The Genius Asylum: Sic Transit Terra Book 1 (16 page)

“Hey, don’t go blaming the victim,” O’Malley protested angrily, rising out of his seat. “She was attacked by three guys. Doc saw the bruises—”

“Sit down, Rob,” she told him.

He sat, instantly silenced. Inwardly Drew smiled, glad to know that his street instincts were still sharp. Whatever else Lydia Garfield might be, she clearly was not, nor ever would be, a helpless victim. Good for her. And good for the EIS.

“Twenty minutes,” she finally replied.

Drew nodded thoughtfully. “And how badly hurt were you?”

A shadow passed quickly over her face. “Let’s just say I’ve been hurt worse, in less worthy causes.”

Drew didn’t pursue the matter. According to her biofile, she’d grown up in Atlantica, an area rife with juvenile gangs. They tended to draw Eligible teens like magnets, pulling them out of the Enclaves and into the Zones for a little weekend ‘fun’.

“You do the wounded bird thing very well,” he remarked.

She accepted the compliment with a nod and returned, “And you do the cop thing very well, Mr. Townsend.”

Lydia turned I-told-you-so eyes on her partner.

“Does Doc Ktumba know what really happened?” Drew asked.

“No,” said Lydia, frowning. “Nobody does except Rob and now you. And the Rangers, of course, but who around here is going to believe them?”

“Then why didn’t she send you away for treatment once Khaloub’s body had been discovered and Bonelli’s men began investigating?”

“She tried to,” said Lydia.

“But…?”

The smugness of O’Malley’s expression gave Drew his answer. The ratkeeper and Lydia were a matched pair, between them having complete control over the Hub’s data and communications systems. If they didn’t want to be split up, nothing and nobody aboard the Hub could make it happen.

“All right,” Drew decided, “here’s the deal. The two of you are going to be my intelligence team. My eyes and ears. You,” he said, pointing a finger at Lydia, “are going to make a full and rapid recovery from your ordeal and put it behind you. A miracle cure. Doc Ktumba may even want to write a paper about it — let her. And you,” he added, shifting the finger to point at O’Malley, “are going to continue stockpiling data. I’m giving you both clean slates, from this day forward, on one condition: from now on, you’re to be absolutely straight with me and your crewmates — no more lying, and no more cons unless I’m running them.”

“How come
you
get to run them?” O’Malley challenged.

Drew leaned across his desk on carefully placed knuckles and said in a lowered voice, “Because I’ve been doing it a whole lot longer and am a whole lot better at it than either of you. Now, do we have an arrangement?”

The other man grinned up at him. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Lydia said nothing. On her way out of his office space, however, she turned and gave him an appraising look. Drew almost didn’t recognize what he saw on her face. It had been a long time since anyone had shown him that kind of respect.

And speaking of respect…

“O’Malley, before you go, there’s something I need you to do for me.”

Cocking his head curiously, the ratkeeper resumed his seat.

“A good friend of mine was killed the day before I shipped out, and I want to follow the murder investigation. Can you request information about a specific open case file from Security Data Management?”

“Not without tipping our hand to the Rangers. They generally request larger packages of data — all the crimes of a certain type committed during a specified period or in a particular location, that sort of thing. When and where did this murder take place, boss?”

“New Chicago, about two intervals ago. The victim’s name was Bruni Patel. When I left, all they had was snaps from the body dump scene. The file should be a lot fatter by now.”

O’Malley nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, we may already have something in our system about Bruni Patel, so I’ll search our on-board databases and let you know what I find.”

Chapter 22

Gavin Holchuk
had found his ‘inner warrior’, and it was
hartoon
.

The grieving husband and outraged father that the Relocation Authority had summarily boxed up and shipped out to Daisy Hub thirteen standard years earlier had finally broken free. Holchuk’s senses were drowning in remembered pain. Every dream was a nightmare of blood and smoke, filled with Risa’s screams and ending with her blackened, agony-contorted face in the morgue.

Holchuk couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest, couldn’t even sit. For three days now, he had prowled his quarters like a caged animal. On the second day, Jensen’s assistant had taken one look at his face, dropped a food tray onto the desk and run out of the room. By the third, the need for vengeance was like a roaring furnace in Holchuk’s brain.

Then, just when he thought he could no longer control the berserker raging inside him, he heard over the intercomm the voice he had been waiting for.

“Gavin Holchuk, son of Samuel,” said Nagor, “the House of Trokerk has arrived. Prepare to join with us.”

An honor guard of warriors from Holchuk’s own House had to escort him to Nagor’s ship. Fortunately, Gavin had thought to leave instructions with Ruby before going into seclusion. When his cabin door slid aside, there they were: Jason Smith, wearing the dress uniform of a Fleet officer; Lucas Soaring Hawk, dressed in buckskin breeches and a bone breastplate, his face painted in red and black stripes; Lu Xensiu, covered to his eyes in ninja attire, complete with nunchucks; and Orvy Hagman, who had apparently reached back into a previous life and come up with a black leather jacket with matching trousers and peaked cap, all bristling with metal studs and bearing the insignia of The Devil’s Henchmen.

Despite their motley appearance, the four men were all stern-faced and deathly serious. Human warriors, ceremonially garbed.

As prescribed by Nandrian tradition, the honor guard marched him in silent formation to the tube stop, two behind him, two in front. They held formation inside the tube car, and walked him right up to the docking hatch of the Nandrian ship, where Nagor and three others stood in similar formation, waiting. The four aliens were also ceremonially garbed. Their upper bodies were encased in jointed armor, under long black tabards bearing the symbol of Trokerk worked in metallic thread.

“Welcome, Gavin Holchuk,” announced Nagor. “Are you prepared to join us?”

Holchuk was sucking in long, steadying breaths, willing his mind to focus on the ritual. “I am ready, Nagor ban Nagoram,” he declared hoarsely.

Nagor bared his lower fangs in approval. “A warrior burns within you.”

“He thirsts for the blood of our enemies,” Holchuk replied, following the script.

“He defends the honor of the House of Americas?”

“He does.” A guerrilla memory triggered a surge of adrenaline; suddenly his skin was clammy and it was all Holchuk could do to stand still and upright.

“And he defends the honor of Daisy Hub?”

“He does.”

“And he would defend the honor of the House of Trokerk?”

Through gritted teeth, Holchuk replied, “He would die if necessary in the cause of honor.”

The big alien nodded. “Then enter.”

With that, the Nandrian guardsmen strode forward and surrounded Holchuk. Then, in formation, all five boarded the
Hak’kor
’s ship.

The
Pet’silliar
was not like any of the Nandrian ships Holchuk had visited in the past. Those had been cargo vessels, rigged out for years-long trading voyages. Consequently, most of their on-board areas had been devoted to storage of one kind or another. The air inside them had been cool and dry. And both ship and crew were armed, of course, in case the opportunity arose for a
tekl’hananni
match. This ship was different.

As he was escorted through the entry port, the first thing Holchuk noticed was the air. It was warm and humid. Too humid. Moisture was penetrating his clothing and settling on his skin. Good. It would mingle with the perspiration that already covered him and provide an excuse for any other sweat that happened to break out during the next day or so.

Holchuk had worked shifts under Jason Smith and knew how energy-consuming it was to maintain a subtropical atmosphere aboard a spacecraft. The
Pet’silliar
was clearly not designed for long voyages. But it was incredibly spacious, for a shuttle. Its broad corridors were misty, bathed in soft light from concealed sources that lent the air itself a rosy or violet glow. Tall plants with round, multicolored leaves lined the bulkheads, seeming to grow directly out of the deck plating. They clung to the wall surfaces, curving with them into long and lofty ceilings.

Holchuk followed Nagor a short distance along one corridor, to a high arching door that slid aside soundlessly as they approached. The rectangular room into which the Human was now ushered was large enough to hold AdComm at least twice. A plant-free zone, it had a pale overhead vault and muraled walls depicting the historical victories of Trokerk in living — and dying — color. And stationed in the spaces between those battles stood uniformed warriors, their black tabards lined in blood red and fastened with silver, their blades already in their hands, their watchful eyes glittering like beacons.

These were the
Hak’kor
’s private guard. If Holchuk said or did anything that offended the
Hak’kor
’s representative, one of them would instantly avenge the honor of the House.

Involuntarily, Holchuk’s eyes went to the painted image of a huge Nandrian warrior, holding aloft the severed head of an enemy of Trokerk — and inside his Human stomach, it began raining ice pellets.

Somewhere out in space sat a heavily-armed Nandrian ship of the line that had brought a member of the First Shield from the home world to meet him. The First Shield never left the planet unless on a matter of utmost importance to the House. The adoption of an off-worlder was evidently such a matter. And the retribution exacted for any perceived betrayal associated with that adoption would escalate proportionately. The
Hak’kor
’s guard would not stop with executing Gavin Holchuk. His House would be wiped out as well. Daisy Hub would be destroyed, and if the insult were sufficiently grievous, maybe even Earth.

Holchuk could feel a cold sweat popping out on his forehead, tattooing his stomach, trickling down his back. All those lives… All those Human lives depending on him…. Suddenly his inner warrior was only a memory, and his legs were trembling again, wanting desperately to carry him away from this place.

Just then, a door slid open at the far end of the room. Holchuk felt a hand on his shoulder, urging him to his knees, and abruptly the realization hit him: from the moment he’d smelled that smoky cinnamon in the caf, he’d been fried. Running had never been an option.

Every being in the room had dropped to his knees, to show respect for the arrival of the
Hak’kor
’s representative.

This Nandrian wore brow armor, signifying membership in the First Shield of the House. But he wasn’t the
Hak’kor
— he was the
Kalufah
, next in honor to the
Hak
’kor
. And next in line for leadership if anything should happen to the ‘owner’ of the House. His facial protection consisted of a band of intricately worked yellow metal that covered his forehead and curved downward over his cheeks, and he wore a richly embroidered tabard, loosely belted around his hips, over a breastplate that appeared to be made of the same metal. In his right hand he carried the living staff, a long piece of wood with leafy branches sprouting out of it. According to legend, the staff was several hundred years old and still putting out twigs. As long as it lived, the House of Trokerk could not fall.

One of the guards brought over what appeared to be a piece of metal sculpture and placed it directly behind the
Kalufah
. With a long exhalation of breath, the Nandrian sank down onto it, shifting the staff from his right to his left hand.

“What do you offer to the House of Trokerk?” he demanded in heavily-accented Gally.

“A Human,
Kalufah
,” said Nagor without changing position. “He has shown himself worthy.”

“To you, perhaps, Nagor ban Nagoram. Let him prove his worthiness to me. Human, your line!”

The last three words struck Holchuk with almost physical force.

This was it, he thought miserably. Nagor had spent hours preparing him for this ritual. All he could do now was his best — and pray. Feeling the weight of billions of Human lives resting on his shoulders, Holchuk got slowly to his feet and took the prescribed step forward. He met the eyes of the
Hak’kor
’s representative, held his gaze for exactly two seconds, then began the speech he had so carefully rehearsed:

“I am Gavin Holchuk, son of Samuel the Bold, Fifth Shield of the House of Americas. I am the twenty-fifth generation of a clan of warriors, beginning with George the Righteous, who fought with others like himself to free the House of Americas from those who would have controlled it.”

As he had once advised Townsend the Terrible, the object of the exercise was not to tell the truth; it was to stay alive long enough to achieve one’s purpose. The Nandrians wanted to hear about the warriors in his family, so that was what he would tell them. In fact, most of his relatives had been posted off-planet, where they’d been killed by the plague. But warriors didn’t succumb to disease. There was no honor in that. They also didn’t get toxed and fall off the roof, or swerve their PV to avoid hitting an animal and smash into a tree instead, or choke to death on a piece of apple core. No doubt there were Nandrians whose lives had ended in similarly ignoble fashion, due to bad luck or foolishness; they just didn’t advertise the fact. And neither would he.

Posturing, he reminded himself grimly, that was all it was.

“…and I, Gavin the Rebel, fought for years for the freedom of others like myself on our home world to choose our own mates and lead our own lives, until I was overpowered and exiled to Daisy Hub.”

The
Kalufah’s
eyes remained on him for several seconds more, gleaming like sentient gemstones. Holchuk gulped hard and felt icy claws walk across his shoulders. He hadn’t let himself think about it before, but what if the
Kalufah
was one of the few Nandrians in existence who didn’t
like
posturing?

Finally, the
Kalufah
broke eye contact and demanded, “And who swears for this Human?”

Nagor stepped forward then, and began to speak. He gave the history of his relationship with Holchuk, praising in glowing terms Gavin’s unswerving honesty and righteousness. Finally, with much gesturing and many different voices, Nagor dramatized for the
Kalufah
the apprehension of Rostol, and the part Holchuk had played in saving everyone’s honor.

That seemed to make up the Nandrian official’s mind.

He thumped the living staff once on the floor and asked, “Gavin Holchuk, son of Samuel, what is your intention?”

The response to this had been scripted as well. “I wish to be a warrior in the cause of honor and justice,” Holchuk declared. “I wish to join with my brother Nagor in defense of the House of Trokerk.”

“A warrior’s greatest strengths are his courage and his honor. Before you are joined, these must be tested. Are you, an off-worlder, prepared to risk your life to join the House of Trokerk?”

Risk it? He felt as though he’d already forfeited it.

Holchuk gulped a lungful of air, then let it out slowly. “I am prepared,” he replied.

The
Kalufah
pounded the living staff three times more on the floor. “Seal the entry ports,” he commanded. “Instruct the Chief Officer that we are returning to the
Hak’kor
’s ship for
tekl’hananni
.”