Glen Cook - Starfishers 2 - Starfishers

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2024-11-24 0 0 34KB 14 页 5.9玖币
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Eight: 3047 AD
The Olden Days, The Broken Wings
Hoping Marya would make no sense of the data before him, Niven told her, “I’m checking to see where
people go when they leave The Broken Wings. If a statistically significant number emigrate to certain
worlds, we can begin to infer both their fantasies under dome conditions and what it is that attracts them
to a particular type world. If it’s environmental, then we’ve discovered a way to ease the negatives of
dome life.” He hoped he sounded tutorial. He cranked it up a notch to be sure. “Ubichi specializes in
negative environment, high-yield exploitation operations. Employee turnover has become a major
problem because of the expense of training and transportation for some of our field operations. It’s in the
corporate interest to reduce those costs by keeping our employees happy and comfortable.”
Pretty glib, he thought. He congratulated himself. “What’re you doing here?”
“Looking for you. We had a date.”
“Not till . . . Holy Christ! Look at the time. Hey beautiful lady, I’m sorry. I got on the track of
something. I worked right through lunch. Give me a minute, will you? I’ll finish up, call my secretary, and
we can get moving.” He grinned. “I have to check in. Education didn’t wear the Old Earth off of him.
You wouldn’t believe the hell he gave me last night!”
He no longer felt the smile. She was turning him to gelatin again.
Mouse did not answer his buzz. Niven would have been surprised had he done so. The call was simply a
ploy to get the data out of Marya’s sight, and to seize time to create a plausible structure of lies atop
those he had just told.
He needed no story. Marya asked no questions except, “What do you want to do?”
He almost replied with the hard truth.
“I’ve had it with work, but we about covered everything last night. Angel City isn’t swing-town.”
Gallantly, he added, “I’m content just being with you. You pick.”
She laughed. “And they say there’s no romance left on Old Earth. How about we just go for a walk? I
feel like a good long one.”
“Uh . . . ” His hands started shaking.
He had gotten out young, but the lessons of an Old Earth’s childhood died hard. People who did not
learn them young also died hard. Not to walk the streets without a gang of friends was one of the
strictest lessons of the motherworld.
This was not Old Earth. Death did not make the streets its home here. But the sticktights did lurk there,
and they might up the ante in the game at any minute.
“How come you’re grinning?”
“That’s no grin, lady. That’s what they call a rictus. Of fear. I’m Old Earther. You know how hard it
would be for me to walk down a street without at least fifty guys to back me up?”
“I forgot. But there’s nothing to worry about here, Gun.”
“You know it. I know it here in my head. But down here in my guts there’s a caveman who says we’re
both liars.”
“If it’s really that hard . . . ”
“No, don’t get upset. I didn’t say I wouldn’t try. I’ve got to get used to it. Hell, I force myself to get out
as much as I can. I just wanted to warn you so you won’t think it’s your fault if I get a little jumpy and
quiet.”
“You’ll settle down. You’ll see. This is just about the dullest, least dangerous city in The Arm.”
A few hours later, shortly after The Broken Wings’ early night had fallen, Niven snarled, “What did you
say back at the hospital? Something about the safest streets in the galaxy?”
The darkness of the alley pressed in. His frightened eyes probed the shadows for movement. The
lase-bolt had missed his cheek by a centimeter. He still felt the heat of it. “Even my toenails are shaking,
lady.”
Marya fingered her hair. A bolt had crisped it while they were running. Niven’s nostrils twitched as they
caught the sharp burnt hair odor.
Marya’s face was pallid in the glow of a distant streetlight. She was shaking too. And apparently too
angry to respond.
“You got a jealous boyfriend?”
She shook her head, gasped, “This isn’t Old Earth. People don’t do things like this out here.”
Niven dropped to all fours and crawled to the alley mouth.
Heavy work was not his province, but he had had the basic programs given all field agents. He could
make a show if he had to.
He had to do something now. The alley was a cul-de-sac. And the rifleman might be teamed. A
deathtrap could be closing.
A bolt scarred brick above his head. He rolled away, growling, “Starscope. Damn!” But he had spotted
the triggerman. The bolt had come from atop a warehouse across the street.
“Can’t be much of a shot,” Niven mumbled. “That isn’t fifty meters.”
If he could survive the sprint across the street . . .
There was a startled exclamation from the gunman’s position, then a choked wail of fear and pain. A
body plunged off the warehouse roof and thumped into the street.
Niven was across in an instant, shoving himself into the warehouse wall while he studied the corpse.
The weak light revealed the limper from the Marcos lobby. His windpipe had been crushed.
Every man’s signature is unique. And an assassin leaves a grim sort of signature on his victims. Niven
knew this one. He peered upward.
Why would Mouse be shadowing him?
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