Young Bleys - Childe Cycle 09 (43 page)

Furthermore, the full force that Ahram had detailed to the assassination was a little under thirty of the Hounds. These would be going up against well over a hundred of McKae's Defenders—and would be outclassed, in every way, by a large margin.

The whole situation spoke of deep ignorance in Ahram's and Norton Brawley's cases. Moreover, one or both of them had deliberately disregarded his order. This was exactly the situation he had envisioned when he had suggested to the heads of the Other organizations on the other worlds that armed retainers could be more of a danger than a benefit. The risk that was run was to give the Others a bad name—one which painted them as advocates of force, rather than reason. And an attempt to assassinate Darrel McKae would be entirely too large to be kept out of the press.

Bleys had pointed out the disparity in numbers alone to Ahram once they were back in his office.

"You know," he had said to Ahram, "McKae has a good two hundred of what he calls his Defenders. And you're sending a little over two dozen Hounds against them."

Ahram had laughed.

"Yes, Dahno found out their numbers and passed it on to us," Ahram said. "But you know they're nothing but a bunch of farmers and such, with weapons that in some cases probably haven't been used for years. They'll have no real idea of how to defend McKae. Whereas, our Hounds are trained like Dorsai, to be just the opposite—and armed with the best."

Bleys had forborne to argue. In his eyes the Hounds going through the exercises had looked exactly as they had before— unthinking, uncaring, and more than a little bored.

He rolled over on the bed and keyed his phone in, putting a call through to his office back in Ecumeny

.

CHAPTER
36

The day before
a message in special code had come to him from Dahno on Old Earth, setting a date two weeks, interstellar time, from now for the meeting there and specifying a rendezvous location.

"This is Bleys," he said as soon as he was connected with the office. Aran's face looked back at him from the screen, looking almost annoyed.

"You don't have to tell me that, Bleys Ahrens," she said. "It's good you phoned right now, though. We were both going to leave the office a little early this afternoon. You caught us just before we went out the door."

"I'm glad," said Bleys, "because I want you to do something for me right away; and it's urgent. Send coded messages to all the Vice-Chairmen on other worlds with the following message:—ready—?"

"I've turned the recorder on," said Aran.

Bleys dictated:

"Concerning that matter about which I informed you recently, you will be personally ready to travel so as to arrive at the destination in twelve days. The destination will be Old Earth, in a hotel called The Shadow, which is in the main Denver area of the North American continent. I want you all assembled there no later than noon, twelve days from the date of this message.

Bleys Ahrens

"Did you get that all, Arah?"

"Yes, Bleys Ahrens," answered Arah.

"It's important that those messages go out on the first vessels possible to get them to the various Vice-Chairmen in the quickest time. You'll see to that?"

"Right this minute," said Arah.

Bleys cut the phone connection and rolled back to lie on the bed, once more staring at the ceiling.

There was no longer time to make sure before he acted. It was necessary to gamble that things would fall out as he had planned. True, the odds were overwhelming that they would. But the difference between the best possible gamble, and certainty, could be wide and deep enough to bury anyone.

He was out on the balcony, looking down at the concourse, fifteen minutes before the first of the Hounds could arrive; lounging on the railing there as if he was simply waiting for someone to meet him.

In due time, the Hounds did start coming in through the street-level doors. He watched them with a keen interest, noting how they walked, how they reacted to the strangers around them, and everything else about them which would indicate their response to the general public.

It was very much as he had feared. They were all in ordinary civilian clothes; the black robes and their other uniforms and special clothing had been laid aside. That much, at least, was as Bleys had expected.

But in spite of the change of clothes, they carried themselves with an air almost of arrogance, as if those around them should have already recognized that they were people of authority, and different.

Bleys faded back from the balcony, before the first of them emerged at the head of the escalator to the level he was on. He went back into the hotel, and directly down to the dining room, which he had already checked out.

The maitre d' there, recognizing him, insisted on escorting him to a table, one of twenty which had been set up to allow five each of the Hounds to dine together. The maitre d', and the hotel management itself, had been a little surprised mat he had not simply wanted one large table for his whole group, plus a sight-and-sound barrier, projected between them and the other ordinary diners.

However, Bleys had been insistent. It was the Hounds' reaction to the rest of society he wanted to observe. He sat at his table, watching the Hounds come in, watching their reaction to the maitre d' and to the other diners, and was not at all surprised when the four top-ranking members of the Hounds came to join him at his table.

During the dinner, Bleys chatted with those who had joined him and listened as best he could to the Hounds at the adjoining tables. They all sat ramrod-straight at first; and their chatter became louder, as the wine he had ordered began to take effect on them.

From all the accounts he had read, they were acting exactly the way soldiers on pass had always acted, when turned loose to their own devices. Only at his table was a certain amount of protocol preserved, with the Hounds who had joined him speaking only when he spoke to them; until the alcohol began to work on them and, little by little, the conversation became general.

They finally reached the end of the meal, which had been a sumptuous affair with ten courses and different wines for each. A good number of the Hounds were obviously half, if not more than half, drunk. However, they managed to remain sober enough so that none of them did what Bleys had told Ahram must not be done—which was for any of them to stand up and offer some kind of toast to him, their organization, Dahno or anything else.

After the meal, as ordered, they took their leave. Some came by his table to thank him for the meal, but there were not as many of these as he had feared might do so. Certainly it singled his table out, but it did not really lift the meal to the level of a formal affair—which Bleys had wanted to avoid at all costs. He had wanted to see the Hounds on their natural behavior; and that was largely what he was doing.

He, himself, finally made his excuses to the Hounds still at his table, aware that they would not venture to leave until he made some move to do so himself, even though the rest of those who had made up their party had already left the dining room.

They would all have some celebration in mind beyond the meal. A celebration which, in most cases, they would just as soon that neither Bleys nor Ahram knew about. Bleys returned to his room.

He had left word with his pilot to be ready for a five
a.m.
takeoff. And so, once back in his suite, he went to bed himself, and fell almost instantly asleep. The next day he was in his office at six in the morning, and phoned to wake a Norton Brawley who was still groggy from sleep, and order him down to the office immediately.

Brawley showed up within the time limit of forty minutes that Bleys had given him, with the mixed look of someone who is thoroughly outraged at being gotten out of bed unexpectedly and at the same time trying to show a polite exterior to the situation.

"Sit down, sit down, Norton," said Bleys from behind his desk, as Brawley came in through the door.

Brawley took a chair across the desk from Bleys. He was wearing a brown business suit that looked somewhat rumpled, as if it was one that he had worn yesterday, or possibly even a couple of days before. And his thin, graying hair was awry. He tried to smile at Bleys.

"Well," he said, "we're up this morning early, aren't we, Bleys Ahrens?"

"Yes, I think so," said Bleys, "but not too early considering the seriousness of the situation."

"Do we have a serious situation?" asked Brawley.

"Yes," said Bleys. "I was out at the Hounds' Kennel yesterday and watched them run through a rehearsal of their plan to handle the McKae affair. I didn't see any improvement at all. Meanwhile, I've been investigating McKae's security, and it's plain to me, at least, that any such attempt by us would be nothing but a disaster. So, I'm calling the whole thing off. We may look at it again sometime in the future."

"Have you told Ahram Moro about this yet—calling it off, I mean?" asked Brawley.

"No," answered Bleys, "I'm just about to. But I wanted you to know first, just in case you might be speaking to him yourself on the phone today."

"I see," Brawley's face had gone quite pale—whether it was the paleness of anger or shock, Bleys could not tell. His voice remained calm—in fact, if anything it was calmer than it had been since he had walked in through the door and sat down.

"In that case," said Brawley, getting to his feet, "Dahno left a paper with me, in case of just such an instance as this. It's in a folder down in my car which is parked in the basement garage of your building here. If you'll wait just a minute I'll bring it up to you."

Bleys looked at him narrowly.

"A paper Dahno gave you, but didn't tell me about? One you were to show me as you said—in an instance like this?" he said slowly, his eyes on Brawley's eyes.

"Exactly," said the legalist. "I'll be right back."

He went out the door. Bleys sat back in his chair with a sigh. He had expected, not specifically what Brawley had said to him, but an objection of some kind.

The man was acting almost exactly as Bleys had thought he would act; once he was confronted with the fact that he was indeed Bleys' subordinate, and had no power over anyone including the Hounds, except with Bleys' authority behind him. This meeting would have to continue to its inevitable and unhappy conclusion. But it was a conclusion he could not dodge. It was part of his commitment to the plan of his life and the future he dreamed of for the whole race.

Within a matter of minutes Brawley was back. But he was followed through the door by two large men, neither of them as tall as Bleys, but heavily built, and showing signs of past fights. The name of "musclemen" fitted them as neatly as their clothing, which was almost incongruously expensive in comparison with their physical appearance.

They came through the door and stood on either side of Brawley.

"Bleys," said the legalist—he held a folder in his hand but made no attempt to open it—"are you sure you won't change your mind about canceling the exercise by the Hounds?"

"Absolutely certain," said Bleys. He had pushed his float a little back from the desk' so that his knees were out from under the desk.

Brawley reached into the folder. What he brought out, however, was not a piece of paper, but a void pistol, which he pointed at Bleys from a distance of no more than ten feet.

"Don't move," he said to Bleys. Then he spoke to the two men alongside him without looking at them. "Go get him. Don't damage him. We want to throw him unhurt off the roof."

The two produced short, bulge-ended blackjacks from their pockets and moved around, one on each side of the desk.

Bleys stayed where he was until they were both level with him and moving in toward him. His hands were grasping the edge of his float and he literally pushed it out from under him so he fell in a sitting position onto the floor, swiveling himself around so that his head was to one man, his legs another.

Just as people tended to underestimate the reach of his arms, they always very much underestimated the reach of his legs. The flat soles of his shoes lashed out in a kick that literally lifted the blackjack-carrier on that side of him off the floor, and slammed him against the wall. He doubled up and lay still.

The other man's blackjack whistled through the air where Bleys' head would have been if he had still been at the desk in his chair.

Meanwhile, Bleys was pivoting once more so that now his feet faced in the opposite direction. One toe caught the blackjack and sent it flying, the other lashed into the man's crotch. He, too, folded.

So swiftly had everything happened that Brawley got off his first shot only as the second man went down. But by now the desktop was between Bleys and the void pistol, which could not penetrate any sort of shield. The charge spent itself harmlessly against that thick and varnished surface.

Bleys rolled around the desk and threw the blackjack he had picked up at Brawley's face. The man's hands instinctively went up but it slammed against his right upper temple hard enough to send him staggering back against the door, not unconscious but dazed.

Then Bleys was on his feet and with two long strides reached him and ripped the void pistol from his hand.

Bleys felt as if his heart moved in his chest. Brawley's eyes were directly on the void pistol, which was now pointing straight at him.

"No—" he began. Bleys pressed the trigger button and Brawley crumpled, his eyes open and his face still fixed in a look of terrified reproach. Bleys drew a deep breath, looking at the dead man.

He had expected a deep inner shock when this moment of killing came—but strangely, there was none.

A part of him felt deep regret over Brawley; but a greater part told him that there had been no choice. Norton's death had been a necessity to cut all connections between the Hounds and himself. He turned back to find the two musclemen were now climbing groggily to their feet.

"Both of you go around that side of the desk," said Bleys, pointing toward the back corner farthest from him. He kept the void pistol aimed at them and walked the other desk-side as they came around and backed up toward Brawley. They looked at the body and then looked back at the void pistol.

"I assume now, he's the one that you
better throw off a
roof, someplace. Preferably not this roof," said Bleys. "What he planned for me will work equally well for him and as long as he goes off some other roof at this hour of the morning, preferably into an alley where his body won't be noticed for a few hours—the greater security you, as well as I, are going to have. He probably has the keys to his car in his pocket. In any case, carry him down to his car, get in it, drive out of here, and find some other place, to throw him down from at least ten stories."

He looked at them for a long second.

"Oh," he said, still keeping the void pistol aimed at them. "And I hope never to see you again. If I do, something will have to be done about you, as well."

They looked at him numbly for a second; then, still without a word, bent down and picked up the body of Norton Brawley between them and went out with it. From beginning to end, neither of them had said a word.

Left alone, Bleys sat once more at the desk and leaned with his head in his hands and elbows on the desk. He was trembling inside. But he told himself that it was something that could not have been avoided. Now he must phone and cancel the assassination attempt.

The void pistol still dangled loosely from his right finger, hooked in its trigger-button guard. He laid the weapon on the desk; and noticed that his hands were visibly trembling as well. If the two musclemen came back through the door right now, he thought, he might not have the will to defend himself against them.

Looking again at the pistol, he saw it lay upon an unopened off-planet message, which must have come after he had talked to Arah on the phone yesterday. It was from Old Earth, which meant it had to be from Dahno. He picked it up and ripped it open. It was in code, but he had long since passed the point where he needed to actually decode such messages, letter by letter. He read it off as if it was written in plain Basic.