Starfishers Volume 3: Stars End (22 page)

There were shouts from the alley they had abandoned. He spun, dropped, fired quickly, followed his men. The sting of his flesh wounds drove him like a hunted beast.

Who am I now? he wondered. This isn’t like me. I’m not a fighter. Gundaker Niven? Niven was supposed to be a hardcase.

The adrenalin had him on the verge of another case of the shakes. He had been through this kind of thing before, for the Bureau, but never had been able to achieve Mouse’s calmness under fire. He always got scared, shaky, and constantly had to battle the impulse to flee.

Maybe that was why he had outlived several Mouselike partners.

But they, too, had been programed to their roles.

He was doing well this time, he thought. He was showing flashes of case-hardened calm, and shooting when it was time to shoot. He had not thought himself capable of that.

Where the hell was that idiot Mouse?

After a dozen twists and turns along his journey he slowed, started trying to look like a tourist headed for the Jones monument. His men stalked along behind him.

The monument had not changed. It was the same tall bronze statue surrounded by the same small park, its boundary stockaded by imported pines and bushes. Between the trees and the statue there were a dozen lighted fountains where sea nymphs bathed in endlessly falling waters.

The park was the heart of an oasis in the desert of Old Town. Lining the streets facing it were several museums, the Opera, a library, and smart little shops which catered to the wealthy. Among them were homes belonging to some of Angel City’s oldest families. The square was a tenacious place. It refused to admit that Old Town’s glories had faded. Most decaying cities contained a few such pearls.

Seventeen: 3050 AD
The Main Sequence

Jellyroll Jones, as great men went, was an accident. He never had been a hero. He came in near the foot of the list of space-age memorables. His most singular act had been that of arriving on The Broken Wings before anyone else. Native school children were taught to consider him a hero, in the mold of a space-faring Magellan, but his myths bore no relation to the truth. His discovery had been sheer happenstance, and against his will. His ship had crashed here because of damage the guns of a Palisarian Directorate police corvette had done his astrogational computer. He and his crew—the women represented by the fountain nymphs—had hidden here for a few months. Unable to take the heat, humidity, and stench any longer, they had radioed for help. The corvette had collected them. Old Jellyroll had died in prison.

Moyshe paused in a shadow. He studied the statue and the dancing tips of water columns visible above the trees.

“Jarl’s on,” his comm man told him.

Moyshe took the hand radio. “Jarl? Where are you? We’ve got people after us.”

“Be there in five minutes, Moyshe.”

BenRabi heard strange sounds behind Kindervoort’s voice. “What’s going on, Jarl?”

“Roadblock. Trouble with the natives. We’re talking them down.”

“Don’t take too long. We’re only a jump ahead.”

Nicolas, hand comm against his ear, shook his head. “Mike’s three blocks from here. Says they might be pulling out. Maybe they read our signals.”

“Jarl, we look okay for now. They’re maybe running. We’ll be waiting on the north side. You get anything on Mouse?”

“Not yet, Moyshe. Out.”

“Out.” BenRabi returned the hand comm, studied the park through nighteyes. It seemed peaceful enough. He started toward Jellyroll.

Flash.

“Shit. Not again.” From the frying pan into the fire twice?

Maybe not. The shot had not been directed his way.

There were more shots. Someone was fighting in there. Mouse? It looked like a baby battle, a duel, two men moving between shots. One was armed with a stunner only.

“Nick, hold on here. I’ll check it out.” Moyshe trotted toward Jellyroll.

The action seemed to be among the fountains beyond the statue. BenRabi pushed through the trees. He tried to spot the duelists, but they had stopped shooting. Was it over? He slipped toward the statue. Jellyroll would make a good, high observation point.

The firing broke out again. The stunner seemed to be among the far trees. The lasegun was among the fountains. The lasegunner, illuminated by the fountain lights, was moving very carefully.

Moyshe climbed three meters up Jellyroll’s pedestal, slithered into a prone position between the old bandit’s feet. It did make a nice vantage point, but would be hell to get away from fast. He edged forward, trying to spot the duelists.

Though the farther man was in darkness, Moyshe found him first. The nearer remained veiled by the flying jewelry flung up against the ever-shifting colors of the fountain lights. The water susurrated hypnotically as it tumbled back into the pools.

A lasebolt crackled through the branches of a pine. The gentle breeze brought smoky resin scents redolent of evergreen forests. The farther duelist snapped a shot in reply. His face was visible for an instant.

Mouse.

No doubt about it this time.

Storm clutched his left arm as he dodged to a new position. What the hell? benRabi thought. What’s the fool doing out here with nothing but a stunner?

Mouse’s opponent shifted position.

“Ha!” benRabi gasped. “It is her.”

The Sangaree woman had had cosmetic surgery, but her catlike, sensuous movements remained unchanged. She just could not hide that deadly animal grace.

He tried to draw a bead on her. “Welcome back, sweetheart,” he murmured. He was not at all surprised to see her. This was another passage in her death-dance with Mouse and himself.

She did not know another dancer was about to cut in. He grinned. A fragment of an old personality returned. He became the hard half of Gundaker Niven again.

“Ha!” She was hurt too. Her left side sported a wet, hasty bandage. Mouse had gotten close once, but had missed his kill. Surprising. That was not like him.

It said something about how good the woman was.

BenRabi got a good bead. He had no trouble shooting. The woman yowled, jumped like a broken-backed cat, collapsed on the colored concrete. Her muscles jerked spastically, then she slowly stiffened into the almost-death typical of a solid stunner shot to the head.

Moyshe looked down at his weapon. “Good shooting, cowboy. Mouse!” He shouted to make himself heard over the fountains. “She’s out.”

“Moyshe?” Storm called back. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.” Mouse sounded weak. “You hurt bad?”

“I’ll live.”

Storm came into the open, stumbling toward the statue. He thrust his wounded arm into his jumper for support, carried his stunner like a revolver. He paused beside Marya, stared down. “Checkmate. Finally.” His gaze flicked to the statue, back down.

BenRabi shouted, “What the hell happened? I been running myself dead trying to find you.”

“She sucked me in. Showed herself, took a shot, then ran. I lost my head. I ran right into it.” He glanced up again, his expression odd. “But she made a bigger mistake, eh? Let her gut override her brain.” Mouse smiled wickedly. His lips stretched in a ferocious duplicate of the woman’s vampire grin. “You know the funny part, Moyshe? She was working with McGraws. That’s scary when you think about it.”

Mouse fell silent. He stared at the woman for a long time, as if loath to end the feud.

Though benRabi did not like it, time had proven the next move necessary. She had been given two chances. Twice she had come back for more. If Mouse did not end it here, they would have the hellsbitch on their trail again, all fangs and claws once more.

She and Mouse were two of a kind, Moyshe reflected. Only death would stop either of them.

“You’ve got to be realistic, Thomas . . . Moyshe,” benRabi mumbled to himself. “What’s got to be has got to be.”

He waited. Mouse remained reluctant. Time stretched.

Personnel carriers rumbled in the street outside the park. Moyshe looked back, expecting to see Kindervoort.

Wrong. Marines. But just as good.

Back to Mouse. Was he stalling because he did not have a lethal weapon? He could use hers. Or his hands.

Then he understood. Mouse was thinking about his Holy Grail, the hatred that had driven him so long. He would not yet know about Homeworld, but killing Marya would be symbolic of the process he had initiated. Symbolic of attaining his lifelong goal. Jupp would be the weapon . . . Marya might be the last of the ancient enemy he would encounter.

The end of a road is always a disappointment, Moyshe reflected.

Poor Mouse. Down deep, where he lived, he knew that when Marya went there would be nothing left to hate. His Grail, for all its distant sparkle, was just another empty cup.

“Where do we go from here, Tommy?” he asked softly.

In the shadows between Jellyroll’s legs, benRabi/McClennon could do nothing but shake his head. He did not know.

Moyshe/Thomas’s mind was becoming pandemoniac. The outside pressure was off. There was nothing to hold the dissociation in check. He was this man for a moment, then that. Alyce crawled through his brain like a maggot through rotting flesh. Something within him kept shrieking
I want
, and not letting him know what. Sudden storms of emotion racked him, always without detectable cause. Anger. Hate. Love. Sorrow. Joy. Despair. A moment of each, whap! like the impact of a fist, then gone, as if some storehouse had been broken open and all the containers inside dumped at random.

He wrapped his arms around his head and moaned softly.

He croaked, “I don’t know, Mouse,” it seemed an hour after his partner asked his question. BenRabi wanted to say, “Stars’ End, and back to the high rivers,” but the other characters inside kept telling him he would never see a harvestship again, would never track another herd, would never again go into Contact, would never build that secret service for the Seiners.

That Alyce creature must have been a hypnotic key, he thought. She was supposed to unlock all the spooks hidden behind the barriers Chub had been unable to penetrate. But the key had not opened the lock all the way. No more than Mouse had back when, when he had tried before their scheduled return to Confederation.

Something had shorted out. Something was trying to take him back not just to Thomas McClennon before this mission, but all the way back, to a day when he had not as yet undergone any personality programming.

He did not want to make that journey. He wanted what he had found in the high rivers between the stars. He fought. Deep inside, he howled and clawed like a wild thing tangled in a hunter’s net.

There were angry shouts in the street whence he had come. The Marines were disarming his men. Ordinary precaution, he supposed. His team had been operating outside its “reasonable jurisdiction.”

Mouse made his decision. It favored discretion. He stooped to recover Marya’s weapon . . . 

“Don’t!” The voice was soft enough not to be heard far, yet commanding. BenRabi/McClennon shrank into the shadows of Jellyroll’s legs. His Amy Many-Names had appeared. She bore a nasty little pistol. Her features were as cold as Mouse’s became when he went into assassin’s mind.

Mouse looked at her, saw the absence of emotion, slowly straightened. He did not drop his stunner.

“Where’s Moyshe?” she snapped. “The grubs will be after him. I’ve got to find him first. He’s suddenly the key to everything. You two never really crossed over, did you?” The words tumbled out of her mouth almost faster than her lips could shape them.

Mouse did not answer. He just stared into Amy’s eyes, holding them. He clutched his weapon and waited for her coldness to thaw.

Or was he waiting for McClennon? Thomas was not sure. Mouse might be turning his own peril into some kind of test.

McClennon was sure Amy’s determination would not persist. She was not trained for it.

“Where’s Moyshe?” she demanded again. Her voice rose, squeaked.

“Here, Love.” He eased from the shadows. “Don’t move. Please?”

Her gaze darted his way, noted his stunner.

Mouse raised his weapon.

“No, Mouse. Not my wife, you don’t.”

Mouse stopped. McClennon’s tone halted him. He swung his head for a cautious look at his partner.

“Moyshe, why?” Amy asked plaintively. Her weapon did not waver a millimeter from dead center on Mouse’s chest.

“Why what, honey?”

“This betrayal. We gave you everything . . . ”

“What betrayal?”

He could hear the
I
she was saying inside. She had opened her fortress unvanquishable to him, and now his promises appeared false. He had come to her bearing banners of love, false banners, and had raped and plundered her soul.

He could hear her pain, but hadn’t any idea what had brought it on. “What betrayal?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

“The Marines are arresting everybody. ‘Interning them,’ they call it. Your Beckhart sent Gruber an ultimatum. We open Stars’ End for Navy or he nova bombs the Yards.”

No, McClennon thought. There’s something twisted here. Something not quite straight. Not that Beckhart would not make the threat. He would, and would follow through for the sake of the Stars’ End weaponry. He was a man who believed in his mission. But the timing seemed askew.

Or was it? The Starfishers and Sangaree were inextricably entangled at Stars’ End. Beckhart was free to move against the home ground of either. It was a remarkable opportunity. Earlier, he had gloated about having hit Homeworld’s sun . . . 

Damn! Damn! Damn! he thought.

The agent part of him, the old intuition, put together everything Beckhart had, and had not, said, and threw forth one incontrovertible answer. The Admiral had been after Stars’ End from the beginning. From the moment he had summoned Cornelius Perchevski from his interlude with his quasi-daughter Greta . . . 

As Moyshe benRabi it had been his mission to come up with leverage Beckhart could use to force the Seiners to open the fortress world to Luna Command.

He had been doing the Admiral’s work even when he had thought he was working against the man. Damn! Damn! Damn!