Steven E. McDonald - The Janus Syndrome.pdf - Steven E. McDonald - widez2

The Janus Syndrome

By Steven E. McDonald

Originally published by Bantam Books, 1981

ISBN-10: 0553149938

ISBN-13: 978-0553149937

Made available under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

(http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/)

To Pam and Sandy for the 'toons, the DNA, the cookies and the giraffe.

Thanks to Dirty Dick's No Pap Records for the records, and to Ben Bova for guidance, foresight and

inspiration.

1. ST. LOUIS BLUES

Click.

By Steven E. McDonald

The TV set I'd been staring at for twenty minutes suddenly shut down, leaving me to search for quarters while

checking my watch. Seeing the time, I stopped checking the watch. Your time is up, number three. At least

mine was.

I looked up and pulled a face, picked up a can of crapawful soda that I'd brought twenty minutes ago, and tried

it. Still crapawful. I wasn't exactly comfortable either; the TV seats the Greyhound Bus people had put into

the various terminals, including the St. Louis terminal, were designed to make you so uncomfortable you

didn't notice the crappy quality of the TV signal.

Show-me. The goddamned show-me state. Missouri didn't have much to show. I wasn't particularly interested

in looking, either. Area Fourteen had set one of his favorite midway contacts on me, cloak and dagger and all,

and I wasn't amused.

He refused to tell me why I was here, the assumption being I'd be able to pick up things for myself, looking at

everything, rather than having preconceptions.

So show me, Missouri.

I was approximately in the middle of the terminal, with a good view all around of a modern gray-and-black

urban plastic rat hole. Wide windows all along one side, ticket desks at the other, exit way in the distance, at

the bottom end, left luggage right behind me, lights high overhead, pillars at skewed intervals form one end to

the other, exit out to the buses back and on my right. I'd almost memorized the layout at the start. I'd had to.

On my left, an alcove filled with pinball machines and automatic soda vendors; I'd gotten the soda from there.

There was no one in there at the moment. Further down the terminal hall, there was a larger game room for

less transient people, and a cafeteria.

I watched the exit at the bottom, and the exit from the game room and cafÃ©. My contact was a remarkable

young creature called Kerry Fossen, and it would be like her to sneak up in back of me and shout boo, making

me piss my pants, and thanks, Area Fourteen. He'd love that. I'd damn near made a total physical wreck of

myself traveling Greyhound all the way from Fresno to St. Louis. And now, just to use a simple and highly

descriptive phrase, I was pissed off.

Area Fourteen loves handing me need-to-know assignments. Usually the stuff I didn't need to know was the

crucial stuff. I did a lot of fast talking and even faster running. I wasn't meeting Kerry to arrange for her to be

shipped up to Area Fourteen, nor was I the one to be shipped. All the damn Mastercomputer had to do there

was ship either of us a Bullet; instant zap, and there we are. Fortunately for my disposition, the midway

contact had brought me something to allow me to get a decent, if short, sleep.

I quit bitching at myself and watched harder, checking faces and looking for anything unusual. Kerry was a

fine agent, one of the most reliable -- some of them were garbage, barely capable of growing fat and old at the

same time. If Kerry had a contact time set, she'd do her damnedest not to undershoot or overshoot it.

I sighed and gave my eyes a test swing to make sure I could keep her in line of sight. Lady has a walk would

kill an octogenarian a fifty paces. More than the physical attraction, though, there was the attraction of

knowledge: she could point me in the right direction and tell me to go.

Need-to-know. Show-me. Whirrrr.

There are days I hate, and this was one.

I was worried, all the same. Situations like this could mean Enemy in the area. On occasion, silence is the only

By Steven E. McDonald

possible route; too many ears and eyes watching out for wisps of information. If there was an Enemy tag on

Kerry, it could mean trouble.

And if Kerry was in trouble, better break out the shining knights -- or at least a slightly overdone one. Enter

Kevven Tomari.

I checked my watch, checked the terminal clock, noted the positions of the big hand and little hand on the

terminal clock, and the shape of the figures on my expensive watch. Love my expense account, even if Area

Fourteen hates it.

Show-me.

He liked that motto, did Area Fourteen. Causing me trouble.

If the Enemy had tagged Kerry, though, they'd kill her. I was wary. We'd lost a lot of agents recently to

Enemy work. Too many.

I relaxed when I saw her coming through the entranceway at the bottom of the terminal; five feet of her, plus

afro, plus pantsuit. It was impossible to mistake her, even from this distance; there is simply no one else like

Kerry in an assortment of planets.

I got ready to go meet her, then stopped and dropped back into the seat.

Kerry was crossing the distance rapidly; she wasn't looking for me. For good reason.

Two of them, trailing her. They hadn't made any move on her yet, and that had to mean they were aware that

she was here to make a connection. They were going to hit contact and connection together, neat

double-header for them.

And for me, ugly as hell.

I watched them carefully, scanning side to side to check for others. None. Both white types, hair cut in similar

fashion, similar casual suites -- it prevents part of your team getting iced if you have a few identifying points

in the scrimmage -- one blue serge, one business gray. They were flanking her on either side, hands in their

pockets, some distance behind.

I tried to juggle strategy while watching them. If they followed pattern they'd try to corner us, and then shoot.

A couple of shots from .38 snubnoses would do the trick, cartridges only half-filled with cordite to cut the

noise. Silencers were too clumsy.

After the hit, a fast escape through a nearby exit, and personal transmission back to homebase.

Kerry didn't look at me as she went by, and neither did they.

I took out a pack of cigarettes, and made a show of looking for a match. Kerry was aware of her shadows, and

she'd passed the ball to me; I was going to have to work fast not to fumble the play, and I didn't have the

barest shred of a plan.

I was going to have to think on the fly.

I hate working blind.

By Steven E. McDonald

I stood up with the air of a True addict without a light, looked around in desperation, and settled on the nice

gent in gray walking by on my left. I picked up the heaviest of the two carryalls -- the one that held my

cassette recorder and headphones -- as I started off.

I caught up with him and plucked at his sleeve, slouching back a bit as he stopped and turned.

"You got a light, buddy?" I said.

His mouth opened slightly, and his eyes shifted to take in his partner, who was moving away from us, still

trailing Kerry.

"Well, actually --" he started.

I brought the bag sharply into his groin, doubling him over, took his hair in my free hand, slammed his face

into my knee, smashing his nose with a sound like an apple being smacked into a wall, dragged his head back

as I dropped the bag, and punched him in the throat with my fingers bent under.

I held him up for a moment while I checked his clothes with a fast frisk, slapping his pockets. Nothing. His

weaponry was elsewhere, and I didn't have time to search him properly.

I let him drop, swung, and shouted, "KERRY! GO!"

And then I was off and running myself, diving for cover in the annex where the Greyhound people had hidden

the soda and pinball machines; I'd memorized possible cover just for this sort of thing. I'd only been near

Enemy on Earth once before, and had escaped unscathed easily enough. This time it was different.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kerry running for a row of seats; she vaulted over the row, shoulder-bag

still in place, one small hand on the back of a seat, movements as lithe as a cat's.

I left the ground in a flying dive, and felt a breath of fire across my back, smelling ozone and smoke;

adrenaline surged. I hit the polished floor, slid a way, and rolled under a pinball table, crawling to take up

position behind a large soda machine.

I was weaponless, and about as much use as a hula-hoop during the goldrush. And judging by the heat across

my back and the smell of ozone, the Enemy were packing a lot more than .38 revolvers.

Another laser shot sliced into the soda machine next down the row from mine, melting a chunk of the facade

to slag. It broke away from the machine, molten-white and glaring, cooled rapidly on the way down, and

splashed onto the floor, blistering the wax and rapidly turning solid.

I shivered and drew back. If that guy caught me, I'd be as dead as a dog I'd seen run down in Columbia,

Missouri on the way here.

There was a low plopping sound, like corks being pulled from wine bottles. A needlegun. That had to be

Kerry; either someone had warned her or she'd come to the conclusion that she needed extra-powerful

weaponry, and had gotten it somehow.

And I was supposed to be the reinforcements.

I didn't like Area Fourteen's jokes.

At least Kerry would distract the other hit man, even if she didn't kill him. The other one was dead for sure; a

By Steven E. McDonald

punch in the throat doesn't lend itself to survival on the part of the victim.

I peered cautiously from my cover. I could barely see Kerry; she was hidden behind the seats. And the only

way I could judge where the hit man was hiding was from the direction of his beams.

One of the seats flared up.

I pulled back, wondering what to do. Kerry had all the weaponry, and I couldn't risk making a break for the

corpse out in the main area, if it was still there.

Somebody would have called the cops, and they'd be in easy reach of the place. And I'd be an easy target.

Kerry solved the problem with a fast group of needles. There was a yell, then a thud and clatter.

I checked, carefully. Kerry was rising from behind the burned seats, her gun held in both small hands, turning

in a slow circle, scanning the area, ready to fire. She was still wearing her shoulder-bag.

The other body would be gone by now, teleported away. Enemy never leave their losers lying around.

I broke my cover and started jogging out; I'd have to retrieve my bags, join Kerry, and then get out of this

place. There'd probably be more Enemy hanging around to make sure, and getting us to someplace safe so she

could hand me a Bullet transporter was going to be the hard part.

As I started across the terminal building toward her, I looked down toward the entrance. A group of cops was

on its way toward us, at a fast trot, guns at the ready.

I signaled Kerry with a wave; there was a parking lot behind the building, and a nearby exit. Area Fourteen

was going to have to sort out the mess himself -- he'd gotten us into it, and I was damned if I was going to get

screwed trying to clear it up myself.

Kerry dropped her gun back into her bag and signaled that she'd meet me on the outside. I followed her

reasoning. She was closer to another exit.

She started running, and I started to change direction.

And the third man started firing.

A tight shot caught Kerry in her left shoulder, flaring her jacket up. She screamed and lost her balance, hitting

the floor hard.

I had a flash of the dead dog.

People started hitting the floor again -- something I'd thought they did only in New York City -- and I skidded

around, almost losing my balance, starting toward Kerry.

She made it up from the floor just in time to avoid another shot. The beam singed her jacket as she staggered

away.

I dived behind the row of seats that she'd left, and rolled, flattening. Three shots struck the row, making the

plastic bubble, throwing up dark, oily smoke that made my eyes tear; I gagged. Kerry was almost at the exit;

as I watched, she stumbled and hit the doors with her good arm thrown out. Her aim was good enough; her

hand contacted metal instead of glass, and pushed the doors open as she fell through.

Steven E. McDonald - The Janus Syndrome.pdf

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