Jinx on a Terran Inheritance (46 page)

"I'll reload for you; you can check your targets."

Floyt went out to the target zone. The carnage was less than it might have been, because the simu-soma was designed not to resemble human blood, organs, and bones too closely, to avoid traumatizing shooters. "It's a lot prettier than the real thing," he muttered, looking over his hits and noting where his misses had struck.

"That is exactly what I think to myself whenever I come down here," Janusz said.

Floyt returned, accepting the Webley. Janusz hit the lights; the pop-up started.

Floyt squeezed one off, trying not to flinch. High. The next one was another hit, but it was pure luck. On the third round he squeezed the trigger and the hammer fell on an empty chamber with a pinging click.

Floyt had his eyes nearly shut, against a report that didn't come.

Janusz grabbed his arm with one hand, bringing up the lights with the other. "You see, Hobart?
You see
?

By the Benign! Don't you think it's impolite to kill someone without at least looking at him?"

"You did that to me on purpose!"

"An old, old trick. Now, do you want to learn how to use that blunderbuss properly? Because your life will depend upon it, and others' lives as well."

"Yes." He looked at the pistol in his hand. "I'd be very grateful if you'd help me."

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"Right. Keep your eyes on your target. Concentrate."

He restarted the target sequence. Floyt brought the Webley up in both hands, cocking it. A target popped up and he squeezed the trigger.

The hammer fell on another empty chamber. This time his eyes were wide open.

"Pay attention," Victoria ordered. The two youngest kids in Notch's gang stopped grab-assing, menaced into silence by the others. The whole bunch, two dozen in all, shifted and looked around uncomfortably, fascinated but intimidated by the formal holoviewing amphitheater on the chateau's first surface level.

Victoria and Notch had made them sit down front and center in direct contradiction to the kids' habits and instincts. As it was, the alley runners hunkered their heads down between their shoulders and glanced around every few seconds.

"You ought to change the name from Old Raffles to Fagin's," Alacrity observed, sitting in the last row with Janusz to his right and Floyt to his left.

"These are children who feel they've lost control over their situation if they aren't stealing, intimidating, terrorizing, or otherwise proving their hostility," Janusz replied. "They're just fine for our purposes, as good as any tribal militiamen—better than most, in fact. Stronger killer instincts."

Alacrity and Floyt both nodded knowingly.

"Again," Victoria said firmly. She was standing in a speaker's pulpit off to the left of the proscenium, controlling the displays, conducting the briefing. She was above the kids and dressed in severe, majestic robes, and her lighting had been carefully arranged. She was creating just the impression to keep the boxtowners at least minimally attentive and quiet. The kids had already seen and—after some dangerous experimentation—accepted the chateau's security restrictions, and a form of house arrest.

"Eanna's team here," Victoria went on, "with the other smarts launcher." An arrow-cursor darted through the ghostly projection of the Repository's grounds and structure, to the reverse side of a nearby hilltop.

"Smarts teams fire their missions on my say-so. The smart rounds will be targeted here, here, here, and here." The arrow-cursor flew to show them. The kids watched sullenly, having heard it all before, but didn't dare heckle or act-up. They knew how Notch felt about her; nobody wanted to be slapped down.

"Questions? All right then, that's the last run through; you all know what you have to do. Double-check all weapons and supplies; tomorrow we pull the take. You will get half your money before we move out, the remainder upon completion. Upon returning to your quarters you'll all get a full night's forced sleep and imprinting treatments to make sure no one forgets or fouls up."

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Unkempt heads turned toward Notch, who stood behind them, impassive. A few of the kids were shifting in their seats, but they held their places, even more frightened of Notch than of being subjected to sleep programming.

"Why should we?" someone managed to yell without being identified, at least as far as Floyt was concerned.

"Because I say so," Notch decreed, materializing behind one girl and whacking her on the back of her head with his knuckles. None of the others had anything to say. Notch got them all on their feet, Gippo and one or two other young lieutenants taking over, and moving for the secure quarters in the chateau's first subsurface level.

Notch went in Victoria's direction. Janusz was no longer in his seat. Scowling, the outlaw interposed himself, moving into the middle of an aisle. Notch was indecisive for a moment, then flashed his most infuriating smirk and moved off after the rest of his gang. "Sleep tight, Victoria," he called. "See you later."

Alacrity watched him go. "We'll give them a few minutes, then go in and make sure they're bedded down, Alacrity," Janusz said. "Would you mind giving us a hand?"

"Not at all." To Floyt, Alacrity added, "Victoria dosed their last round of coffee and whatnot; they're all gonna be tired in a few minutes. I wonder what'll happen to them after the raid. They'll have money, but

—I dunno; what do you do with kids like that? Will they change?"

"I'll tell you what Earthservice did," Floyt said. "They had a thing called Operation Vidocq. Rounded up the roaming troupe that ran the urbanplex corridors. I just missed being picked up myself; I'd dropped out of one."

"What did Earthservice do?"

"Most of them were dispersed, put into labor programs with very carefully indoctrinated peer leaders.

The important part was to keep them from forming a children's subculture. Most of them, that is."

"What about the others?" Alacrity asked.

"There are always two or three tough characters like Notch—the incorrigibles. They were culled out, given a shot at rehab. If it didn't work they were brain-changed or put to death. And I'm talking about thousands and thousands of people."

Floyt was looking off where the alley-gangsters had gone. "I can't help thinking if it wasn't for Notch, though, those kids would probably be selling themselves, or dying slowly in a sweatmill, or wasting away in the gutters."

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"Well, stop feeling sorry for them. And watch your back."

Alacrity went to help Janusz and Victoria. Floyt went through a meticulously monitored and defended isolation zone and back into the chateau proper. He heard strange sounds that alarmed him at first, the swooping of a whisk-platform, inhuman snorting laughter, and giddy
hoo-ing.

He stepped into the vast foyer and looked up in amazement. Corva was zooming up, over and around, uttering his Srillan laugh. Floyt gaped up at him as the alien looped over a staircase then dove around beneath it.

When Corva noticed Floyt the antics stopped with comical suddenness. "Oh! Er, hello, Hobart," he said, flustered, letting the whisk-platform descend slowly to the foyer floor. The fur along his snout and between his shaggy ears stood up a little; Floyt wondered if that was the Srillan equivalent of a blush.

"I, ah—I just give way to senseless boisterousness sometimes," Corva explained as the platform touched down. "I don't get to leave the chateau. Sometimes I can't help getting … getting … " He made tight, furious motions with his hands, searching for the Terranglish word.

"Apt-happy," Floyt supplied, still staring at him. "Shack-wacky. Alacrity calls it bulkhead fever."

"Just so. But don't be alarmed; there's no reason for you to fear for my—my mental equipoise, I assure you."

"Oh, I know; don't worry." Floyt actually wanted to get away, feeling uncomfortable in the creature's presence, especially without Alacrity or any of the others around. He found himself starting to edge away, then realized how rude he must look. "You've, ah, you've only been out of the chateau once or twice since you got here?"

"Offworld, to make some arrangements, yes," Corva said eagerly. It came to Floyt with an inner start that the Srillan was eager to talk.

"It's a tricky business, my getting offworld and back without being seen," Corva went on, "but there are certain connections that only I have. The rest of the time—Old Raffles is my world."

"It must be very wearing."

The Srillan huffed the peculiar laughter.
"Ning-ning-a ning!
Oh, cool and collected is Corva (When can we coax him down from the ceiling!)
A-ning!"

"Does your uncle know you're here?"

"I think he suspects I'm engaged in work Director Weir began, but Weir was a very private, very security-conscious man, so I doubt my uncle knows anything specific. Weir; I commemorate Weir in my file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (246 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:30

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meditations every day. He contacted me and gave me a chance to make this fight against the Camarilla my atonement."

"Atonement—oh, yes; you're a contrition-knight, isn't that the term?"

"Yes. I did a great misdeed—well, failure, really, the kind the young are prone to. But it led to several deaths and a lot of suffering. I'm not so sure I agree with the Doctrines; I'm not so sure any kind of sacrifice or service atones for what's gone before. But I thought at least there would be relief from obsessive memories, and less chance of erring again, which is a fear of mine.

"But this Camarilla situation has me rethinking, Hobart. Perhaps there
is
some cosmic credit and debit system. At any rate, we have a chance to set right a wrong that passes understanding. It will be good for your people and good for mine."

"Then will you be free to go on with your life?"

"I will have to think that out when the time comes. It may be that I have other things yet to do. Many stay contrition-knights their whole lives once they've taken up the relic and sworn."

"I'm sure that all Terrans will be very grateful to you, Corva."
I'm sure that most Terrans would run
screaming from the very sight of you, Corva.

"You're most kind, Hobart."

Floyt discovered he hadn't gotten any closer to breaking away. "Well, I'm sorry I interrupted your—your recreation."

"Think nothing of it. It's lonely sport, not much fun after a while."

"Oh." Floyt studied the whisk-platform. "How do you control those things manually?"

"You simply adjust this, like so, you see? Then it will respond to shifts in your body weight and pressure on the handrail, like so, and this control. Would you care to try?"

Now that he'd begun flying, Floyt wanted to pilot anything that came his way. He wanted to try everything. He longed to fly
Astraea Imprimatur
upside down under a bridge span. He got a whisk-platform and followed Corva on a brief training flight, then, with more confidence, soloed around the foyer and up into the epergne's curving corridors.

"That's very good!" Corva snuffled, soaring after him like a mother bird.

Floyt doubled around and dove back into the foyer, orbiting the chandelier. "This is wonderful!"

"Would you care to try something a little more ambitious?"

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"Such as?"

"I have a course laid out, up and around through the chateau and back here. My best time so far is just over a minute. Shall we try for fifty-nine seconds?"

"Lead on!"

Off they swooped through Old Raffles like a pair of great bats, laughing and darting.

CHAPTER 21—AND, BY OPPOSING, END THEM

"Okay, Ho, run."

"Where?"

"Through the side of the truck, if you think you're up to it." Alacrity gave one of the straps on Floyt's wargear an extra tug to snug it up. "But I would advise you do it in place."

Floyt began to jog in place; Alacrity listened closely for stray sounds. "Come on, put some life into it. It won't be good for our health if we end up in a blackout situation and you start clanking, drawing fire."

Floyt pumped his knees higher. Alacrity heard nothing, but double-checked an adhesive buckle on the Earther's harness anyway. The Webley's lanyard ring had been silenced with tape.

Floyt stopped. "If we find ourselves in a blackout, shouldn't we be using vision enhancers? Won't the Custodians and their guards?"

"I don't know; nobody's sure how well equipped they are." Alacrity began running in place vigorously.

"And Janusz doesn't have an extra pair of enhancers for us; half the ones he's got are malfunctioning.

Hear anything?" His pathfinders made very little noise on the truck bed.

"Not from your equipment." Alacrity stopped running.

"Anyway, Alacrity, we won't be in the first attack contingent, so it shouldn't matter, isn't that right?"

"We weren't exactly walking point in the causality harp vault either, remember?"

"You had to bring that up." Floyt sighed and picked up his shockgun, making sure that it, too, was muffled against accidental sounds, its sling silenced, the metal of its slides and buckles taped. It was set for lethal, high-energy fire. It was a two-hander, short and easy to maneuver, with a horizontal U of elbow-crook brace for a butt.

Floyt had the Webley for backup, and Alacrity the Captain's Sidearm; they'd divvied up other ominous equipment as well. The explosives and battlefield medical kits were especially sobering. Floyt had had file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (248 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:30