Margaret Weis & Don Perrin - Mag Force 7 - Hung Out

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TXT - Weis, Margaret & Don Perrin - Hung Out.txt

HUNG OUT

MARGARET WEIS

DON PERRIN

A ROC BOOK

ROC

Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England Penguin Books

Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia Penguin Books Canada Ltd,

10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Roc, an imprint of Dutton NAL, a member of Penguin

Putnam Inc.

First Printing, August, 1998

10 987654321

art by Steve Youll No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own

wings.

--William Blake, "Proverbs of Hell"

CHAPTER 1

The use of a trick or stratagem permits the intended victim to make his

own mistakes.

Carl von Clausewitz, On War

The buzzing was annoying, seriously annoying. Annoying because the buzz

was letting Jafar el Amadi know there was something he should do and he

didn't want to do it. He wished the buzz would stop, and it did for a

moment; then, just as he was starting to drift back to sleep, the buzz

began again.

His wife, stretched out in the bed beside him, gave him a punch in the

back. "It's the phone," she said drowsily. "Answer the phone."

Amadi woke up, peered bleary-eyed at the phone on the nightstand beside

his bed.

"What time's it?" his wife mumbled.

Amadi rubbed his eyes, brought the clock into focus. "Two in the

morning."

The buzzing continued, insistent.

"It's probably a wrong number," he said.

"Uh-huh." His wife pulled the blanket over her head, rolled away from

him. "Tell them you're retired."

Amadi lifted the phone. "Yeah?"

"I'm calling about that order you placed, sir," said a female voice at

the other end.

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"Do you know what time it is?" Amadi snapped. "It's two o'clock in the

morning!"

"Sorry, sir. I just thought you'd want to know, sir, that the item you

requested has been located."

"What item? What the hell are we talking about? Is this some goddam

vidalog company? Because if it is--"

"I have the order here, sir. Your authorization: Delta 750-6711-9."

Good God! It was the Bureau.

"Oh." Amadi was now very awake. That was his authorization code, but

what the hell were they talking about? "What's it in regard to?"

"Body parts for a cyborg, sir. Would you like to go ahead and place your

order, sir?"

"I need more details--color and size and all that."

"Very good, sir. I'll give you a number to call for customer service.

Ask for order number 7/66/807/9. Sorry I woke you, sir, but this was

marked 'urgent.'"

The other end clicked. The connection was broken.

Amadi sat and frowned at the warm green glow of the clock for another

moment, then he slid his feet into his bedroom slippers and eased

himself out of bed. His wife was used to late-night phone calls, used to

him roaming about the house at all hours, used to him leaving in the

middle of the night. Of course, that had been before he had retired,

when he had still been with the Bureau.

It had been years since he'd received a late-night phone call, probably

one reason it had taken him such a long time to respond. In the old

days, he would have been wide awake at the first buzz. But at age

seventy, he'd come to relish his warm bed and a good night's sleep.

Giving his wife a customary reassuring pat on the shoulder--a pat she

probably didn't feel because she'd gone back to sleep already--Amadi

grabbed his robe, threw it on. Yawning, he left the bedroom, visited the

John, then went downstairs. The dog, lying with his back pressed up

against the front door, opened one eye, thumped his tail against the

floor, and raised his head to see if he was needed.

"Go back to sleep, Charlie," Amadi said, moving through the hallway,

heading to the kitchen.

The dog obeyed gladly. He was an old dog and he, too, appreciated his

rest.

In the kitchen, Amadi brewed coffee, freshly ground, made the

old-fashioned way in a drip pot; none of that muddy water the replicator

turned out. He mulled over the cyborg matter as the coffee brewed. The

risk was immense, but he had already considered and discounted all his

other options. He cut himself a piece of pound cake--gone were the days

when he could drink six cups of coffee on an empty stomach--then carried

cake, a cup, and the coffeepot down another flight of stairs to the rec

room. Behind the vid, mounted on the wall, was a sensor device.

Amadi considered briefly attempting to juggle cake, cup, and pot in one

hand while he activated the sensor, but rejected the idea. His wife may

have been patient with late-night phone calls and her husband vanishing

for weeks at a time on some secret assignment, but she took a dim view

of coffee stains on the rug. Amadi placed his breakfast on an end table,

passed his hand twice over the sensor device, which was no more than a

tiny hole in the wall.

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A door disguised to look like part of the oak paneling slid aside. Amadi

retrieved his breakfast, making a mental note to himself to bring the

cup and coffeepot out of the room when he was finished. His wife would

be extremely irritated if one of her best china cups went missing, as it

had upon one occasion, only to turn up two weeks later with a fine

growth of mold on what was left of the coffee.

The door slid shut behind Amadi.

The room was small, soundproofed, fireproofed. It contained a desk, a

chair, a computer. Seating himself in front of the computer, Amadi gave

it his password. Once he and the Bureau were linked and each had

admitted that they knew the other, he went through more security

procedures. At last, the Bureau conceded that he had the right to be

where he was and to acquire the information he needed. He gave the

"order" number, which he had--from habit-- committed to memory as the

agent rattled it off. He munched cake while he waited, drank his coffee,

and yawned.

A woman's face appeared on the screen. He didn't know her, but that

wasn't unusual. He'd been retired for ten years. He knew few people in

the Bureau anymore.

She was human, mid-twenties, lean and mean, with skin the golden color

of olive oil, short-cut black hair, high cheekbones, an upturned nose,

full lips. Adjectives came to Amadi's mind: new, pert, hungry.

The voice belonging to the face was the same voice that had spoken to

him on the phone. She was seated at a desk in an office cubicle,

probably her own cubicle, for there were pictures stuck to the fabric

wall behind her. Family pictures. Mother and father. Three young men

standing together grinning at the cam with wide smiles. Probably

brothers. A white fluffy cat.

"Agent Rizzoli, sir. Petronella Rizzoli."

"Rizzoli." Amadi nodded, swallowed pound cake. "What do you have for

me?"

"We've located former agent Tambam ... Tampambulos, sir," she replied,

stumbling over the name.

"Good work, Rizzoli. He's not an easy person to track down. You have the

warrant? Is all in order?"

"A few local problems, sir."

Amadi frowned, displeased. "The reason I lured him to that planet was

because the locals promised there would be no trouble. Where's he

staying?"

"Where you said he would stay. He's at the home of his ex-wife, Marjorie

Tambamp ... Tamp--damn that's a hell of a name to pronounce. And any

rate, that's where he is, sir. At her home."

"Excellent. That's where I was hoping he'd go."

"We could never have removed him from Olefsky's world," Rizzoli agreed.

"Not without a fight."

"And they don't have the death penalty on Solgart," Amadi added. "So

what's he doing with his time in his ex-wife's house?"

"We intercepted several calls made to various parts of the galaxy. They

were all encrypted, unbreakable, but we believe that he's assembling the

Mag Force 7 team. He's also been in contact with the Royal Navy, one of

the lord admiral's adjutants, a Commander Tusca."

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"Probably doing a job for them."

"Will that present a problem, sir? When we arrest him?"

"The Navy won't like it, that's for damn sure, but they'll drop him like

a hot rock if we threaten to go public with the facts. Especially when

they hear the charge. How does the warrant read?"

"Murder, sir. First degree. The murder of his former partner, Dalin

Rowan."

Amadi closed his eyes. He wished he hadn't eaten the pound cake.

"He is a murderer, after all," Rizzoli continued. "And while the Navy

may hire murderers with impunity, they don't want it broadcast on the

six o'clock news."

"Is the Navy keeping an eye on him?"

"No, sir."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, sir. It's a quiet neighborhood, sir. Our agents have him under

surveillance, of course. We could spot one of their agents easily."

"And I'll bet that Tampambulos has spotted you," Amadi observed. "He was

a good agent, you know. One of the best."

"I doubt it, sir." Rizzoli was confident. "We've never even been near

the house. All visual surveillance has been carried out by our system of

satellites. We're monitoring everything going in and out of that house

from a base twenty-five kilometers away. We pick up every signal, every

phone call. And if a mouse crawls underneath the garage door, we see it

on the satellite report.

"The new orbital spectral analysis system allows us to 'see' to a

resolution of one centimeter, even through solid objects, such as the

roof. We could tell you if former Agent Tampambulous has a problem with

irregularity, sir. Which he doesn't. Every morning at around 0830, after

he has his coffee, he takes the morning paper into the John and--"

"Spare me the details," said Amadi. "I get the picture and, frankly, I

wish I hadn't." He had seen Xris when they'd first brought him to the

hospital, seen what was left of him.

"If you want my advice, Rizzoli, you'll arrest him now, this minute.

Don't wait until his friends show up. They're a dangerous bunch."

"We'd like to, sir, but there's a problem with the warrant."

Amadi had forgotten. He was going to have to start doubling up on his

old-age hormone injection shots. "Local police force giving you grief?"

"No, sir. They're eager to cooperate. The chief wants to see her name on

GNN. It's the legal system. We can't arrest him on a Crown warrant

alone; we have to have a local warrant as well."

Amadi dumped the remaining pound cake in the trash. "They want to review

the case, I suppose."

"Yes, sir. We've provided them with all the files, but they're taking

their own sweet time over it. The chief is putting pressure on the

prosecutor, though. She told us to expect the warrant by Monday."

"And when the hell is that? I'm half a universe away, you know."

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TXT - Weis, Margaret & Don Perrin - Hung Out.txt

"Sorry, sir. Twenty-four hours, sir."

"Twenty-four hours. Time enough for his whole blasted personal army to

show up. Well, it can't be helped."

"We plan to go in at about 0400, sir, when everyone's asleep. We'll use

the standard flash-bang--"

"No, absolutely not!" Amadi said firmly. "These people are trained

mercenaries. They're armed and they're experts. What do you think

they're going to do if they wake up to find they're under attack?

Especially if you surprise them!"

"Well, sir, what do you suggest?"

"It's a suburban neighborhood," said Amadi. "Upper middle class. Kids

playing in the front yard next door. Tampambulous won't want to endanger

innocent civilians. He's not the type of person to start gunning down

toddlers. Go to the front door, ring the bell, hand him the warrant.

He'll come along peacefully. I guarantee it. I want him alive, Rizzoli.

Alive. He's no good to me dead."

What was her first name? Amadi wondered. Petro-something. He'd forgotten

that, too. Damn odd first name.

"Yes, sir." Rizzoli was all business, cool and professional. "Don't

worry, sir. We're taking extra care on this one. He killed one of our

own. We want to see him in the disrupter."

"Keep me posted." Amadi ended the meeting. .

He finished off the entire pot of coffee, then sent a memo to a man he

knew well--Andrew Robison. Formerly Amadi's boss in charge of the Hung

investigation, Robison was now head of Internal Affairs for the Bureau.

Robison was investigating Amadi, an interesting development and one that

Amadi wasn't supposed to know about.

The memo to Robison was headed, Tampambulos. Warrant issued. Arrest

imminent.

"There," Amadi muttered to himself. "That should make the son of a bitch

happy."

CHAPTER 2

...there is something about him, which even treachery cannot trust.

Public Advertiser, 22 June 1771, "Junius"

"So the message he sent me is accurate? Are you certain?"

"Yes, sir. I'm certain." Petronella smiled. "He assigned the grunt work

to me: issuing the warrant, arguing with the locals, all of that."

Head of Internal Affairs Andrew Robison frowned at the electronic

notepad he held in his hand, a pad that held all the details of a murder

case. After almost ten years, there'd finally been an arrest.

"I recorded our conversation, sir," Petronella told him.

"Secure?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir," Petronella replied coolly. She was not

accustomed to having her work questioned.

Robison gave a grunt that was tantamount to an apology.

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