CHAPTER 11
   

I said, “By the fires

I see this is Hell

And by the looks on your faces

You’re damned here as well.”

“More Thumbscrews,”

William Kevely    Let’s talk about love. I sat in my room with my back to the door, my legs straight out in front of me, my feet limp, and I stared at the ceiling and thought deep and profound thoughts from which wisdom emerged, as by magic. Well, okay, maybe not. But answer this for me: Why should the end of a fling with someone I hadn’t even met two months before leave me more dejected and, well, alone, than the destruction of the birth world of the human race, the place imprinted into my psyche and very genes as being and containing everything that was home? Imprinted into my psyche and very genes. Aye, there’s where it’s used as a polishing cloth. Exactly what has been imprinted into my genes and very psyche? I dunno. Standing here, at the door to yet another epoch of humanity, with a view that spans from one end of the hall to another, I say to you that I have no idea in the world, or worlds, what this thing is, except that I got it and I can’t shake it. But some things are learned, and, in fact, are learned so thoroughly that they’ll never be pried out of the mind in which they have taken root. Love, to pick an example at random. Romantic love. To be a human being born into the mid-twentieth century is to inhale ideals of romantic love with your first breath, to drink it with your mother’s milk, to eat it with your Gerber squashed peas, and to have it drummed thoroughly into your skin and vital organs by every children’s tale, television serial, Hollywood movie, work of popular music (and unpopular music), and back-alley conversation. But here’s another one, just to confuse you: To reach maturity in the late twentieth century is to learn that romantic love is a myth, created by the needs of the spirit and the skill of the songsmiths and the confusion of a spiritual being left, for a time, with nothing spiritual to believe in. Perhaps I overstate the case, as most people of that time were not aware of all of this—certainly not consciously. But nevertheless, romantic love was in the process of being discredited, even though the generation of man doing the discrediting was its slaves. It’s quite a concept, all in all. It tells us that that love must be hot instead of warm, or the sharp peak of a mountain instead of the gentle slope of a hill. Yet we all know that too much heat can burn, and that mountain peaks, while pleasant to stand on for a while, do not make as good dwelling places as hillsides. At least, for most of us. We are a very creative race, you know. And an imaginative one, even when we don’t know it. It seems that those individuals who most bemoan their own lack of imagination are the ones who think they have met the perfect mate and spend hours spinning daydreams of how it will be and what it means. These people, along with their spiritual brothers who are waiting for the perfect mate who must be out there somewhere, are using their imaginations to find new and ingenious ways to hurt themselves. I’m referring, of course, to myself. We could tell ourselves that what we wanted was the warm familiarity of the lover we knew, who knew us, with whom we had grown together and could continue to do so, that security was part of love, rather than its anathema. We could tell ourselves this, but even as we did, a persistent voice whispered from our souls, This isn’t right. There’s something more. And there is the other side, perhaps worse: When we achieve, out of nowhere, the explosive infatuation reflected in a hunger that cannot be sated, the voice says, Yes, this is right, it must be like this forever. Infatuation, as a phenomenon, can never be fully exorcised. Infatuation, with a person, an idea, a flower, a mountain, a starship, will exist as long as man. People who find their reason to exist in other people will exist as long as man. But be grateful, you who stand with me at the end of man’s infancy and the beginning of his adolescence, that no longer are such things held up as a virtue for which we all ought to strive. All this I have learned, and much of it I learned there and then, as I sat and thought deep and profound thoughts, from which wisdom emerged, as by magic. I am thus immune from causing myself needless pain over what cannot be and should not be, and I am able to go on with my life and with those things that are inarguably far more important than who is sleeping with whom at any given moment. I sat with my back against the door, my legs straight out in front of me, my feet limp, and I cried until I was exhausted, and eventually I slept. I’m so fucking wise.  When I awoke it was around midnight. My back hurt, and I felt like I’d slept sitting up in my clothes. The apartment was quiet. Rose slept in Jamie’s room, dreaming of Jamie, Tom in the living room, dreaming of Carrie. What a team. What a band. I wondered if Christian would be interested in forming a duet. I picked up the harness with the knife and looked at it for a while, then put it back down. No, I wasn’t really feeling suicidal, I just didn’t want to be carrying it. I walked down the hall and out the door, breathing cool New Quebec night and wondering if it, too, would be reduced to radioactive rubble. God, I was in a cheerful mood. No one tried to shoot me down as I stepped out onto the street, no one seemed to be following me as I made my careless way along, and I was not attacked as I walked into Feng’s. I went back into the kitchen and helped Eve finish closing it. Neither of us spoke; I just started wiping down counters and sweeping while she threw charged water on the grill to polish it. We carried the garbage bags (they had biodegradable plastic bags here) out to the dumpster, and as we were walking back in she put her arms around me and hugged me. I’d never noticed before how nice her hair smelled. “It’ll get better,” she said almost inaudibly, then with one last squeeze she led me in. By then it was around twelve-thirty. I sat at the bar and drank water with lemon in it until closing, which, this being Sunday, was only half an hour away. By one forty-five the last customers were out of the bar and had moved into the restaurant where they could sit and drink coffee and eat while they sobered up enough to walk home. Libby said, “Are you being a pinhead, Billy?” I nodded. “Want to tell me about it?” I did so. She shook her head. “That’s harsh.” “Yeah.” “But you know he doesn’t mean anything by it, don’t you? Jamie’s just a whore. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing.” “I know.” “I suppose that doesn’t help, does it?” I shook my head. “Is there anything I can do?” “Yeah, Libby, there is. Explain it to me. You know I don’t understand this stuff, tell me why this is happening to me, why I feel like I just want to roll over and die.” “Because you’re a pinhead.” “I know that. Why else? Why is she so vicious whenever I talk to her?” “Because she loved you.” “Bullshit.” “No, it’s true. That’s why she has to act like that, so she can break away from you.” “I don’t get it.” “That’s because you aren’t like her. She can’t go from loving a man to liking him, she has to hate him first.” “That’s crazy. Why?” “Because she’s scared, and she’d rather hate someone than risk getting hurt. She probably doesn’t know it, but there it is. Lots of people are like that.” She gave me another glass of water with lemon. “You wanted the wisdom of Libby the shrink, I hope you like it.” “The whole thing is stupid.” “Yeah. So’s being a pinhead. But you are one, anyway.” “That,” I said, “is for damn sure.” She tousled my hair. I stood up and leaned across the bar to give her a hug. She squeezed me, then kissed me, then we were kissing for real. I slid over the bar top and held her so tight it must have hurt, but she didn’t complain. When we came up for air she gasped, “Upstairs.” “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah.” We stumbled up there to the bed she shared with Fred, and clumsily got rid of our clothes. Her eyes were so brown and wide, her legs were strong and gripped me while she made hissing sounds and low rumbling noises, or maybe that was me. I touched her breasts and her hips and her legs, and brushed her hair from her face, and she responded, and I remember frustration that I couldn’t keep my mouth locked with hers while looking into her eyes. The eyes won eventually, brown pools of lust, of love, of fever; I went crazy for a while, but it was a good crazy, and she matched me until that moment we held each other so tight we might have just compressed into the same space, which would have been fine, if you ask me. We breathed heavily, and sweated, and sometime later Libby had the same thought as me: “At times like this,” she said, “I really miss smoking.” We lay quietly for a few minutes. Sometimes I think that sex is only a necessary prelude to good cuddling. But it grew late, and it would be embarrassing, even if nothing else, for Fred to find us like this, so I stood up and began to dress. She said, “Where the hell are you going, pinhead?” “Home. I need some more sleep, I think.” “You’re walking home alone?” “You coming with me?” “Fred will.” “That’s not quite the same.” “I know.” “I’d rather you did.” She looked at me soberly and began to get dressed herself. “Maybe one of these days I will,” she said. We went back downstairs, and she called for Fred, who was in the dining room talking to Rich. The two of them showed up, bulges under their jackets. “Yo,” said Libby. “The pinhead here needs to get home.” “Very well,” said Fred. “I’ll come, too,” said Rich. “More help is always appreciated,” said Fred. The three of us left Cowboy Feng’s together.  We spoke little as we walked. Fred suggested taking a wide detour around Le Bureau, and we did. Fred was alert, I was lost in thought, and Rich was watching me. Fred continued to look around. We went past a place where a church across the street faced an apartment complex on our side, which I always enjoyed because the apartment complex was built in a really fine Baroque style, with a big arch over the wood door, and windows with boxes and decorative stonework around them, while the church looked something like what on Earth would have been an “office park.” That’s a phrase I love: “office park.” Is it where offices go to play? Or where you park your office when you’re not using it? Le Bureau, at least, had a bit of style. I wondered if Souci was there now. No, it was late. She’d be at home, maybe with Jamie. Rich said, “Something on your mind, Billy?” “Huh?” “You were gritting your teeth.” “Oh. Women troubles, still or again. Nothing new.” “Souci?” “Who else?” “Billy, I don’t know how to tell you this—” “But she isn’t my type. I know. Thanks.” “It’s true.” “Of course it’s true. We are, quite literally, from different worlds. We have almost nothing in common. She doesn’t even like Irish music. Even if circumstances were different, we’d have absolutely no future. I know all that. It doesn’t change the fact that it hurts like a motherfucker.” “Yeah. When I was married, I—” That time, I could tell, it was a gunshot. Something hit me and I realized that it was Fred, pulling me to the ground. Rich fell next to me at the same time. Fred lay across me, keeping me pinned. All I could see was Rich, who caught my eye and gave me an okay sign as he pulled his gun out. It was very quiet. Fred said, “You all right, Billy?” “Yeah. I think I might have heard something go past my ear right before the sound, but I might have imagined it.” I wondered if my heartbeat was really as loud as it seemed. “Rich, you all right?” “Yep. Did you see?” “No.” “The hedge?” “Pretty much has to be.” “Check.” “Good. You two make a run for that apartment building, go through it, duck around the corner, and take off and head for your place in as roundabout a way as you can.” Rich said, “Will the apartment be open?” “I haven’t run into any security locks yet.” “Okay.” “I’ll give you cover and keep an eye out for muzzle flash. If whoever it is fires again, he’s history.” “Right.” “Whoever it is, is still behind that hedge, so you make sure you keep yourself between it and Billy.” I said, “Wait a min—” “Shut up,” they both said together. “It’s you they’re after,” said Fred. “If they can’t get a clean shot at you, they might not even fire.” “Might,” I said. “Shut up,” said Rich. “Shit,” I suggested. “Go,” said Fred, and Rich took my arm and hauled me up. We sprinted for the apartment building, just a few doors away. I could do nothing except concentrate on speed. My eyes were focused on that door. It came to me that they might have placed a second killer somewhere, but I couldn’t do anything about that now, so I just ran. Rich was just a bit behind me and to my left. We were almost there when he stumbled and fell against the door, his palms landing flat against it, and I heard the shot, followed an instant later by several that were crisper, louder, and came in quick succession, and I figured were Fred’s. Rich sank to his knees against the door. He had been shot from behind, but there was a bloodstain on the door where he’d struck it with his chest. I knew that was a bad sign. Then I saw the hole in the window next to the door, and realized the bullet had passed completely through Rich’s body and broken the window. This was a very bad sign. Rich managed to turn himself around. His eyes were open very wide. He rested against the door of the apartment, legs straight out in front of him, feet hanging limp. The bloodstain on the front of his shirt must have been three inches in diameter and was still spreading. I took off my shirt and held it against the wound. He coughed, flecks of blood appeared on his lip and beard. “It stings,” he said. “Don’t talk,” I told him. “We’ll get help.” He said, “I’d like to thank all the little people who made this moment possible.” He gave a small, bloody laugh, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and unevenly. Fred came up a moment later. He said, “I got her.” “Her?” “I’ve seen her before. I don’t know where.” My heart and stomach did an amazing series of quick acrobatics. “Souci?” “No, I’d remember her.” “Ah. We need to get help for Rich.” He shook his head. “Too late, Billy.” “No, he—” I looked at him. He was no longer breathing. “Damn,” I said, my voice quivering.  I think he may have had more hats than anyone I knew. Three top hats (two black, one grey), a bowler, three leather caps and one woolen cap, and others. The one I remember best was a brown leather cap, with a snap. I don’t remember anything else that was going on that day, or even where we were, but I remember Eve kept pulling the cap down over Rich’s eyes, while he tickled her. I remember his big crocodile grin. He had a strange fascination for the sounds people made during lovemaking, which was his biggest failing as a housemate. He would not only fill you in on what your other housemates had been up to, but what he thought of the sound effects you and your lover had made last night. One Christmas we were in London, and the bomb scare was very real, so we didn’t dare leave. Rich brought the motorcycle into the dining room and decorated it with bulbs and lights and strings of popcorn. At midnight on Christmas we killed all the other lights in the place and he turned on the emergency flashers. He had a nasty, unpredictable temper, but he always seemed gentle. He spent a great deal of time thinking up ways to get rich. He very badly wanted to be wealthy. Now he never would be.  “Let’s go, Billy.” “We can’t leave him.” “You want to explain all this to the cops?” I shook my head. Fred helped me to my feet. He took Rich’s .38 and put his own Beretta in Rich’s hand. “It might fool them,” he said. “At least for a while.” I nodded and took a last look at Rich, sitting with his back to the wall like he was resting, Beretta in his hand. My ears began to pound as I turned away. We made it back to the apartment without being stopped, although about halfway there we started hearing sirens, so we took a longer, more circuitous route. Tom and Jamie and Rose were all there. As we walked in the door, Jamie said, “What is it?” I opened my mouth, then closed it. I realized that I wasn’t wearing a shirt, but that I was still holding the bloody bundle in my hand. Fred took it, said, “I’ll be back in a moment.” He walked out. “What the hell happened?” said Jamie. The phone buzzed. I stared at it, wondering if it could be Souci, and I felt a flash of cold, black rage that I would want it to be, that I could think of her at a time like this. I marched over to the phone and picked it up—at least in part in order to avoid speaking with Jamie. If it had been Souci, I don’t know what I would have said to her. But it wasn’t. “Billy!” “Yeah, Libby?” “Where’s Fred?” “Fred is fine. He stepped out for a few minutes.” “Okay. The police were just here. About Rich. They said he’s—” “Yeah. I was there. How’s Eve?” Libby shook her head. “They’ve sedated her and taken her to the hospital.” “Damn.” “Are you and Fred going to be all right?” “Yeah.” “The cops are on their way over to you now.” “Thanks for the warning. Any idea who shot him?” “The girl who was in here with Carrie. Danielle.” “I remember. The photographer.” “Was she? That’s funny, so was Rich.” There were traces of tears at the corners of Libby’s eyes. “Thanks for the warning,” I said again. “I’ll see you later.” Fred came in as I disconnected. I said, “That was Libby. The police have been there.” Jamie said, “Would someone please tell me—” “Rich is dead,” said Fred. Jamie stared. “Oh, man.” Rose sat down. Tom’s mouth dropped open. At that moment someone knocked at the door. I opened it and found myself face-to-face with the light grey uniform of the New Quebec Municipal Police Force, or the Munis, as they were called. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kevely. Do you remember me?” “Um, vaguely. Sergeant Iverness?” “Yes. May we come in?” “Certainly. Please.” “Thank you. This is Officer Devenois. I believe I’ve met all of you before.” “Sit down.” “Thank you.” His eyes fell on the shotgun by the window and his eyebrows rose. “It’s mine,” said Jamie. “There are no laws against it, are there?” “No. Not yet, at any rate. Is that also yours?” Jamie followed his glance to the .357 Magnum on the counter. “Yes.” “You like guns, eh?” “Big guns,” agreed Jamie. “I see.” He turned back to me. “Do you know why we’re here?” “I just got off the phone with Libby down at Feng’s, and I’ve just passed the word on to my friends.” His mouth tightened. “Indeed? She wasn’t supposed to call you.” “Oh. Are you sure she understood that?” “Hmmm. Perhaps not. Well, I’d like to question each of you separately. Is there a place we can do this, or need we go to the station?” “No,” I said. “My room will work, I think.” “Excellent. We’ll start with you.” I led him back to the room. His eyebrows rose when he saw my knife and harness. He looked a question at me, but since he didn’t actually ask it, I didn’t see a need to answer. He began asking questions and I answered them as best I could. I lied a lot. I think he knew it, but he didn’t bring me down to the station, so that was good enough for me. I was very exhausted when he finished with me and started on Jamie.  After a long time they left, and we stared at each other. “Wow,” said Jamie. “They get anything from you?” I shrugged. “Rich,” said Rose, her eyes wide. “And poor Eve.” “I know,” I said. Tom said, “What happened?” “We were attacked,” said Fred. “They were trying for me,” I said. “They’ll try again, you know,” said Tom. “I know.” “I’ll stay with you,” said Jamie. I said, “Are you sure your attention can be spared from—never mind.” “What?” “It doesn’t matter. Look, I’ve got to sleep, all right?” I felt curious eyes on me, but no one said anything. I went off to my room, but I didn’t sleep until almost morning. 
 

 

INTERMEZZO
   

She’s a big, fine, strong, lump of an

Agricultural Irish girl

“The Agricultural Irish Girl,”

Traditional    It started simply enough, as always. Her father said, “Libby, find the quarter-inch wrench for me,” and she went off to do it. The workbench had been a strange and wonderful place when she was younger, and even now, at fourteen, there was a certain fascination. She looked around for the wrench but didn’t see it. While looking, her attention was captured by a red box, with three wires coming out of it and a dial in front. One of the wires had a dull needle-like thing at the end. She wondered at its purpose. Her first idea was that it had to do with testing car batteries, but she had seen her father do that, and he didn’t use this thing. It obviously had something to do with electricity. She wondered what would happen if she stuck the needle into a socket, but decided that it would probably be a bad idea. The other two wires, one red and one black, had clips at the end. She attached one clip to the handle of the clamp, the other to the workbench, and began gently touching the needle to the saw, the wall behind the workbench, one of the nail jars, the— She was grabbed from behind and swung around. Her father slapped her on top of her head, hard, and the box fell onto the floor. Good. I hope it’s broken, she thought. “I told you to get the wrench, not play with every tool I own.” He slapped the back of her head hard enough to make her teeth rattle, looked around for the wrench, and finally spotted it on the paint shelf. He took her by the arm and roughly dragged her over to the shelf, took the wrench, and threw her across the garage, where she banged her right elbow painfully against the old cedar buffet. What finally did it, she decided later, was that the wrench hadn’t even been where he said it would be. As he turned away, she grabbed the nearest thing to hand, an old push broom, and charged him. He turned around at her footsteps, and she swung, the big end catching him in the side. “Ufff,” he said, and took a step backward. “You’re never going to hit me again,” she screamed. “I’ll kill you if you hit me again.” He yanked the broom from her hand, snarling, and threw it off to the side. As he stared at her, she realized that she had never seen him this angry before. The thought came, He’s going to kill me. He’s really going to kill me. I’m going to be dead, and maybe go to Hell. As he took his first step forward, the flight reflex took over and she was gone, into the house, slamming the door behind her. When it opened, she was down the hall. His footsteps clattered behind her like the Four Horsemen, and when she looked back she saw Death, and it was gaining on her. She opened her bedroom door and dived up onto the top bunk, squashing herself into the corner. By accident, it was the right thing to do, because the bed was so wide and her room so small that no one her father’s size was able to get past it, and the bed was long enough that his arms couldn’t reach her, although he kept trying, like a creature out of a monster movie. She never watched monster movies after that, but he did go away and, like all the other times, the incident was forgotten by suppertime. Forgotten by him; never by her. 
 

 

CHAPTER 12
   

Hunted from our father’s home

Pursued by steel and shot,

A bloody warfare we must wage,

Or the gibbet be our lot.

“The Rapparee,”

Seamus McGrath, Tom Brett,

Michael O’Brian, and James English    Breakfast the next morning was a portion of prepackaged pudding that the label claimed was chocolate, served with a helping of mutual quick frost from each fellow roommate to every other. But the coffee was hot and there was milk to lighten it and sugar to make it sweet. A tense stillness, a deafening quiet, made the little apartment stifling. No one spoke, no one even looked at anyone else, we just watched the walls close in. At one point Jamie stood up, got out his Gibson six-string, and started singing “Sir James the Rose,” but no one responded, and soon he became quieter. Presently he stopped. What is there to say? I slipped into my room to play my banjo, but I couldn’t manage to feel any enthusiasm for that, either, so I stopped after three or four plunks. I went through the list of things I wanted to do, mentally crossing them out as I came to the ones that broke some natural law, could get me arrested, or I was certain to regret in a few hours. When I found one that survived all of the cuts, I went back into the living room and said, “I’m for Feng’s. Anyone else?” “I’ll go along,” said Jamie, I think figuring to protect me. “All right,” I said, because I couldn’t think of any way to say no. “I might as well,” said Tom, since the rest of us were. Rose was already there, waiting on tables so Fred could cook, since Eve… Jamie put the shotgun into a canvas bag and stuck his pistol under his jacket. I took along my knife so Fred wouldn’t give me any shit about not having it. Tom had his .45. “Should we bring our instruments?” said Tom. “I don’t much feel like practicing,” said Jamie, which was unusual for him, but understandable. I didn’t feel like practicing, either, but I was feeling contrary. I said, “I’m bringing mine. I might not want to come back here for a while, since every time we do we have to worry about getting shot at.” “That makes sense,” said Jamie, so we all packed up our instruments. Nothing untoward happened on the way to Feng’s, except that it was a real pain to carry a banjo all that distance. We arrived just before the dinner rush. I’d mostly skipped breakfast, and it had been several hours ago, anyway, so I ordered lamb paprikache, with spaetzle, lemon-grass soup, and an appetizer of celery root. Everyone sat down at a booth, but I was feeling antisocial, so I asked Fred to bring me my dinner in the bar. As I walked away, I felt three pairs of eyes on me. I waited for the food and watched Libby work. I wondered if we were now something different than we’d been before last night, but Libby kept being her cheerful self, which I guessed meant not. This was almost certainly just as well. As I sat there, Rose, in her stupid white waitress uniform, came up behind me and put her arms around me. “How’s my brother?” she said. “Why is it, with all this great food, Feng couldn’t have found waitress uniforms that didn’t look like something out of J.C. Penney’s Old People’s Sale?” She kissed my cheek. I said, “I’m all right, I guess. How about you?” “I’m worried about my little band.” She pronounced both t’s in little. “Are you? Why?” “I don’t know, I just am.” “Have some whiskey.” “I will.” She sat down and did this. “Are we ever going to play again?” “I don’t know,” I said. “If we get out of this alive, we might. If we all die, then probably not.” “I do not wish to die,” said Rose, as if she had considered the matter carefully and just reached that decision. “All right, then you won’t.” “That is a good thing. But Jamie has to live, too.” “All right, I’ll take care of it.” “And we need Tom to play mandolin.” “That’s true.” “And Fred and Libby to bring us food and whiskey.” “Right.” “And Eve and—oh.” She stopped, looking stricken. Fred arrived with my celery root. It was very tangy and had a trace of lemon in the dressing, so I suspected it would go well with the soup. Libby brought me a glass of burgundy, and it was okay. “It seems like you’re angry at Jamie,” Rose said. “Well, there was some stuff, but I don’t think I’m angry. I don’t know.” “That’s good, because I’m the only one who gets to be mad at Jim.” “I understand that now.” “I think we need to get you a girl.” “Yeah? Okay. Find one for me.” “She has to be a good one, because you’re my brother.” “Pick one out for me. I’ll trust your judgment.” “I will. You know that girl Souci, she wasn’t very good for you.” “People keep telling me that. I wonder if her friends are telling her the same thing.” “You know, it isn’t any of my business, Billy—” “Oh, go ahead and say it.” “Well, I just wonder if you didn’t arrange for things to fall apart between you and Souci. I mean, it almost seems like—” “Yeah, I know. I’ve thought of that, oddly enough. Maybe it’s true. It’s certainly a lot easier to be hurt than to, oh, hell with it. I’m not a shrink. Maybe it’s true. Either way, it doesn’t help.” “I know.” She dried the corners of my eyes, downed her whiskey, hugged me, and went back to the restaurant. Presently Tom sat down next to me. “Did you know that James Cagney never actually said, ‘I’m gonna do to you what you did to my brotha, you dirty rat’?” “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I did know that. And Bogart never said, ‘Play it again, Sam.’” Libby said, “Get something for you, Tom?” “Orange juice.” “Coming up.” I said, “You going to call Carrie?” “Why? She’s a whore.” “That’s harsh.” “It’s true.” “So you’re not going to call her?” “I don’t know.” My salad bowl vanished and my soup appeared. Yes, it complemented the salad very nicely. It went well with the wine, too, in an odd sort of way. Slurp slurp. I’m a very loud soup eater. “It’s Justin,” said Tom. “I hate him. Did you see how he was looking at me? Like I was dirt.” “I was pretty surprised you didn’t blow him away. “I almost did. Right there. You know, he treats her like shit.” “How do you know that?” “She told me.” “When?” “Last night. I called her.” “Ah. I think Libby would say you’re a pinhead.” “Libby would be right. Billy, you ever cry about Souci?” “Yeah. You ever cry about Carrie?” “Yeah. If she ever found out, she’d probably be proud of herself.” “I don’t think she would be. Souci would, though, if she knew I had. She probably guesses.” “Yeah.” “But I can’t help thinking she really cared about me.” “God, are we ever pinheads.” “Yep.” “Are you pissed at Jamie?” “How do you know about that?” “Souci told Carrie and Carrie told me.” “Oh.” “Well, are you?” I thought about that and tried to answer honestly. “I don’t know. I’m hurt. I’ve never been jealous before so I’m not used to it. Jamie’s my brother, I couldn’t hate him. But I don’t know. Suppose she made a pass at him. He could either say yes and feel guilty about it, or say no and feel resentful. I guess I’d rather he felt guilty than resentful. It’d help to know he felt guilty, though—at least a little.” “He probably does, in his own way,” said Tom. “Probably.” “But what if he made the pass at her?” “Then,” I said firmly, “I don’t ever want to know about it.” After a moment, Tom said, “Man, I still can’t believe that Rich is dead. It’s like it isn’t real.” “I know what you mean. I keep turning around, expecting him to be there. And every time I walk by his bike, it hits me again. It sure is weird how the brain works.” “You mean how we’re bummed out about our love lifes when what we’re really upset about is Rich?” “Yeah.” “I hadn’t noticed.” “Heh.” We said nothing more for a while, then Tom wandered off into the restaurant. I. finished my soup and had more wine. Jamie joined me. He had a beer, I switched to coffee. I decided I was drinking too much coffee lately. He said, “How you doing, bror?” “All right. I’ll live, anyway.” “You seem kind of down.” “Yeah, I guess.” “Is it about Souci?” “Yeah.” “Well, look, Billy. I know her pretty well—” “Yeah, even biblically.” He looked at me. Then he cleared his throat. “Would you believe me if I said she isn’t good enough for you?” “No. She good enough for you?” “Huh?” “Never mind.” “How about—” “Let’s not talk about her.” “All right.” The food showed up and Jamie was politely silent out of respect for my pleasure. Business in the bar picked up and then slacked off while I ate. Libby brought Jamie another beer, then leaned on the bar and said, “So, how’s it going, gentlemen?” “All right,” said Jamie. I said, “How’s Eve?” She shook her head. “Not catatonic, but not responding to anything. On the other hand, she’s still sedated, so that may be part of it.” “I hope she comes out of it,” I said. “Me, too.” “I wish I didn’t feel responsible for it.” Jamie said, “Did you pull the trigger?” “Well, no.” Libby said, “Did you order Rich to go along? Did you even ask Rich to go along?” “No.” “Then why feel responsible?” “Because they were protecting me. Whoever it was, was probably shooting at me, and if he’d let me get shot, he—” “Rich figured he was doing something important. It was his choice.” “I know.” “If they want to kill you that badly, we’d better not let them.” I said, “I just wish I knew why they were doing it—what their goals were. That’s what I’ve been racking my brains with and I can’t figure it out.” Libby nodded. “Yeah. If we knew what was in it for them, it would help.” I shook my head. “I don’t think anything is in it for them, exactly. I think they believe in what they’re doing, at least on some level.” Jamie said, “Destroying entire populations? They believe in that?” Libby said, “I heard a rumor today that war broke out on Mince. Nuclear war, every city on the planet. If Sugar Bear is behind it, that’s another, what, eight, nine thousand people they’ve wiped out? You think they believe that’s the right thing to do?” “What’s Mince?” said Jamie. “A colony world around a star somewhere between here and the Fishbait Cluster.” I said, “From talking to Rudd, I do think they believe in what they’re doing.” “That doesn’t make sense,” said Jamie. “Are they religious nuts?” “I don’t know. He referred to the Physician, and a cure, which could be a religious reference of some sort. But I ought to have seen symbols of his religion if there was one, or heard something in what he said. I don’t know.” “Well,” said Jamie, “let’s make a list of all the possible reasons why a group of people would want to destroy humanity, and—” I said, “That’s a joke, right?” “Right.” I sighed. Libby said, “Why does anyone want to kill anyone? It’s probably the same reason, only bigger.” “Money figures in there pretty highly,” I said. “So does jealousy,” said Jamie. I winced. “Hate,” said Libby. “Power,” I said. “Revenge,” said Jamie. “If we’re making a list,” said Libby, “put money in twice.” “Yeah,” I said, “and if we’re going to mention hate, we should mention fear, like you said.” “That’s true,” she said. “Fear of what?” said Jamie. “Hell if I know. Besides, they probably aren’t all like—shit.” “What?” I stared off into space for a moment. Libby said, “What is it, Billy?” “Maybe they are all like Souci.” Jamie said, “What do you mean?” I gestured to Libby. “She was telling me about hate and fear.” “What about it?” “That Souci got angry because she was afraid.” “I could believe that,” said Jamie. “What about it?” I ignored him and asked Libby, “When’s the first time you ever saw her mad?” “I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen her mad.” “Yes, you have. The first time you two met.” “That was right here. You two were sitting at that table and—oh, right, she got mad and walked out.” “Do you remember why?” “Ummm, it was a political argument, wasn’t it? No, I remember, it was Hags disease.” “Right. It was something that scared her so much, she got angry, because that’s what she does.” “Well, and?” “Maybe these people are scared about something.” “Like what?” said Libby. “What’s going to scare someone so badly he’s willing to help destroy entire populations?” “It’s a quarantine,” said Jamie. “They’re trying to prevent infection.” “From what?” said Libby. “Now that I think of it,” I said, “why not Hags disease? They had it on Earth, they still have it. It’s a one hundred percent fatal communicative disease. Isn’t that enough to scare someone?” “Well, yeah.” “Scares the shit out of me,” said Jamie. “So, how do you protect yourself from a disease like that?” Libby considered this. “To start with,” she said, “I’d pour shitloads of money into research, to find a cure.” Jamie said, “And be as careful as you can of people you don’t know—” “How about this?” I said. “You select a group of your friends and peers, and isolate yourselves from everyone else.” Libby looked thoughtful, then shook her head. “I don’t think it would work. You’d need a whole planet.” “So? They’re rich.” “It wouldn’t work over the long run,” said Libby. “How do you ensure there isn’t any contact between you and the rest—oh.” “Yeah. First you isolate yourselves, then you get the rest of humanity to blow themselves up.” “A little extreme, I’d say.” “What,” I said, “history doesn’t have any examples of nut-case fanatics?” “A point,” said Jamie. “I don’t know,” said Libby. “Take it a step at a time, then. Hags disease appeared just about the same time it became possible to consider colonizing the Moon. So they secretly arrange to have a colony, then they start a war on the Earth. But they aren’t quite fast enough, and some people escape and set up on the Moon. So they try Venus, and wipe out everyone on the Moon, but two colony ships make it there, and the Earth is still able to send some ships out, too. So they try for Mars, while wiping out Venus, and the same thing happens, and there they are, looking for their own colony, planning to destroy everyone else.” “Wow,” said Libby. “It’s weird, but it sort of fits.” “It sure does,” said Jamie. “But, then, what does Feng want?” “As I understand it,” said Libby, “what they’re looking for is some sort of handle on the enemy.” “Handle?” “A weakness. Some means of striking back at them. In Feng’s time, they’re trying to wipe out Feng’s people, and Feng’s people know nothing about them. We’re supposed to find something that will help.” I nodded. “They,” I repeated. “Sugar Bear. The enemy. Wow.” Jamie said, “Then we haven’t really accomplished anything.” “On the contrary,” I said. “This is it.” “What do you mean?” “We’ve figured out that they almost certainly have a single home world, rather than being spread throughout the galaxy. If that world can be found, Feng’s people can counterattack, or threaten to counterattack, or something like that.” I turned to Libby. “Can’t they?” “That sounds right to me, Billy,” said Libby carefully. “Well, great,” said Jamie. “How are we going to find their home world?” “Whose home world?” I spun around. Libby said, “Oh, hi, Christian. We didn’t see you there. Get you a beer?” “That’d be nice. What’s going on? Whose home world are you looking for?” “Whose do you think?” “The bad guys?” “Good guess.” “I thought you thought I was a bad guy.” “It’s a possibility,” I said. “Does that mean you have to kill me?” I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. I said, “I don’t know. What’s the location of the rebel base?” He shook his head. “If you’re the good guys, I have to ask that.” “Don’t bother,” said Jamie. “The bad guys already blew it up.” “That’s harsh,” said Christian. “That’s Libby’s word,” I said. “I’ve been hanging around with her a lot. Did you mean the Earth, that the bad guys blew up?” “Yeah,” said Jamie. “How did you know that’s what I meant?” “It’s where you guys are from,” said Christian. “Oh.” “You think they destroyed the whole place?” “It looks that way,” I said. “Wow. That’s scary. Why do you have to find out where they live? So you can blow up their planet?” He didn’t seem especially serious about this blowing-up-planets thing. We looked at each other, then at Christian. “All right,” he said, “how are you going to find it?” Again, we didn’t answer. “Man,” he said. “You guys really think I’m with them, don’t you?” Libby said, “How are we supposed to know, one way or the other?” “I guess you’re right,” he said. “But who are they, anyway? I’m curious.” “Well,” I said, “if what I’ve just figured out is true, they’re a bunch of nut cases who think the only way to protect themselves from Hags disease is to kill off anyone who might be infected, which means anyone but themselves. I’m not sure how they manage to be sure none of them have contact with a carrier.” “Scary,” said Christian. “That means killing a lot of people.” “The whole human race,” said Libby. “And what are you guys doing?” “Trying to save them.” “Save everyone?” “Why do you ask?” I said. “Got someone in mind you don’t want saved?” “No, I just wondered who appointed you guardians of humanity.” “Shit happens,” said Libby. “Yeah,” said Christian. “I guess it does at that.” He finished his drink and walked out of the bar. Jamie got another beer. “What the hell got into him?” “Hmmm,” said Libby. I agreed with her. “All right,” said Jamie. “As I was saying, how are we going to find their home world?” “I don’t know,” I said. “But now that we know what we’re after, we’re closer.” “I just hope they don’t kill us all before we find out,” said Jamie. “Amen to that,” I said. In the next room, there was a tinkle of broken glass. I mentally tsked. Then I heard the distant report of a firearm. Someone screamed. “What’s the secret of comedy?” I said to no one in particular, as Jamie took his pistol from his belt and walked into the next room. Libby didn’t answer, she was too busy turning the key in the cash register and pulling her .44 from under the bar. “I’ve wandered into a western,” I said. “I don’t believe it.” There were more screams from the next room and I began to be convinced. 

CHAPTER 13
   

He was a braw galant

And he rode at the ring.

And the bonny Earl of Morray,

He might have been a king.

“The Earl of Morray,”

Traditional    Chaos engenders confusion springs from disorder; the gentle whitewash of remembrance fails me, and I relive too much. What is this quintessence of dust, as the man said, and on bad days I know why. I wanted to huddle in the bar and hope anybody who didn’t like me wouldn’t come looking, but I’m curious as well as cowardly, and sometimes the former dominates, for a time, for a time. I stopped beneath the arch, on the taproom side, and stuck my head out to get a glance into the dining room, whence came the tinkle of broken glass et al., and I retain the flashes of sight/sound passing through the tunnel we call memory, the better to cushion the blow, my dear, but the eardrum rings and the retina burns, even now, when the fixer of all contusions should have twisted its rope enough. They were standing in the doorway, holding the sorts of weapons that it takes two hands to hold. We had somehow moved from a western to a gangster film, which is only a difference of props and stage setting, I suppose, but I didn’t like it. I ducked back, breathing hard. In that confusion of fear and adrenaline, I doubted what I had seen, so I looked once more, ducked behind my wall again, and the screaming resumed, accompanied this time by a shower of splinters marking the spot where my head had just been; I resolved at this point to stop sneaking peeks. But I recognized two of those who had come in as Justin and Claude, and I had no reason to think that their intentions toward me were any friendlier than they had been before. There was more shooting, and I looked again, my decision forgotten in the heat of the moment. All right, then. Forget the sights and sounds and memories and emotions, I’ll just tell you what happened, as I was able to reconstruct it later, and you can supply your own reactions, since you will, anyway. The plan involved three of them walking in the front door with automatic weapons, just seconds after two others were to appear from the back with hand weapons, and the group was to simply go through the place shooting any of us they saw until they found me, and then they could leave after making certain I was dead. How were they to get in the back door, normally kept locked? A “customer” slipped back there and unlocked it, after making certain where I was in the restaurant. The plan was good, and would have worked except that Fred happened to be taking out the garbage. A few days before he was killed, Rich had installed a small light in the back door, just to let us know the door was unlocked. The light was on, and Fred knew that it shouldn’t have been. Fred was not the sort to let this kind of thing slip by. He picked up his machine pistol and returned to the door to check things out, just as it opened, and two heavily armed persons attempted to, as they say, gain entrance. Fred fired, knocking out a window and making someone scream, but not actually hitting either of them. It is much more difficult to hit someone you’re firing at than you may think, especially when you’re in a hurry and he’s shooting back. Fred was good enough that he might have been able to drop them both by taking his time and picking his targets, but he chose, on this occasion, to just fill the air with so much lead that they had to leave, which they quite reasonably did. Jamie and Libby appeared right as they were slamming the door shut. Fred told them, “Guard the hall,” and turned to deal with the front, correctly guessing what was about to happen, but not wanting to leave the back way unattended. There were three of them, as I said, all with full-automatic rifles. Tom took out his pistol, but Fred was ready. They saw Fred as he saw them, and everybody fired. When the smoke cleared, one of the attackers, someone I’d never seen, was wounded and running up the street as fast as he could and Justin had dived out the door, leaving Claude alone in the room. By this time, all of the customers were on the floor, most of them screaming. Claude ducked to the side, losing his weapon in the process. He came up with a small pistol and, from a prone position on the floor, shot three times at Fred, then he got up and ran out the door himself as Tom emptied his automatic in Claude’s general direction. Fred slumped against a wall and no one moved. Apparently one of Claude’s shots had hit him, though not badly as far as I could tell. I saw a wound high on his right leg, which hadn’t been as obvious as Rich’s wound had, I suppose due to differences in weapon, bullet, and location. The customers gradually stopped screaming, although one of them continued to moan softly. Jamie and Libby appeared in the room, just as I walked in. “I’ve locked the back door,” said Jamie. “Good work,” said Fred. Sweat was pouring down his face, and I realized that he was in a great deal of pain. Tom put another magazine into his .45, walked up to a window, and looked out it. There was no trace of humor on his features. Libby knelt next to Fred and said, “You all right, babe?” “Fine,” he said, gasping. Libby turned and said, “Get him in the back room, and I’ll look at that leg. We also need to get these people out of here.” Tom said, “Better put them in the bar. I don’t think it’s safe to send them outside.” I said, “Oh?” “I saw Justin meet up with Claude, and they’re sitting in the bakery across the street, probably going to shoot at us.” “Wonderful.” I came forward, wanting very much to feel useful. The room was thick with the harsh smell of gunpowder. There was a blue haze in the air, like and yet more sinister than tobacco smoke. Jamie and I carried Fred upstairs where he could rest on the bedding where Libby and I had made love twelve hours before. Rose and Libby coerced the ten or so customers into the bar. Fred seemed to be losing a great deal of blood. I pressed a shirt against the wound as hard as I could. Fred’s face was covered with sweat and he winced as I applied pressure. He held out his gun to me. “You want to use this?” “No. Now shut up.” “Yes, sir.” I went back out. Libby was just finishing getting all of the customers into the bar. Tom yelled, “Watch it!” and ducked. There was a spray of glass, and someone screamed again. I told Libby, “He’s upstairs, lying down.” She nodded and set her pistol on a table, disappeared in back. Tom stood up, fired out the window, and ducked again. Jamie did the same thing. I stayed down. There was a thunk somewhere above my head and off to the right, and I was sprayed with particleboard as a bullet hit the wall. I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. Rose huddled on the floor next to Jamie’s right leg. This continued for a while. Tom selected a magazine from the pile by his feet and reloaded. Jamie used the quick-loader for his revolver, tossing it over his shoulder as if for luck. They both fired out the window again. There was a pause, during which I crawled over to Tom and said, “What the hell’s going on?” He shrugged. “There’s at least a couple of them, in the bakery across the street. They shoot, we duck. We shoot, they duck. No one’s going to hit anyone.” “Great,” I said. “I wonder why the police haven’t shown up?” “Hell if I know.” Jamie said, “Maybe we should rush them.” At that point Libby, who had just emerged from tending to Fred’s wound, walked past him. She said, “Good idea.” She picked up her pistol and carried it loosely at her side. Then she just walked out the door, turned toward the bakery, and started shooting. Jamie was the first one after her, with Tom right on his heels, then me, then Rose. What Rose or I thought we were going to do, I don’t know. There wasn’t anyone on the street, except one grey sedan with the Muni insignia on the door. The bakery was small and ugly, with exterior brick up to three feet, then plate-glass windows perhaps four feet long and three feet wide, separated by thin metal strips. The windows displayed loaves of bread and pastries. All of these windows were broken. Most of the pastries were ruined. As we came out, Libby, Tom, and Jamie fired. Justin and Claude emerged and began running down the street, I guess deciding that the bakery was a poor place to have a gunfight, after all. Jamie and Libby shot at them and missed, and we all set off. I wondered what I thought I was going to do if we caught them. It was growing dark, and I wondered if that would make a difference. Claude, in front, reached the door of Le Bureau Théâtral du Nouveau Québec. It occurred to me that, once inside, they would know the place really well, and that they might have reinforcements waiting. I guess the same thoughts occurred to the others, because they put on a burst of speed and we were right behind them in a narrow hallway, with no possibility of cover for anyone. If they stopped, I think they could have had us all then, but instead they continued past a receptionist’s desk to what looked like a copying center, with several machines and a sturdy bookcase or two. There was a window in the back, and at first I thought they’d go through it and keep running, but instead they stopped below it and turned to face us, like boars at bay. I was just outside the room, Rose was behind me, Libby and Jamie and Tom were almost in the door. Squat, curly-haired Claude fired a shot at Jamie, and tall, long-haired Jamie went down behind a copier. I couldn’t tell at the time if he had ducked or been shot, and neither could Claude, who kept shooting into the machine, hoping to pierce it and hit him. Claude’s pistol was small, but in that room seemed much louder than the bigger weapons had in Feng’s. My ears hurt. Justin had a machine pistol, but Tom moved too quickly. He rolled behind a bookcase, came up, fired several times. He missed, but I saw where the bullets hit near Justin’s head. Justin ducked down. The .45 was very loud, as well. Libby fired at Justin, and, well, for noisemakers, you’ll have to put the .44 automag up there with Spinal Tap and 747s. She fired at Claude, and I stayed down and figured that ear damage was the least danger I was in. She kept alternating shots at Justin, who was behind a machine, and Claude, who was behind the counter. There was a lull while she reloaded, during which Justin stood and went crashing out the window. Tom leapt through the window after him, .45 flailing about in his hand. I guess this was too good a chance for Claude to pass up, because he stood suddenly and carefully aimed for Tom’s back. A sick feeling hit my stomach, and I yelled and so did Rose, but we needn’t have bothered. Jamie stood up from behind the machine and fired. Claude spun and slammed against the wall, looking very surprised, and I saw an exit wound in front of his shirt, just like Rich’s, and I was glad. Claude was working on raising his pistol when I heard the hammer fall on Jamie’s revolver. It was empty. Claude’s face lit up. There was another gut-wrenching frozen moment, but then there was another ear-shattering explosion as Libby put a shot into Claude’s stomach. Claude dropped the pistol and crumpled to the ground, and now the look on his face wasn’t surprise, it was pain, and I thought of Rich again and I liked that, too. Libby fired again, then again, then kept putting bullets into his body until her gun was empty. I turned away before this point. I started to shake in the deafening silence. “Let’s get back to Feng’s,” said Jamie after a moment. I realized that I was having some trouble hearing him for the ringing in my ears. His face was slack and he looked very tired. Libby didn’t answer; there was an expression on her face that I couldn’t read. Rose said, “What about Tommy?” “I don’t think he’ll come back here,” I said. “Let’s just get back to Feng’s where it’s—well, safer.” Jamie and Rose and I left the office. I heard Libby’s footsteps behind us as we reached the door and stepped out onto the street. We turned up toward Feng’s in the growing twilight, and stopped cold. Sergeant Iverness stood in a crouch, his pistol held in both hands and pointed at Jamie. Christian stood easily in an ankle-length leather coat, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a pump-action shotgun pointing loosely at Libby. I was glad Tom, at least, wasn’t around, and I hoped he’d be all right. “Toss your guns to the side,” said Iverness crisply. His voice came as through a distance due to the ringing in my ears, and this added to the sense of unreality about the entire scene. Jamie sighed and let his gun drop. I heard the sound of Libby’s dropping as well. What the hell, they were empty, anyway. Christian moved the shotgun to cover Rose, who had her hands jammed into her jacket pocket. The rest of us stood with our hands well away from our bodies. Iverness said, “Where’s the skinny guy?” I shrugged. He studied me for a moment, then turned to Christian and nodded. “Let’s get it done,” he said, again as from far away. I knew it couldn’t be real. Christian swung his shotgun until it was pointing at Libby again. Then Iverness faced me and pointed his pistol dead at my chest, and I saw his face tighten just a little, and I could actually see, or imagined I could see, his finger squeezing the trigger. I closed my eyes, just to show how brave I am, and waited for the bullet. Next to me, Jamie had time to say, quite clearly and distinctly, “Well, shit,” then I heard the sound of a shotgun, twice in quick succession, and I winced and waited for the impact. And waited. Presently I looked. Iverness lay on the street, and I averted my eyes from what was left of his face. Christian’s shotgun still pointed at him. He pumped another round into the chamber, walked over to the body, and touched it with his foot. I think he was checking to make sure he was dead, but I averted my eyes once more. None of us moved; none of us spoke. We stood there in the spreading darkness and looked at one another and at Christian, who returned our looks from slitted eyes. Rose said, “Perhaps we should go inside now.” “Good idea,” I said. “And you can put that thing away anytime.” “What? Oh, this.” She put the derringer back in her pocket. “I never got to shoot it, anyway,” she said. “Christian shot first.” “I noticed that,” I said. And to Christian, “Why?” “I’ve never liked cops,” he explained. That was as good as I needed just at that moment. Jamie and Libby retrieved their weapons and left Iverness lying there. We walked back to Feng’s. Did I mention before that I’d wandered into a western? It felt like it more than ever as we walked through deserted streets back to Feng’s. It would have been funny if it weren’t so spooky. When we got there, Jamie stepped in ahead of me, though he wasn’t armed, either. I stood inside and looked around. There was still the faint smell of gunpowder, but the blue smoke had dispersed. There was a fair amount of broken glass, chipped woodwork, and smashed crockery, and I could see it would take some clean up, but it was home. We sat down at a table, and I said to Christian, “Well, when are the police going to show up?” “I don’t know,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to live through today, so no one made any contingency plans.” “Sugar Bear really does own the police department, don’t they?” “Pretty much the whole city,” said Christian. “Damn.” Jamie nodded thoughtfully, then suddenly turned to Libby. “By the way,” he said, “why did you charge out there like that? That was crazy. You could have—” “Fuck off,” said Libby, acid in her voice. “Well, shit,” said Jamie, but didn’t push it. To change the subject, I asked her, “How is Fred doing? We should tell him what—” “The bullet hit an artery in his leg,” said Libby. “He’s dead.” 
 

 

INTERMEZZO
   

Now with this loaded blunderbuss—

The truth I will unfold.

He made the mayor to tremble

And robbed him of his gold.

“Brennon on the Moor,”

Traditional    He lived in a single room, sharing bathroom and kitchen with the junkie to the right and the prostitute across the hall. The mattress took up one corner of the room, his hollow-body electric and acoustic took up one corner, his antique, honest-to-God, real, two-hundred-year-old Fender Stratocaster got the guitar stand. Next to them was his shotgun, two pistols, and ammo boxes. On the other side of the room were his piles of clothes (one dirty, one clean; he could usually tell them apart). Next to them books: Flaubert, Dickens, Hugo, Hawthorne, Dumas, a few contemporary novels, some current works of political studies, music theory. Just at the moment, he was working on soloing over thirteenth formations, playing with the mixolydian scale, emphasizing the seventh in the lower octave and sixth in higher. He was lost, as he always was. The rest of the world did not exist, music was all there was: the music in his head, and the music from the guitar, as he concentrated on making every note speak, on phrasing and dynamics, and the creation of beauty. There was a sharp rap at the door. He stopped playing. What the hell? “Who is it?” “Municipal Police Force.” He frowned, set the guitar down, opened the door. The big one, in front, said, “Sir, we’ve had a complaint about noise—” “From who?” “I’m afraid we can’t say. Someone in the building.” Here the cop sniffed. “Jesus Christ, it’s not even ten o’clock. What’s the problem?” The cop’s face changed then, and he said, “Look, punk, I don’t give a—” “Hold it,” said his partner, a shorter guy he almost recognized. “What?” The partner said, “Aren’t you Christian Drewry?” “Yeah. So?” The two of them had a hasty, whispered conference, then the short one said, “Excuse us. Never mind.” Another one who took orders from Rudd, Christian decided, which made him a friend of Iverness’. Christian smiled to himself. He mostly helped Rudd out because he liked Ivy and because it was fun to test his nerve from time to time, to get out some of his frustrations, but every once in a while, it paid off in unexpected ways. He said, “Before you go—” “Yeah?” “Who was it?” “Huh? Oh.” The cop pointed straight down. “Thanks.” “Forget it.” When they’d left, Christian went back into his room and picked up his ..38, replaced one live round with a blank load, and cocked the pistol with the blank under the hammer. He walked down the stairs and kicked open the door to the guy’s room. He didn’t know the guy, who had just moved in, but he didn’t really care. He was fat and balding and very surprised as he sat watching the TV. Christian stuck the barrel practically up the guy’s nose and said, “You got a complaint, motherfucker?” “Huh, wha—?” “I said you got some noise complaint to make? Am I interfering with your peaceful enjoyment of the evening?” “N-no.” “Good. You’re interfering with mine.” Christian smacked him across the face with the gun while simultaneously firing it. Then he put a round into the TV and left without looking back. He went up to his room, set the pistol down, and picked up his guitar again, began laying down melodic phrases on top of chord progressions in his mind. 
 

 

CHAPTER 14
   

Up the long ladder and down the short rope

To hell with King Billy and God bless the Pope.

“Up the Long Ladder,”

Traditional    “He’s dead,” said Libby, toneless, even, distant. Leave it there, just for a minute. Why? Perhaps as a gesture of sympathy made out to whoever needs it at the moment. We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose, and cash it then. Fill in the amount with your chosen investment, in the coin of love, hate, excitement, disgust, intrigue, boredom, or however you spend your life. Leave it there; we’ll come back to it. When Rich died, scenes had returned to me—incidents which had captured who he was, to me, and this had brought his death home, and yet kept it at a distance and begun the healing process. But I guess I never really knew Fred. There was a distance about him at all times, a formality that was not cold, but didn’t invite closeness. He was good at what he did, and he was dependable, but he was almost more of an automaton than a real person. Jamie, I guess, was closer to him than anyone except Libby, and that was perhaps because they were so different. Jamie was loud where Fred was quiet, Jamie was warm and emotional where Fred was cold and rational. But now Jamie was alive, and Fred was not, and I wished I’d known him better, that I might mourn him as he deserved. Those were thoughts at the time, in that first instant after Libby’s announcement. I don’t know what thoughts the others had, but there was silence for a long, long moment, broken suddenly by Tom’s arrival. He walked in the door so cautiously that it would have been comical if it weren’t so reasonable. Then he looked around and said, “What is it?” We told him. He went up to Libby and held her. It looked like she was about to start crying, then she caught herself and said, “I’m all right. What happened to you?” Tom opened and closed his mouth, still holding Libby, then he said, “Justin outran me, which was just as well, since I realized that my gun is empty and I left all my spare magazines back here.” He shook his head like it was a joke, but I couldn’t help shuddering. “What happened with you guys?” he said. I said, “Did you go by Le Bureau?” “No.” “Well, if you do, you’ll find a few bodies in the area.” “Oh?” “Claude, for one.” “Good work. Who got him?” “Jamie and Libby.” “Good,” said Tom, like he meant it. “Claude’s the one who killed Fred,” said Jamie. “Oh,” said Tom. “Who else?” “Would you believe, the cop, Iverness?” “Really? We’re going to have the whole city on our asses. Who shot him?” Jamie gestured with his head toward Christian, who was sitting in a far corner. Tom stared at him. “I thought you were on their side.” “I was.” “What happened?” “I don’t know,” he said. “I was just standing there, about to shoot Libby, and I couldn’t. I had to shoot Ivy instead. I don’t—” “Ivy?” said Rose. Christian shrugged. “I’ve known him for a long time.” “You are with Sugar Bear,” said Jamie softly. “I was. I don’t think I am anymore.” “But I don’t get it. Why did you do all that stuff?” “What stuff?” “Why were you with them?” He lit a cigarette and turned away. I thought he wasn’t going to answer us, but he finally said, “That’s a hard one. I never thought about it much, I just did it. I was brought up that way, like we were special because we were still going to be around when all the sickies killed themselves.” I said, “You mean, when you guys wiped out—” “I didn’t know about that until you guys told me.” “Oh. What did you do?” “Pretty much what I was told. Security stuff, making sure people didn’t find out about us, helping to keep the organization safe. It didn’t come together until just now, when I had to kill Libby and couldn’t. Even when Ivy and I charged in the back door, if Fred hadn’t been there, we’d have gone through and shot you down.” “You sure kill easy,” I said. He said, “Yes, I do,” looking me in the eye. After a moment I looked away. Jamie said, “Well, I believe you.” “Me, too,” I said. “I guess you’re with us now,” said Tom. “I guess so.” “I don’t suppose,” I said, “you could tell us where the home world is?” “No. I hadn’t even realized there was one until you mentioned it. I’ve never been very high in the organization.” “Hmmm. So we still have to figure out how to find it.” “The Physician would know.” “Who’s the Physician? Rudd mentioned him.” “The big boss. I don’t even know if he’s on Laurier or somewhere else.” “Oh. How do we find him?” “Souci would know.” “Oh, wonderful,” I said. “I have real doubts that she’d tell us.” “Yeah. Me, too.” “We could ask her, though,” I said. “I know where she lives—” “She’s moved,” said Christian. “To where?” “I don’t know.” “Wonderful.” “But I think her friend Carrie would.” Tom shook his head. “This just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?” “At least we know what we have to do,” I said. “If the cops don’t show up and drag us all in.” “I think we’re going to be safe for a while,” said Christian. “Only those at the top really know what happened, and it’ll take them a while to figure out what to do.” “Good,” I said. “Tell me something,” said Jamie to Christian. “How did Sugar Bear find out about us?” “I don’t know, exactly. I got word of you from Monsieur Rudd, and was told to keep track of you, and—” “What were you told about us?” “That people here were on the side of the sickies, and might have to be stopped.” “I see,” I said. “That’s worth knowing.” “But,” said Jamie, “why were you after Billy in particular?” Christian shrugged. “I don’t know. Word came down. If you want to believe it, there’s a rumor that the Physician has means of communicating with the future.” “I believe that,” I said. “Me, too,” said Jamie. He looked over at Libby, who still hadn’t spoken. She was trying very hard not to be upset. Jamie went over to her. I started to, but found I couldn’t. Rose did. I caught Tom’s eyes, and we went upstairs, where the body lay. She had folded his hands on his stomach, and a silver ring I thought I recognized as Libby’s was on the little finger of his left hand. I thought about her slipping it onto his finger and folding his hands like that, and I couldn’t see for a little while. Tom and I finished wrapping him in one of the spare blankets and took him outside. It had gotten quite dark, and there was no one in sight. I wondered about the customers who had been trapped inside for several minutes, and what happened when they’d called the police. But one thing at a time. We took care of Fred’s remains as well as we could, which wasn’t very, and I’ll spare you the details. When we got back to Feng’s we were both in pretty ragged shape. Libby hadn’t moved, except that she and Rose had their arms around each other and Jamie was next to her. Christian, to my surprise, was also talking to her. Tom and I sat in the far corner. I said, “Well, are you going to get hold of Carrie so I can get hold of Souci so we can maybe get this over with?” “I suppose,” he said. “But, Billy, is this ever going to be over? I mean, are we going to be able to just live someday?” “Maybe. Why ask me?” Tom shrugged and watched the clump around Libby. It was impossible to read his expression. I checked the clock, but a bullet had stopped it at 6:22. I went into the bar and read nine o’clock. It was amazing that no more time than that had passed. I looked out one of the windows, but the rest of the block was still silent, like everyone was huddling inside his house for fear of being caught up in something dangerous. Pretty reasonable, when you thought of it. “I can’t believe the police haven’t shown up,” said Tom. “I know. We need to decide what to do, though.” “Go back home?” “Maybe. Want to call Carrie?” “No. I will, though.” He walked back to the bar to do this. Jamie got up and went into the back, carrying his shotgun. I resisted asking him what he was doing, and a bit later I heard sawing noises and didn’t need to. Tom came back and said he couldn’t reach Carrie. Rose and Libby got up and disappeared into the back. Libby’s eyes were red and she looked tired. Christian joined Tom and me. “How’s she doing?” I asked. “As well as you can expect,” said Christian. “I think she’ll be okay. She says she could have saved him if she’d gotten to him sooner, but from hearing her describe the wound, I don’t think she could have, and I think she really knows that. Give her time; she’ll be all right.” “We don’t have time,” I said, but only under my breath. The sawing sounds stopped, to be replaced by filing noises that were just as loud. “I hope she can sleep over the racket,” I said. Tom said, “Do you think any of us will have a full night’s sleep tonight?” I shrugged and looked at Christian. He said, “I don’t know. If they haven’t shown up yet, they might not, but there’s no way to be certain.” “You keep saying we,” I said. “They speak French here,” said Tom. “If I go back home they’ll kill me,” said Christian. “I understand,” I said. “I was just checking.” A little while later Jamie emerged. His shotgun was now about a foot shorter and looked very nasty. Christian said, “Twelve-gauge?” “Yes.” “Good. We can share ammo. I’m getting low.” “We’re gonna kick some ass,” said Jamie, more grimly than enthusiastically. “We’re going to sleep first,” I said. Jamie said, “Someone should stay awake in case something happens.” I sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll take the first watch.” “Wake me in an hour and a half?” said Jamie. “Right.” “I’ll be next,” said Christian. I looked at him for a long time, then said, “All right. Then Rose, then Tom. We’ll let Libby sleep. If she can. If we all can.” But, for whatever reason, we could.  My first thought upon waking was, We actually made it through the night without trouble. Then I began to wonder what would happen today, and started to realize just how big a fix we were in. A depressing way to wake up, but there was something satisfyingly familiar about lying in the pantry of Feng’s on a pile of coats and spare blankets. It reminded me of happier times, lying there with Rose and Jamie and Tom and everyone, with nothing to worry about except our next night’s set list and when the next bomb would hit. Hah. I got up and found Tom sitting in a booth with his arms folded and his legs stretched out in front of him. He was wrapped in a blanket. He turned around and said, “There’s coffee.” “Good.” “I made a ‘Closed’ sign and hung it on the door.” I nodded. “I notice someone also put plywood over the broken windows.” “Jamie did that.” I said, “I’ve never seen the place closed during business hours before.” “Neither have I. Libby’s going to have to have some words with Feng.” Then, “She’s the only one of them left, isn’t she?” “Yeah, I guess she is, with Eve being in the hospital. I’m getting myself some coffee. Want some?” “Yeah. Thanks. Speaking of Eve, as soon as things settle down even a little, we need to go see her.” “Yeah.” I got the coffee, came back. “Maybe I’ll make us some breakfast. I enjoy working in a professional kitchen.” “I like your cooking.” “Thanks. Should we wait until everyone else is up?” “Maybe. But then you can’t use mushrooms because Rose and Libby don’t like them, and you can’t use onions because Jamie doesn’t like them, and God knows who doesn’t like whatever else you’d want to cook with.” “What don’t you like, Tom?” “Being a pinhead. Being stuck in here. Worrying about whether we’re going to be killed. Worrying about nuclear war. Not being able to just relax and play music. Should I keep going?” “We might be able to do something about the last. We all have our instruments.” “That would be good, if we can find the time.” There was a knock. Tom picked up his .45 from where it was sitting on the table and walked over to the door. He looked out, carefully keeping his body to the side. He yelled, “Sorry, we’re closed.” He came back and sat down, setting the gun back on the table. “Yeah, I’d like to play a few songs. It’s been a while. What’s wrong?” “Nothing. It’s just that you—nothing.” Presently Jamie and Rose got up, and shortly after, Christian joined us. We drank coffee until Libby got up. She nodded hello to us and there was an anger in her walk and the tilt of her head. I retired to the kitchen. I turned the big grill on low. I found a large cast-iron skillet and melted some goose fat over one of the gas flames while I took the medium French chef’s knife and sliced half a dozen onions and two big green peppers and crushed some garlic cloves. When the fat was sizzling I threw the garlic in along with a little salt. I cleaned some mushrooms, put the onions and peppers in the hot fat, then sliced the mushrooms to the happy sizzling sounds. I took out two dozen eggs and beat them, then put the mushrooms in the skillet. I added milk to the eggs, whipped them a bit more, and dumped them into the skillet when the onions looked almost right. I turned down the heat, buttered twelve pieces of sourdough bread, and put them on the grill. Then I added some chives, salt, and pepper to the eggs as well as a little cayenne, and, just before they were done, I added a tablespoon of half-hot Szeged Noble Rose paprika, which would never exist again. I buttered the other side of the bread and turned it on the grill, then dished the eggs onto six plates along with the sourdough bread and brought them out three at a time. Fred could have carried all six without a tray. Rose and Christian complained about the mushrooms, Jamie complained about the onions. Libby didn’t say anything. Tom said he liked it. After we’d eaten, Rose said, “I’ll wash the dishes since you made the bref-tist.” “Bref-tist,” that’s what she said. I explained that I would not try to talk her out of doing the dishes. She gave me a kiss and said, “You cook good, even if you do use fungus.” There came another knock at the door. This time Jamie got it, holding his sawed-off shotgun down at his side. I noticed that Christian’s shotgun was near to hand. No one else seemed concerned. Jamie said, “It’s Carrie.” I looked at Tom. He raised his eyebrows. “Well, should we let her in?” “Might as well,” I said. Jamie opened the door and Carrie slipped inside. She was wearing a long coat of some white fur. She started to walk toward Tom, but stopped when she saw Christian. Her eyes widened. “It’s all right,” said Christian. “I’ve switched sides.” She stared, and her mouth worked. Christian said, “Have you?” “I—” She looked puzzled. “I don’t know.” “Figures,” said Christian. He spat. Tom said, “We need to know where your friend Souci is.” “I can’t tell you that.” “Why?” “I just can’t. She doesn’t want anyone to know. She’d kill me.” Tom turned away. She said, “I came over to see you.” “About what?” She looked at us. The rest of us moved away to give Tom and Carrie room to talk privately. The two of them spoke softly together. Tom’s face was grim, and his fists clenched several times as they spoke. I got tired of watching very quickly, so I went back to the pantry and got out my banjo. I played “Cripple Creek,” and for a short time the world looked brighter than it had—brighter than it was, I guess. Tom joined me. I stopped playing. Tom sat down. I said, “Well?” “I’m a pinhead.” “So what else is new? Has Carrie heard about the big fight?” “Justin told her.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice as he pronounced that name. “I guess Sugar Bear is really mad at us now, but they don’t know what to do.” “Why haven’t they sent the police in after us?” “She isn’t sure. Or at least she says she isn’t sure. I think there’s a lot of stuff she isn’t telling me.” “Hmmm. What else did she say?” “Personal things.” “Ah.” “Nothing new. Nothing good.” “Oh. Any luck getting her to tell us where Souci is?” “She won’t say, she’s too scared.” “Damn. We’ll have to keep trying. Has she left?” “No. She wants to know if she can stay here with us.” “Why?” “She’s frightened.” “Of whom? Or what?” “I’m not sure. She wouldn’t say.” “That, as Christian would say, is some shit.” I walked out there. Libby and Christian were in a corner talking in whispers, I could hear Jamie and Rose in the kitchen cleaning. Carrie looked up, and her blue, blue eyes looked very wide and frightened. I sat down next to her and said, “Why is it you want to stay here?” “Because… I do. Do you have to know why?” “Yes.” It looked like she was about to cry. She said, “I don’t have anywhere else to go. I can’t be with Justin anymore, and Souci is hiding—” “You know where?” “I can’t say.” I said, “Why not?” “You don’t know what she’s like.” “Yes, I do.” “No. She terrifies me. It’s like, when she’s around—” “I know about it. Believe me. But that isn’t why you aren’t telling us, is it?” “Yes, it is. I just can’t do something that would make her angry.” “Great,” I said. “Then you sure as hell can’t stay here.” “I—” “Tell me why I should trust you. If you’re here, how do I know you won’t open the doors in the middle of the night? If you’re so weak you can’t risk making someone angry at you, how can I be sure that a little pressure, especially from her, won’t make you sell us out completely? Don’t you realize that they’re trying to kill us?” She didn’t say anything, she just stared at the ground, and her shoulders shook. There are times when you just have to be a hard-ass, and this was one. Unfortunately I’ve never really been up to the job. I sighed. “Okay, here’s what I can do.” I dug around in my pocket for a while. “Here’s a key to our apartment. We aren’t using it, so you—what is it?” “Nothing.” I looked at her. There had been no mistaking that reaction. “What is it, Carrie?” “Nothing, I just—” “Don’t bullshit me. It’s something about the apartment, isn’t it?” “No, there isn’t any—” “Is it bugged, is that it?” “No, I was just—” “Are they waiting for us there?” “No!” “Are they going to burn it down?” She looked away. I said, “Is that it, Carrie? Are they going to blow the place up? Do they think we went back there instead of here?” She buried her face in her hands. After a moment she nodded. “When?” I asked her. “It’s set to go off at noon.” “Jamie,” I yelled. “What time is it?” “About five after twelve,” he yelled back. I licked my lips and stared at Carrie, who sat there and shook. “How precise was the bomb? Was it just the apartment or the whole building?” “I don’t know. It was Justin. He’s good with bombs. He might have just gotten the apartment.” “Might have? Great. Or he might not have. There were six apartments in that building, Carrie. How many were just blown up? Is there a fire going? How many people are going to die from it, Carrie? How many people just burned to death because you’re too scared to tell anyone what’s going on in time to stop it?” She was crying now, very hard. This didn’t bother me at all. I was dimly aware of the others gathered around, but didn’t care about them, either. I said, “Here’s another question for you: How many more are going to die? How many that you could have saved, if you weren’t running around in terror of a bitch-goddess? Is she going to run you all your life?” “I don’t know.” “Decide, right goddamn now. Are you your own master, or are you living as the shadow of someone else? And if you are your own master, then how can you justify letting as many innocent people die as are going to die if you don’t help us?” Christian came back into the room. He had apparently been out making some phone calls. “Yeah, it blew up,” he said. “It’ll be a while before they know how many were killed. They’ve already found three bodies, though.” Carrie was sobbing loudly. My heart was not breaking for her. I said, “So, three people just died. At least three. How many more, Carrie?” She stopped crying but didn’t look up. “Lots,” she said softly. “Everyone on the planet.” I stood up. “What?” “There’s nothing anyone can do about it,” she said. “The missiles have been launched already.” Tom, Christian, and I looked at each other. The silence stretched from one end of the room to the other several times, until you could have hung your linen on it to dry. At last I swallowed and said, “From where?” “I don’t know. Somewhere in space. They’ll be here sometime tomorrow. Late in the afternoon, I think.” “We need to warn people.” “Why? There isn’t any way off the planet, and there are enough missiles to make the whole planet uninhabitable.” “I can’t believe there’s no way off the planet.” “The reason the police have ignored you is that they’re investigating the sabotage of every space-going vessel in the city and on the planet, which occurred just about the same time you were attacked yesterday. Half the reason for the attack was to make sure you couldn’t do anything about it. I guess they thought you had better sources of information than you have. There’s only one carrier left, which is hidden somewhere for the rest of us to use. Most of us—” “Us.” She swallowed. “Sugar Bear.” “Right.” “Most of us on the planet left two weeks ago.” I licked my lips. “Damn,” I said. I discovered then that knowing a nuclear attack was coming and being unable to prevent it was much, much worse than being hit by surprise. “We’ve got to do something,” said Rose. “I’m open to suggestions,” I said. “There are more than five thousand missiles headed for this planet,” said Carrie, almost tonelessly. “Each of them is more than powerful enough to destroy a city, and leave hundreds of square miles around it uninhabitable. The missiles are programmed by the Physician. Not even Monsieur Rudd can call them off or change their course.” “That,” said Libby, “is very harsh.” “You know a great deal about this,” I said. “More than Christian, for instance. Why is that?” “Justin works directly for Monsieur Rudd, who is in charge of Sugar Bear of New Quebec, and in command here on Laurier. Justin talks a lot when he’s coked up.” “I see. How does Souci fit in?” Carrie bit her lip. “She used to go out with Justin. He told her even more than he told me.” “Oh.” “She was never involved in Sugar Bear activities, any more than I was, but she grew up with it, so she knows a lot.” “So, she was seeing me to get information?” Carrie looked at me, and slowly shook her head without ever breaking eye contact. “She didn’t know who you were when you met—didn’t figure it out until you mentioned Sugar Bear that day. She and I went along with Claude and Danielle. I guess they’d figured out something about the way the place first showed up. They didn’t tell us until much later. Then they told her to stop seeing you and she told them to fuck off. I guess they almost had her killed, but Justin talked them out of it. She loved you.” This, as you can imagine, made me feel just glorious. I cleared my throat. I said, “I’m surprised they let Justin live, with how much he talks.” “He knows people. And he’s actually pretty careful who he talks to.” “I guess he must be, at that. So, where is the home world?” “I don’t know. The Physician knows.” “And Justin and Souci both know where the Physician is.” “Yes.” “And you know where Souci is.” She nodded. I said, “Well?” A shudder went through her whole body. “She and Justin are staying with Monsieur Rudd.” “Shit,” said Christian. “I should have guessed that.” “So should I,” I said. “Doesn’t matter,” said Jamie. “We know now.” “Justin,” said Tom. “Justin is there.” Libby didn’t say anything, but she picked up her pistol, and, for the first time since Fred had died, a smile crossed her lips. 
 

 

INTERMEZZO
   

Her eyes, they shone like the diamonds

You’d think she was queen of the land.

“The Black Velvet Band,”

Traditional    Carrie woke up shivering, with dawn just barely hinting its arrival. The sheets were soaked with sweat; she pushed them off the bed. She opened the window, suddenly in desperate need of air. When the window wouldn’t open she almost smashed it, then she almost screamed. It opened at last, and the air tasted good, but was so cold that it sent chills through her. She shivered for a moment and looked for something to pull over the flimsy gown she was wearing. After a while she found a big, thick, blue terry-cloth robe. After that she felt a little better. She lit a cigarette and stared at the purples of the night sky. She couldn’t remember what her dream had been, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. The cigarette and the robe suddenly made her feel like an old woman, and she had a vivid image of herself that way, old, alone, wrinkled, alone, alone, alone. She stubbed the cigarette out and walked back and forth, driving the thought from her mind. Then sat in the fuzzy orange chair and rocked back and forth, singing softly to herself, until she felt better. Once again, as it had so often, she wondered if she could be a singer. Everyone said she could. Even Mme Jeanne, her voice coach, who would rather die than give someone a compliment, had as much as said she could make a living doing popular music, if she was willing to give up bel canto (sniff, went Mme Jeanne). And Carrie wanted to, she knew that. To be in front of people, pouring every last, hidden secret from her soul out through her voice, and watching them light up, or cry, yes, that’s what she wanted. And she could do it, too, but— But you can’t please everyone. Some people wouldn’t like her. They would say she was too breathy, or too free with her melody lines, or didn’t move well. And they would be wrong, but they would say those things, and would say them to her, and she couldn’t stand that. It would destroy her. Well, it would. Wouldn’t it? As she lit another cigarette, she realized that if she had any more, Mme Jeanne would be able to tell she’d been smoking and would bawl her out. The thought made her wince. She put the cigarette out and went back to bed. 
 

 

CHAPTER 15
   

“I’ll fight but not surrender,”

Said the wild colonial boy.

“The Wild Colonial Boy,”

Traditional    Jamie said, “You know what I don’t understand?” “What?” “If Feng came from the future, he must be sending us back, er, forward, to do something that will help him, right?” “I suppose,” I said. “Well, if Sugar Bear can really communicate with the future, like Christian says, then they can tell if they’ve won or not just by checking a little further. And for that matter, so can Feng and his people, right?” Libby cleared her throat. “As I understand it,” she said, “no one can actually communicate with the future. All you can do is send messengers back to find your people and tell them things. It is a very difficult process, and very expensive, even for them. Sugar Bear must have learned that Feng had found us—Fred, Rich, Eve, and I—and that we were on their trail, and sent someone back to have us stopped. At the time, we didn’t know what we were looking for, but they couldn’t have known that.” Jamie said, “I still don’t get it. If they’re from the future they must know how it turns out. So it’s like, whatever we do doesn’t matter.” Libby shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I’m just a hired hand. They never told me any of the technical stuff.” “They,” said Jamie. “You mean Feng?” “Yeah, I mean Feng.” “He recruited you himself.” “I would have said ‘hired,’ but maybe recruit is more accurate.” Jamie looked up at the picture that adorned the arch that connected restaurant to bar. I did, too. His smile no longer looked cheerful; now it was evil, manipulative. “Man, I’d like to meet him,” said Jamie. “Why?” said Libby. “He’s from the future. Who wouldn’t like to meet someone from the future? I mean, aren’t there things you’d like to ask him about?” “I’d rather meet someone from the past,” said Libby. “Most of the things I’d like to know from Feng are things he won’t talk about.” “But what’s he like?” “He’s a pinhead,” said Libby. “Any more questions?” “Shit. Yeah. I still don’t get it. What about Feng’s future? I mean, the future to him? Don’t they know how it came out?” Libby said, “Think of this: Time travel is really hard to pull off, and risky to the people doing it. They wouldn’t send anyone back if they didn’t have to. I mean, the guys from the far future, where it’s already decided. So, one side can’t send anyone back because they lost, and the other side either doesn’t want to waste the energy, or sending someone back to say it worked out would prevent it from working out, so they can’t do it.” “That makes sense,” I said. “As much as any of this does.” “Okay,” said Jamie. “So what we have to do is get information back to the future that will give Feng’s people a chance against Sugar Bear.” “Right,” said Libby. “And we’ve already got something, because they didn’t, I mean, don’t, or won’t, or something, know who the enemy is and what the whole thing’s about.” Tom said, “Is it enough?” Libby said, “I don’t know. Probably not. If we can tell them where Sugar Bear’s home world is—” “What if it moves?” said Christian suddenly. “I mean, what if they change it?” “Why would they do that?” “I don’t know. It’s just that you’re assuming that the place that’s their home world now is the same as what will be their home world in however many hundred years.” “A point,” said Libby. “In fact, that’s just what they’ve been doing.” I said, “It seems to me that anything we can find out is bound to help. If we only learn where they used to be, that may help them track down where they went. And what I’m hoping is that the Physician is from Feng’s time; which means he’ll know the answer we actually want.” Christian nodded. Libby said, “Anything else?” “Yeah,” said Jamie. “I think we should get on with it.” “I’d wait until nightfall,” said Christian. “They might have people keeping a watch on that house, although I doubt they suspect anything.” “It’ll have to be tonight, though,” said Carrie. “They’ll all be gone by tomorrow.” “You, too?” said Tom. She nodded. “That’s the plan. I just needed a place to stay tonight.” “How is it you were planning to get off-planet?” “I was supposed to meet them at Monsieur Rudd’s tomorrow morning. But he wouldn’t let me stay there because they don’t trust me anymore.” “I see. Well, you may as well stay here. We is gonna be busy.” “Doing exactly what?” said Libby. “Or is it too much to ask for to come up with a plan?” “Well,” said Jamie, “it wouldn’t hurt if we had a floor plan for the house.” “That,” said Christian, “is not a bad idea.” “Oh, Lord,” I said. “I’ll do the best I can, but I was only in one room—” “That’s all right,” said Christian. “We have an expert here.” He looked at Carrie. Carrie said, “I—” “Just do it, all right?” said Tom. She licked her lips and nodded. Rose found her a place mat and a pen, and Libby began asking pointed questions about the layout of the place. We sat down and drank coffee while they worked.  Less than an hour later we were all looking at the more or less finished product. “Well,” said Jamie after a while. “This does us a world of good.” I said, “We know where to find the back door, anyway. Carrie, are you sure you have no idea where Souci is?” She shook her head. “One of the bedrooms on the second or third floor; that’s all I can guess.” Rose said, “Couldn’t he have built a smaller house? He doesn’t need that many rooms.” “Conspicuous consumption,” I agreed. “Shameful. Well, any ideas?” “Two of us go in the back,” said Christian, “and three in the front. There’s a certain symmetry to the idea that I like.” “How do we slip past the guards?” “We don’t,” said Christian. “We just get up to the wall, at night, then move fast.” “Won’t the doors be locked?” I said. “Hmmm. Right. Anyone have any explosive?” Libby got up and left. I said, “How about the windows? We could throw something at them—” “Unbreakable,” said Carrie. “You’ll have more luck going through a wall.” “Hmmm. All right. We’ll—” I stopped as Libby came back and set down a wooden box. She pulled the top off, and I saw six hand grenades, lying neatly in packing material, looking like a Christmas present. “Fred had these,” she said. “All right,” I said. “Next problem?” Tom said, “Do we have any idea at all what we’re going to do once we get inside?” I said, “If something happens to Monsieur Rudd I won’t shed any tears, but the important thing is that we have to get Justin or Souci to tell us how to find the Physician, so we can get him to tell us where the home planet is—unless we’re real lucky and Justin or Souci knows.” “I doubt it,” said Carrie. Tom said, “Does that mean I can’t kill Justin?” Carrie made a small noise. I said, “Not before we find out what we have to find out.” Tom looked unhappy but didn’t argue. “How do you figure to get them to talk?” said Christian. “Torture?” He looked skeptical. “I don’t really know anything about torture,” I said. “I don’t know if I could go through with it if I did. Would you like to volunteer?” “What, you don’t have the balls to do it yourself, but you can ask someone else to?” “Yep,” I said. “You got it. Can you do it?” We were momentarily interrupted by Carrie getting up and making a dash out of the room, either to cry or to throw up, I never bothered to ask. To Christian I said, “I don’t know.” “I have a better idea,” said Libby. “Yeah?” “We’ll just keep them in the house until they tell us how to find the Physician. I think they’ll tell us if it’s that or miss their ship.” “Then what?” I said. “Once we know, we come back here, and, wherever we jump to next, take it from there. Or, if the Physician is here on Laurier, we can find him and make him tell us the same way—by keeping him off the ship unless he does.” “I don’t know if that will work,” I said, “but it’s the best idea I’ve heard so far.” Carrie came back and took her seat. “Now, wait a minute,” said Jamie. “Let me see if I’ve got this. We break into Rudd’s house, take over the place, and keep everyone prisoner until Souci or Justin becomes so scared of missing the boat that one of them tells us how to find the Physician, but we make sure to keep everyone in the house prisoner, in case they can get help somewhere.” “Right,” I said. “If we’ve managed to do all this, we hope that we can somehow reach the Physician and somehow convince him to talk before the bombs fall. Is that really the plan?” “Umm, well, put that way it doesn’t sound real workable, does it?” “No, it doesn’t,” said Jamie. Libby said, “Do you have any other ideas?” “Not at the moment.” I said, “We’d better cut the phone lines first, since—” “Phone lines?” said Christian. “What are those?” “Oh, right,” I said. “Well, we’ll have to try to keep them away from their phones. And, Christian, can you get us a car? Rudd’s place is a long way out into the country. I ran there once and walked back. It took a long time, and I don’t think we’ll all fit on Rich’s bike, though it would be appropriate.” “Yeah, I know where I can borrow a car. I’ll get it this afternoon.” “And remember, if we do get the information—” “When,” said Jamie. “—we have to make sure it gets to Feng’s before the bombs fall. Even if that means leaving people behind. Is everyone clear on that?” Everyone was, except maybe Carrie, who just sat there and shook. Jamie cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to bum everyone out,” he said. “But this might—might—be the last time we’re all together.” “That’s true,” I said. “What about it?” “We have some time to kill.” It took me a minute to figure out what he was suggesting, but then I nodded, and Tom and Rose figured it out at the same time. “Yeah,” said Tom. “I’m up for it,” I said. Rose just nodded as we stood up and went into the back room for our instruments. Tom tuned his mandolin, and I tuned up the banjo. We went into the bar and fired up the sound system. We certainly didn’t need it, but why not go all the way? Christian, Carrie, and Libby were our audience. I played the opening two bars of “The Mermaid,” then Jamie and Tom came in, rhythmical drive and elegant taste, followed by Rose, late as usual, missing the beat as usual, but creating harmonies and countermelodies that made the song irrelevant, it was music, and it was her and it was us, we fell into sync and the verse began to sing us right on cue. We rose and fell with it, as if we were playing to assembled millions, for the music was our energy. Rose attacked the lead break like she’d keep the damn ship floating herself, Tom’s mandolin giggled around the edges, and I thought I was just frailing along with Jamie’s rhythm until I realized that some of those themes the fiddle was playing with were banjo licks. Jamie launched us into “Peter’s Song,” before the last notes of “The Mermaid” had died, and that fell headlong into “Botany Bay.” Silly Irish tunes, they were, and a silly Irish band were we, but there was a place we could get to where the songs would play us, and it was there that evening. Tom sang Sean Phillip’s “Ballad of Casey Dies,” and by the end I was choked up to where I could hardly sing. Christian joined us on Jamie’s twelve-string for “Old Joe Clark,” and caught the speed up, and for a while he was with us, too, which broke the mood, because his guitar laughed, and teased the fiddle, and egged me into bigger and bigger chances until it was far too fast to be doing the things we were all doing, and at last it ended and he sat down as if nothing had happened at all. I was feeling the “end of set” kind of pleasant exhaustion when Jamie started the lopsided almost-rock rhythm of “Blackjack David.” Tom’s mandolin was barely audible, doing some sort of off-kilter scale that sent shivers down my spine, and the fiddle played the melody by playing everything else, then came back and dropped down as we stumbled into the first verse. Jamie started singing with his usual gusto, but there was a melancholy I couldn’t shake, because it seemed to me that this little band of Irish-playing fools actually maybe had something, and I doubted that we would ever have the chance to go—where? Maybe the future. What could the future hold for four musicians like us? My one wish at that moment was that I would have the chance to find out. I didn’t think it likely. The last verse of “Blackjack David” came, and we all threw in that extra burst of energy that tells us and the audience that we’re going to end the set with it. Tom and Jamie and I caught the harmony, and the fiddle screeched and clawed to a terrible high place from which it could never come down, and it didn’t, just stopped, and I turned and waved good-bye to verse, song, set, and, maybe, band. We said nothing to each other as we stepped off the stage. I put my instrument away. Libby caught my eye and gave me a hug that I needed. There was really nothing else to say. 
 

 

INTERMEZZO
   

The red-haired girl just kept on smiling

“Young man, with you I’ll go,” she said…

“Red-haired Mary,”

Traditional    The music was loud, the beer strong, the bar crowded. Each was dark, in its own way. She’d been there for half an hour and had already been hit on three times. The first was the guy sitting next to her, a short man with a receding hairline, who seemed nice but dull. The second looked like a musician, and might have been interesting but she wasn’t in that sort of mood. The third was a bodybuilding type who looked like he probably couldn’t count to eleven without using his toes. The fourth came as she finished her drink, and another bottle of Juliana Dark appeared in front of her. She looked a question at the bartender. He nodded to her left. Number four was tall and blond, with a square jaw and a good tan, probably acquired out of a bottle or in front of a cancer-lamp. Instead of talking to her, he went up to the guy who was in the next stool and said, “Hey, friend, I’ll buy your next two drinks if you’ll give me your chair.” There was maybe just a shade of intimidation in how close the big guy stood, but short but dull shrugged and moved. Tall and blond signaled the waiter, paid for two drinks for the guy, and sat down. “Hi there,” he said, showing off his teeth. They weren’t bad teeth. “Hi. Thanks for the drink.” “My pleasure. I’m Jacques.” “Souci.” “You know, you are just about the cutest babe I’ve ever seen in here.” “Just about?” He laughed, a big, easygoing laugh that probably turned some girls to jelly. “All right,” he said. “The cutest.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “I figure if you’re about the best-looking woman, and I’m the best-looking guy, we ought to be sitting together, don’t you think?” She wondered how much of a joke that was supposed to be. She said, “I like this place better when they have live music.” “Yeah, me, too. Wanna go somewhere else?” “Maybe in a while.” “Sure, whatever you want.” An hour later they were in his car, on the way to her apartment. Fifteen minutes after that, she watched as if from a distance as he undressed her and kissed her nipples and did all the other things that he must have thought made him a magnificent lover. Then he was on her, then he was in her. She gave him a few perfunctory scratches on his back with her nails and wrapped her legs around his hips until he came. Then, as he lay on top of her, breathless, she came back to herself. She placed her palms against his chest and pushed. “I didn’t come,” she said. “What?” “I didn’t come, you bastard.” “Hey, I’m—” “You’re a horrible lover. Clumsy prick.” “Now, look—” “Get your smelly body away from me.” He stirred and looked at her, an expression of amazement just beginning to cross his face. “What’s wrong?” “Didn’t you hear me? You’re terrible. You’re the worst lover I’ve ever had.” It had been building for days, and it exploded. “Ever. Do you understand me, you stupid asshole? Just get out of here. I don’t ever want to see you again. If you don’t get out of here now, I’m going to call the police.” By now he was kneeling in front of her, staring stupidly. “Get out of here,” she screamed. He scrambled into his clothing and practically crawled out of the apartment, too quickly for her to get all of the bitterness out of her system, but enough for a while. She heard him close the door—quietly, not slamming it. She lay facedown, naked on the bed, and did not cry. She’d do it again next weekend. She was seventeen. 
 

 

CHAPTER 16
   

I took old Reily by the hair

Shoved his head in a pail of water.

“Reily’s Daughter,”

Traditional    Sunset fell upon New Quebec, the white of Laurier’s sun, Chaucer, sending rays dancing off the reflective windows of the Grain Exchange, splashing up the long, narrow corridor of Rue LaVelle, and sending the shadows from the bell tower of the New Hope Reformed Catholic Church to tickle the feet of the tall, Gothic Merchandise Mart. Now that there is no living man left in the city or upon that world, let it be recorded, lest it be lost as so many things have been, that sunset upon New Quebec was a beautiful thing. I am sorry that New Quebec is no more. I do not believe that I could have prevented the destruction of that city, that world, yet I am sorry. I am sorry for so many, many things, but it is gone, anyway, my sorrow availing nothing. It is gone as are so many of those who were once close to me. Dead by violence personal, as Rich and Fred and the others. Dead by violence impersonal, as those I left behind on Earth, on the Moon, on Mars, and on Laurier. Or dead by violence passive, as are all of those I once knew who did not come with me across this barrier through which I now examine the ghost of sunset past. What is this quintessence of dust, as the man said, and on bad days I understand why. We put our instruments away, wondering, I guess, if we’d ever see them again. Jamie came up with a box of shotgun shells. He put several in the pocket of his leather jacket and passed the rest of the box to Christian. Jamie’s .357 was under his jacket, and he had two quick-loaders for it in his other pocket. He looked ready. Christian had his pump-action and an ankle-length leather coat and a long-riders hat and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He looked ready. Libby wore a hot-pink sweater, black pants, and pink leg warmers. She carried her automag, with two spare magazines located, ironically, in her medical kit, which she carried over her shoulder. She looked ready. Rose had her derringer in the pocket of her jacket, which was an old one of Jamie’s. She took a hit off a bottle of Jameson. She looked ready. Tom’s feet were up on the booth across from him. He had three spare magazines in the pocket of his CPO. He looked ready. I had the commando knife under the arm of my motorcycle jacket. I carried the canister of kerosene with which they’d tried to burn down Feng’s. I looked ready, but it was a lie. “Let’s go, troops,” I said. “Just a minute,” said Rose. She ran off for a moment and came back with her fiddle case. “I just remembered that I’m the fiddle player.” “Right,” I said. “Are you sure you want to take the chance of something happening to it?” “Nothing will happen to my fiddle,” she said. “All right.” We walked out the door. Carrie came with us because we didn’t trust her not to warn them if left on her own. She stayed next to Tom and looked frightened but resigned. Jamie gave Rose Eve’s helmet and took Rich’s. They wheeled the motorcycle out onto the street. No one noticed us. Jamie started the bike, Rose got behind him, and they waited for the rest of us. The car was something locally made, solar-powered, and small. Christian drove. The five of us fit in it, but without much to spare. On the other hand, comfort was not our first consideration on that particular ride. After a mile, the city was behind us and we were definitely in a rural area, and it was another mile before we came in sight of the small horse barn that I remembered near Rudd’s house. It hadn’t seemed this far away when I was chasing Claude, or during the walk back. On the other hand, I was pleased that, along with a horse, a goat, and a few dairy cows, he did not keep either turkeys or hogs. I know the smell of each, and I’ll pass, thanks. We stopped the car well away from the house and left the kerosene in it. I didn’t know if we were going to use it, but I didn’t want someone shooting bullets into it in the meantime. Jamie and Rose pulled up behind us and killed the bike. Jamie and Christian went around to the back. Libby gave them each a grenade, and Tom explained how to use them. “You pull the pin and it’s armed,” he said. “It’ll go off when it hits something. If you want to disarm it, put the pin back in. It doesn’t have a timer, just an impact detector.” “Okay,” said Libby. “So you, Jamie, go around back and pull it. When you hear the boom from ours, throw yours. You’ve got the other one in case you miss the door.” “You want to be a good seventy-five feet away,” said Tom. Libby said, “Can you hit that, Jamie?” He nodded. “Good. If you don’t hear ours go off after about five minutes, disarm the thing and head back for the car, and we’ll figure it out from there.” “Got it,” said Jamie. “What about Carrie?” said Tom. I said, “As soon as we toss the grenade at the front door, she can go.” “How do you know she won’t call someone.” I turned to her. “Will you?” “No.” Her voice was very small. I believed her. “Last chance to back out, everyone,” I said. “Shit,” said Christian. “Let’s get to it,” said Tom. Rose said, “I want—” “Later,” said Jamie. “Right,” said Libby. “Meet you in the middle.” “ ‘Sister Goldenhair,’” said Tom. “By America,” said Christian. They walked quietly around toward the back. We crept along the wall in front and waited, giving them a good long time to get positioned. “You know,” whispered Libby, “we should have had them throw first, since we’re closer.” “Now’s a great time to think of that,” I whispered back. “Do it.” She stood up and threw and we ducked behind the wall. The sky seemed to brighten and a wind swept overhead. It was almost quiet, compared to the shooting from the day before. Libby took out her pistol. Tom already had his ready. Rose stayed behind me. Carrie ran away. We closed on the house where smoke was clearing to reveal a jagged, but almost round hole where the door had been. The night was lit by another flash, accompanied by a dull boom from the other side of the house. Tom and Libby fairly leapt through the hole. Rose and I followed more slowly. There were no shots yet, but there was some clattering from a stairway just to our right. Tom walked over and stood at the bottom of the stair, his .45 held in both hands, his elbows bent, while Libby headed for the kitchen. Rose and I waited where we were. Rose was holding her pearl-handled derringer with the ebony dragon’s head inlaid. Rudd came charging down the stair and stopped cold when he saw Tom. There was a small revolver in his hand, but it was at his side. I held my breath. Tom said, “Drop that thing or I’ll blow your fucking head off.” He said it just like that, and I knew he meant it, and would have done it, and that chilled me, though why it should is a mystery. Rudd dropped the gun and I breathed again. Tom said, “Get down here.” Libby came back and said, “This must be Monsieur Rudd.” There was a heavy note of irony in the way she said “Monsieur.” “That’s him,” I said. “Well,” she said. “We’ll just wait here.” I said, “Rose, you stay with Libby and watch Rudd. Tom and I will go upstairs.” We did this thing, creeping up the stairs and bursting into rooms like Starsky and Hutch, except that I didn’t have a gun. The first room we burst in on I thought was a bedroom, but eventually realized it was a walk-in closet. Tom said, “Do you have the map?” “Map?” “The floor plan Carrie made.” “Oh. Right.” I dug it out of my back pocket and unfolded it, oriented it, and said, “We’re here.” “I don’t want to look. Just tell me which way.” “Next door on the right is a bathroom.” “I don’t have to go.” “Man,” I said. The bathroom, or rather, the bathroom suite, could have fitted a king-size bed. Everything was done in ornate brass, and there were frosted bulbs around the mirrors and blue carpeting. Scary. The first real bedroom was very big, very plush, and had bright yellow curtains, a bright yellow canopy on a big, round bed with a bright yellow bedspread, pale yellow walls, and a comfortable-looking black chair in the middle of the room facing the window. I shuddered and we moved on. From down the hall, Jamie called, “Billy?” “Over here,” I said. “Okay. Don’t shoot when we come around the corner.” Good idea, that warning, if Tom was half as jumpy as I was. Jamie came around a bend in the hall and said, “Christian is downstairs with Libby and Rose. I thought you might be able to use more help.” A splinter of wood hit me in the face and I heard a shot from very close by. Tom knocked me down while Jamie’s gun made very loud noises. I stayed where I was while I heard scuffling sounds and “Get out of my way,” and “Look out,” and more shooting, then stillness. Tom let me up. I said, “What the fuck—” “Justin,” he said. There was more shooting from the floor below. Tom went over to a window, and his back tensed. “He’s getting away,” he said. He hit the window with his pistol, but it didn’t shatter. He cursed loudly, then turned back to me. “He was sitting up there waiting to nail us. He almost got you, didn’t he?” I touched my cheek where it still stung from the ricochet and I nodded. Tom shook his head. Jamie rejoined us. “He’s gone,” he said. “I was going to follow him, but he wrecked the bike on his way past it.” “That’s another one we owe him,” said Tom. “In any case,” said Jamie, “no one’s hurt.” “All right,” I said. “It could be worse.” We finished exploring that floor, which held two more bedrooms and another bathroom. One of the bedrooms showed signs of being tenanted, but was not currently occupied. There was a phone in the wall, which I took off and destroyed. It took quite a while to explore every nook and cranny of that floor, and I became nervous about Christian and Libby and Rose. Before going up the stairs I called down to them, and Libby called back that they were doing fine. We made our way up the stairs, Tom and Jamie edging in front of me, both of their guns out at waist level. In a large room, actually more like a boudoir, mostly done in red with touches of purple and green, Souci sat, smoking a cigarette and waiting for us. A white Persian cat sat on her lap and shed all over a black turtleneck shirt that was too tight for her. She also wore a pair of corduroys with torn knees, and high black boots, the left had a spur. Her face was still that perfect set of angled planes, her lips still pouted, her eyes were still feline. She looked at me without any expression at all. My throat hurt. Tom and I escorted her down the stairs without a word being spoken. Libby frisked Souci while I frisked Rudd, then Libby and Christian searched the house again, but there was no one else there. Tom held the prisoners under guard and kept them from speaking with each other while Jamie and I found some wood and hammer and nails and sealed the front door so it would be harder for them to escape. We also made sure the windows wouldn’t open. At last all gathered together in the living room for some private conversation. I was glad that we had the guns. “Well,” I said. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here today.” Souci rolled her eyes. M. Rudd had the grace to smile. I continued, “There is a particular piece of information that I’m looking for. When I get it, we will leave you alone. Until then, you will all be staying right here. If it takes until the missiles come, then”—I shrugged—“we’ll all go together when we go.” “Ah,” said Rudd. “You know about the missiles.” “Does that startle you?” “I suppose not.” “Tell me where Sugar Bear’s home planet is. Tell me, and convince me you’re not lying, and you can go.” He said, “You tell me something. It can’t hurt, since we’re all to die here together in, what, twelve hours? Twenty-four? Just what was it that you had on me to keep me from killing you here the first time you came in.” I laughed, glad he’d asked. “Nothing. I was bluffing.” He sighed. “I suspected that.” “Good for you.” “Well, not to be melodramatic, but I am willing to die for the cause, as it were, and in any case you ought to be aware that only the Physician himself has that sort of information.” “Well, where is the Physician?” “That is difficult to say, from one moment to the next. This city, another, this planet, another, who can say?” “I see. Well, we’ll give you some time to think about it. All of you, take Souci and Monsieur Rudd away and keep watching them. I’d like them to sweat for a while and contemplate their sins and probable futures. Keep them in separate rooms, though. Jamie, go and get the kerosene from the car, in case we need to keep warm.” They left without a word, and we began to wait. We worked in shifts, changing places every hour. Watching the front and back doors—well, holes, actually—in case Justin chose to return, watching Rudd in the kitchen, or Souci in the sitting room. There was little conversation among us, and our prisoners said nothing at all, except occasional requests to use the facilities or to have water, which we granted. Each hour moved more slowly than the last, but I didn’t start getting nervous until I realized that the sun was coming up. I met Jamie in the hall between the kitchen and the sitting room. He said, “How are you doing, bror?” “Tired, but still alert. You?” “About the same. Is Rudd looking at all frightened?” “No. Souci?” “Nothing.” “Shit. I don’t think we’re going to be able to break them this way.” “Let’s try a little longer.” “All right.” An hour, two, three, still nothing. The missiles were rushing toward us, we were accomplishing nothing. Should we have told news services? Would they have believed us? Would any good at all have been accomplished if we had? I didn’t know, I still don’t, but it was something to torture myself with. Three times I went in to talk to Souci, and her only communications to me were the expressions of scorn on her face. The fourth time I sat facing her it was well after noon. We sat in the same pair of chairs that Rudd and I had occupied earlier, at the same oblique angle. I did not offer her brandy, nor did I offer to light a fire. It seemed that I was more tired than she was. She met my eyes; there was no trace of friendship in hers. It would have been stupid to expect any, under the circumstances. I said, “You know about the missiles, don’t you?” “What about them?” “It doesn’t bother you that this whole planet is about to be rendered unfit for human life?” “Should it?” “There are four major cities on this planet, and a total population of almost a quarter of a million people. It doesn’t bother you that these friends of yours are going to kill them all?” “Why should I care? What have they done for me?” “I can’t believe you mean that.” “That’s your problem, isn’t it?” I groped for words like a blind man searching for his stick. I could tell her I still loved her and it would be the truth, and she wouldn’t care. I could tell her that humanity needed her, and it would be the truth, and she wouldn’t care. I looked at her and hurt and tried to keep my feelings off my face. I finally said, “You’re going to die, you know. We aren’t going to let any of you go until we find out what we need to know.” “What do you mean, need to know?” “We believe Sugar Bear has a specific home world. We have to find it.” “Why?” “So that, in the future, we can—” “No, I mean, why do you care?” “Umm. That seems like a pretty weird question, if you ask me.” “What’s so weird about it? Why should you care what happens to people you’ve never met?” My mouth opened and closed a few times, then I said, “I don’t really know. I guess I was just brought up that way. Why is your friend the Physician working so hard to destroy humanity?” “To save us from infection by the rest of you.” “Who is ‘us’?” “Those who belong.” “How does someone get to belong?” “By being born into it, or else selected.” “And all of these people have as a goal—” “Don’t talk about our goals.” “Whatever you want. But tell me, is the Physician crazy to be working so hard for complete strangers?” “They aren’t strangers. They’re his people.” “Well, then, the human race, all of us, are my people.” “What crap.” “Sorry you feel that way.” “All of humanity except for us, right?” “Right,” I said. “Except for you who are trying to kill the rest of us. You can rot in hell.” At last she said, in a very small voice that reminded me of Eve’s, “We’re trying to protect ourselves.” “You could look for a cure, instead.” “We’re doing that, too, but…” Her voice trailed off. She said, “Do you know what I had to go through when they found out I’d made love to an outsider? The tests, the questions, the—” “Then why the hell did you?” “I was in love with you.” I don’t know what hit me hardest there, the “in love” or the “was.” I said, “Why did you stop?” “You tried to make me tell you about—never mind. It doesn’t matter.” “It does, though. That’s the whole point. Do you know how hard it was for me to ask you those things? I hated it. But I had to. I—” There came a loud thump down the hall. It sounded like an explosion. I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Tom and Christian came running past me, and soon I heard the distant echo of shots. Then I heard the sound of automatic weapons. “Well,” I said. “It sounds like Justin’s come back. With friends.” I took her by the wrist. “Let’s wait in the kitchen.” “It doesn’t matter,” she said, standing up. Christian and Tom came back into the room. “Get moving,” said Christian. “Right,” I said, and led Souci faster. Christian came along with us. As I was about to turn down the hall, I took a look behind, and in that moment he emerged—Justin, holding a machine pistol. He ignored the gun that Tom had pointed at him as he leveled the weapon at me and fired. It sounded like a continuous explosion then, with slight variation in pitch and volume. Just as it began, someone knocked into me from the side and I fell against the wall. Presently I opened my eyes again. Justin had evidently taken several hits from the .45. All of them in the head. It was very ugly. I looked at the floor next to me, and what I saw there was even uglier, perhaps because she was still alive. I knelt beside her, too stunned to cry or be sick. “Why did you do that?” I said or screamed. “You stupid idiot bitch, why did you do that?” I reached for her hand and encountered a mass of torn flesh. It was almost more than I could stand, but she was too far gone to notice. I didn’t know how she could still be alive, with what the machine pistol had done to her. She said, “Rudd,” and coughed up a great deal of blood. There was a wound in her right cheek, and I could see cracked and broken teeth through it. She said, “Rudd… Physician…” “Rudd is the Physician,” I said. She nodded and shuddered. Her left hand reached for me but never made it. 
 

 

INTERMEZZO
   

I know you rider

Gonna miss me when I’m gone.

“I Know You Rider,”

Traditional    Three plain, armless, imitation-oak chairs adorned each side of a plain, armless, imitation-oak table. An identical chair faced the rear of the windowless room. Lighting from an invisible source provided two thousand watts of white light, and distributed it evenly throughout the six hundred square feet of the room. The walls were a pale yellow and twenty feet high; the ceiling was transparent at the moment, and showed the almost starless night sky of Cicero, in the Marko system. The floor was rough with real pebbles, imported from the Coriander Beach on the other side of Cicero, where a small but wild sea chipped away at rock that looked like painted shale, each layer an age, each age a color, to show that, yes, there was some beauty left in the galaxy, after all. A gentle, warm breeze circulated throughout the room, carrying with it the very faint scent of jasmine. A synthesizer attempted to reconstruct or re-create, or construct or create, as you will, a Bach improvisation in G major. It did a fair job of getting the probable sound of his instrument, but the improvisations were rather lame. The programming realized this eventually and resolved itself into Sonata No. 6. The door was soundless and efficient, and above it was the only decorative artifact in the room—a symbolic representation of a banana. The simplicity of the room should not be mistaken for an indication of austerity on the part of the representative cultures, nor on the part of the Grand Banana itself; rather the seven members of the Crisis Committee couldn’t agree on any other decor. Oh, yes: All of the chairs were occupied. Richard Immanual Feng, of Beauregard around Sestus, who was seated in the middle left chair, had his feet on the table. He was barefooted, but he had washed his feet very carefully before arriving. He dared anyone to say anything. No one did. Across from him sat Nora Delacroix of Sorbonne around Eveleth, glaring and pouting simultaneously. Feng resisted the temptation to bait Delacroix, and resisted the temptation to try to hurry the meeting. He didn’t have anything specific in mind to do, he just hated waiting. At last Carla Weismuller of Broderick around Broderick, in the head position, looked up from the V-tab and said, “We have isolated the time when They began serious operations to within a six-month period.” There was a snort of derision from the far right seat. Feng chose not to look. Byron Santiago of Brine around Neosol said, “Six months? Splendid. We have one functioning Unit, and we need to guess within a six-month—” “Could you have done better?” rasped old Delilah Corinth of Bangyoulose around Yeats. She was, Feng reflected, rather less obnoxious than most of the others. He wished she would bathe before attending Session, but he was aware that she failed to do so for the same reason that he was barefooted. She twisted in her chair and sent a small feathered dart to make a little hole among several identical holes in the artificial oak next to the door. “We have enough for a gamble.” “We have enough—” “Kiss my ruddy bum,” suggested Corinth. “Feng may be an asshole, but his teams get the job done.” Feng smirked and inclined his head at the compliment, but no one noticed. She continued, “We have a chance now. You haven’t given us diddly-squat.” You must allow a certain freedom in translation here. In any case, Santiago sputtered and went out. Carla said, “I’d as soon not sit here all day. We need someone to find a team leader to bring a team back through enough nexus points to get the job done without bollixing it up too badly, and do it all without letting Them turn our team into hamburger. Simply stated, the job will be to find out who the enemy is, why he is attacking, and get some idea on how to stop him. It is by definition impossible to stop him in the past, since he exists in the present. On the other hand the past may tell us how to stop him in the future. “If this sounds like a slim chance, it is. The chance of our fleet defeating their fleet in direct combat is also slim, but we will be attempting that, too, if it comes to it. The chance of one of our human or machine spies learning something useful is also slim, but we will be trying that, too. We will attempt everything that has any reasonable chance, and perhaps one of them will work. “The backtime will be six hundred and thirty-one years, the starting place will, of course, be Old Earth. Volunteer to find a team leader within twelve hours, or must I pick someone?” Lois Brockingham of Charity around Biscane, in the near right chair, said, “Why doesn’t Feng do it, if he’s so bloody smart?” Normally, reflected Feng, this would have gotten her selected on the spot by the others, but everyone was inclined to give her a break, as her home world had been Reduced a week ago. Her eyes showed no signs of tears, which was a credit to her cosmetician. Feng, who was an historian and research specialist, shrugged and said, “If I thought I was as qualified for field operations as Fredericka, I’d—” “Forget it,” said the representative from Grandview around Zenith. “I’m not—” “Concerned about the destruction of all human life on thirty planets?” finished Feng nastily. She paused. “As much as you are.” Feng bit back a reply as he stared into the old, yellow eyes. A point there, he thought suddenly. Carla picked up on it at the same time. “Which of you,” she said, “cares more about humanity than his own petty squabbles?” “Or hers,” said Brockingham. “Betsy’s tits and mittens,” said Corinth. “You stay here and argue semantics. I’ll find someone.” “Like hell you will,” said Feng. “Eh?” said Corinth and Carla at the same time. “You don’t have a Reduced chance, old lady. I’m going myself.” She stared at him. “Why?” she said at last. He shrugged. “To prove that I have as much balls as you, maybe.” “You’ll need—” “An overlay. I know.” Corinth nodded. “Fair enough,” she said. Carla growled, but said nothing. Feng matched stares with her. She probably planned this all along, the lizard. But then, if she did, it’s probably for the best. Aloud, he said, “I suppose you have the unrefined plans all set to appear before me, eh?” “And everyone else,” agreed Carla, as V-tab holograms sprang up around the room. “Splendid,” said Feng with an ironic bite, blinked the machine to life, and kick-wished the plans to unfold. Just to be contrary, he opaqued the back and sides. After a moment he said, “I suspect it’s going to take me at least a week to prepare for the overlay so I don’t—” “We don’t have a week,” announced Delacroix with a calmness that was effective even if contrived. “Their fleet will be to us in one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty hours.” Corinth growled and threw another dart. There was little else to say. Eveleth was the last remaining bastion against Them. If Eveleth fell, it would be only hours before Broderick fell, then Marko, and then… Feng licked his lips. “Nothing like a close finish,” he said into the silence. “Very well. I’ll schedule an overlay for the day after tomorrow.” “It’ll probably improve him,” muttered Brockingham. Carla continued, “We have been out of touch with Old Earth for several hundred years, but we do retain definitive works of their culture from the period in which you will arrive. We have enough that the team le—that is, that you can be effectively prepared. You will speak like a native and think like a native in all of the small things, such as idioms and elements of popular culture, which are the things most likely to give you away. Put another way, you will be a native in every way, including how you think. Be aware that this will subject you to those underlying psychological factors that lead to those cultural elements.” “In other words,” said Feng, “I’ll talk like a native, but if I’m not careful, I might act like one, too. Got it. What else?” “We have,” said Carla, “military preparedness of a sort. We are ready in other ways. What we need is some means of attack. We have no idea what this might be, save that our indicators say there are nine nexus points where such a thing may be found. And, by the way, if you can help us reestablish contact with Old Earth, that would be a pleasant bonus.” “Got it,” said Feng. “Any idea what I should look for in a team?” Corinth snorted. “A doctor, for one.” “For research?” said Carla. “I would think—” “No,” said Feng. “She means to try to save the rest of the team after They discover we’re there. I suspect she’s right.” “You’d better find someone who knows the electronics of the era better than you do,” said Carla. “We can’t send much with you beyond the locators, and that is an area in which our knowledge is quite scanty.” “And,” added Corinth, “find someone who can think well enough to tell the banana from the peel, and find the bastards, since I don’t think you’d recognize a clue if it bit you. And remember that revealing who you are to anyone from the past creates a paradox, negating anything you might accomplish.” Feng nodded, ignoring the cut, and looked back at his V-tab, where clean red and amber lines blocked out his schedule of training in Earth culture and operation of the machine that would allow him, if he was lucky, to stay one step ahead of those who were determined to wipe out humanity, without creating one of those nasty paradoxes that would render the attempt impossible before it began. No problem. He winced. “What is it?” said Santiago. “I don’t like having my personality overlaid. You’ll understand if you ever develop a personality.” Carla tried to hide a chuckle, Corinth laughed aloud, Santiago looked half puzzled and half irate. Feng sighed. “I might as well get on it. I’ll be on my way. If I don’t see you gentle souls again, it’s either because I decided to stay back in the Light Ages, or because I blew it and you’re all radioactive dust. Do the Job.” “Do the Job,” echoed Old Lady Corinth, and one by one the others, except for Carla, who said, “Good luck, Richard.” Feng managed a smile. “Take care.” He left the conference chambers and signaled for transport. The pebbles hurt his bare feet, but he didn’t let it show. 
 

CHAPTER 17
   

What will you do

When it’s time to die,

Hey, ho my Johnny?

“Johnny Is a Roving Blade,”

Tommy Makem    The sad thing is, when surrounded by death, each one loses some degree of value. Don’t hate me because I say it; I’m the reporter, not the agent. Well, perhaps I am the agent, too. But I deny responsibility, whatever. Death loses value, life loses value. Each death is a bit easier to take than the last, and in this is sorrow. Death, where is thy fang? Or Feng, if you wish. But Souci— This I had not expected, and were I not at least a little numb by this time, I might have broken. As it was, I waited for the tears, but they failed me. Someone, I think Rose, got me back into the kitchen while Jamie and Christian held off Justin’s friends. Tom and Libby stayed with Rose and me to watch the back door, which was still a large hole. The sounds of gunfire were harder to hear there, but they were present. I looked at Rudd and my mind reeled and spun, and it was all too clear, and too dull, and too much, and too little, and too late. I took the knife from under my arm and held the point beneath his chin. I said, “Physician, can you heal a cut throat?” He glared at me. “Go ahead. You’ll never find what you—” “Shut your goddamned face.” I brought my temper under control, barely, and walked a few steps away from him. “Souci told you who I was, didn’t she?” “Yes.” “Is she dead?” “Yes.” “Did you kill her?” “In a manner of speaking.” He laughed without humor. “More fool she. I won’t help, since no matter what you do, I will not tell you what you want to know. I have devoted my life to curing the human race of you diseased ones, and I will not fail now. It is just as well she died, and I thank you for that, at least.” I closed my eyes. Visions of Souci, lying on the floor, smoke and screams fighting for control of the airwaves, came and sat in the control booth of my mind. Would I ever be free of that memory, or would it always dominate and overwhelm the memories of our shared joys, and rob me of the chance to conquer our shared pain? I didn’t know. Perhaps she would have come back to me, and I would never know that, either. But what I did know was that this—this filth—would not mock my pain. I pointed my knife at his stomach, and I would have eviscerated him right then if there hadn’t come a thump and a very peculiar sound from down the hall, which stopped me just long enough for another thought to grow. I said, “You’d like me to kill you, wouldn’t you? Because you’re afraid you’ll break. Well, sweat, asshole.” To Rose and Libby I said, “Watch him. If he tries anything, shoot him in the kneecap.” I went down the hall toward the noise. Tom was down at the end of the hall, and the noise had been the work he was doing, trying to cover over the doorway so they couldn’t come around and get us from that direction. I poked my head out before he had it covered. It was quiet and the sun was setting once more. No one attacked me, or even looked at me, except for a few barnyard animals. “Tom,” I said. “Yeah?” “Hold off on that.” “What?” I told him what I wanted him to do. He looked at me like I was nuts. “Do it,” I said. “If you say so.” We went outside. He raised his pistol and shot the goat cleanly through the head. It fell over and flopped, twice. I felt absurdly bad about having killed it. “Now what?” said Tom. “Help me drag it inside.” “Why?” “We’re going to break Rudd.” Together we dragged it into the kitchen, while occasional gunfire from the other room provided music to drag goats by. When we arrived in the kitchen, Rose said, “What is that?” “A dead goat,” I told her. “That’s what I thought it was.” “Libby, do you have your medical supplies with you?” She turned her head to the side. “I think it’s too late to save the goat.” “If we’d wanted him saved,” I said, “we wouldn’t have killed him.” “Whatever you say,” said Libby. “What do you want?” “A needle and syringe. Since the Physician here is so worried about Hags disease, I thought maybe we could inspire him by giving him a twenty-five percent case.” He stared. I stared back. “You do know that almost a quarter of all goats carry the Hags virus, don’t you? In them, of course, it isn’t fatal, but—you didn’t know that? My, my. Where could you be from that you don’t know that? Well, never mind. Tom, hold his arm still. Libby, draw some blood from the goat. Twenty cc’s should do it.” “You’re lying,” said the Physician. I shrugged. “If you wish.” Libby drew the blood and brought the needle over. Tom held the Physician’s arm tight while I held him in place with an arm around his throat. He began to struggle. Libby stopped. “What is it?” I said. “We can’t hold him here forever.” “Just a minute.” She went back to her kit, found a cotton wad, and put some alcohol on it. She came back and rubbed this on his forearm. “Now,” she said sweetly, “this may sting a little.” “No!” “Tell me what I want to know.” “All right, you bastard. It’s Proxima, the fourth—” “Libby, give him the needle. He’s lying.” She took her time approaching him, and I got to watch his face. At first, he had been glaring at me, now he was watching the needle as it got closer and closer, and we had to work harder and harder to keep him pinned. The point of the needle touched his arm. He screamed a scream like Poe must have imagined, which degenerated into unintelligible whimpering. I said, “Where is Sugar Bear’s home base? Tell me quickly.” “Oh God…” “Tell me, you sonofabitch.” “Charity,” he croaked. “Charity around Biscane.” I blinked, not really believing he’d answered me. “Well, son of a bitch,” I said. Libby said, “How do you know he’s telling the truth?” “I’ll explain later.” “If you say so.” I turned to the Physician. “Okay, next question: How can we stop the missiles?” He shook his head. I repeated the question. He just sobbed. I repeated it once more and he said, “You can’t. I can’t. They’re only an hour or two away, and the transmitting equipment is on the other side of the planet.” “Can anyone else duplicate the transmitting equipment?” “Not without the codes.” “Where are the codes?” “With the equipment.” I closed my eyes and took two deep breaths. “All right. Libby, you’re a paramedic; you know hospitals.” “Yeah.” “Go get Eve and meet us at Feng’s. Be careful. Take a cab. Do you have money?” “I’ve got money. But Billy, being a paramedic doesn’t have a lot to do with getting someone out of a hospital.” “You’ll find a way.” She smiled a bit, then held up her automag. “I’ll use finesse,” she said. She left out the back. I said, “I still hear shooting. Rose, you and Tom go find out what’s going on with Jamie and Christian. Don’t get your head blown off. I have to think.” They walked out of the room. I turned away. I heard the Physician leap from the chair, and my knife was in my hand as I turned, and I stabbed him in the heart as he was reaching for my throat. I think I broke one of his ribs doing it. He grabbed me, his eyes wide and on a level with mine, his breath in my face, his fingers gripping my arms painfully. “Thanks for doing the expected,” I told him. I owed him that for Rich. And Fred. And Souci. I would have told him that I’d made up all that stuff about the goat, but I didn’t think of it. For his part, he didn’t say anything. I let him fall, keeping a grip on the knife so it came free in my hand. He lay on the ground, curled up holding his chest. As he rolled over onto his stomach, I stabbed him in the kidney. Then I stabbed him again, and again. I remember my arm rising and fal