the student problem 8

 Himself and I awoke sneezing and coughing snot monsters. no brains here, only snot. 

Chapter 8

 

I wasn’t going to see Serenaa for at least two weeks; that’s how long jump-drive takes. A week each way. But at least her father would be able to use the new wormhole communication.  I don’t know how it works, and I don’t want to know, but it’s near instant communication up to three parsecs. And you can’t send packages; electronic code only. And certainly not living beings. I know that because there was an attempt at espionage by one of the megacorps who got wind of it, and the spy tried to escape being caught by sending himself.

It was two years before I could face liver and bacon casserole again.

Normally the speed of travel is the speed of communications, but the wormhole communication was a game-changer, and apart from that one leak, it’s strictly military need-to-know. Major Kerufin was a man in the know, and he would use it to his contacts all the way up to Emperor Xander. With a bit of delay – you can’t open a wormhole within three light minutes of another, so the stations to send and receive have to be a bit... scattered – that message would be in Capital being read to Xander within about six hours. In time to let him know about the insurrection before he left on his progression.

Thank any powers in the universe for that.

If I could manage to figure out what was going to happen that would kill Xander, Lady Bronteen, Lisilli Bronteen, and anyone with them, I would try to do so. 

This was an odd sort of system. This world, Teeofaan, was the capital of the subsector, and the seat of the duke, which was Lord Duranor. Baron of the world was Faruu. Baron Bronteen was baron of the three large moons, one of which was virtually a double planet with Teeofaan, named Teeobhan, the two named after mythical twins in old Wiłanu legends. One of the moons orbits both at a far orbit, the other, closer, goes in a figure of eight about both. They are named Uushi and Teherru, after the consorts of the twins. Teherru, consort of Teeobhan, was also Teeofaan’s mistress, and was killed by her husband. Somehow I doubted that Henduuri Faruu was boffing Lady Bronteen as well as Moruunaa Kerufin. Hen-Hen? I hated the woman just for that, as much as her trying to trammel Serenaa into convention.

Still, I suppose I should be glad that Serenaa was more her father’s daughter than her mother’s; if my lovely Serenaa had been applying her beautiful and devious little head to espionage on the wrong side, she’d be in Xander’s place before the year was out.

I did not think that she had been dissembling with me.

No, her sweet lips had never been kissed before, and she was eager to learn and to show off what she was learning. And her shock over her mother’s involvement... she was not simulating that.

Kerufin would be shocked, too, but perhaps not as much. He had regretted his marriage, or so I had heard, almost from the first week of the honeymoon. It was perhaps why he was so keen on teaching recruits, ‘if you don’t want to wake up over the breakfast table opposite the woman, don’t mess her about off the dance floor.;

A lesson learned hard; but his noble title was, at least, for deeds done, not seed squirted from the august testicles of his sire.

No, I don’t like aristocrats.

Well, time to get my contacts sleazing their ways through Baron Bronteen’s bank details, and other transactions. It’s amazing how arrogant men can be about the money trails they leave.

 

Reading week ended, and I confess that so far all I had heard about was Bronteen’s new swimming pool and the fashion bill for his wife and daughter.

And I had to put up with the new fashion accessory which was adopted by all of Miss Bronteen’s set, though I thought unwillingly by Miss Faruu.

Which was odd. Or maybe she hated the idea of someone else having an original idea. She was taking it out on Kassi Ondarool, who had attached herself to Rauf Guffah. Sensible girl.

Miss Ondarool was wearing a jumpsuit with a belted sweater like Serenaa, and looked better for being clear of the excess makeup and tortured hair of her former fellows, whose monoringlet now depended from a ruddy snow globe.

Well, I say a snow globe, they were yellow, green, or brown, with floating sparkles, eternally shaken as their bodies moved, and with bright silk petals around as if the globes were the centres of exotic, and probably toxic, flowers.

 

I twigged in the middle of the night.

And I doubt that the swimming pool had anything to do with it because chlorine gas, whilst toxic in quantity, would not be sure enough. But it added things up in my mind, and reminded me that there are neurotoxins strong enough to kill if one droplet touches the skin.  Which is why anything which might be a container for such is not allowed near the emperor or other visiting dignitaries. But hair ornaments?

My blood ran cold.

 

oOoOo

After the next class, which was on how not to irritate various alien dignitaries [it was entitled ‘changing diplomatic stance to the non-human outlook, but we all knew what it meant, except maybe Miss Bronteen,] I found my blood running hot.

With anger.

There were four young men waiting outside the classroom, and they were joined by Mr. Dretanaar, who had not enjoyed being told that his attitude was likely to get himself sliced up by Baburi.

The four young men carried grav ball racquets, and one of them passed one to Mr. Dretanaar.

“Now, sir,” sneered Mr. Dretanaar, “We wanted to discuss with you what we think of a Soll’d like you laying your filthy earthy hands on a pure blood like Serenaa Kerofin. And if you start begging, you might just survive the beating.”

“You are young fools,” I said. “You should disperse, and if you do so quietly, I will only set you essays on why the genetic heritage of the earthborn is identical to that of those native to Wiłu.”

They looked at me as if they could not believe their ears.

“Is this teach of yours for real, Agguur?” one of them asked Mr. Dretanaar. “Does he think we’re carrying these batons for fun? Even if any one of us could not beat up some earthy-blooded mongrel anyway.”

“He needs to accept our superiority,” said another.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

“What very silly little boys you are,” I said. “None of you could come close to beating me up on your own. Even with your little weapons.”

“I’ll show him; hold back,” said the first.

Good. I was hoping that would happen; any four I could take. Five might have a chance to injure me.

He advanced, swinging his baton.

A gravball racquet is about two feet long, wider at the far end than the handle, and it has an iron ball inside it which slides up and down the hollow centre the right width to allow it to move freely. Using momentum to get the ball in the right place within the racquet to get the right weight of strike on the free-moving gravball ball is part of the skill. It can also be used to move the players about to some extent. In a gravity well, the iron ball is subject to gravity as well as to momentum. This makes it more sluggish to use.

Just as well. I wouldn’t want one of them in my ribs.

He came at me with a round sideways stroke, aiming to strike at my kidneys.

He was not expecting the slow-moving weapon to be grasped, pulling him off balance, and to be rabbit-punched on the back of the neck as he came forwards.

One down, and out for the count.

The others gaped.

“It was a fluke,” said one of them. “Get him!”

They didn’t have a clue how to use footwork, or to do anything but swipe at me. And they were entirely confused when I not only put down Mr. Dretanaar, but also used the force of doing so to catapult myself off the top of his head, twisting in midair to come down behind them, where I had more room to manoeuvre.

A marine with room to move is a killing machine. They were nasty youths, but I did not kill them. I scientifically broke ten legs and five arms. In enough places that they would be in boneknitter machines for a week or so.

“You have your right hands to write that essay still,” I said. “And because I’m kind, I’m going to call the meatwaggon.”

Whatever story they decided to tell the medics probably did not involve the five of them being broken like puppets by a teacher shorter than any of them.

 

I went to see Mr. Shagaanuu, the principal.  I also swept his office for surveillance devices; there were none, but you can’t be too careful.

“You got a letter clear to Deneb, to Mr. Beecher,” I said. “You have friends who have new technology.”

“You have something to report?” he asked.

“Plenty,” I said, grimly. “I sent Miss Kerufin to her father to report some of what we found out, to keep her safe. But I know how the assassination of the Emperor is to be achieved, with nerve gas carried by unwitting carriers, who could be scanned by the best psycher in the Imperium without showing guilt. Because they are pawns for the sacrifice.”

“Surely the Emperor would be met by members of the local aristocratic family?” said Shagaanuu.

“Yes,” I said. “And I need to get the message out in case the third time they try to kill me is successful.”

“Dear me, Mr. Lime, isn’t that melodramatic?”

“Treason is usually along the lines of melodrama,” I said. “Item; the goons waiting in my flat. A trap I sprang. Item; some youths set to beat me, ostensibly for kissing Serenaa Kerufin.”

He latched onto the piece of information I thought least relevant at the time.

“You kissed a student?” he gasped.

“I’m not a real teacher, and we’re going to be married,” I said. “It was only an excuse. Faruu is actually shagging your vice principal, so don’t act like it never happens.”

“She... he... are you sure?” gasped Shagaanuu.

“Are you seriously more put out by that than that someone wants to kill the emperor and has tried to kill me?” I asked, amused.

“I... no, of course not. You are sure the youths meant to kill you?”

“One of them said if I pleaded enough they might not kill me. Five of them with gravball racquets.”

“But... but that is deadly intent! How... you managed to run away?”

“I put them in the hospital,” I said. “Grow up, Shagaanuu, I’m a marine. I kill people for my monthly wage, But they are on to me, and if anyone seriously wants me silenced, it could be at the expense of a large hole in the ground formerly known as Brighthill College of Academic Excellence. Or at least the collateral damage of a few dead students. I want to talk to someone who can get information to Kerufin, Capital, or Beecher.

“Wait here,” he sighed.

 

The person he came back with was a Newt – Tsshst I should say – who radiated eagerness from every gill. She was a high-ranking female, judging by the headdress, so I bowed in the proper manner, bending my knees, and clenching my buttocks as if to curl the tail I don’t have. I don’t know how they can tell if you do so, but they can, so I did.

“You may be easy, Gunnery Sergeant,” she said. “I am Mwaphlphp, and you need to get a message through?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “The news that Duke Duranor is part of a plot to kill the Emperor, aided by Barons Faruu and Bronteen, Lady Kerufin, who hopes to kill her husband and accepted that her daughter would die as well, and Baroness Faruu and sundry others should have reached capital by now.”

“It has, and I and my organisation have been briefed to try to find out the means.”

“There’s a new fashion fad for globes containing moving glitter as part of hair ornaments,” I said. “I am almost completely positive that some neurotoxin will be enclosed in the globes worn by Baroness and Miss Bronteen. The fashion has made its appearance already, in order to get people used to it. The baron is happy to sacrifice his wife and daughter. They are unaware of this. I am now a danger to the public and need to leave.”

“You drive?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll arrange to have an explosive device attached to your car. Park over the manhole near your flat. Your car will be doctored to allow you to slide out of the seat and through the bottom, as you inflate a dummy. Through the manhole, you can start the car remotely and Mr. Harry Lime will be blown to smithereens. Where do you want to go?”

“To Major Kerufin.  Can my other flat be packed? I assume you know where it is.”

She pouted in the way which meant a smile.

“I arranged it for you,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said.

“Take to your car first thing in the morning,” she said.

 

oOoOo

 

I did check the car for any other devices before I moved it over the manhole.

I found one, too.

Well, when it blew up in the morning, whoever had left it would assume he had been successful.

I slept like a baby.

A baby who was teething.

Every noise had me starting in case it was an intruder. In the end I got up and listened to Shegwally baroque music.

And then I got up, went down to the car, discovered a hole in the bottom of it, and an inflatable figure with a quik-inflate can, and slithered down as I hit the inflation button. The manhole cover swung out of the way and I descended into a drain.

However high-tech a world might be, a drain is a drain is a drain. I pressed the convenient button on the convenient box, and heard a detonation above me.

“Thiss way, Mr. Lime.”

Another Tsshst. As well as being superb bureaucrats, they are happy in damp tunnels like sewers; no doubt something the Imperial Intelligence Service makes use of.

Three hours later I was on a freighter out to the next system over, where Major Kerufin had his office.