Gene Wolfe - Home Fires

The man with the submachine gun smiled slyly. “I fear, señora, that—”

He staggered backward, dropping his submachine gun. There were more shots, two or three coming so quickly that Skip could not count them, although afterward it seemed to him that everything had taken place in slow motion: Chelle drawing from inside her loose blue blouse; blood oozing from a hole in a man’s face to soak his thin mustache; two men falling toward each other, so that their dying bodies nearly collided; Skip himself struggling to get to his feet, hampered by air far thicker than water.

He stumbled across the deck to the submachine gun and scooped it up.

The deck thundered, pounded by running feet. He felt, rather than heard, another shot and saw the first man fall, saw the dead man’s look of surprise and the dark off-center dot on the dead man’s forehead.

Awkwardly, he braced the steel butt-plate of the submachine gun against his shoulder, so intent upon haste that he did not recall that he had never fired such a gun before, had never fired any gun. Pulling the trigger made the gun jump and rattle in his hand, surprising him so much that he let go of the trigger. There were half a dozen dead men on the deck now, and behind and to his right another gun reported in swift and measured words: Dead! Dead! Dead!

Eight or nine or ten now.

Skip’s finger found the trigger and he fired again, a five (or six) round burst. A carpet of the dead and the dying stretched toward the bow. Beyond it other men had turned to flee.

Chelle grasped his sleeve. “We’d better get inside before they get on top of us.”

He followed her. Vanessa had gone already, or so it appeared. Achille was searching the body of the man with the thin mustache, searching clumsily but swiftly, tearing at the dead man’s clothing with his hooks. Skip motioned to him.

Then ran, sprinting to keep up. A perforated metal guard kept his left hand away from the hot barrel of the submachine gun. As he ran, he tried to guess how many cartridges were left. His first burst had been … Ten or twelve? More? The second about five. How many shots did these things hold?

Chelle had stopped to look back at him. He slowed and managed to gasp, “Where we going?”

“To Stateroom One!” She pointed up. “Run!” At once, she was dashing away, easily outdistancing him.

“Mon! Mon!”

He stopped and turned.

“They after us!” Achille waved a hook.

“Get down,” Skip told him, and raised the submachine gun.

* * *

The veranda had seemed safest, so that was where he was. If they came, there would be no chance for him to run out into the corridor. But if they looked only through the Changeglass veranda doors, they would not see him sitting on weathered teak on the far side of the farthest chair.

This was B Deck, he decided. This veranda was larger than their own, so B Deck or A Deck. And the sun was—oh, blessedly! blessedly!—sinking into the western sea.

Idly, he explored his empty submachine gun. Push this little switch down, and the trigger would not move. Push it up and it would. This button held the sheet-metal box that should (but did not) contain cartridges.

“Here, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is the very weapon employed by the defendant—that is to say, by me. My esteemed colleague the prosecutor will try to draw your attention from it. I must draw your attention to it. The weapons employed by criminals—”

His mobile phone vibrated. Laying aside the empty submachine gun, he found the tiny, shaking instrument and flipped it open.

His first whisper was so soft that he could not hear it himself. He tried again: “Hello?”

“This you, sir? You’re in shadow.”

“Yes, Mick, it’s me. I’m outside and the sun’s almost down. Ask questions if you want to establish my identity.”

“Okay. Who’re we defending in the cyborg case?”

“John J. Weyer.”

“Who’s Virginia Healy?”

“That’s a name that a certain woman may have used when she went into the hospital.”

“Fine, it’s you. I’ve got the Z man’s report. The name she gave at the hospital was the first one you gave me when you called, Vanessa Hennessey. The hospital was South Side Community. She checked herself out the next day. Do you—?”

“Wait,” Skip said. “Early or late?”

“Eight fifteen. My guess is that’s as early as she could do it.”

“I concur.” Skip paused to think, shading his eyes as he stared out at the Caribbean. “What else?”

“Nothing much except the knife. The Z man got a look at it, but they wouldn’t let him take a picture. It was a steak knife, he said. Thermosetting handle, ten-centimeter blade, slightly curved. Serrated. Sharp point.”

“Ah!”

Tooley chuckled. “Glad we pushed your button.”

“Anything else?”

“Mixed descriptions of the stabber. The cop—his name is Burgos—found three people who said they’d seen him. He was average height, tall, well dressed, white, and Latino. He was or wasn’t carrying something in his other hand, a newspaper or an attaché case. Helpful?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you going to ask whether we’ve found Vanessa Hennessey, sir?”

“I never told you to find her. I asked you to try to trace her movements.”

“Meaning that you know where she is.”

“Correct.”

“Still alive?”

Skip sighed. “I hope so. She’s Chelle’s mother. I told you that.”

“Yes, sir. How is she? Ms. Blue, I mean.”

“Mastergunner Blue. She’s not out yet, although she will be soon. Technically, she’s on leave.”

“I’ve never seen her, sir, and I’ve been trying to get a description. I know you’re contracted.”

“Correct.” Skip sighed again. “We are.”

“Beautiful?”

“Depends. How do you feel about tall, rangy blondes with one hand bigger than the other?”

Tooley chuckled. “That would depend on which hand, sir.”

“The right hand.”

“Love them. I may try to move in on you.”

“You’d probably succeed. I haven’t told you about the clear blue eyes or the glowing smile. You may never see them, but they’re there.”

“Going to keep her under wraps, sir?”

“I wish I could.”

“There’s something—well, I hesitate to mention it, sir. But…”

“You feel you should. I’ve got something like that, too. You first.”

“All right.” Tooley took an audible breath. “Your secretary’s resigned. That was day-before-yesterday. I talked to her.”

Skip said nothing.

“I didn’t learn a lot, sir.”

“Susan? Susan quit?”

“Yes, sir. I asked her to stay ’til Friday to brief Dianne. And me. Next week Dianne will have to hold the fort. With you away, there can’t be much for her to do. She’ll have a half a year to get the feel of it.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m the one who told her, sir. I said she was your acting secretary until you came back, that she’d have to ask all her questions fast, and that you’d decide whether to make it permanent when you got back.”

The sun was almost down; Skip peeped at it, a segment of burning red gold. “I may not come back,” he told Tooley. “I’ll explain that in a moment. Did Susan give any reason for resigning?”

There was a silence. Skip waited.

At length: “I think you know the reason, sir.”

“Of course I do, Mick. That wasn’t what I asked you. I want to know what she said, if anything.”

“She said she would never be thirty again, sir.”