Asgard's Secret (14 page)

Only three or four
days had passed since news of humanity's victory over the Salamandrans had
reached Asgard. Hers must be a warship, fresh from a climactic battle. When she
said "negotiable cargo," what she probably meant was
"loot."

I resolved not to
ask. It didn't seem polite, in the circumstances.

"That will be
perfectly satisfactory, Star-Captain," the clerk said. "I can see no
legal or moral grounds for any objection."

Jacinthe Siani
opened her mouth to complain again, but she could see that it was futile. No
sound came out.

"It really
breaks my heart to let you down," I told her, "but I
love
women in uniform."

"You'll regret
this," the Kythnan hissed, her composure cracking under the strain.

"I seriously
doubt that," I said. "At present, I feel better than I've felt for a
long
time. I wish you the best of luck explaining your failure to Amara Guur."

When Jacinthe Siani
had stomped off, the star-captain went into a huddle with 238-Zenatta and the
clerk. In the meantime, Aleksandr Sovorov had come lumbering up the steps to
join me. The six troopers stayed on the floor, in perfect military formation.

"Alex," I
said, "I forgive you everything. How the hell did you manage to find
her?"

"Find
her?" he repeated, struggling to draw breath. "I didn't. . . find
her. That . . . officious idiot. . . from Immigration Control . . . demanded
that I take responsibility for her."

My feelings of
gratitude shriveled a little. "So you figured that you'd palm her off on
to me, as usual," I said. "Well, why not? I'm always glad to
help."

He'd got his breath
back by now. "Not exactly," he said. "When I found out what she
wanted, I naturally told her about your situation. I thought she'd be too late
to do anything about it, but she seems to be a very decisive person— and as
the Hall of Justice is directly across the plaza from Immigration Control, she
didn't have far to come. Mercifully."

"What do you mean,
when
you found out what she wanted?"
I asked.

"She'd already
talked to 74-Scarion, so she knew that Myrlin had been lodged with Saul
Lyndrach, and that Immigration Control had been looking for both of them. He'd
just told her that the outworlder had been logged out of lock five in the early
hours of this morning in your truck, so . . ."

"He
was what!"
I screeched. My heart was still pounding
from the shock of my unexpected rescue, and it wasn't ready to cope with the
shock of discovering that my truck had been hijacked.

"Oh, I'm
sorry," the C.R.E. man said. "Didn't anyone tell you?"

"You're the
one who's supposed to be keeping me informed," I pointed out.

"Am I?"
he said. "Well, I didn't know myself until the star-captain told me what
74-Scarion had told her. But as soon as I explained to her that you were here,
caught up in some bizarre conspiracy, she decided to get you out."

"She
decided," I echoed. "On her own?"

"Well,
naturally I encouraged her to do exactly that— especially when she said that
even if you'd already signed the contract to help some local gangster find
whatever it is Myrlin's presumably set off to look for, she had seven
flame-pistols to make sure that you didn't lift a finger on anyone's behalf but
hers."

"How did he
get hold of my truck?" I demanded. "It was securely locked up—and the
keys were locked up too, in my room. Nobody knew the codes but me . . . well,
except for ..."

"How should I know?"
Sovorov interrupted, a trifle impatiently. I still felt so good about the
miracle that I forgave his rudeness instantly.

"Was Saul with
him when they logged out of the lock?" I asked.

"I don't know,
I tell you," the scientist told me, petulantly. "He's not on the
record, but if he was hiding in the back of the truck ..."

I would have
pursued the matter further, but I didn't get the chance. The star-captain
tapped me on the shoulder. "It's okay, Russell," she said.
"You're all mine. The Tetrax will collect their pound of flesh from the
spoils of Salamandra. Thank your lucky stars I got here in time. Sign
these."

She presented me
with a sheaf of papers. The forms were in English and Chinese; three copies of
each. I looked at them uncomprehendingly. "What are they?" I asked, stupidly.

"Your
conscription papers," she informed me, drily. "The Star Force is
about to make a man of you, you worthless piece of low-life shit." She
smiled as if she were joking.

I had a nasty suspicion that she might not
be.

"I don't want.
. ."I began. I gave up as the smile vanished and her bright blue eyes took
on the Gorgon stare she'd used on Jacinthe Siani. I stared at the papers,
wondering whether I was entitled to feel insulted. I decided that I wasn't;
what she'd just done for me gave her a very healthy balance of moral credit in
my
memory-bank.

"No
rush," said Susarma Lear. "You're drafted anyway, whether you sign
them or not. No rush about signing on, that is—everything else is extremely
urgent, so we'd better get going.
Now"

"Didn't you
tell me that your race had abandoned slavery several centuries ago?"
69-Aquila enquired interestedly.

"My mistake,
apparently," I told him, by way of farewell. "I guess we're not such
barbarians, after all."

10

I didn't get a commission. I didn't even
get a uniform. Star-Captain Susarma Lear tucked my as-yet-unsigned conscription
papers away in her trousers and led the way out of the Hall of Justice into the
plaza. Basic training lasted about half a minute, and consisted of her pointing
to one of her merry men and saying: "That's Lieutenant Crucero. He's
second-in-command. Anything he orders you to do, you do. If you've got any
questions, he or Seme will be happy to answer them, but not now. For now, I'll
ask the questions. Number one: how much do you know about the android?"

"What
android?"

"The big one.
Goes under the name Myrlin. Currently in possession of your vehicle."

"He's not
human?" I queried weakly.

"He's an
android," she said. "Now cut the crap and tell me what you know about
him."

I deducted a few
points from her moral credit, but it still seemed very healthy.

"I've never
even seen him," I told her. "I talked to him on the phone, briefly,
when he first came down the chain. Immigration wanted me to take him in. I suggested
they ask Saul Lyndrach. I was grumpy because I'd just been woken up. When I went
to see Saul to apologise, his doorman directed me into a trap. A Spirellan
named Heleb, who works for a vormyran named Amara Guur, stitched me up for
killing a Sleath. Heleb murdered the Sleath himself, because his boss wants my
help—my
expert
help. Saul had contacted the C.R.E. asking for funding,
because he'd found a way down into the lower levels. My guess is that Guur went
after him to find out what he'd got, but something went wrong, and now Myrlin
has it. He also has my truck, which some stupid Tetron AI passed out of lock five
without a murmur of protest, presumably on the feeble grounds that the truck
hadn't been reported stolen and Myrlin wasn't officially registered as a wanted
man.
Slight concern,
I think 74-Scarion said, but no formal
investigation.
Merde!
He'll never get into my cold-suit if he's as big as they
say he is. That's it. Where are we going?"

We'd paused outside
the entrance to the Hall of Justice while I filled her in on the basics. We
were attracting attention from the passers-by, not so much because of the black
uniforms as the sidearms Alex Sovorov had called flame-pistols.

"I don't
know," she replied. "You tell me."

"Up the
Skychain to your ship?" I suggested. "I'm not sure how safe we are
down here, after the way Jacinthe Siani looked at me before she left."

"We're not
leaving the surface until we catch up with the android," she said.
"You're the local expert—it's your job to lead me to him. As quickly as
humanly possible. Starting now."

"I
can't," I said. "He's out in the cold—and my truck's out there with
him."

"In that
case," she said, "we'll have to acquire another truck. Or two.
Can't
doesn't cut it in the Star Force, Russell. From now on, you're a
can do
kind of guy."

The euphoria of
having been let off Amara Guur's hook was still canceling out any bad feelings
such rude treatment would normally have evoked.

"We could just
wait till he comes back," I suggested reasonably.

"And suppose
he doesn't?"

"In that case,
you could stop worrying about him, couldn't you?" I said, lightly.

Her blue eyes went
steely again. Obviously, I hadn't quite mastered the niceties of military
discipline and protocol.

"We need to
get off the street," I told her. "You might not be a walking target,
but I probably am. If Amara Guur couldn't get me, he won't want you to have
me."

Her bleak eyes
bored into the nooks and crannies of my soul. It was more than just an act. I realised
that she was strung out as taut as a piano wire. The war might be officially
over, but she hadn't stopped fighting. She obviously hadn't even paused in her
fighting for a
long time.
"Trooper Russell," she said, "you're in
the Star Force now—don't make me remind you again. Anyone who takes a shot at
you takes a shot at all of us, and will be answered in kind. You seem to have
enemies, but that's nothing unusual to us. We've been on our present tour of
duty for nineteen months, Earth time, and we have spent that entire time
fighting enemies who had the resources of whole worlds to draw upon. We have
nothing to fear from the petty criminals of this ridiculous backwater."

"I understand
that, Star-Captain Lear," I said soothingly, "but Amara Guur might
not." I looked around for Aleksandr Sovorov, but he was nowhere to be
seen. He obviously figured that he'd done his bit for the genocidal maniacs of
his homeworld, and was free to resume his quiet and orderly life.

"Where can I get
in touch with the local law-enforcement agency, Russell?" the star-captain
said—which was a curious coincidence, because as she spoke the words my eye was
caught by three Tetron peace-officers, who were making their way along the
road-strip towards us with an ominously purposeful stride. Ordinarily, that
would not have been a sight that caused me any anxiety, but these were not
ordinary times—and they were looking right at me. I smiled at them; I still
felt full of benevolence towards fate and fortune.

When I didn't
answer her question, Susarma Lear looked over her shoulder, following my gaze.
She smiled too, but the peace-officers ignored her as they leapt from the
slow-moving strip on to solid ground.

"Are you
Michael Rousseau, sir?" the spokesman said to me.

"Whatever it
is," I said, "I didn't do it. I just this minute got out of
jail."