Korval's Game (50 page)

Pilot McFarland also knew numerous local eateries catering to Terran or mixed crews, and it was to one of those they repaired before they moved forward with the various tasks of the day.

At the Panake House, Cheever’s jacket—or perhaps his face—won them entry into the roomy and more comfortable inner sanctum with a cheerful, “This way, pilots!” from the beaming host.

The menus were on the table and coffee poured before Pat Rin could refuse.

The offer to “stow those bags” was waved away, politely acknowledged, and followed by a “back in two” as the waiter hurried to refill the cups at another table.

The menu, for all that it was in Terran—a language Pat Rin read well—was next to incomprehensible. The “slabs” and “stacks” offered for his delectation were meaningless, as were the supposed qualifiers:
thick, short, full . . .

He needn’t have concerned himself. His companion intercepted the waiter with a wave of his big hand.

“Two Morning Specials; double medium slices, and c-juice.”

This repast, when it arrived, proved to be a stack of flatbreads which one—taking Cheever McFarland as one’s model—doused with various liquids and jams; recognizable eggs; and several patties of ground or pressed meat, each about the size of one the flatbreads.

Warily, Pat Rin sampled the various offerings. The juice drink was familiar enough; the other flavors pleasantly spicy. He had a bit more of each.

“This here,” Cheever said, around a mouthful of flatbread. “This is a hard-working port. This place here is always open, and pilots always get the best tables. Take whatever they got on special and you’ll get a good, cheap meal.”

Pat Rin glanced up from his plate. “However, I am not a pilot.”

McFarland forked a meat patty into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“You can pass though,” he said eventually. “We get you a jacket and nobody’ll doubt you know Jump.”

He emptied his coffee mug, waved it in the general direction of a waiter, then shook it gently at Pat Rin.

“If we’re going low or something, you’re gonna have to learn to drink this stuff like you mean it.”

Pat Rin raised an eyebrow, looked at his nearly untouched mug, and smiled slightly.

“I see that I face greater hazards than I had thought,” he said in quiet Terran. Deliberately, he picked the mug up and took a long slow sip of the dark beverage. He sighed slightly, wishing for some quiet morning tea, and sipped again as the waiter hove into view, bearing a oversized carafe.

“Nah, now this isn’t too bad,” said Cheever. “If we get to a place where
I
only drink a sip, you can pass . . .”

“Pilot, I see many lessons ahead for both of us!”

Cheever only nodded as the waiter warmed both their mugs from his pitcher, and offered news of fresh pastries and doughnuts to finish the meal.

***

PAT RIN’S NAME
gained them entry at Field of Fire, where the hostess was pleased to find them a place in the members only section as guests of the house.

The hostess also offered to waive the range fee in return for his signature in the guest book. It was seldom that a Liaden shooter of his caliber called on a Terran establishment such as this, and the signature of the reigning champion of Tey Dor’s would enhance the melant’i of the house. Whether he could afford to indulge the house in this, Pat Rin left for later, merely bowing polite acknowledgment of the offer.

They were then walked down a long, transparently walled hall, the hostess intent on convincing Pat Rin of the joys of the establishment. As they passed several dozens of lanes, some lighted and occupied, some lighted and empty, and some dark, all with a variety of targets visible, she continued her spiel, explaining that Field of Fire was not the largest range in number of shooting lanes on planet—no. But it was the best equipped, certainly, holding a complete set of house weapons from light to heavy, including dueling pistols of many calibers. There were also tuning and repair smiths on duty at all times, and instructors.

She paused there, recognizing a potential faux pas, and covered by extravagantly sliding a keycard into a section of wall marked “Club Members Only.”

Beyond the door there was better lighting, upgraded carpeting, and a small canteen, manned by an alert looking young man. The individual lanes fanned away from this concourse, eight on each side of two small central shooting theaters capable of accommodating four marksmen at once.

Only one of the single lanes was occupied, and through the thick plastiglass a man could be seen laboriously packing an armored travel bag with an array of small pistols. On the floor next to the shooting stand was an identical bag, sealed.

Their hostess escorted them past the semi-circle of observer’s seating to the theater on the left, activating the keyplate and lights with a card and—after the door slid soundlessly aside—motioning them down the ramped entranceway to the sunken shooting floor with its equipment benches and controls. She made no attempt to descend to the floor herself: only shooters were allowed in the fire-zone.

“I think you gentlemen will be comfortable here,” she said. “The range isn’t scheduled until this evening. You’re cleared for up to three hours of shooting; the timer starts with the first shot or when you invoke the tracking computer, whichever comes first. Once again, we will be pleased to waive all charges, should Lord Pat Rin care to sign our guest book.”

Pat Rin accepted the keycard and the code as she left, and in short order he and Cheever McFarland had arranged their equipment, donned the club-supplied ear protector headsets and began the straightforward testing-and-truing of what the Terran termed “the hardware”.

On Cheever’s bench sat two massive chemical LaDemeters and several dozen cartridges, a much smaller and also chemically powered double-barrel derringer-style boot-pistol with its bright shells next to it, and a brace of standard pellet pistols, three extra charges for each sitting by. In his hand was what appeared to be a large—even for a Terran of Cheever’s not-inconsiderable size—survival knife. Before each of his three shots with it he turned and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and as soon as he finished the third shot he carefully reloaded it, sheathed it, and immediately slipped it back into his boot.

He moved on quickly, though not as stealthily, to the derringer, squeezing off shots quickly and accurately, the gun almost hidden in his big hands. The noise of its firing—like that of the knife-weapon—was a sharp
snick
, even through the ear protectors. The chemicals left a slightly smokey haze and an acrid odor, which was quickly cleared away by the air filtering system.

Pat Rin was still working with his first weapon, a standard caliber Liaden dea’Nobli pellet pistol. While the caliber may have been standard, the pistol itself was a work of art, with filigree metal work, a custom jay-bead quick-sight, and grips of lovingly hand-shaped kreel-horn. Each shot produced a quiet
whap
through the ear protectors, though the accompanying magnetic whine seeped through without hindrance. His “show gun,” the dea’Nobli was more accurate than many clans’ dueling pistols and more costly than most.

The targets varied from stationary bull’s-eye, to gallery-like mythic creatures, to moving human silhouettes, chosen by the shooter’s whim. Satisfied with the dea’Nobli against the bull’s-eye, Pat Rin was about to bring up something more challenging when the rhythm of his companion’s shots altered—and stopped.

The big man’s hand motion was discreet but clear. Lowering his gun, Pat Rin turned and saw that they’d drawn a pair of observers, who were lounging in the chairs on the other side of the plastiglass, mugs and food on the table before them.

The man was certainly Terran—not quite perhaps of Cheever’s size, but larger than the average male of the race, with the dark and beginning-to-wrinkle complexion of one who has been overexposed to solar radiation. An ex-mercenary perhaps, or a native of one of the back-worlds, his face was strong-featured, square jawed, and not overly intelligent.

The woman was . . . most likely . . . Terran, and also dark, though it appeared her complexion was of birth rather than burn. Her hair made a black silken cap ’round her neat head, her features were fine, and she had quick ebon eyes, which at the moment rested upon himself with more than casual interest.

“Just sat down,” Cheever said, sotto voce. “He’s muscle, but if she ain’t a pilot I’ll eat my license. They both got bags, but she’s . . .”

“She is carrying a gun under her right arm,” Pat Rin finished for him, “which is why the vest seems a bit bulkier than one might expect on so warm a day. The man is, as you say, a bodyguard.”

The woman raised her hand, perhaps indicating that they should feel free to continue with their practice.

“I believe it is time to take a break, Mr. McFarland. Please do me the honor of saving our records. Then we shall see what we may discover of our visitors.”

“Gotcha.”

Pat Rin engaged the safety on the dea’Nobli and left the pretty gun lying ostentatiously on the bench, feeling the accustomed weight of the hideaway in his right sleeve as an unexpected comfort. Cheever McFarland at his back, he touched the keypad and stepped out into the concourse.

Cool air assailed them, and the increasingly familiar odor of coffee.

“There was no need to disturb yourselves on our account, Master,” the woman said in lightly accented Liaden as they approached. Seated, she bowed, gracefully approximating the mode of novice to master, which was surely flattery. “We will be using the other theater in a moment, but it is rare for us to see such shooting here.”

Pat Rin inclined his head. “We had not intended a demonstration, and I fear the shooting may not have been up to our best. We have been some time traveling.”

“Ah, all the more impressive!” The dark eyes measured him, then she turned, motioning to her companion, bespeaking him in Terran no less mannered than her Liaden—“Julier, my manners have failed me. Please—fetch our guests coffee and a snack—or perhaps tea for the master.”

Pat Rin eyed the woman speculatively, and held up a hand. “Allow me to send Mr. McFarland, as well,” he said, following her into Terran. “He understands my taste in coffee.”

She gave him a half-smile and shrugged a proper Terran shrug. “Of course you will wish to send someone to attend your interests.”

Pat Rin glanced to Cheever.

The pilot nodded, waiting for the bodyguard to rise. They walked side-by-side to the canteen, not quite bristling, like two strange cats thrown together on unknown turf.

The woman leaned toward Pat Rin, inclined her head in a motion that became a formal bow.

“Master, it is urgent that we speak—alone. I am Natesa. I believe our interests coincide.”

***

THE TWO BIG MEN
fidgeted, uncomfortable in their sudden roles as spectators, as the door sealed with a slight hiss.

“They are nervous of this,” Natesa said as she walked with him down the ramp to the shooting floor. “It speaks well of them.”

“I suspect we all four have some concerns,” Pat Rin murmured, picking the dea’Nobli up from the bench. “Mr. McFarland tells me that you are a professional shooter and likely a first class pilot.”

“Ah, and my guardian informs me that you are a better shot than you appear.”

Pat Rin sent an exasperated glance toward the two-man audience, and Natesa laughed, soft and musical.

“I thought you might appreciate the level of assistance I am equipped with when the locals insist. Julier is a good man in a barroom brawl—as I suspect Mr. McFarland is—but he is perhaps in the second tier, both of shooters and of intellects, unlike Mr. McFarland.” She smiled, and pointed. “I shall take the blue side.”

Pat Rin appraised her coolly as she finished unloading the weapons from her bag. These disposed to her satisfaction upon the bench, she turned to face him fully, raising one hand, fingers spread wide, in the old, old, gesture of peace.

“By your leave, Master. I should test these as well.”

From beneath her vest she pulled a palm gun, laying it carefully on the bench, its muzzle aimed, without a doubt, down the lane. The design was not familiar; and it was unclear from its lines whether it was a chemical weapon. Natesa reached beneath her vest once more and brought forth a tiny and strange weapon—which was immediately recognizable, despite that he had held one only once, and that many Standards in the past.

He raised an eyebrow, and she inclined her head, not without irony.

“I thank you for your care; you may rest assured that I know this is
not
a toy. It is best that we be plain with each other. I am called Natesa the Assassin—among other things—and that”—she pointed—“is a triple caliber pellet weapon. A single shot. Very high energy. Perhaps the equivalent of one of Mr. McFarland’s special loads.”

So. Pat Rin drew a careful breath, conscious that the stakes had risen, though not, or so he thought, out of all reason.

“I am not,” he said to the woman’s intelligent dark eyes, “a professional. Certainly I carry nothing to . . .”

She raised her finger to her lips with a sibilant Terran
shush
.

“You are correct, of course,” she said, with a brisk nod. “Neither of us can be expected to display all of our weapons and backups. However, you should know that I see two of your hideaways.”

He inclined his head, coming the lofty lordling. “My thanks.”

Her lips twitched, and she bowed once more.

“Shall we say best of fifty?” she asked. “Mixed targets? I have here a match in caliber for your pellet pistol.”

“Of course.” He checked the charge on his weapon as she checked hers.

“Shall we alternate? Use the same targets? Or shoot duo?” he asked, automatically looking at the floor to be sure of his footing.

“Duo,” she said promptly, and moved a hand toward the targeting switch. “I choose this. You choose the targets.”

And that, Pat Rin thought, was a gambit. The gamester in him rose to the challenge: the best refutation of a gambit is acceptance.

He reached to the controls, punched his choices in, and held his finger on the presstab as he looked over to her.