7th Sigma (23 page)

Just upwind from the picket line of horses, in the camping space recently vacated by the freighters, a large passenger with Polynesian features set up a tent for Hohner, then began cooking a meal for them both.

Huh, guess he travels with a servant.

Two horses later, one of the guides walked past quietly. The Polynesian turned suddenly when the guide scuffed his foot and stepped between the guide and Hohner. His hand dropped into a large cargo pocket on the right leg of his pants. When he saw it was the guide he turned the movement into a stretch, then bent back down to his cooking.

Guess Hohner travels with a bodyguard.

Kimble was kneeling, cleaning out the hoofs of a bay mare, when he saw one of the peddlers approach Hohner holding a burlap bag in one hand. The man held up two apples in his other hand. “Apples? Best in the territory?”

“No, thanks,” said Hohner.

Then the peddler lowered his voice and said something else. Hohner shook his hand side to side, below his waist. “No. After dark!”

Oh, crap. I'm going to have to take more pictures.

*   *   *

WHEN
Bentham rode into the tanques two days later, Kimble was asleep on his bedroll. The sound of hoofbeats, braying, and swearing brought him awake.

“Oh, sorry.” He called Mrs. Perdicaris off, distracting her with an apple before tying her to a tree. Except for the two of them and Tomás, the tanques were once again deserted. The westbound caravan, which had left three hours before, had also been shorthanded. Between mucking out, pumping in, and rubbing down, he was exhausted. On the other hand, he'd replaced most of the contingency cash he'd used to buy Mrs. P.

Kimble gave Captain Bentham the binoculars.

“If I haven't screwed up, the pictures that matter are the first fifteen. Three exposures each of Lee, Bob, and Terry Jonas of Jemez Springs. Three exposures of Perry Brochert, a peddler based out of Los Crucitos. And three exposures of Mateo Encino, another peddler based out of the Raton checkpoint.”

“All of them matter?”

“Yeah, but it was three separate contacts. The Jonas brothers and those two peddlers. He waved off all three attempts to contact him in the afternoon. The meetings were held after dark. I'd say they're setting up three different distributors with different territories.”

“You're sure?”

“Well, I didn't get close enough to eavesdrop, but I'm pretty sure.”

“You followed orders?”

Kimble was hurt. “Don't sound so surprised. Jeeze.”

“What's with the mule?”

“That's Mrs. Perdicaris. She … uh … well, she's with me. Oh, there's three shots of her in the camera, too. Can I get prints?”

 

PART III

 

“But cannot the Government protect?”

“We of the Game are beyond protection. If we die, we die. Our names are blotted from the book. That is all.”

—RUDYARD KIPLING,
Kim,
Chapter 11

14

Half-healed Scars

Kimble's first thought when he heard the feet pounding down the path from the compound was
They're coming for me!
But then his breathing calmed and the sudden thud, thud of his heartbeat subsided as he remembered that
they
wouldn't be coming for anybody, not for a long time.

His second thought was
It's too damn hot to be running.
He'd picked this time of day to pull weeds in the bean patch because it meant the sun was low enough that the cottonwoods growing by the Rio Puerco shaded the field. But it was still too hot to be running.

He straightened as “young” Martha, one of the
uchideshi
, reached the field.

“Who's dead?” he asked.

Martha stopped in the shade and bent over, hands on her knees. “No one,
Sempai
,” she gasped. She was a redhead and her face was flushed from the run in the heat. “But Tommy wishes he was. Mrs. Perdicaris kicked him over the paddock fence.”

Kimble pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.

“And
what
was Tommy doing in Mrs. Perdicaris' paddock? No. Never mind. I don't want to know.” He pulled off the leather gloves he wore. Most of the weeds were purple nightshade or tumbleweed and both had pointy bits. He picked up his plastic water flask. “How bad is it?”

“Sensei thinks it's a greenstick break of the right radius. And he's got the most amazing bruises on the back of his thighs. I didn't see him get kicked but I did see him land.”

He took a sip and handed the flask to Martha. “Did he roll?” Tommy was also an
uchideshi
. His ability to take a fall was normally pretty good.

“Tried.” She smiled as she accepted the flask, then took a gulp of the water. “Came down on the edge of the cistern.”

He winced. “How mad is Sensei?”

“She's furious! She said if Tommy had broken the cistern … well, you know.”

“Now, Martha, it's not as if I didn't tell
everyone
several times to keep out of the paddock—”

“Oh, Sensei's not mad at
you
. She's mad at Tommy.”

“Ah.” He frowned. “Does Sensei need my help to set the arm, or something?”

“Oh, no. It's that man from the Territorial Rangers. The one with the great nose and the bushy eyebrows? He rode in during the flailin' and the wailin'.”

Kimble felt his face tighten. Martha licked her lips and took a sudden step back. “Uh, he talked to Sensei for a half hour on the veranda and”—Martha looked around reflexively—“and she
shouted
at him. And ten minutes later, she sent me down to get you.”

Kimble shook his head, as if to throw water off, trying to return his face to neutral. “Why'd you step back, just then?”

Martha opened her mouth and shut it. “It was like you were going to hit me,
Sempai
. Never saw you like that, even on the mat—even when you
were
trying to hit me.”

“Sorry.” He felt funny with her calling him
sempai
. She was a year older than he was, but he'd been training with Sensei for years and Martha had come to be an
uchideshi
, an inside student, only five months before, in late spring, while Kimble was gone. When he came back, two months ago, she'd helped with the nursing, during those first two weeks in bed.

Kimble took a deep breath. “Better run back and be handy for Sensei. I'll be along directly.”

*   *   *

HE
could've run back easily enough. He'd been back on the mat for a full month and the wounds were scarring up nicely, but he wasn't going to run for Major Bentham.

He stopped at the paddock. Mrs. Perdicaris walked up and stuck her head over the top rail. When he was close enough, she shoved at him with her nose, not feeling a bit of shame at kicking Tommy.

“Mrs. Perdicaris, you are a lot of trouble.”

He found a lump of sugar in his pocket and let her lip it off his palm, then went between the rough wooden rails of the paddock and ran his fingers down each of her legs, looking for signs of strain. “That Tommy is pretty hefty, girl. You oughta think twice before kicking him. You could hurt yourself.”

She brayed lightly and nuzzled at his waist. He turned the pocket out, showing her it was empty, so Mrs. Perdicaris contented herself with letting him rub her poll while she shed copious amounts of mule hair across his shirt.

After a moment he sighed and climbed back through the rails, but didn't go to Sensei's cottage yet. Instead, he ducked into the men's dormitory behind the dojo, washed his face and hands, and put on a clean shirt.

He found Sensei and the major sitting across from each other on the stone benches under the twisted grape vines that wrapped the ramada on the north side of the cottage. They both turned their heads as he came through the gate in the coyote fence. Sensei kept her seat while Major Bentham stood. He held out his hand, but Kimble bowed to Sensei before taking it.

“Good to see you, Kimble,” Bentham said.

It's not mutual
, he thought. “Major.” He turned back to Sensei. “How's Tommy?”

“Brain damaged!” Sensei snorted. “But that wasn't the result of his accident—it was the cause! His backside is really hurtin' right now, but by tomorrow it's going to be far worse. He'll live.”

Kimble exhaled sharply. “Not if I get ahold of him. Why was he in there?”

“Hormones.”

He opened his mouth and Sensei shook her head slightly, then tilted it toward the open kitchen window. Someone was rattling about the kitchen.

Later, then.
“May I get you tea, Sensei?”

She gestured to the bench beside her. “Sit. Martha's on it.”

He dropped down onto the bench. He thought it was deliberate, her gesture. Normally he would've sat
seiza
, on his knees, a respectful distance away, but this put them both facing Bentham, a united front.

“I was just reminding Jeremy that the last time I lent you to him, you came back broken. And I didn't even have a damage deposit.” Her voice was light but she wasn't smiling.

Kimble almost lifted a hand to his right shoulder, where the whip had bitten deepest, but managed to keep both hands in his lap.
And unclenched.
He thought that was something.

Major Bentham sighed. “Now who's objectifying people? And was it really my fault? I seem to remember giving some pretty specific instructions.”

“Too bad you didn't share those instructions with all involved,” Kimble said. He was surprised at how mild his own voice sounded.

Bentham's voice was not so mild. “And if they had killed you, what would've happened to the rest of those girls?”

Now Kimble's voice did rise. “You want someone who follows orders like a robot, send a robot.” He looked up at the grape leaves and nearly added
Oh, yeah, you can't.

Sensei put her hand on Kimble's knee and he subsided. “So, if Kim did such a bad job, why are you back here, Jeremy?”

“
I
didn't say he did a bad job. I said he didn't follow instructions and, as a result, he got hurt.”

Kimble looked down at the fieldstone pavers set in sand under his feet. There was justice in Bentham's position. He had mulled it over for weeks but his conclusion remained the same. Despite the bad dreams, he wouldn't have acted any differently.

“I need—” Bentham shut his mouth abruptly as Martha backed through the nylon-screen door with the tea tray. She set it on the end of Bentham's bench and he shifted to the other end to make more room. Martha knelt on the pavers to pour three cups.

As soon as she was done, Ruth said, “Thanks, Martha. Leave the tray. Unsaddle the major's horse and put him in the spare stall, then sweep and mop the guest
casita
and make the bed.”

Martha started to open her mouth but Ruth just stared steadily at her. The girl bobbed her head and left.

Once she was well outside the fence, Kimble said, “I think she was going to point out that we just cleaned the
casita
.”

“Well, yes,” Ruth said, “but did you notice how quietly she made the tea?”

“Yes.” He'd thought she'd been listening, too.

“She's already too interested. Poor Tommy.”

“Tommy?” It hit him. “He was showing off? Trying to impress Martha?”

“Well, duh. He's been trying to get her attention since spring without success. Then you came back on a stretcher and she only has eyes for you. He took it personally.”

Kimble felt himself blushing. “I've been very careful not to encourage her. Tommy's not a bad guy. He's just—well.”

“Stupid?” Ruth suggested. She was like that. She had probably said the same thing directly to Tommy many times.

“He needs to learn things the hard way.”

“The learning part remains to be proven.”

Major Bentham cleared his throat. “This is just fascinating. Really.”

Ruth sipped her tea without comment.

“Does our deal still stand?” Bentham asked.

Ruth looked sideways at Kimble. Bentham wasn't the only person Ruth had shouted at in recent days. She knew his answer before he gave it.

“Yes,” he said. “For another year, as agreed.”
Unless you get me killed before then.

Bentham let out a breath that Kimble hadn't realized he'd been holding. “Okay. I need to find out what's going on in the Pecos River basin south of Ft. Sumner.”

“Really?” Kimble said. “But you have a post there. A full platoon at the barracks in Pecosito.”

“Yes. In uniforms and everything. They've been asking questions but they're not getting anywhere. I sent in Lujan, undercover, but they smoked him pretty quick. He had to be taken outside for surgery.”

Kimble had worked with Lujan several times, mostly in the Valle Grande west of where Los Alamos used to be. “He gonna be all right?”

“I don't know yet. He took a gyro in the spleen.”

“Your own troops shot him?”

Bentham shook his head. “No. All ammo and weapons accounted for, thank you very much.”

“Shit.”

The only military firearms in the territory were rocket rifles—smoothbore composite tubes that used chemical strikers to fire off self-stabilizing ceramic rockets. They were high-tech precision instruments of destruction and had to be made outside the steel curtain with full-metal tech. They were brought in by the feds and only for the Territorial Rangers.

It was the best part of a bad situation. Wasn't like there weren't other guns. Plastic rifles with disposable preloaded cardboard barrels. For small game, elastic slingshots were popular. For deer and elk there were bows and crossbows made in territory of horn and wood laminates or, on the other side of the steel curtain, fiber composites. You just had to give up on metal.