A Prince Among Men Part 3

The question didn't make any sense to Charley, but he answered anyway.

"Never saw him before."

"You are sure?" the suit prompted.

"Yup."

Sorli's flinty eyes stayed on Charley for a moment. Then he seemed to sink into himself, thinking. After a while he mumbled something. It sounded like, "These things are often tied together."

Tied together, huh? "What things?"

Sorli stared up at him, clearly irritated. The shrimp probably thought he hadn't spoken aloud. Interesting. The annoyance in Sorli's voice made his words sound like concrete blocks grinding together.

"You are a conscientious man, Officer Gordon. It is a quality that I appreciate. I am also told that you are lucky and inquisitive. Stay lucky. Don't be inquisitive."

"Why not?"

"If you are lucky, you won't find out."

The shrimp turned his back on Charley and headed for the Swingjet. Several of the suits filed after him. The one doing the interrogation said, "That will be all, Officer Gordon," before following the others.

For once, John was glad that Coach wasn't present for the Tuesday night practice. Lack of corporate interest in fencing meant a lack of funding as well, and the team had to practice when none of the other teams wanted school facilities, which wasn't very often. They had to make do where they could, which meant s.h.i.+fting sites and times. The odd scheduling meant that Coach Montoya, obliged by other, more mainline commitments, couldn't always make practices. Especially when the team was slipped into a gap in off-campus facilities like Rezcom 7's gym, as they were today.

The coach's no-show was still a mystery, but John knew all too well why he was late. His appointment with Dr. Block-praise the powers that be, it had been short-and the problems getting to the rezcom; the trolley had been half an hour late. Across the room, Yael, Will Brenner, and Philip Skyler were already going through their warm-up exercises.

John dug into the bottom of his duffel, groping for the box with the sensor tips. He finally found it, tucked inside his mask. He pulled both out and set the mask down. Opening the hard plastic case, he took one of the tips from the foam-lined compartment and fitted it to his foil.

The sensor tips were the latest in high-tech fencing equipment, and had consumed most of the team's budget for the year. The tips combined the protective cover for the metal point of the blade with a chip-driven monitor. A sensor registered the pressure of a thrust, while another monitored blade angle and motion. The feedback allowed the chip to score hits for quality. A trigger on the grip allowed a fencer to register intent to attack, and a continuous communication loop between two opposing tips allowed the right of way only to the first fencer to register his intent. The freedom from monitor cords had changed the face of the sport, taking it away from the single line of the mats and returning it to the freer styles of ancient sword fights. John pulled on his glove and ran the chip's self-check, receiving the rea.s.suring "right of way" buzz in his palm.

Yael and Phil were sparring by the time he got his mask on. Will, the usual laggard, was having trouble getting the straps on his mask adjusted. John stepped over to give him a hand. Will was a senior and had been a member of the team longer than any of the rest of them, but he was still something of a klutz. Only conference rules and a lack of interested athletes kept him on the team.

Once Will was ready, they set frequencies, squared off, and set to. The physical action felt good after the frustrations of psychological sparring with Dr. Block. John trounced Will in three pa.s.ses running before easing off. Calmed, he stretched himself by letting his point drop and offering Will openings. Will took the offerings, but John was still too quick for him. On the next pa.s.s, John opened his guard further.

He felt good, elated not so much for his easy defense against the clumsy Will, but by his control, form, and mastery of the weapon. Fencing was much better than basketball. Not that he didn't like B-ball. He had enjoyed playing in high school, but his first semester on the 'Tech frosh team had taught him how different things were between high school and college. Even on the freshman team, the pressure of collegiate play had been omnipresent. And if the pressure to make the cut wasn't enough of a distraction, there was always the intrusive attention of the corporate sportsmongers. College B-ball had a media following, and that meant that every team, even 'Tech's bargain-bas.e.m.e.nt squad, had a following. Of media hacks, at least. John had found the artificiality of the whole thing nauseating.

The heavy corporate promotion of the sport had soured him on playing. The sponsors.h.i.+p required everything to be so rigid, made it seem so controlled. That wasn't what sports were supposed to be about. So he had quit the team halfway through the season and tried looking for something else, but none of the other sponsored teams had wanted him after that. He had spent his second semester without any organized physical activity at all and discovered that he liked that even less. During the summer he tried the rezcom athletic programs, but they were full of screaming kids and geezers, and so instead of doing something, he spent a lot of his time trying to figure out what sort of sport he could live with when the fall semester rolled around. He made it through the summer mostly because his docent work at the Armory Museum had kept him busy. It wasn't active, but it did fill the time. While he was at the museum, anyway. Then Will, a member of a medieval reconstruction group, had visited the museum. They got talking about swords and Will happened to mention the fencing program at 'Tech and John was immediately fascinated. The idea of swinging a sword brought images that fit snugly with John's dreams of knights, fairies, castles, and damsels. Better still, the corporate media mostly ignored fencing. Best of all, some of his teammates had the same fascinations with the romance of swordplay that he did.

Over the years, John had found few friends who shared his interests, but he still s.h.i.+ed away from organized groups, even those that seemed to focus on those very interests. He'd heard of re-creation groups like the Society for Creative Anachronism but had always been too embarra.s.sed to partic.i.p.ate. They seemed a little too out of sync with the real world. John had been accused of asynchronous behavior too often as it was.

John laid his point against the heart target on Will's jacket for-what?-the tenth time? The grip of John's sword signaled cutoff; Will was conceding the match.

"You're too good for me tonight, John. I need a break." Will pulled his mask from his sweaty head. "Gotta save some energy for later. Hey, wanna come to the Society meeting tonight?"

"Not that Sea c.r.a.p again, Will." Phil stood nearby, mask tucked under one arm, sword under the other. He had his usual disapproving frown on his face.

"Who asked you, Phil-uptight?"

"Certainly not you, my history-besotted freund." Phil stepped between Will and John and swept his blade up into a salute at John. "This is a fencing practice, not a costume-party club. You ready, Reddy?"

John took two steps back to open s.p.a.ce and returned the salute. Will walked away, shaking his head, as Phil slipped on his mask. Yael joined Will and the two started to talk, but John had no time to pay attention because Phil started to attack.

John's height gave him almost as much of an advantage in fencing as it had in B-ball, for his reach allowed him to strike at much greater distances than most of his opponents. This was an especial advantage against the short and compact Phil, but the pugnacious Phil always insisted that he didn't mind, that he liked the challenge. Dogged determination and skill were what Phil relied upon, and he was constantly working on ways to make the initial slip past John's point Tonight, Phil immediately started pus.h.i.+ng, pressing John to fall back or allow him within reach. John retreated and maintained distance, content to allow Phil's attacks to play out. On the switchovers, John regained all the ground he had surrendered. Will shouted encouragement and John responded, "It's always easy when you fight people who can't reach you."

Within his mask, Phil snorted in reply to the taunt and took up his attack with renewed vigor. Will's catcalls and John's quips seemed to fire him. His attacks stepped up and began to get a little wilder, but John covered, parrying and retreating. John's counters reached through Phil's defense to score, and each score brought a whoop from Will, but seemed only to add to Phil's determination. John's blade rang as Phil's strikes came harder and faster.

In the next pa.s.s, John found Phil slipping inside his line with a move he hadn't expected. Their swords shrilled, as blade ran along blade until the hilts smashed up against each other. Phil whipped his foil down with a shriek of metal against metal. As the pressure of his opponent's weight left his blade, John skipped back to prepare for a counterattack. John c.o.c.ked his wrist to activate the pa.s.s-over signal, but Phil still attacked, ignoring the right of way. He bore in, blade flas.h.i.+ng. Caught off guard, John started to circle but misjudged the impetus of Phil's lunge.

Phil's point rushed toward John, and he knew he would not be able to parry in time. He tried to twist out of the way, hoping to let the point pa.s.s by. As he s.h.i.+fted, his knee buckled, the tendons robbed of their tension as though someone had shoved his foot against them. Instead of twisting away from the attack, John collapsed. As he fell, the tip of Phil's blade ripped through his jacket, plowing a burning furrow through the skin of his shoulder.

John gasped in shock. He was wounded, really wounded. Somehow the sensor tip had fallen from Phil's blade. Had John not fallen, the sword would have pierced his body. He could have been killed.

Phil had his mask off in an instant. "You all right, John?"

"h.e.l.l, Phil, you coulda killed him!" Will shouted.

"I didn't know the tip was off," Phil protested.

"Didn't you get the cut-out signal?" Yael asked. He sounded calmer than either of the other two.

Phil shook his head. He was shaking. "I didn't feel anything."

"I think we'd better quit for today," John said shakily.

"John." Phil looked worried. "You gonna tell Coach?"

"Going to have to." He plucked at the ripped jacket. The bloodstains were hard to miss on the white fabric. "I think he'll notice."

"You gonna tell him I did it? It was an accident."

"I know that, Phil. Look, it's okay. Really." Phil didn't look convinced. "Look, help me out of the jacket so I don't bleed on it any more."

With Yael and Will's help, they got the jacket off without getting much more blood on it. They didn't jar John's arm much, either. Yael frowned at the wound. "Better get you patched, John."

The jacket got tossed into the showers while Yael swabbed John's wound with disinfectant. By the time John was bandaged, everyone seemed calmer. Phil handed the soggy jacket to John. The rip was more noticeable than the bloodstains now, and John rolled it up without a word. They took a vow not to mention the incident to anyone until John determined what they'd tell Coach Montoya, at which point they would back whatever John said. The evidence of the accident put away, the talk turned deliberately to other things. Save for a lingering nervousness in voices and hesitancy in speech, the accident might never have happened.

"I saw Kelley yesterday," Yael said.

"Kelley Donaghue?" John knew the question was stupid even as he asked it.

"Yeah, Donaghue. You chasing some other Kelley?"

"I'm not chasing her."

"The way you pant every time she walks by, I'd a.s.sumed you were running hard," Phil observed.

"Hormones," Yael commented sagely. "Worse for the brain than books."

"Have you asked her for a date yet?" Will asked.

"Bet she'll be at the Zephyr concert," Yael said.

"Maybe I'll check it out." John hated buzz rock. But if Kelley was going to be there, he might go have a listen.

"Must be true love for you to be considering that," Phil said.

"Ease up, guys," Will said.

Phil gave him a sour look. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere else?"

Will glanced at his watch. "s.h.i.+t! I gotta run if I'm gonna make the meeting. Sure you don't wanta come, John?"

"Kelley Donaghue won't be there," Yael pointed out.

"Maybe next time, Will."

Politely, Will made no mention that John's response was the same as always. John wondered if Will believed him.

Phil also had something else to do, so it was only Yael and John who headed over to the student center.

The concert was a toxic spill of sound, but Kelley Don-aghue was there. She seemed surprised to see him, but not unpleasantly. John's attempts at conversation at any volume less than a shout didn't get anywhere. Even shouting he couldn't hear half of what he was saying himself. Kelley's words were lost even more completely. Fortunately, Kelley seemed as frustrated as John over their inability to say anything to each other.

The gang with whom Kelley had come was headed off to the Frilly Cow for a late-night snack, but John was broke. Since he hadn't really been expecting to go anywhere but home after practice, he hadn't brought any money with him. Bad form to mooch, or sit around with nothing in front of you. Afraid she'd think less of him, he mumbled an excuse that involved some kind of heavy a.s.signment. She seemed disappointed, and that was encouraging. John did come away with one treasure, a promise from Kelley to go to another concert with him. A quieter one. He whistled "Jolly Drover Boy" all the way back to the rezcom.

Kim Murphey was doing sets down at the Northsider Club.

Was that a good choice?

Maybe. Kelley had said a quieter place, and she really liked music. She was a music major; she had to like lots of different kinds of music, didn't she?

Maybe.

Maybe not. She might be like the others. As soon as any of his potential girlfriends saw his room or went on a date to a folk concert, they took off like a rocket, blasting back to corporate mainline straight! ine.

It was their fault. They had no appreciation. And not just for the music.

Meaning no appreciation for me. Well, a nice thought. But how could you tell for sure?

He waited, but he got no answer.

Ah, well. Faye wasn't always there.

CHAPTER.

5.

Maybe the distant rumble of thunder and the threat of a storm had put Helen on edge, but the woman pulling up on the motorcycle gave her a s.h.i.+ver. She didn't really look like trouble. Not like those biker babes. No leather jacket, no freaky haircut, no gloss makeup. This one looked almost old-fas.h.i.+oned with her long hair, ratty knapsack, denim jacket and jeans. And a helmet. The wild ones never wore helmets.

s.h.i.+fting for a better look, Helen kicked the sign lying under the counter for the twentieth time tonight. Why hadn't Sam gotten around to putting the d.a.m.n thing up? All well and good that he was bright enough to think of a placard advertising their store as the first convenience in Maine. Sam was the manager; he was supposed to think up things like that. He'd even done the work of making the d.a.m.ned thing himself, instead of sticking her or one of the other employees with the job, but he hadn't finished it. Sign didn't do any good if no one saw it. The counter help had been tripping over the d.a.m.n thing for nearly a week now.

Helen watched the woman leave the helmet balanced on the bike's fuel tank. Stupid move. She might get away with it, though. It was only Tuesday. If this were a weekend the lot would have been full, and the helmet would have been gone before the woman got into the store.

The woman's features were sharp, and might have been really pretty when she was younger. She looked tired and a little worn out. When she came through the door, she looked around as if trying to put everything into its place.

As if this shop were different from millions of other convenience stores.

The woman headed toward the back, down the aisle leading to the microwave and coffee bar. As she pa.s.sed, Helen pretended to be busy with work at the counter. Her act wouldn't fool anybody who'd worked a store, but most people didn't know how little there was to do. The woman didn't even look at her. Helen continued to watch the woman surrept.i.tiously. She didn't look dangerous, but there was something about her. Better to keep an eye on her. You could never be sure about someone who rode a motorcycle.

By the time Jose finally emerged from the back, the woman had gotten her coffee and had put a burrito into the 'wave. Jose caught sight of her and gave her a look, a lingering look. That kind of business was normal for him; the boy would jump anything with the right genitals. Almost anything, she amended. Like Helen, this woman was too old for him.

On second thought, maybe the woman wasn't that old. Real exhaustion made a person look older than she was. The way the woman had fumbled with the 'wave showed that she was really out of it.

Jose sauntered past her in the aisle, pretending that he had business at the self-service counter instead of joining Helen at the counter as he was supposed to. He might as well have just come up front. She didn't even look at him when he b.u.mped her elbow; she just sidestepped away from him. Jose finally looked in Helen's direction, and she gave him a scowl. He grinned sheepishly and abandoned his stalk, bringing the rolls of change she'd sent him to the back for.

Just as Jose lifted the panel to enter the counter section, there was a flicker from the parking lot. Power surge? No, the store lights had stayed steady. She hadn't heard a truck. Probably just her imagination. Sam always said she had an active imagination. If he only knew what she imagined about him.

She had to slap Jose lightly on the shoulder to get his attention long enough for him to turn over the change. The boy was still checking out the woman.

"Forget it, Jose."

"But she's so pretty."

Helen looked again. The plastic food seemed to agree with the woman; she didn't look near as bad as when she had walked in. Yeah, you could say she was pretty, if you liked the angular, foxy-featured type. Jose would like the type; he liked all types. The boy mumbled something to himself in Spanish, and Helen just shook her head. Young and headstrong. She had work to do. She rang the "No Sale" to open the register for the coins, and the store went dark.

d.a.m.n!

Storm must have caught a power line somewhere. Even the streetlights were out. A car went by, headlamps throwing a wash of light across the lot. Nothing out there but the woman's bike. No more helmet.

Even on a weeknight.

With the power out, Helen had to secure the till. Telling Jose to close the register's drawer, she stepped out from behind the counter. Best to lock the doors until the power came back.

Impulsively, she stepped outside to see how extensive the outage was. Funny, there wasn't any wind. Must have been a lightning strike, then. Just took out the local stuff, though; she could see lights down at Duffy's Tavern and most of the houses beyond it. The streetlights along Route 4 were on, too. But for at least a quarter mile either side of the store everything was dark.

Amazing how quiet things got when it was dark.

She heard a scuffling by the dumpster and turned quickly enough to catch a glimpse of a pair of kids ducking behind it.