Guardsmen of Tomorrow by Martin H. & Segriff Greenberg, Larry Segriff Page A

him as they wandered. The streets were alive tonight: music gushing from the open doorways of taverns; a woman’s coarse laugh; a pair of boastful spacers drunk as Dawes himself; the rattle of what might have been a blowing newspaper; the soft rustle of his own cloak. A harlot called his name and an offer as Donovan led him on. Strong whiff of perfume. He waved a hand and grinned, wondered who she was.
    “The moons,” he said quietly, feeling the Martian wind in his hair. “Are they up yet?”
    Donovan slowed his pace only a little. Chilson Dawes imagined the big man staring upward. “Deimos is, swollen and full, like a ripe tangerine.”
    “Bastard,” Dawes muttered.
    “Something else is up, too,” Donovan whispered. His hand closed over Dawes’ as he subtly increased the pace. “We’re being followed.”
    Dawes frowned, his heart quickening. This was a rough part of Tharsis, but he was known here. The locals protected him and left him alone. Still, he trusted Donovan; he did his best to keep up. He had enough money on him to make robbery tempting.
    Maybe someone had followed him from Madam Satterfield’s.
    Donovan led the way quickly through the streets, around comers, down winding alleys into new streets. Carnival sounds swirled; cotton candy smells and body stink, urine, trash can noises, conversation, laughter. Another turn, and a quieter street.
    Donovan stopped suddenly. A rush of footsteps. Donovan pushed Dawes’ hand away and turned. A grunt, harsh intake of breath, sound of body falling.
    A rough hand grabbed Dawes’ shoulder. Not Donovan’s-he knew that familiar touch too well. Angry, concerned for his friend, Dawes leaned sideways, twisting even as he thrust out a foot. Someone went flying over his leg. Someone else caught his wrist. He heard his name; so they knew him! With his free hand he snatched the attacker’s wrist, twisted hard, heard bone snap as he dropped to one knee. A sharp, deep-throated scream of pain, another flying body.
    His name again, then an energy whine, heat-sizzle past his ear, and an explosion of stone and brick behind him. “Dawes!”
    An ozone reek filled the air, and he rose cautiously. He knew a warning shot from a laser pistol. He groped for the still-warm wall, leaned against it, fingered the catch of his cloak nervously, and huddled inside its folds as he waited.
    “Damn you, you’ve injured two of my best men.”
    From either side new pairs of hands gripped his arms. A loud electric crackle, and anguished gasps. “Four,” Dawes corrected with a horrible grin, as two more bodies fell groaning. He relaxed a little; he recognized the voice that had addressed him.
    “Next time you want to see me, Colonel, make an appointment-like everybody else.”
    He paused. No one else tried to grab him, so he touched the catch of his cloak again, deactivating the microcircuitry hidden in its weave.
    “You’ve been inventing again.”
    There was a certain pitying sympathy in Samuel Straf’s voice that irritated Dawes.
    “A stun-cloak,” he said. “What the hell did you do to Donovan, and what the hell do you want with me? I’ve got nothing to do with your damned Stellar Guard anymore.”
    “I’m okay, Chil.” Donovan’s voice said he was a little less than okay, but alive at least. “Just too slow on this bum leg. I turned into a left hook.”
    “He threw the first punch,” Straf said. “Understandable, I guess, since we’re not in uniform, but you don’t wear those in this part of the city. You haunt a bad neighborhood, Chilson.”
    As if Chilson Dawes gave a starman’s damn what Samuel Straf thought. The Guard had dismissed him and shit-canned his last civilian research project on Straf’s recommendation. “Stuff it, Colonel.” He held out his arm for Donovan, instructing his friend, “Get me out of here before this skunk stinks up the place.”
    “I’ve got a job for you,” Straf said stiffly. “You’re still drawing a Guard paycheck.
    Technically,