Starfishers Volume 3: Stars End (24 page)

“Reasonably sure? Damon, I don’t want reasonably sure. I want absodamnposilutely sure.”

“And instead of sixty local police reservists, I want my battalion of Marine MPs.”

“What could I do? They took them,” he said into Beckhart’s scowl. “I see it taking seven or eight days of searching with what we have, Major. We don’t have that much time.”

“The probability of contact is going up faster now, sir. He has less room to maneuver. The computers almost guarantee we’ll find him within five days. The statistical profile is against him. I’ve had my people stop using the regular comm nets. He may have been monitoring our traffic.”

“Of course he was. He’s crazy, not stupid. All right. Carry on.”

Beckhart leaned back, thought, Thomas, I’ve got to give you credit. You’re good when you have to be. And, what the hell is wrong with Storm? He should have done something by now. He knows McClennon better than anybody else. He’s the best man I’ve got.

Was the little bastard in on it? The possibility had not occurred before. Mouse was the perfect agent. You did not suspect his loyalty.

But Storm’s loyalty was to his dream of exterminating the Sangaree, of avenging his family. He had no motive but habit for taking a Bureau line in this. And he and McClennon had become close friends. They had done too many missions together . . . 

They might have cooked this whole thing up with that Seiner bitch.

“Admiral. The CSN on instel, relay from
Assyrian.
”

“Oh, Christ. Again?”

“He sounds upset.”

“He’s always upset. Switch him through.”

A moment later, “Good morning, sir.”

“You found that man yet?”

“No sir. We’re closing in. The computers say we’ll have him any time now.”

“I’ve got computers too, Beckhart. And a lot more input resources. I have the Sangaree raidmaster at Stars’ End getting the word sometime day after tomorrow. We don’t know what those people will do. Maybe go crazy. I’ve ordered the attack squadrons back off courier intercept. That’s hopeless. They’ll return to Carson’s and Sierra.
Hittite
is moving up to Blackworld. Two Conqueror Class reserve attack squadrons are moving into the Twenty-First Transverse in case they break through the Twenty-Third. What concerns me more than the Sangaree, though, is what Gruber is going to do when he’s free to deploy. I’d guess he’d head for the Yards. From what I’ve been told, if he gets there ahead of you, we lose. There’s supposedly no way we can root them out, and no way to get close enough to deliver the threatened nova bomb. This isn’t news to you. I repeat it in case you’ve lost sight of the facts. Your loyalty to your people is laudable, but . . . ”

“I’m aware of the problem, sir. It was my intention to calculate a most probable quadrant and send von Drachau to wait there while I rooted this man out. That would give us a few extra days, added to the lead time we have because of the additional distance from Stars’ End to the Yards.”

“You’re dealing with a stubborn man, Beckhart. You haven’t found him yet, let alone gotten him to talk. You apparently know him. How long can he hold out after you take him?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Beckhart did not like admitting that. It was a question he had been trying to ignore. He had not come out equipped for mind probing. He had not begun to worry about possibly needing the equipment till lately.

“Why is he doing this?”

“You mean his motives? I don’t know. Faulty Psych programming is what set him off. You might call it induced schizophrenia. Even he’s not sure what he’s doing, or why. Or even who he is a good part of the time.”

“I suppose you still insist on protecting him?”

“Yes sir. I don’t believe he’s responsible for his own actions. I don’t want him punished because of technical errors made by the people who prepared him for his mission.”

“Okay, Beckhart. This is the word from High Command. Prepare to meet his demands. If you haven’t got him in hand by noon Tuesday, Luna Command time, you give him what he wants.”

“Sir! . . . ”

“That’s the word. We’d rather have Stars’ End
and
the Seiners if we can, but Stars’ End is for sure. We won’t risk our shot at that weapon technology.”

“Sir . . . ”

“It’s not subject to debate, Beckhart. It sounds spineless to me, too, and it’s my idea. But that’s the way it’s going to be. If you get hold of him before deadline, we’ll reevaluate our position. But only if you get hold of him.”

Beckhart tried several arguments. None made any impression.

High Command’s position was understandable. The very existence of the race was on the line. But still . . . 

“Get me Major Damon,” he ordered after the CSN secured. “Damon? Word from High Command. We find him by noon, Tuesday, their time. Or he gets what he wants. Do the best you can.”

Beckhart leaned back, closed his eyes. He felt tired and old. He went over all the old ground. There must be a way of smoking Thomas out. He just had to look at it from the right angle.

But, oh, was it an elusive angle.

Nineteen: 3050 AD
The Main Sequence

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.