Brothers in Arms

Sylveth glanced in bewilderment at Ivan, but by this time they had stepped into the sunlight.

'You don't have a bodyguard,' Ivan objected.

'I'll be meeting Quinn in a short time.'

'How are you going to get back in the embassy?'

Miles paused. 'You'll have until I get back to figure that out.'

'Ngh! When's that?'

'I don't know.'

The outside guards' attention was drawn to a ground car hissing up to the embassy entrance. Abandoning Ivan, Miles darted across the street and dove into the entrance to the tubeway system.

Ten minutes and two connections later, he emerged to find himself in a very much older section of town, restored 22nd-century architecture. He didn't have to check for street numbers to spot his destination. The crowd, the barricades, the flashing lights, the police hovercars, fire equipment, ambulance . . . 'Damnation,' Miles muttered, and started down that side street. He rolled the words back through his mouth, switching gears, to Admiral Naismith's flat Betan accent, 'Aw, shit …'

Miles guessed the policeman in charge was the one with the amplifier comm, and not one of the half-dozen in body armor toting plasma rifles. He pushed his way through the crowd and hopped over the barricade. 'Are you the officer in charge?'

The constable's head snapped around in bewilderment, then he looked down. At first purely startled, he frowned as he took in Miles's uniform. 'Are you one of those psychopaths?' he demanded.

Miles rocked back on his heels, wondering how to answer that one. He suppressed all three of the initial retorts that came to his mind, and chose instead, 'I'm Admiral Miles Naismith, commanding, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet. What's happened here?' He interrupted himself to slowly and delicately extend one index finger and push skyward the muzzle of a plasma rifle being held on him by an armored woman. 'Please, dear, I'm on your side, really.' Her eyes flashed mistrustfully at him through her faceplate, but the police commander jerked his head, and she faded back a few paces.

'Attempted robbery,' said the constable. 'When the clerk tried to foil it, they attacked her.'

'Robbery?' said Miles. 'Excuse me, but that makes no sense. I thought all transactions were by computer credit transfer here. There's no cash to rob. There must be some misunderstanding.'

'Not cash,' said the constable. 'Stock.'

The store, Miles noticed out of the corner of his eye, was a wineshop. A display window was cracked and starred. He suppressed a queasy feeling of unease, and plunged on, keeping his voice light. 'In any case, I fail to understand this stand-off with deadly weapons over a case of shoplifting. Aren't you overreacting a trifle? Where are your stunners?'

'They hold the woman hostage,' said the constable grimly.

'So? Stun them all, God will recognize his own.'

The constable gave Miles a peculiar look. He didn't read his own history, Miles guessed—the source of that quote was just across the water from here, for pity's sake.

'They claim to have arranged some sort of dead-man switch. They claim this whole block will go up in flames.' The constable paused. 'Is this possible?'

Miles paused too. 'Have you got ID's on any of these guys yet?'

'No.'

'How are you communicating with them?'

'Through the comconsole. At least, we were—they appear to have destroyed it a few minutes ago.'

'We will, of course, pay damages,' Miles choked.

'That's not all you'll pay,' growled the constable.

'Well…' Out of the corner of his eye Miles saw a hovercar labeled euronews network dropping down to the street. 'I think it's time to break this up.'

He started toward the wineshop.

'What are you going to do?' asked the constable.

'Arrest them. They face Dendarii charges for taking ordnance off-ship.'

'All by yourself? They'll shoot you. They're crazy-drunk.'

'I don't think so. If I were going to be shot by my own troops, they've had much better opportunities than this.'

The constable frowned, but did not stop him.

The autodoors were not working. Miles stood baffled before the glass a moment, then pounded on it. There was shadowy movement behind the iridescent shimmer. A very long pause, and the doors slid open about a third of a meter; Miles turned sideways and slipped through. A man inside shoved them shut again by hand and jammed a metal brace in their slot.

The interior of the wineshop was a shambles. Miles gasped at the fumes in the air, aromatic vapors from shattered bottles. You could get plastered just from breathing. . . . The carpeting squished underfoot.

Miles glanced around, to determine who he wanted to murder first. The one who'd unblocked the door stood out, as he was wearing only underwear.

' 'S Admiral Naismith,' the doorman hissed. He came to a tilted attention, and saluted.

'Whose army are you in, soldier?' Miles growled at him. The man's hands made little waving motions, as if to offer explanations by mime. Miles couldn't dredge up his name.

Another Dendarii, in uniform this time, was sitting on the floor with his back to a pillar. Miles squatted down, considering hauling him to his feet, or at least his knees, by his jacket and bracing him. Miles stared into his face. Little red eyes like coals in the caverns of his eye-sockets stared back without recognition. 'Eugh,' muttered Miles, and rose without further attempt to communicate. That one's consciousness was somewhere in wormhole space.

'Who cares?' came a hoarse voice from the floor behind a display rack, one of the few that hadn't been violently upended. 'Who t'hell cares?'

Oh, we've got the best and brightest here today, don't we? Miles thought sourly. An upright person emerged around the end of the display rack, saying, 'Can't be, he's disappeared again …'

At last, someone Miles knew by name. All too well. Further explanation for the scene was almost redundant. 'Ah, Private Danio. Fancy meeting you here.'

Danio shambled to a species of attention, towering over Miles. An antique pistol, its grip defaced with notches, dangled menacingly from his ham hand. Miles nodded toward it. 'Is that the deadly weapon I was called away from my affairs to come collect? They talked like you had half our bleeding arsenal down here.'

'No, sir!' said Danio. 'That would be against regs.' He patted the gun fondly. 'Jus' my personal property. Because you never know. The crazies are everywhere.'

'Are you carrying any other weapons among you?'

'Yalen has his bowie knife.'

Miles controlled a twinge of relief as premature. Still, if these morons were on their own, the Dendarii fleet might not have to get officially sucked into their morass after all. 'Did you know that carrying any weapon is a criminal offense in this jurisdiction?'

Danio thought this over. 'Wimps,' he said at last.

'Nevertheless,' said Miles firmly, 'I'm going to have to collect them and take them back to the flagship.' Miles peered around the display rack. The one on the floor—Yalen, presumably—lay clutching an unsheathed hunk of steel suitable for butchering an entire steer, should he encounter one mooing down the metalled streets and skyways of London.

Miles thought it through, and pointed. 'Bring me that knife, Private Danio.'

Danio pried the weapon from his comrade's grip. 'Nooo …' said the horizontal one.

Miles breathed easier when he had both weapons in his possession. 'Now, Danio—quickly, because they're getting nervous out there—exactly what happened here?'

'Well, sir, we were having a party. We'd rented a room.' He jerked his head toward the demi-naked doorman who hovered listening. 'We ran out of supplies, and came here to buy more, 'cause it was close by. Got