The Warlock's Companion (10 page)

Only you can't "blast" something with a drilling laser—the beam is too narrow, and the power's too low. Constant, but low—and the blast was still walking down out of the sky, stabbing the house again, and again, and again.

How long can he keep that up
? Whitey wondered, and the idea blossomed. Because a laser used a lot more power than the bursts of acceleration needed in the Belt, and maybe Herman had been telling the truth, maybe he really
was
that low on fuel.

But he had to keep that idiot in the boat firing. He'd be done with that house very soon—and he'd figure Whitey wasn't in it.

Hatred seared through Whitey, hatred at any man who could try to burn up a child like that. He put his feet against the nearest wall and shoved off, darting from house to house, looking for something, anything, to keep the man shooting.

And cover—to keep the murderer from shooting
him
.

A blank wall loomed in front of him—a warehouse. The door was open, of course—why lock anything, when you know all your neighbors? He ducked in and breathed a sigh of relief, then pushed himself over to a window on the long side, and looked out at the square with the park at its far end.

The boat was there, right enough, hovering fifty feet up, high enough to see any movement, low enough to be within range—and not firing.

But if it was in range to shoot at them, it was in range to be shot. Whitey toggled his helmet lamp and cast about frantically, looking for a weapon, some kind of weapon, or at least something that would make a big explosion of light…

And there they were, racked against the side wall, right next to the door he'd come in by, twenty rifles, plugged in to recharge. Whitey hopped over to them, blessing the Belter's inherited sense of caution—the Asteroid Belt detachment of Marines had kept the peace well for the last fifty years, but there were still old-timers around who could tell hair-raising stories of the pirates and claim-jumpers who had riddled the asteroids almost from the day they were opened to prospecting, and had even made a fair bid to establish their own tyranny. The pirates were gone, but it had become traditional to keep a rifle handy.

Very handy. Whitey unplugged one, blessing his luck and hoping the current was still running. No reason why it shouldn't be—the planetoid had been powered by a fission generator, which was good for fifty years. No reason to have shut it down, either, with fissionables so plentiful out here. He picked out a rivet on the far wall for a target, set the rifle on low power, sighted, and squeezed.

The bolt of energy spattered a circle of molten metal, just above and to the left of the target.

Whitey's heart sang as he corrected the sights and fired again. This time the rivet disappeared, and he leaped back to the window, setting the rifle to full power, aiming at the burro-boat, breathing out, and squeezing the firing patch.

A flower of fire lit the boat's bow.

It was turning toward him even as Whitey was squeezing off his second shot. Whoever the pilot was, he recognized a real weapon when he saw its bolt, and knew he had to put it out of action fast. The boat shot toward the warehouse as the drill bored down, punching through the warehouse roof.

But Whitey was already out the door and crouching behind the next house. He popped up above the roof, aimed, fired, and ducked down, then arrowed away behind the next house, then popped up to fire again just as the drill pierced the last roof he'd fired from. He torpedoed away again, but around a corner, because two points determine a straight line, and two events determine a trend, if you're the kind to jump to conclusions.

The assassin was, and the beam hit the third house in the row. But Whitey was firing from two houses south, then from the house west, then two houses west. His blood pounded in his ears, his heart thrilled to the hunt, even though he kept expecting to pop up and see ruby fire all around him.

But he didn't—the assassin never knew where he'd be next. Not surprising—Whitey didn't, either.

Then, finally, the beam grew dim.

That was it—one shot dim, then only a feeble glow from the drill, then nothing. The burro-boat floated in the night, not a light showing, not a flicker of a rocket.

Whitey waited, holding his breath. Finally, he had to breathe, but the boat still hadn't moved. Slowly, he started back to the warehouse, keeping an eye on the burro-boat, but there wasn't the least sign of life, or of movement. Whitey grinned, picturing the man inside raging, stabbing pressure patches in blind panic, not even able to get back to the asteroid and the hidden scooter he surely had ridden out from Ceres, not able to shoot, to transmit, to move.

Out of juice. Completely.

Whitey ducked in through the door and began to search the warehouse more thoroughly. If there were rifles, maybe there was a radio.

There was, and it was plugged in to recharge, too. Whitey turned it on, set the frequency to the emergency mark, toggled his helmet's loudspeaker, and bent down to put it next to the microphone grille. "Emergency! Calling Marine Patrol, Sector 6…"

The only sour note, he reflected, was that the assassin couldn't hear his call.

The Marines were there in an hour—after all, Ceres was a commute, not a day trip. Not that the murderer was going anywhere, of course. But it was time enough for Whitey to go back and collect a very thoroughly frightened Lona, a little girl who was sobbing with fear and dread of the haunted place where she crouched alone, then crying her eyes out with relief. Whitey had soothed her and comforted her and had her looking brave, by the time the Marine ship loomed over them—space suits or not, a hug is a hug.

"His name is Cornelius Hanash," the Marine captain said, closing the door to his office and coming around to sit down by the desk.

Whitey stared. "Millionaire Hanash? The one who built the Ceres Center? The one who has all the filthy rich tourists paying him through the nose to lie back in their loungers and watch the asteroids fly by overhead?
That
Cornelius Hanash?"

"The same," the captain answered, "and the records show he was thinking of setting up a branch on Homestead, had even bought a major hunk of bare rock there. But he ran low on cash, and got behind on his payments."

"But how did—how did squashing Homestead…" Lona broke off, trying to swallow her tears.

"Insurance," the captain explained. "He had that hunk of real estate insured for the full value of the hotel he 'planned' to build there. When the dome blew, Farland's had to pay—and it was enough to pay off his debts on the Ceres operation."

"But how did he know we were…" Whitey stopped, frowning. "I didn't exactly make it a secret that we were going out to Homestead, did I?"

"No, and even
I
heard the gossip that some nut was trying to get into the blown generator on the asteroid. Hanash was bound to hear it, with all the connections he has in Sector Hall—and he knew what you'd find."

"Death," Lona whispered. "Death for a hundred thousand people—and Mommy and Daddy."

Then the tears broke. Finally. And Whitey held her and comforted her, and waited for the storm to pass, glad that she could finally grieve, could finally put the past where it belonged.

Cordelia wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and tucked her hanky away with a sniffle. "Oh, she was a brave lass!"

"She was indeed—and, although she did not live happily ever after, most of her life was delightful. The rest was only exciting."

"If 'twas as exciting as her childhood, she did ne'er grow bored," Magnus opined.

"He was a brave man, this Whitey." Geoffrey's eyes glowed. "Valiant."

"I cannot help but agree—though I must say he never sought danger. Still, he had a way of attracting it."

"Oh, praise Heaven thou didst hear of such as they!" Gregory breathed. "Even through all thy years with the miner, though couldst know folk could be good!"

"Aye, what of that miner?" Geoffrey frowned. "How didst thou come to be free of him?"

"By death, wood-pate!" Magnus aimed a slap at his brother's head. "How else could one be free of such a louse?"

Geoffrey blocked the blow easily and slapped back to score as he said, "I could think of an hundred ways, with a club at the beginning, and poison at the end."

"Geoffrey! I trust you jest!" Fess said, shocked. "No, in point of fact, I was freed from him as a result of his own moral turpitude."

"Turp… what?" Gregory asked.

"Turpitude, Gregory—doing wrong without compunction. He exhibited this quality when he received a distress signal from a group of castaways and sought to pass them by, since he perceived no likelihood of immediate gain or pleasure from them."

"The dastard!" Cordelia gasped. "Had he no respect for humankind, then?"

"None," Fess confirmed. "He would cheerfully have left them to die, and never thought twice of it."

"Yet thou wouldst not permit it?"

"I could not. My program dictates that human life is of greater importance than human convenience—and saving lives was more important than my owner's whim. So I turned the ship aside and picked them up, containing them within the airlock. Once they were aboard. I persuaded my owner to permit them to come into the ship itself.''

" 'Persuaded'!" Geoffrey cried triumphantly. "Thou didst not disobey!"

"I did disobey my owner, by rescuing the fugitives—but he sought to break the law."

"And thou didst obey the law!"

"I did," Fess agreed.

"Was there no other time when thou didst disobey?"

"There was," Fess admitted, "for I soon perceived that the castaways had excellent qualities of mutual assistance and support; but my owner had received a broadcast identifying them as fugitives from governmental forces, and offering a reward for information leading to their capture. Since the fugitives had not contributed to his gratification, he attempted to use them as coin to buy it."

"As coin?" Geoffrey frowned. "How can one use people to buy with?"

"There is slavery," Fess answered, "and I am certain that the only reason my second owner did not descend to such depths, is that he lacked the opportunity. But he was not averse to attempting to collect bounty on fugitives when the chance presented itself. Accordingly, he ordered me to transmit a signal to Ceres Station, notifying the authorities of the fugitives' presence—and I refused to do so."

"Thou didst most thoroughly disobey, both thine owner and the law!"

"Not quite," Fess demurred, "for I had reason to believe that the authorities in question were themselves violating the law."

Geoffrey looked exasperated. If Fess said he "had reason to believe," then he had almost complete proof.

"My owner activated a manual transmitter, though, and sent the signal."

Cordelia frowned. "Was that not exceedingly dangerous?"

"Aye," Geoffrey agreed, "and from what thou hast said, he hath not the sound of being a bold man—for would he not have valued his own welfare above all else?"

"He did," Fess confirmed. "The fugitives in question, though, were scarcely dangerous. They were not criminals, but simply people who had expressed a disagreement of opinion with the party that was attempting to overthrow the government of the time. Since they were not dangerous in themselves, the miner showed no hesitation in betraying them to the assassins employed by that party."

"The coward! The poltroon!" Geoffrey cried. "Had he no fellow-feeling in him at all?"

"I suspect not. Certainly, he was not averse to attempting to collect bounty on the fugitives when the chance presented itself. Yet he did not know that he would gain a considerably greater amount than I was worth from the gentleman who purchased me from him."

Geoffrey frowned. "Dost thou say these 'fugitives' did buy thee from him?"

"Their leader did, yes."

Cordelia frowned, too. "Yet wherefore did the wealthy gentleman purchase thee from the miner?"

"Because he and his friends needed me and the burro-boat to carry them away from the assassins the miner had summoned."

"How did he know the miner had called them up?"

"I took the liberty of informing them."

"Fess!" Geoffrey stared at him, scandalized. "Thou didst betray thine owner!"

"I did," Fess said, without the slightest hesitation. "I have explained my reservations about the miner's character, children—but in only an hour's time, I had come greatly to respect the fugitives, and had realized that they were struggling to preserve liberty for all people. My program holds such liberty to be fundamental, equal in importance to my loyalty to my owner."

Geoffrey frowned. "That hath an odd sound, in light of what thou hast told us of thy program aforetime."

"It does seem anomalous," Fess admitted, "to the point that I suspect some error was made in my program, and only in mine. Nonetheless, this was the only instance in which such a conflict arose. Revealing the miner's report to the fugitives was consequently in accord with my program."

"Thou hadst learned summat more of human folk than when thou didst guide an aircar, hadst thou not?"

"Considerably more, and had come to realize as I have said, that there are qualities of goodness and badness in people."

Gregory looked up, puzzled. "Yet thou art but a robot, or so thou wouldst have us believe. How canst thou know good from bad?"

"Be mindful of my programming, children. To me, anything is 'good' if it is conducive to human life, liberty, or happiness, and anything is 'bad' if it is inimical to that life or happiness, or threatens liberty."

"Yet strong drink would thereby be 'good,' " Geoffrey said.

"I spoke of happiness, Geoffrey, not pleasure."

Geoffrey shook his head. "I ken not the difference."

"Nor did my second owner. But even acknowledging the difficulties of his situation, I could not condone his behavior.''