cobra and the delinquents 23 cliffie bonus & final chapter

 

 

Chapter 23 Exfiltration

 

I gave a sharp knock, on Plunkett’s door, and walked in, with Jason behind me.

Plunkett stared.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

Oh, yes, I was wearing my Jay Silverheels face.

“You probably know of me as Horace Tiber,” I said, pleasantly. “You made the mistake of having my sister snatched off the street, and that made it personal.”

I was not undertaking a piece of bombast, I was using a level tone to be able to cross the floor faster than he was anticipating. He reached for a panic button, but not fast enough as I jumped over his desk to slam him backwards with my feet, an easy enough move when in low gravity.

I had contemplated letting him die by explosive decompression, but I’m a pro. Having slammed him backwards, I followed up by reaching for his head to break his neck. It went with a nice, clean snap. I hung him from the light fitting with an executioner’s knot, as a demonstration.

Then I went looking for his personal space suit. I found it.

“Here we are,” I said. “You’ll fit this well enough, Jason; it’s easier to use than the balloon suits. The butt plug isn’t very comfortable, but it’s better than not using it.”

“Butt plug?” he said, nervously.

“Valve for crapping through,” I said. “I don’t know how may days we might be stuck outside before we can get a taxi home.”

I helped him get into it.

“It’s not too bad,” he said.

“Good,” I said. “It’ll get worse, over several days, but that’s what we’ll be paying a proctologist to take care of back on Earth.”

“So long as they get to the bottom of the problem,” he said.

I clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good lad,” I said.  “Always keep a joke in mind and you can survive almost anything.”

I scanned Plunkett’s papers to see what plans he might have for reviving the umpteenth Reich, photographed anything I thought Tarquin might be interested in, and sent the rest through the shredder. No point stirring up the guards for nothing.

“Hoods up and sealed,” I said to Jason.

“Why, are we going outside?” he asked.

“Yes, and you are under orders, remember?” I said.

“Sorry,” he said.

I attached our mics and earpieces with a wire to keep our conversations private.

One side of Plunkett’s office was a massive window.  A very thick massive window, but it was still a window.

All the doors were designed to seal if there was a leak, so there would be no risk to the rest of the station.

I put thermite round an area big enough for us to walk through, and set it going. It fizzled and crackled its incandescent way around the door I was cutting, until it had completed its circuit.

I kicked it out. Everything in the office attempted to exit. The door sealed with a reproachful ‘squmph’ noise, and klaxons went wild. 

“And now we run?” asked Jason.

“Hell, no,” I said. “Come on, while the ground is still disturbed by the air exiting.” I led him out, our footsteps literally blown away behind us. “Lie down,” I said, a few yards out.

He gave me a startled look, but lay down. I put the camo net over us, and we disappeared. We were far enough away from the outer wall that people coming round in suits would not stand on us, but we were staying put.

“Why?” he breathed.

“What would you do on your own to make a break for it?” I asked.

“Run,” said Jason.

“Exactly,” I said. “They are going to be looking for footsteps leading away. There aren’t any, but they are going to assume we managed to brush over them, and will look further out. There are footsteps – mine – from having surveyed the place, but I was careful to cover them near where I made my base. We stay here until the hue and cry dies down.”

“Now I see why we need the butt plug and motorman’s friend,” said Jason. “I’m going to get the jitters.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. “You can replay old movies in your head to entertain you and test yourself on your memory.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“We can talk, if we are alone,” I said. “If there are visitors, there’s a chance they’ll pick up static, so better to stay quiet.”

“Yes, I see that,” he said.

 

We did have company, of course. They couldn’t get into Plunkett’s office, so several guards came round the outside, and discovered that somebody should have a citation for littering. They stared at the hole, and thought a lot, and decided that it was a hole.

At some point they were also going to do a head count and discover that Jason’s cell-mate was dead, and that Jason and Hackenbohm were missing.

Probably they would manage to connect the two sets of circumstances, and would go looking for us. We hunkered down while the place buzzed like a wasp’s nest, including an arial search in the runabout the Governor used to go to the base, and the cargo vessel for supplies and prisoner transport. I had been scrupulous to rake regolith and dust whenever I left the tent; and I had dragged Hackenbohm’s body to some distance and raked dust over it.

Jim’s voice crackled on our private channel.

“Incoming solar flare due,” he said laconically.

“Will the tent be enough?” I asked.

“No; I’m coming for you.”

“I’ll get to the tent – it’s over the horizon so you won’t have to confuse their ECM as much,” I said.

“Roger that,” said Jim. “I’ll keep the channel open; holler if you need a closer pick up.”

The activity had died down, and Jason and I got going.

He was fit enough, and used to moving on the moon. He was more used to moving on the moon than I was, if it came to that.

The powers that be had probably decided we had had help to bust out, and was alerting everyone and their kid brother; but Jim’s machine was a ghost as far as most detectors were concerned.

We dodged from one irregularity to the next, and reached the tent as the Condor skimmed over at zero feet. I pulled the plug on the inflatable tent to deflate it and bundle it into the cargo hold; no point abandoning good kit.

“You picked up a friend?” said Jim.

“Jason tried to take down an enemy of mine and was fitted up,” I said.

“Ah? I know about that,” said Jim. “I’m skimming round to the dark side to hunker down whilst the flare is active.” He was playing a really old piece of music as we lifted off; odd piece, opened with the sound of a heartbeat.

He sang along.

“And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ears

You shout, and no-one seems to hear;

And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes

I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.”

“Is he quite sane?” asked Jason.

“Of course not,” I said. “Are you?”

He blinked, considered this, and pulled a rueful face.

“No, I suppose not,” he said.

 

It’s really dark on the dark side of the moon. I mean, really, really dark.

The sky was a treat, though. Everything was so clear and bright. The milky way was quite obvious, and the moons of Jupiter naked-eye objects.

Jason did not like it.

“It gives me vertigo,” he said.

I got that. There’s a very great deal of space when you get to look at it in the raw, as it were. I think you have to have enough contentment in yourself not to feel intimidated.

I wanted to show it to Willow.

I wanted to make love under that glorious canopy in the tent without any net over it so we could see out.

We spent the day or so that the flare was flaring watching old movies and eating popcorn and drinking beer. It was quite convivial.

There was news chatter from the base; escaped criminals Lewis Hackenbohm and Jason Tickbush, who had murdered Governor Plunkett, were believed to have perished as a result of the solar flare and the search for them was called off.

“We’re in the solar wind,” I said, happily.

It did not mean that Jim was any less cautious – or even paranoid – about our descent to earth.

Is it a descent, when part way we are ascending from the moon?  Linguistic convention and physics do not always agree.

 

We slid over the Pacific at wave level, and up the Puget Sound at around two in the morning, looking, according to Jim’s signal, like a stray seahawk farting. I’m not surprised he’s on the death lists of at least twelve countries; Muscovy, from whom he stole the technology, Britain, for whom he stole the technology, which repaid him by fitting him up for theft, and the sundry kingdomlets of United Califate for rescuing slaves.

Though I have to say, his disgrace at the hands of Britain has always seemed a little suspect to me, and I suspect him of being a deep cover agent, who is meanwhile deniable. It was, after all, while I was working for George the Ninth that I first met, and worked with Jim.

It suits me, whatever.

I was amazed, when we came in to land, and disembarked, leaving both space suits for Jim, that most of the ruddy Rubble had turned out to cheer.

I had a big lump in my throat, and my eyeballs were threatening to sweat.

And Willow threw herself, Quin and all, into my arms.

“Dadadadad,” said Quin.

What a welcome home!

I cuddled Quin in one arm, and used the other for Willow, and kissed her like there was nothing else in the world.

For me, there was nothing else more important, anyway, and my people protect us all. We got another cheer.

Of course, it was Algy, who picked up my thoughts of coming home, I have no doubt. Jim seemed a bit shaken to be given a hero’s welcome as well, and was rapidly wearing Oscar.

I was wearing Amy and Puss, with Orville trying to fit into my pocket, which he has long since grown too big for.

We went home to the Dojo, though Jim insisted on leaving. He’s like that. Jason was bemused, but pliant, and all the dogs amongst the Forgotten came to sniff him to learn his scent. I think he was a bit freaked out, poor lad.

I confess to sleeping the clock right round.

 

I would like to say I got a substantial bonus from Tarquin.

But we always knew that was never going to happen, didn’t we?

He arranged for the clearing of Jason’s name, at least, and told me in that dry and pedantic way of his that with the percentages I had got from the Yakuza hits, I had more money than I knew what to do with.

And what he didn’t know was that Willow had arranged for us to be majority share holders of the companies of the parents of the Bratpack, as they, being in jail, and essentially disappeared, did not need it.

It gave me the ability to swan in and use that anywhere there was trouble; and the money to deal with such trouble.

We lived well, without even attempting to reach opulence; we had no need of it.

But I could afford to support a heap of kids who needed a hand up, in addition to my own collection of youngsters.

I was looking forward to a nice, peaceful retirement, as Horace Tiber, mild-mannered schoolmaster, with a few exotic hobbies.

 The end?

 

The phone went.

It was Tarquin’s number.

“Rick, I need a favour….”

 

 This is the last chapter. I need to write another book before I find out what Tarquin's favour was.  I have a Regency ready to post but I'm thinking of taking the weekend off