A Call To Arms: Chapter Seven

    Commander Shiflett, in her infinite wisdom, had decreed that the men and women of HMS Damocles should start the day after their first-night bash on Casca with some exercise on the streets of Quechua City.

    The Royal Manticoran Navy, in its infinite wisdom, had decreed that such workouts should be administered by the ship’s petty officers.

    Chomps didn’t mind. He’d learned long ago to moderate his partying, especially when under the shadow of an early-morning order like this. Besides, after being cooped up aboard ship for two months, the chance to get out and stretch his legs was an appealing one.

    Sadly, not all of Damocles’s crew had his foresight or self-control. Of the five men and three woman he’d been assigned to flog a few times around the block, fully half of them were sagging like wet noodles. The other half were vertical enough, but clearly less than thrilled at the prospect of sampling any world beyond their own eyelids.

    But the XO had ordered sweat, and she was going to get it. Lining them up, making sure to point out that EW Tech Redko’s squad was already half a block ahead of them, Chomps verbally kicked them off the curb.

    And off they went on a glorious two-klick run together in the early-morning cool.

    They’d gone three blocks when Chomps heard the sound.

    The sounds, rather. There were two of them, a sort of thump-thump. Not very loud. Certainly not very clear.

    But there was something about them that sent a sudden shiver up his back.

    “Hold it,” he ordered his squad, looking around. Peripherally, he noted that Redko had also brought his squad to a halt and was also looking around. “Hey — Redko. You hear that?” he called, jogging up to his friend.

    “Yeah, I heard it,” Redko said as Chomps stopped beside him. “Don’t know what it was, but I heard it.”

    “Sounded like shots,” Chomps said.

    “I don’t know,” Redko said, his forehead creasing in a frown. “They sounded to me like…I don’t know. Just out of place. What do you think we should do?”

    “Call it in,” Chomps said, raising his arm and punching the uni-link on his wrist out of standby mode. The pre-landing info packet had included the local three-digit emergency code. He punched it in, trying to organize his thoughts —

    “Emergency,” a brisk voice came back.

    “I think I just heard a pair of gunshots,” Chomps said. “I’m at the corner of –”

    “Identify yourself.”

    Chomps took a deep breath. In the Star Kingdom, the identity of the uni-link’s owner came up automatically when Emergency Services was called. Apparently, whoever had set up the connections for the Manticorans’ visit hadn’t gotten around to that part yet. “This is Missile Tech Charles Townsend of the Royal Manticoran Navy,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. For all he knew, someone could be bleeding out right now. “I’m at the corner of Barclay Street and Marsala Avenue. You need me to repeat that?”

    “No, I got it,” the dispatcher said. Some of the snap, Chomps noticed, seemed to have gone out of his voice. “Gunshots, you say?”

    “That’s what it sounded like, yes,” Chomps confirmed. “Probably inside one of the buildings or parking garages — they weren’t very loud. There was a sort of echo to them, too, like they were coming out an open door or –”

    “Yeah, got it,” the dispatcher cut him off. “Okay, thanks. We’ll get someone over there as soon as we can.”

    There was a click, and the connection went dead.

    “Well, hell,” Chomps growled, punching out of the connection and glaring at the uni-link for a moment before dropping his arm back to his side. “That was a whole lot of nothing.”

    “What did he say?” Redko asked.

    “That he’ll send someone,” Chomps said. “But he won’t. Or at least they won’t break any speed records.” He nodded at the handful of citizens in view, none of whom was showing the slightest reaction to the sounds he and Redko had heard. “Not surprising, I suppose, given that no one else seems to have heard anything. He probably figures it was a figment of the crazy foreigner’s imagination.”

    “Do you want to call it in to the Lieutenant?” Redko asked, his tone strongly suggesting that Chomps shouldn’t.

    Chomps couldn’t blame him. Redko clearly wasn’t as bothered by the sounds as Chomps was, and he wasn’t interested in collecting the fallout of waking up an officer to tell him they’d heard some bouncing garbage cans or something.

    And given the lack of alarm anywhere on the street, Chomps had to admit the odds were against his interpretation of events.

    But the odds didn’t matter. He knew what he’d heard.

    “Let’s take a quick look around first,” he told Redko, glancing over their two squads. Nine in his group, eight in Redko’s. “You and your squad head around that way. Split into pairs and look for anything suspicious. My squad will take those streets and buildings over there.”

    “Okay,” Redko said, a little doubtfully. “How long do we give it?”

    “Ten minutes,” Chomps said, making a quick command decision. He glanced at the two groups’ trim running outfits, noting with annoyance that no one except the two petty officers had bothered to bring their uni-links along. Normally, that wouldn’t have been a problem. Today, it might. “Pick a spot for your squad to rendezvous, compare notes, then call me.”

    “Okay,” Redko said. “You heard the man, Spacers. We meet back here in ten.”

    Chomps gestured to his squad. “We’ll meet at that corner,” he said, pointing to an intersection a block further toward their designated search area. “Spread out and keep your eyes open. And watch each other’s backs.”

    Ninety seconds later, with the rest of his squad having peeled off, Chomps was alone, jogging down the street and wondering distantly what the Bosun was going to say about this. Not to mention what Lieutenant Nikkelsen, Commander Shiflett, and possibly Captain Marcello himself would say.

    At least he’d put the others in pairs, which was shipboard SOP in any kind of potentially dangerous situation. Still, the fact that he himself was now alone was probably not the smartest thing he’d ever done. Sphinxian strength and Navy combat training were a great combination, especially in Casca’s .93 G field, but they didn’t confer any special bullet-dodging powers. He would have to make an extra effort to watch his rear.

    Around him, the city was starting to wake up, and a few more pedestrians and vehicles were making their appearance. A block ahead on the other side of the street was a line of three apartment buildings, each with a vehicle-sized opening that probably led to an underground parking garage. If he’d been right about hearing an echo in the gunshots, those would be good candidates for a quick look. Ahead was a crosswalk; turning into it, Chomps crossed the street.

    A dark-haired man just passing on the opposite sidewalk looked over as Chomps neared him, his eyes flicking up and down the big Sphinxian’s body. It was a common reaction among the Cascans, Chomps had already noted, and he gave the man a reassuring smile as he approached. The man smiled back and continued on his way. Chomps reached the sidewalk and turned the opposite direction toward the apartment buildings.

    He’d gone four steps when a sudden thunderflash seemed to light up his brain. The man’s smile…

    He jerked to a halt, spinning around and staring at the man’s back. Right height, right build, wrong hair, wrong face —

    “Sir?” he called.

    The man took another step, then paused and turned. “You talking to me?” he called back.

    “Yes, sir,” Chomps said. “I’m looking for the Manderlay Arms Apartments, and I can’t find it in any directory. Can you point me the right direction?”

    “Sorry,” the man said. “I don’t think I know the place.”

    “No problem,” Chomps said, smiling. “Thanks anyway.”

    The man smiled back, and turned around and continued on his way.

    Chomps turned back, too, a mass of ice settling around his heart. No mistake. The smile that he would never forget he’d now seen again. Twice.

    The dark-haired man was the murderer from the Havenite recording.

    He kept going, knowing better than to try to engage the man a second time, certainly not without a better excuse, definitely not alone. Lifting his arm, he punched Redko’s number into his uni-link.

    “Find something?” the other’s voice came back.

    “Maybe,” Chomps said. “Can you see me? No — never mind me. Can you see the man heading west on Barclay Street? Short, dark-haired, wearing a gray suit?”

    “Uh…yes, I see him.”

    “I need you to take a picture of him,” Chomps said. “Do you think you can do that without being spotted?”

    “Sure,” Redko said. “Who is he?”

    “I think he’s the murderer from the Havenite recording,” Chomps said, eyeing the parking ramps ahead. An enclosed van had pulled up beside the first of the openings and a group of men in workman coveralls were filing out. “And don’t get too close.”

    “Okay,” Redko said. “You want me to try calling the cops again?”

 

---

 

    “Not yet.” He could just picture what the dispatcher would say about a criminal identification made purely on the basis of a smile. Especially a smile he and Redko had had to hack into official government records to see in the first place. “Get the picture first. Then send it to them and tell them he’s a person of interest or something — say whatever you need to say to get them to pick him up.”

    “Got it,” Redko said. “What about you?

    “I’m going to check out some parking ramps,” Chomps said. “And watch yourself, okay?”

    “Bet on it,” Redko said. “You, too.”

    The six workmen had collected some large, heavy-looking bags from the rear of the van, and as Chomps continued down the street five of the men strode off into the nearest of the three parking tunnels, leaving the sixth leaning against the vehicle’s side. At least Chomps wouldn’t have to bother with that one — if there was a freshly-killed body in there he’d probably hear the workmen’s screams all the way out here when they spotted it. If Cascans were too manly for screams, he’d know when they beckoned silently but frantically to their loitering coworker.

    Chomps frowned. Only the man leaning against the van wasn’t looking into the tunnel where he could be beckoned to. In fact, he was looking everywhere but the tunnel: at the street, on the walkways, up at the windows of the surrounding buildings, and at Chomps. Maybe even especially at Chomps.

    And there was something about his stance and expression that was kicking off quiet alarms in the back of Chomps’s brain.

    The man wasn’t just watching the van, or loafing off.

    He was on guard duty.

    And Chomps was headed straight toward him. Toward him, and whatever the others had gone into the tunnel to do.

    Too late to turn back. The guard had him locked, and any sudden changes in direction would instantly brand him as suspicious. If the workmen were the source of the gunshots earlier, suspicion was the last thing Chomps could afford. There was no cover anywhere nearby, either, even if going to ground while unarmed wasn’t a totally useless waste of effort. Calling the cops was out, too — he was already too close to the guard for that.

    Which left him really only one option. In for a centicred, the old saying whispered through his mind, in for a credit.

    The workman and van were four steps away. Bracing himself, Chomps walked right up to him.

    “Hi, there,” he said, putting on his best embarrassed smile. “Can you help me? I met a girl last night, and she asked me to pick up her car this morning. Is that the garage down there?”

    “Yes,” the man said. His eyes flicked to the RMN logo on Chomps’s sweatshirt. “What was her name?”

    “Sylvia, I think,” Chomps said. “Or Linda, or Katie. Something like that. I’m still working through the fog. Thanks.”

    He headed down the tunnel, feeling the man’s eyes on his back. Whatever they were up to down here, they would hopefully shy away from the straight-up murder of a foreign national. That was the sort of thing that would likely kick them to the top of the Cascans’ find-and-nail list, and no one wanted that kind of trouble.

    He just hoped they were smart enough to follow that same impeccable logic.

    There was an open door off the tunnel to his left. Three steps away from it, Chomps lowered his eyes to his waist, fumbling in his side pocket as if looking for something. He passed the door, shot a quick look up from beneath his eyebrows, and continued on without slowing.

    The glance hadn’t shown him much. But it had shown him enough.

    Two of the workmen, kneeling beside a pair of long black sacks lying on the floor.

    One of those workmen scrambling to his feet, as if belatedly trying to block the view.

    Another door behind them opening into a small room, with three more workmen crouching beside something on the floor.

    Something Chomps was pretty damn sure was a body.

    He worked his pocket another two steps, finally retrieving the key to his locker aboard Damocles. Letting it dangle ostentatiously from his fingers, he continued down the tunnel, which he could see now made a hard right fifty meters ahead, presumably into the garage proper. Once out of sight of the men behind him, he would call the police, try again to convince them to get their butts over here, then find some place to go to ground until they showed up.

    He turned the corner into the parking garage proper without anyone shooting him in the back. Puffing out a sigh of relief, he started to key his uni-link as he looked for an empty parking slot where he could go to ground. The closest was about halfway down the first line —

    “You!” a voice growled from behind him. “Hold up.”

    Chomps clenched his teeth. He’d hoped they would be slower on the uptake. Unfortunately, with nothing but deserted, echoing parking garage in front of him, there was nothing to do but continue playing stupid. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, coming to a casual halt as he did so.

    “Yes?”

    Two of the workmen were striding toward him, their faces cool and suspicious. Neither was holding a weapon, but both had significant bulges in their right-hand side pockets and another inside the chest fastening strip. “You look lost,” one of them said, his gaze dropping briefly to the uni-link blinking its ready signal on Chomps’ wrist. “You looking for someone?”

    “Not someone; something,” Chomps corrected. “A car. I met a girl at a party last night, and she asked me to come over here this morning and get her car for her.” He held up his key.

    “She did, huh?” the second man said, eyeing the key. “Bad news, buddy — you’ve been chumped. That thing’s not a car key.”

    “Well, sure it is,” Chomps insisted, peering at the key. “It’s the same size as my car key back on Manticore. What else could it be?”

    “What kind of car did she say it was?” the second man asked.

    Chomps thought quickly. One of the cars parked near the hotel had had the word Picassorey on the rear. “A light-blue Picassoree,” he said, mentally crossing his fingers.

    The second man guffawed. “You mean a Picasso Rey?”

    “Oh,” Chomps said, wincing. Sometimes playing it stupid was easier than expected. “Sorry. It was noisy in the bar.”

    “Yeah, well, that’s still not a car key,” the man said. “Not on Casca.”

    “Really?” Chomps frowned at the key. “Well, hell. I really thought she was interested. I guess not.” Jamming the key back in his pocket, he started to head back up the tunnel.

    In unison, the men took casual sideways steps to block his path. “What’s your hurry?” the second man asked, all traces of amusement gone from his face.

    “You just said she lied to me,” Chomps reminded him, letting his expression go confused. “I guess I’ll head back and join my squad. We’re all supposed to be out there running anyway.”

    “Yeah, you don’t want to PO the CO,” the man who’d glanced at his uni-link commented. “That who you were going to call?”

    “Huh?” Chomps blinked at him, then produced his very best sheepish grin as he held up his arm. “Oh, this? No, no — I was going to call the girl. From the party. She gave me her com combo, so I was thinking I’d ask where the car was. Pretty dumb, I guess?”

    “Or maybe she just gave you the wrong key, like you said,” the other man said. “Go ahead — let’s hear what she has to say.”

    And as Chomps’s grandfather used to say, the crapspreader had just reversed gear.

    They weren’t completely sure of what he might or might not have seen, or at least not sure enough to drop him on the spot. But they were obviously suspicious as hell.

    And he’d just painted himself into a corner, He could hardly contact the cops now, not while his new playmates were watching and listening. But if he didn’t call someone, they’d damned well know he’d been playing them.

    But who on Casca could he call? No matter how Chomps pitched a story like this, he knew that none of the women in his division would catch on fast enough. If the workmen insisted he put his uni-link on speaker — and as he looked into their faces he realized that was exactly what they were planning to do — the puzzled response from the other end of the conversation would damn him in double-march time.

    They might be hesitant about killing an offworlder. In fact, there was a fair chance their insistence that he call his imaginary girlfriend was some stalling of their own. One of the other men back there was very probably having a quick consult with some off-scene boss to decide whether Chomps was ignorant and stupid and could be turned loose or whether he’d seen too much and needed to be silenced.

 

---

 

    Either way, this uni-link call could make or break him. If they realized he was playing them, they wouldn’t care what he might or might not have seen. They would probably just shoot him where he stood — they were far enough out of the public eye here to get away with it.

    On the other hand, if he could somehow produce someone to play the part of the party girl, there was at least the thinnest of possibilities they might just buy his entire story. It was unlikely, but some chance was a hell of a lot better than no chance at all.

    But who could he call?

    He could think of only one candidate. Only one person who might offer him a slim, vanishingly small opportunity to pull this off. She was smart, she was quick, and she might at least be stunned into silence long enough for him to somehow clue her in as to what was going on.

    The two men were waiting. “Okay,” Chomps said, raising his uni-link. “I guess I can’t get in any worse with her anyway. I just need to remember — oh, right: that was her name.” He punched in the code for relay.

    “Put it on speaker,” the first man ordered.

    Chomps gave him a puzzled look, hesitating just long enough for the automated “Manticore relay,” voice to come inaudibly through before lowering the uni-link and keying the speaker. “Name?” the automated voice continued.

    Chomps braced himself. One way or another, he thought distantly, there was a really good chance he was going to die today. “Donnelly,” he said. “Lisa Donnelly.”

 

---

 

    Llyn had made it only three blocks when he discovered he’d picked up a tail.

    An extremely amateurish tail. There were two of them, young men, dressed in running gear, with a military look about their faces and hair styling. The Cascan Defense Force? No — it was one of the visiting Manticorans. Their running outfits were identical to the one he’d seen a couple of minutes ago on that other, bigger Manticoran.

    The more immediate question was why?

    The men couldn’t have seen him leaving the scene of an obvious crime — surely they’d have called the authorities by now if they had. Had that brief conversation Llyn had had with the Manticoran a few minutes ago somehow caught someone’s attention? But unless the big man himself was under suspicion for something, and the tail was just following up on possible contacts, that made even less sense.

    Ultimately, though, it didn’t matter. Llyn was being tailed, and he would have to deal with it.

    There was a gap between buildings coming up on the left, probably leading into a service alleyway. It would do nicely.

    Picking up his pace, he headed for the gap.

 

---

 

    Lisa had just finished going through the breakfast buffet line, and was looking for a good spot to sit down to eat, when her uni-link trilled. Shifting her plate to a one-hand grip, she shot her left sleeve and peered at the ID.

    It was Missile Tech First Townsend.

    Her first, reflexive thought was that something must be wrong, possibly an injury on the exercise run that Commander Shiflett had ordered.

    Her second thought was to wonder why in space Townsend was calling her about it.

    Whatever it was, it had better be important. Clicking it on, she moved it closer to her face. “Donnelly.”

    “Hey, Lisa, this is Charles,” Townsend’s voice came on, brisk and cheerful.

    And completely and outrageously lacking in proper respect.

    What the hell?

    “You remember — we met last night at the party — I’m the guy who was telling you about my trip to Secour –”

    Lisa’s frown deepened. Townsend hadn’t been aboard Guardian on the mission to Secour five years ago.

    “– and that run-in I had with those rowdies — ”

    What in the world was he going on about? Had he been trying for some other Lisa Donnelly and been transferred here by mistake?

    “– and how my good buddy Mota and I got into deep cow mix when we got back?”

    Lisa caught her breath. Mota, the murdered pirate from the Havenite recording? How did Townsend even know about that?

    “Anyway, I’m trying to find your car like you asked me, only these two guys down here say the key you gave me isn’t a car key at all, so I need you to help me out here. Okay?”

    There was a muted double finger snap from somewhere across the room, and the low hum of conversation abruptly evaporated. Lisa started, looking up to see Captain Marcello and Commodore Henderson gazing across the table at her, their expressions intent. Something about her face must have clued them in that something odd was happening.

    Henderson raised his eyebrows in silent question. Lisa shrugged her shoulders in silent response, touched her finger to her lips, and held out the uni-link as she keyed it to speaker. “Sure, Charles, I remember you,” she said. “Little fuzzy on the details of last night, though. What’s this about a car key?”

    “Yeah, sorry about that,” Townsend said.

    And in his voice Lisa could hear a subtle lowering of tension. Something strange was going on, all right, and he was clearly relieved that she hadn’t simply lowered the boom on him.

    “Not surprised, the way you were drinking last night,” he continued. “Like there was no tomorrow.”

    No tomorrow? Did that sound as serious as she thought it sounded? “You weren’t exactly falling behind,” she said, trying a little probe. It wouldn’t hurt to play along — if this was a practical joke, or he was trying to win some bizarre bet, she could always bust him to Spacer Third Class later.

    “That’s for sure,” he agreed. “I sometimes drink like it’s my last night on Earth.”

    Lisa shot a look at Marcello and Henderson. Both men were frowning in concentration.

    “Anyway, you asked me to pick up your car this morning from the parking garage,” Townsend continued. “But like I said, these two guys say this isn’t a car key. Did you maybe give me the wrong one by mistake?”

    “Let me think,” Lisa said, stalling for time. So Townsend wasn’t alone. Were the two men with him listening in on the conversation?

    “Because it looks the same size as the key to my Zulu Kickback back home,” Townsend said. “So, you know, it could just be a case of mistaken identity. You know — mistaken key identity. That’s why I didn’t notice anything was wrong.”

    A shiver ran up Lisa’s back. Zulu. The stress on the noun had been very slight, but she was sure she hadn’t imagined it. No tomorrow…last night on Earth…and now Zulu.…

    This was no practical joke. Townsend was in trouble. Serious trouble.

    There was a movement to her side, and Lisa looked over as a tablet was held up in front of her with a message scrawled across it. Uni-link locator being blocked — get his position. She looked over the top of the tablet to see Commander Shiflett gazing back at her. So the XO had caught on, too. “Okay, for starters, you’ve got to learn to listen,” Lisa said. “The key isn’t to the car — it’s to the key box under the hood. Remember all the car thefts I told you about?”

    “Oh,” Townsend said, sounding embarrassed. “Right. The box has a kill switch inside.”

    “And the actual key,” Lisa said, wondering if any of this even made sense with Cascan technology. If it was completely off the wall, whoever was listening in would call fraud in double-quick time.

    “Right,” Townsend said. There was a slight pause, and Lisa caught the hint of a murmur, as if someone just out of hearing range was giving him instructions or a prompt — “It was a light-green Picasso Rey, right?”

    Across the table, Henderson lifted an urgent finger from his tablet. “Black,” he murmured urgently. “Picasso Reys don’t come in light green.”

    Lisa nodded. “No, my first car was light green,” she said, trying to put strained patience into her voice. Henderson and Marcello were murmuring together, she saw, Marcello watching closely as Henderson worked rapidly on his tablet. “You’re looking for a black Picasso Rey. Jeez, Charles, are you even in the right place?”

    “Sure I am,” Townsend said with an attempt at wounded dignity. “Three apartment garages in a row; I’m down in the first one.”

    “No, you’re down in the second one,” Lisa corrected. “I swear you are utterly useless. Do you need me to come down there and show you?”

    “No, no, don’t do that,” Townsend said hastily. “You don’t want to be anywhere near me before I’ve had my morning coffee. You want me to bring it to your place when I get it?”

    “Well, that was the idea of sending you,” Lisa growled. “Are you going to have to drive all over town until you remember where I live?”

    “No, no,” Townsend said with an air of wounded dignity. “That I remember just fine. You’re four doors down from your office at Tinsdale Range Runners.”

    “Right,” Lisa said. If that meant what she thought it did…

    “Great,” Townsend said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Bye.”

    The connection broke. “With all due respect, Commander,” a Cascan civilian who Lisa hadn’t yet been introduced to said, “what in the Holy Name was that all about?”

 

---

 

    “One of our people is in trouble,” Lisa told her. “Something serious.”

    “You sure he’s not just playing games?” the civilian pressed. “Sure sounded like a game to me.”

    “Missile Tech Townsend doesn’t play that kind of game,” Shiflett told him.

    “And Case Zulu’s not something our people make jokes about,” Marcello added. “Especially not to their superiors. Commodore? Anything?”

    “Maybe,” Henderson said. “Three apartment buildings in a row with underground garages…I’ve got four possibles within two klicks of the Hamilton Hotel.”

    “Any of them have an address of three-eleven something?” Lisa asked.

    Henderson blinked. “Three-eleven Marsala Avenue,” he said. “Four blocks from the Hamilton. How did you know?”

    “The Tinsdale 315 is one of the components in Damocles’s weapons ranging sensor,” Lisa said. “Four down puts it at 311.”

    Henderson grunted. “This guy’s quick on his feet,” he said as he tapped rapidly on his tablet. “It’s like Secour all over again. Must be something in Manticore’s water. Okay; police alerted — emergency one level — signaling they’re on their way. What is this Case Zulu thing, anyway? I assume it’s not actually a Manticoran car model.”

    “Hardly,” Marcello said grimly. “After Secour, First Lord of the Admiralty Cazenestro decided our personnel needed more hands-on combat training. Originally, the final stage in that training was called ‘Zulu Omega: a full-bore combat scenario, some of it live-ammo, as intense and realistic as we could make it without actually killing anyone.”

    “Some recruits have nightmares for weeks afterward,” Shiflett agreed.

    “Yes, they do,” Marcello said. “Believe me, it leaves an impression. But after a while, our people started calling that stage just ‘Zulu’ or ‘Case Zulu.’ It’s turned into a sort of short hand for ‘everything’s going straight to hell and we’re all going to die.’ Like I said, it’s not something an experienced noncom like Townsend would use to his department head on a whim.”

    “The Captain’s right, Sir,” Shiflett confirmed. “Either Townsend is facing guns, or thinks he soon will be.” She looked at Lisa, inclining her head slightly in salute. “Nicely done, TO.”

    “Thank you, Ma’am,” Lisa said. “I just hope we were reading him right.”

    Shiflett’s lip twitched. “I guess we’ll find out.”

 

---

 

    “Man, I’m just running on half-hydraulics today,” Chomps said, slathering on all the embarrassment he could as he keyed off his uni-link. At least they hadn’t pulled out their guns yet. Maybe they’d bought the act.

    Or maybe they were still waiting for a thumb’s-up or thumb’s-down from their boss. Either way, time to try for a graceful withdrawal.

    “Guess I’d better get next door and find her damn car.” He took another step up the tunnel —

    “You don’t have to go outside,” the first man said. He gestured behind Chomps. “There are connecting doors between the three garages.”

    “Really?” Chomps asked, frowning.

    “We do a lot of work in this part of town,” the second put in. “Most of these side-by-sides have a second exit.”

    “Safety regulation,” the first man explained. “Come on — I’ll show you.” He brushed past Chomps and started toward the lines of cars, leaving only the second man between Chomps and the street.

    Or rather, leaving the second man plus all the others working up there. Wincing, Chomps turned and followed the first man toward the cars. Trying fervently to figure out what he was going to do.

    Were they really just going to show him a way out and let him go? That would imply that they’d bought the little impromptu he and Donnelly had put on. It would also imply they were extremely trusting souls, which Chomps didn’t believe for a minute.

    But if they’d decided to kill him after all, why go any deeper into the garage? Why not just shoot him here and be done with it.

    He felt his stomach tighten. Because once among the rows of cars they could drop him and not have his body discovered for hours. Ten meters ahead was a panel truck with a slightly curved windshield, and in the distorted reflection Chomps saw the second man fall into silent step behind him.

    Keep it together, Chomps ordered himself silently. The two men were undoubtedly armed, and they were both out of grabbing range. Even if he was able to get to one of them, trying to use him as a human shield against the other would be useless. With his broad Sphinxian build, he might as well try to hide behind a flagpole.

    Keep it together. How would they do it? Certainly the safest method would be to simply shoot him in the back. He’d already seen that gunshots didn’t seem to spark any notice from the locals. A nice, quick shot, and they could get back to the main business of the day.

    But people who didn’t like leaving loose ends typically didn’t like taking any other unnecessary risks, either. And if they preferred not to risk someone calling in a fresh gunshot, the next likely approach…

    He was watching the truck windshield closely when the man behind him slid a knife from inside his shirt and picked up speed, closing the gap between him and his victim.

    It was all Chomps could do not to react. But he kept walking, forcing down the urge to turn and face his attacker. The man was moving into stabbing range, but he would probably wait until the group was at least within the first line of cars before he made his move, if only so that he and his partner wouldn’t have to drag the body so far.

    Chomps let the man get to within half a meter. Then, he jerked to a halt, spun around, and slashed his left arm diagonally down and outward through the space between them like he’d been taught in the Casey-Rosewood salle.

    To his astonishment, and probably that of his attacker, it worked. Chomps’s wrist caught the man’s knife hand across the forearm, knocking the weapon out of line.

    Follow-up! Lunging forward, Chomps made a grab for the deflected wrist.

    But his attacker had recovered from his initial surprise and snatched the hand back out of Chomps’s reach. His follow-up would probably be to make some sort of feint and then take another shot at burying the knife in Chomps’s torso.

    There was no way Chomps would be lucky enough to block the next attack. That left him only one counter. Grabbing the man’s collar with his left hand, he reached down and got a grip on the man’s belt with his right —

    And with a grunt of effort he lifted the attacker off his feet, turned halfway around, and hurled him into his partner.

    The man in front had already turned back to face the fracas, his hand digging into his shirt for his own knife or gun or whatever weapon he had in there. He had just enough time to rearrange his expression into stunned disbelief before the incoming human missile rearranged everything else and sent the pair of them crashing to the pavement.

    A trained operative, Chomps reflected, would probably take advantage of his opponents’ temporary disadvantage to make that condition permanent. But Chomps wasn’t trained, his attackers were rapidly sorting themselves out, and if he screwed up the only permanence he was likely to achieve was that of his own death.

    And so he charged straight past the tangle of bodies and limbs, reached the first line of vehicles, and ducked in alongside the panel truck, running sideways through the narrow gap between the truck and the next car over. His only chance now was to go to ground, call the police, and hope he could play hide-and-seek with the killers until they arrived.

    He had reached the gap between the first two lines and ducked around the truck, looking for the next nearest vehicle that would hide his bulk, when there was the crack of a gunshot behind him.

    His first impulse was to take a quick, panic-edged inventory of his skin and body parts. He’d heard once that terrible pain didn’t always register right away — maybe he was half a minute from death and just didn’t know it. But he seemed to be uninjured —

    “Freeze, everybody!” The stentorian bellow echoing through the underground structure could be produced only by the sort of portable amplifiers police forces throughout the galaxy used. “Hands where we can see them. Now!”

    Carefully, aware that his arms and legs were still trembling with adrenaline and not at their most reliable, Chomps came to a stop and crouched down.

    Twenty seconds later, a half dozen gray-clad figures came charging from the tunnel, their guns drawn and ready.

    Chomps took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. Then, raising his arms, he stood up and started toward them through the line of cars. Good cops, he knew, wouldn’t simply accept his word that he wasn’t one of the bad guys. Good cops would grab everybody in sight, throw on the cuffs, and haul them down to the station house to be sorted out at their leisure.

    In fact, good cops would probably be very hands on throughout the procedure, possibly to the point of making everyone eat pavement while they passed out the restraints.

    The Quechua City cops, as it turned out, were very good cops indeed.