Michael Flynn - Up Jim River

“Her name is Lucia D. Thompson,” a new voice announced, high and reedy, but with subsonic echoes. “I knew her before she was knee-high.” Harper and Fudir both turned, and Donovan’s first thought was to wonder how someone so large could have walked so softly.

His second thought was that “knee-high” for this one was not all that small.

He was long and gangly, with prominent joints and a lugubrious expression. His legs were enclosed in power walkers and his eyes had the quality of a basset hound, save that they bulged slightly. His black T-shirt and shorts were devoid of any ornamentation—unless that darker patch against the raven cloth was the Badge of Night.

The newcomer was as wizened as an old corn stalk. In his prime he would have been taller, but now he bent ever so slightly at the shoulders from the weight of the years on him.

The Fudir leaned to the harper. “Be wary of this one,” he whispered.

“Don’t be silly. I’ve known him since I was bread-and-buttered. Hello, Uncle Zorba.” And she stood a-toe and kissed him somewhere south of his chin.

Zorba de la Susa, the greatest Hound of them all. Old? He should have been dust. That the harper—that Lucia—had known him from childhood and called him uncle was small comfort. On Appalachia’s Bangalore, children kept cobras as pets, and smiled at tigers. That didn’t pull the fangs or blunt the claws.

The Tall Hound looked at the Fudir. “What are you doing in this man’s company,” Zorba said. “Do you know who he is?”

“Aye. Maybe more so than does he.”

The Hound’s laughter was like the first notes from a bagpipe. “Then, do you know what he is? You are safe here, if he’s abducted you.”

“It was I who abducted him, Uncle.”

“Ha! That may be a story worth telling. Cerberus?”

“Yes, Cu.”

“Did we ever catch that ‘fed agent? The one who called herself Olafsdottr?”

“One moment…” His goggles flickered. “No, there’s no record of it.”

“Well, that was years ago. She may have been sent off to fry bigger fish.” Zorba laughed again, but gave the Fudir a significant look.

Donovan was moved to protest. “I was quite happy where I was, but your… niece… was ready to hare off across the Spiral Arm after her mother. I convinced her to come here instead. I thought you people would talk sense to her. When you’re finished, I plan to go right back to Jehovah.”

“Right back to the bowl. Oh, don’t look away. The Ourobouros Circuit is a wonderful thing. We can get the answers to our queries in hardly any time at all.”

“My mother…,” said Méarana.

“Aye.” Zorba turned to Cerberus. “Have Bridget ban’s trip reports collated and sent to my office. You two, come with me.”

“Cu,” said Cerberus, “you don’t have an office. You are Status Inactive.”

De la Susa stopped in his tracks. “Am I? Don’t be a cow’s calf. Arrange it. And have someone make reservations at The Three Hens for dinner. My usual table.”

Cerberus gave the Fudir a doubtful look. “For two? We can question this one while you and your protégé’s daughter dine.”

Zorba laughed. “What do you suppose he can know after all this time? Nothing is more useless than an agent past his expiration date. What say you, Donovan? Have you any tales worth the telling that the Kennel ought to hear?”

Careful…, said one of his voices.

It’s a test , said the Sleuth.

Of course, it’s a test. But a test of what?

The Brute began to clench a fist. Zorba’s eyes narrowed. Cerberus reached under his desk.

The Fudir seized control. “Sure, I’ve made my living as a seanachy these past uncounted years. A teller of tales. Why should I not tell tales here, as well? My fees are modest.”

The two Hounds relaxed just the smallest amount. Donovan heard the distant click of safety catches being re-engaged. Yes. Was erstwhile Confederate agent Donovan as erstwhile as he seemed? His willingness to be debriefed was the test.

Cerberus found an empty office that de la Susa could use. It contained a barren desk of opaque metaloceramic, a comfortable chair, and little else. De la Susa took the chair. The Fudir searched nearby offices and returned with two more. They sat around the desk and waited. The Tall Hound worked his lips for a few moments with a distant look on his face. A part of the Fudir wondered if the old cripple had lost the train of his thought.

Zorba smiled at them and wheezed, “Well. Bridget ban’s daughter, and a master harper, no less. Just as well. Just as well.” He nodded. “Her mother’s trade was not for her.”

The Fudir was uncertain how to respond to that and, from the tentative look in Méarana’s eyes, he guessed the harper was not sure, either. This was not the Uncle Zorba she remembered.

“Perhaps I should begin that debriefing you wanted,” he suggested, starting to rise. “There’s no need for me to listen to this. I agreed to accompany the harper this far; but I’m for Jehovah by the next ship out.”

But neither Hound nor harper was listening. De la Susa passed a hand over his face, rubbed his cheeks. “Ah, she was ever too close-lipped for her own good, your mother was. We love one another like brothers here, but there is a certain amount of jealousy in the Kennel. Oh, yes. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true. A certain jealousy. Brothers and sisters… But family rivalries can be mean. If she was on the trail of something big, she might keep it quiet lest others beat her to it. Some of us would, you know. And if the trail proves false, one doesn’t look as foolish. Better to scout things out alone.”

The Fudir sat slowly. “In Terran, we call people like that ‘lone rangers.’ ”

“Do you? What’s that in Gaelactic? Never mind. My earwig is a little slow. Maor aonarach, is it? Hah, that’s good.” His jowls shook as he chuckled. “Maor aonarach…” Then he sobered. “I don’t remember it that way when I was Status Active. A band of brothers back then. Though back before the Circuit, we mostly were on our own, now that I think on’t. So it may just be habit. ‘Lone ranger…’ Hah! But we only remember the best parts, eh? The best parts. No, Donovan, I want you to stay and hear this. No need to rush back to that place. Yes, Graceful Bintsaif, thank you.”

A whippet-thin woman in powder-blue undress uniform and black choke-collar had entered with a pocket brain, which she handed over. A glance captured the room and all that was in it. “Ochone, sèan-Cu,” she said in a deferential voice. “This room has no armillary”

De la Susa shook as he chuckled. “Yes, that was Cerberus’s little joke. He will receive a riposte in the ripeness of time. He is jealous, I think. ‘Old Three-Head’ doesn’t care for me hanging around the Kennel. I’m some sort of relic, a ghost at the banquet. He and I once… Ah, but those are times long gone.”

“Cu,” said Graceful Bintsaif, “you are a treasure.”

“Yes. A buried one. Ha-hah! Cerberus thinks I should be off on Peacock Junction shooting inoffensive ducks and drinking abominably flavored teas on some tropical verandah.”

“I don’t like it here,” said Graceful Bintsaif. “There’s a meanness to this infighting. I wish I were back at the Rift.”

The Old Hound grinned. “Not all duties are so easy as that one, eh? I suppose you have prepared an armillary for me.”

The younger Hound bowed from the shoulder. “Aye, Cu. Games are not in me.”

De la Susa grunted. “They should be. Your time here would pass more quickly.” He rose and gestured to Méarana with a sweep of the arm. “If you would follow Ban-Cu Bintsaif…? You, too, Donovan.”