaled deeply and smiled at his younger self. “We did it this time. Guilietta's safe.” And a hot shiver went up Hansum's back. “We've saved her from more pain.”

“Thank Cristo, he's bested him,” the Master's voice shouted from up the stairs, and there was the sound of the barricade coming down.

“No, stay up there,” the older Hansum shouted, but it was too late. The Master was already bulling his way around the barricade, pulling the older Shamira and Lincoln with him.

“Romero, you did it . . .” the Master stopped in his tracks as he saw twin sons-in-law.

“Get him back before the others see . . .” but that was too late as well. There was Guilietta, already standing on the steps, holding onto the railing, her eyes and mouth wide.

“What's going on?” another voice shouted behind Hansum, and in from the street ran the younger Lincoln and Shamira, horrified looks on their faces. The widening pool of the captain's blood and the trussed Feltrino, however, were not as surprising to them as seeing their other selves standing in front of them.

“Holy Cristo,” the Master said crossing himself. There were three pairs of twins.

“Go to Guil,” the older Hansum said to his younger self. “Take her back up.”

“Tell me what is going on?” the younger Hansum insisted.

“All I can say is things are really screwed up and nobody knows why. But we're trying to fix it. The important thing is Guil is . . .” he looked at Guilietta and all his conditioning vanished. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “. . . safe.”

The younger Lincoln and Shamira came and stood next to their older selves. They stared at each other.

“I'm lookin' good,” the younger Lincoln chimed. “Hey, a bit a stubble,” he said rubbing his other face with a thumb.

“We got back?” the younger Shamira asked herself.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Mom and Dad okay?” the younger girl asked. A nod. Then, you could tell the younger one saw something in her older self's eyes. “We're in love.” Of course, she would know.

The older Shamira smiled. “Oh yeah,” she answered. “I guess it won't hurt now.” She touched the communications node on her temple. “Kingsley,” she said. “It's all clear here. You can come in.” No answer. “Sweetie, there's someone here who wants to meet you. Kingsley. Kingsley?”

The older Shamira moved to the door. The older Hansum grabbed her arm.

“I'll go check,” he said seriously, but Shamira tried to pull away. “Sham, you stay here,” he ordered. “You two watch her,” he said to the Lincolns.

“Kingsley,” Shamira repeated, tapping her temple, panic in her voice.

“Who is . . .” started the younger Shamira, but her older self moved to bolt from the house.

“Hold her!” Hansum commanded, and both Lincolns and even the Master grabbed Shamira.

“What's going on?” shouted the Signora's voice from upstairs, adding to the confusion.