Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

... SORRY TO GET YOU UP, BUT I KNEW YOU'D WANT TO SIGN THIS WARRANT YOURSELF.

. .

The P.O. was Leonard Dickey, sharp as they made them, and Napier knew he could rely on his situation estimate. "It's pretty quiet, sir," Dickey said.

Napier had his hands clasped behind his back and was looking at the opposite bulkhead, covered with communications screens in groups of twenty, each group monitored by a yeoman who played the sound in and out on all of them constantly and absorbed, by some process of osmosis that Napier didn 't understand, what was going on on all twenty at once.

. . . AND ASK YOURSELF, WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY?. . .

"Go on, son," Napier said. "I'm listening."

"Except for Mallorysport, Commodore. Sounds like they're getting ready for a war or somethin' down there."

"Which bay is that on?" Napier asked.

"Five and part of six, sir," Dickey replied.

"How so? "Napier asked. "You mean there's an unusual flurry of traffic?"

"Yes, sir." Dickey said.

Napier had drifted over to stand behind the yeoman's station on bay five.

Almost all the screens had active transmissions instead of the usual static scenic views from pickups on top of the tallest buildings that prevailed at this time of night. "How do you sense this out, Dickey?" Napier asked.

. . . ZEBRA FIVE-CHECKING WANTS AND WARRANTS, WE JUST FILED ONE FOR SUSPICION

OF AS^ SAULTING AN OFFICER. SUBJECT CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS. GO IN AND

PICK HIM UP. YOUR BACKUP IS IN THE AIR AND CLOSING ON YOUR LOCATION. . .

"Well, sir," Dickey said. "There was a shooting along toward the end of the Evening Watch, before I came on. Somebody plugged a girl down in Junktown.

Ordinarily, this wouldn't amount to a hoot on Nifflheim. It's nothing unusual in that part of Mallorysport. But this time! The whole damned town blew up.

Both police chiefs went down to their offices in the middle of the night-and they're still there. The Attorney General jumped out of bed, woke up the Colonel Marshal, and started cranking out warrants. The Colonial Constabulary surrounded the city and are checking papers on everyone that tries to leave. I never saw anything like it, Commodore."

"Hmmmrnm," Napier said. "Anything specific on the shooting?"

"Yes, sir," Dickey replied. "They found the girl and she's still alive. They put out an attempted murder want on-uh-" Dickey peered over the yeoman's shoulder at a tog sheet. "Hugo Ingermann. Some kind of fat cat in the local underworld."

"Hmmmmmm," Napier said again. "I think I'll sit in on this station for a while and get the feel of this. Where's your commo chief, by the way?"

"Uhhhh, I think he went down to the Chief's messroom for a sandwich, sir."

Dickey said. "Shall I go check?"

"Please do," Napier said, as he tapped the yeoman on the shoulder and slid into the control chair at the console. With some effort, Napier kept a straight face. He knew perfectly well where the commo chief was. He was in the time-honored location occupied by commo chiefs on the Mid-watch for as long as there had been modem navies. He was asleep on his bunk with his clothes on, his senior Petty Officer instructed to wake him if anything developed that looked like it might shake the foundations of the universe- or draw a senior officer to the Communications Center.

Napier began playing the keyboard. Dickey was right, all right. It sounded like every cop in Mallorysport was busier than a Fuzzy with the trots and a dull chopper-digger. They were rounding up shady characters by the platoon, and scouring the city for this Ingermann guy. Of course, from what Napier had been able to gather, they had been after Ingermann's pelt for years, now, and they finally had him on an airtight charge. But the whole Mallorysport underworld, headquartered in Junktown, was starting to blow up and leak radiation all over the place. The ratcatchers were looking for business; the rats were all scurrying to find a hole to hide in.

Presently, Chief Petty Officer Dave Thoss arrived, and seemed thoroughly conversant with the situation-as indeed he was, because Dickey had briefed him on it while he washed his face, combed his hair, and slipped his shoes on.

"Screwy, isn 't it? " Chief Thoss said. "What do you make of it, Commodore?"

"I don't like it, Chief," Napier said. "Don't like it a bit. This is more like a combat zone than a normal, rowdy honky-tonk part of town where the principal commerce is the separation of military personnel from their pay."

An open communications screen, previously silent, erupted into activity.

COLCON CAR FORTY-EIGHT- COME TO NEW VECTOR HEADING TWO-SEVEN-NINER-DEPRESS

TWELVE DEGREES-PUT A SHOT ACROSS THAT GUY'S BOW-GREEN AIRBOAT, NUMBER

ONE-SEVEN-ZERO-ONE STROKE PAUL VICTOR. FAILURE TO ACKNOWLEDGE HAIL.

"They really mean business," Dickey said.

"Seems to me they're trying to keep the town buttoned up tight," Chief Thoss said. "The City of Houston just dropped out of hyperspace. She's due to dock on Darius at 1100, and I imagine they're afraid their man might slip on board and get away."

"Hmmmmm," Napier said. "What's our vessel on standby status tonight?"

"Just a moment, sir," Chief Thoss said. He consulted a clipboard hanging on the bulkhead behind them, then turned and stepped back over to the station.

"It's the San Pablo, sir," he said. "Light cruiser, she is. Commander Akerblad commanding."

"Good man, Akerblad," Napier said. "Put her on full alert right now-and load a company of Marines right after morning chow-full combat gear. I'll talk to Tom McGraw a little later on." After he's spirited whichever female ensign he's currently fooling around with out of his quarters, he added silently. "But you go ahead and send the order down through channels to the brigade operations officer at 0730, and log the action on my V.O.C.O."

"Yes, sir," Chief Thoss said. "Sounds like you 're expecting trouble, Commodore."

Napier leaned back in the control chair and laced his fingers together across the back of his head. "Not necessarily , Chief, not necessarily. I just have a dreadful dislike of the idea that trouble might come calling and find me with my britches down around my ankles."

Victor Grego stood in his robe on the south terrace of his penthouse apartment on the roof of Company House, sipped from a mug of hot coffee, and wiggled his bare toes in the grass-real grass, not artificial. He was fond of saying that he lived on his own real turf. He made a mental note to get after the gardener about more frequent feeding and watering of the terrace lawn. It still hadn't come back up to snuff from the mobs of people marching around on it during Ahmed and Sandra's wedding reception.

Ghu! but he felt rested. He hadn't slept so well in years. The timer chimed on his public 'screen and he turned from the early morning sunlight and brisk, invigorating fresh air to go inside and watch the news 'cast.

He made a detour through the kitchen, where he stopped, nuzzled under the ear of the strawberry blonde, and patted her bottom.

"Victor!" she said. "Stop that. You'll make me cut myself."

"Well, my goodness, Christiana," he said, shaking a fresh cigarette out of the pack on the counter and lighting it, "we can't have that. Wouldn't do to damage that splendid carcass."

She stopped what she was doing and turned toward him. "Don't you think," she said, "under the circumstances, that you could start calling me 'Chris,' like everyone else does?"

"Nope," Grego said airily. "I dislike diminutives. I am, however, fond of nicknames, and shall proceed to think about one for you." He swept out of the kitchen. "Something appropriate," he said. " 'Punkin,' perhaps."

"Punkin!" she shrilled, and hurled a mushroom at his receding back.

Now, then-he opened the key on the communications screen-to see just what the newshounds have sniffed out about this shooting business.