Chapter Three
TUS AND BUS
I was doing eighty miles per hour as I hit the highway into Bridgeport. That was the limit for my motorcycle. No surprise there. A strange world with strange technology, frozen at the level of the 1920s and 30s of Earth’s twentieth century. If I had been interested in Earth’s technical history, I could probably have pinpointed the exact date when Earthlings from the USA landed here. By the models of their technology. I wonder why there’s no technical development. They mainly have what the ‘engineers’ built a hundred and fifty years ago, and their student-followers just copy and reproduce. But nobody develops further. Strange! I’ve thought about this a lot. Maybe the sacred cow, the ‘engineers’, couldn’t be discredited and surpassed by their followers? Silly! Their blueprints and designs are ‘sacred’? Besides, the best minds go into magic, not into copying the ‘engineers’ technology.
There weren’t too many oncoming vehicles. Black cars, reminiscent of retro ‘Daimlers’ or the famous ‘Ford-T’. Occasionally, covered trucks were seen. One such truck was stubbornly following me. Which, however, could be a coincidence. There wasn’t anywhere for it to turn off. Almost everyone was heading to Bridgeport, the capital of the planet’s only magical-technological kingdom. And why would someone in a truck tail me when a car would be far more convenient...
A minute later, I got the answer to my unspoken question. The truck suddenly accelerated and began to catch up with me, as if intending to push me off the road. It roared like an enraged bull charging at a matador. Its engine was more powerful, surely capable of reaching ninety miles.
The only thing that came to mind was to veer off onto the shoulder, dramatically slow down, and bolt off-road, hoping to find some side dirt road where I could slip away from the diesel beast. But, for some reason, the driver didn’t follow, continuing to drive parallel on the highway at the same reduced speed. Cars from behind overtook him, angrily honking, unhappy with his behavior, but he paid no attention to them. I barely realized the reason for this when it was already too late. On the dirt road that conveniently appeared ahead, they were waiting. And again, the Ronkas! I stopped my motorcycle fifty steps from the ambush and turned around. The truck blocked the exit to the highway, stopped and growling with its engine, ready to run over me at any moment. I could have tried to escape, but I’d likely be shot with a rifle or a machine gun like a ‘Maxim’ or ‘Luis’, which was probably in the truck’s bed. Besides, this was an attempt to capture, not kill me. Why not surrender, I thought, feverishly calculating my chances if a shootout began. The Ronkas stood by the car, waiting for me, baring their teeth in a sinister smile. One with a Browning, the other with a Thompson submachine gun, terrible in accuracy but sufficient for the distance between us. Ronkas are poor shooters. That much I knew. But I would still have tried to take them down if not for the truck behind me. I couldn’t do anything about it. I had no idea how many gangsters were inside, and I didn’t want to check it. There might even be a magician for backup. Though now, average magicians were no concern to me. Ita’s spell should protect me. In theory.
I got off the motorcycle, set it on its stand, and, with my hands raised, started walking towards the Ronkas.
“Hey, you! Don’t shoot, I surrender!” I called out with a slightly hoarse voice, approaching slowly.
The Ronka standing to the left of the car with the Browning broke into an almost grateful smile. It seemed a shootout with a sniper who had won the Bridgeport shooting competition was not on their list of preferences. They probably were clearly instructed to capture me alive.
“Hand over the gun. Take it out slowly,” he commanded, waving the Browning. Seemingly, he was the leader of the two.
I complied with his order and handed him the weapon, handle first.
Tucking it immediately behind his belt and covering it with the flap of his hideous gray, poor-quality jacket, he gestured towards the back seat of the car.
“Get in.”
I sat in the indicated seat. The Ronka with the submachine gun squeezed in next to me, almost crushing me against the car door with his massive bulk of flesh and muscle. Feeling around the door on my side, I noticed there was no handle to open it. Thoughtful guys.
“Why are you messing around with the disentchanters?” asked the Ronka in charge, starting the car.
He carefully drove past the truck, honking giving a signal of departure.
“They told you not to stick your neck out.”
I hesitated with my response, knowing that Ronkas didn’t appreciate overly intellectual talk and smart words, and decided to irk them a bit.
“You instructed me, as you so eloquently put it, esteemed Ronka, not to lodge a complaint with the ammaratia. There was no mention of disentchanters in provided message.”
The Ronka at the wheel grunted noncommittally:
“You should’ve figured it out yourself. You’re not stupid, are you?”
“No, while it may sound cliché, my intellectual index is close to one hundred fifty. This was confirmed by independent tests at highly respected experts of the military academy. An institution your humble servant graduated from with honors and a red diploma.”
“What?” The one sitting on the left with the Thompson painfully jabbed me in the side:
“Cut it out, freak!”
I winced at his poke but continued to play the fool.
“What should I cut out, esteemed sir? These are just typical verbal flourishes for me in a stressful situation...”
‘Thompson’ jabbed me again, this time pressing the barrel of his weapon to my head.
“Leave him, Bus!” said the Ronka behind the wheel.
“He was talking normally at the tailor’s!” protested Bus, clearly infuriated by my behavior.
“Cool it. We can’t kill him. And he knows it.”
Aha! I mentally whistled. There are smart Ronkas after all! This guy could probably even graduate from a middle school in ‘Uryupinsk’. Though he’d probably struggle with math. I decided to continue my charade:
“In your position, noble gentlemen, it is entirely unnecessary to subject me to such barbaric ‘kidnapping’. I could have come to your boss myself, had he called my home number. Courtesy and civility are like a gulp of cold orange juice on a scorching day. As Schopenhauer once said in his philosophical essay...”
“Let me gag him, Tus,” Bus suggested, unable to endure another dose of my high-flown rambling.
“Alright, I’m quiet, dude,” I said, deciding it wasn’t worth spending the whole ride with a gag in my mouth. At least now I knew the names of these gorillas. Tus and Bus. Probably brothers. Ronkas have funny siblings’ names that rhyme.
Bus sighed with unmistakable relief. Tus, without turning around, shook his head reproachfully and drove the car. It was beginning to get dark.
We rode in silence for a while. Then, I decided to break it.
“Can I ask something?”
“Go ahead,” Tus permitted.
“Just talk normal,” Bus quickly added, threateningly waving the barrel of his Tommy-gun.
I decided to ask something.
“Why did that flour-dusted idiot curse me with an absolute curse? What interest do I have now in killing your enemy, even for a million reals? Am I supposed to spend it in the afterlife?”
Bus immediately snorted with satisfaction. Simple, flat humor is something Ronkas understand, and they supposedly like it.
“Exactly, dude! In the afterlife, your million is waiting for you with hookers, casinos, and cards.”
“The shaman shouldn’t have done that,” Tus responded, ignoring his companion’s remark. “The boss scolded him for it.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“The terms of our deal have been revised. At least, that’s what the boss said. I don’t know the specifics. I have a small part in this. Auda will explain everything as soon as we get there. The choices are yours.”
“Who’s that?” I asked, surprised that he was willingly sharing this information, not expecting an answer.
“The lawman. The boss’s lawyer.”
I didn’t like this. Why was he telling me all this? Could they be expecting my voluntary cooperation after everything they’ve done? Maybe they’ll lift the curse? Strange! Is it even possible? A gangster band in Bridgeport, is surely not capable of such a feat, especially when extra-class magicians like Kulu-Kulu can’t do it...
It was quite dark by the time they brought me to some warehouse in the port area of Bridgeport. As we approached the green-painted metal gates with peeling paint, Tus got out of the car and roughly kicked the gate with what must have been at least a size fifty-six boot. The gates whimpered in response to such brute force from the micro-giant. Not waiting for any response from behind the gates, Tus returned to the car and resumed his seat at the wheel.
A minute later, the gates opened, revealing the black void of the entrance, leading through the darkness to a lone lamp hanging from the ceiling, dim and barely illuminating the center of the warehouse. Tus carefully drove inside and turned off the engine. Someone immediately slammed the gates shut with a heavy bolt, locking away any hope of leaving this place alive.
Auda, the lawyer, wore an excellent jacket, worth no less than five thousand reals. Spending days on end at Shani’s tailor shop, I had learned to distinguish good clothing from mediocre and poor, acquiring the silly habit of assessing its cost at first glance. This was sometimes useful in investigations. Instantly determining a suspect’s social status by appearance can be invaluable. Auda was Zingaru – a representative of a very rare race in the world of Rydii. In the nearly million-strong Bridgeport, there were only a few thousand of them. No one knew for sure. They were very secretive and engaged in mysterious activities within their closed circle. Zingaru have dusky skin, fairly large noses, and black, large pupils. Their dark brown, or sometimes bright red hair, resembles a lion’s mane around the head, creating an impression of a cartoon-type mix of lion and human. When they speak, they have a distinctive accent, very unusual: thick, hoarse, and low. Among themselves, they speak in a frequency range almost inaudible to the human ear. It’s said that Zingaru lawyers use this in court, communicating among themselves. No human has ever managed to learn the Zingaru language. As representatives of a strange alien race, to us humans, Zingaru seem similar to one another as if they all have the same face. However, Zingaru themselves have no trouble distinguishing each other.
The lawyer sat at a table, lit by the meager light of a kerosene lamp suspended from the ceiling on a fairly rusty hook made of thick wire. There was no electricity here. Or it had been deliberately turned off. Some people stood to the sides, but it was impossible to discern who. The metallic lampshade on the lamp illuminated only the table within a three-meter circle of light, and I could only see vague shadows along the wall about twenty meters away, in relaxed poses. Seven or eight people, most likely armed.
Without a word, I was seated on a chair. The Ronkas handled my weight as if I were a child. The Zingaru nodded satisfactorily to my escorts – Tus and Bus, and they joined the shadows along the walls.
Ten, I concluded my tally. Plus, one Zingaru, the most dangerous one. They say, Zingaru have lightning-fast reactions. I started calculating in my mind my chances of getting out of the predicament alive. First I shoot the lamp. Then him. Or maybe him first, then the lamp? A formidable task.
Auda, apparently reading something on my face, or surprised by my calm demeanor, decided to start with a polite greeting, interrupting my thoughts on the implausible idea of hitting both him and the lamp simultaneously:
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“Hello, Shooter.”
“Mr. Max Light,” I corrected him. I love the accent and the slightly hoarse articulation of Zingaru. It’s inimitable. To any Earthling, they would undoubtedly evoke curiosity and immense interest. Living aliens, ‘extraterrestrials’! And they understand humans well, even though they consider themselves far superior. Much superior. And they barely hide it. Perhaps they intentionally make it obvious. That’s just like them.
The Zingaru smiled. A lion-like smile.
“Very pleased to meet you. Auda Hariisky.” The fear inside me intensified, more than it had been up to this point. Killing a Zingaru was a death sentence itself. They are as vengeful as Chechens. And to kill one from the Hariisky clan was doubly so. What had my show-off shooting and flamboyance gotten Shani and me into? ‘O Lord, forgive me my stupidity!’ I pleaded inside. 'Let’s see, though. Maybe there is a way out?'
“What’s your problem, Master Light?” asked Auda, phrasing his question oddly. But I understood what he meant. It was a test of my intelligence, to see if I could grasp his intricate question with its underlying meaning.
I decided not to play the fool. Zingaru are not Ronkas. Nor are they even humans. Itнаемный убийца’s dangerous and usually futile to be cunning with them.
“I don’t kill people on command. That’s the only problem, Tana Auda.” (‘Tana’ – a respectful address from humans to Zingaru.)
“And how do you kill them?”
“Only in self-defense. When I am forced to.”
Auda tilted his head.
“Sensible behavior.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I thought so too. At least, until I’ve met your gorillas.”
A short pause took over the place, then:
“Do you play chess, Master Light?” Auda asked, changing the subject and seemingly ignoring my barb.
“Yes,” I replied, provoking him. “I play chess no worse than I shoot.”
I did have a chess rating. It was worth trying to stir this oversized cat. Chess was brought to this world by the mysterious ‘ingineers’, and it was one of the games whose skill was recognized by Zingaru as a benchmark of intelligence. Some of their philosophers even ventured to claim that humanity was created for the sake of developing this game for the Zingaru race. For a moment, I thought he would now propose a game. On mine and Shani’s lives. I would have taken the risk. I could already envision them bringing in a chessboard, familiar from childhood, clinking with pieces inside. But Zingaru again veered off where I didn’t expect:
“In this game, there is a situation where the opponents can neither win nor make a move.”
“A stalemate,” I added the term to his description.
“Yes. And I believe we are in such a situation now. You do not want to accept our proposal. And I cannot simply let you go. But your behavior is uncharacteristic. You are hiding something. Yet I cannot order to kill you for refusing our exiting proposal.”
“It’s not that exciting,” I remarked dryly.
“Really?” He feigned surprise, insincerely and theatrically.
“And you can’t let me and Shani go. What’s the problem? I can keep my mouth shut,” I suggested an alternative.
Auda shook his head.
“Unfortunately, that would be a loss of authority. If one person refuses our assignment, then another might too. You must understand how this would affect our business.”
“Of course, I understand. But you could make an exception for us. Especially since your shaman cursed me with an absolute curse. What’s the point for me to carry out this ‘job’ after that?”
Auda hesitated before answering, then stunned me:
“The curse is not a problem, Master Light. It will be lifted if you successfully eliminate the target.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said, trying to probe his honesty, maybe he wasn’t lying. 'The Dan-Dan-Flors curses are irreversible!' I’ve heard this several times today from quite respected magicians.”
“Did they tell you that there are three entities that can undo such curses?”
“They did. The mythical queen of the Ancient Island, the mythical god of another lost island(why do your gods here so love islands?), and another equally mythical ‘WhoKnowsWho’ thousands of miles away – I think it takes two years to get there. By horse. Forgot his name.”
“Aha! You forgot the most important one for you, Master Light. The Abbot of the Semenites The head of Temple Knights. And they are not mythical at all. I have been in the presence of the Great Abbot personally. About two hundred years ago. Or was it one hundred and eighty? I don’t remember exactly. It was a previous incarnation.”
“Aha, now I remember,” I corrected myself. “The Order of Desert Knights. Ascetics and powerful magicians and fighters. But still, no better than the mythical gods and queens, they’re at the other end of the continent, as far as I know.”
“In any case, your problem is not the curse, as I understand it.”
“Is it not?” I countered.
Playing on their inability to lift the curse seemed like a reasonable strategy. I had no intention of doing their dirty work, but stating that outright was asking for trouble. In criminal slang, it was a “good excuse.”
“So, you’re saying you’ll do the job if the curse is lifted?”
And that’s where I slipped up. I had told myself that being cunning was pointless. As a person from a non-magical world, I kept forgetting that here, thoughts materialize. After a tense ten-second pause, I said with all the confidence I could muster:
“If you remove the curse, then yes.”
Auda tilted his head, drilling into me with his crow-black pupils. I withstood his terrible alien gaze. But the mistake was already made.
Then Zingaru lifted his gaze, looking past my shoulder, and asked one of the shadows against the wall:
“Is he telling the truth?”
“No!” came the ringing response from a voice that sounded very young, almost adolescent. “He lies. And he’s thinking about how to kill you!”
A telepath-sensor! I felt a chill. The Antarctic ice seemed to settle in my stomach. Good thing I hadn’t mentioned the lamp. But of course, a telepath-sensors only detect desires. Thoughts-words are beyond their reach.
Auda’s voice now had the scent of the grave. With a routine business tone, accented by a beautiful, slightly hoarse Zingaru articulation – one you could listen to for ages – he said:
“Kill him!”
“Ace!”
'One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?' No, this was not a flight over the cuckoo’s nest! It was my flight over a table of gangsters’ den! I soared over the table with a revolver in hand, twisting mid-air to shatter the kerosene lamp into fragments, while shielding my eyes with the other hand. Auda Harisky’s body hadn’t even touched the floor when darkness enveloped the room, the only light source extinguished by my actions.
'ELEVEN!' I began the countdown in my head.
I landed on the other side of the table, clutching the now warm revolver that had so swiftly leaped from beneath Tus’s jacket flap into my hand, ready to spit fire like a frenzied beast. Roll. Change position. Quickly!
I barely made it – a leaden rain poured onto the spot where I had fallen.
Fools! The flashes from their shots momentarily illuminated their figures. Meanwhile, I, having shed my jacket and rolled twice, fired back, using it as an improvised flash suppressor. The first rule of a sniper – conceal your location when firing.
Two flashes ceased before they could figure out what was happening and stopped their incriminating fire.
'TEN, NINE,' I continued, quietly and stealthily crawling away. The second rule of a good sniper. Change your position, even if you think you haven’t been spotted!
A pause ensued. In the deepest, pitch-black darkness. A darkness so thick you could cut and eat it in slices, choking on fear and tension.
The darkness of a death lottery!
They shouldn’t have angered me. Oh, they really shouldn’t have! Every hair on my body stood on end, and adrenaline coursed through my veins in liters per minute.
The pause stretched on and on. They didn’t know what to do, just waiting for me to act. To make a mistake: to start shooting first. I wasn’t about to run for the gates and become an excellent target in the opening of the swinging doors, as well. No way! ‘Bastards! ‘Or do you want to test the patience of a sniper?! Oh, I have an ocean of it! You can’t imagine how long a sniper can lie still in the frozen ground, blending with the terrain, mud, grass, and leaves, becoming a part of the landscape. Waiting for that singular moment when an enemy appears in the kilometer distance. Your only hope here is a combat helicopter with a thermal imager. But you don’t have one. And likely never will. Come on, let’s see who outlasts whom!’
Someone’s nerves gave out first. I heard desperate footsteps heading toward the car by the gates, heavy like a rhino’s tread.
Right. Rush to the car, and turn on the headlights. Illuminate so the rest of the gang can riddle me with bullets.
‘FOOLISH IDEA!’ If you don’t have Native American leather moccasins, then the clomping of size fifty boots is a certain death. Absolute death! And really, one shouldn’t run around in the dark in a warehouse. It’s dangerous. There’s all sorts of stuff around: boxes, wagons, snipers. The latter are especially perilous.
I fired twice. The sound of a falling body informed me of the success of my blind shooting.
'SEVEN!' I swiftly changed my position again, reloading the revolver. The gangsters could fire at the sound of my shot, even without seeing the flames through the folded jacket. And I was right. They took a chance to get me. Flames, again and again, perfect targets:
'SIX, FIVE!'
'What are you thinking? You’ll never learn, you just repeating the same mistakes like that! You can’t rush here. This is not the standard situation for you. No shopkeepers here that you can scare off with just the sight of your gang, no skittish and obsequious roadside café owners, and no greased-up prostitutes along Muhaboyshikov Street (God knows why it’s named like that). This is the realm of sharpshooters and their patience! Bandits have no place here. I am the master here. Master of death and darkness.'
“Bastard! Worm! I’ll kill y...!”
'FOUR!'
And talking here is completely out of the question. It’s even advisable not to breathe. The heavy panting of a mammoth-like body can attract death. But now, you’re so scattered, that you don’t even know if it’s me shooting or if you’re shooting each other. To your unluck, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m alone! And there are many of you, though it seems you don’t care anymore and will shoot at any noise, regardless.
With a quick flick, I tossed the revolver aside, bluntly hitting the warehouse wall.
The burst from the Thommy-gun masked my quiet, "Ace!"
The revolver flew back into my hand, and the ‘Thompson’ fell silent.
‘THREE! Farewell, Bus! We’ll miss you. Hookers and blackjack await you in the hell you wanted for me.’
So, two left. One magician, with a thin, ringing voice, and one gorilla. The sensor-mage is dangerous. He can sense the direction of danger. But in this situation, that knowledge is a mockery. He can’t tell or shout to his comrades where I am. That would be instant death. And it’s not certain it would be from me; the frightened bandits would open fire at any noise before realizing its source. ‘Ha, wildly funny!’ But he could run from me for a long time.
To hell with it! I’ll keep throwing my ‘revolver-boomerang’ until I force a mistake. Or think of something else. I’ve got a whole wagonload of sniper tricks, and a cart to boot. Stuff you, the city gangsters, can’t even dream of!
“DO NOT SHOOT, WE SURRENDER!!!”
I almost fired at the desperate cry. And I recognized the voice. Tus! A smart, rare Ronka. No wonder you were the only one not shooting in the dark, understanding what it could lead to certain death. You saw how I hit targets from nine hundred yards.
I remained silent, unresponsive. Could you be tricking me, Tus? Two hours ago, I was the one surrendering, and now everything’s turned around. But why do I need your surrender?
“Don’t shoot, Shooter! I know you can’t respond without giving away your position. You don’t have to answer. I’m with Dina; she’ll tell me your wish. Can we open the gates?”
I pondered, 'Right now, I could shoot him. His voice was barely ten meters away. Fine. The guy might prove useful. They have Shani, and if I take him out, the thread breaks and I’ll have to dig through Bridgeport’s asphalt with my nose to find its end again.'
“He won’t shoot. The gates can be opened.”
The young subject’s voice confirmed my desire. Handy to have a negotiator who senses your most genuine wishes. Impossible to deceive. And having one on your side is a colossal advantage...
Tus acted as if following my instructions. Opening the gates, he stepped back a few paces and stood with his hands clasped behind his neck, not turning around. A girl, about thirteen or fourteen – the sensor-mage – stood beside him, also raising her hands. But in a somewhat foolish way, at shoulder level, palms up, as if she was ‘making fun’ of the position. If it weren’t for the recent killing, I would have thought she found it amusing. She was dressed in some sort of attire reminiscent of an ‘Albanian’ national costume with a yellow vest and a white knee-length skirt. Quite an odd outfit for this part of the land.
I surveyed this scene from the depths of the warehouse, watching them from the darkness, then stepped outside. Only then did I realize how stale the air was in that damned warehouse. The intoxicating night breeze of the coastal area was incredibly refreshing. The smell of the sea air was incomparable. I breathed deeply, relishing the end of this death lottery, and approached my captives.
Tus flinched when I touched him with the revolver’s barrel but said nothing and did not turn around.
“Don’t worry, Tus. He won’t shoot. He wants to use us,” the girl commented carelessly on the situation.
I was irritated with her.
“Enough, stop reading my thoughts. Who are you? What are you doing with these thugs? Where are your parents?”
The girl snorted and turned over her shoulder, shamelessly scrutinizing me with mischievous, elfish-green eyes. I was in mild shock. What kind of upbringing! She, indeed, found it amusing!