Eric Flint's Blog, page 261

A Call To Arms – Snippet 09

A Call To Arms – Snippet 09

“I see,” Marcello said. “I wonder if we can talk to Missile Tech Townsend privately. Once his interrogation is finished, of course.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Nabaum said. “If you’d care to wait here, I’ll have him sent down as soon as we’re done with him. If you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.”

She headed for the door. “I need to head out, too,” Henderson said. “There are a couple of angles I want to look into.”

“Of course,” Marcello said. “A suggestion, if I may: you might want to send Soleil Azur’s personnel photos to all commercial ground and air services. Just in case one of them tries to leave Quechua City.”

“Along with vehicle rentals,” Henderson said, nodding. “Already done. Let me know if you find out anything new.”

“I will, Sir,” Marcello assured him. “I hope we can get this thing straightened out quickly.”

“Amen to that.” Henderson smiled faintly. “Because so far, the Manticoran friendship tour is not exactly living up to our expectations. Good luck.”

It was another hour before Townsend finally arrived in the briefing room. Long enough for Commander Shiflett to join them. More than long enough for Marcello and Lisa to confirm that a purloined copy of the Deuxième Prison recording was indeed on Townsend’s personal.

After the incredible morning Townsend had just been through, Lisa had expected him to show up dragging like a new recruit just in from his first ten-klick run. But while the petty officer’s face was drawn, there was a simmering fire in his eyes and a flagpole stiffness to his back.

“I don’t know what else I can tell you, Sir,” he said when they were all seated around the table. “The smile on this man was the same as the one on the recording. Same lips, same shape, same almost-dimple, even the same hint of upper teeth.”

“And you got all this from a single glance?” Marcello asked.

“Two glances, Sir, actually,” Townsend said. “And the second time I already knew what to look for.”

“A remarkable talent, Missile Tech,” Shiflett said in a tone that suggested she didn’t believe it for a second.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a talent, Ma’am,” Townsend said. “I just saw what I saw.” He looked back at Marcello. “I take it, Sir, that the police aren’t taking this seriously?”

“They’re convinced that the men you saw disposing of the bodies were also the killers,” Marcello said. “Or at least were part of the same group as the killers.”

“Do they have any thoughts on motive, Sir?” Townsend asked.

“They don’t even know who the victims were,” Marcello said. “Let’s move on, shall we?” He tapped the cover of Townsend’s personal.

Townsend winced. “Yes, Sir. I know this is going to sound strange, but in fact I was asked to break into the Havenite pirate download and record it.”

“Were you, now,” Marcello said. “By whom, may I ask?”

“I was asked to keep it strictly confidential.”

“To the point of spending the trip back home in the brig?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How about to the point of staying on Casca to face obstruction and possibly murder charges?” Shiflett put in.

Lisa felt her stomach tighten. Surely Shiflett wasn’t serious.

She was. Lisa had seen that expression before, and she knew with certainty that the XO was completely, deadly serious.

And on one level Lisa couldn’t blame her. As Commodore Henderson had said, the Manticoran visit was on the edge of becoming a public-relations disaster. If it took leaving a marginal petty officer behind to face local charges to bring things back on track, Shiflett might very well be prepared to pay that price.

Townsend knew it, too. He looked at Shiflett, then at Marcello, then at Lisa, then back to Shiflett. “No, Ma’am,” he conceded.

He turned to Marcello, squaring his shoulders. “It was Countess Calvingdell who gave me the assignment, Sir.”

At the edge of her vision, Lisa saw Marcello’s and Shiflett’s eyes perform a synchronized widening. “The Defense Minister?” Marcello demanded.

“Yes, Sir,” Townsend said, as painfully uncomfortable as Lisa had ever seen him. “She noticed there were some odd glitches in the Haven pirate data coming in via Casca, and wanted to know whether the glitches were in the original Havenite encryption or in the extra layer that the Cascans put on it. Since we were going to be here when one of the packets arrived, she asked me to pull a copy of the original data and encryption so that we could compare it with the version that Casca then sent back with us.”

“Ridiculous,” Shiflett said flatly. “If she wanted a direct copy, why not just ask Captain Marcello to get her one? Why go to you in the first place.”

Lisa had been wrong. Townsend was capable of at least one deeper layer of discomfort. “I think, Ma’am, that she was also concerned the glitches might be coming from somewhere in the Navy. Possibly even from inside her own office.”

For once, even Shiflett seemed to be at a loss for words. “All right,” she said at last, some of the antagonism gone from her voice. “Again, why you?”

“One of my uncle’s friends was part of the Intelligence department of the Meyerdahl System Defense Force before he emigrated to Sphinx,” Townsend said. “He’s advised the Countess before on clandestine operations, and suggested that I be given the job.”

“You have any proof of this?” Marcello asked. “Aside from our going back and asking Calvingdell, that is?”

“Nothing that would satisfy a Cascan court,” Townsend admitted. “And I’d ask, Sir, that you not tell them about this. Please. Countess Calvingdell’s instructions were very explicit on that point. I think she was worried about possible political repercussions.”

Marcello grunted. “I’ll just bet she was.”

“But there is a hidden clause in your own orders, Sir, which the Countess put in,” Townsend continued.

“Really,” Marcello said, his voice dropping half an octave. “I don’t recall seeing anything in there aside from the standard collection of contingency files.”

“It’s not just locked, Sir, it’s invisible,” Townsend said. “You can’t even see that it’s there unless you put in the password donnybrook.”

Marcello and Shiflett exchanged glances. “We’ll see,” Marcello said.

“Thank you, Sir,” Townsend said. “But with your permission, Captain, we can’t afford to wait until you get back to Damocles and confirm that. Let me offer you some indirect evidence right now. If you look through the record of my incursion, you’ll see that I was using the Havenites’ own decryption process. The only way I could have gotten hold of that is via a senior member of the Defense Ministry.”

“Or else you stole it,” Shiflett said.

“That’s possible, Ma’am,” Townsend conceded. “But a thief who’d obtained an official Havenite military encryption probably wouldn’t bother using it for a relatively non-critical file like this. He would more likely find a buyer and retire in luxury.”

“Maybe that was next on your list,” Shiflett suggested darkly. “In fact, maybe your smiling man was part of that deal.”

Lisa stiffened as a sudden thought flashed across her brain. If Townsend had copied more than just the Havenite data… “Excuse me,” she said as Townsend opened his mouth to reply. “Did you record anything besides the pirate data?”

Townsend’s lip twitched. “I got some of the rest of the packet, yes, Ma’am,” he said. “I wasn’t snooping — I’d seen the recording of the murder, and thought there might be more information elsewhere in the packet.”

“You have something, TO?” Marcello asked.

“Maybe,” Lisa said. “With your permission, Sir?”

Marcello waved a hand in silent assent. Lisa pulled the personal over to her, turned it on, and swiveled it around to face Townsend. “See if you got a message for a criminal group called — no, wait. Of course they wouldn’t have used their real name. Let me think how to do this…”

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 09

Raising Caine – Snippet 09

Nasr Eid smiled up into the cubist cave. “A toy box for a giant infant.”

“Yeah, just don’t let any of those blocks fall on ya,” Tina Melah chuckled as she moved past with easy familiarity. “Buckley’s not the only one who’s spent some time in these death-traps.” She saw Nasr’s fearful look. “Now, now, no reason to get your jammies in a twist, Nasr. We’ve got steady rotation to keep everything where it’s already locked in place. But, if you go to zero gee, take a few hits, and have a few restraint bars break and lashings tear — well, then you’ve got some serious anvil-dodging fun on your hands!” She strode ahead into the dim bowels of the mod. Most of the others followed as motion-activated lights popped on, marking Tina’s progress down the length of the module. Caine strolled after them.

Coming around a massive cargo pod, he discovered Joe Buckley seated on a small container, his hands covering his face. Keith Macmillan was standing nearby, saw Caine approach, shrugged.

“Damn, it all looked fine at first,” Joe lamented, “but — oh Jesus H. Christ!” Buckley groaned as if he’d been bayoneted in the gut.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? Christ, just look at it!”

As Tygg and Oleg Danysh walked up, Caine looked around for the wrongness that so afflicted Joe. “Okay. And…what am I supposed to be seeing?”

Tygg frowned, glanced at the hardcopy lading list attached to the cargo pod, checked it against the chip-coded inventory on his palmcomp. “Oh, they’ve bollixed all this right enough. Everything they sent with us is smart-tagged, but they split up most of the individual lots between the different containers.”

Danysh grimaced. “Please, in words we all understand.”

Buckley, sitting with his head in his hands, shouted. “Everything is all mixed up. Food packed in with electronics. Medical supplies layered into survival gear. And the damned index is chock full of errors, too. It’s like some work gang and their robots just pushed every container into the first empty space they could find, going as fast as they could and the hell with anything else.”

Caine nodded. “Joe, this mission was put together in less than twenty-four hours. They pulled equipment and team-members from all around the fleet. That may have something to do with it.”

“Probably has everything to do with it,” Buckley muttered. He looked up. “Captain, this is going to take days to untangle. Maybe weeks.”

“I’ll see what I can do about getting you semi-regular access, Joe.”

“But Captain –”

“Joe, we’re here to open diplomatic relations with the Slaasriithi. Who might be the only species in the Accord willing to be our allies. And they want us all down planetside tomorrow. I don’t know what they might want after that. But here’s what I do know: those jobs come before this job.” Caine waved a hand at the mélange of mismatched bulk containers around them. “And here’s the first part of this job: you are to locate and data-tag all the defense and emergency stores.”

“Well, I can get locator numbers out of the database pretty quickly. But I can’t verify that –”

“We’ll work with whatever data you give us and I’ll provide the backs to move the gear. Get that list compiled and give it to Mr. Rulaine.”

“Yes, sir. When do you need it done?”

Caine stared at Buckley. “Five minutes ago. Any more questions?”

Buckley blinked, shook his head. “No, sir.” He turned and jogged off into the deeper recesses of the cargo mod.

Bannor had just arrived alongside Caine. “Did anyone ever mention that you have a really icy stare, sometimes?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Well, then I’m the first. No wonder they made you an officer. What next?”

“Next we gather all the security personnel and start moving our gear to the corvette and the lander.”

Danysh started. “Are you expecting trouble, Captain?”

“No, Dr. Danysh, but if it arises, I want to have our defense and emergency gear where we need it and ready to go. It won’t do us much good otherwise.”

“Very well, I shall not intrude upon your preparations.”

Or volunteer to help, Caine thought as the physicist made himself scarce. Riordan took a few steps away from Buckley toward the comparative privacy of a corner. He glanced at Macmillan, who strolled over.

“Yes, Captain?”

“I notice from your dossier that you and I have an acquaintance in common.”

“Oh? And who would that be, sir?”

“Richard Downing.”

Keith smiled a big, congenial, shit-eating smile. “Richard Downing? Never heard of him. Or of you, Mr. Riordan. Or of your walk-about on Dee Pee Three which indirectly brought us to where we’re standing right now. No: never heard of any of that.” Macmillan’s Scottish burr was so faint as to be almost unnoticeable.

Like a ghost emerging from shadows, Bannor drew up from the other side, jerked his head toward Keith. “Told you,” he muttered at Caine.

Caine ignored him. “Mr. Macmillan, what was your mission after providing security for Spookshow Prime?”

Macmillan kept smiling but stood a little straighter. “I have no knowledge of any missions relevant to your inquiry, sir, and would not be disposed to discuss them if I had.”

Okay, so his responses were as genuine as the IRIS ID codes in his dossier. No reason to belabor the point. “I presume you had special orders embedded in the personal effects they shipped with you?”

“Yes, sir. From this same Mr. Downing I’ve never heard of.”

“And those orders are –?”

“I’m to be your eyes and ears within the group, sir.”

So, internal security. Prudent, although it was hard to imagine how even the Ktor could have managed to infiltrate the delegation with less than twenty-four hours’ notice. “Very well, Mr. Macmillan. What’s your cover role in the legation, then?”

“As far as the personnel roster goes, I’m just a warrant officer from the integrated Commonwealth task force. Jack of all trades, master of none. In terms of command structure, I’d be below Miles O’Garran, and on a par with Trent Howarth.”

Caine smiled. “Well, then” — he raised his voice — “Mr. Buckley, do you have a list yet? Mr. Macmillan is still waiting around for something heavy to carry.”

Buckley came over with his palmcomp, transferred the defense and emergency stores inventory to Caine, Macmillan, and Bannor. “I don’t envy you guys. You’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

Bannor scanned the list. “We’re not going to get this done today.”

“No, we’re not. So let’s get going on the priority items. Bannor, you find Tygg, Wu, O’Garran, and Howarth. We’re going to need all hands for this. Macmillan, you go with Buckley and have him electronically tag all the containers so they show up on our smartmaps.” Caine started to move off.

Bannor held up his hand. “Whoa, Boss. Don’t take off until you tell us where to find you. What will you be doing?”

Caine shrugged. “Moving the boxes. Like I said, ‘all hands.’ Let’s get going.”

 

A Call To Arms – Snippet 08

A Call To Arms – Snippet 08

CHAPTER EIGHT

Khetha’s shuttle was exactly where Ulobo’s tablet had said it would be. The flight systems were cold — the Supreme Chosen One probably hadn’t used the vehicle for months — but they came up with gratifying speed. A quick check of the computer as the reaction thrusters did their self-check revealed a quasi-diplomatic priority launch code for the vehicle. The relationship between the Cascans and Khetha’s alleged government-in-exile, Llyn reflected, must have been an interesting one. Probably very expensive, too.

But the details didn’t matter. If the code got him off Casca in a timely fashion, that was all he cared about.

Meanwhile, Ulobo’s tablet had included information on the orbiting ship’s startup procedure. It would still be tricky to operate a ship like this alone, but as long as nothing serious happened with the engineering he had no doubt he could handle it. The only other option was to collect the pick-up crew he’d tentatively reserved over the past week and make this journey a group effort.

But he’d already killed enough people for one trip. Besides, a man like Khetha would be sure to keep everything in top-level shape. Leaning back in his seat, keeping an eye on the shuttle’s readouts, Llyn settled in to work through the manual.

* * *

“…and then they brought me down here,” Townsend finished.

“I see,” Quechua City Police Detective Dolarz said, nodding. “Okay. Let’s go back to the part where you first heard the gunshots –”

“Look, I know that’s the stuff you’re supposed to be asking me about,” Townsend interrupted. “But there’s another killer out there, remember? Maybe the guy who killed those other eight men, too.”

“Yes; your man with the criminal smile,” Dolarz said, his voice strained. “We’ll get to him soon enough.”

Townsend sent a frustrated glance at Lisa, sitting silently behind the detective, and for a moment she thought he was going to appeal to her.

But he didn’t. Which was just as well, because there was nothing she or the entire Navy could do for him right now. At this particular moment, Missile Tech Charles Townsend was about as deep in this growing firestorm as he could get.

Eight murders, right in the middle of Casca’s capital city. It was horrifying, it was virtually unheard of on this world, and the police were already apparently starting to feel high-level government heat over it.

They were searching frantically for answers. And if answers weren’t forthcoming, they might be willing to settle for scapegoats.

Lisa’s uni-link vibrated: Captain Marcello wanted to see her. Silently leaving her chair, she opened the interrogation room door behind her and slipped out.

Marcello and Commodore Henderson were waiting in the briefing room, along with a stiff-backed woman wearing a senior police officer’s uniform. Her eyes were fiery as she eyed the newcomer, but Lisa could also sense a bit of hunted animal in her face. “Commander Donnelly,” Marcello greeted her gravely. “This is Lieutenant Nabaum. She’s currently overseeing the investigation.”

“Ma’am,” Lisa said, exchanging nods with the other woman. “I hope the rest of the case is coming along better than Missile Tech Townsend’s interrogation.”

“Your petty officer is not exactly smelling like a garden rose at the moment,” Nabaum said acidly. “And yes, we’re making progress. We’ve identified the hit squad — they’re members of a criminal organization called Black Piranha. Very nasty group — we’ve been trying to wipe them out for over thirty years. As far as we know, though, this is the first time they’ve been involved in something with interstellar implications. Maybe this will finally give us the opening and leverage we need to take them out for good.”

“You’re sure they made the hit?” Henderson asked. “I understood from Townsend’s testimony that they didn’t arrive on the scene until after the gunshots.”

“You may also have noticed from Townsend’s testimony that he claims to have heard only two shots,” Nabaum countered. She waved a hand impatiently. “All right, granted — the room where the other six bodies were found was soundproofed, so forget the numbers. But his claimed timing is still suspicious. Especially since that ridiculous smiling-man theory of his is looking more and more like a deliberate red herring.”

“How do you conclude that?” Lisa asked.

Nabaum smiled thinly. “Because we found the message that was sent to the Piranhas, specifying that address and ordering them to deal with whoever they found inside. That order came in via the Havenite mail packet, which means it came in from off-world, which means it was put into motion at least a year ago. That pretty well eliminates the possibility that anyone aboard Soleil Azur was involved.”

“It does?” Marcello asked, frowning. “I was under the impression that the room where the bodies were found was pretty much an unused storage area. How could whoever sent the message have known the victims would even be there?”

Nabaum lifted fingers. “One: it might have started life as a storeroom, but it was rented three years ago and renovated as a private meeting room. Two –”

“Rented by whom?” Henderson asked.

“We’re still running that down,” Nabaum said. “We’ve worked through three layers already — no idea how many more there are. My money’s on someone connected with the Piranhas, though. Two: a private meeting room is typically the site of, not surprisingly, meetings. Often those meetings run on a regular schedule, which they apparently did and someone apparently learned. I know that because, three: the message listed no fewer than twelve possible dates and times for the Piranhas to do the deed, of which today was the fourth. Clearly, whoever set up the killing was well informed about his intended victims’ movements and plans, which means there was no reason he would need to be on Casca, let alone that he actually was.”

Marcello’s uni-link trilled. He raised his wrist and keyed it on. “Marcello.”

He listened a moment, and his already grim expression went a little grimmer. “Thank you, Commander. Bring it down here, will you?”

He put the uni-link away. “I had Commander Shiflett go to Townsend’s room at the Hamilton and take a look at that personal he brought from the ship,” he told Lisa. “She found a copy of the Mota murder recording on it.”

Lisa winced. So along with whatever Nabaum was considering charging Townsend with, he was also on the hook for the system hack Peirola had spotted last night. “So he was Commissioner Peirola’s hacker?” she asked.

“Looks like it,” Marcello said. “One other bit of information you don’t know: Commodore Henderson ordered a fresh facial-comparison scan run between the recording and Soleil Azur’s passengers and crew. The closest any of them come is thirty-eight percent.”

“What if the murderer wore a disguise?” Lisa suggested. “A wig, false mustache, and some facial builds could change his appearance that much, couldn’t they?”

“Of course they could,” Nabaum put in. “But why bother with a disguise when he was going to scramble the security recordings and retrograde the guards’ memories anyway?”

“Maybe he likes covering his trail with more than one layer of dirt,” Lisa said.

Nabaum puffed out a sigh. “Look, Commander. I realize Petty Officer Townsend is a fellow shipmate, as well as being a close friend. But the facts are –”

“Excuse me,” Lisa interrupted reflexively, the RMN rules on chain-of-command fraternization blurring across her vision. “Missile Tech Townsend is not a close friend. He’s a competent petty officer under my command, and that’s all.”

“Then why were you the one he called with his little verbal game?” Nabaum countered, a knowing look in her eye.

“I have no idea,” Lisa said, painfully aware of her captain listening silently to all this.

“Well, we’ll make sure to ask him about it later,” Nabaum said placidly.

“What about the victims?” Marcello asked. “Any luck identifying them?”

Nabaum’s gotcha expression soured. “Not yet,” she admitted. “The killers had already loaded the bodies into denature bags — standard pre-disposal practice among the more sophisticated of our criminals. Their faces, prints, corneas, and retinas were already too far gone for computer match, and their DNA was well on its way. We were able to retrieve enough to work with, but it’s going to be a little longer before we can match any names to them.”

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 08

Raising Caine – Snippet 08

Chapter Eighteen

In transit; GJ 1248’s inner system

Exiting the habitation module at the head of the humans, Yiithrii’ah’aash gestured toward four waiting conveyances. Unlike the small, sealed eggs that had shuttled Caine and his fellow conscious travelers to and from their one trip to the cargo module, these were fitted with clear canopies that emerged seamlessly from the ellipsoidal chassis of the vehicles.

However, “vehicles” didn’t seem an apt word for these objects. They had no protrusions or lines that betrayed the presence of maintenance panels or weld points. The only component reminiscent of human machinery was a panel behind which an operator might sit. But it was impossible to be certain of its exact function: it curved black-glass surface was inert.

It also fronted the eighth seat in the lozenge-shaped craft, into which Melissa Sleeman gleefully slid as she began inspecting the shining ebon arc. Behind her, Morgan Lymbery peered closely at the seamless juncture of the glass canopy and the vehicle’s body. His concentration was as monofocal and unblinking as that often associated with the autistic.

Tygg managed to get into the same pod-car, trailing just behind Peter Wu and Rena Mizrahi. The tall Aussie stole a furtive glance at Melissa as he slung himself into a seat alongside Bannor. Unaware of his attention, she continued inspecting her novel surroundings — until the vehicles rose in unison. Gimballing their rotor-cans, they started toward the cargomod at a reasonable rate.

“Shouldn’t we be starting to feel a loss of gravity equivalent?” wondered Tygg.

“It will take a little longer, and only if we’re moving inward toward the keel,” Caine answered.

“And we’re not,” put in Melissa, “We’re moving at about a twenty-five-degree angle to it right now.”

“How do you know?” Tygg’s voice was wonderstruck and completely incongruent emerging from one of the most blooded veterans of the recent war.

“Oh, well, I just counted the bends we’ve followed.”

Riordan, who prided himself on being observant, wondered: bends? What bends?

The pod-bus slowed, veered into a side tunnel, sped forward a short distance and then slowed as it emerged into an open area. The high-domed space reminded Caine of a small, trackless turning yard: wide oval bulkhead doors were inset upon each of the other five sides of the hexagonal chamber. The pod-busses all landed in a row before the door opposite the tunnel mouth.

After Melissa had exited in an exuberant rush, Bannor asked, “Did anyone else see any of those bends she mentioned?”

“Not me,” Caine confessed.

“I didn’t see anything,” Tygg breathed, his gaze following Melissa.

“That’s because you had something in your eye,” commented Rena over her shoulder as she exited.

“Something in my eye?” Tygg repeated, baffled.

“Yes, as in Dr. Sleeman.” Wu managed not to smile.

“It’s that obvious?” Tygg asked.

Bannor rolled his eyes. Caine laughed, then the mirth suddenly inverted into sharp longing for Elena. He exited the pod-bus quickly.

* * *

Caine and the others who had been conscious for the trip helped the rest of the legation unload their scant belongings from the personal luggage antechamber of the cargo module. Finished, they gathered before the large doors into the main lading section, waiting for their hosts.

“Unloading should be easy,” commented Esiankiki Salunke, who moved gracefully in the slightly reduced gravity. “Everything weighs less.”

“Yeah,” commented Joe Buckley, “just remember that mass is unchanged. People who forget that often get squished.”

Esiankiki raised an eyebrow. “My, you are a most cheery person.”

“Comes from seeing newb cargo handlers get smashed as flat as a surfboard. Gives me a sunny outlook on this job.”

Caine heard a soft hum, turned to see another vehicle gliding to a halt in the turning yard. As soon as the craft had settled to the deck, Yiithrii’ah’aash emerged from it, followed by a pair of Slaasriithi whose matching physiognomies differed slightly from his. Their necks were shorter, thicker: more like a giraffe’s than an ostrich’s. However, their bodies and limbs were longer, thinner. Their fingers were wraith-like tapers, as were their bifurcated prehensile tails. And instead of having Yiithrii’ah’aash’s stunted, toe-like protrusions, they had what appeared to be another set of full grasping tendrils in contact with the deck. Overall, whereas a quick glance at the ambassador’s odd-hipped torso produced the impression of a lean gibbon, his two associates’ bodies recalled lemurs on the edge of emaciation.

“What’s wrong with them?” Buckley muttered.

“Nothing. I think they’re part of a different taxon,” answered Ben Hwang.

Buckley stared blankly at the word “taxon.”

Well, it’s clear who doesn’t pay close attention during briefings.

Ben moved forward to greet the new arrivals. “Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash, I wonder if I might ask you a question about your companions: are they members of a different taxon?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s purr was long and continued beneath the first half of his reply. “Your perception is excellent, Doctor. They are members of a specialized sub-taxon, to be exact.” He turned to one of them.

Which bobbed its head once, and spoke through a translator hanging beneath its arm. “I am a” — at which point the translator fumbled and spat random syllables. “We were induced to serve in environments where gravity is low or nonexistent. It was deemed prudent to encourage a return of certain features from our arboreal origins” — he/she/it wriggled the deck-splayed toe-fingers meaningfully — “to provide us with better grasping and maneuvering capabilities in zero-gee environments. I am incompletely informed, but I understand that in your own species, some of the same attenuations of skeleton and musculature are observed after several generations of low gravity breeding.”

Gaspard, who had moved forward more slowly than Hwang, nodded. “Yes, this is so. However, we discourage this: it problematizes our social coherence.”

“The inducement of a useful new subform tends the group toward disharmony?” The low-gee Slaasriithi’s neck seemed to quiver faintly, like a tuning fork losing the last vibrations of a tone. “I do not understand.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash intervened, several finger-tendrils uncoiling toward Gaspard. “You will appreciate that for those of us not well acquainted with humanity, your disapproval regarding a physical alteration in your species sounds contradictory. For us, social harmony is not physically dependent upon, nor a product of, homogeneity of form. To the contrary, our harmony arises from the diverse capabilities enabled by carefully selected variations in our forms. As you shall see more completely tomorrow. Now, allow me to enable access to your supplies.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash raised his “hand” which, Caine saw, was now sleeved in something that looked like a form-fitting glove moored by nonornamental rings and covered irregularly by studs. The ambassador’s prehensile fingers went through a set of impossible contortions, apparently bringing several of the rings and studs into rapid contact with each other. The heavy doors into the main cargo compartment clunked heavily: unlocked.

Bannor, eyes still on Yiithrii’ah’aash’s glove and rings, raised an eyebrow. “That is one strange control device.”

“Strange but effective,” Hwang murmured. “I bet they can get more combinations drummed out faster than we can with our touch screens. And it’s obviously versatile enough to interface with our own systems.” He followed Yiithrii’ah’aash into the cargomod. Caine trailed after.

It was, on first impression, like entering the belly of an industrial age Leviathan. They stood at the threshold of a cavernous hexagonal tunnel, fifty meters long and twenty meters high. Two elevated gantries ran its length, the first one perched eight meters over the deck, the second at sixteen. Spools of zero-gee guide wires and their mooring points dotted the metal gridwork of ladders, decks, and stalls. And stacked upon or jammed against every available surface except the ground-level’s central walkway were universal lading containers of several different shapes.

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 07

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 07

Chapter 4

“You know, Ashok, I’ve seen you fill a lot of graves over the years, but I do believe this is the first time I’ve ever seen you dig one.”

Ashok glanced up and saw a familiar, scarred face. He’d been too focused on his labor to notice the other Protector sitting on the rocks above. His old friend could be quiet as a demon when he felt like it.

“Hello, Devedas.” Ashok had barely finished pushing the last of the dirt into the hole and stomping it down. It was said that the jungle scavengers were very persistent here, so he’d dug the hole deep. “What brings you to this muggy hell?”

“Looking for you, among other things. Who’s in the hole?”

“Someone who didn’t deserve to be eaten by crabs.”

“We don’t dig graves where I come from. The ground’s always frozen. Why are you digging anyway? Doesn’t this province have any slaves?”

“I felt like digging. That’s not illegal. How long have you been sitting there?”

“Long enough to be glad I wasn’t born in the worker caste. Can you imagine toiling under this miserable sun every day?”

Ashok stuck the shovel in the dirt so it would stand upright. “Do you think digging endless holes would be so much worse than endless fighting?”

“Spoken like a man who has nearly completed his house’s obligation. Twenty years is a lot of service for the Order to wring out of one man.” That was meant to goad him. Devedas had been doing this a bit longer than he had. “No wonder you’re curious to see how the other castes live.”

“There were two demons.” Ashok gestured toward where the alchemists and wizards were butchering the demon carcasses further down the beach. “Big ones too. If they’re getting into the habit of working in pairs, then I look forward to my retirement.”

“Two?” Devedas tried not to let his concern show, but he failed. “I didn’t say digging holes would be worse than what we do, but it would be terribly dull.” Devedas slid down the rock, hopped the last six feet, and landed effortlessly next to him. “Good to see you, brother.”

The men obligated to the Order were sons from each of the great houses, and they all brought some traditions with them. It was one of the small, allowable ways each Protector could maintain some of their history. Devedas was a southerner, so he preferred to shake hands rather than bow in greeting. It was probably because in the cold lands you had to wear such a pile of furs to live that nobody could tell if you were bowing or not, or as Devedas liked to joke, southerners didn’t like to look down because that’s when the bears ate you. Devedas’ grip was as firm as his own.

“If I’d known you were in Gujara I would have sent for you. I could have used the help last night. I’m not too proud to admit that I only survived by luck.”

“I’ll say you did. Two? I hope this doesn’t mean the ocean is acting up again.” Devedas scanned the surf, but the waters were their normal, unclean blue. Not the agitated red that often warned of a larger raid.

It had been two full seasons since the last time their duties had put them in the same province at the same time, but they’d both grown up in the brutal confines of the Order’s program. They’d survived the harshest training in the world together and fought at each other’s side so many times, that it was like no time had passed at all. They didn’t look alike at all, with Ashok being taller and darker in both temperament and features, but they had often been mistaken for real brothers of the same house. They might not have had the same father, but they had the same swordmaster, and to a Protector that was nearly the same thing.

“A pair is an anomaly, but it’s not unheard of.”

“Looking at your face, those demons must have beaten you like a practice dummy.” It was the sort of blunt assessment that could only come from an equal in station. An inferior would not have been so honest and a superior probably wouldn’t have cared. “You look awful.”

And that was with having most of the morning to allow the Heart to help him recover. It took a long time to dig a hole when one arm was so battered that the elbow didn’t want to bend. “It was a good fight.”

“You’re not usually one to put comfort over presentation. These Gujarans are going to think the Order’s gone sloppy. Why are you out of uniform?” All of them were hard as nails, but Devedas was a southerner, and he’d still arrived in this awful sweltering, chafing, jungle dressed in the full regalia and armor of the Order. “Where’s your armor?”

Ashok pointed toward the pile of steel and leather resting in the shade. His ancestor blade was sheathed and lying across the top of his damaged armor. Devedas’ eyes lingered on the mighty sword just a moment too long.

“I still can’t believe you just put that sword on the ground like that,” Devedas said incredulously.

“Sometimes you need to. It isn’t welded to my hand.”

“But still…What if someone tries to pick it up?”

“They’d immediately regret it. Angruvadal is easily displeased.”

“If I possessed such a thing I would never put it down. It seems disrespectful.”

“But practical. If it feels dishonored, it’ll abandon me, I’ll die in battle, and then it will pick a new bearer. I didn’t choose Angruvadal. It chose me,” Ashok explained for the thousandth time. Devedas might have been jealous of the sword’s power, but Ashok was the only one who understood the particular burden that came from bearing an ancestor blade. “It’s mighty, but it is still only a sword, Devedas. Religion is false and illegal, so don’t start worshipping it.”

“Coveting a holy relic is a serious offense…” Devedas snorted. “I’d have to arrest myself…Sorry.”

He knew exactly what Devedas was thinking about, and experience had taught him it was best to change to a lighter subject before his brother fell into one of his dark moods. “I don’t know how whole men live in this place. I was dying inside my armor. Remember Pratosh from the program?”

“The kid with the lazy eye?”

“He was obligated to the Order by House Gujara. He grew up in this very jungle. I remember he used to say that you got used to the heat. Now I know why he never liked to wear a proper amount of clothes.”

“And also why he was always complaining about how cold the barracks were.” Devedas chuckled. Not that the acolytes barracks hadn’t been miserably cold, but complaining only made the other acolytes meaner. “Whatever happened to him anyway?”

“Dead.” Ashok had to stop and think about it for a moment. Protectors died so often, usually alone and in the most forsaken corners of the world, that sometimes it was hard to keep every story straight. “He finally made senior at eight years, went to Zarger to stop an uprising, and ended up getting his throat slit on the way by desert raiders.”

“Well, at least he died where it was warm…But considering it was Pratosh, his last words were probably complaining that it was a dry heat.”

“He was a good man.”

“More than I can say for most of us. Hold on,” Devedas glanced around. “I’ve been running since dawn. Nobody spotted me, so I wasn’t even properly announced. What does a man have to do to get food in this swine hold?”

“Forgive the inhospitality. In their defense, half the place burned down last night.”

“That’s no excuse for incivility.” Devedas spotted a worker carrying a wrapped bundle of demon parts to a nearby wagon and shouted at him, “You there! I am Devedas, Protector of the Law, twenty-two-year senior.” He added that last part for Ashok’s benefit, because no one outside of the Order gave a damn about their relative experience or the fact that Devedas technically outranked him. In this backwater province, either of them was of far higher status than just about anyone they were likely to run into. “Fetch us some wine and something to eat. The wine had better be good. None of that watered-down swill.”

The worker dropped the heavy package in the wagon and then ran as if the demons had returned. He didn’t know Devedas. A demon was less dangerous. “You shouldn’t have announced yourself. Now the local warriors will descend on you with great ceremony and ass-kissing.”

Devedas sat on the grass in the shade a big tree. “I don’t know about ass-kissing, but I could certainly use a foot rub. It’s a long run from the great house to here. What do Gujaran pleasure women look like?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been too busy following a demon raider up and down the coast for the last few weeks to request any.” Ashok sat next to Devedas. The ache of his stiff muscles warned him that if he stayed still too long he would have a hard time getting back up, but it beat being dead. “So why were you looking for me?”

“I was sent here because the Inquisition requested a Protector in Gurjat. It’s a stinkhole of a city a few days from here. Smugglers found some old temple to the Forgotten out in the jungle and have been digging up artifacts to sell to wizards without papers. I’m to execute them all.”

“Do you need help?”

Devedas shook his head. “There’s only supposed to be twenty of them, worker caste so they won’t know how to fight, and they’ve got no useful magic to speak of. The only reason they requested a Protector is politics. Some Thakoor’s firstborn has been taking bribes, and you can’t have the locals disgracing each other and starting blood feuds when an outsider is more convenient. If one of us lops off his head, nobody will say a word. We’re impartial like that. If you hadn’t been busy chasing demons they probably wouldn’t have sent me. Anyways, I encountered a herald on the road to Gurjat. He saw my uniform and thought I was you. The man must have been half blind to mistake Devedas the Magnificent for some glorified northern cow herder with a magic sword.”

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 41

This book should be available now, so this is the last snippet.

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 41

“I am a runemyste,” Namid said, in a voice like a hard rain. “And you are a runecrafter. Or a weremyste, if you prefer. It is these others who should bear names of a different sort.”

I glanced his way. “So you admit that there are others.”

The myste frowned. “Would it not be foolish of me to do otherwise? I have said many times, have I not, that my kind guard against the use of dark magic in your world.”

“Yes, you’ve said that, but . . .” I shook my head, the frustration of the past few days spilling over. “But you say it in a way that makes it sound like dark magic is a random occurrence, that you’re here to guard against men like Cahors, who present a threat that’s real, but isolated.”

“And so I am.”

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“I do not understand what you are asking.”

I couldn’t tell if the myste was being purposefully obtuse, or if this was simply the hazard of communicating with a centuries-old being who saw the world in a fundamentally different way. On most occasions, this would have been when I threw up my hands and surrendered. Not today.

“I’m asking why you’ve concealed from me the fact that your war with dark weremystes is ongoing. I’m asking why you’ve effectively lied to me for more than seven years.”

“I do not believe I have,” he said, his waters riffling as from a scything wind.

“There’s a war going on.”

I looked at him again, though I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road for too long. I could imagine dark sorcerers coming after me in a whole fleet of those sleek silver sedans.

“Yes,” he said after a long pause.

“And it didn’t occur to you to mention this to me until now?”

“It occurred to me many times. I did not believe you were ready to know the entirety of this truth.”

“I’m not a kid, Namid. I know I’m not as skilled as you’d like me to be, and I know that I disappoint you more often than not. But I took down Cahors, and that should have earned me some modicum of consideration, of respect.”

“You have my respect, Ohanko, and have for longer than you know. Why would I expend so much time on your training if I did not respect your crafting and your mind?”

This was without a doubt the kindest thing he had ever said to me, and yet it served only to make me more angry.

“You’ve got a pretty twisted way of showing respect.”

“I am sorry you feel that way.”

We fell into a lengthy silence, until at last I said, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Bloody hell, ghost! Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”

“I still am not certain you are ready to hear all of it.”

“I don’t give a god-damn! Somebody’s trying to kill me. Someone came within a hair’s breadth of killing Billie. Someone is tormenting my Dad. And that doesn’t even begin to get at the stuff I’ve been hired to find out. Whether you think I’m ready or not, I’m in it now. And I want to understand it — the risks and the stakes.”

“I should have asked sooner. How is Billie?”

I felt much of the anger I’d directed at the myste sluice away. “She’s better, thank you. But I almost lost her. And I’m afraid I’m losing my father. I need your help, Namid.”

“And what do I get in exchange?”

He couldn’t have surprised me more if he had asked to borrow money from me. In spite of everything, a small laugh escaped me. “What do you want?”

He appeared to consider the question for a few moments. “I am not a ghost,” he said. “You know this, and yet you insist on referring to me as such again and again. I would prefer you did not.”

I laughed again, shook my head. “Wow. Okay. I’ll . . . I’ll try to stop calling you a ghost.”

“You will try?”

“Some habits are hard to break.”

Again he weighed this before nodding. “Very well.”

We lapsed once more into silence, until I wondered if he expected me to ask more questions. But eventually he began on his own.

“You know the history of the runemystes,” he said, his voice as deep as a mountain lake. “How we were sacrificed by the Runeclave so that we might forever be guardians of magic in your world. Often omitted from that history is the fact that some in the Runeclave saw a different path for those skilled in runecrafting. They wished to make war on the non-magical, to become dominant. When the Runeclave created the runemystes, these dissenting weremystes sought to do something similar.

“Theirs, though, was not an act of sacrifice or self-abnegation. They used blood magic to take immortality for themselves. They became immortal as well, and their powers are similar to ours. And so some might say that there is little difference between us. But there is an inherent darkness in what they are and in their crafting. They are corrupt in the truest sense of the word. I have heard it said that they rarely appear to humans or even to ordinary weremystes, because the stench of decay clings to them still, even after so many centuries.”

“So, you’re telling me that there’s a war between the runemystes and these other . . .”

“My kind call them necromancers: beings who have taken power from the realm of the dead. And yes that is what I am telling you. Surely you knew much of this already.”

I shook my head, blew out a long breath. “I thought there were weremystes who were dabbling in dark magic. It never occurred to me that they would have allies as powerful as you.” I tapped a finger on the steering wheel, thinking. “So then Cahors was one of them?”

“No. As I told you at the time, Etienne de Cahors was a runemyste, but he chafed at the limitations placed on my kind by the Runeclave.” Namid paused, appearing uncomfortable. “What I did not tell you then is that he was lured into disgrace by the necromancers. He was to be their prize. He could have told them much about our craftings and how they might be overcome.

“They gave him aid at the beginning, instructing him in the uses of blood magic. But he soon tired of their control. He wished to be beholden to none, to be free of the Runeclave and also of the dark ones. But he was important for other reasons.”

Something in the way Namid said this caught my ear. “What reasons?”

“They invested much in him: decades of wheedling, secrets of their evil magicking, their darkest aspirations. When he abandoned them, they were enraged. Their one consolation was that my kind were even more enraged. Their loss was great; ours was greater. We were thirty-nine. When we lost him we were thirty-eight. This pleased them, and more, it gave them a glimpse of a possible path forward from their failure. Equally important, they took note of how he died. And at whose hand.”

“Mine,” I said.

“Just so.”

“This is why they’re so interested in me. Because I killed Cahors.”

“Because you are a weremyste who killed Cahors. The necromancers long were contemptuous of weremyste power. They had subordinates of your kind — weremancers we called them. But they never considered them more than servants to their cause. Your victory over Cahors has forced them to consider the weremancers anew, to imagine a new role for them in this war.”

“And what role is that?”

The myste shook his head. “This I do not know.”

I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t sure that I did. He’d kept too much from me over the years.

“Do you know who was in the car that came after me right before you showed up?”

“I know it was a weremancer, but that it all.”

“So a weremyste was able to attack my heart that way?”

He shook his head. “No. I felt a second presence as well: a necromancer. It was she who attacked you. I believe the weremancer was here to . . . to finish you, as you would put it.”

I found this comforting in a strange way. I couldn’t have seized another person’s heart with magic the way the necromancer seized mine. I didn’t want to think there were other runecrafters like me out there who could. “I warded my heart from her attack. If her magic is comparable to yours, I shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

“You may have surprised her with your warding. Or she may still be familiarizing herself with your craft. Do not count on such spells working a second time.”

I nodded at that, my mind already turning in a new direction. “It’s necromancers who are hurting my father, right?”

“I do not know, Ohanko. I believe it is possible, assuming that Leander Fearsson’s suffering is not — forgive me — the product of delusion.”

“It’s not.”

“You know this?”

“I feel it,” I said. “I’m going to see him now. You’re welcome to stay with me and see him for yourself.”

“Thank you. Perhaps I will.”

We drove in silence for a minute or two. I had more questions for the myste, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to ask them, not because I thought he would refuse to respond, but because I didn’t think I’d like his answers. It didn’t take long for the cop in me to decide this was a piss-poor reason not to ask.

“Since the day I met you, you’ve been telling me that you and your fellow mystes are forbidden from interfering in our world.”

“And we still are.”

“Even now?”

“Our laws have not changed.”

“But circumstances have. You can’t expect weremystes to fight off these necromancers without help.”

“Our expectations are irrelevant.” I started to argue, but he held up a translucent hand, stopping me. “We are what we are. Our laws help to define us. To ignore them out of expedience diminishes us, makes us little better than those you would have us fight on your behalf. We can help you, prepare you, guide you. But we cannot intervene. To do so would compromise too much.”

“You intervened with Cahors,” I said, knowing what he would say.

“This I have explained to you as well. Cahors was an anomaly, one of our own who escaped our notice. He acted on your world in large part because our vigilance slackened. We did what was necessary to undo some of the damage he wrought. This is different.”

Not the answer I had been hoping for, but I had to admit that there was a certain logic to what he said. That logic was likely to get me killed, but, hey, at least the runemystes were sticking to their principles.

“You’re putting a lot at risk,” I said. “They may be your laws, but it’s our lives you’re wagering.”

“Not yours alone.”

I frowned, looked over at him. “What do you mean?”

“Think, Ohanko. What is it the necromancers want?”

I shrugged. “Power?”

“Yes, of course. But what lies in their path to power?”

I thought about it for all of three seconds before the answer became obvious. The runemystes wouldn’t intervene directly, but what other beings would the necromancers fear? Weremystes could fight them; many of us would. We didn’t stand a chance, though, without the runemystes doing all that Namid had said they would: training us, preparing us, guiding us.

What did they want? They wanted to destroy Namid and his brethren.

“It’s you who are at risk,” I said. “I’m sorry I should have understood. The necromancers see the thirty-eight of you as the only obstacles they have to overcome.”

He nodded, solemn and slow. “That is our belief as well. You should know, however, that there are now but thirty-seven of us left.”

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 07

Raising Caine – Snippet 07

As Ben Hwang confirmed that this simple text was, in fact, the only specific information the Slaasriithi had provided, Caine leaned toward Rulaine. “That physicist is a relative of one of the other members of the team that went to the Convocation, Natalia Durniak. His name’s Oleg Danysh. A second cousin.”

“You think he pulled family strings to get shipped out to Sigma Draconis?”

“I think that anything is possible.”

Hwang had resumed his overview of the Slaasriithi. “Their eyes are not arranged for binocular vision like ours. Instead, they have dispersed eyes and light sensors which evidently give them a field of vision that is almost two hundred seventy degrees in all direction from their front facing.”

“What kind of neural bandwidth does that require, I wonder?” Nasr Eid, the Egyptian computer and cryptology specialist, had clearly meant it as a rhetorical inquiry, but Hwang elected to address it.

“An excellent question, but we lack direct biological data to answer it. However, we do have some fruit and vegetable samples they sent to a reception our delegation hosted at the Convocation. Although their xenogenetic structures do not mimic our double-stranded DNA helix in the least, they are biochemically compatible, or at least benign. Additionally, we found indications that one of the vegetables can express a latent chimaerism that manifests as inverted chirality.”

Esiankiki Salunke, the legation’s arrestingly tall Indian-Kenyan linguist, blinked. “So it can mutate?”

Hwang’s assistant, Hirano Mizuki, and the mission’s ranking expert in planetology and biome studies, explained that chimaerism was distinct from mutation. Specifically, the vegetable’s exogenome was capable of evolving a variant in which the chirality of the plant’s amino acids — their right- or left-handedness — would be reversed.

“Would that threaten us?” asked Xue Heng, the team’s EMT, assistant quartermaster, and a long-service army veteran.

Ben shrugged. “Unknown, but the Slaasriithi biosphere clearly contains organisms which follow a very different genetic and chemical map than our own. That’s consistent with what we’ve discovered about much of the biota on Delta Pavonis Three. Which brings us to a point that few of you have been briefed on.

“As I’m sure you all know, it was Captain Riordan who reported that there was a species of primitive exosapients on Delta Pavonis Three at last year’s Parthenon Dialogs. What we did not know until recently was that those primitive beings and the Slaasriithi have common origins. As their ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash put it, the Pavonians are related to the Slaasriithi the way Neanderthal is related to Cro Magnon.”

“Just when was that learned?” asked Rena Mizrahi, the surgeon and neurology specialist from Tel Aviv.

Caine smiled ruefully. “The same day we got the invitation.”

Phillip Friel, an engineer who’d imbibed engineering theory at Trinity in Dublin before an extended tour with the EU navy, looked up from under dark bangs. “This all happened rather suddenly, it seems.” The group’s other engineer, Tina Melah, was sitting alongside him and nodding vigorously.

“It did come together suddenly,” Caine agreed. “Particularly once the Ktor showed up to retrieve their ambassador. That made the Slaasriithi extremely uneasy. So they accelerated the process of inviting us for a visit.” And here’s the part where we have to stay very, very vague; if they start asking about the Ktor role in this, one slip could pop the intel lid off the fact that the Ktor are humans, too, rather than the methane-dwelling ice worms they implied they were…

But instead, the legation’s official recorder and archivist, Qwara Betul, grumbled. “I must say I am not happy about such a hastily organized mission.”

“None of us were, but it was either go now or not within the foreseeable future,” Caine said sympathetically — just before the external airlock page double-chimed.

Riordan stood. “I think we have company.”

* * *

After remaining in the airlock for three minutes so that those humans unaccustomed to his appearance could absorb it, Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash entered the module. “Greetings, honored guests. I thank you for allowing me to intrude.”

Gaspard glanced at Caine as if to say: so liase, liaison. Caine obliged: “Your arrival is a gift, not an intrusion, Yiithrii’ah’aash. And I have the pleasure of presenting the entirety of our legation to you, but most especially, our ambassador, Etienne Gaspard, Consul of the Consolidated Terran Republic.” The last phrase caused a few starts among the lately awakened team members, who had entered their cryocells when Earth’s fledgling polity was still called the World Confederation. Gaspard approached his Slaasriithi counterpart. Who extended his many-tendrilled “hand” adding, “If the form of my appendage troubles you, we may forego this ritual. I offer it in recognition of your traditions.”

Gaspard took the alien hand. If he felt any repugnance, he did not show it, although he withdrew his hand promptly. “Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash, what is your customary manner of greeting? I would assay it.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash burbled spasmodically: laughter? “You could not do so. You lack the correct pheromones. However, we are eager to share our ways with you. Accordingly, I have come to invite you to visit this system’s world tomorrow.”

Those who were enthusiastic about this news, including Caine’s five cabin-fevered fellow travelers, made sounds of approval. Those who were not so ready to debark upon an alien world were markedly silent.

Riordan made note of the most reluctant faces, asked, “How large a party should we prepare?”

The Slaasriithi’s finger-furlings and -unfurlings paused. “All may visit.”

“That is most generous, Ambassador, but our security policy prohibits full attendance. Some must remain behind with the habmodule.” Not that you’d go rummaging through our drawers, but protocols are protocols.

Yiithrii’ah’aash frozen digits came to life in a sudden roiling motion. “Understood. However, those who do not make this first journey may not leave this module for subsequent journeys.”

“They will be restricted to this ship?”

“They will be restricted to this habitation module. To be safe in our places, you must visit them. So we cannot guarantee the safety of those who do not visit. This is the requirement for access to our worlds. We regret if it is inconvenient and we accept that some of your legation may not be able to comply.”

Yeah, but, we didn’t come out here to leave any of our experts corked up like genies in a lamp. Caine glanced at Gaspard —

— who nodded his approval.

Riordan flashed him a grateful smile — he does have his moments — and nodded at Yiithrii’ah’aash. “I am happy to say that all will go.”

“And we are happy to hear it. In preparation for your journey, we will allow free access to your two ships, as well as protected access to your cargo module, so that you may get any equipment that you consider prudent. We have automated transportation waiting to carry the entirety of your legation there and back. However, be warned: it would not be safe to return there unescorted, so be sure to collect all the supplies you require before we depart.”

Hwang bowed slightly, waited until Yiithrii’ah’aash had turned his “face” toward him. “Ambassador, every time you mention entering your ship, you speak of these dangers. Do you have guards that would harm unauthorized visitors?”

The exosapient’s ostrich neck pulsed through a quick set of peristaltic ripples. “Not such as you mean. It is simply that our ship would not recognize you.”

“And so its systems would attack us?” Tygg asked.

“No, but they would not know to avoid you. Which could be just as bad. They would not desist from functions that might be injurious to bystanders. Before we reach our next stop, you will have been added to their recognition template. In your parlance, it is a biochemical database in which your genotype can be coded as being a friend.”

“Or a foe?” Caine inquired.

Yiithrii’ah’aash turned back toward him. “Yes. That, too. Now, let us go.”

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 06

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 06

Chapter 3

Five years ago

The massive funeral pyre burned so hot that they could feel the warmth even from their distant vantage point. The orange pillar lit the night sky. The tower of smoke blotted out the moons and stars. Their duty satisfied, the small group of Protectors stood on the hillside and watched the bodies burn. It was rare to have so many members of the Order in a single place at the same time, but the Capitol saw full-blown house wars as serious events, requiring a swift, merciless dispensation of justice. Their battle had lasted a few hours of the morning. It had taken a huge crew of untouchables the rest of the afternoon to gather up all the dead the Protectors had left in their wake in order to build that fire.

Of course, their instructor took this moment as a teaching opportunity. “Since there is nothing beyond this life, why are we required to give respect to the remains of our dead?” Mindarin asked his students.

It was a rhetorical question, but the inexperienced members of the Order were used to Mindarin constantly asking them questions. Mindarin was known as the philosophical, scholarly leader. Questions and reasoning were his method of teaching. He applied logic to the Law so that there could be no misunderstanding its principles. Most of the acolytes found his way preferable to Master Ratul’s method of severe beatings and long runs in full armor.

Ashok listened, distracted, as the young men rattled off the expected answers, it was tradition to appease the houses, or it was to prevent enemies from defiling the corpses as an insult which would lead to more strife between families, or even such practical matters as preventing the spread of disease, but because the Law requires it was the primary response. Within the Order, because the Law requires it was a safe answer to nearly every question.

The Law had required him to kill a lot of people today.

“Your answers are acceptable, as was your performance here.” Mindarin told the students. It was as close to a compliment as most of them had ever received from someone of his status. “Return to camp and rest, for tomorrow will bring new duties for us all.”

Ashok watched them walk down the hill, heads held high, because today they had made war on behalf of the Capitol, brought justice to a lawless family, and ended an unapproved house war. They’d fought hard, striking so fast and so efficiently that only a few hundred of their warrior escorts, and not a single member of the Order had died in the battle. Tonight they would celebrate, unaware that this process would never end.

“Ah, the hero of the day has decided to keep his old teacher company.” Mindarin stopped next to Ashok and gestured at the fire. “It is quite the sight, it is not? We taught a valuable lesson today, one that the great houses will not soon forget. They will tremble at the idea of violating the Law, and it is all thanks to you.”

“It was nothing.”

“On the contrary, Ashok. Your legend grows with every mission. Our obligations have increased tenfold since you joined us.” Mindarin looked around. “Where is your brother?”

“Devedas took a spear thrust through the stomach and will need time to recover.” The last time Ashok had seen him, he’d been in the healer’s tent, vomiting up coagulated blood. “He should be ready to travel in a few days.”

“That’s what he gets for trying to keep up with you, lad. I saw you fling yourself into their lines. Impressive work. I’m thankful every day that your house obligated you to our Order. If we hadn’t had you and that sword today, I have no doubt some of my boys would be on that fire.”

“I was only doing my duty, the same as everyone else.”

“You are too humble.”

“I had a teacher who said that all great swordsmen need humility, because humility leads to awareness, and awareness leads to victory.”

“Don’t use my own words against me. You may not seek praise, so I should know by now not to waste my time giving you any, but we both know your value to the Order,” the old master said. “When I was your age, the Order was a shadow of what it is today. We were fading, shrinking. You made us important again, effective and vital! You are a weapon, Ashok, a tool of justice. Your very existence has become a warning to all that they must comply with the Law. Your reputation is worth more than a legion of Inquisitors.”

Ashok nodded. After the way today’s conflict ended, it would be a long time before any other great houses grew so ambitious. “All must know their place.”

Mindarin smiled. It was usually him quoting the Law, not the other way around. “Adherence to the Law is the only thing that keeps the world from descending into madness. It was the Law which lifted man out of superstitious barbarity and brought us into an age of reason, yet the Law is always vulnerable. The Law is a dam, and on the other side is an ocean of chaos. If a chip isn’t repaired, the dam will crack. Today we simply plugged a leak.”

The only thing he’d seen leaking today had been blood from thousands of bodies. “I’m not one of the newly obligated children, Mindarin. Spare me the allegories. I do what I must, that’s all.”

“My dam example is a metaphor, not an allegory. Sometimes though, it is good to repeat the lessons learned in our youth. It helps us keep our minds focused the same way a whetstone keeps an edge on our steel…”

“You truly can’t help yourself, can you?”

Mindarin chuckled. “Only some of us carry swords that never need to be sharpened.” He looked pointedly at sheathed Angruvadal. “Tell me, fifteen-year senior, how many men did you strike down today?”

Regulations required him to be as exact as possible in his reports, so he’d trained himself to remember every blow, every cut, every face. “Twenty-six violators killed and thirty-four injured during the battle itself. I estimate half of those may survive their injuries. After House Makao surrendered, I executed another five specific officers as per the Judges’ sentence for fomenting rebellion, as well as their wives, and their firstborn sons.”

“That is a terrible burden.”

“It was just another day.”

The two of them watched the great bonfire in silence for a time.

“What troubles you, Ashok?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he answered truthfully.

The old master thought that over before speaking. He was no longer using his instructor’s voice, but rather sounded like any other tired old man. “The acolytes’ answers were acceptable, but wrong. We know there’s nothing beyond life. The fire doesn’t go somewhere else when the candle is extinguished. We are meat with a spark of life inside, nothing more. Yet still, something compels us to treat a corpse with the dignity we’d reserve for a whole man. They are wrong because the Law doesn’t command us to respect the dead, but rather the Law allows us to do something we would be compelled to do regardless, something ingrained into us since ancient times. We honor the dead so the survivors remember to live.”

Ashok had never been one for Mindarin’s philosophical contemplations. “If you say so.”

“With all the weight we have put upon you, don’t forget how to live, Ashok. At times I fear our people have forgotten too much as it is.” The master’s words verged on the subversive, but thankfully he did not continue with that thought. “Forgive an old man his ramblings.”

Ashok nodded after the young Protectors. They had taken up one of Ratul’s marching chants on their way back to the camp. “Was I ever that idealistic?”

“Was?” Mindarin put one hand on his shoulder. “Lad, you still are.”

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 40

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 40

Chapter 14

The coyote’s snarls and the snapping of his teeth reached me clearly in the hallway, reminding me — as if I could have forgotten — how flimsy the bathroom door was. The single-wide quaked with the were’s panicked attempts to free himself. I hoped he would exhaust himself before he broke a bone or gave himself a concussion.

I pulled out my wallet and managed to extract Jacinto Amaya’s business card while maintaining my grip on the doorknob. I retrieved my flip phone from my jacket pocket and dialed the number he had scrawled on the back of the card.

He picked up after two rings.

“Amaya. Who’s this?”

“It’s Jay Fearsson. Your friend attacked me, and now I have him trapped in his bathroom.”

“Fearsson? What the hell are you talking about? What friend?”

“Gary Hacker.”

“Hacker attacked you? Is he all right? Did you hurt him?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I said, my voice rising.

“Did you hurt him?” Amaya asked again. Even through the thin connection, I could hear the steel in his tone.

“I made every effort not to.”

“What happened? What did you say to him?”

“Nothing! We were talking about what had been done to him, and I asked about the man who’s been controlling his changes. And at that point we both felt a pulse of magic. Next thing I know, he shifts and attacks me.”

“He shifted? So he attacked you in his animal form?”

“That’s right.”

“Damn.” I heard Amaya exhale, though the sound was nearly drowned out by the snarls and thrashing coming from the bathroom. “Where are you?”

“We’re in Hacker’s single-wide; I have him locked in the bathroom.”

“The bathroom!” Amaya repeated, sounding angry.

“It’s the one room in his place without a window,” I said.

Amaya was silent for so long, I began to wonder if the call had been dropped. But then he said, “Yes, I understand. Thank you, Jay.”

“I don’t know what to do with him,” I said. “He’s trying to get out, and I’m afraid he’ll hurt himself. I’m also afraid that if I leave, he’ll find a way out of the single-wide. There’s no telling what kind of trouble he could get into.”

“Someone cast a spell to make him turn,” Amaya said, still catching up with the conversation. “How did that person know what you and Hacker were talking about?”

“That’s an excellent question. I have no idea. But he did. Or she. Maybe it was the same woman who spoke to me before Solana’s blew up. Listen, Mister Amaya, I can’t stay here all day waiting for Hacker to pass out or shift back to his human form. I don’t know what to do.”

“What makes you think that I have answers for you?”

“He’s your friend. I could have shot him, or used an attack spell on him. I didn’t. But you set up this meeting, and it’s gone to hell. And you hired me to do a lot more than petsitting.”

Another pause, and then, “I’ll send a man.”

“Thank you.” I started to close my phone, but heard him say, “Jay.”

“I’m here.”

“They wouldn’t have been watching Hacker. They control him. They don’t see him as a threat.”

A cold feeling crept down my spine, like a bead of sweat. “Which means they’re watching me.”

“Night and day, I’d assume.”

“Right. Thanks.”

I ended the call and leaned against the wall, which shuddered every time the coyote threw himself against the door. The impacts were slowing; Hacker was wearing himself out. I figured that right around the time Amaya’s man arrived, I wouldn’t need him anymore.

As I waited, I considered what my next move might be. I needed to speak with Namid; with all that had happened in the past two days, I was more alarmed than ever by his failure to materialize the last time I called for him. Had he refused to answer my summons because he knew that others would overhear our conversation? Had something happened to him, making it impossible for him to communicate with me? Days ago, the very idea would have seemed impossible; not anymore.

I also needed to get back to my Dad. He was under attack, like I was. But why?

I could hear him in my head. I don’t matter, he had said, so many times that the words lost their meaning. But not to him. The boy is not for you, he had said as well.

Did he know I was in danger before I did?

Sooner than I would have expected, I heard a car pull up outside. Of course, a few minutes before, the noise from within the bathroom had stopped. The coyote was probably sleeping soundly, harmless as a puppy.

The door to the single-wide opened, and Rolon stepped inside. He carried an oversized handgun; I didn’t recognize the model. After surveying the living room, he peered down the hallway and spotted me.

“Amigo,” he said.

“Hey, Rolon.” I nodded toward the weapon he carried. “You do understand that Jacinto wants this guy protected, not shot, right?”

“It’s a tranquilizer. One shot, and Hacker will be out for hours.”

I frowned. “Is that safe?”

“It is if he’s still a doggie. If he’s human again, I shouldn’t need it, right?”

It made sense.

I pushed away from the wall and walked out into the living room. “I think he’s out already,” I said. “But just in case, keep that thing handy.”

He grinned.

I crossed to the door, and as I pulled it open, Rolon said, “Jacinto sent a message.”

I exhaled, turned. No doubt I’d broken some unspoken rule by calling his cell. “Yeah?”

“He says, ‘When the time comes to fight, don’t go in alone. Call and you’ll have backup.'”

Better than what I was expecting. I nodded once. “Tell him, thanks.”

I left the single-wide, climbed back into the Z-ster, which was oven hot, and drove out of Buckeye, intending to make my way to Wofford. There was no direct route to my Dad’s from Hacker’s place, and the closer I got to Phoenix, the worse the traffic would be. So I took the scenic route, hoping it would prove quicker. I wound up on a lonely stretch of road known as the Sun Valley Parkway, which cuts northward through the desert from I-10 a couple of miles west of Buckeye, before heading east back toward the city on the north side of the regional park. In another ten or fifteen miles it would intersect with the Phoenix-Wickenburg Highway, which I could take to my Dad’s trailer. The parkway was popular with bikers of all stripes — cyclists as well as motorcycle enthusiasts — and it was one of the prettier stretches of road in the Phoenix area.

Huge saguaro cacti stood like sentinels beside clusters of palo verdes and catclaw acacias, desert creosote and brittlebush, barrel cactus and several species of chollas. Beyond the cacti and shrubs, the White Tank Mountains rose from the desert plain, their peaks and ridges like the cutting edge of a bread knife. Ravens soared overhead, black as coal against the azure sky, and a hawk circled in the distance, nearer to the mountains.

I had passed a couple of guys on fancy road bikes in the first mile or two outside of Buckeye, but after that I had the highway to myself, and once more I thought about the attack at Solana’s, what was being done to my Dad, and, now, my encounter with Hacker. It all came back to flight 595. I was sure of it. But why, and how?

Maybe ten miles out from Buckeye, a car appeared in my rearview mirror, coming up on me fast. It was a silver sedan, not a make or model I recognized. And I knew every make and model there was.

The windshield glass was tinted top to bottom, which was illegal in this state. Then again, there was no plate on the front of the car, so I didn’t know where it was from. All I knew was I couldn’t see the driver at all, and that made me nervous.

I floored the gas and the Z-ster leaped forward. Still, the silver sedan continued to gain on me.

And then the magic hit.

Dark mystes, I’d learned when battling Cahors, liked to go for the heart. That’s what this one did. It felt as though someone had reached a taloned hand into my chest, taken hold of my heart, and squeezed with all his might. This was what it must have been like to have a heart attack. I clutched at my chest and eased off the gas. My car shimmied, slowed, and drifted off the road, through the shoulder, and into the sand and rock and dry brush that lined the highway.

The sedan slowed as well, pulling onto the shoulder and halting.

I wasn’t going to sit there and let them finish me. Despite the agony in my chest, I stepped on the gas again. The wheels spun, spitting up rocks and sand before finally gaining traction and fishtailing out of the desert back on to the road, a cloud of red dust in my wake.

The sedan glided after me, and whoever was gripping my heart seemed to give a good hard twist. I gasped, afraid I was on the verge of blacking out.

Namid had once told me how to block attacks like these. I grunted a warding spell. The pain, my heart, and a sheath of magic around it.

The crafting hadn’t worked very well when I tried it against Cahors, but I’d gotten stronger, more skilled. As soon as I released the magic, the pain in my chest vanished. And before the bastard could attack me again, I cast a second spell, encasing the car in magical armor.

The moment I released the magic, the sedan sped up, until its front end was right on my bumper. Literally.

I’d had enough of him, too. I slowed, forcing him to do the same, and then I punched it. That sedan, whatever kind it might have been, was more than a match for the Z-ster, but I did manage to put a few yards between us. And then I cast a third time.

As simple as you please: the road, his tire, a nail.

I heard the blow-out, watched in my rearview mirror as the sedan swerved and slowed. The driver managed to stop without flipping over or going off the road, but by then I was doing one hundred and ten, with no intention of slowing down.

I chanced a grin, knowing that this one time, I’d gotten the better of these dark sorcerers who had been screwing around with me for the past several days.

“That was well done, Ohanko.”

I practically jumped out of my skin. The Z-ster veered dangerously and I slowed down.

“Damnit, Namid! You can’t surprise me like that when I’m driving!”

“I am sorry. Should I leave you?”

“No! Where have you been? I tried to speak with you, and you didn’t answer, not even to tell me that you don’t like being summoned.”

“I do not.”

“I know.”

“When was this?”

I hesitated. “Yesterday afternoon.” Had it only been yesterday?

“Why did you summon me?”

“Because Billie and I were nearly blown up by a magical bomb.”

I chanced a peek his way and found him staring back at me, his waters placid, his eyes as bright as searchlights.

“All right, she was nearly blown up. It seems I wasn’t in any danger at all. Not then, at least.”

“You are now.”

“So I’ve gathered. What is this about, Namid?”

“What do you think it is about?”

If I’d thought it would do any good at all, I would have pulled out my Glock and shot him. I hated it — hated it — when he answered my questions with questions. He reminded me of a teacher I’d had in high school, the most annoying geometry teacher on the planet, who had responded exactly the same way to all of our questions. I couldn’t stand the guy. Learned a helluva lot of geometry, though.

“I think I’m caught up in a magical war between dark sorcerers and whatever you’d call people like us.”

 

A Call To Arms – Snippet 07

A Call To Arms – Snippet 07

“One of our people is in trouble,” Lisa told her. “Something serious.”

“You sure he’s not just playing games?” the civilian pressed. “Sure sounded like a game to me.”

“Missile Tech Townsend doesn’t play that kind of game,” Shiflett told him.

“And Case Zulu’s not something our people make jokes about,” Marcello added. “Especially not to their superiors. Commodore? Anything?”

“Maybe,” Henderson said. “Three apartment buildings in a row with underground garages…I’ve got four possibles within two klicks of the Hamilton Hotel.”

“Any of them have an address of three-eleven something?” Lisa asked.

Henderson blinked. “Three-eleven Marsala Avenue,” he said. “Four blocks from the Hamilton. How did you know?”

“The Tinsdale 315 is one of the components in Damocles’s weapons ranging sensor,” Lisa said. “Four down puts it at 311.”

Henderson grunted. “This guy’s quick on his feet,” he said as he tapped rapidly on his tablet. “It’s like Secour all over again. Must be something in Manticore’s water. Okay; police alerted — emergency one level — signaling they’re on their way. What is this Case Zulu thing, anyway? I assume it’s not actually a Manticoran car model.”

“Hardly,” Marcello said grimly. “After Secour, First Lord of the Admiralty Cazenestro decided our personnel needed more hands-on combat training. Originally, the final stage in that training was called ‘Zulu Omega: a full-bore combat scenario, some of it live-ammo, as intense and realistic as we could make it without actually killing anyone.”

“Some recruits have nightmares for weeks afterward,” Shiflett agreed.

“Yes, they do,” Marcello said. “Believe me, it leaves an impression. But after a while, our people started calling that stage just ‘Zulu’ or ‘Case Zulu.’ It’s turned into a sort of short hand for ‘everything’s going straight to hell and we’re all going to die.’ Like I said, it’s not something an experienced noncom like Townsend would use to his department head on a whim.”

“The Captain’s right, Sir,” Shiflett confirmed. “Either Townsend is facing guns, or thinks he soon will be.” She looked at Lisa, inclining her head slightly in salute. “Nicely done, TO.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Lisa said. “I just hope we were reading him right.”

Shiflett’s lip twitched. “I guess we’ll find out.”

* * *

“Man, I’m just running on half-hydraulics today,” Chomps said, slathering on all the embarrassment he could as he keyed off his uni-link. At least they hadn’t pulled out their guns yet. Maybe they’d bought the act.

Or maybe they were still waiting for a thumb’s-up or thumb’s-down from their boss. Either way, time to try for a graceful withdrawal.

“Guess I’d better get next door and find her damn car.” He took another step up the tunnel —

“You don’t have to go outside,” the first man said. He gestured behind Chomps. “There are connecting doors between the three garages.”

“Really?” Chomps asked, frowning.

“We do a lot of work in this part of town,” the second put in. “Most of these side-by-sides have a second exit.”

“Safety regulation,” the first man explained. “Come on — I’ll show you.” He brushed past Chomps and started toward the lines of cars, leaving only the second man between Chomps and the street.

Or rather, leaving the second man plus all the others working up there. Wincing, Chomps turned and followed the first man toward the cars. Trying fervently to figure out what he was going to do.

Were they really just going to show him a way out and let him go? That would imply that they’d bought the little impromptu he and Donnelly had put on. It would also imply they were extremely trusting souls, which Chomps didn’t believe for a minute.

But if they’d decided to kill him after all, why go any deeper into the garage? Why not just shoot him here and be done with it.

He felt his stomach tighten. Because once among the rows of cars they could drop him and not have his body discovered for hours. Ten meters ahead was a panel truck with a slightly curved windshield, and in the distorted reflection Chomps saw the second man fall into silent step behind him.

Keep it together, Chomps ordered himself silently. The two men were undoubtedly armed, and they were both out of grabbing range. Even if he was able to get to one of them, trying to use him as a human shield against the other would be useless. With his broad Sphinxian build, he might as well try to hide behind a flagpole.

Keep it together. How would they do it? Certainly the safest method would be to simply shoot him in the back. He’d already seen that gunshots didn’t seem to spark any notice from the locals. A nice, quick shot, and they could get back to the main business of the day.

But people who didn’t like leaving loose ends typically didn’t like taking any other unnecessary risks, either. And if they preferred not to risk someone calling in a fresh gunshot, the next likely approach…

He was watching the truck windshield closely when the man behind him slid a knife from inside his shirt and picked up speed, closing the gap between him and his victim.

It was all Chomps could do not to react. But he kept walking, forcing down the urge to turn and face his attacker. The man was moving into stabbing range, but he would probably wait until the group was at least within the first line of cars before he made his move, if only so that he and his partner wouldn’t have to drag the body so far.

Chomps let the man get to within half a meter. Then, he jerked to a halt, spun around, and slashed his left arm diagonally down and outward through the space between them like he’d been taught in the Casey-Rosewood salle.

To his astonishment, and probably that of his attacker, it worked. Chomps’s wrist caught the man’s knife hand across the forearm, knocking the weapon out of line.

Follow-up! Lunging forward, Chomps made a grab for the deflected wrist.

But his attacker had recovered from his initial surprise and snatched the hand back out of Chomps’s reach. His follow-up would probably be to make some sort of feint and then take another shot at burying the knife in Chomps’s torso.

There was no way Chomps would be lucky enough to block the next attack. That left him only one counter. Grabbing the man’s collar with his left hand, he reached down and got a grip on the man’s belt with his right —

And with a grunt of effort he lifted the attacker off his feet, turned halfway around, and hurled him into his partner.

The man in front had already turned back to face the fracas, his hand digging into his shirt for his own knife or gun or whatever weapon he had in there. He had just enough time to rearrange his expression into stunned disbelief before the incoming human missile rearranged everything else and sent the pair of them crashing to the pavement.

A trained operative, Chomps reflected, would probably take advantage of his opponents’ temporary disadvantage to make that condition permanent. But Chomps wasn’t trained, his attackers were rapidly sorting themselves out, and if he screwed up the only permanence he was likely to achieve was that of his own death.

And so he charged straight past the tangle of bodies and limbs, reached the first line of vehicles, and ducked in alongside the panel truck, running sideways through the narrow gap between the truck and the next car over. His only chance now was to go to ground, call the police, and hope he could play hide-and-seek with the killers until they arrived.

He had reached the gap between the first two lines and ducked around the truck, looking for the next nearest vehicle that would hide his bulk, when there was the crack of a gunshot behind him.

His first impulse was to take a quick, panic-edged inventory of his skin and body parts. He’d heard once that terrible pain didn’t always register right away — maybe he was half a minute from death and just didn’t know it. But he seemed to be uninjured —

“Freeze, everybody!” The stentorian bellow echoing through the underground structure could be produced only by the sort of portable amplifiers police forces throughout the galaxy used. “Hands where we can see them. Now!”

Carefully, aware that his arms and legs were still trembling with adrenaline and not at their most reliable, Chomps came to a stop and crouched down.

Twenty seconds later, a half dozen gray-clad figures came charging from the tunnel, their guns drawn and ready.

Chomps took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. Then, raising his arms, he stood up and started toward them through the line of cars. Good cops, he knew, wouldn’t simply accept his word that he wasn’t one of the bad guys. Good cops would grab everybody in sight, throw on the cuffs, and haul them down to the station house to be sorted out at their leisure.

In fact, good cops would probably be very hands on throughout the procedure, possibly to the point of making everyone eat pavement while they passed out the restraints.

The Quechua City cops, as it turned out, were very good cops indeed.