Gremlins 2050

By A. Bradbury

Call it chance or fate, something brings four young gremlin (corporate espionage agents) wannabes together to form a new team.  Can they overcome their personal differences and the opposition of jealous rivals to bring down the largest crime ring in the metroplex?

• Language: English
• Publisher: TOPLINK PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: May 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781950540952

A. Bradbury

Mr. Bradbury is a lover of tales of might be. With a name like Bradbury, he has to write SF. He has worked in electronics and public transportation, but is now retired. Mr. Bradbury lives in Utah, like many great writers, with his wife and the required enormous housecat. He has been a fixture at Utah's SF conventions for decades.

Book preview

Gremlins

2050

A. Bradbury

Copyright © 2019 by A. Bradbury.

Paperback:  978-1-950540-94-5

eBook:  978-1-950540-95-2

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to Heroes, Heroines and the Saturday Night gaming group, which has included over the years: David J. Borg, Erik Hahn, Mark & Rhiannon Mellen, Mike Schell, Troy Pierce, Jerry Allen Christensen, Tom Watts, Gordon Schwab, Charles Bradbury, Robert Bradbury, Karen and Brock Hussey, Kent Willis, Jack Quintana, Jim King, Mike Dawson, Jason Ryder, Marshall Rudd, Kerry Shipman, William Buffet Bill McKay, Michael and Jason Gayler, Elizabeth Borg and McKayle Blanchard.

Contents

Chapter One: Porcupine

Chapter Two: Lark

Chapter Three: Nightwatch

Chapter Four: Cinnamon

Chapter Five: Skeeter

Chapter Six: Squaretoe

Chapter Seven: The City

Chapter Eight: Mr. Greene

Chapter Nine: Blue Thunder

Chapter Ten: Club Ben Lomond

Chapter Eleven: The Work Of The Gremlin

Chapter Twelve: Payoff

Chapter Thirteen: White Noise

Chapter Fourteen: Colonel Macillwraith

Chapter Fifteen: Arian

Chapter Sixteen: Yashu Sombati

Chapter Seventeen: Damascus Wisconsin

Chapter Eighteen: The Armstrong Mansion

Chapter Nineteen: A Job Not Scooped

Chapter Twenty: King Philip The First

Chapter Twenty-One: Formal Inquest

Chapter Twenty-Two: Out Of The Mouths Of Babes

Chapter Twenty-Three: Recriminations

Chapter Twenty-Four: Siri Lin Streets

Chapter Twenty-Five: Elven Homeland

Chapter Twenty-Six: Vengeance

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Forewarned

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Funeral

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Susan

Chapter Thirty: A Gremlin At Last

Chapter Thirty-One: Fresh Work

Chapter Thirty-Two: Navaho Import And Export

Chapter Thirty-Three: Navaho Nation

Chapter Thirty-Four: Pallet Jocks

Chapter Thirty-Five: It’s A Wrap

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Quenching Of Flame

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Smuggler Struggles

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Tetsura’s Jackplate

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Jigger’s Turn

Chapter Forty: Take Someone With You

Chapter Forty-One: I Had To Forgive

Chapter Forty-Two: You Are My Friends

Chapter Forty-Three: Getting In

Chapter Forty-Four: Getting Out

Chapter Forty-Five: All Fools’ Dawn

Chapter Forty-Six: Dennis And Tetsura

Chapter Forty-Seven: The Oyabun And The King

Chapter Forty-Eight: One Last Fond Embrace

Chapter Forty-Nine: Salt Lake International

Chapter One: Porcupine

There was a new renter in apartment 4B, a lady of 19 or 20. The Porcupine hadn’t had but a glimpse of her as she had moved in, but he knew she wasn’t much to look at. She had two suitcases with her, nothing more. That wasn’t much furniture. 4B was a one room sleeper, like 4A but smaller. Porcupine couldn’t hear a thing at the door. That meant it was time to call on her and see if she had anything to boost.

He was a small boy, thin, with a shaggy mop of black hair above sharp black eyes. These eyes took turns staring through the keyhole of the smaller half of what used to be apartment 4. Not seeing anyone, he inserted a pick wire and twisted. The door was heavy and noisy. Something wasn’t right.

Look at your hands!

Inadvertently the boy glanced down. They were just hands. There was nothing unusual about them. Porcupine looked back up. The lady was seated in a corner at a table, where she couldn’t be seen from the keyhole. The suitcase that wasn’t bracing the door was open on the table before her. Porcupine couldn’t see what was happening inside it.

What’s wrong with my hands?

They’re empty.

The boy had presence of mind enough not to cry out. The new renter held a sawed off shotgun. A blast from either of its barrels would tear a hole through the other two second-story apartments big enough to pass a motorcycle. The boy gulped.

Before he could say he was just leaving, the gun gestured him to a chair. Sit. Talk. Porcupine dropped to the empty seat. The gun settled beside the suitcase, out of the boy’s reach but not the lady’s, pointing directly at the Porcupine’s midsection.

"What about, Señorita?"

What you’re doing in my apartment when you’re supposed to be in school.

Uh, um, I wanted to meet you, but I didn’t know if you were in.

But you couldn’t knock. The lady’s voice was hard as gemstones. Her matter-of-fact tone was more frightening than hysteria.

Porcupine was blushing under his dark complexion and scared to death. The neighbors would hear. They don’t like me. I don’t let them see me any more than I have to.

You’ve probably fenced too much of their property. What’s your name?

Jared Herrera. Everybody calls me Porcupine.

Call me Cinnamon. Do you live in this dump?

It was a nice house 130 years ago! Porcupine said hotly. But he toned himself down, lest he anger Cinnamon. "Back then it was a single-family house instead of being divided into seven apartments. Sí, I live upstairs with my father."

The lady’s face softened as she smiled slightly. Does he know you’re skipping school? Where is he?

He’s working in the big restaurant on Third West at Fourth North. Squaretoe’s. He don’t make enough money to send me to school.

Cinnamon’s voice softened to match her face. So I hear from your vocabulary. Does your father cook?

Porcupine figured that maybe she thought he wasn’t very threatening anymore. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. A waiter. He’s sick a lot, but he’s better when he gets his medicine, like now. He kept his own voice cheerful; he wasn’t capable of keeping emotions out of it.

What does he have?

I don’t know the medical name, but it’s eating his lungs and stuff. It isn’t cancer and it isn’t catchy.

I’m sorry to hear that, Porcupine. Is your father a widower, like mine?

No. Mama lives in New Orleans with her new husband. She is supposed to have me there, but she didn’t want me. Put me in a boarding school. I ran away and came back here to take care of Papa.

Cinnamon looked over from what she was working on. It sounds like you’ve had an exciting life, Porcupine. How old are you?

Eleven.

Cinnamon obviously didn’t believe him. It’s true! the boy insisted. It says so on my SIN papers.

You have a State Identification Number and they haven’t tracked you down and brought you back? Cinnamon’s voice betrayed more disbelief.

I never do anything official, so they can’t. Besides, I doubt Mama ever reported me missing. She didn’t want me. Most of my neighbors think Papa has custody. Those who know better don’t say anything because they know Papa needs me to take care of him and see he gets the medicine he needs. Everybody likes Papa.

He must be a remarkable man. Cinnamon reached a decision. Porcupine, I’m ready to forgive your intrusion, but only on two conditions. First, that we be friends. Friends don’t steal from each other or sell each other out. Second, I teach you to read and write and cipher.

I can already read and cipher, some.

Cinnamon went to her other suitcase, the one serving as a doorstop. She extracted something Porcupine had seldom seen: a paper book. Be gentle; it’s over forty years old. While I’m working, read to me.

Haltingly, slowly, the boy stumbled through the pages for almost an hour. To his surprise he got involved in the story and was upset when Cinnamon told him to stop.

"What are those things you’re making, Señorita Cinnamon?"

Please, just Cinnamon. These are booby traps, just in case there are others who want to see if I have anything to boost. While I install them, tell me what two plus three is.

Five.

Twelve plus four?

Sixteen.

Twelve minus four?

"Ocho. I mean, eight." Porcupine was proud of himself. He’d gotten them all correct without hesitation.

Two minus three?

You can’t do that. The most you can take from two is two.

Cinnamon smiled from the room’s window. If you’re talking about objects, you’re right. In the realm of imagination, however, anything is possible. Let me show you. Pretend this windowsill is a ruler. This mark is zero. There is a mark every centimeter, one, two, three, so on. Understand? Now, what if I measure the other way?

One, two, three, just like this way.

Ah, but this one and this one mark different places. They’re on opposite sides of the zero. So one is a positive one, zero plus one, and one is a negative one, zero minus one. Now, two minus three, you start at the positive two and count back three centimeters, to negative one.

Wow. Jared’s eyes went wide as he grasped this new concept.

Now you’ve boosted something, Porky, had some fun and made a new friend. Not a bad morning. Are you sorry you didn’t get to steal anything?

Not really, uh, Cinnamon. You’re nice, and smart, too.

The young woman smiled. You’re pretty smart yourself, kid. Education will give your brains something to work with. Have you a coat?

"Sí, upstairs."

Get it. I’ll treat you to lunch. I want to meet a man everybody likes. Oh, and Quill Pig?

Quill Pig?

It’s another name for the porcupine. Wash.

Porcupine pulled a face but ran for his coat. He made a pass at his clock with a damp cloth. While pulling his ragged red coat on he had a sudden realization. Cinnamon knew all about him, but he knew hardly anything about her! He was afraid again. He cursed his stupid big mouth for revealing his secret, his legal status; not that it was that great a secret. Quill Pig went down the stairs a lot more slowly than he had gone up.

Cinnamon’s coat was a faded, ugly, oversize green thing. She smiled at the boy as if she had something distracting her mind. As they started down the stairs she asked, How did you get your nickname, Jared?

When I showed up Papa was so glad to see me he made a lot of noise and the landlady, Mrs. Hobson, climbed up. She hates to climb stairs. She was real hot and cross when she got to the attic. I ‘member how scared I was of her. Papa brewed her some rose hip tea and flattered her and was so happy himself that it finally rubbed off. She quit being mad. She said the owner didn’t allow no kids. Papa said I wasn’t a kid, I was a pet porcupine. She said pets weren’t allowed, neither. Papa said she let old Mr. Roberts, he’s gone now, keep his pet snakes and green elephants. He only saw them when he was drunk, which was pretty much all the time. They weren’t real, Miss Cinnamon. Mrs. Hobson kicked him out three months later for not paying the rent. He was weird, but I kinda liked him. Papa worked it out I could stay if I made no noise or no trouble, and mostly I don’t.

But you break into apartments when you think the renters aren’t home.

Porcupine looked at his feet. I had to find out what you were like, if you were going to be trouble like Mrs. Grundy in 3 or Jigger in 4A. Watch out for him, Cinnamon. He’s a junkie and he’s mean.

The door between us is boarded. Cinnamon didn’t seem to be afraid of anyone.

So? We both gotta share the same bathroom with him. Mrs. Grundy is lucky. She’s been here so long they haven’t split her apartment like they did yours and the one below you, 2. She has her own bathroom.

What does Mrs. Grundy do?

Mostly mind everybody else’s business for them. She has a pension from when her husband was alive. It isn’t much, but when you don’t do anything but stare out the window and gossip you don’t need much. She’s been here even longer than Mrs. Hobson. How did you get your name, Cinnamon?

When I was in boot camp I had a box of cinnamon toothpicks I shared. What about the downstairs people?

You were in the army? That where you got the coat?

Cinnamon walked slowly and with a slight limp. The hill west toward Squaretoe’s was steep in this block. I was a grunt for eleven months. I just got a discharge yesterday, medical. Finding a place to live was my first task. You haven’t answered my question.

Oh. Well, I guess you already met Mrs. Hobson. If you don’t give Mrs. Grundy a chance to complain about you and make Mrs. Hobson come upstairs, and if you pay the rent on time, you’ll get along fine with her. She doesn’t like to do anything. The Gallegoses are in 2A. They’re old and work in one of the clothing stores on Third West. They’re good. They pretend they can’t speak anything but Spanish. Papa and me know better, but we don’t let on. Do you speak Spanish, Cinnamon?

No, English. Cinnamon sighed. I can do a little in Ute, German and Japanese, but not enough. What about 2B?

It’s vacant. It’s even scungier than yours. Nobody ever stays there long, not since Mr. Roberts moved out. In almost three years nobody has lasted a whole month.

What about my predecessor in 4B?

That was Mr. Ryker. He was past eighty and nearly blind. He was my friend. I used to read to him like I read to you, when Papa was at work. He had a stroke and died just after New Year’s. You shoulda seen his relatives fight over his junk! Not just with each other; Mrs. Hobson claimed it for rent for January. Course, I got the best of it. It was only fair. I was his only friend, and Papa needed medicine he can’t afford any other way. Mr. Ryker’s kids never visited him when he was alive. Aint you got a job? How are you going to live?

I’m going to relax and finish getting better. My burns are only half healed. I have some money saved I can live on for a while. I intend to relax, get better, and enjoy my freedom for as long as I can afford to. What are you going to do?

Porcupine looked back up the hill toward the house they shared before answering. The branches on the sumac and sycamore trees were bare. Take care of Papa till he dies. Then I guess I’ll go back to New Orleans and see if Mama will take me back, or put me into another boarding school. Papa comes first.

By stealing?

We have to have money for medicine and rent, whether Papa can work or not.

Cinnamon led the way across Second West after a city bus rumbled past. There’s a lot of competition in that field, Porky, especially in this part of town. Got a good fence?

Mostly I sell to Cosgrave. I know some of his secrets. He doesn’t dare treat me too badly.

They walked down the street as they talked, and crossed now to the restaurant on the northwest corner. The bar occupied an old, two-story brick building. There was a parking lot in the rear. The restaurant was big enough to afford live entertainment. Just inside the foyer a bouncer loomed.

Hey, kid, you can’t come in here! the ogre in livery said.

Why not, Frisker? You always let me in before.

There’s a city inspector inside. If he sees you Squaretoe will get into a lot of trouble. No minors where alcohol is served.

Porcupine stood his ground, though he didn’t come up to the ogre’s waist. But I gotta talk to Papa! Can I go round back?

Sure, kid. I’ll tip him off you’re here.

Mr. Herrera met them at the kitchen entrance, where the savory aromas of lunch wafted freely through the doorway. He hugged his son and gallantly kissed Cinnamon’s hand on being introduced. He was a small man, as if shrinking in on himself. He handed each a sandwich, apologizing for not having anything better. "But come back tonight, Señorita. We have fresh venison. I’ll save a choice steak for you."

"It’s a date, Señor Herrera. Cinnamon attempted a curtsey but stumbled in her heavy coat. Your son will be showing me around the neighborhood and introducing me to the neighbors. We’ll be back around six."

Porcupine gave Cinnamon a sharp stare. She had a way of buffaloing people that frightened him. She smiled at the elder Herrera and guided the boy back to Third West.

Tell me about your friend Cosgrave, she ordered as they waited for the light. A sign bearing that name hung across the street. A troop of ten or twelve motorcycles prevented the boy from answering. Cinnamon gave them a long and loving stare. Porcupine felt a shiver, and it wasn’t from the February chill.

What about him?

Does he just handle the little stuff you can bring him? Or is he able to swing six or seven figure deals?

Cosgrave and Sons, Second Hand Merchandise, occupied a large building directly across the street from Squaretoe’s. It shared its parking lot with an O. P. Skaggs grocery. Three or four trucks with faded paint were backed to the loading docks. Tempera notices covered the windows, promising bargains in clothing, appliances and furniture.

He’s got a back room he keeps good stuff in, really juicy stuff, the boy assured his neighbor.

Cinnamon’s eyes went bright, hard and cold. Porcupine shuddered to see it. He revised his estimation of the lady so completely and obviously that Cinnamon felt compelled to remind him they were still friends. Friends did things for, not to, each other. There were quite a few customers. Cinnamon and Porcupine joined those going through the doors.

Porcupine led the way through the aisles until they got to Cosgrave’s office. After introducing them the boy sat down in a corner to watch the fireworks.

Cinnamon led with a query. Mr. Cosgrave, there are two kinds of people in this world—movers and shakers, and those who get moved in on and shaken down. Which are you? Porcupine thinks you’re holy juice, but I’m from Missouri.

My dear, your philosophy is flawed. Everyone moves and shakes, that is, tries to influence others and is influenced constantly. Nevertheless, I doubt you’re here to discuss philosophy. I can get things and sell things if I think the deal is going to be in my best interest. What is it you’re after? He was a plump man, nearly bald, and wore a faded blue suit that matched his eyes. His very sparse hair was combed up and over his dome, a style Porcupine found amusing and very old-fashioned.

A jackplate with accessories.

There is a nice Netstar 1000 beside your little friend.

If I wanted a toy, I would have gone to a toy store. Cinnamon transfixed the fence with a hard stare. How are you fixed with Lightwares?

As fixed as you are with credits. Cosgrave turned to Porcupine. How well do you know Cinnamon? For how long? What assurance can you give me that she isn’t an agent for Webb or Davis?

Porcupine didn’t flinch or quail. Two hours. She just moved into my apartment house. She’s moving way too fast for a cop. I think she’s a gremlin. If I thought she was gonna to turn you in, I would have taken her to someone who’s double-crossed me, not my best friend.

You’d better be a better judge of character than you are of value or never cross my threshold again. He looked back at Cinnamon. You have something on me, the secrets this boy knows. That’s not a comfortable position for a man in my line to do biz from. Let’s see your credplate.

Cinnamon produced the biggest, fanciest credplate Porcupine had ever seen. It showed her SIN, thumb and retinal prints and a balance of under a thousand credits. Now you have something on me in return. You know who I am and can turn me in if I cross you. I won’t. I hope to establish a long and mutually profitable association. She slid some cursors and pressed some sensor spots and a new figure showed, just under a million credits. The former owners don’t know where this money is. If I just slot it over, alarms go off in five countries. With a jackplate and two programs I can get it out silently.

Scan and codebreaker. Why couldn’t any of a thousand other jackers?

It’s off netz and my codes are protecting it.

Cosgrave didn’t smile but he did lean back and cross his legs, like he was trying to appear more relaxed. So what kind of deal are you offering?

You return me 100,000cr in cash and I take the rest out in trade.

In bearer credplate, not cash, Cosgrave said with sharpness, and I keep 50,000cr for the use of my facilities. Also, if you deep scoop, you and your little partner here are spare parts for the medical center.

Cinnamon looked hurt.

My Watson will be in the netz with you. I’ll cover your bodies from out here. Cosgrave tapped the desktop computer. Presently a stock clerk brought in a Kyo jackplate and loaded two program chips. He set an oversize view screen on the desk. When he lifted the cover from the persona board Cinnamon stopped him.

I have my own persona chips, sir. I would be uncomfortable using others. If you could hook up a transactor?

The man looked at the dumpy blond in the greatcoat and turned to his boss. Cosgrave shrugged. The clerk jacked to a secondary after powering the plate up. Cosgrave took a black credplate from his desk drawer. It was Cinnamon’s equal for complexity. He showed her where to slot them.

Then the army brat slotted her persona chips and jacked into the plate as well. Her eyes rolled up and her body went limp. The clerk, apparently Watson, finished turning all the functions on and went limp himself. A complex of datastores appeared on the view screen. Among them was a fierce-looking robot.

Is that what the netz looks like? Porcupine blurted. Is Cinnamon that giant robot?

Watson, Cosgrave corrected. I don’t see the young lady. He jiggled the jacker’s credplate. A corresponding tower in the image jiggled as well. And this is just my terminal. Out in the real netz it’s a lot more colorful and complicated.

The trail under the robot’s feet bolted toward the tower. It reared up cobra fashion as cilia on its underside manipulated the levers on the tower’s doors. Cosgrave whistled in admiration. Suddenly the doors sprang open and a shower of gold poured out. In the distance a black tower gaped. The gold settled on the trail’s back and it slithered toward the empty store. Shortly the gold was safely inside. Cinnamon jacked out.

Well done, Cosgrave praised. Do you plan to do this sort of thing often?

Very. Perhaps you can point me to data stores that need emptying? First I’ll need to equip myself, though.

Certainly, Miss Cinnamon. How would you like this plate?

Souped up, Mr. Cosgrave. It’s terrifyingly slow. Also, it needs tons more memory and storage, a fair variety of programs and something to protect it from the weather when I travel. Cinnamon sat up straight, like she was standing at attention, and didn’t move her hands from her lap.

Watson took the jackplate to enhance it with response increases and extra memory chips. It took him nearly two hours to complete the electronic augmentations. Cinnamon spent the whole time shopping and loving every minute of it. Porcupine was bored to tears.

Do you think you took long enough? he groused as they ambled through the parking lot.

No. We still have a lot of time to kill before supper.

Cinnamon? Are you really a gremlin?

The netz jacker smiled, but it was a hard smile that didn’t reach her eyes. I’ve been one before. I’ll be one again as soon as I can put a team together.

I wish I could be a gremlin. Do you think I could? The boy managed to sound wistful and hopeful at the same time.

I thought you already were. Won’t anyone let you be one?

Are you kidding? A bantling? No way. Papa especially. He thinks all gremlins are dishonest. I know lots of gremlins, though, from Papa working at Squaretoe’s. All the gremlins eat there.

Gremlins are dishonest, but not to their partners. Isn’t there a motorcycle shop up the street here?

Porcupine nodded, a gleam in his eye that wasn’t all fear. He smiled nervously. Maybe Cinnamon would let him be part of her gremlin team. Maybe she wouldn’t say he was too young. Maybe she had no prejudice.

But she did, maybe more than anyone.

Chapter Two: Lark

Excuse me, sir. Might I obtain some water? Lark stared hopefully at the older man in the dark blue uniform inside the security station. He could see himself reflected in the man’s eyes as well as the glass of the booth. He looked like a child’s stick figure; worse, like an animated skeleton. The tendons stood out in stark relief on the backs of his narrow, long-fingered hands. The long, platinum blond hair was thick and matted and dirty. The eyes were huge, violet, deeply sunk in hollows above hollow cheeks. The shabby, worn coat of imitation leather almost concealed the indecency of worn-out trousers. Lark wasn’t sure what emotions were playing inside the man, but he stood without moving for a long time.

Undoubtedly, Lark thought to himself, he didn’t expect to see such a sight in a civilized city of the twenty-first century. Lark had expected all along to be ordered off the property, like any other dirty vagrant. He hoped he would make it out of the area before expiring. He thought he saw a flicker of compassion in the man, a spark that gave him a moment’s hope and kept him standing longer than he otherwise would have. But when nothing happened, Lark began to turn away, dejected.

Then a miracle occurred. The guard rushed out of his little booth and took the elf up in his arms, carrying him to the infirmary inside the building. I’m John Williams, he told the elf. I’m sorry, I should have said something quicker. We’ll take care of you. What is your name, child?

Call me Lark. Thank you, sir. Why are you doing this kindness to me?

It’s because of my family, he said without further explanation.

Other than to get food and water, the guard didn’t leave his charge until help arrived. He used the room’s telecommunicator to summon the company doctor and healer mage. The boy took his water slowly, allowing each swallow to be absorbed before taking another. When the elf saw the doctor, the first to arrive, he suddenly grew lively.

Don’t touch me, doc! he yelled. I am not nearly as dead as I look. My body is filled with magic that could burn you. Some food, some rest, lots of water and I’ll be good as new.

Come. I’ve treated mutated people before. I know my business, young elf. If I’m to make you well, I have to examine you and see what’s wrong, besides malnutrition.

I’d rather you let a mage heal me, please. Medicine can be bad for magic, and magic is bad for medicines. A blue nimbus gathered around the boy’s scrawny hands.

Well. I hear Louise coming down the hall. I’ll leave you in her charge, then. The doctor took his bag and left.

I have to get back to my post, too, the security guard said. Louise, do what you can for him on my responsibility. I’ll come and get him when my shift is over.

The corp mage, a plump woman in her thirties, asked, What is your name, thin one?

Larkin, ma’am. The elf tried to sit up a bit more.

I am Louise, she said, setting her bag down and turning to the shelves of medical supplies. Lark couldn’t see what she was doing, but it didn’t feel like she was gathering power for a spell. One didn’t need cupboards and drawers for that. Lark was getting worried.

Where are you from, Larkin boy? Her voice was not unpleasant but had a touch of edge to it, like she was annoyed at being rousted hours before dawn to come to work.

Do you know of a place called Owyhee?

About four hundred kilometers west of here and a little north.

I left there ten days before the turn of the year. I have walked this far in that time. The Elven Homeland is said to maintain a consulate in Salt Lake. Where is it?

A hundred twenty kliks east of here. You’re at the edge of civilization, thin one. There’s a lot of city between the spaceport and the capitol building. She seemed to have found what she was looking for.

I’ll walk the rest of the way if I have to. Lark sounded determined enough.

For twenty creds you could take the monorail. The terminal isn’t far from here. Woody.

Lark sat the rest of the way up in alarm. Woody was an insult to elves, a reference to the fact that few of them could digest meats and had to stick to a basically vegetarian diet. Wood Eater was the older form, like the similarly hateful Dandelion Eater. I didn’t think there were enough elves in Salt Lake to matter.

There are less than a thousand, which is twelve hundred too many. Lark saw her hold a long needle aloft and squirt a couple drops of some nasty-looking fluid from the end. Her back was still turned, so she couldn’t see the blue nimbus gathering around Lark’s hands. I don’t think anybody but John will miss you, she said before turning to aim the deadly weapon with its load of poison. Blue nimbus was gathering around her hands and the hypodermic they held, too.

Louise crumbled to the floor. Lark looked at his fingers. The blue nimbus was gone. He whistled softly. Normally all the power he could raise would just give someone a headache. His fear must have boosted him somehow. Her spell, certainly more than an emaciated youth could withstand, went uncast. Lark scrambled from the hospital bed and searched the drawers until he found adhesive tape. He gagged then bound the mage, wrists behind her