Single Combat (40 page)

Chortling, softly clapping his hands, Ted Quantrill applauded the Indy penetration raid. "Notice that S & R both confirms and denies a nuke under that mountain," he said to Sandy. "Now that their central computer is trashed, they don't know what the hell they're doing. No coordination. I'm only sorry that sonofabitch Salter got free."

"I wouldn't call him free," Sandy replied. "He might be cooped up inside that building for the rest of his life."

Quantrill brightened. "You've just made my day," he laughed.

They fell silent then, trying to follow the tangled trail of disinformation on the condition of Blanton Young. He had a touch of ptomaine; no, he had collapsed from overwork, poor man; on the other hand, rumors of recent weeks repeatedly claimed the Lion of Zion was starting to hold court with the bats in his belfry. Another network had first promised an interview with Young but later claimed technical difficulties.

After reciting brief statements by two government spokesmen—both authoritative in opposite opinions—anchorman Kraft leaned forward on his elbows. "We at CBS Deadline News," he said in ill-concealed irritation, "are often torn between the need for all the facts, and the need to inform Streamlined America of fast-breaking events as they happen. The opinion of a high government official is news. The opinion of a holovision journalist must be clearly stated as only commentary. Well," he paused and donated a wry smile off-camera, "the staff of CBS Deadline News is of the uniform opinion that a commentary is in order, tonight."

"We share the opinion that, for some time now, certain officials within the federal government have manipulated the news far beyond what we might call the limits of expectation. We do not place Mr. Salter of Search & Rescue beyond suspicion—but I wish to stress that this is
not
an accusation. Slander and libel laws in recent years have returned almost to the point of, 'the greater the truth, the greater the libel', and this too may be worthy of re-examination—in our opinion."

"We also hold the opinion that Streamlined America tonight is shaken at the top by a shock, probably nuclear, that by great good fortune has not resulted in widespread loss of life. We believe that just below the top, our American system stands undamaged and intact, capable of dealing fairly with its troubles both domestic and foreign. We do not—I repeat, do
not
, have evidence of any kind leading us to suspect some military coup. On the contrary, Mr. Salter might possibly strip the rumors away from, let us say, an alleged paramilitary organization which may have operated as a death squad throughout Streamlined America for some years and which may, as of this afternoon, be adrift and leaderless."

"If such a death squad exists tonight, then I and Deadline News may be a dead line tomorrow." Bleak grin: "Stay tuned. If ever an American death squad
did
exist: who held its reins? This is a question that journalists in several media have been asking."

"Speaking for myself alone, I would like to ask Mr. Boren Mills, the chief executive officer of IEE and of its wholly-owned network. But for the past several days Mr. Mills has not been available for comment. Unsubstantiated rumor suggests that Mr. Mills has, in journalist's terms, 'pulled a Vesco'—has left the country for some climate more to his liking."

"It may be pure hubris to think that Boren Mills would be watching us, a rival network, tonight. But just in case, Mr. Mills: surely you are aware of the reports concerning falsification of news by electronic animation. The late Eve Simpson left messages to be forwarded to various media, including CBS, in the event of her death. At this hour there is no question of her revelations becoming a news item. The only question is whether you will come forward to separate fact from fancy, or will remain silent when that story breaks during the next few days. I can promise you this much: interviews with the Reverend Ora McCarty by both CBS and UBC suggest that you, Mr. Mills, could enlighten us all."

"Let me repeat that my comments of the past two minutes
were
commentary, for which I accept total responsibility. If my decision has caused a blurring of commentary and news, I apologize." Then, grimly determined, Kraft added as if to twenty million judges: "But somebody had to say it." A sigh, an obvious attempt to regain his usual imperturbable image: "In other news tonight, an industrial barge has foundered near the Port of Eureka. For an on-the-scene report, we take you to Avery Bond in Arcata, California…"

And near Rocksprings, Ted Quantrill was laughing like a schoolboy.

Sandy's journal, 9 Oct.'

I
must scribble carefully to avoid waking Ted, warm against my side here on the couch. What, I wonder, is he smiling about? I would prefer to think he dreams of me, but suspect he trysts with a specter called Sanger.

I should be furious that we did not make love tonight—but in a sense of course, we did. We exchanged more genuine affection through speech & a few unhurried kisses than I knew in my frantic too-brief couplings with Lufo. Ted knew perfectly well I wanted him tonight, & for a time I feared the smell of Lufo, so to speak, was still too strong in his nostrils. Ted set me straight with a confession that astonished me: from the first time we ever met, he has viewed me as a surrogate for his long-deceased small sister!

How plain could I make it? "I don't want to be your sister," I bleated.

His exact words were, "Then we're agreed. Just give me a little time to disown you."

But how long is a little? Hard to believe that such a fine-tuned animal could have problems in his, um, fuel-injection system. (Bite your tongue, Sandy—or your pen.) I have much to learn about men, this one in particular
.—
How long before he can bury this Sanger creature beneath layers of fresh experience? Burial of a person is an event, but burying an allegiance is a process
.

Well? Would I want Ted Quantrill less complex? To keep his loves and hates neatly, conveniently separate in little boxes?

I hate Marbrye Sanger, & envy her.

The little man with the angry pink scalp shifted in his couch, reaching under harness webbing to palpate his anus. Five-gee acceleration had very nearly driven the tube of flawless emeralds up to his navel—but where else could he have hidden them?

Every square centimeter of his scalp itched from too many dousings in depilatory. Within a week he could let his hair start to grow again. If it
would
grow back. His face, the backs of his hands, his throat; all stung, though he had scrubbed furiously to remove the wrinkle-producing gunk. He wondered when he could indulge in the luxury of a hot shower. The vast ogive colonies of New Israel, orbiting somewhere ahead of his shuttle craft, might someday be manmade worldlets of milk and honey, but Boren Mills carried no illusions into space with him. The Ellfive structures were still incomplete and the Israelis could not afford many luxuries in their space colonies, even for an administrator of Mill's ability.

He stared glumly at the 'overhead' holoscreen, no longer overhead as long as the shuttle was in zero-gee, and decided in favor of sleep. He had watched Hal Kraft's veiled challenge on CBS Deadline News until dull anger gave way to relief. If he'd waited another day to vesco the hell out of there, he might now be lying dead at the hands of some vengeful S & R rover. With CenCom atomized under Cottonwood Canyon, those electronic animation routines would have to be reconstructed before FBN could hope to fake reality again.

He wondered which straw had snapped the back of Blanton Young's creaky self-image; wondered too if the Lion of Zion would ever recover enough to tar the image of Mills. One day, perhaps after he carved himself a firm niche in New Israel's administration with hard work and faceted emeralds, Boren Mills might dabble again in the fortunes of Streamlined America.

Ted Quantrill snugged the wrists of his polymer slicker against a sprinkle of cold rain and warmed up his hovercycle before riding it to the soddy. No problem with dust on a morning such as this!

Sandy and Childe met him at the door. "Hot coffee and pralines," Childe explained, offering him the insulated canisters. He accepted them gravely, then returned her shy hug with surprise and gratitude. The blonde braids trailed as she whisked from sight into the soddy.

For a moment, he only traded smiles with Sandy. Then she murmured, "You're not going to repeat Lufo's farewell address, I hope."

Mock indignation: "After all these uh, blissful days and nights together? No possible way," he said. He bore blisters from those days, and no sexual memories from those nights, and teased her without complaint. "If this guy Marrow doesn't need me, maybe you could use a hired hand."

"If you're sure you can pull your weight," she grinned back, then stepped forward to the hoverfan skirt. She placed both hands on his shoulders, her smile now a trifle askew. "Do I have to tell you how welcome you are here?"

"It helps," he said. She kissed him gently, first on the mouth and then on the flattened bridge of his nose. "That helps a lot," he said. "Crazy as it sounds, I like it out here. Weather permitting, I'll take you to another dance as soon as I get a handle on this job."

One hand lingering on his shoulder, fingering the slicker: "You really think you'll like being a veterinarian's assistant?"

"I like animals; even big ones," he nodded, then looked into her face and lied: "And I'll be learning a new trade."

"Thank God! I couldn't stand thinking of you hanging around the Governor with Lufo waiting for more combat work."

This, he told himself, was not the time to tell her the truth about the job at Schreiner's spread; that dealing with poachers and banditti was very likely to mean combat when other methods failed. "Not me," he lied again, and reached for the handlebars.

Sandy stood back, blew a light kiss, and then remembered why old Jim Street had urged Ted to go to Schreiner's. "I hope you find that necklace," she lied, looking him in the eyes.

He smiled, nodded, gunned the diesel and waved without looking back. He could see her waving in the rearview until he passed from sight.

A hard kernel of self-disgust jounced in his head. He should've told her that his only marketable skill was single combat. One day, he thought, she'll learn the truth. And then?

She watched Quantrill top out on a distant ridge, pulled her collar close against the growing Wild Country drizzle, and wondered how big a spread she could buy if she sold the Ember of Venus. Big enough to need a foreman, for sure. Especially one with some veterinary skills and with eyes the color of spring grass.

And then he would learn that she'd had the damned necklace all the time.
One day
, she thought, I'll
have to tell him. And then
?

Dean Ing has worked as a USAF interceptor crew chief, a senior research engineer in the aerospace industry, a builder and driver of sports-racing cars, and a university professor. He has a doctorate in communications theory.

Dean Ing is the author of the New York Times bestseller The Ransom of Black Stealth One, The Nemesis Mission, and The Skins of Dead Men. He lives in Ashland, Oregon.

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