Short fiction complete, p.146
Short Fiction Complete, page 146
“This way,” he said. “Take their guns. Cover me.”
They ran, straight up now, five meters at a stride, no hiding. Back the way they had come, toward the rock crushers. If this thing’s salvage-fused we’re finished, Jay told himself. But the first thing they do when they decommission a weapon is remove the fusing. I hope.
A pressure-suited figure flashed in front of him, then spun and went down, grabbing at its chest. Out of the side of his visor Jay saw two more figures racing to catch up with him. One of them tried to jump over some pipes. Unaccustomed to the lunar gravity, he leaped too hard and smashed into an overhead conveyor belt.
Jay didn’t need a watch—his pulse was thundering in his ears, pounding off the seconds. He saw the rock-crushing machines up ahead, felt a sting in one leg, then another in his side.
His suit radio wasn’t working. Or maybe he had shut it off back there somewhere, he didn’t remember. His vision was blurring, everything was going shadowy. All he could see was the big conveyor belt trundling lunar rocks up to the pounding jaws of the crusher.
Lunar gravity or not, the package on his shoulder weighed a ton. He staggered, he tottered, he reached the conveyor belt at last and with the final microgram of his strength he heaved the bulky package of death onto the rock-strewn belt and watched the crusher’s ferocious steel teeth, corroded with dirt and stained by chemicals, crunch hungrily into the obscene oblong package of death.
Jay never knew if the bomb went off. His world turned totally dark and oblivious.
*** *** ***
The first face he saw when he opened his eyes again was his father’s.
J.W. Hazard was sitting by the hospital bed, gazing intently at his son. For the first time Jay could remember, his father’s grim, weathered face looked softened, concerned. Instead of the hard-bitten, driving man Jay had known, Hazard seemed at a loss, almost bewildered, as he stared down at his son. His eyes seemed misted over. Even his iron-gray hair seemed slightly disheveled, as if he had been running his hands through it.
“You’re going to be okay, Jay-Jay,” he whispered. “You’re going to pull through all right.”
Jay’s mouth felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. He tried to swallow.
“Wh . . .” He choked slightly, coughed. “What are you doing here, Dad?”
“I came up when they told me what you’d done.”
“What did I do?”
“You saved Moonbase, son. They damn near killed you, but you kept the nuke from going off.” There was pride in the older man’s voice.
“The girl . . . Kelly?”
His father smiled slightly. “She’s outside. Want to see her?”
“Sure.”
Hazard got to his feet carefully, not entirely certain of himself in the low gravity. We’re still on the Moon, Jay realized. His father was in full uniform: sky-blue tunic and trousers with gold piping and the diamond insignia that identified him as a marshal of the International Peacekeeping Force.
Kelly came buzzing into the room on an electric wheelchair, one leg wrapped in a plastic bandage.
“You’re hurt,” Jay blurted, feeling woolly-headed, stupid.
“They didn’t give up after you tossed the nuke into the crusher,” she explained cheerfully. “We had a bit of a fire fight.”
“This young lady,” Hazard said, his gravely voice resuming some of its normal bellow, “not only held off four fanatics, but managed to patch your suit at the same time, thereby saving your life.”
Jay muttered, “Thanks. A lot.”
Clasping his hands behind his back and standing spraddle-legged in the middle of the hospital room, Hazard took over the conversation. “The terrorists had launched an attack on the Moonbase security office itself, designed to keep the base security forces tied up while they planted the nuke and waited for it to go off.”
“That’s why we got no response from base security,” Kelly interjected.
“This really was a Peacekeepers’ operation,” Jay said to her.
“No way! We just called your father when you went into surgery.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Three days.”
Turning to his father, Jay said, “You must’ve taken a high-energy express to get here so quick.”
Hazard’s face reddened slightly. “Well,” he blustered, “you’re the only son I’ve got, after all.”
“You really care that much about me?”
“I’ve always cared about you,” the older man said.
Kelly was grinning at the two of them.
Abruptly, Hazard turned for the door. “I’ve got to contact Geneva. Got to get some forensics people up here to look at the remains of that nuke. Maybe we can get some info on where it’s been hidden all this time. Might help us find the others that’re missing. I’ll be back later.”
“Okay, Dad. Thanks.”
“Thanks?” Hazard shot him a puzzled look.
“For everything.”
The old man made a sour face and pushed through the door.
“You’re embarrassing him.” Kelly laughed and wheeled her chair close to the bed.
“You saved my life,” Jay said.
“Not me. You were clinically dead when the medics reached us. They pulled you back.”
He licked his dry lips, then, “You know, for a while there, I wasn’t certain that I wanted to go on living. But you made me decide. I really owe you a lot for that.”
Kelly beamed at him. “Welcome back to life, Jay. Welcome back to the human race.”
Water Rite
Some things look like purely local matters, but really aren’t, because of what lies beneath the surface. But there may be subtler ways than war to deal with such matters. . . .
Pavel did not notice them until almost too late.
He had heard of muggers and hooligans in other, more remote outskirts of Moscow, but never near the university, so close to the heart of the city.
Yet there were three young toughs definitely following him as he walked along the river promenade through the darkening evening, his fencing bag slung over one shoulder.
No one else was in sight. The towers of the university were brilliantly lit, thousands of students bustling among the many buildings. But here along the riverside all was deserted. Pavel had come for solitude, for a chance to think about the offer he had been given. Was it truly an opportunity to do good for his country? Or was it a scheme by the apparatchiks to get him out of the way for a while, perhaps forever?
An offer or a trap? He had been wondering as he strolled in the deepening cold of early evening. An opportunity or an ultimatum?
Then he noticed the three young men in their western-style leather jackets and zany hairdos. Up to no good, obviously.
Across the river was the Lenin Arena and the big sports palace complex. Hundreds of athletes were rehearsing for the November parades. But here on the riverside promenade, no one except Pavel Mikhailovich Zhakarov and three young hoodlums.
Pavel began walking a little more briskly. Sure enough, the trio behind him quickened their pace.
“Hey there, wait up a minute,” one of them called.
There was no sense running. They would overtake him long before he got to an area where there were some people walking about. Of course, he could drop his fencing bag and leave the gear inside to them. It wasn’t worth much. But I’ll be damned if I give it up to three punks, Pavel said to himself.
So, instead of making a break for it, he turned and smiled at the approaching trio.
They were trying their best to look ferocious: leather jackets covered with metal studs. Wide leather belts and heavy, ornate buckles. Wild hair and faces painted like rock stars. Two of them were big, almost two meters tall and solid muscle from neck to toes. Pavel smiled. Probably solid muscle between the ears, as well. The third one, in the middle, was short and stocky, with an ugly squashed-nose face.
“What are you grinning at, little man?” he asked.
Pavel was not exactly little. True, he was barely 165 centimeters in height, and almost as slim as a girl. His face was delicately handsome, with dark eyes and brows, sculpted cheekbones and a graceful jaw line. His hair was dark and naturally curly.
“Pretty man,” sneered the big fellow on Pavel’s left. The other large oaf giggled.
Pavel said nothing. He simply stood his ground, left hand with its thumb hooked around the shoulder strap of the fencing bag, right hand relaxed at his side. They did not notice that he was up on the balls of his feet, ready to move in any direction circumstances dictated.
“What’s in the bag?” the ugly little leader demanded.
Pavel shrugged carelessly. “Junk. It’s worthless.”
“Yeah?” The leader flicked a knife from the sleeve of his jacket and snapped it open. The slim blade glinted in the light of a distant street lamp.
“Hand it over.”
“Not to the likes of you, my friend,” said Pavel.
The other two pulled knives.
“It’s worthless junk, I tell you,” Pavel insisted. “Not even a balalaika.”
“Open up the bag.”
“But . . .”
“Open it up or we’ll open you up.”
Pavel sank to one knee, slung the bag off his shoulder and unzipped it. Opening it wide so that they could see it was fencing gear and nothing more, he grasped one of the sabers and got to his feet.
The two oafs stepped back a pace, but their leader laughed. “It’s not sharp, it’s for a game. Look.”
They grinned and moved toward Pavel.
“I’m warning you,” Pavel said, his voice low, as he retreated slowly, “what happens next is something you will regret.”
The leader laughed again. “One against three? One toy sword against three real knives.” His laughter stopped. “Slice him up!”
Pavel darted to his right, away from the promenade railing, where there was more room for maneuver. The first of the big thugs swung toward him and Pavel made a lightning-fast lunge. His blunted saber, thin and flexible as a whip, slashed at the oaf’s hand and sent the knife clattering across the cement of the walkway.
The thug yelped in sudden pain. His companion hesitated a moment, and Pavel gave him the same treatment, ripping skin off his fingers.
The ugly little leader had circled around, trying to get behind Pavel. But Pavel danced backwards a few steps and easily parried his lumberingly slow jab, then riposted with a slash at his cheek. He screamed and backed away.
The first one had recovered his knife, only to have Pavel disarm him again and whack him wickedly on the upper arm, shoulder and back: three blows delivered so fast they could not follow them with their eyes. Then it was back to the leader again.
He faced Pavel with blood running from his cut cheek and eyes burning with hatred.
“I’ll kill you for this,” he snarled.
Pavel extended his arm and pointed the blunted tip of his saber toward his face. “I’ll blind you with this,” he said, as calmly as a man asking for a pack of cigarettes. “I’ll take out your eyes, one by one.”
The little hoodlum glanced over at his two accomplices. One of the thugs was sucking on his bleeding knuckles. The other was wringing his pain-wracked arm. The light faded from the ugly one’s eyes. He backed away from Pavel. Wordlessly the three of them turned and started walking back the way they had come.
“Jackals!” Pavel called after them.
He retrieved his bag and zipped it up. But he kept the saber out and held it firmly in his right hand as he strode the rest of the way to his dormitory room.
Two days later Pavel was in a luxurious Aeroflot jet airliner, winging southward, away from wintry Moscow and toward the sun and warmth of the Mediterranean.
He still felt uneasy.
“It is a mission of utmost importance,” the bureau director had said, “and of the utmost delicacy.”
Pavel had sat on the straight-backed chair directly in front of the director’s desk. The director himself had called for him, a call that meant either high honor or deepest disaster; all other chores were handled by underlings.
He was a slim, bald man with a neat little goatee almost like that of Lenin in the gilt-framed portrait hanging on the wall behind his desk. But there the resemblance ended. Pavel imagined Lenin as a vigorous, flashing-eyed man of action. The director, with his soft little hands, his manicured nails and tailor-made Italian suits, looked more like a dandy than a leader of men. His most vigorous action was shuffling papers.
To the director, Pavel looked like a cat tensed to spring. A strikingly handsome young man, not quite twenty-five, yet he comes stalking into my office like a cat on the prowl, all his senses alert, his eyes looking everywhere. That is good, the director thought. He has been well trained.
Pavel’s life history was displayed on the computer screen atop the director’s desk. The screen was turned so that only the director himself could see it. Only child; mother killed at Chernobyl; father “retired” from his duties as Party chairman of Kursk due to alcoholism. There is nothing in his dossier to indicate romantic entanglements. Best grades in his class, a natural athlete.
For long moments the director leaned back in his big leather chair and studied the young man before him. Pavel returned his gaze without flinching. The director smiled inwardly and thought of the eternal game of chess that was his career. He may be the man we need: not a pawn, exactly. More like a knight. One can sacrifice a knight in a ploy that will win the game.
Pavel finally broke the lengthening silence. “Could you explain, sir, what you mean?”
The director blinked rapidly several times, as if awaking from a daydream.
“Explain? Yes, of course. We can’t expect to send you on such an important mission blindfolded, can we?” He laughed thinly.
Pavel made a polite smile. “As you know, sir, I had applied for the International Peacekeeping Force.”
The director gestured toward his computer display screen. “Yes, of course. A good choice for you. And you may eventually get it.”
“Eventually?”
“After you have completed this mission—successfully.” The director leaned back in his chair again and tilted his head back to gaze at the ceiling. “In a way, you know, this mission is somewhat like being with the IPF.”
He is trying to stretch my nerves, Pavel realized. To see how far I can go before I lose my self-control. Very casually, he inquired, “In what way, may I ask?”
Still staring at the ceiling, “There is a certain Mr. Cole Alexander, an American, although he has not set foot in the United States in more than six years.”
Pavel said nothing. He glanced upward too. The ceiling was nicely plastered, but there was nothing much of interest in it, except for the tiny spiderweb the cleaning women had missed off in the corner by the window draperies.
The director snapped his attention to Pavel. “This Alexander is a mercenary soldier, the leader of a band of mercenaries.”
“Mercenaries?” Despite himself, Pavel could not hide his surprise.
“Yes. Oh, he claims to be hunting for the infamous Jabal Shamar, the man responsible for the Jerusalem Genocide. But he spends most of his time hiring out his services to the rich and powerful, helping them to oppress the people.”
Pavel had heard rumors about Shamar.
“Is it true that Shamar took a number of small nuclear weapons with him when he disappeared from the Syria?” he asked.
The director’s brows rose. “Where did you hear of that?” he snapped.
Pavel made a vague gesture. “Rumor . . . talk here and there.”
Tugging nervously at his goatee, the director said, “We have heard such rumors also. Until they are clarified, all nuclear disarmament has been suspended. But your mission does not involve Jabal Shamar and rumored nuclear weapons caches.”
“I understand, sir.”
“You will join Alexander’s band of cutthroats,” the director continued, uncaring of Pavel’s thoughts. “You will infiltrate their capitalistic organization and reach Alexander himself. And, if necessary, assassinate him.”
The airliner landed at Palma, and Pavel rented a tiny, underpowered Volkswagon at the airport. He did not look like the usual tourist: a smallish, athletically slim young man, alone, unsmiling, studying everything around him like a hunting cat, dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt open at the neck and an equally somber pair of slacks.
Using the map computer in the car’s dashboard, he drove straight across the island of Mallorca, heading for the meeting that agents employed by the Soviet consulate had arranged with a representative of the mercenaries.
Across the flat farmlands he drove, seeing but not bothering to take much note of the fertile beauty of this warm and ancient land: the green farms, the red poppies lining the roads, the terraced hillsides and tenderly cultivated vineyards. But he noticed the steep hairpin turns that scaled the Sierra de Tramunta as he sweated and cursed in a low, angry whisper while the VW’s whining little electric engine struggled to get up the grades. A tourist bus whooshed by in the other direction, nearly blowing him over the edge of the narrow road and down the rugged gorge.
When he finally got to the crest of the range the road flattened out, although it still twisted like a writhing snake. And then he had to inch his way down an even steeper, narrower road to the tiny fishing village where he was supposed to meet the mercenaries.
Pavel was drenched with sweat and hollow-gutted with exhaustion by the time he eased the little car out onto the solitary stone pier that jutted into the incredibly blue water of the cove. He turned off the engine and just sat there for a few moments, recuperating from the harrowing drive. The smell of burnt insulation hung in the air. Or was it burnt brake lining?
He got out on shaky legs and let the warm sunshine start to ease some of the tension out of him. The village looked deserted. Houses boarded up. Even the cantina at the foot of the pier seemed abandoned, its whitewashed cement walls faded and weathered. Not a single boat in the water, although there were several bright-colored dories piled atop one another at the foot of the pier.
