I hung up on him, figuring that either he would do what I’d asked him to do or he wouldn’t, and that either way, he was the least likely miracle-worker I’d ever met in my entire not-quite-guilt-free life.
There was no mad rush to buy me out that day. Nor was there any news of Saul Lyndrach or mysterious Myrlin. The hours of grace remaining to me ticked inexorably by, and the only manifest improvement in my situation was the slight amendment to Jacinthe Siani’s contract that 238-Zenatta negotiated on my behalf.
The changes were cosmetic, of course; I knew as well as the Kythnan did that my chances of collecting a share of Amara Guur’s profits were a good deal slimmer than a snowball’s in hell.
I seriously considered the alternative, but I couldn’t persuade myself of its merits. Amara Guur might be a murderous crook, but he wanted me conscious as well as alive and healthy, at least in the short term. While he still needed me, I had a chance to outwit him, and maybe even get my own back.
I knew I’d have to sign Jacinthe Siani’s contract in the end, but I was determined to drag it out as long as I could.
9
When the appointed hour came, I was let out of my cell and taken to the Hall of Justice by 69-Aquila. 238-Zenatta was waiting for me there, with Jacinthe Siani and the fatal document. There was also a Tetron clerk to whom I wasn’t formally introduced, because she was female—the Tetrax have strict but labyrinthine rules to regulate communication between the sexes. She and Aquila were there to witness that I was signing the contract of my own free will.
I insisted on having it read aloud, as was my right. The clerk didn’t seem at all put out; I got the impression that she welcomed the opportunity to show off her perfect parole.
I didn’t bother to listen—I just watched the miniunits ticking away on the wallclock’s digital display.
A Tetron day is about twenty-eight Earth-standard hours. It’s divided up into a hundred units, each of which is subdivided by a further hundred, so each miniunit is about ten times as long as an Earthly second. It makes Tetron clocks seem to run very slowly; waiting for the next tick can be an agonising business if you’re in the wrong frame of mind.
The clerk handed the ballpoint pen to me, and pushed a fingerprint pad across the tabletop. I slowly inked my thumb, and then I looked at it very carefully. I’d given up expecting miracles; it was just that I had let the treacly quality of Tetron time get a grip on my actions.
I was just about to make my thumbprint and add my signature when the door to the Hall burst open. There was an appalling clatter of booted feet on the vitreous floor. The floor was immune to all damage, of course, but such was the racket that it was easy to imagine chips and shards flying in every direction.
Seven humans in neat black uniforms raced across the room as if they’d been entered for a sixty-metre dash with a really unpleasant booby prize for the last one to finish. I’d never actually seen one before, but I guessed immediately that the uniforms belonged to the now-legendary Star Force. Six of the starship soldiers were male, but the one in the lead was a blonde woman who gave the definite impression that her wrathful stare ought to be turning all of us to stone.
“Russell!” she howled, at the top of her strident voice. “Don’t sign that paper!”
I wasn’t about to quibble about the pronunciation of my name. I dropped the pen and wiped the ink from my thumb, uncaring of the fact that my trousers were fresh out of the wash.
The officer and her cohort immediately slowed to a fast walk—or, to be strictly accurate, a military march. An eighth figure stumbled through the door behind them, purple in the face with the effort of trying to keep up. It was Aleksandr Sovorov.
Jacinthe Siani looked around, as if searching for moral support, but none was available to her. She’d come alone to do a simple job—but it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d had half a dozen of Amara Guur’s hatchet-men with her. They could hardly have started a fight in the Hall of Justice—and if they had, they’d have lost. The blonde and her six bravos were wearing sidearms of a kind I’d never seen before, and they certainly looked as if they knew how to use them. They were warriors—and near-genocidal warriors at that.
“The deadline has expired!” Jacinthe Siani said, appealing to the clerk. “He agreed to sign. He cannot back out now!”
The blonde arrived at the foot of the platform as the Kythnan completed the plea, and vaulted up to join us. She looked hard at Jacinthe Siani, curling her lip in a manner calculated to radiate contempt; then she turned to the clerk. “I’m Star-Captain Susarma Lear, representing the United Governments and Military Forces of Earth,” she said. “I demand that you release this man into my custody immediately. I hereby accept responsibility for any debts he may have incurred.”
“You cannot!” Jacinthe Siani complained—but she didn’t sound confident.
I looked at Aleksandr Sovorov, with a heart full of sincere affection. He’d brought the cavalry!
He had actually brought the cavalry to my rescue—or the Star Force, who were surely an order of magnitude better, considering what they had instead of horses and six-guns.
It didn’t seem to be an appropriate time for legal niceties, so I grabbed the contract from the table, ripped it in half and threw it at the Kythnan’s feet. “I changed my mind before the deadline expired,” I said. “I accept the star-captain’s offer, gladly. I can do that, can’t I, Zenatta?”
238-Zenatta frowned at the omission of his number, but he was still my lawyer. “Most certainly,” he said. “In view of the fact that Ms. Siani’s contract only covers a fraction of my client’s debt, while the star-captain is willing to accept responsibility for the whole, I submit that the administration-in-residence of Skychain City must prefer her offer, provided that the period of discharge is not excessive.”
“This is not right!” Jacinthe Siani complained—but no one was listening.
“What period did you have in mind for the repayment of Mr. Rousseau’s debt, Star-Captain Lear?” the clerk inquired.
“I’ll have to talk to the ship’s quartermaster,” the star-captain told her, “but how does a couple of hours sound? We have negotiable cargo. Your people on the satellite have already expressed a strong interest in it.”
A couple of hours obviously sounded good to the clerk, but I noticed 69-Aquila frowning. When the Tetrax frown, they don’t do it by halves. I thought for one crazy second that Amara Guur might have bought him too, but then I realised that it was the thought of Star-Captain Lear’s “negotiable cargo” that was troubling him.
Only three or four days had passed since news of humanity’s victory over the Salamandrans had reached Asgard. Hers must be a warship, fresh from a climactic battle. When she said “negotiable cargo,” what she probably meant was “loot.”
I resolved not to ask. It didn’t seem polite, in the circumstances.
“That will be perfectly satisfactory, Star-Captain,” the clerk said. “I can see no legal or moral grounds for any objection.”
Jacinthe Siani opened her mouth to complain again, but she could see that it was futile. No sound came out.
“It really breaks my heart to let you down,” I told her, “but I love women in uniform.”
“You’ll regret this,” the Kythnan hissed, her composure cracking under the strain.
“I seriously doubt that,” I said. “At present, I feel better than I’ve felt for a long time. I wish you the best of luck explaining your failure to Amara Guur.”