Free Analog Science Fiction And Fact - June 2014 by Penny Publications Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
many people. Too tightly compacted. The best he could do was insinuate himself through the periphery, advancing down the jetty in an awkward succession of detours, deviations, and evasions... Soup on a stovetop. That was the comparison that occurred to Baldwin. The squirm and jostle on the docks reminded him of a boiling cauldron.
He was simultaneously consumed by a frantic sense of urgency and by a cold drench of doubt.
What if he didn't reach Usiga in time?
What if he
did?
Usiga was a trained killer. Baldwin wasn't. Baldwin was a middle-aged journalist. His only weapons were words... Was the pen really mightier than the sword? Baldwin was dubious. No one who had tried to parry a scimitar with a stylus was available for comment. The honored dead rarely were.
Even as Baldwin struggled so desperately to get to Usiga, his hindbrain was spinning, trying to decide what to do when he got there. Baldwin had no illusions about himself. He was no storybook hero. If he were foolish enough to challenge Usiga, he'd be swatted like a bothersome insect. No—a physical confrontation with Usiga was out of the question. What other options did he have?
Words,
he thought.
If my only weapons are words, maybe I should make use of them.
"Stop!" he shouted. "Thief!" He pointed nowhere, anywhere, everywhere—a nonspecific gesture of accusation aimed at nobody in particular. "There! Don't let him get away! Stop that thief!"
Sensation.
Confusion.
Milling vortexes of commotion formed within the crowd as attempts were made to apprehend the culprits. Three of them. As Baldwin had guessed, more than one pickpocket had been working the docks. Now they panicked and made frantic attempts to escape. They filtered through the crush like wisps of steam, dodging and weaving and eluding outstretched hands.
Baldwin selected a Dokharan at random—a ventriloquist who had been entertaining a knot of cubs on the sidelines—grasped his unencumbered wrist, and bellowed: "Here! I've got him! Help!"
His victim took a quick step toward Baldwin, elbow bent. He freed himself from Baldwin's grip with a sudden jerk of his arm, staggered back, and drew a knife, but the people who had responded to Baldwin's call closed in on him like an incoming tide. His arms were pinned to his sides. Other hands lifted him off his feet. He struggled futilely in their grasp, snarling and cursing fluently.
Baldwin stood perfectly still, allowing the center of the conflict to flow past him, then began edging toward Usiga's booth. The congestion hadn't been dispersed by the disturbance, but it had been redistributed, creating regions of lesser density and even one or two circles of open space. Baldwin squeezed through the press, shoving and elbowing, pushing and nudging, apologizing for his rude behavior without desisting from it, moving from one impact to the next like a pinball colliding with a succession of bumpers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tumanzu emerge from the innards of the
Izanumi
and start down the gangway. Usiga extracted a dart from the hundreds of misses that were embedded in the backdrop behind the targets.
A good hiding place,
Baldwin acknowledged.
Very clever.
Not a needle concealed in a haystack but a needle concealed in a jumble of needles.
With a last gasp of effort, Baldwin bulldozed through the skirmish of bystanders that still separated him from Usiga. He assumed a position that blocked Usiga's view and spoiled Usiga's aim. Usiga gave him a glare of undiluted hostility.
Words,
Baldwin reminded himself.
Words are your weapons.
He leaned closer and raised his voice to make himself heard above the bedlam on the pier. "Tajok!" he yelped.
Usiga's eyes narrowed. His face curdled to a scowl.
"Tajok is dead!" Baldwin made a sweeping gesture of cancellation. "You have no employer! Your contract is no longer valid!"
Baldwin had been uncomfortable in the role of a hero rushing to the rescue. He was much more convincing as a newsman delivering the news.
He was simultaneously consumed by a frantic sense of urgency and by a cold drench of doubt.
What if he didn't reach Usiga in time?
What if he
did?
Usiga was a trained killer. Baldwin wasn't. Baldwin was a middle-aged journalist. His only weapons were words... Was the pen really mightier than the sword? Baldwin was dubious. No one who had tried to parry a scimitar with a stylus was available for comment. The honored dead rarely were.
Even as Baldwin struggled so desperately to get to Usiga, his hindbrain was spinning, trying to decide what to do when he got there. Baldwin had no illusions about himself. He was no storybook hero. If he were foolish enough to challenge Usiga, he'd be swatted like a bothersome insect. No—a physical confrontation with Usiga was out of the question. What other options did he have?
Words,
he thought.
If my only weapons are words, maybe I should make use of them.
"Stop!" he shouted. "Thief!" He pointed nowhere, anywhere, everywhere—a nonspecific gesture of accusation aimed at nobody in particular. "There! Don't let him get away! Stop that thief!"
Sensation.
Confusion.
Milling vortexes of commotion formed within the crowd as attempts were made to apprehend the culprits. Three of them. As Baldwin had guessed, more than one pickpocket had been working the docks. Now they panicked and made frantic attempts to escape. They filtered through the crush like wisps of steam, dodging and weaving and eluding outstretched hands.
Baldwin selected a Dokharan at random—a ventriloquist who had been entertaining a knot of cubs on the sidelines—grasped his unencumbered wrist, and bellowed: "Here! I've got him! Help!"
His victim took a quick step toward Baldwin, elbow bent. He freed himself from Baldwin's grip with a sudden jerk of his arm, staggered back, and drew a knife, but the people who had responded to Baldwin's call closed in on him like an incoming tide. His arms were pinned to his sides. Other hands lifted him off his feet. He struggled futilely in their grasp, snarling and cursing fluently.
Baldwin stood perfectly still, allowing the center of the conflict to flow past him, then began edging toward Usiga's booth. The congestion hadn't been dispersed by the disturbance, but it had been redistributed, creating regions of lesser density and even one or two circles of open space. Baldwin squeezed through the press, shoving and elbowing, pushing and nudging, apologizing for his rude behavior without desisting from it, moving from one impact to the next like a pinball colliding with a succession of bumpers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tumanzu emerge from the innards of the
Izanumi
and start down the gangway. Usiga extracted a dart from the hundreds of misses that were embedded in the backdrop behind the targets.
A good hiding place,
Baldwin acknowledged.
Very clever.
Not a needle concealed in a haystack but a needle concealed in a jumble of needles.
With a last gasp of effort, Baldwin bulldozed through the skirmish of bystanders that still separated him from Usiga. He assumed a position that blocked Usiga's view and spoiled Usiga's aim. Usiga gave him a glare of undiluted hostility.
Words,
Baldwin reminded himself.
Words are your weapons.
He leaned closer and raised his voice to make himself heard above the bedlam on the pier. "Tajok!" he yelped.
Usiga's eyes narrowed. His face curdled to a scowl.
"Tajok is dead!" Baldwin made a sweeping gesture of cancellation. "You have no employer! Your contract is no longer valid!"
Baldwin had been uncomfortable in the role of a hero rushing to the rescue. He was much more convincing as a newsman delivering the news.