Brothers to Dragons (7 page)

"What happened to them. In the
Quiebra Grande
." He repeated all that the professor had said to him. At the end of it, Tracy burst into fits of laughter.

"Sociology? He's studied sociology all right. From the ground up. Job, we
call
him professor, because he likes that, and he's got all those books and he talks so funny. But he's no professor, never has been. Way I heard it he's been right here in the city for forty years."

"Not teaching?"

"Not teaching, 'less you count pimping as teaching. And Miss Magnolia, she only sold one thing in her whole life—and it's sure not real estate." She laughed again. "Don't you believe two words the old prof tells you, because one of'em will be made-up. That man, he's got more imagination inside him than he's got bourbon. He just loves to talk." She shook her head. "Real estate!"

"But he didn't make up the
Quiebra Grande
."

"No, he didn't. Nobody has a mind diseased enough for that."

She went out giggling. Job sat with his face burning. He didn't so much mind what the professor had done, inventing a glorious past for himself. Job had had thoughts like that himself at Cloak House, when he imagined his real mother and father who would one day come to find him. What he hated was the idea that Tracy would tell the others how gullible he was, and they would laugh at him behind his back.

They would, too. He had heard them mocking Professor Buckler, when he came out with one of his extra-philosophical comments or poetic phrases.

Job sat with his coat and gloves on. He was too hot, but he wanted to go before anyone else came. He was not looking forward to Tracy's return. To his surprise, though, it was Miss Magnolia herself who arrived ten minutes later. Job's errands were mostly run for the professor, and for the rest it was Tracy or Rosita who brought instructions.

Miss Magnolia was frowning—nowadays she always seemed to be frowning—and she hardly looked at Job. Her attention was on the square box she was holding. "Now listen to me real careful. This isn't the typical drop-off, to the usual places. Do you know the Mall Compound?"

"I know where it is. I've never been inside."

"You won't need to go inside. Go to the northeast corner of the protection zone—that's the corner nearest here. Go in just far enough to trigger the alarm system. You know what that is? All right. You wait, until a man in a uniform comes. Don't worry about the warning message, the defense system will be turned off for you. Stay right where you are at the edge of the protection zone, let him come to you."

She paused, as Tracy came hurrying into the kitchen. "Well?"

"You were right." Tracy's manner had changed. She was pale and nervous. "It
was
Susie. Tromp saw her leave. On foot. She went east."

"With the shipment?" Miss Magnolia's face was like painted stone.

"I don't know. Tromp didn't see it, but Susie was carrying a cloth bag."

"She has it. She must have. Don't worry, I'll take care of her later. Stupid bitch. I have to get another batch over there right now, before their party starts. It won't be easy." She turned to Job. Her face frightened him. "A man in a blue uniform, with a peaked cap. Got that?"

"Will he come from inside the Compound?"

"Never you mind where he comes from. Just wait for him."

"You're sending him to the
Compound
?" Tracy's lower lip drooped in shock.

"Yeah." Miss Magnolia gave Tracy a furious glare. "Shut your yap, and stay out of things."

"But there's been patrols over there, the past week. Vince hasn't called me once, and Toria said the Compound—"

"I said, shut your big yap. Don't you know who the customer is for this one? We got clients here in fifteen minutes, every girl booked, and I'm late for this delivery. If we don't give service we'll all be out on the street. You'll be peddling your tight little ass to some rot-cock
basura.
You want that? Then shut up." She held the square box out to Job. "Here. Keep it inside your coat. It's got a waterproof cover, but don't let nobody see it. When the man in uniform comes up to you, he's going to say, 'A little something for the head honcho?' You don't say one word. You give him the box, and you come right back here, fast. I'll be waiting. All clear?"

Job had a dozen questions he would like to have asked, but not of Miss Magnolia. He nodded, stuffed the box down inside his high-collared coat next to his chest, and started off down the stairs.

"Gloves and hat!" called Tracy after him. But she did not follow to see him leave.

The snow outside lay deeper on the ground. It was still falling. As the temperature dropped, the thick, lazy flakes were changing to small icy points that stung Job's unprotected face. He pulled the brim of his hat lower, placed his hands on his chest to protect the box and hold it safe in position, and headed south and west toward the Mall Compound. The cold air was sinking to the very bottom of his lungs, producing an ache that rapidly drained his energy. He put one hand to his mouth, to filter air past his warmer glove, and trudged on.

Although it was New Year's Eve the weather was too much for most celebrants. They were still indoors, hoping that the snow would ease. Job had the sidewalks to himself. He stayed close to the walls of the buildings, sheltered from wind and safe from the occasional city patrol car purring half-blind through the snow, and crunched through the firm white layer. Even with the bright reflection of streetlights from the snow, street names were invisible. Job navigated by feel and counting, until he turned at last onto the deserted south-bound avenue that ran to the edge of the Mall Compound.

As always, the Compound was ablaze. Job stood on the perimeter, nervously watching. The searchlights on their tall towers scanned the cleared zone, ready to home in on anything that moved. Their beams made oval white circles on the untrodden snow.

Hurry hurry hurry.
Job thought of Professor Buckler's disdain for haste. Real professor or not, no other adult but Mister Bones had ever been as good to Job—and none had ever talked to him as much as an equal. But this time Job
had
to hurry, or he'd freeze on the spot. He started forward onto the unmarked surface of the protection zone, wincing in anticipation of the strident voice in his ear.

ATTENTION. It came in a few seconds. YOU ARE MOVING INTO A RESTRICTED ZONE, PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT . . .

Job froze, his legs telling him to run, his mind forcing him to stay. Miss Magnolia had said the defense system would be turned off. But if it wasn't . . . At the end of the message he stared around in an agony of fear. The end of the warning was ringing in his ears. RETREAT AT ONCE TO THE BOUNDARY OF THE MALL PROTECTION ZONE, SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH MAY RESULT. DEFENSE PROCEDURES WILL TAKE EFFECT AUTOMATICALLY IN THIRTY SECONDS.

Thirty seconds. Surely it had already been more than thirty seconds.

There was sudden movement at the inner edge of the protection zone, within the Mall Compound itself. Job shielded his eyes and peered through the driving snowflakes. No man in uniform and peaked cap, but a great cloud of blown snow with a dark blob at its center. It moved through the barricade at the edge of the Compound, then turned with a scream of air-jets to head straight for him.

Job forgot Miss Magnolia's instructions. He turned and tried to run. His feet skidded and slid on the snow-covered surface. He had moved no more than a few yards when the machine reached him. He knew it was right behind him, and he tried to throw himself out of the way to one side. His feet slipped again. Before he had moved a foot he was scooped up from behind by something that lifted him and rolled him end-over-end into a dark enclosure. A clang of metal sounded around him. The machine accelerated in a turn, throwing Job's head and shoulder into a cold metal wall. He lay in total darkness, bruised along one cheek and eye socket, dizzy and disoriented.

The ride was a short one. Within a minute the machine jerked to a halt, its side opened, and Job was decanted onto a vinyl tiled floor under dazzling yellow lights.

"Stay right where you are." A hand reached down, grabbed his collar, and hoisted him to his feet. Other hands searched him. They opened his coat and pulled out the square box. Job squinted around him. Already his left eye was beginning to swell and close. He stood inside a garage with a low, paneled ceiling, beside the machine that had picked him up. The snow was melting from its windowless sides, and he could see no place for a driver.

Three men held him. Two of them wore the blue uniforms and peaked caps described to him, but Job was not naive enough to think that would help. Something had gone terribly wrong.

The younger of the two uniformed men opened the box. He unwrapped the waterproof packet inside and sniffed at the contents. "One hundred percent, for a guess," he said. "We'll know in a few minutes. God, look at him. Next thing they'll be using kids in diapers."

"They should be shot." A fat, gray-haired man who was not in uniform sat down on a workbench. "All right, let's get it over with. Who's the parcel for, boyo? Let's have a name."

"I don't know."

"Sure. You decided to wander into the protection zone in the middle of a howling snowstorm, with a million dollars worth of brain-burner on you, just for the fun of it. What made you think the defense system wouldn't fry you on the spot?"

"I thought it would."

The gray-haired man studied him. "Damned if I'm not inclined to believe you." He handed him a white cloth. "Here, kid. Wipe your face."

Job did as he was told. Until that moment he had not realized that he was crying.

"Did you know what you were carrying in the package?" said the fat man.

Job thought about that. He didn't
know
, but he had been developing his suspicions. "I wasn't sure."

"But now you are? So who sent you? Tell me that, and take us there, and you'll do yourself a favor. If we can get someone good, we won't worry much about you. Come on, now." The man could see Job's hesitation. "They dropped you in it, didn't they, without one word of warning? What do you owe them?"

Tracy hadn't done anything to him—she had done her best to protect him, even argued with Miss Magnolia. She had wanted to warn him. Job shook his head. The fat man shrugged. "If that's the way you want it. Take him away, Lou. Let him stew for a while."

The younger of the uniformed men nodded, grabbed Job by the arm, and led him through to another room. This one was warmer, not just a garage and repair shop. The man gestured Job to a chair.

"Want a drink? You must be frozen." Without waiting for an answer he filled a cup from a big metal jug and handed it to Job. It was a hot, sweet liquid that Job had never tasted before, and it burned his gullet all the way down to his stomach.

"There. Warming you up a bit?" The man had a cheerful dark face, and when he took his cap off his hair stood up in damp spikes. "Hell of a night to send a young kid out, 'specially for a drug run." He was studying Job. "Just how old are you, anyway?"

"I'm ten." Job paused, then added, "Ten today."

"God love us. What a birthday present. Did you get any presents?"

Job shook his head.

"Well, happy birthday anyway. Like your drink?" "It's good." But it was making Job dizzy. "More there when you want it. So what's your name, kid?"

"
Job
Salk. Job Napoleon Salk."

"Good. And where do you live?" The man's voice was casual. "Not out on the streets, I'll bet money on that. You'd freeze to death in this weather."

"At Bracewell Mansion." Job had answered before he thought. "And before that I was at Cloak House," he added.

"So they sent you here straight from Bracewell?" The man ignored Job's feeble attempt at misdirection.

Job knew he had been trapped; but it was too late to do anything about it. He nodded.

"Good lad." The man seemed pleased, but he wasn't gloating. "Sit there and drink as much as you like. Keep warm. I'll be back."

When he returned the other two were with him. They were wearing overcoats, and the young uniformed man was carrying Job's gloves and hat.

"Horrible night for it, but we have to take a little ride," said the fat man, his gray hair hidden now by a fur cap. He was holding the square packet in its waterproof wrapping. "Can you identify the person from Bracewell Mansion who gave you this, and sent you here?"

Job nodded unhappily.

"So you'll do that. You won't need to talk. Fasten your coat. You'll be in a car most of the time, but wrap up."

He led the way out, with the uniformed men on either side of Job. Under other circumstances, the trip back to Bracewell Mansion could have been thrilling. First they rolled nearly a quarter of a mile underground on a labyrinth of smooth transportation belts that rose, fell, and merged with each other. Some were deserted, some carried dozens of people. At last they came to another garage and Job was led forward to a long, black car. He sat in front between the driver and the fat, gray-haired man. The dashboard was filled with gadgets that Job didn't understand: range sensor, radar navigator, thermal tracker. The engine was not running, but when they were all aboard the car began to move. It entered a tunnel, traveled for thirty seconds in total darkness, then unexpectedly emerged at ground level
outside
the Mall Compound and protection zone. The engine started with a low-pitched purr. Although the night was dark and the snow drove down harder than ever, the opaque front windscreen of the car showed the passengers a clear, hard-edged view of roads and buildings in black and white.

The car eased forward, lights off. As midnight approached more people were refusing to let the weather halt New Year party plans. They were in the streets, many of them ignoring the sidewalk in favor of the center of the road. Drunk or drugged, they took little notice of the dark car sliding past them. It took almost as long to get to Bracewell Mansion as it would have on foot.

Job stared nervously at the front steps of the mansion as the car approached, hoping to see a familiar figure. He had been sent to do an errand, and not only was his mission unaccomplished but he was bringing strangers back with him. The only person who might understand how it had happened was the professor.