Jinx on a Terran Inheritance (22 page)

Professor K'ek poked his head around Alacrity, to goggle at Floyt. His eyes were as big and bright as desert moons.

"
Kreegah
! Stand by to scuttle the schoolmarm! Take no prisoners!"

"He got your little message and came to get me just as Merrywell and me were coming to find you at the Oasis, Ho. K'ek tracked you and the masked marvel, here, by scent, at a dead run. You should've seen him."

Alacrity held up the book fiche Floyt had dropped for K'ek to find. It was
The Prisoner of Zenda.

"This isn't supposed to be some kind of horrible pun, is it, Ho?" Alacrity glared accusingly. "And by the way, where's Rok?"

"Back in the
Rantipole
," Floyt said, trying to rise. "Let's get out of here. Away from"—indicating the pneuma—"
him
."

"Ho, it'd take a kiss from Prince Charming and a three-day head start to wake
that
boy up. He's Cinderella for the time being."

"Cin—Oh!" Floyt struggled to his feet. "You mean Sleeping Beauty."

"Well,
one
of those cartoons." Alacrity shifted to kneel by the little man, picking up the fallen styrette.

"Anyway, I just want to see if he's carrying anything that'll tell us what—"

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"No! Now!" Floyt said, grabbing his arm.

"What's the matter with you, Ho? We've got to find out what's going on and whether Sile is in with somebody or—"

"Alacrity, you don't understand! This man isn't human! I
saw
!" Alacrity was trying to tug his arm free, but Floyt had it and wouldn't let go.

Alacrity jumped to his feet and yanked his arm loose. Professor K'ek skipped back out of the way, tail lashing and quivering.

"Now, dammit, Ho,
I'm gonna get mad in a second here
!"

"
You blind idiot! You didn't see what I saw
!"

They were both breathing hard, as close to a real falling out as they'd come in a long time. Alacrity saw fear and awe on Floyt's face, his pallor and fright. He got his temper under control and queried sweetly,

"If the little scut's superhuman, how come he's off doing
kata
in dreamland?"

Floyt simply looked down at the pneuma. Just then there were hurried footfalls in the passageway, Merrywell and his party bringing up the rear, guns ready, having gotten sidetracked trying to keep up with Alacrity and K'ek.

"He's okay." Alacrity waved. Then: "Ho, look, you can't let it get to you. All he is, is another would-be-mystic chop-and-drop man from some zilchtech planet."

As he spoke, Alacrity lowered himself to one knee again to search the pneuma. Merrywell and others gathered about.

"They're not bad at sneaking around bopping people from behind," Alacrity grouched, "or doing the kung-fu hula. But you see who's up and who's down, don't you, Ho?"

"Where's Amarok?" Merrywell demanded. Floyt told him, and the gloomy captain led his party to find the big trader.

"We'll meet you in the
Magus
," Alacrity said, returning the stungun.

When they'd gone, Alacrity ripped open the black blouse. The pneuma wore padding and an arsenal of weapons and devices strapped to his surprisingly slight body and hidden in pockets and pouches: climbing spikes and adhesive pads that had let him scale the packing crate; throwing stars; rappelling equipment; styrettes; explosives; garrote and more.

"For which reason is it that he does not bear a firearm?" K'ek wanted to know.

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[Fitzhugh 2]-JINX ON A TERRAN INHERITANCE

Alacrity shrugged. "Out to prove something; they usually are. It's probably part of the bylaws."

He was looking the styrette over. "But I'll tell you what: he's nothing but another goon. Probably had to pull stakes and run when the peasants found out what a little gunfire or coherent light does to pneuma magic."

He bent and took the pneuma's arms. "No point leaving him here for Sile. You feel well enough to help me get him on my shoulder, Ho?"

Floyt did, barely. As they went along, Professor K'ek keeping pace, Alacrity said, "We've got a lot to do in a hurry. Wouldn't want to miss our ship."

"No, of course we—what? Wait,
ship
?"

The
Magus's
sickbay was better than many of the clinics at the Grapple. Amarok, arriving there, had his injuries pronounced serious but the prognosis excellent. The insert of synthetic he'd slipped into his collar had spared him the pneuma stave's full effect. Merrywell explained all that, while returning the retrieved Webley to Floyt, at the
Pihoquiaq's
lock.

"The kid'll be on his feet before the Grapple's over," Merrywell went on, the flattening of his frown signifying wild jubilation. "If he needs a hand with
Pihoquiaq,
I can spare somebody for a while; got too damn many people underfoot anyhow. Alacrity, tell Hobart about the
Mountebank
."

Alacrity did. Costa had made arrangements for them to travel with a dealer in new identities and fugitive placement by the name of Urtho Skate, who owned a rather worse-for-wear converted mail packet even older than
Pihoquiaq,
the
Mountebank.
Skate had several fugitives already waiting inboard his ship and was planning one brief stop at Blackguard for an "insertion." He was certain he could get Alacrity and Floyt down safely and set them up with a situation, but beyond that, they'd be left to their own resources.

Best of all, because Blackguard was a port of call anyway, the cost of passage for Floyt and Alacrity would be within their means.

"What I don't understand is why Sile should send in his pet pneuma and then leave him high and dry,"

Alacrity said.

"Cold feet?" Floyt hypothesized. "Or perhaps a foulup in communication?"

"Either way, I've had it with Sile." Merrywell exhaled wearily. "The next time I see him I'm doing the universe a good turn and putting him out of it."

"Captain Merrywell, we don't want you getting embroiled in a vendetta because of us," Floyt objected.

"
Will you please just let the man kill somebody if he feels like it
?" Alacrity yelled.

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[Fitzhugh 2]-JINX ON A TERRAN INHERITANCE

"It needs doing anyhow," Merrywell contended. "Are you lads ready to go? You've just got time to see Amarok before Skate gets underway."

"Just one thing, Captain," Floyt began tentatively. "The pneuma—don't give me that look, Alacrity; I'm all right!—what did you do with him?"

"We took the autostyrette and gave him the shot he was going to give you," Merrywell said, stolid and yet sad. "Funny; it didn't kill him. It went right to work on his nervous system; he won't be any use in his old line of work, ever. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with him."

The Earther stroked his beard; whatever it was would no doubt have killed Floyt.

"Want to hear something sad?" asked tired old Merrywell. "Under that mask-hood thing, he was a kid, maybe sixteen, seventeen or so. Anyway, we figure we'll get some information out of him sooner or later."

Alacrity and Floyt had just fetched their gear. With no idea what they were getting into, the two companions had packed along most of the things Dorraine and Redlock had given them, but had agreed to bequeath a part of Alacrity's seasoning and spice hoard.

"We flagged some recipes that were in the
Pihoquiaq's
data banks," Alacrity was telling Amarok a few minutes later. "Ho found them. Y'know, it's not a terribly hard thing to learn, cooking."

"Better than going back to mealtrays," Floyt added.

"True." Amarok smiled slowly. He was suspended in a flotation field, his knee and various other parts of him swathed and strapped. His throat was encased in an assist collar, to spare his damaged larynx.

"And we're both very, very sorry for the trouble, Amarok," Floyt said.

"Ah, well; One should expect surprises if He decides to be a breakabout, eh?" He didn't have the strength to laugh. "Keep This One in mind, if you two are ever looking for jobs."

Alacrity promised to do just that, but Floyt's conditioning gave him a twinge. As the two left, Professor K'ek scrambled up to perch in a high chair next to Amarok, holding a textscreen in his lap and preparing to read aloud from one of the professor's favorites,
Riders of the Purple Sage.

The
Mountebank
was yet another step down in transportation, two thirds the size of
Pihoquiaq
and in an advanced state of neglect. But, because she carried little cargo, she had more living space than the monitor.

Urtho Skate turned out to be an effusive character about Floyt's size but portly, his dressy outfit of glittering buttons and raffled cuffs looking like he'd slept in it—several times. Gathered in the ship's file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (116 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:29

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tight little combination mess-lounge were Skate, Alacrity and Floyt, and the other two passengers who were making the trip.

It was difficult to tell anything about the last two, gender included. They were costumed as grotesques, their heads encased in monstrous casques that were contorted and painted in demonic expressions and fitted with red compound eyes. They wore burnooses with exaggerated shoulders and platform shoes.

One wore dress gloves; the other had fingernails bitten down to the quick.

The masks contained devices that disguised their voices; their greetings came out eerie and synthetic.

Word from Merrywell was that such disguises were common in Blackguard.

Alacrity and Floyt were wearing disguises too, improvised ones they'd scrounged up on the
Magus.
In place of casques they had crash helmets, visors adjusted to full reflectiveness. In response to the greeting, Floyt only nodded, while Alacrity gave a barely intelligible answer in crosstalk. The four seated themselves in a messbooth.

Skate went forward to cast off and begin the trip, without offering any blastoff cocktails. Alacrity wasn't surprised; people on the run could hardly expect Red Nova class service.

As
Mountebank
got underway, the passengers took a final look through the viewbleb. The Grapple was still a lightshow of strobing beacons and flashing holosignals, but fewer ships were moored than when the
Pihoquiaq
arrived.

Floyt thought with a little regret about rejuvenation and antigeronic clinics, and wondered if the temptation would present itself again, unsure whether he wanted it to or not.

Alacrity turned to their fellow passengers. "Either of you have any idea where we should stow our bags?"

"There'll be plenty of room for them in the hold," said one of the flat-voiced demon masks. "And for you, too." Empty handed, Alacrity half rose from his seat. At Skate's insistence, both he and Floyt had packed their guns in their bags.

Before Alacrity could do more, muzzles appeared from the billowing reaches of the burnooses. One spat at Floyt, who only had time to yip and slap the spot where the dart hit him before his eyes rolled up in his head and he keeled over.

Alacrity froze as both guns trained on him. First one mask came off, then the other, with Alacrity covered the whole time. Sile and Constance smiled at him.

"We just wanted to welcome you inboard, dear, dear boy," Sile caroled. "Did you really think Captain Dincrist wouldn't find out that you and Floyt shipped with Amarok? And sourpuss Amarok—there was just one place
he
could be taking you!"

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Merrywell said these two crawlies have a secret patron,
Alacrity remembered.
When Dincrist jinxes
somebody, he sure makes it stick.

"We're going to have
such
fun!" Constance added, gnawing at a thumbnail, eyes practically bursting from her head with excitement.

"Do you know how much trouble you've caused me?" Sile asked. "First Amarok taunted Tah-Skass into coming after him on his own, without my orders, and almost spoiled everything. Then
you
beamed poor Tah-Skass down like an animal, didn't you? My most valuable man, my pneuma."

"But everything's right as rain now," Constance said brightly. "We've got you, and you're going to pay."

She shot Alacrity just as he was making a last-option lurch across the table, and he hit it hard, thinking,
There's just no justice
!

Alacrity began to come around again, realizing foggily that things were getting a little coherent, expecting gradual improvement. There was none.

Instead, he rose to a certain depth just above unconsciousness and below real thought. He drifted, drifted, registering distantly that he was still under something—a drug, maybe, or too much drink. But he couldn't recall what or how, and lacked the will to pursue the point.

Someone peeled back his right eyelid, letting in an unforgiveable light. Alacrity heard a half-recognized male voice.

"Can you hear me? You hear me?
Answer
!"

Alacrity achieved a sort of moaning slur, making no sense.

He wanted to swat the hand away but his arm wasn't working. His eyelid was permitted to fall back into place; he forgot his pique, lapsing into a comfortable void, looking around for images with his mind's eye, unable to make any appear.

Someone was unsatisfied with that. There was an insignificant sensation in his shoulder. After some time, he was again aware, but less able to think.

"Let's give it another try, go-blood," the voice said. "All right,
open your eyes
!"