Asgard's Secret

9

When the appointed hour came, I was let out of my cell and taken to the Hall of Justice by 69-Aquila. 238-Zenatta was waiting for me there, with Jacinthe Siani and the fatal document. There was also a Tetron clerk to whom I wasn’t formally introduced, because she was female—the Tetrax have strict but labyrinthine rules to regulate communication between the sexes. She and Aquila were there to witness that I was signing the contract of my own free will.

I insisted on having it read aloud, as was my right. The clerk didn’t seem at all put out; I got the impression that she welcomed the opportunity to show off her perfect parole.

I didn’t bother to listen—I just watched the miniunits ticking away on the wallclock’s digital display.

A Tetron day is about twenty-eight Earth-standard hours. It’s divided up into a hundred units, each of which is subdivided by a further hundred, so each miniunit is about ten times as long as an Earthly second. It makes Tetron clocks seem to run very slowly; waiting for the next tick can be an agonising business if you’re in the wrong frame of mind.

The clerk handed the ballpoint pen to me, and pushed a fingerprint pad across the tabletop. I slowly inked my thumb, and then I looked at it very carefully. I’d given up expecting miracles; it was just that I had let the treacly quality of Tetron time get a grip on my actions.

I was just about to make my thumbprint and add my signature when the door to the Hall burst open. There was an appalling clatter of booted feet on the vitreous floor. The floor was immune to all damage, of course, but such was the racket that it was easy to imagine chips and shards flying in every direction.

Seven humans in neat black uniforms raced across the room as if they’d been entered for a sixty-metre dash with a really unpleasant booby prize for the last one to finish. I’d never actually seen one before, but I guessed immediately that the uniforms belonged to the now-legendary Star Force. Six of the starship soldiers were male, but the one in the lead was a blonde woman who gave the definite impression that her wrathful stare ought to be turning all of us to stone.

“Russell!” she howled, at the top of her strident voice. “Don’t sign that paper!”

I wasn’t about to quibble about the pronunciation of my name. I dropped the pen and wiped the ink from my thumb, uncaring of the fact that my trousers were fresh out of the wash.

The officer and her cohort immediately slowed to a fast walk—or, to be strictly accurate, a military march. An eighth figure stumbled through the door behind them, purple in the face with the effort of trying to keep up. It was Aleksandr Sovorov.

Jacinthe Siani looked around, as if searching for moral support, but none was available to her. She’d come alone to do a simple job—but it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d had half a dozen of Amara Guur’s hatchet-men with her. They could hardly have started a fight in the Hall of Justice—and if they had, they’d have lost. The blonde and her six bravos were wearing sidearms of a kind I’d never seen before, and they certainly looked as if they knew how to use them. They were warriors—and near-genocidal warriors at that.

“The deadline has expired!” Jacinthe Siani said, appealing to the clerk. “He agreed to sign. He cannot back out now!”

The blonde arrived at the foot of the platform as the Kythnan completed the plea, and vaulted up to join us. She looked hard at Jacinthe Siani, curling her lip in a manner calculated to radiate contempt; then she turned to the clerk. “I’m Star-Captain Susarma Lear, representing the United Governments and Military Forces of Earth,” she said. “I demand that you release this man into my custody immediately. I hereby accept responsibility for any debts he may have incurred.”

“You cannot!” Jacinthe Siani complained—but she didn’t sound confident.

I looked at Aleksandr Sovorov, with a heart full of sincere affection. He’d brought the cavalry!

He had actually brought the cavalry to my rescue—or the Star Force, who were surely an order of magnitude better, considering what they had instead of horses and six-guns.

It didn’t seem to be an appropriate time for legal niceties, so I grabbed the contract from the table, ripped it in half and threw it at the Kythnan’s feet. “I changed my mind before the deadline expired,” I said. “I accept the star-captain’s offer, gladly. I can do that, can’t I, Zenatta?”

238-Zenatta frowned at the omission of his number, but he was still my lawyer. “Most certainly,” he said. “In view of the fact that Ms. Siani’s contract only covers a fraction of my client’s debt, while the star-captain is willing to accept responsibility for the whole, I submit that the administration-in-residence of Skychain City must prefer her offer, provided that the period of discharge is not excessive.”

“This is not right!” Jacinthe Siani complained—but no one was listening.

“What period did you have in mind for the repayment of Mr. Rousseau’s debt, Star-Captain Lear?” the clerk inquired.

“I’ll have to talk to the ship’s quartermaster,” the star-captain told her, “but how does a couple of hours sound? We have negotiable cargo. Your people on the satellite have already expressed a strong interest in it.”

A couple of hours obviously sounded good to the clerk, but I noticed 69-Aquila frowning. When the Tetrax frown, they don’t do it by halves. I thought for one crazy second that Amara Guur might have bought him too, but then I realised that it was the thought of Star-Captain Lear’s “negotiable cargo” that was troubling him.

Only three or four days had passed since news of humanity’s victory over the Salamandrans had reached Asgard. Hers must be a warship, fresh from a climactic battle. When she said “negotiable cargo,” what she probably meant was “loot.”

I resolved not to ask. It didn’t seem polite, in the circumstances.

“That will be perfectly satisfactory, Star-Captain,” the clerk said. “I can see no legal or moral grounds for any objection.”

Jacinthe Siani opened her mouth to complain again, but she could see that it was futile. No sound came out.

“It really breaks my heart to let you down,” I told her, “but I love women in uniform.”

“You’ll regret this,” the Kythnan hissed, her composure cracking under the strain.

“I seriously doubt that,” I said. “At present, I feel better than I’ve felt for a long time. I wish you the best of luck explaining your failure to Amara Guur.”

When Jacinthe Siani had stomped off, the star-captain went into a huddle with 238-Zenatta and the clerk. In the meantime, Aleksandr Sovorov had come lumbering up the steps to join me. The six troopers stayed on the floor, in perfect military formation.

“Alex,” I said, “I forgive you everything. How the hell did you manage to find her?”

“Find her?” he repeated, struggling to draw breath. “I didn’t… find her. That… officious idiot… from Immigration Control… demanded that I take responsibility for her.”

My feelings of gratitude shriveled a little. “So you figured that you’d palm her off on to me, as usual,” I said. “Well, why not? I’m always glad to help.”

He’d got his breath back by now. “Not exactly,” he said. “When I found out what she wanted, I naturally told her about your situation. I thought she’d be too late to do anything about it, but she seems to be a very decisive person— and as the Hall of Justice is directly across the plaza from Immigration Control, she didn’t have far to come. Mercifully.”

“What do you mean, when you found out what she wanted?” I asked.

“She’d already talked to 74-Scarion, so she knew that Myrlin had been lodged with Saul Lyndrach, and that Immigration Control had been looking for both of them. He’d just told her that the outworlder had been logged out of lock five in the early hours of this morning in your truck, so…”

“He was what!” I screeched. My heart was still pounding from the shock of my unexpected rescue, and it wasn’t ready to cope with the shock of discovering that my truck had been hijacked.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the C.R.E. man said. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to be keeping me informed,” I pointed out.

“Am I?” he said. “Well, I didn’t know myself until the star-captain told me what 74-Scarion had told her. But as soon as I explained to her that you were here, caught up in some bizarre conspiracy, she decided to get you out.”

“She decided,” I echoed. “On her own?”

“Well, naturally I encouraged her to do exactly that— especially when she said that even if you’d already signed the contract to help some local gangster find whatever it is Myrlin’s presumably set off to look for, she had seven flame-pistols to make sure that you didn’t lift a finger on anyone’s behalf but hers.”

“How did he get hold of my truck?” I demanded. “It was securely locked up—and the keys were locked up too, in my room. Nobody knew the codes but me… well, except for…”

“How should I know?” Sovorov interrupted, a trifle impatiently. I still felt so good about the miracle that I forgave his rudeness instantly.

“Was Saul with him when they logged out of the lock?” I asked.

“I don’t know, I tell you,” the scientist told me, petulantly. “He’s not on the record, but if he was hiding in the back of the truck…”

I would have pursued the matter further, but I didn’t get the chance. The star-captain tapped me on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Russell,” she said. “You’re all mine. The Tetrax will collect their pound of flesh from the spoils of Salamandra. Thank your lucky stars I got here in time. Sign these.”

She presented me with a sheaf of papers. The forms were in English and Chinese; three copies of each. I looked at them uncomprehendingly. “What are they?” I asked, stupidly.

“Your conscription papers,” she informed me, drily. “The Star Force is about to make a man of you, you worthless piece of low-life shit.” She smiled as if she were joking.

I had a nasty suspicion that she might not be.

“I don’t want…” I began. I gave up as the smile vanished and her bright blue eyes took on the Gorgon stare she’d used on Jacinthe Siani. I stared at the papers, wondering whether I was entitled to feel insulted. I decided that I wasn’t; what she’d just done for me gave her a very healthy balance of moral credit in my memory-bank.

“No rush,” said Susarma Lear. “You’re drafted anyway, whether you sign them or not. No rush about signing on, that is—everything else is extremely urgent, so we’d better get going. Now”

“Didn’t you tell me that your race had abandoned slavery several centuries ago?” 69-Aquila enquired interestedly.

“My mistake, apparently,” I told him, by way of farewell. “I guess we’re not such barbarians, after all.”