Ghost Dancers Part 14

The Kid looked him full in the face and said: "You're Carl Preston, right?"

Carl was a little taken aback, because he hadn't realized that the Kid knew his name, but he just nodded. "Don't try anything silly, Kid," he advised sincerely. "If you do, I'll have to hit you. Neither of us wants you to end up with a busted skull."

The Kid looked down at the cord binding his wrists, as if he were wondering whether he could wriggle out of them. "You're too late," he said levelly. "I told M-M where I stashed the disca"and the other copy got away too. The secrets your boss had stashed away aren't secrets any more. I'm no use to you now."

"Usefulness isn't the issue any more," said Carl tiredly. "You really started something this time, Kid. Pasco reckons that the honour of the company is at stake. When you were nothing but a flea biting our a.s.s, you could be ignored, but as soon as M-M decided to take you in you became a target of a different kind. I hope it was worth it, Kid."

"Why are you taking me back alive?" the Kid asked. "It's Lady Venom that Zarathustra really wants, isn't it? Your orders were to get hera"I was only an added extra."

Carl set his lips to avoid showing his surprise that the Kid knew so much about his orders.

"Don't push me, Kid," he said tiredly. "It's been a heavy day. I've had nothing but heavy days recently. I'm grateful that you didn't blow me away before that stupid toy plane ga.s.sed us, but I'm not sure I can guarantee that I'll be so restrained."

"No," said the Kid, without any particular animosity. "I don't suppose you can. What do you suppose they'll do to me now they've got me? Bearing in mind, that is, that it's not your boss you have to answer to any more."

"I don't know," said Carl, truthfully.

"And you don't care," the Kid added for him. "Can't blame you, really. You have problems of your own, don't you? But you don't have to worry, because now that everybody and his cousin will soon know what's on the disc, the fact that you worked it out doesn't signify. That little bit of knowledge isn't a dangerous thing any more."

Carl felt coldly uncomfortable. He knew that it was impossible for the Kid to know what he was talking about, but that didn't make what he was saying any easier to listen to.

"Forget it, Kid," he said, tautly. "Playing guessing games will get you nowhere. It's over."

"It's only just begun," said the Kid. "You think M-M will take this lying down? GenTech just issued a declaration of wara"of real war. They could have blown the reactor and blasted the entire base into radioactive dust. Even GenTech can't do things like that without inviting retaliation. Like the guy said, this could be World War freaking Three."

Carl shook his head vehemently. "The reactor was never going to blow," he said, hoping that he was getting it right. "M-M's defences aren't that lousy. Their main systems got badly scrambled but their back-ups stopped any serious damage being done. It was all sound and furya"but it gave us a chance to get into a snow-cat and out on to the glacier. n.o.body was expecting a breaka"whoever had us hadn't bothered to brief M-M's SecDiv properlya"but a break is all it was. If M-M have any sense, they won't start anything heavy. They'll want to wind this thing down just as much as we do. n.o.body wants the whole d.a.m.n world to go up in flames over one lousy data-disc and one stupid sandrat."

"n.o.body," agreed the Kid. "Except perhaps the Temple. You're right about M-M; they will want to wind it down instead of upa"but that might not stop them retaliating. Men like Junichi Tanagawa care about saving face."

Carl found that he really did feel a bit sorry for the Kid, who'd been home and free until GenTech decided that the time had come to make their displeasure very plain to all those who might in future be tempted to meddle in their affairs. Unlike Pasco, he had nothing personal against the Kid, and he had to admit that he was a bit of a sucker for Homer Hegarty's line of blather about people like the Kid being the last free men in the world.

On the other hand, he reminded himself, the Kid was on the other side. But for the grace of G.o.d, Carl might have been riding shotgun on one of the wrappers the Kid had blown up.

"You ever hear of the Temple?" the Kid asked him.

He hadn't, and he said so.

"Ask Zarathustra," said the Kid evenly. "Ask him if he knows who really runs GenTech. Ask him about the Temple. And while you're at it, ask him if the mutants may be the forefront of an alien invasion."

Carl frowned. "Is that what the M-M people told you?" he asked. "Don't you know a sucker-story when you hear it? They're losers, y'know. All the other corps are losing ground to GenTech. You know what they're doing down here in Antarctica? Digging a freaking great hole in the ground, that's what. Making themselves a little private world for their managers, where they can hide out for a thousand years or soa"as long as their supplies last, I guess, unless their recyclers break down. Mitsu-Makema gave up trying to solve the world's problems years ago, but Doc Zarathustra and men like him are still in there fighting. Freakers like you don't help, believe me. Why d'you do it, Kid? Explain to me how it makes things better to be blowing up our stuff all the time."

"When you got nothing," said the Kid off-handedly, "you got nothing to lose."

"That's no answer," said Carl contemptuously. "Is it Hegarty's fault? Do you do it just to make the headlines? I'd really like to know, Kida"just don't give me any c.r.a.p about GenTech raping the world and needing to be stopped, because I've heard all that before and I know it ain't true."

"It's a personal matter," said the Kid, in a low tone. "Leastways, it was."

"Well it sure as h.e.l.l ain't personal any more," Carl told him. "You got half the freaking world on the case now. And what if M-M do try to get you back again? You enjoy being a freaking football? You could take one h.e.l.l of a pounding being booted back and fortha"until somebody scores a goal and you end up underneath a gravestone."

"You haven't touched down yet," the Kid pointed out.

"You can be glad of that," Carl told him, but not vindictively now hat his sudden burst of bad temper was over. "Count your blessings, Kid, because they're running out real fast. I'll take you back alive if I can, but if I can't, I'll take you back dead. Maybe you should have blown us both away when you had the chance."

"Maybe I should," agreed the Kid. "You think Zarathustra will send you back for Lady Venom?"

Carl laughed shortly, and shook his head. "The Doc has a whole zoofull of mutants," he said. "Every one of them more interesting than your freaking rattlesnake. M-M can keep ita"if they really want it."

"It's not only mutants the Doc has in his zoo, is it?" said the Kid, his big eyes transfixing Carl with their curious intensity. "He has your brother in a tank, too."

Carl couldn't suppress a start of surprise. "What do you know about Bro?" he asked, sharply.

"It upsets you, doesn't it?" said the Kid. "What happened to your brother, I mean. But it's landed Zarathustra in the s.h.i.+t now, hasn't it? He didn't report it properly to his masters, did he? He didn't explain its potential as a weapona"and now it's too late, because the other side has it as well."

Carl knew that the Kid was trying to rattle him. What else could it be? But the Kid was succeeding. Carl was genuinely frightened. The Kid was a spectacularly good guessera"but Carl was determined not to give anything away.

"Cut the c.r.a.p, Kid," he said, trying as hard as he could to sound careless.

"If I were you," said the Kid, "I'd keep a careful eye on that partner of yours. I've heard that he was a psycho even in the days when he was an Op, but you wouldn't believe what kind of a cesspit his mind is now. He's dangerous, Carla"to you, and to himself."

"I'd rather have him with me than against me," Carl observed, trying to turn the tables.

"He isn't with anybody," the Kid informed him coldly. "He's all alone. Don't ever rely on his loyaltya"to you, to GenTech, to anything."

"You're whistling in the dark, Kid," Carl told him, hoping that it was true. "I told you before not to rile me. I'm not the trigger-happy kind, but I'll kill for the sake of a quiet life, if it looks like a good idea. You don't know me, Kida"you don't know me at all." He couldn't help adding, for his own ears only, that it was certainly mutual. He couldn't figure out the Kid at alla"but then, who could figure out what made a motorpsycho tick?

"Ghost dancing," murmured the Kid, seemingly to himselfa"but only seemingly, Carl guessed. "It's all just ghost dancing. Neither of us has a freaking clue who we are, or what we're doing, or where it might end. It doesn't make any sense, and it never will."

"You're full of s.h.i.+t, Kid," said Carl biliously. "I know what makes sense and what doesn't. Three square meals a day and a comfortable bed at night make sense. GenTech makes sense, and Dr Zarathustra makes sensea"and because I've been told to do it, even this makes sense. The only thing which doesn't make sense around here is you: what you are, what you do and what you think. So why don't you can it, Kid, and get some sleep before we hit the ground again?"

"Sure," said the Kid, with a smile which seemed to Carl to be the ultimate in courageous defiance. "Why not? Take me to your leader, Carla"it might just be interesting to meet him."

2.

Ace the Ace peered morosely into the depths of his gla.s.s, at the last remaining inch of turbid, discoloured liquid. As cold beers went, it had been a pretty lousy experience. He could have forgiven the fact that the t.i.tle "beer" was one to which it was definitely not ent.i.tled, if only it had lived up to the qualifying adjective, but it had not. Given that the average midday temperature in Oklahoma at this time of year was around forty degrees Centigrade, the last thing a man needed was a cold beer which wasn't cold.

He could have wished for better, given that it was probably the last cold beer he would ever drink.

The Ace figured that his chances of making it back down to the Underground were pretty slim, given that he was on his own. His pockets were empty, his guns were empty, and his bike was too tempting a target.

He knew that he shouldn't be in the bar at all. If he'd been cut from the same indomitable cloth as Kid Zero he'd have been out on the road, living on air, setting b.o.o.by-traps for touristsa"but he wasn't Kid Zero. The Ace was a gangster through and through; he'd never operated alone. He didn't like being alone, and he had no illusions about his capacity to enjoy, let alone sustain, a solo career.

When the last inch of not-very-cold not-beer had gone, he knew, he was going to have to start thinking very hard about the best way to commit suicide. He hadn't much option about it. To be or not to be wasn't the questiona"the question was whether to set himself up for some particular way out, or whether to let the grenades and machine-guns of outrageous fortune take care of it for him.

The thought of a hero's death in battle was appealing, in a way, but Homer Hegarty was over in Amarillo and he sure as h.e.l.l wouldn't come this far east in order to film the last few minutes of a two-bit ex-gang leader who didn't have the wherewithal to run a proper shooting-match.

Homer Hegarty had never liked him anyhow; the way Homer told it, Ace and the Low Numbers had never amounted to anything in the hierarchy of h.e.l.l-for-leather leather boys.

On the other hand, he thought, maybe the quickest way to get it over and done with would be to go upstairs to the poker-game and pick a fight with some quick-tempered loser, who would probably shoot him down so slickly that no one would ever know that his own side-arm didn't have any bullets in it. The thing which worried him most about that possibility was the thought that the loser might be sufficiently sour of temper to shoot him in the belly.

He looked around the bar, wondering if there was anyone there who could be trusted to shoot him dead cleanly, but the drinkers were all sandrats, mostly in worse condition than himselfa"the only reason most of them were still alive was that no one in the world could think of a good enough reason to put them out of their misery. The sight of them increased the Ace's resolve to have himself put down.

Not for the first time, he regretted not having kept the last shot in his locker for himself. Now that he couldn't actually do it, the thought of simply sticking his piece into his mouth and blowing away the back of his head seemed positively attractive.

He heard a vehicle draw up outside and turned his head to see what it wasa"in fact, he craned his neck just like all the old-timers, so eager for distraction from his misery that any excuse was good enough.

It was a jet black limo, solidly armoured and heavy with artillerya"not the sort of vehicle one usually expected to sec cruising in the western desert. The sand had worn away some of its polish but it looked bright and clean and thoroughly citified. The window-ports were one-way only, so there was no way to tell how many people were inside ita"but only one got out. It was a little guy with sleek black hair and c.o.c.k-eyed mirrorshades. He was wearing a dazzling white linen suit that was cut just tightly enough to show off the line of his shoulder-holster.

The little guy walked into the place as if he didn't have a care in the world, and marched up to the bar, where he took the seat next to Ace the Ace.

The Ace thought it looked promising. n.o.body who looked as harmless as this guy did could possibly be less than absolutely deadly. He began to run through his catalogue of insults, trying to decide which one would be most certain drive the guy into an instantaneous fit of fury. His train of thought was interrupted, though, when the bartender came over and the guy asked for a coca-cola.

"c.o.ke's off," observed the barman laconically. "Delivery truck got held up, 'bout five years back. I got orangeade."

"Orangeade," said the little man wearily, throwing a bill on the table which would have bought a round of "beers" for the whole bar. "Keep the change."

"What change?" muttered the barman.

The man in mirrorshades turned to face the Ace, and said: "You're Ace the Ace, aren't you?"

The Ace's catalogue of insults snapped shut inside his head, to be replaced by an att.i.tude of wonderment and suspicion.

"Never heard of him," he replied reflexively.

"I thought so," said the little guy, exactly as if the Ace had said "Sure I am." He would presumably have gone on, except that his orangeade had arrived. It wasn't alonea"just as the bartender was thumping it down on the bar the door to the staircase which led to the gambling joint was thrown open, and three men came through. Two of them were very big, but the one they were shadowing was only medium-sized; even so, he towered above the man in mirrorshades when he came to stand close to him.

The guy from upstairs had the top three b.u.t.tons of his s.h.i.+rt undone, and through the gap the Ace could see a sliver of a gold-and-red tattoo. The workmans.h.i.+p was obviously first-cla.s.s, and the Ace knew that this was no mere infantryman in the ranks of the yakuza. All three of the guys were white, but that didn't signify these daysa"the j.a.panese yaks didn't find the desert very congenial, so the local organization was as thoroughly American as the Klu Klux Klan.

"Aren't you a little bit out of your territory?" said the yaka"who was obviously not a man to waste time with social niceties.

"I got a pa.s.sport," said the man in mirrorshadesa"who had had the foresight to put said same pa.s.sport in his breast pocket, so that no one could misread his action when he reached for it. He took it out delicately between thumb and forefinger and handed it over. It looked just like any other bit of coloured plastic to the Ace, but the yak obviously had advanced powers of recognition.

The yak raised an eyebrow to signify surprisea"which was unusual, because the white yaks generally tried to be even more inscrutable than their overseas cousins, in the interests of maintaining an appropriate image. Then he pa.s.sed the plastic back to one of the heavies, and said: "Check it out." The heavy returned to the staircase, this time descending into the mysterious depths where the local hackers kept their smartware. In the meantime, the yak stared at the mirrorshades, and the little man presumably stared back. The Ace stared at both of them, wondering what the h.e.l.l was going on.

After a couple of minutes had pa.s.sed, during which n.o.body in the bar would have dared to drop an experimental pin, the heavy returned and pa.s.sed the plastic back to his boss with a curt nod. The yak, in his turn, handed it to the man in mirrorshades.

"Okay, Mr Andriano," said the yak. "You're clear to operate. Have a nice day."

"You can call me Rico," said the man in mirrorshades placidly. "And the same to you."

The yak and his escort went back upstairs to the game. Not one of them had bothered to spare Ace the Ace the merest glance.

"Some pa.s.sport," murmured the Ace admiringly.

"The world's changing, Ace," said the little man, sipping his orangeade. "It's all a matter of philosophy. The families, the yaks and people like you have no friends at all outside their orgs, but that doesn't mean that we can't all get along just fine, as long as we know who our enemies are. We're just beginning to wake up to who our real enemies area"and it seems like the families, the yaks and people like you all have one major enemy in common. That's all we need, in order to negotiate pa.s.sports, and alliances, and ways of getting what we want. The world's looking up, Ace. There's cause for hope. Can I buy you a beer?"

Just for a second the Ace was tempted to ask for an orangeade, but thoughts of suicide had quitted his mind sufficiently to encourage him to be discreet.

"Thanks," he said.

The man in mirrorshades laid another bill on the bar, just as big as the first, but this time he didn't tell the bartender to keep the change, and the bartender didn't try to tell him that there wasn't any.

"Your boys got cut up pretty badly by Pasco and Preston," said the little guy amiably. "That's a pitya"we tried to soften them up for you, but we didn't have the kind of vehicles required for the job. On the other hand, we did dent them badly enough to save your life, and you delayed Pasco and Preston long enough to let us get a little bit of business done. We helped one another, you see. We didn't know we were doing ita"we didn't even know that we were on the same sidea"but that's the way it worked out. Common enemies, you see."

The Ace certainly wasn't blind, but he had to admit to himself that he didn't quite see.

"The families," he said distantly. "That's the mafia, right?"

"There's no such thing as the mafia," said the man in mirrorshades. "The mafia is a myth, invented by people who couldn't understand the concepts of loyalty and reciprocal altruism which my forefathers imported into this lunatic dog-eat-dog country. But that's not the point, Acea"the point is that you and I have something in common, and that we can keep on having something in common, if you want. You did us a favoura"now I've come to do you one. We have a certain joint operation planned with some more enemies of our mutual enemies, but as our tattooed friend observed, we're a little out of our territory. We need a little local expertise, and we thought you might have exactly the right kind of motivation to pull out all the stops on our behalf. We want to recruit you to the team."

"You want me to join the mafia?" said the Ace, stupid with incredulity.

"There's no such thing as the mafia," said Rico Andriano, with a discontented sigh. "And if there were, we wouldn't let you join it if you applied in triplicate. What's on offer is a purely temporary arrangement, with a single limited objective."

"What objective?" asked the Ace, feeling proud of himself for contriving his first semi-intelligent question.

"We want to spring Kid Zero."

The Ace was uncomfortably conscious of the fact that his jaw had fallen open. He very nearly said: "The mafia want to spring Kid Zero?" but he managed to stop himself in time by filling his mouth with beer. This beer, oddly enough, was noticeably cooler than the lasta"which just went to show what benefits a man could enjoy if he was in the right company.

By the the time he'd savoured and swallowed the mouthful of beer the Ace had recovered sufficient presence of mind to rephrase his question more succinctly. "Why should you want to help Kid Zero?" he asked.

"It's a long story," said the man in mirrorshades. "He did us a big favour, for one thing, and we like to preserve our traditions of reciprocal altruism. In addition to that, our a.s.sociates are very annoyed with the way in which GenTech went about s.n.a.t.c.hing him from their tender care. They feel that GenTech's over-reaction is symptomatic of a kind of arrogance which needs to be discouraged, and they feel that the time is ripe for a little over-reaction of their own. You should understand that, Acea"weren't the Low Numbers and the Atlas Boys over-reacting just a little when you elected to chase Ray Pasco?"

"Kid Zero was a friend of mine," said the Ace sullenly. "I owed him one, from the time the guys made me freeze him out of the gang. I still owe him one."

"Reciprocal altruism," said Andriano. "I can relate to that. So are you with us, or what?"

The Ace shrugged uncomfortably. "I got no ammunition," he confessed. "I ain't goin' to be much use in a sc.r.a.p."

"Ammunition," said the man in mirrorshades breezily, "is not a problem. Not getting killed might be a problem, but ammunition isn't. You supply the guts, and we'll supply the fireworks. Okay?"

The little man stuck out his hand. The Ace took it.

The guy is right, thought the Ace. There's hope in the world after all. If it ain't a new beginning, at least I get to go out in style.

He took another gulp of beer as soon as his hand was free again, and wondered if anybody had tipped off Homer Hegarty about the impending action. He felt in his bones that this might be his big chance to become a hero at last. Homer really liked Kid Zero, and was sure to have something nice to say about anyone who helped to liberate him from the Big Bad Wolves.

Ace the Ace finished his drink and put the gla.s.s back on the bar. Then he gave the bartender the filthiest look he could conjure up, just to let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d know how stupid he'd been to give a warm beer to a mean hombre like Ace the Ace. Then he followed the little guy out of the bar, and into the newly hopeful future.