"Call me Geronimo. You guys have something that belongs to me. Hand it over and I'll go away without any more hostile action."
There was a long pause. Then: "What do you want, Geronimo?"
"It's more of a who than a what. You have a man in your facility by the name of John Green—"
He broke in furiously. "So that's it! You fucking idiots, you'll never get away—"
"Shut up Jim. I mean it."
He did, while I cheered inwardly. The Galapharma officer obviously believed that Ollie Schneider's confederates had come to rescue him. Far be it from me to correct the misperception.
I said, "The continuing good health of my dear old friend is what will keep you and yours alive, Jim. If he's damaged or he dies, we wipe out the entire installation and call it the John Green Memorial Slag Heap. Do you copy?"
"Yes," said Matsukawa. He was calm again.
"Okay. I'll give you five minutes to suit John up and send him out the front door."
"We'll need more than five minutes, Geronimo. Your friend is still in the sack. He likes to sleep in after a night of overindulgence. Give us twenty minutes, minimum."
"He's stalling," Ildiko murmured.
"Maybe," I whispered back, "but I don't know what we can do about it—short of blowing a hole in the wall and marching inside to collect our prize package in person."
I opened the com again. "Okay, Jim. You've got fifteen minutes—not twenty—before we open fire. Clock starts running on my mark. I expect to see John Green come out that south door alone, unmasked and unhooded so we can confirm his identity. Give him a com handset so we can talk to him and make certain you haven't harmed him in any way. Copy that?"
"Affirmative."
"Mark," I said quietly. "Countdown is running."
"Matsukawa out."
"Well, hell!" Ildy said. "That was almost too easy—if Schneider's as important as you say he is."
"He's important enough to write Galapharma's obituary, alive or dead. Which poses a pesky dilemma for our Jim. He'll be consulting with his boss, Skogstad, and I'm betting Skogstad will bump the buck to a higher level still. Maybe even Alistair Drummond himself."
"Oh, man."
"They'll weigh the alternatives, and most of them suck. If they surrender the prize, we win. If they refuse to do it, we still win after we destroy the installation and Schneider, and the big insurance policy comes due. Their best bet is to do neither of the above. I think they'll hand over the prize, then immediately try to take him back. Let's be prepared."
Once again we waited. Billowing smoke spread in a high layer that hid Dagasatt's sun, but things were relatively clear where we were, hanging in midair fifty meters above the target. I'd moved HopfrogTwo southward just a tad so we had a good view of the all-important door.
Ildiko and I put on most of the combat gear we'd discarded earlier, excluding the backpacks but including the sidearms. The hopper's ground scanner was set to alert us if anything larger than an ant moved in the vicinity of the building below.
She sat quietly, humming an unfamiliar melody and wiping out the inside of her helmet with decrud solution, while I went aft to check on the prisoners.
They were still secure in their cargo-net wrapping, bunched up in a parody of a love pile. Four of them glared ferociously at me and gave loud grunts through their gags, but Barrel Ridenour appeared to be unconscious. I hoped the penverol hadn't shtonkered his brain permanently. There were questions he still hadn't answered to my satisfaction.
And something else...
"I think we'll have to take Darrel along with us when we go," I remarked to Ildy. "Maybe these other jokers, too. We need to do a proper interrogation."
"Ridenour's talk about the Big Seven meeting on the Haluk planet got you curious?"
"Damn straight. It's funny, a low-ranker like Darrel knowing a sensitive piece of intelligence like that."
She shrugged. "Rumors fly in isolated little installations like this one. It's hard to keep anything secret. Same thing happens at remote Zone Patrol outposts."
"Something else is bothering me. A weird thing that Darrel said." I shook my head, looking down at his unmoving body. "Damned if I can remember what it was."
"It's been a rough day, man. Too much distracting stuff going on."
"Yeah, right. Death and destruction can really screw up your concentration."
"It'll come to you later," she reassured me, "when you're just about to fall asleep. Always works for me that way."
"Sleep! If we get out of here alive, I'm going to stay in bed for a week."
"Copy that," said Ildiko wistfully.
I returned to the command seat, checked my own helmet— a little ripe inside, but what the hell—and tried to do a mental replay of the Q&A session I'd had with Darrel.
What was it that had struck me? Not a piece of information: an unexpected turn of phrase. Something that slipped past while I was pumped up at the news about Schneider, when Darrel confirmed my hope that the archturncoat was actually there inside the facility, using the alias of—
It hit me. And the bottom dropped out of my stomach.
Darrel had looked at Ollie's picture and said, "Looks like that human motherfucker, John Green."
Human.. .
I whispered, "Shit!"
Ildiko was frowning. "Helly, what is it?"
Maybe it had been just a slip of the tongue, understandable given Ridenour's drug-induced state of agitation. And maybe not.
"A passing nasty thought. It'll have to keep. I want to brief you on what comes next in Operation Q. This race of ours is coming down to the wire, babe, and there's no time for side issues."
Precisely on the fifteen-minute mark the door of the facility opened. It was actually a small airlock. A man of imposing physique stood on the threshold, clad in an enviro jumpsuit with the hood off. Behind him was not only darkness, but also a scannerproof force-field that probably screened a heavily armed SWAT team.
The man in the doorway lifted a com unit and spoke. "Geronimo? John Green here."
Oliver Schneider and I had met only once face-to-face, at a wild and memorable Rampart board meeting on Seriphos, where my father announced that he was cutting ExSec out of the loop and placing "Helmut Icicle" and his squad of irregulars in charge of Eve's kidnapping investigation. At the time, Schneider didn't recognize me as the banished black-sheep member of the Frost family.
I figured he'd done his homework by now and might remember my voice. It has a sort of cowboy je ne sais quoi. And after fifteen long minutes, maybe Jim Matsukawa had managed to scrounge up a voice-print machine and hook it to the com unit, in hopes of identifying Geronimo himself. Neither of these contingencies fit my present plans.
So Ildy was going to do the negotiating from here on in. I'd prompted her on what to say. Both of us were wearing our helmets, unrecognizable through the aircraft's windshield.
She spoke to the com through her annunciator. "Good day, Citizen Green. I'm Geronimo's deputy, Zsa Zsa. Are you in good health?"
"I suppose so," came the grudging retort.
Through the ship's ground scanner I studied the face of the man in the doorway. He was about fifty years old. His bulldog jaw and somber dark stare confirmed that he was my quarry, the former Rampart Vice President for Confidential Services and Galapharma mole, Oliver Schneider. He'd gained weight during his confinement on Dagasatt, and also acquired a set of deplorable bags under his eyes and scarlike stress furrows beside his wide mouth. He hadn't bothered with shave-gel for the last couple of days, either. His hair, which I remembered as a spruce crew cut, was overgrown and unkempt.
Disengaging Hopfrog Two's autopilot, I slowly brought the aircraft down. I'd taken control of our weapons system.
"We're friends, John Green," Ildiko announced, "sent by certain of your former colleagues to take you out of here—"
"So you say!" he snapped. "How do I know you aren't a gang of outlaws ready to sell me to Simon Frost like a side of fuckin'beef?
"
"How do you know," she replied sweetly, "that you won't end up like the four ExSec officers who fled with you—a human vegetable adrift in a dystasis tank while the Haluk siphon off your DNA?"
His mouth dropped open in shock. "How do you know about that?"
"I know a good deal, John Green. For example: five weeks from now, the Rampart Board of Directors will vote on the Galapharma acquisition bid for the last time. It's a virtual certainty that they'll capitulate to Alistair Drummond. Then your usefulness will be at an end. Why should Drummond keep you alive when your evidence against his Concern has become a dead issue?"
"He—He has to. If you know so much, you know that."
"I'm sure Drummond made many promises. To you and to the four officers who accompanied you to Dagasatt. But he broke his promises to your associates, didn't he? Why should he treat you any differently?"
Schneider was silent.
I'd brought the Vorlon down to hover a couple of meters above the ground, no more than a long stone's throw from the open door of the facility. The entry was bathed in the faint purplish glow of our targeting field. So was Oliver Schneider.
Matsukawa and his goons were probably sweeping us with six different kinds of spy-beams through the facility windows, and the SWAT team lurking behind Ollie had us cold in their sights. But our ship's own wave-bender would stymie most of the scans, and our hull armor would stop most types of portable weaponry.
I figured that all we really had to fear now was a missile or a grenade attack through that open airlock door. 1 was gambling that they wouldn't want to endanger the prize by shooting over or around him. The doorway was too small.
Of course, if Ollie stepped aside...
Ildy was saying, "We know you must have an insurance policy forcing Galapharma to keep you alive. But think about this: when Rampart Starcorp no longer exists as a legal entity, the damage you inflicted upon it as a secret agent of Galapharma will no longer be legally actionable. Drummond will have nothing to fear from you anymore. The CHW Judiciary can't prosecute a crime against an extinct corporation."
True. But if I'd guessed right, Ollie had also engineered the death of Rampart's Chief Research Officer, Yaoshuang Qiu, and maybe other people as well. There was no statute of limitations on murder.
I didn't want Schneider to think about that. Besides, time was a-wasting. Qastt gunships sent by corrupted local officials might already be on the way from Taqtaq or one of the other refinery cities.
Pulling out my e-book, I wrote, Show him the stick! and held it in front of Ildy. She picked up the hint instantly.
"Citizen Green, think carefully. Are you willing to trust your life to a megalomaniac like Alistair Drummond, a proven liar? He's negotiated a secret trade deal with a race of aliens who have always hated and feared humanity. He did this without a thought to the dangerous political ramifications. He was thinking only about profits for Galapharma and setting himself up as the most powerful man in the Hundred Concerns—the most powerful man in the galaxy! He used you, John Green, just as he used millions of other people. Now you're worse than expendable: you're a threat."
Oliver Schneider's form had stiffened as she talked. "You've come directly from Rampart, haven't you! You're not outlaws. No outlaw would know what you know."
I wrote another note to Ildy: Now show him the carrot.
"If you come with us willingly," she said, "Rampart will petition CHW to grant you full immunity in exchange for freely reiterating your psychotronic testimony against Alistair Drummond and Galapharma in open court. This will strengthen Rampart's case."
"I know." He was still vacillating.
I wrote: Treason.
She said, "John Green, try to understand what this conspiracy involves. Galapharma hasn't just plotted to destroy a small rival—it's committed treason. The Haluk intend to wage war against the Commonwealth. Alistair Drummond and his Concern allies are too power-hungry and blinded by greed to see it. They are aiders and abettors of a hostile alien race. Their shortsightedness is criminal. We need your help to thwart this monstrous conspiracy. How can you refuse?"
CCT «
"There's no more time for discussion. Come out of the doorway, John. Walk a straight line toward our ship. No tricks. The people hiding behind you don't dare harm you... not while they think they still have a chance to recapture you later. But they won't do that. We'll protect you with all of Rampart's resources. Come out to our ship now."
"I'm coming," said Oliver Schneider.
He took about ten steps toward us, and then everything went to hell.
Understandably, Ildiko and I were both riveted by the approach of the man we'd risked our lives to find. We were alert for enemy fire that might emanate from the airlock or the windows, but we'd forgotten about the lift on the hopper pad a hundred meters or so to our left.
As the defenders had no doubt intended.
Later, I deduced that during the critical fifteen minutes we'd waited for Ollie, the people inside the facility had disconnected the caution lights and other alarms surrounding the circular opening. They'd also hauled the third Vorlon ESC-10XA, the one grounded for engine overhaul—but still armed and deadly—onto the elevator platform. The lift lid was now able to whisk back without warning and allow Hopfrog Three to rise and fire on us.
They didn't want to harm Schneider with cannon back-flare, so they hit us right in the powerplant with their twin BRB-200 lasers.
The jewel-fuel explosion almost deafened me. I had no chance to use our own ship's weapons. The Vorlon, which weighed about thirty tons when deprived of antigrav lift, dropped two meters onto the stony ground. The right landing gear buckled in the impact and the ship tilted sideways, belly toward the adversary, who continued to fire. Ildiko and I tumbled against the starboard cockpit bulkhead. Our LGF-18 grenade launchers, which we'd propped against the instrument console, clanged on top of us.
Flickering azure beams punched holes in the hull. Electronic systems exploded and spat sparks. The ship interior was full of smoke, and something hissed ominously back in the stern compartment. Ghastly muffled sounds came from the netted prisoners. Hopfrog Two creaked and lurched as the lasers continued to stab at it.
"Out! Out!" I screamed into my helmet, scrambling over the instrumentation, grabbing hold of the manual hatch release underfoot and hauling at it with all my strength. The damaged thing slid reluctantly on its bent tracks, then jammed before it was halfway open.
Ildiko wormed her way through, hauling the launchers with her. I was a lot bigger and I nearly didn't make it. Stuck feet first in the narrow slot, kicking like a fool, I finally had the wit to smack the quick-release buckle on my equipment belt and drop down and out without my sidearms. Blue rays from the big Kagis were zapping holes in the ceramalloy doorframe a hand's breadth from my helmet visor.
As I crashed to the dirt like a sack of bricks, a thunderous detonation shook the ground. A magnum HE grenade round had hit something important over on the hopper pad.
In my helmet phones a satisfied female voice said, "Vis-zontldtasra, assholes."
Suddenly, silence. No more beams, no more booms.
I lay there under the wreck for a few seconds, stunned by the fall, and heard a lesser explosion followed by a muffled phut phut phut phut. Standard HE grenade, plus sleepy-gas rounds going off inside a confined space.
"Yes!" said Ildiko. "And that's all, kisbaba."
With shaking hands I retrieved my belt with its Ivanov and Kagi pistols, which still dangled from the partially open hatch overhead, picked up my LGF-18, and crawled out from under the Vorlon. It was perforated like an ebony Swiss cheese with laser hits and smoldering vigorously at the stern.
Ildiko sat on the ground, cradling her grenade launcher in her lap while she reloaded it. "You okay, Chief Inspector, sir?"
"Alive, Lieutenant, ma'am ... and kicking myself for getting caught like a fat rat in a drainpipe. Congratulations one more time."
Hopfrog Three was now nothing but b
urning junk scattered around the canted lift platform. Wisps of smoke and pearly pink gas curled from the open doorway to the Haluk facility. I magnified the view and saw a jumble of torn bodies inside the airlock. The inner door had been blown apart.
A dozen meters in front of the facility, lying prostrate with both arms flung out, was Oliver Schneider. He wasn't moving.
"Fired over his head after the hopper blast knocked him down," Ildiko said. "Sorry, Helly. I had no choice."
"I agree. You want to check on our prisoners? I'll take a look at John Green."
I drew my Ivanov and trudged out to him. The sleepy-gas wafting out the facility door hadn't reached him yet and he was conscious, staring at the smoky sky and smiling, as if at some private amusement. He lay flat on his back. The excess flesh had stretched away from his face and throat, giving him the unexpectedly youthful look you often see on embalmed bodies.
Schneider wasn't dead, but there were wounds. Shrapnel bits from the ship Ildy destroyed had struck him along his right side. He had a head injury that bled copiously and his light enviro jumpsuit leaked scarlet in four or five places.
His lips moved. I knelt beside him. The wind was blowing the gas eastward, away from us. I tongued my helmet's annunciator. "Hey, Ollie, old hoss-thief. How ya doing?"
"Asahel Frost?" He began to laugh, and the faint sound was a broken crackle like trodden autumn leaves. "I wondered if it might be you pulling this loony stunt. Troublemaker from the git-go . . ."
"That's me," I admitted.
"They ... wanted me to step aside fast once I was out the door, get out of range so a squad hiding behind me could hit your ship. Said I would, then didn't." More laughter. "Really pissed 'em off."
"We figured it was something like that."
"Didn't know Jim Matsukawa was planning to hoist the grounded Vorlon. He's a sharp bastard."
"Sorry you got caught."
"That's the way it goes sometimes."
"I don't think your wounds are too serious. We'll have you patched up pretty soon."
He made a faint sound of assent that turned into a groan and a muttered obscenity.
"Ollie, listen. I've got to ask you about your insurance policy against Galapharma. Will it remain in force if we take you off Dagasatt? We don't want your evidence released prematurely if it can be avoided."