Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Reign of the Brown Magician

“I don’t know,” she said.

Pel waited, and after a moment she continued, “All my life, I survived by waiting. When I was a little girl I survived the Viet Cong by waiting until my parents saw their chance. Then I survived the Cambodian pirates who sank our boat by not fighting back while they killed my family and raped me, and I survived the refugee camps by never causing trouble, and I survived the racists and sadists all through school and college and law school by just putting up with their abuse. I always played by whatever the rules were, to survive; I became a lawyer so I could have the rules on my side for once. Whoever knows the rules, whoever makes and interprets the rules, comes out on top. So I didn’t fight the spaceship pirates or the slavers-they had the rules, and I didn’t.”

“So why’d you shoot Shadow, then? She made whatever rules she wanted!”

“Because I was tired of playing by the rules,” Susan said. “I was tired of being passive; I wanted to finally do something more than survive. If Shadow died, we could change the rules any way we wanted.”

“But she killed you,” Pel said.

“But she killed me,” Susan agreed. “It was stupid. I should have just waited, the same as I always have.”

Pel hesitated. She’d tried to be a hero, and she’d wound up dead, and Pel figured that that was what always happened to heroes in real life, but here she was. This was real life, but it was like a story, too-the fact that he was alive and Shadow wasn’t proved that. “But it’s turned out okay,” he said. “I mean, you’re alive again, and I guess now I make the rules, so you’re safe.”

She stared silently at him.

* * * *

The room was cool, but Spaceman Hitchcock was sweating visibly.

Bascombe smiled bitterly at that. As if Hitchcock had anything to sweat about! He was probably about to be proclaimed a hero for coming back up the ladder alive, as if that was some great accomplishment. Hitchcock was just scared because he was face to face with Space Marshal Albright and Secretary Markham-the poor little nobody wasn’t used to facing the big brass. Hell, he’d be nervous just facing Under-Secretary John Bascombe, and these two were probably here to shoot Bascombe’s career down in flames.

If he’d had just a little longer Bascombe thought he could have pulled it off, could maybe have moved the Department of Interdimensional Affairs out of the Department of Science and right up to cabinet level.

“Just tell us about it, Spaceman Hitchcock,” Secretary Markham said. “Don’t worry about the formalities. This Major Johnston offered you a deal?”

“No, sir,” Hitchcock said. “He offered the lieutenant a deal, and the lieutenant wouldn’t take it. Me, they just told to come back here and report-I didn’t have to do a thing in return.”

Markham nodded, and Bascombe frowned.

“And what was it that you were to report, Spaceman?” Marshal Albright asked.

“He said-Major Johnston said to just tell you what happened, and that they want to talk, they aren’t hostile. That’s all. And that you get the lieutenant and the others back when you agree to talk, and not before.”

“And do you think that’s the truth?” Albright asked.

Hitchcock blinked. “Do I think what’s the truth, sir?”

“That these people aren’t hostile.”

“I don’t know, sir. They treated us all right, but…well, that doesn’t mean much.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Albright agreed. He glanced at the silent figure of his personal telepath, then at the Secretary of Science.

Bascombe wondered how Albright could stand having a telepath with him all the time. It was supposed to be a great honor to have one’s own telepath, with one at all hours of the day or night, but that was an honor Bascombe could do without-a damn mutant freak spying on him every second. Bad enough working with them when he was on duty.

Markham had one, as well, of course. Bascombe supposed the telepaths had names and identities of their own, but no one had introduced them; they were just there, part of the background.

That was a drawback to political advancement he had never really considered.

Secretary Markham leaned forward and said, “Spaceman Hitchcock, this Major Johnston is the highest-ranking official we’ve yet contacted on Earth. Do you think you could go to Terra and tell the Emperor about him?”

Hitchcock went white, and Bascombe winced. In all his years of political jockeying he had never yet had the honor of reporting directly to His Imperial Majesty, and here this poor frightened gee-puller was being offered an audience.

That was an honor Bascombe did want-but he wasn’t about to get it.

Hitchcock stammered incoherently until Albright finally broke in. “Never mind, Spaceman; I don’t think we need to send you to Terra.”

Hitchcock relaxed, but at the same time a look of hurt disappointment crossed his face.

“Yet,” Albright added. “I’m sure that eventually His Majesty will want to meet you and thank you.”

Hitchcock nodded.

Albright and Markham leaned together to confer for a moment, and Albright’s telepath leaned in with a word or two as well; then Markham turned and looked straight at Bascombe.

“Mr. Bascombe,” he said, “I believe we’ve heard everything we need from Spaceman Hitchcock for the present, but there are a few things we’d like to ask you. If you would be so kind…?”

He gestured toward the interrogation chair, where an Imperial guard was guiding Hitchcock to his feet.

Bascombe straightened. Here it was, at last. If he could sell this, he was made.

If not, he was ruined.

He rose and rounded the table, watching the telepaths as he went.

* * * *

“He doesn’t look very healthy,” Johnston said, eyeing the pale, black-garbed figure. It was a deliberate understatement; the gaunt stranger looked downright corpselike.

“Doesn’t seem to be able to talk, sir,” the lieutenant said. “I haven’t gotten a sound out of him-not so much as a grunt. He just sits there.”

“Do you speak English?” Johnston asked loudly.

The stranger didn’t stir; he simply sat, staring straight ahead. A layer of grayish dust covered the family room sofa, but this mysterious person didn’t seem to notice. Johnston looked at the stranger’s hands, and at the largely-undisturbed dust.

He hadn’t touched the couch anywhere except where he now sat.

That didn’t seem natural.

An airman stood beside the couch, one hand on the stranger’s shoulder. Johnston looked at that, and the lieutenant followed his gaze.

“If we don’t physically hold him he starts walking away,” the lieutenant explained. “Frankly, sir, I think he’s mentally disturbed-autistic, or something. We can’t communicate with him at all.”

“Then how’d he get into the basement here?” Johnston asked.

“I don’t know, sir-I didn’t see him arrive. Just all of a sudden he was there.”

“We might just let him go and see what he does,” Johnston said.

No one answered. The black-clad stranger didn’t move.

The fellow looked like a corpse, Johnston thought. It was hard to believe he could move at all.

“Let him go,” Johnston said.

The airman hesitated, then lifted his hand.

The pale man stood, rising smoothly from the couch without a single wasted motion, and began walking. Johnston, the lieutenant, the FBI man, and one of the three airman followed; at Johnston’s command the other two airmen remained in the family room.

Johnston had expected the stranger to aim for the front door, but instead the silent visitor marched up the stairs and into the master bedroom. There he paused for a moment, scanning the room, then headed for one of the dusty, cluttered dressers. He picked up a hairbrush, then another, and another; clutching the three brushes in one hand he turned and scanned the room again.