Early Byrd by Phil Geusz Page A

his eyes moved to Li. "I'm not inclined to offer
goddamn collaborators much in the way of favors, either."
    "Understood," our teacher replied, voice
calm. "Just don't hurt the boys."
    The American nodded and turned his attention
to us. "Step on out, kids." He gestured with the shortest-barreled
shotgun I'd ever seen. Meanwhile, shots began to ring out,
seemingly from every direction and all at once. "This way, into the
van."
    I looked at Mr. Li, who nodded and forced a
smile. Then Tim nodded at me too, and we took off running. "Get
in!" a woman ordered; her voice seemed familiar, so I looked up and
saw despite the disguise that it was Linda, the hotel manager who'd
supposedly been arrested because of what I'd told her.
    "I . . . Uh . . ." I must've been gaping
like a fish of water; she reached down and, none too gently,
dragged me through the van's sliding door. "Sit in the far back.
You're going to be fine now. We're taking you to a safe place where
they'll never find you."
    "We're taking the others as well," the
Canadian declared. "Plan B is in effect."
    "Right," the American agreed. "You, traitor.
Help the fleabag up onto his feet."
    I frowned. Dad had taught us that it was as
wrong to call an Artemesian a fleabag as it was to call an Asian man like Mr. Li a
slant. In fact, there wasn't anything much worse.
    "I require no assistance, Li," Rapput
declared. Then he rose, his shattered arm cradled in the other.
Along the way a single groan left his lips. "Though I'm sure you'd
have been willing."
    "Fleabag first," the American continued,
raising his voice as the background firing increased. "Then you,
traitor."
    Our companions obeyed their orders. Rapput
eased himself down onto the bare steel floor that would normally
have anchored a middle row of seats—apparently they'd been removed
for this trip. They searched his robes thoroughly, and our teacher
as well. Then Mr. Li tried to lower himself down alongside the
alien . . .
    . . . and the Canadian kicked him in the
knee just when he was at his most vulnerable. "Don't you even think about trying anything," he hissed from between
clenched teeth. "I recognized that stance—I'm a black belt
myself."
    Li merely nodded and smiled despite what
must've been terrible pain. "Of course."
    "Of course!" the Canadian snorted, clearly
seeking cause to be offended and finding none. Then he climbed into
the passenger seat as the American and Linda squeezed in on each
side of Tim and me. It was a tight fit. "Execute phase two!" the
northerner cried out into the ever-increasing gunfire. "Now! Now!
Now!"
    The driver started the motor and threw the
van into gear. We went surging across the parking garage until . .
. we were surrounded by white vans! A dozen or more. Never stopping
for a moment we all jostled and juggled for places in a single-file
line as we headed for the exit together.
    "Looking good," Linda offered.
    "Not home yet," the American muttered.
    Then the motor roared and we emerged into
daylight, the firefight now so intense that it sounded like strings
of firecrackers going off in every direction. Another disguised man
carrying some sort of military rifle reeled into our lane. His face
was all bloody, so maybe he didn't know what he was doing. Anyway,
another van knocked him flat onto the pavement directly in front of
us. Our brakes squealed, but the Canadian man shouted. "No! There's
no time! Run him over!" And we did exactly that. Ka-thump,
ka-thump! It was awful; I swear I heard his bones crunch.
    Then we were out on the main roads, circling
blocks and changing lanes and going in and of garages until no one
could possibly know which white van was which.
    "All right !" the American finally declared,
once we were out all by our lonesome riding down a country road
without any signs of pursuit. "I think we've actually pulled this
off!" And the Plan B version at that!"
    "Honor compels me to inform you," Rapput
began, "that you are in gross violation of the Treaty of—"
    "Shut up,"