Suicide, Inc

CHAPTER 13

“Would it be all right if I were to introduce myself?” asked the blonde timidly as the newsvan went barreling along across the desert. “Since we seem to be sharing all this adversity together.”

Cruz was driving the borrowed vehicle. “Forgive our rudeness, fair lady,” he said. “I’m Cruz.”

“Jared Smith.” He’d just finished dragging Merloo’s unconscious body behind a tape-editing unit.

“I’m Jazz Miller,” she said, finally setting the vox-unit aside. “Kind of a dippy name, isn’t it?”

“On the contrary,” said Cruz. “It has a nice lilt to it.”

Jazz shrugged. “It’s always struck me as an unfortunate handle.”

“Change it,” advised Smith as he took the passenger seat next to Cruz.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t ever do that. Daddy would hate that. That’d produce a real misfortune,” she said. “He’s miffed enough as it is because of my chosen profession.”

Smith asked, “Which is?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you, did I? I’m an associate newscaster. Thus far that’s involved mostly schlepping equipment and avoiding Mr. Merloo’s passes.”

“Would you like to cover the conflict at the Oasis?” said Smith.

She pressed her hands to her stomach. “I…I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“Sure you are,” said Cruz.

“Merloo’s unable to function,” Smith pointed out. “You have to step in.”

Cruz added, “It’s the brink of the big time.”

“Actually,” she said, slowly and thoughtfully, “I do know a heck of a lot more about the local political situation than Mr. Merloo does. I was saying to my old Poli Sci prof, Doctor Winiarsky, just last week-”

“Hey, would that be Bryson Winiarsky?” cut in Smith.

“Yes, do you know him or…oh, rack and ruin. I wasn’t supposed to blab about him.”

“He’s on our list,” realized Cruz.

“Yep, and supposedly vanished.”

“He’s only just hiding out,” said Jazz. “Because he got the notion certain people mean him no good. He and I are rather close, which is why I-”

“People do mean him harm,” said Smith. “But I think we can prevent his getting knocked off or even seriously hurt.”

She studied him. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, Mr. Smith,” she said. “But your face doesn’t exactly inspire faith and confidence in me.”

“He’s trustworthy,” said Cruz.

“You I can believe in, Mr. Cruz. Therefore, I suppose if you vouch for him, then-”

An enormous explosion sounded outside, and the van shook and wobbled.

“Let’s save the character reference stuff,” said Smith. “We’ve arrived at our destination.”

“…the scene here is one of mishap and calamity. The once proud and palatial resort that bloomed here amidst the harsh starkness of the mighty Red Desert, in the very shadow, as it were, of the planet-renowned Shrine, now stretches out before our unbelieving eyes, smoking ruin. Dedicated Qatzir Militiamen are locked in mortal combat with equally dedicated Mizayen Commandos amidst the pathetic pile that was once the majestic Oasis Dinner Theater and…”

From a weaponproof glaz booth up in the domed roof of the parked newsvan, Jazz was describing the battle going on in front of them. A robot camera was prowling outside, circling the fighting.

Smith was crouched, lifting a round panel in the van floor.

“You’ve still got to cover maybe ten yards in the open out there,” said Cruz.

“But not where they’re fighting.”

“The way these exuberant lads do battle, a stray shot from a kilrifle might-”

“The trapdoor to the underground hideaway ought to be directly beyond that hunk of wall yonder,” said Smith. “I’ll drop out, scoot over there and get below to Ruiz.”

“May well be that everybody in that underground nook is dead and done for, old chum.”

“Place is supposed to be fortified, according to Rocky Jordan.”

“Well, okay.” Shrugging one shoulder, Cruz went back to the driveseat. “Good luck.”

Nodding once, Smith dropped down to the broken ground beneath the newsvan.

Smith raised a swirl of dust when he hit. Since he only had about three feet of clearance under the van, he had to belly along over the rubble.

When he reached the nose of the vehicle, he took a cautious look out from under.

Some three hundred yards to the left two dozen commandos were strung out, firing at the Oasis casino. Their kilrifles sizzled and crackled in the desert air.

Part of the front wall of the plaz and glaz casino suddenly came exploding out. Besides thousands of glittering shards, hundreds of playing cards fluttered and scattered across the rutted courtyard.

Smith turned his attention on his destination. The trapdoor entrance he wanted was just on the other side of the rear wall of what had been the cocktail lounge’s storeroom. The fighting made Smith’s task easier in one sense-he wouldn’t have to break into the place. All he had to do was jump over the remainder of the wall, which was less than four feet high.

He waited, watching and listening. Then he eased out into the open and rose to a crouch. The two opposing factions, intent on wiping each other out, didn’t notice him.

Smith sprinted. He vaulted the brix wall, landing with one booted foot in a tumbled crate of shattered sparkling water flasks. He slipped and slid into a fallen servobot.

“…name your poison,” gurgled the sprawled mechanism.

Rubbing at his knee, which had bonked against the robot’s elbow, Smith edged over to the spot where the hidden door was supposed to be. The freezer that had masked it was splintered in half, its contents, fruitballs and rainbow ices, melting into a colorful slush on the floor.

“Here we are.” Spotting the handle, Smith cleared aside debris and rainbow slurp and took hold of it.

He yanked, hard, and the trapdoor came silently open. A curving ramp led down to the hidden level below.

Smith stepped onto it and descended. When he closed the door behind him, all the furor of the battle died away.