The Guns of Joy

2 of 15

      There's a skycar waiting. It takes them back almost thirty kilometres, to the centre of Jordhaven City. The Colonel sits next from her and says nothing on the way. Carola senses he's nervous, though she can't tell why.

      They land in a huge parking lot outside HQ, on top of the dimpled scorch marks left by one of the first Corps dropships. The Colonel helps her disembark, then escorts her firmly through the command post, hand on her elbow, almost dragging her. This brazen familiarity discomfits Carola. She is accustomed to making and breaking contact at will.

      Down some stairs he tows her, through a checkpoint, down more stairs, past huge curtains of anti-fragment netting, through a room full of luggable equipment and urgent people, and then into a tiny office. A large, dark man with baggy eyes and salt-and-pepper hair — the General, from the circle of stars on his beret — stands to greet her.

      "Thank you for coming, Nurse," he says with a nod. "May I call you Carola?"

      She nods faintly.

      He gestures at a chair, and she sits. "Can I get you anything?"

      "Water."

      The Colonel fills a paper cup and passes it to her. It's fresh and cold. They've got refrigeration here.

      "We need your help, Carola," the General says, when she's finished drinking.

      "With what?"

      He hesitates. It's clear to Carola that he's not experienced at dealing with Talents. If he was, he wouldn't consider anything less than absolute candour.

      "Just your job," he says, finally. "Nothing more."

      "Who is the patient?"

      The Colonel passes Carola a datapad. On its display are mug shots; front and side views of a gaunt, angular face.

      "The locals called him Ring. Sound familiar?"

      She shakes her head. Maybe she's heard the name. Her memory's not what it used to be.

      "Ring was the big chief around here, during the occupation," the Colonel says. "An administrator, for the rebels. Ran the utilities, the police, the docks, everything. Even the youth groups. We hear that he was popular with the kids."

      "Yeah, a real saint, this one," continues the General. "He had dissenters pulled from their houses at midnight; he shot some of them, sent others to the docks, where his foremen worked them to death. Government workers got an automatic death sentence. He made an show of them, every Saturday, in the square. It wasn't enough for him to just hang them. He'd have them jacked up and down, every minute or so, to draw it out."

      The General reaches down and thumbs the datapad, which jumps to video footage of the atrocities. Carola looks at it just long enough to see the line of thrashing feet.

      "We've heard an account," he continues, "of a man whose daughter had been kidnapped by Ring. When he got her back, she was pregnant. He shot her, he shot his own daughter, through the stomach. It was the only piece of Ring he could get at. Whatever madness Ring has, it's contagious."

      They enumerate more atrocities for her, but Carola doesn't pay attention. Instead, she looks down at the datapad, pages back through the records. Ring's a tenth-generation colonist, a native. He grew up in the shanties and streetgangs around Jordhaven, and he's thirty-five local years old. Twenty-eight in Earth years; just a year older than she is.

      The General's voice rises, pulling Carola's attention away from the datapad. "Last night, his people tried to sneak him through a checkpoint. We got him, but there's a problem. He anticipated us. He had a psigun on him, and before the MP's could stun him, he pulled the trigger on himself. Now he's a vegetable." Carola senses a sudden wave of anticipation from the General, like a psychic deep breath. "Command doesn't know we've got him. We've heard they're considering a general amnesty. I won't take the chance that Ring escapes punishment. That is unacceptable to me." He radiates relief. Carola can tell that he's rehearsed this declaration extensively.

      "You want me to wake him up," she says.

      He nods. "Yes. Can it be done?"

      "I don't know."

      "Will you try?"

      She doesn't say anything.

      "You'll be protected fully," the General adds. "I've prepared documents to that effect, and filed them in timed storage aboard the Dauntless. You can review them right now, if you like."

      She thinks about it, coming up with only a single, weary observation: she repairs killers every day. Ring is nothing new.

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