The Tejano Conflict (19 page)

Formentara, on hir way to collect some new gear, heard music. It was some kind of electronic instrument, and whoever was playing it seemed quite adept. It sounded familiar, but zhe couldn't quite place it. Zhe listened for a moment, trying to identify the piece, and finally got it: Montenegro's “Prelude” to
The Symphony Galaxia
.

Zhe listened, enjoying the performance.

Zhe had never been much of a fan of pop music, but the classical stuff had a certain mathematical majesty zhe liked. Not hir art, but certainly zhe could appreciate expertise in other fields.

The piece drew to a close, and curious, she headed that way.

Gramps sat in an empty conference room, an odd-looking instrument balanced on his lap. It seemed to be little more than a fretboard. As wide as a man's hand, maybe 115 cm long, ten strings, to judge from the tuning keys at the top end. There was a crosspiece at the base balanced on his legs, and it jutted up past his head at a slight angle to his left.

“Very nice,” zhe said. “What is the instrument?”

“Chapman Stick,” he said. “Played by tapping the strings.”

He tapped out a melody to demonstrate. “You can do the lead or chords with either or both hands.”

“I didn't know you played.”

“I usually do it in my quarters with earphones.”

“You do it well.”

He shrugged. “Not compared to people who are really good, but I enjoy it. I try to get in an hour a day when I can. I should be doing at least twice that.”

“How long have you been at it?”

“Thirty-three years.”

She did the math.
Hour a day, call it fifty weeks a year, thirty-three years . . .

“You have your ten thousand hours, right?”

He smiled. “Yep.”

That was the old Anders Ericsson Postulate: To become an expert at something, you needed about ten thousand hours of mindful practice at it. In reality, it didn't always work that way, you had to allow for genetics—all the practice in the world wouldn't make you taller, say—and other factors, like natural bent and desire, could shorten the time necessary, but it was a good starting point for many activities.

“Why continue to practice so much? I mean, you have it down by now, yes?”

“There was famous musician a hundred years back, a master of this.” He hefted the instrument. “This guy was interviewed when he was ninety-four; he was still practicing five or six hours a day. The interviewer said, ‘You are one of the most accomplished players to ever hold the stick, you have been doing it for more than sixty years. Why do you feel the need to practice so much?'

“And he said, ‘Well, I think I'm finally starting to get the hang of it.'”

Zhe laughed.

“You are really good at what you do,” he said. “And apparently more adept at violence than I knew.”

“Word gets around.”

“Yep. Does that decrease in any way your desire to keep doing what you love?”

“Point taken.” Zhe paused. “If you didn't work as a soldier, if you had more free time, would you play it more? To the point of doing it professionally?”

He thought about it for a couple of seconds. “I don't know. On the one hand, it would be interesting to see how far I could go; on the other hand, doing it as a job might change how much I look forward to doing it. Now, I do it because I want to, not because I have to.” He paused. “I knew a guy once who was a commercial artist. He came up with a design that became very popular and made him rich. One day he looked up and realized he wasn't having as much fun doing art as he once had, so he quit. Went off to brush up his chops on the piano, got pretty good at it, and became a musician. He never made nearly as much money doing that, but he loved it, and he had enough in the bank, so he didn't have to worry if the gigs paid much.

“For me, it's a moot point. I haven't put by enough to retire yet, and I love soldiering, too.
Comme ci, comme ça.
”

Zhe nodded. “Well, sometimes those choices present themselves. Good to have considered it, in case it ever does.”

“Sure. When my ship comes in, I might just become a traveling bard and sing and play about the exciting lives of corporate army folk.”

“Stranger things have happened,” zhe said.

– – – – – –

Fugue:

“I'm glad we came, this is really interesting,” Jo said.
Got one!

Wink and Gunny glanced at her.

“You remember that fellow on that planet not long ago who took a dislike to our furry friend?” Jo said. She was speaking of Ganesh, the Rajah's security head. He was a largish fellow, and xenophobic to the core. He had taken it upon himself to express such to Kay. That had not been a good idea.

They both nodded.

“If he had a slightly smaller brother, what do you think he would look like?”

The tallest Bax in the building stood security at one of the pods toward the south wall. His fur was a bit darker than most, and Ganesh's hair had been dark.

That clue should be enough to mark him for Wink and Gunny.

“Ugly, I would imagine. Why bring that up now?” Wink asked, to keep the fugue going.

“Oh, no reason, just an idle thought. It's not really him I was recalling, but the guy who he usually parked himself behind.”

That was a tad obvious, but even so, anybody listening to their conversation wouldn't have any context to make it work. Wink and Gunny did.

Look at the Bax sitting in
front
of that big guard over there.

Gunny said, “Huh, yeah, I remember him. He came from a big family, right?”
That's one. Any others?

“Huh. I thought he was an only child.”
Nope, just the one.

Wink said, “My, look at the time. As much as I'm enjoying this, probably we should think about heading back to the hotel. It's getting late.”
One is better than none, let's collect this guy.

“You're right. A little while more, we don't want to miss seeing the night's big winner.”

As soon as he leaves, we follow him.

Anyone who might have listened to this conversation should not be able to make heads or tails of it; no way they could interpret it to mean the three of them were going to tail and maybe kidnap a Bax now in one of the pods gambling. They might think the three humans were passing strange, given a trialogue that seemed so disjointed, but there was nothing actionable there. They spoke of something that happened somewhere to somebody but without any names to any of those things. Completely meaningless.

Crazy, those humans. Who knew what they were up to at any given time?

– – – – – –

“Soon” was a relative term, but the Bax in question, whose ID offered his name as Titkos Napló, ran out of money or desire about an hour later. He stood, stretched, and by the time he started for the door, Jo, Wink, and Gunny were already moving. Gunny moved faster, managed to get ahead of the Bax, with Jo and Wink falling in behind.

If the Bax security wondered about one human hurrying to get out the door before her companions, they didn't show any evidence of it.

Wink peeled off and headed for the rental cart, parked nearby. Two reasons for that: If the target elected to ride, they could stay with him; plus, the lockbox in the cart's luggage compartment had in it three small pistols. When you were about to get active, weapons were a good idea.

He reached the cart, removed the bag with the handguns in it, and climbed into the driver's seat. He waved the electric motors to life and engaged the drive. It was a four-seater, and no different from thousands of others on the road.

“Looks like he's going to catch a cab up ahead,” Jo said over their com.

“Ah'm slapping a bug on it in case Doc can't get his slow ass over here in time to keep visual contact.”

“I got the cart,” Wink said. “I'll be there in thirty seconds.”

“So you say,” Gunny said.

He saw Jo on the sidewalk ahead, pretending to look into a shop featuring items of interest to Emov. Twenty meters ahead of her, Gunny walked in Wink's direction.

Behind her, a two-person autocab pulled out from the curb.

“Come on, Wink, you slow as molasses in a blast freezer!”

“Keep your pants on, I'm right here.”

Jo got in first, moved into the back, as Gunny arrived and slid in next to Wink.

“Go,” Gunny said.

“You want to drive?”

“Ah would, but you'd probably break your leg trying to move over to swap seats.”

He shook his head. “No wonder Gramps gives you so much shit.”

Jo smiled. “Doctor, if you wouldn't mind? The cab is moving.”

“I got him. Day I can't follow a speed-governed autocab, I will give up my license to drive.”

– – – – – –

The cab stopped a short distance later, in front of a plain-vanilla multiplex three stories tall. It was late enough that there weren't a lot of pedestrians on the walks.

“Not a walker,” Wink said. “Less than a kilometer. That a species trait or personal?”

“You ever consider actually
reading
a b.g.?”

“Dear Gunny, why would I when there are so many people willing to tell me what it says and feel smug in the doing of it? Need to know and duplication of effort and all.”

Wink pulled over before the Bax alighted. Gunny and Jo got out quickly and started moving.

“Let's go, Gunny,” Jo said. “We don't want to let him get inside.”

“You need my help?”

“Just move the cart up and be ready to roll once we collect M. Titkos Napló.”

“I live to serve.”

Jo and Gunny alighted and moved across the street, angling to cut off the Bax, who was taking a more direct, but slow path to the front of the plex.

Jo called out: “Citizen Bax! A word?”

Napló turned. “Yes?”

“My comrade has never met a member of your race, would you be so kind as to allow us to take a holograph with you?”

The Bax smiled his wolfish smile. “Why, I would be honored.”

Gunny moved over to stand next to the Bax. Jo backed up a step and pointed a small camera at the two of them. “And . . . your father is a rhinoceros . . .”

Napló looked puzzled, as well he should, and Gunny hit him over the right jugular vein with a blue popper.

Pssht!

Napló snarled, showing impressive canine teeth, and took a swipe at Gunny, who had already danced backward.

“Hey, over here!” Jo said. “Look what I have.”

He spun to face her as she pulled her pistol, holding it down by her leg. “Don't move,” Jo said.

Napló blinked, swayed, and would have collapsed, but Jo got there in time to catch him. She tucked the pistol back out of sight.

Gunny didn't offer to help; she knew Jo could carry him on her own.

A couple of passersby on the walk glanced their way.

“Our companion overdid it at the pub,” Gunny said. “Can't hold their liquor very well.”

Gunny pulled the seat back, and Jo shoved the unconscious Bax into the cart.

“Good evening, fems,” Wink said. “Your companion appears to have overdone it at the pub.”

“Just drive,” Jo said.

It was late, or early, depending on how you viewed it, and traffic was light. There wasn't anybody following them, as far as Wink could tell. He made a series of random turns, watched his rearview cams, no sign of a tail.

Of course, that only spoke to direct visual surveillance, and in this day of implants and augmentation, because you couldn't see somebody, it didn't mean they weren't there, tracking you via LOS or radio or even a satellite twenty thousand kilometers up. Somebody could have an on-demand transmitter that would be inert until a specific frequency painted it, so you couldn't detect it with a scanner until it was too late; the device could be tiny, made from organoplast components, and running off biological juice, hidden inside a bone, so it would take a vigilant search to pick up on a standard ARI or MRI scan.

They didn't have an ARI or MRI machine on them . . .

Napló, snoozing there in the back, might simply be a plain-vanilla Bax citizen, innocent as a newborn kitten and as far from being wired as somebody could be.

Much more likely, he was what Gramps's AI had pegged him as: a probable spy. If so, he wouldn't be complaining to the local authorities about being kidnapped, which was good for them. And also as such, somebody keeping tabs on him was not unlikely.

They needed to know and deal with it if the latter was true. And while they could run a wide-frequency jammer to block any signal an implant in the Bax might be narrowcasting, that would block their own implants. Plus, if somebody showed up, that would make the case for M. Napló here being more than he seemed to the casual gaze. Knowledge was power.

Which was why Wink was out there. He was the medic, he should stay with the Bax, make sure he stayed under, monitor him and all, but it was paint-by-numbers medicine, and anybody with CFI's basic training could do it, no problem. Jo was the ex–psyops officer; she was a better interrogator than Wink or Gunny. Anybody could circle back and see if they had been followed.

Gunny would have rather gone outside, but when they flashed fingers to see, she called “Even,” and the count came up three.

“Ah dunno how you do it, but Ah'm sure you are cheatin' somehow.”

“You fems constantly wound me,” he said. “It's just pure luck you always pick the wrong number of fingers.”

“How many fingers am Ah holdin' up now?”

“Nobody likes a sore loser, Gunny.”

“And nobody likes an obnoxious winner, either.”

He smiled.

They carried the still-out-cold Napló into the rented cube, making it look as if he was at least partially upright on his own. Inside, Wink moved quickly through the unit, which was bare of furniture, save for a single couch. He moved to the rear entrance. He stopped there and changed clothes. He pulled a skinmask from his pocket and smoothed it onto his face, covering it, as well as his ears. Wasn't perfect, but it would make it hard to identify him if somebody did a check of the cameras in local buildings. Somebody would see him if they did, but they probably wouldn't be able to ID him—he wore a cheap coverall and slippers, nothing to stand out. Just another no-collar worker.

He walked through the yard, nothing more than a dry patch of dirt with a few scraggly bushes in it, to the high plastic-link-fence-enclosed back of the unit. He opened the gate with the code-of-the-day, which came with the rental, and locked it behind him.

The fence was three meters tall and topped with burr-coil. Anybody who wanted to get past it would need the gate code, since climbing through burr-coil was a bad experience even in armor, and the plastic fence links completed a circuit that would raise an alarm if cut.

Not that either would stop serious intent, but the fence would let those inside know about it.

He circled around the block and back to the street where he could see their rented cart.

Gramps had been careful when he'd chosen the area. It was in a district that bridged residential and light industrial, had virtually no foot traffic, and offered lots of nooks and crannies in which somebody could remain largely unnoticed. Plus, in this part of the world, people didn't seem to do a lot of walking. No pedestrians out in the darkness.

He found a doorway he'd scouted earlier, an empty miniwarehouse a couple of hundred meters north of their unit. He moved into the hard shade.

“I'm in place,” he said.

“Copy that,” Jo said. “He's waking up.”

“Hit him with the orange anytime.”

– – – – – –

“Who the
bassza
are you? What do you want?!”

Gunny tapped the orange popper against Napló's neck.

“Bassze meg te seggfej! Te Kurvas!”

“Ah really don't speak their language, but didn't he just offer some kind of sexual congress at the same time he insulted our reproductive organs?”

Many soldiers might not be able to order dinner or ask where the fresher was in a foreign language, but a lot of them could call you nasty names in your own tongue. If it pissed somebody off, that could be turned to your advantage. Pissed-off opponents made mistakes.

“Well, I wouldn't like us either, in his place,” Jo said.

The stream of what was certainly Baxian curses ran on for another few seconds, then just petered out. Napló's eyes widened, his pupils dilated.

“I feel . . . ill . . .”

“Hang in there, you'll be fine,” Jo said. “So, you are a spy, right?”

He stared at her. “Spy. Yes.”

Gunny shook her head. “Well, that was too easy.”

Napló retched, heaved, and puked in Gunny's direction, spewing vomitus in a surprisingly long spray.

Gunny scrambled backward and avoided most, but not all, of it—

“Fuck!”

She swiped at her shirt.

“I feel better now,” Napló said. “Who are you?”

“We're friends,” Jo said. “Might want to see if you can find a wet wipe,” she said to Gunny.

“Ah'm gonna kick Wink's ass for this.”

“Why? He warned us.”

“He cheated so he could go outside, Ah know he did, just not how.”

“So, M. Napló, could you help me out here?”

“You are my friend?”

“Yes.”

“Of course I will help you. That is what friends do, is it not?”

– – – – – –

Wink saw the cart round the corner and move slowly past the rented cube. There were two people inside, and it wasn't until they pulled to the curb past Wink that he got a good look at them.

One human, one Bax.

The cart stopped.

“We have company,” he subvocalized. “One smooth, one hairy. Still in their vehicle. Odd coincidence, or our friend is sending out a pulse. How's it coming in there?”

“M. Napló is singing arias like an opera star.”

“Anything useful?”

“This and that.”

“He ask you to get naked yet?”

“Fuck you,” Jo said.

Wink chuckled. On Ananda, that guy they hit with happy juice had been really into the idea of Jo's taking off her clothes, and Wink had fanned that desire a little. She didn't think it was nearly as funny as he had. Of course, that guy had been human, and who knew what Bax found sexy?

“They've parked, and they are watching the building.”

“Ah'll go cover the door. And you owe me a new shirt, Wink.”

“Me? Why?”

“Our friend here puked on me.”

“How is that
my
fault? I
told
you he might!”

“You shoulda been in here getting alien vomit all over you.”

“Fem up, Gunny. If I had a demi noodle for every patient that has puked on me, I could buy you a dozen new shirts.”

“Just the one will be enough.”

He grinned. Never a dull moment.

The Bax alighted first. He was lighter in color, taller than Napló, and more muscular.

The human was right behind him. He looked like a mixed martial artist who'd overstayed his time in the ring a few bouts too many. The surgery to correct his cauliflower ears didn't seem quite right, and his nose looked to have been broken enough times so it likely made that surgeon's job equally challenging.

Couple of thugs, obviously tracking Napló, and here to . . . rescue him?

Both of them carried good-sized handguns in badly concealed holsters. The Bax had in hand a dark blue package the size of a rounded brick, and when he got to the door, he squatted and began to fiddle with the thing. The doorway lighting was dim, and at first, Wink thought it might be the tracking device, but as he watched, he had a different realization.

“Gunny, I think they are setting up a bomb on the stoop. It looks big enough to do more than open the door. Maybe they aren't here for a rescue but a deletion.”

“Stet.”

“Give me eight seconds,” Wink said. He was already moving, and drawing his knife. He had a gun, but no point in making noise. “The Bax is squatting by the door, the human behind him. I got the human.”

“Copy. In eight . . . seven . . . six . . .”

Wink ran.

The Bax continued to do something to the package, and the human, who should have been looking around to see if anybody was observing them, didn't. He watched his partner.

Made Wink do a quick scan as he ran, just in case they had backup.

Nobody else around—

“. . . two . . . and the door is opening
now
—!”

Which the door did, and fast.

Gunny stood here, pistol in hand. “Freeze!” she said.

The Bax dropped the package and clawed for his sidearm. The human reached for his weapon.

Morons! You can't beat a
drawn
gun! And sure as hell not
Gunny's
—!

Wink arrived as Gunny stitched the Bax with three quick shots in the chest, so fast—
pap-pap-pap!
—they sounded almost like one shot. She didn't even swing her pistol over to cover the human since she knew Wink was there—

Wink thrust his knife—

Base of the skull, slid in and out like a needle through a wet sponge—

The human went boneless and collapsed.

Wink looked at the downed pair, then frowned. How many times had he taken out somebody doing this very technique? Knife to the high spine?

Three times. On Ananda, then on Vast, and now, here.

It was a fine technique, but not such a good thing that he had used it again. Unthinking, autocontrol, step-and-stick, and while you wanted your body to be able to move without the slowness of conscious thought once you got rolling, you didn't want to get into a pattern that let the reptile run things. Reptiles liked to stay with whatever worked before. They didn't parse the situation in fine detail; it was a broad stroke kind of process.
Did it last time, it will do now . . .

Hey, no sweat, we are platinum here!

That it had gone three for three was all well and good, but habits got people killed, and while he didn't mind dancing with Death, he didn't want to step stupid and let Her get him too easily . . .

“A problem?”

He looked at Gunny. “Not yet. But it could be if I let it.”

She shrugged. “Then don't let it.”

She leaned over and put a round into the head of the paralyzed thug.

Enemies who would have blown them all up? The response needed to balance the attack. Fuck with the best, die like the rest . . .

He smiled. Ever pragmatic, Gunny.

He wiped the blood from his knife on the dead man's sleeve, resheathed it. No point in looking too far down the road that he might have taken . . .

“Well. Let's get these bodies inside,” she said. “Don't want the neighbors or the trash-pickup din getting excited.”