Mercedes Lackey - The Wizard of Karres

In a tight-knit bunch, they left the chaos of the dressing rooms and headed out.

The first thing that Pausert saw was that the vatch had exceeded its mandate. The bunch of people shooting at them should not have been able to fire anything at all, since their heads had been doused in luminous lime-green paint. The vatchlet must have raided the Petey B 's main store, not just the little props-room cupboard.

But the Nanites, it seemed, didn't need human eyes to see well enough to shoot. A blaster bolt seared above them, hitting another strut, bringing down a large banner.

"They're between us and the Thunderbird ," said Hulik, drawing her own elegant little blaster from an outfit that Pausert would have thought couldn't hide a toothpick. She started returning the fire.

Another paint-head tried a flanking shot. His paint-soaked blaster exploded, just as the Leewit gave a shattering whistle. Whether it was the paint or the whistle that caused that was a matter for later academic discussion.

Goth narrowed her eyes and looked intently at a surviving speaker-bank above another group of painted heads. It began, slowly, to totter, as an already off-balance pile will when an extra wedge is teleported under its base. Moments later, tumbling tons of electronic speakers were hurtling down on the painted heads.

Another group found they'd made a mistake with their target. Timblay folded neatly, avoiding the blaster fire with a contortionist's skill, and started shooting back with a Blythe rifle.

"Keep going towards the Thunderbird ," said Sedmon. "The other Sedmons are controlling her computer system remotely. They activated blaster tracking. Whatever you do, Hulik, don't fire again."

Blaster tracking meant that the Thunderbird 's weapons systems responded with automatic ship-fire to any active weapon in the vicinity. Pausert could only hope that the Petey B 's own defenses didn't get manned. He had a feeling there wouldn't be much left of the old showboat if the Thunderbird really cut loose.

A trio of painted heads appeared from behind a tumble of flats. Pul bit one of them as the captain cold-cocked another. A flying paint-pot materialized in the face of the third attacker and did for him.

In the background, the Thunderbird 's guns vaporized steel and a Nanite-carrier. The Nanites didn't seem to have realized yet that firing immediately made them a target. It suddenly occurred to Pausert that while the Nanites were clearly able to think, the diffuse form of their intelligence made them relatively slow witted.

They had no sense of macrocosmic scale, clearly enough! The Nanites themselves were micrometers in size, and didn't seem to be able to gauge proportions properly in their human hosts. Mannicholo and Master Himbo came charging through, mounted on pair of fanderbags—and several of the Nanite-carriers raced up to stop them. With the pancake-flat results you'd expect.

The tide had turned. Still, the Nanites kept shooting—and being vaporized almost instantly by the Thunderbird 's deadly guns every time they did. They seemed incapable of learning the lesson.

* * *

Within minutes, it was no longer a case of retreating to the Thunderbird . It was a case of mopping up.

But as the sun came up over Yin Bauh district 323, one thing was plain.

When the next shift came off-duty, there would be no show.

Himbo Petey looked at the chaos which had once bragged the name "The Greatest Show in the Galaxy." He sighed, reflexively twirled his mustachios, and then uncharacteristically stopped and sat down. His shoulders drooped. He shook his head. There was a small tear in the corner of his eye.

Dame Ethulassia came and sat next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. "We'll get it all back together again, Himbo," she said in a quiet voice, quite unlike her usual brassy contralto.

"No. Not this time, Ethy," he replied quietly, sadly. "The old show is over. What is left of the lattice ship will be broken up for scrap. We could have afforded to get off-world, since there's enough money for fuel. But there's nothing extra for repairs. Not repairs on this scale, anyway. And with this wreckage, we can't even put on a show to earn any more."

He sighed. "No, we'll have to sell the old girl off for scrap and pay off the artistes as best we can. This is the end of the Petey, Byrum and Keep."

Mannicholo's colors turned a melancholy blue. The other show-people looked silently at the walls and scuffed shoes.

"Ahem." One of the two Sedmons cleared his throat, stepping forward from where the clones stood with the Venture 's crew. "Perhaps we can be of assistance?"

Himbo looked at him and laughed bitterly. "I think you've assisted me to ruin well enough already, thank you."

"Quite." The Sedmons nodded in unison, looking just a trace embarrassed. "And thus it seems only fair that we should attempt to make amends. I think we may safely assume that Messrs. Byrum and Keep are long dead?"

Himbo Petey shrugged. "Legend traces the show all the way back to Old Yarthe. The lattice ship is at least fifteen centuries old. She's held together with hull-metal welds on hull-metal welds. I presume there must once have been a Byrum and a Keep. Like the name Petey: All gone now." He picked up a handful of premier deluxe-box tickets and flung them like confetti up into the air.

"So, you, Himbo Petey, are the sole owner?" continued the other Sedmon, ignoring the theatricals.

Himbo looked at the still smoldering remains of the bright lattice awnings. "Of this ruin? Yes. It would be a waste of effort suing me, though. By the time my creditors are finished, there won't even be a square inch of skin for you to auction off at the slave market."

The Sedmons frowned, again in that uncanny unison. "We have no intention of suing you. How would you feel about another partner?" His clone cleared his throat. "One with, ah, capital to invest."

The Showmaster blinked at them. "Invest in what? This wreckage? Where would I find such a fool?"

The Sedmons smiled sardonically. "It seems likely to me, Showmaster, that you might find at least two right here," said the one.

"Has it not occurred to you that such destruction and such expense would only be incurred for very high stakes?" continued the other.

Himbo shook his head, refusing to allow any trace of hope to trickle into his mind. "Your 'high stakes,' Mister Twins-or-Clones, are very small compared to the debts we've racked up. I leave aside the cost of getting the lattice ship into space again. I'm sorry, but you just don't have any idea what repairing the Petey, Byrum and Keep would cost."

"On the contrary," said one Sedmon. "This estimate is child's play."

His eyes and those of his clone flicked here and there, assessing the damage. Very expert eyes, they seemed. Not surprising, thought Pausert. The Daals of Uldune would be experts at assessing havoc and ruin.

"Repairs would cost approximately seven million, three hundred thousand maels. Not more than eight million, for a certainty."

The other Sedmon chimed in. "Simply say the word, and you will find that the Petey, Byrum and Keep account has been credited with ten million maels."

"Which will mean your account would be in the black, for a change."

They each raised one eyebrow. "For the first time in generations, actually."

Pausert's conscience started tugging at his sleeve. While it went against the captain's grain to disrupt the dawning look of amazed hope on Himbo Petey's face, he also felt that it was only fair to explain to the Showmaster exactly who he was dealing with. Pausert had seen enough of Sedmon's operations to be very sure that Uldune had not moved that far from its piratical past. The Daal was—were? dealing with a six-way person was confusing—still neck-deep in smuggling and had certainly taken the lead over the Empire in some fields of weaponry, to judge by the latest display of firepower. The Showmaster might just prefer bankruptcy to being indebted to Uldune. The captain cleared his throat.