The Paradox Initiative (5 page)

“I’
ll have a cigarette, thanks.”

Conrad glanced at the fat man. The fat man scowled, but came around the bar, reached underneath it and pulled out a small metal box. He flipped it open with a click, and held it out to Wolfe. Wolfe plucked a short white stick out of it
—a
cigarette!—
stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and waited, watching the fat man. The fat man made another face, then flipped a switch on the top of the metal box. A flame lit—he held the box toward Wolfe, and lit the end of the cigarette. Wolfe drew in a deep breath, took the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled the smoke. He regarded Conrad, and nodded again.

Conrad’s eyes narrowed.

“Who put you up to this?”

“Nobody,” Wolfe answered
, puffing on the cigarette again. He took it down and rested his hand on his knee. “I’m just here to call in that favor.”

“What favor?” Conrad asked.

“Don’t play games with me, Conrad,” Wolfe warned. “You know what favor, and you know you have no choice.”

Kestrel blinked—clamped
her fists, and stared at him. The fingers of Conrad’s right hand opened and closed.

“You’re right, I don’t have a choice,”
Conrad said. “And when the real Lieutenant comes, I’ll fulfill my grandfather’s promise.” His gaze turned icy. “But don’t take me for a fool. Plenty of other men have.” He drew himself up. “It hasn’t gone well for them.”

Kestrel swallowed. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught several patrons of the club
turning to watch them.

Wolfe’s jaw tensed.

“What do you need to see?” he asked.

Co
nrad folded his arms and sneered.

“Now, y
ou shouldn’t need to ask that, should you?”

Wolfe took a short breath.

“All right,” he glanced down briefly, then around the room. “But in a back room someplace.”

“Oh, I don’t mind if they see,” Conrad countered, not moving. “And I’m c
omfortable right here, thanks.”

Wolfe regarded him. He sat pe
rched on the edge of his stool. For a second, Kestrel thought he was about to stand—

He
set his cigarette down on the bar, sat up straight, shrugged out of his leather jacket and pulled it off, revealing a tighter, short-sleeved gray shirt beneath. He tossed the jacket onto the bar, and held out his muscled arms toward Conrad. He turned his hands palms up, exposing his wrists and inner arms.

Kestrel’
s eyes fixed. Deep black tattoos marked the insides of Wolfe’s arms. The skin of his left bore plain, stark letters spelling the word
JUSTITIA
. On his right was written, in the same lettering,
ULTIO ULTIONIS
.

Conrad’s features lost all humor. He stared at the tattoos. Wolfe stared at
him
. Then, Conrad met Wolfe’s eyes—and waited.

Wolfe drew a breath. He stood up.

Kestrel took half a step back, confused…

Wolfe
grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up, baring his toned right side and back…

And a ghastly scar running from the tip of his right shoulder blade, down across his ribs to the front corner of his right hip bone.

Conrad jumped to his feet. He turned pale. Wolfe pushed his shirt back down.

Conrad looked up at Wolfe’s
face again, his expression stark and solemn.

“Come with me,” he urged, picking up Wolfe’s jacket and handing it to him. “Hurry.”

He about-faced, swept around the bar toward a rear door and walked straight through it as it opened. Wolfe tugged his jacket back on as he followed, and Kestrel hurriedly kept stride with him. The fat man trailed after. They entered the room and the door shut.

Kestrel
slowed down and blinked, trying to adjust. Much brighter, cleaner light filled this room. Lit wooden shelves lined the walls—shelves covered with rusted antiques, old-fashioned framed photographs, battered signs and cases of weapons, medals and trophies. An intricate iron-wrought lamp hung from the ceiling. She tread on smooth wood. At the far end of the room stood a carved desk surrounded by three chairs. The whole place smelled like dust and furniture polish. Wolfe paused, assessing—and the edges of his unyielding expression softened. He nodded once more.

“
I remember this.”

Conrad crossed the wood floor
, stepped around the desk and seated himself.

“
Please sit down,” he invited, waving to the two plain blue chairs in front of the desk. Wolfe passed the lines of shelves and took a seat in the left hand chair, leaning back and propping his elbow on one of the armrests. Kestrel hesitated, sensing the fat man take up a position directly behind her, in front of the only door. She gritted her teeth and made herself sit down on the remaining chair. Conrad appraised her for just a second, then returned his attention to Wolfe.

“So,” he said. “
My name’s Ian Conrad—and I think I can guess what you want.”

Wolfe
’s jaw tightened. Conrad regarded him.

“You’re still looking for someone.”

“Yes,” Wolfe answered.

“Do you know his name
yet?” Conrad wondered. Wolfe took a careful breath.

“Yes,” he said. “
William Jakiv.”

Conrad blinked.

“The scientist?”

“What do you know about him?” Wolfe
wondered, leaning back as his eyes narrowed. Conrad’s aspect darkened. He rested his forearms on the desk and interlaced his fingers.

“He’s extremely famous. Well,
infamous
,” Conrad said. “At the beginning of his career he made huge advancements in healing technology, but during the last few years he’s been dabbling in projects that most people aren’t…
comfortable
with.”

“Such as?” Wolfe arched an eyebrow
.

“
Human cloning,” Conrad said flatly. “
And
Paradox Theory—time travel. But he’s been stymied at every juncture by legislation, and by an underground resistance that picks up the government’s slack,” Conrad smiled. “I’m proud to take some of that credit.”

Wolfe answered
with a mirthless smile of his own.

“Your granddad
would be happy,” he told Conrad. “But why keep up with the club and the black market business?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Sounds like you’re more of a humanitarian than a crime lord like Peter.”

Conrad shrugged.

“Gotta keep the lights on somehow.” He grinned crookedly. “Especially when you’re helping fund an underground resistance.”

“
Ha. And all the talk used to be that energy would be cheap by now,” Wolfe remarked wryly.

Conrad chuckled.

“Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“I never do,” Wolfe assured him
, shaking his head once. Conrad’s amusement subsided, and he studied Wolfe.

“
So what can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

Wolfe lowered his arm,
his smile fading. He gazed at Conrad a moment.

“I’
ve heard Jakiv’s on the Gain Station in the Triple Star System,” he finally said. “I need you to get us there.”

“Us?” Conrad repeated.
“This lady owes me a favor,” Wolfe explained without looking at Kestrel. “And I need a navigator.”

Conrad sat for a moment, thoughtful. Finally, he nodded.

“Okay, makes sense.” He drew himself up. “I don’t suppose you have any Travel Permissions on you?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“No.”

“Anything at all that might get you through security and onto an intergalactic

transport vessel
?”

“What do you think
, Conrad?” Wolfe sighed.

“Well,
good sir,” Conrad smirked. “You’re in luck. You’ve come to precisely the right place.”

“All right,” Conrad sat back, sweeping his attention across the multitude of hovering
, green-glowing holographic documents in front of him. “I used some of your existing information, Miss Evans, and tweaked it a little. It’s best not to change too much if you don’t have to. Your name is now April Johnson. Wolfe, I had to dig into some old records of my grandfather’s, but they worked out just fine. You get to keep your first name, but your last name is Johnson as well—thought it would be easier if you travel as a married couple. You both are now fully equipped with identification disc forgeries, forged digital Travel Permissions, forged authorization to cross the Liquor Line, a meal plan, a limited line of credit, luggage marks, and booking in a first class suite on board the
Exception
—a luxury cruise liner renowned for both its speed and amenities. The ship boards no later than 12:13 this morning. It launches at 1:13. Once it hits space, you should get to the Triple Star System in…” Conrad squinted at one of the documents. “…a little over two weeks.”

“
And there’s no way to get there faster?” Wolfe cut in. Kestrel opened her mouth, but Conrad answered plainly.

“Sure. I
f you want to buy a private transport, hire somebody to fly it for you, fuel it, run it through ten more levels of spaceport security—”

Wolfe
rolled his eyes and waved it off.

“I’ve
kept some suitcases in a back cabinet for just such an occasion,” Conrad got up and re-buttoned his coat. Wolfe immediately stood up, too—so Kestrel did the same, trying not to twist her hands together. Instead, she clenched them at her sides.

“
While we’ve been arranging things here,” Conrad went on, addressing both of them. “My people have been loading them up with clothes and supplies so you can be on your way. Your best bet is to catch the Rail to the Hub, then get on a train to the port.”

“Where can we catch the Rail?” Wolfe asked.

“It’s right on the north corner here. There’s a flashing sign, you can’t miss it,” Conrad waved vaguely. Then, he drew himself up and smiled at Wolfe with an air of finality. His tone quieted, and he gazed at Wolfe. “Well, I hope that’s what my granddad had in mind—because that’s the best I can do.”

Wolfe held out his hand to him.

“That’s all I can ask.”

Conrad
considered his hand, then took it. The two men shook firmly, watching each other’s faces. Then, Wolfe let go and straightened.

“Lead the way.”

“No, I need to be heading back to my patrons. They’ll wonder where I am,” Conrad said, striding around the desk. “But Epski here has your things.”

He waved toward the door, and Kestrel turned to see the fat man bearing two medium sized, square, black, nondescript travel bags, and wearing a scowl.

“IDs and passes are in satchels inside,” Epski grunted. Conrad stopped and faced them as he stood in the doorway. He tipped his hand to Kestrel, then nodded at Wolfe.

“Happy trails,” he bid them
, as if saying that was a little funny. He turned and strode through the door as it opened. It hissed shut behind them. Kestrel’s gut clamped.

“Here,” Epski shoved one bag at Wolfe, and the other at Kestrel. Kestrel automatically reached for it—

Wolfe snatched it from Epski, tugging it sharply out of his grasp. Wolfe glared at him.

“
Were you born in a barn?” Wolfe muttered, shifting his grip on both bags. “Which way out of here?”

Epski’
s lip curled.

“The back way.”

“What back way?” Wolfe demanded. Epski just shook his head, lumbered past them, then slipped his meaty fingers behind one of the cases. A latch clicked.

The case slid out o
f the way, revealing a door—and dark, cement steps heading upward.

“Now get out of here before somebody
finally decides to just kill you,” Epski advised.

“My pleasure,” Wolfe answered. “C’mon, Brown Eyes.” And he marched
loudly up the staircase and disappeared into the dark.