Mouse came around first. He saw McClennon sitting a meter away. Thomas wore a grave expression.
Mouse groaned. “Christ! My head. What the hell happened?”
“I shot you. Stunner.”
“Why?” Storm tried to sit up. He could not. He was tied hand and foot.
“Aw, shit, Tommy. What the hell? Come on, cut me loose.”
“I can’t.”
“What’s wrong with you, man? I spent four months fixing it so we could get out. I could’ve left you behind . . . We bought the mission off, Moyshe. Tommy. With ten thousand percent interest . . . Damned! My head. Get me some aspirin.”
McClennon had them in his hand. A plastic cup sat on the dirt floor between himself and Mouse. “Open your mouth. I gave you a little too much. All of you. I had to shoot fast. I don’t have your finesse.”
McClennon’s face settled into tired lines. He had had no sleep. More water dribbled to the floor than passed Mouse’s lips.
Mouse swallowed, but too late to avoid the aspirin’s sour-bitter taste. He spat. “You’d better explain.”
“I got backed into a corner, Mouse. I had to make a choice. You were on duty when the Old Man finally got around to laying the truth on the line.”
“Beckhart? Our own fearless leader, who was born without a mouth?”
“Yes,” McClennon repeated Beckhart’s story about the centerward peril word for word.
“Did you believe him?”
“He was convincing.”
“He’s always convincing. That doesn’t make him any less a liar. And he’s the worst ever born.”
McClennon was surprised.. He had thought that Mouse shared his belief in the Admiral’s basic honesty.
“Still, that little fable would shed a lot of light on all the weird things that have been going on around Luna Command the last four or five years. I never did buy that crap about Ulant getting ready to hit us again. You sure he was telling the truth?”
“You should have seen his eyes when he described the Ulantonid intelligence tapes. But what really convinced me was when he said they’re reactivating the Climbers.”
“No lie?”
“That’s straight.”
“Wow, What do you know about that?” Mouse shook his head in amazement. It was a difficult task, lying on his side on that filthy floor. “You were going to explain why I’m lying here in this muck tied up so I can’t even scratch my butt.”
“It came to a choice, Mouse.” McClennon’s voice grew plaintive. “Between betraying Navy or the Starfishers. When I heard Jarl was dead.”
“I don’t follow you, Tommy. In fact, maybe you don’t either. You don’t look very stable. I think we’d better get you to a Psych center.”
“I know. I can see what’s happening to me. Mouse, I can’t stop it!” He closed his eyes momentarily. “But I’m holding it off. I have to. Because when Jarl killed himself, that only left two people who could tell Beckhart where the Yards are. And he’s trying to bluff Gruber by telling him he’s going to hit the Yards if the Seiners don’t pony up Stars’ End and the harvestfleets. Me and Amy, and maybe you, are the only ones who can give him the coordinates.”
“I can’t, Tommy. That’s one nobody let me in on. They didn’t trust me the way they did you. They weren’t supposed to.”
“I didn’t know for sure. I might’ve left you behind if I had. No. I couldn’t have. You know too damned much about Angel City. You would’ve found me.”
“Tell me what the hell you’re doing.”
“I’m going to trade Stars’ End for the Starfishers.”
“What?”
“I’m going to hide till he gets Luna Command to agree to let the Seiners be. In writing. In public. Then I’ll tell him where the Yards are and he can hold them up for Stars’ End. That way nobody loses but me.”
“You’re out of your head, Tommy. You won’t pull it off. He’s got too much time to find you. And he’ll roast you alive when he catches you.”
“No. He’ll be damned nice to me. He’s got to get me to talk. He doesn’t have any psych probe gear with him, and he’ll probably hold off getting physical for a while . . . ”
McClennon had made his decision in an instant. Every second since he had been trying to justify it and find ways to make it work. He guessed that he would have to stay missing for a week.
He had decided he would not move during that time, except to do a few things that had to be done right away. No movement, no tracks for the hunters to pick up.
“I got to piss, Tommy. Bad.” Mouse examined his surroundings. “Christ! This is the hole where the Sangaree used to hide the refined stardust.”
“And it wasn’t in our reports. What are you going to do, Mouse? Try to jump me first chance you get? Or will you wait it out?”
Mouse just looked at him. He had donned his poker face. McClennon wore a half smile when he cut the cords binding Mouse’s ankles. “Take your leak in the corner.”
“With no hands?”
“They’re tied in front. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
A tiny smile flickered across Mouse’s lips. “You’ve been hanging around me too long. You’re getting too cool.”
“Go do your business.”
“This place is going to get ripe.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
It was an earthen-floored cellar, already rank and humid.
Mouse stumbled as he walked. “Damned legs are numb.” He unzipped, leaned against the wall, panted as he urinated.
A stunner blast could leave a man debilitated for days.
Mouse finished. He turned. “That’s a load off my mind.”
McClennon let Storm take three steps before stunning him across the thighs.
“Ah, shit, Tommy. Why’d you have to go and do that?”
“Had to.”
“You’re getting hard, old friend.”
“It’s the company I keep.” McClennon looked at the Sangaree woman. She was aware now, and watching with cold gunmetal eyes. He untied her ankles. “Your turn.”
She rose and took care of it without a word. She did not complain or seem surprised when he stunned her too.
Mouse demanded, “What the hell is she doing here, anyway?”
“Let’s say I’m keeping a card up my sleeve.” She and Mouse did not know that Homeworld had been hit. She could be told and released. Her response might make a spectacular diversion.
Amy took forever recovering, and it was with her he had tried to be most gentle.
He was sorry as soon as she did come round.
Her he had not tied. He had thought it unnecessary.
He was playing chess with Mouse, using paper pieces on a board scratched into the earth. He did Mouse’s moving for him. He was losing, as usual.
“Behind you,” Mouse whispered.
Clothing rustled.
He hurled himself aside, rolled, grabbed his stunner, fired. Amy moaned, fell. She dropped the length of pipe she had been about to swing. It scattered the chessmen.
McClennon could barely tie her, so badly were his hands shaking. She remained conscious but refused to talk. Neither Mouse nor the Sangaree woman made any comment
Marya did smile a thin, hard smile.
The walls seemed to push in. For an instant he was not sure where he was or what he was doing. Then, for a moment, he relived part of his first visit to The Broken Whigs. His name was Gundaker Niven and he and the Sangaree woman were bedmates again.
“Tommy?” Mouse said. “Tommy! Snap out of it!”
That did it, for a few seconds. Long enough for him to see all three captives trying to gain their feet, and Mouse dead last in the race.
Cold calm washed over him. He shot all three. In the head. It was dangerous, for them, but a lot less dangerous for him if he was going into one of his episodes.
He went. And became quietly crazy for a while.
He was a Starfisher named Moyshe benRabi . . . A Navy Gunner named Cornelius Perchevski . . . A naval attaché named Walter Clark . . . A sociologist named Gundaker Niven . . . Hamon Clausson . . . Credence Pardee . . . Thomas Aquinas McClennon . . . A boy wandering the cluttered light canyons of a city on Old Earth and getting a stiff neck looking up longingly at the stars.
Exhaustion overcame him. He fell asleep.
He wakened before his captives. His grasp on identity and reality had recovered, but all those other men were still there inside, clamoring to be released.
He wondered if he would be able to hang on.
He needed Psych attention bad.
His stomach churned and growled. He was hungry.
Food was the weak link in his plan. He had not yet obtained any. He would have to risk capture to do so.
He checked the time. Sixteen hours had elapsed since he had spirited the three out of the park. The Admiral would not have panicked yet, he reasoned. It would be awhile before the streets became too dangerous to risk.
He stepped down the stunner’s output and gave his prisoners’ a few more hours worth of unconsciousness. Then he took Mouse’s comm and went into the streets.
He made his first stop at a used clothing store, a marginal charitable operation a few blocks from his hiding place. He purchased worn, unstylish workman’s garb. He changed in an alleyway. He repeated the process in a more stylish shop, and farther away still deposited his Seiner jumpsuit in a collection box belonging to the charitable organization. He worked hard to keep the surly Gundaker Niven personality in the forefront of his mind. When he was most successful he hunched slightly, spoke crudely, and looked too tough to mess with.
He purchased a collection of small tools, then a large woman’s wig which he trimmed to a style favored by Angel City thugs. He placed a small bandage on one cheek and a pebble in his shoe.
He no longer looked or moved anything like any of the people the Marines were hunting.
Mobile patrols were everywhere, astounding the citizenry with their busy-ness, but he was not stopped or questioned. They were seeking a Starfisher.
They would get organized soon, he knew. It would be difficult to evade them then.
Whenever he was safely out of sight, he used Mouse’s hand comm to eavesdrop on their radio traffic.
They were confused. They had four people to find, but did not know which was doing what to whom. Their interest of the moment was to make sure no one sneaked out of the city. After the boltholes were sealed they would launch their systematic search.
He wondered if he ought not to let Beckhart stew. The confusion would give him an edge. But no. The Admiral would need time to approach his superiors.
He stole an Out of Order sign off a public comm booth and carried it several blocks to a functional booth. He hung it and began making like a repairman.
The gimmicking took longer than he expected. The comm was of local manufacture. He had to figure out the color-coding of the circuitry. Then it became a classroom exercise. He installed Mouse’s comm and closed the housing in minutes. He noted the terminal number and departed.
Finding groceries required imagination. Home cooking simply was not done. Rich and poor, Angel City’s people ate out or had prepared meals delivered. Most food was artificial and recycled anyway. Only a few Terran tropical plants were adaptable to The Broken Wing’s atmosphere and climate. No local was gourmet enough to have invested in the genetic engineering needed to adapt a wider range of food plants.
He ended up buying field rations from a swamp dredger’s supply house. The saleswoman said he didn’t look the type, but asked no questions. The underworld used the swamp for its own purposes. Curiosity could be harmful to a questioner’s health.
He had no local money left when he returned to the cellar. He had Seiner cash and Conmarks, both of which were negotiable, but did not want to draw attention by spending outside currency. Conmarks were never rare, but still . . . He searched his prisoners and confiscated their limited wealth. Most of that was Confederation’s interworld currency.
They submitted sullenly. No one was talking. He did not try starting a conversation. He gave them another taste of the stunner and returned to the streets.
He found a public comm and called the booth he had jiggered. The handcomm there broadcast what he had to say.
The Admiral was not pleased with him.
Finished, he patrolled around and rented two small apartments and an office, so he would have somewhere to run if the Marines closed in on his cellar. And, finally, he braved Central Park by night to steal an all-bands tactical transceiver/scanner from the inattentive MPs.
He used an old crate for a seat and the cellar wall for a backrest. He closed his eyes and listened as the tactrans scanned the bands. He heard a movement after a while. He opened one eye. Mouse was trying to sit up.
“Tommy, you can’t keep doing that. You’re going to hurt somebody.”
McClennon turned the scanner down. “Sorry, Mouse. But I don’t have a lot of choice.” He leaned toward the transceiver. It was staying busy. His call had stirred Beckhart up good.
How long would he have to stay lost?
Days passed. He lost track. One moment it seemed only a few had gone by, the next it seemed a lot. Every hour was an eon trudging wearily off into eternity.
He thought he was doing well. He had kept three willful, angry prisoners hidden and controlled for days, Beckhart had not caught a trace of him. He had driven his mental problem into a straight jacket . . .
That jacket was not strong enough.
He was somewhere in Luna Command. A beautiful blonde, not more than seventeen, clung to his left arm. She whispered something into his ear. She called him Commander Perchevski. He was supposed to know her. He did not. He wanted to attack her.
Another woman took hold of his right arm. She insisted his name was Walter Clark. She wanted to take him away from the blonde morsel.
The females released him and assaulted one another. They fought over his name. He kept trying to tell them they were both wrong, that he was really Credence Pardee. Or was it Hamon Clausson? Wasn’t he Hamon Clausson that time on Shakedowns? He forgot the women while he tried to locate his ID badge. It had fallen off his tunic.
There it was, beneath the edge of the carpet. He yanked it out. A kid with a somber, serious face stared off the card. The kid said, “Gundaker Niven,” and grinned viciously.
He screamed.
There were men all around him. Some were a little shorter or a little taller, a little heavier or lighter, but each one had stolen his face. They pummeled one another mercilessly. Whenever one broke free and charged him, the others piled on from behind.
He jumped, closed his hands around the nearest throat. “I’ll kill them,” he gurgled. “I’ll kill them all. Then they’ll leave me alone.”
He fought till he had no strength left. Weary, he fell to the floor. Darkness descended.
He wakened in a dank cellar on The Broken Wings. Three people watched with the cold, hungry eyes of vultures perched over a dying thing.
He glanced at his watch. He had been out ten hours. What? They had not jumped him? They were still here? He staggered to his feet, took a step, fell as vertigo hit him.
He shook his head hard. The cobwebs broke up. They drifted away. He looked around again.
Mouse quietly proffered the stunner.
Their eyes met. McClennon took the weapon. Mouse did not say a word. He crossed his wrists and offered to be tied again.
Thomas said nothing either. Nothing needed saying. He retied his friend and sat down to wait.
The hours groaned on,
He had not expected it to take so long. How long could the Old Man hold out? Why was he being so stubborn? Giving in would not cost him much. Confederation did not control the starfish herds anyway.
He supposed Beckhart was trying to save a political coup that would help overshadow the Homeworld abomination.
McClennon had to move only once to remain ahead of the search. Then the Admiral ran out of stall time.
Von Drachau returned from Homeworld. McClennon caught the news on his scanner. He guessed that it would not be long till the news reached Stars’ End. That confrontation would dissolve. Gruber would rush to defend Three Sky.
That old traitor time had turned its coat again.
He was not surprised when his hand comm crackled and Beckhart came on. “Thomas, are you listening? This is Admiral Beckhart. Thomas, are you listening?”
“I’m here. Talk.” That was all he said, for fear they would triangulate his position.
“Thomas, you’ve got what you want. Personally guaranteed by the Chief of Staff Navy.” He paused for McClermon’s reply. Thomas did not speak. “Thomas, are you there?”
“I’m listening, I said.”
“You’ve got what you want. What’re you going to do about it?”
He had not thought beyond forcing their acquiescence. How could he get it nailed down, on paper, publicly, without them dragging him into some back room and running him through a psychological grist mill?
“I’ll call back.”
He glanced at his prisoners. He had learned that he could not serve two masters and remain loved by the bondsmen of either. Amy’s hatred tortured him mercilessly. And Mouse’s anger . . . But Mouse was helping, if only by not doing anything when he had the chance. He had allowed friendship to obscure duty, had let it make him give the benefit of the doubt.
McClennon would not have made it otherwise.
But Amy . . . . She refused to see what he was trying to do. She called him Judas.
Marya’s sullen displeasure he could bear. He had had plenty of practice. Her sultry Sangaree face became a mild, passive, resigned reflection of everything he saw in his wife.
With Mouse he had no long-run worry. Mouse would get over his anger. He would forgive the treason. They were friends.
So, he thought. Time to face the Old Man. His wolves will be at the door the second I tell him where . . .
“Admiral? McClennon here.”
“Thomas, I don’t have much time. You’re getting what you want. Can we speed things up?”
“I want someone from the Judge Advocate’s there.”
“What? You’re not being arrested. You’re not even being charged. I went to bat for you, son. Just give me the word. Where the hell are you?”
“I want him to witness, not to represent me.”
“Christ. Thomas, you’ve got my word. That’s all I can give you. It would take a week to get one of those space lawyers here. Now, pretty please, will you get organized?”
Okay, okay. Maybe Beckhart was right. He was wasting time. And the man was giving his word . . .
He told Beckhart where to pick him up.