Steven Brust - My Own Kind of Freedom

“Corn, I was trying to see if it had been fixed.”

“Speaking of fixed,” said Jayne, tapping his belt knife while glaring at the smaller man.

Shorty scowled and didn’t dignify the threat with an answer.

Shorty was a foot shorter than Jayne, which wasn’t really that short, but Jayne had given him that name to sort of remind him who was in charge. Shorty didn’t much care for that, but so far hadn’t objected.

“How many of them you think are out there, Corn?” asked Shorty.

“At least three.”

“Between us and the door?”

“At least two. Probably all of them.”

“And there have to be more coming.”

“Yeah. The skimmer’s running, though.”

“If we can get to it.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“Why? You planning to throw me past them?”

“Not exactly.”

Jayne reached around and grabbed Shorty by his belt with one hand and the back of his neck with the other, then lifted him.

“What the—”

“You know, Shorty, I always hated it when you called me Corn.”

He made a break for the door.

By the time he made it to the door, Shorty had been hit at least five times, and probably more. He threw the remains into two of them who were bunched together and charged the third, taking a graze above the hip. Then he was on top of the third, then he was out the door, and, yes, the skimmer was running.

Thirty seconds later he was around the corner and headed out of town.

Jayne sighed. Not the best result for that job: couldn’t get to the vault and the money in the tills wasn’t anything to retire on. And he was bleeding. And his sister was going to need a new husband. And he was going to need a new world to live on.

He didn’t waste time going home; just headed straight for the docks.

“You’re a remarkable young man,” said the woman.

“Ma’am?”

She seemed to be only a few years older than he was; too young to be calling him “young man.” But there was something about the over-lit, antiseptic office, devoid of all traces of personality, that hinted at both power and wisdom, forcing on him the feeling that she had the right to address him that way; and, he realized, causing him to address her as “ma’am” without his having made any conscious decision to do so. Interesting. Who was she, anyway?

“Do you know why you’re here, Lieutenant?”

“I haven’t a clue. I was told to come in for an exit interview, but—” he made a point of looking around the large office, “—this certainly isn’t an exit interview in any normal sense.”

She nodded slowly. Her nose was sharp as a beak, which added to her effect, as did her short, regulation haircut, and the severe outfit she wore—civilian garb that nevertheless hinted at the military. And then there was the mark on the side of her forehead: unmistakable sign of near-miss by a splitter. And a laser burn on her neck.

“As I said, a remarkable young man. I refer to what you’ve picked up on.”

“Excuse me, ma’am—” why fight it? “But the office, well, it seems obvious.”

“That part, yes. I refer to everything else you’ve already put together about who I am, and who I represent. That would tell you what you’re doing here, if you let it.”

“I don’t—”

“Go on, Lieutenant Merlyn. Tell me.”

He nodded. If it was a test, well, he had always enjoyed tests. “You’ve served in the line, and been wounded at least twice.”

“Go on.”

“You were military intelligence at one time, but you’re no longer with the Alliance Forces.”

“Which tells you what?”

“Uh… some branch of the feds—that is, Alliance Security—that I’ve never heard of?”

“What sort of branch?”

“Doing what you did with military intelligence?”

“Very good. So, what are you doing here, at just the time you want to leave the army?”

He blinked. “You want to recruit me,” he stated.

“Yes.”

“I don’t… I’d have thought that, if someone thought I was qualified for that, I’d have been recruited during the war. Or at least tested.”

“What was your last mission?”

“We were assigned to track down a renegade group of… oh.”

She nodded.

“The lieutenant was one of us,” she added.

“Which is why he kept making me make all the decisions.”

“Yes.”

“And the promotion meant I passed the test.”

“Yes. And then, of course, they laid down arms.”

“And I had no intention of making a career of this, and so—”

“Which bring us to my first question: why not?”

“Why not what? Become career military? I hate the army.”

“Then why did you re-enlist?”

“The war was still on.”

“So you enlisted as an idealist.”

“Actually, I enlisted as a private.”

“Out of a sense of conviction. Because of the cause.”

“Ugh. If you want to put it that way.”

“What would you call it, Lieutenant?”

“I—all right.”

“You were born in a blackout zone in New Tuscany on Ariel. Most people from your background join the army because it’s their only way out.”

“I had an uncle—”

“We know about your uncle.”

Kit nodded.

“My point, Lieutenant, is that the war is over, and the problems are just beginning. The Independents have surrendered; that doesn’t mean there isn’t work to be done. And, on top of that, what will you do? Beyond leaving the army, how far have your plans gone?”

“Well, I was thinking about a week-long bender on one of the core worlds.”

“And after that?”

“I’m not sure. I’d been thinking about going into teaching.”

She nodded. “I’m not surprised; you’d be a good teacher. You read people extraordinarily well. But you’d also be good at what you’re already half trained for. Reading people is a big part of our work, too. And the pay is a little better.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“I know. You’d also get training I think you’d enjoy.”

“Training in—?”

“Many things. How to break electronic codes, for starters; you seem to have an aptitude.”

He shrugged. “Suppose I take you up on your offer. You say there’s work to be done. What sort of work?”

She frowned. “There are things—”

“Excuse me. I asked that because I have some ideas of the sorts of things this department does, and—”

“And you want no part of them.”

Kit nodded.

“I think we’ll be able to find you work you’ll be happy to do.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“Not really; not until you’re sworn in.”

“By which time it’ll be too late.”

“You can always quit.”

“Can I?”

“Yes.”

Kit sighed. “You’re good at your job, ma’am.”

“Meaning?”

“In spite of all reason, something in me wants to trust you.”

“Colonel, we’re just not getting the supplies.”

“I know.”

“And, so far, we’ve had four regiments assigned to the same position, with nothing but empty space on each side.”

“I know.”

“If they do try to come through—”

“They will. They’re massing. If it isn’t the biggest and stupidest bluff of the century, they’ll be coming.”

“Well, we aren’t in any position to stop them.”

“You spoke with Captain Baur?”

“Yes, sir. She gave me permission to talk to you directly.”

“But couldn’t be bothered to herself?”

Mal shrugged. “She has enough on her hands. She’s trying to scavenge ammunition. And boots. And convince three other captains to take positions that weren’t assigned to them, with no orders from upstairs.”