The Janus Syndrome | Page 2

motto, did Area Fourteen. Causing me trouble.

If the Enemy had tagged Kerry, though, they'd kill her. I was wary.
We'd lost a lot of agents recently to Enemy work. Too many.
I relaxed when I saw her coming through the entranceway at the bottom
of the terminal; five feet of her, plus afro, plus pantsuit. It was
impossible to mistake her, even from this distance; there is simply no
one else like Kerry in an assortment of planets.
I got ready to go meet her, then stopped and dropped back into the seat.
Kerry was crossing the distance rapidly; she wasn't looking for me. For
good reason.
Two of them, trailing her. They hadn't made any move on her yet, and
that had to mean they were aware that she was here to make a
connection. They were going to hit contact and connection together,
neat double-header for them.
And for me, ugly as hell.
I watched them carefully, scanning side to side to check for others.
None. Both white types, hair cut in similar fashion, similar casual suites
-- it prevents part of your team getting iced if you have a few
identifying points in the scrimmage -- one blue serge, one business gray.
They were flanking her on either side, hands in their pockets, some
distance behind.
I tried to juggle strategy while watching them. If they followed pattern
they'd try to corner us, and then shoot. A couple of shots from .38
snubnoses would do the trick, cartridges only half-filled with cordite to
cut the noise. Silencers were too clumsy.
After the hit, a fast escape through a nearby exit, and personal
transmission back to homebase.
Kerry didn't look at me as she went by, and neither did they.
I took out a pack of cigarettes, and made a show of looking for a match.

Kerry was aware of her shadows, and she'd passed the ball to me; I was
going to have to work fast not to fumble the play, and I didn't have the
barest shred of a plan.
I was going to have to think on the fly.
I hate working blind.
I stood up with the air of a True addict without a light, looked around in
desperation, and settled on the nice gent in gray walking by on my left.
I picked up the heaviest of the two carryalls -- the one that held my
cassette recorder and headphones -- as I started off.
I caught up with him and plucked at his sleeve, slouching back a bit as
he stopped and turned.
"You got a light, buddy?" I said.
His mouth opened slightly, and his eyes shifted to take in his partner,
who was moving away from us, still trailing Kerry.
"Well, actually --" he started.
I brought the bag sharply into his groin, doubling him over, took his
hair in my free hand, slammed his face into my knee, smashing his
nose with a sound like an apple being smacked into a wall, dragged his
head back as I dropped the bag, and punched him in the throat with my
fingers bent under.
I held him up for a moment while I checked his clothes with a fast frisk,
slapping his pockets. Nothing. His weaponry was elsewhere, and I
didn't have time to search him properly.
I let him drop, swung, and shouted, "KERRY! GO!"
And then I was off and running myself, diving for cover in the annex
where the Greyhound people had hidden the soda and pinball machines;
I'd memorized possible cover just for this sort of thing. I'd only been
near Enemy on Earth once before, and had escaped unscathed easily

enough. This time it was different.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kerry running for a row of seats; she
vaulted over the row, shoulder-bag still in place, one small hand on the
back of a seat, movements as lithe as a cat's.
I left the ground in a flying dive, and felt a breath of fire across my
back, smelling ozone and smoke; adrenaline surged. I hit the polished
floor, slid a way, and rolled under a pinball table, crawling to take up
position behind a large soda machine.
I was weaponless, and about as much use as a hula-hoop during the
goldrush. And judging by the heat across my back and the smell of
ozone, the Enemy were packing a lot more than .38 revolvers.
Another laser shot sliced into the soda machine next down the row
from mine, melting a chunk of the facade to slag. It broke away from
the machine, molten-white and glaring, cooled rapidly on the way
down, and splashed onto the floor, blistering the wax and rapidly
turning solid.
I shivered and drew back. If that guy caught