Part 17 (2/2)

”Anita and I are leaving now. What's left of Mrs. Curtice's money is in the bus. Take it-you all earned it. Then disappear for a few days. And if Mrs. Curtice complains, she'll go to jail, not you.”

”That'll be the day,” the old woman muttered.

There was an awkward, pleasant moment when everyone insisted on shaking their hands and wis.h.i.+ng them luck. At last they left the room through the corridor to the parking lot.

”What now?” Anita asked.

”You go to ground in some motel. I rent a car-or a plane. With a plane I could be in Mojave Verde in four or five hours.”

They emerged into a cold, misty morning. Although the lot was screened from the street by other buildings, the traffic noise was loud. They were walking past the bus when there was a sudden change in the light, and Pierce saw the reflection of an oily rainbow s.h.i.+mmering on the bus's winds.h.i.+eld. A gust of warm air swirled against their backs- ”Drop!” Pierce shouted.

He was already rolling under the bus, groping for the Mallory, as flechettes cracked and spattered on the asphalt. He caught a glimpse of their attacker striding through an I-Screen that vanished in an instant: a man with a Mallory .15 like Pierce's, a man in denim with a bolo tie glinting prettily at his throat.

Philon Richardson. The Dorian Climber, full of smiling hostility in the elevator to Wigner's floor. Sent through a portable I-Screen to zap a bad guy in the finest Agency style.

Pierce crawled swiftly under El Emperador sin Ropa; his heightened hearing tracked Philon's footsteps. The Dorian was moving around the edge of the lot, on Pierce's left, seeking a vantage point from which to drive Pierce into the open- or to kill him where he lay.

Twenty meters across the lot from the bus's rear, two dumpsters stood open, awaiting more garbage. They were the only effective cover nearby, but Pierce had little chance of reaching them. If Philon did-and he would-he would be able to spray flechettes under the bus.

The underside of the bus was filthy, caked with an oily mixture of mud, grease, and rust When he reached the gas tank, Pierce sc.r.a.ped off some of the crust: the metal was rotten-orange with corrosion. He fired one shot into the tank at maximum impact; it punched through almost soundlessly. Gasoline squirted out, pooling aromatically between the rear wheels. Phi-Ion was almost to the dumpsters now.

Pierce crawled backward, groping for a wire. He found it, pulled, felt the insulation crumble, saw the bare wire spark.

The gasoline vapor ignited softly but emphatically into a little fiery puddle that spread and brightened. Pierce pushed himself backward, eyes stinging, out from under the front b.u.mper.

The bus blew up, sheltering Pierce with its own bulk. Flames lashed out like tentacles through a cloud of greasy smoke; the bus settled as its rear tires exploded. Pierce sprang onto the hood, onto the cab; the rear of the bus was a curtain of fire. Crouching a little, Pierce climbed onto the roof of the bus and sprinted into the flames.

Philon was sprawled behind the left-hand dumpster, watching to see from which side of the bus Pierce would emerge. He glanced up, startled, to see a blazing figure standing in the black smoke that boiled around the roof of the bus. Pierce put three flechettes into Phi-Ion's face. Then he leaped from the bus and rolled across the asphalt until his burning clothes only smoldered. He smelled the stink of his singed hair, felt the skin tighten on his burned hands.

”I chose, you lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d,” Pierce panted. ”I chose! Low impact, and I could've blown you to bits. I chose!”

Coughing, he lifted Philon in a fireman's carry, turned, and headed for the entrance to the factory. He saw Dallow and Tun Klein carrying Anita inside. They left an erratic trail of bright blood that glittered in the light of the flames.

”Oh-oh, Anita-”

The weight of the poor, stupid boy on his shoulders was almost unendurable. He staggered down the corridor, his feet slipping in Anita's blood.

They took her into the I-Screen room, and lowered her gently onto the couch where Mrs. Curtice had slept. The indents pressed curiously around her.

”Get away!” He dumped Philon to the floor and slashed through the cl.u.s.tered bodies, while one quiet part of his mind asked: What's the hurry? She's dead, she's dead.

She was dead, her body ripped open by the fusillade meant for him. Her golden skin was already dull, her blood already dark; her open eyes gazed thoughtfully on nothingness. She was dead for no reason but chance timing, because she stood next to Pierce at the moment when Philon, reflexes hyped at least as high as Pierce's, came through the Screen knowing only that Pierce was nearby, and then saw his quarry directly in front of him.

His mother sprawled on the sidewalk, Carmody dying on the sand, the burning girl-he could not protect them, he could not save them, they were swept away from him out of s.p.a.ce, out of time, leaving only memories that blurred and faded and cruelly sharpened. He could not save them, he was the agent of their destruction, and he was mad enough to try to save the world.

With difficulty, he made himself stop gasping for breath. Sirens were sounding outside.

”Everybody out!” Klein bellowed. ”This way!”

The indents followed him without confusion; an Algerian woman helped Mrs. Curtice, who limped past Pierce without a glance. Nor did Pierce waste time on her; he turned, stopped, and rifled Philon's pockets.

Good: credit cards, pa.s.sport, other doc.u.ments, all in the name of J. Nathan Swift -one of Wigner's little jokes, no doubt. The photos of Philon did not at all resemble Pierce, but no one looked closely at IDs.

He also found a little locket on a fine gold chain. Pierce recognized it: the locket he had given Judy a few days ago, the locket he had brought back from the Philadelphia goldsmith on Beulah.

Unhurriedly, despite the stink of smoke and the approaching sirens, Pierce pulled off his blackened clothes and dressed himself in Philon's embroidered denims. They were not to his taste, but they would do.

He rubbed a hand over his head: his hair had not been too badly singed.

Philon was coming to as his hyped metabolism burned away the drug. Pierce turned the Dorian onto his belly, planted a knee between Philon's shoulder blades, and twisted his fingers into the cord of the bolo tie. Philon gasped. His limbs were still to numb to move.

”What did you do to Judy?”

”She-she was a stooge for the separatists. Fed 'em information. Wigner realized it after the cat's-paw nearly got you.”

”Gersen wanted me to come to Ore-why would he try to kill me?”

”Wasn't Gersen. A cell of Trainables on Earth, friends of Judy's. They didn't

know anything-thought they were doing Gersen a favor if they could get rid of you.””So you executed her.””I was ordered to.””And what brings you after me, old friend?”Philon said nothing. Pierce twisted the bolo cord hard, then loosened it.”You went rogue. That's all I was Briefed on. Go to Ore, nail you, go south to Mojave Verde.”

”Ahh. How?”

”Agency safe house on Chavez Street-160. A car to Farallon airport and a jet

from there.”

”Gee, I could listen to you for hours.”

”I'm talking for my life, Mr. Pierce.”

”You're lucky to have the chance. Wigner built a bomb into me.” He pulled

Philon's head up so the Dorian could see the body on the couch. ”Know who that

is, Philon? Know who you zapped?”

”I can't see her face.”

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