Attack of the Bounty Hunters Ch. 01

[This is not a "sex story". It is a story about a society whose people have superfast reflexes... and guns.]

Forward: Who are the Graftonites?

They were the most fearsome gunmen in the galaxy. Everyone knew what they were capable of. People trembled in their presence. All it took was the mere mention of their name.

The Graftonites.

It was a curious world, Grafton II, at first an uninhabited, lush planet. It was several years before the first settlers started to notice something different about themselves. Their reflexes started to speed up. They could move and dodge more quickly, and of course, shoot more quickly as well. At first, that skill was largely used for hunting.

But as time passed and their new found abilities matured, word spread about what the Graftonites were capable of doing. Graftonites suddenly found that their abilities were in demand on other planets. Suddenly, the life of a hard working pioneer had little allure for these settlers, compared to the life of adventure and excitement (and not to mention enrichment) that the galaxy had to offer.

Fifty years later, the four most common professions on Grafton were pretty much set for centuries to come. In order of popularity:

Bounty hunter.

Gunman.

Mercenary.

Killer.

Graftonites became feared throughout the civilized galaxy for their exceedingly quick reflexes. But as individuals they were only a threat to those they had been hired to capture or kill. A capable Graftonite gunman could take on three or four other soldiers, outdraw them, and kill them all before any could fire a shot.

But what would it take to stop an army of Graftonites? They would be almost unbeatable.

It was fortunate that the Graftonites, fiercely independent by nature, had never organized. Each one did his or her own thing.

At least, until Mo Quandry came along.

Mo Quandry was a traditional Graftonite assassin. He had started his professional life as a gunman. He enjoyed it and had an unusual talent for it, even by Graftonite standards. He then became a mercenary, which was even more lucrative than being a gunman. At first Quandry enjoyed the work, but over time he found that the excitement faded. Something was lacking.

And then he became a professional hitman. Hunting targets. Eliminating them. And then Quandry knew what had been missing as a mercenary. The thrill of the chase. The excitement of the kill. The feeling of power when he squeezed the trigger. It was that feeling of power that drove him into politics, even though Grafton II didn't have much by way of a political structure. Which was something that Mo Quandry intended to change.

At this moment Quandry stood in his personal stadium on his expansive estate. Graftonite estates tended to be roomy, but Quandry's was larger than most, big enough to accommodate a small army. That wasn't by chance.

Quandry took to the stage, reveling in the roar of cheers from hundreds of Graftonite gunmen in the bleachers. Quandry was a tall, dark haired man, with a single scar running down the side of his face. He had a certain hardness in his brown eyes, a hardness uncommon even for a Graftonite. He wore the blue denim that was the popular dress of all Graftonites, with a blaster holstered to one side, and a traditional Graftonite weapon, the slicer, holstered to the other.

"My friends," he said, standing before the gathering of assembled Graftonites. "Our time has come! No longer will we be content working for the sheep, living off the pocket change they pay us for running their errands while they get fat and rich. Why settle for a handful of credits when it can all be ours!"

The crowd roared.

Quandry started pacing. He seemed to be looking through the crowd, picking out individual faces. "The sheep have nothing but scorn for us. But even more than that, they fear us!"

The crowd roared again.

Quandry suddenly stopped moving. "As proof, see the spy they have placed in our midst!"

He snapped his fingers, and two Graftonites were instantly at his side. Quandry pointed, and a very surprised looking spectator in the audience found himself surrounded by Quandry's men.

"Bring him up here!" said Quandry. Quandry could feel the thrill running through him, the feeling of getting close to his prey, the waves of adulation from the crowd. It made him feel more alive than he had ever been before.

The spectator was brought to the stage. One of the guards handed Quandry the spectator's blaster.

"Who sent you to spy on us?" Quandry boomed.

The man looked frightened, but said, "I... I am no spy."

Quandry stood for a moment, as if considering that answer. Then he looked at the man's blaster. "Not a bad weapon."

Almost quicker than the eye could see, Quandry fired off a series of shots with the man's blaster. They exploded all around him, only inches from the man's hands and legs.

Quandry aimed the blaster at the man. "Now, who do you work for?"

"The L-league," said the man.

"You see!" said Quandry. The crowd roared.

"We will no longer do your bidding while you skulk in the shadows, like a coward!" said Quandry. The crowd roared again.

"If you want to confront us, you must do it face to face!" said Quandry. He tossed the man his blaster, and took several steps backwards. "Draw."

The man sweated, but didn't raise his blaster.

"Are you afraid?" said Quandry.

"I don't want to fight," said the man, now trembling.

"Nevertheless, by trespassing on my property, and spying, you've picked a fight," Quandry roared. "Look how cowardly the sheep is!"

The crowd roared again. They were his; they were all his. This was his power, and Quandry reveled in it.

"Now draw," said Quandry, staring the trembling man down.

"You can outdraw me. You have faster reflexes, I wouldn't stand a chance," said the man.

"All right," said Quandry. He slowly drew his own blaster, and laid it down on the ground. Then he drew his slicer, a long, thin foil. He thumbed a contact on it, and the foil glowed as a thin energy field enveloped the length of it.

"Now you have no more excuses," said Quandry. "Draw."

Still trembling, the man didn't raise the blaster. He took a step backwards.

"You have exactly three seconds before I come after you," said Quandry. "One... two..."

The man raised his blaster, and fired. But he might as well have been moving in slow motion, for Quandry dodged out of the way of the blast, raised the slicer, and gave a quick, horizontal slice with his blade.

The man didn't even have time to scream. He fell to the ground, in two distinct and separate thuds.

Quandry raised his glowing slicer into the air. He gave an unforced smile and felt a tingling excitement throughout his body. There it was, that feeling again, the one he so desperately craved.

Quandry faced the crowd. His crowd. "This will be the fate of all sheep who oppose us! Let us take from them what is rightfully ours!" he yelled. "Together, we will rule the galaxy!"

"Victory!" he shouted.

"Victory!" the crowd shouted back.

They shouted it over, again and again, as Quandry continued to excite the crowd. With their super reflexes and gunfighting abilities, who would be able to stop them?

Chapter 1: The Column Gets Involved

The League of United Planets was the most powerful coalition of colonized planets in the galaxy. It was administered by an elected government on the planet August and stood for human rights and democratic representation. A very large bureaucracy administered its programs and a slightly less large military defended it. In addition, the League had a number of external intelligence agencies working for it.

Stellar Intelligence was the largest, most well known, and most respected agency--and also the least competent.

At the other extreme, the most capable intelligence agency was one without the staff or the resources or even the public relations of Stellar Intelligence. What it did have was superb operatives. This agency was simply known as the Column.

And in the Column, the most capable agents were known as Level One Agents. There were traditionally only eight of those, who were known, for a very obvious reason, as "The Eight." And of those eight most capable agents, perhaps the very most capable agent in all the League was at that moment performing vital work... in an insane asylum.

For the first time in a very long time, superspy Clifford Croft was almost at a loss for words.

"... just because," Croft finally said. "Do I really have to explain why it's a bad thing to light someone's clothes on fire?"

Croft was speaking to one of the Column's gamma operatives, a fire starter named Red Sally who could literally start fires with her mind. They were deep underground, in a secure sub basement in Column HQ on August codenamed "The Institute".

Sally glared at Croft, her blonde hair turning a hint of red as the room temperature around her rose slightly. "It's not like I actually hurt someone."

"I don't think the Deputy Secretary appreciated the first degree burn on her right arm," Croft said.

"First degree? That's nothing," said Sally dismissively.

"She's an important government official, and important government officials don't appreciate being lit on fire," Croft said, as if he were explaining an obvious fact of life to a child. He looked her in the eye, saw the madness, and tried to ignore it.

"It was an accident," said Sally. She looked away, wringing her hands.

"Was it?" Croft said. "Or was it just coincidental that her jacket burst into flame when she asked if you were emotionally stable?"

"I am emotionally stable!" Sally shouted, wisps of steam coming out of her blonde hair, which was starting to look more and more red. "And I only lit her jacket on fire. If she had only taken it off promptly, she wouldn't have gotten a scratch!"

"The point is that the Deputy Secretary should never have needed a fire safety course in order to visit here," Croft said. "And you need to learn that."

"All right, I'm sorry," said Sally. She raised her right hand. "I promise never to ignite anyone again."

"You've said that before," Croft said. "The doctors think you need some practical training."

"I don't care what the doctors think!" Sally snapped. And there it was again, in her eyes, the obvious insanity.

Croft snapped his fingers and took a few steps back from Sally. Attendants in metal fire resistance suits and visors came running forward, on cue, carrying large old fashioned print books. They stood between Sally and Croft, and held the books up, all around Croft.

"What's this all about?" said Sally. "What are you doing with my books of poetry?"

Red Sally was well known in the institute for writing feverish poems, mostly involving fire. A sentimentalist, she printed out editions of every volume and cherished them as if they were her own children.

"Oh, you mean these books?" Croft said. "Consider this an object lesson in controlling your powers." He smiled. Sally had the power. Normally, she was the one to be feared. But now, for a brief moment, Croft had control, and he relished it.

"What do you mean?"

"I have some blunt things to say to you," Croft said. "And I have some concern as to how you will take it."

"I can take some constructive criticism, I suppose," said Sally guardedly.

"Good," Croft said. "Because remember that your books are surrounding me." He gave the slightest of gestures, and the orderlies in the fire protection suits held up the books.

"First let's start with your temper," Croft said.

"Who says I have a temper?" Sally yelled.

"Everyone," Croft said. "And I'm not only talking about the people you've injured. People are afraid to be around you, Sally. They think if they say the wrong thing, they'll burst into flames."

"Lies!" said Sally, her hair half-red, and positively steaming now. Croft thought he could even see the beginnings of flames in her eyes, which was a little more than disconcerting. Still, he willed himself to remain calm. In control.

"So nothing I could say could cause you to start a fire, then?" Croft said.

"No!" said Sally.

"Well then, Sally, let us talk about your poetry," Croft said. "Have I told you that I have actually read some of it?" This was the dangerous part. Provoking Sally was not Croft's first choice, but he had been forced to do it.

Sally's expression turned grim.

"I can't say I think much of it," Croft said, in a carefully modulated tone that was just the slightest bit derisive.

Her hair was all red now.

"Your poetry has no rhythm."

A curtain of steam rose from her.

"And all you do is write about fires. That gets dull, real quick," Croft observed, acting as if he didn't notice Sally's physiological reactions. That was the key to his control, pretending that nothing she could do would intimidate or harm him.

Sally glared at Croft.

Croft continued, careful to maintain eye contact. "And for another, your spelling and grammar are awful. What educated person spells conflagration with a u?"

The air in the room became sweltering hot. Croft could feel a sheet of heat blow over him. Any sensible person would have fled. Croft willed himself to continue. He could see that things were reaching a boiling point, perhaps literally. It was time for the final push. "I read some of your poems to the guys upstairs, and they actually laughed at the amateurish-"

Sally screamed, and a jet of flames shot out from her hands. The orderlies cringed, even in their fire protective suits, as did Croft. But the flames shot backwards, not forwards, engulfing an unoccupied table and a set of chairs in flames. The flames shot out again, and again and again, as Sally glared at Croft, perspiration running off her brow, but always in a safe direction.

Finally, Sally started gasping, and the flames stopped. Orderlies rushed forward with fire extinguishers.

Sally wiped some of the perspiration off of her face. "You see?" she said. "I never touched you. I can control it."

Croft looked at her, at the glee and excitement in her eyes, and realized Gamma Operatives were truly two edged swords.

********

Croft was drenched with sweat, and had to shower and change clothes. He was still reflecting on how much he hated this assignment over lunch at the Column HQ cafeteria. One of his few friends, a fellow operative named Preston, joined him several minutes into Croft's lunch. They were serving simulated fish today. Croft hated simulated fish.

"How did it go?" Preston asked him.

Croft shrugged. "The usual."

"Why did you get picked for this assignment?" Preston asked, vocalizing a thought that had been on Croft's mind.

"The Chief volunteered me," Croft said. "I told her one of the doctors should do it. I'm not a psychiatrist."

"What did the Chief say?" Preston asked.

"She said all members of the Column, even the Eight, have to do unpleasant tasks," Croft said. "I think she's trying to break me, trying to pressure me to quit." The Chief didn't like Croft, that much was clear. Over the past few months Croft had been given petty, unpleasant assignments which were certainly not appropriate for one of the Eight. Croft had detected a pattern.

"So has she burned you yet?" Preston seemed to be almost gleeful.

"Not yet, sorry to disappoint you," said Croft. He ate some simulated corn. It had been so long since he had eaten real corn that he had forgotten what the real thing tasted like. Did simulated corn taste like real corn? Croft no longer knew. For him, simulated corn was real corn now.

"Cheer up, you'll get a real assignment soon," said Preston.

"How do you know that?" said Croft.

"You're one of the Eight. The Column can't afford to have one of its best minds babysitting in the basement," said Preston.

He felt an odd jolt of pride. "Ah, but now you're talking common sense," said Croft, chasing some simulated corn with his fork. Fork? That was probably simulated too. "I don't think the Chief subscribes to common sense."

"She's not all bad," said Preston.

Croft just looked at him.

"All right, she's all bad," said Preston. "But just wait and see, your luck will change. It could happen any time, at any moment."

Croft's wristcomm beeped. Startled, he looked at it; it was from the Chief's office.

He looked at Preston. "Did you know...?"

Preston shook his head.

Croft took the message. He was summoned to an unscheduled meeting in a certain conference room. Immediately.

"This could be it," said Preston.

"More likely than not she's thought of something else unpleasant that is meant to break me," said Croft. "Maybe to reindex all the files, or to polish all the blasters in the armory, or something equally trite."

"Don't think negative," said Preston.

"Or don't think at all," Croft responded.

Croft arrived at the conference room and found it crowded. There were bureaucrats there of all kinds, and senior military officers too, from the army and the navy. But Croft's attention was focused on the Chief. She greeted him with her usually warm and familiar glare. Mitty Benchly was new to the job of Director of the Column ("Director" in title, but called "Chief" in practice). But it hadn't taken her long to acquire an instinctive dislike to Croft. She had spent thirty years of her life as a line operative in Stellar Intelligence, the rival to the Column, before going into politics, eventually landing the position as Director of the Column. Her background in SI showed; she believed an intelligence agency should be about the quiet, methodical accumulation of information, to better inform policy makers.

She was far less comfortable with the idea of missions, or operations, and that was where Croft excelled. Benchly didn't believe that the proper role of an intelligence agency was to interfere in the workings of other planets. Given that this was the role that Croft specialized in, it was to no surprise that she did not hold him in high esteem.

"Mr. Croft," she said, giving him a warning glare. "The Chief of Staff is joining us at this meeting," she said, indicating a dignified, middle aged man sitting in a fine, eight piece suit, flanked by aides. His aides only wore six piece suits.

Croft grimaced. The more layers of clothing a bureaucrat wore, the more self-important they considered themselves. But what would the Chief of Staff be doing here? Normally, the Chief of Staff of the President had little or no involvement with the Column. And why were all these senior military officers present? Something important must be happening.

Croft, looking at the Chief's expression, realized he was expected to say something. What, he didn't know. Her eyes pointed to the Chief of Staff.

"Uh, so nice to meet you, sir," said Croft unconvincingly. He was always lacking in the social niceties, not because of lack of ability, but mostly because of lack of interest.

"Mr. Croft," said the Chief of Staff, giving Croft an appraising glance that could have meant anything, or nothing at all.

"Have a seat," said the Chief sharply. "Lights!"

The lights dimmed. "This briefing will be led by our second deputy chief analyst for sector intelligence, Sylvia Tane," said the Chief, indicating a young blonde woman. "You may begin, Ms. Tane."

"What is this about?" Croft whispered to the Chief.

"Be quiet and find out," the Chief advised. She raised her voice. "Ms. Tane, we're waiting."

"Ah, yes," said the young woman. She pressed a button, and a holo of a blue-green world appeared on the holoprojector. "You are all undoubtedly familiar with Grafton II. It's a planet notorious for its gunmen for hire. Until now Graftonites have operated individually for different employers, some working against our interests, some working for them, but most engaged in activities unrelated to our interests."

"Until now," the Chief prompted.

"Ah, yes." Another holoimage appeared, this one a video showing Graftonites in battle, firing blasters as they ran and moving rapidly across a field. They moved so incredibly quickly that their images blurred, only solidifying when they stopped to momentarily steady their aim.

"This holo transcript was taken from Grafton IV, another planet in orbit around Grafton. The inhabitants from Grafton IV aren't members of the League, but rather are independent, like Grafton II. Unfortunately, they don't have the speeded up reflexes of their neighbors on Grafton II," said Tane.

"What we're seeing, gentlemen, is an attack on the Zytrilium depository on Grafton IV," said the Chief.

"Groups of Graftonites are occasionally hired to stage armed raids," said one of the generals. "As long as it doesn't concern a League world, why do we care?"

"Because when the Graftonites took the Zytrilium, they didn't leave," said the Chief. "They stayed behind and took over the entire planet."

That started some murmuring in the audience. That wasn't typical Graftonite behavior.

"Next holo, please!" the Chief said, taking over the presentation.

The holo of a dark haired man appeared on the screen. "This is Mo Quandry, the leader of this new group of Graftonites," said the Chief. "As far as we can tell, he's the one who organized this invasion." There was more background chatter at the mere mention of the I-word.

"Invasion, gentlemen. There is no way to minimize it," said Benchly. "If the Graftonites are getting organized, and have started to invade a neighboring planet, who is to say whose planet will be next? A League planet, perhaps?"

"The Graftonites are formidable fighters, but we outnumber them more than a thousand to one. They only have one planet with a population of what, 50 million?" said one of the generals.

"Actually, the figure is closer to eight million," said Tane, the analyst.

"Eight million! What is that against a population of hundreds of billions?" said the general.

"And they have no space force to speak of," said an admiral. "How did they even get to the planet they're invading?"

"According to our remote sensors, they used a civilian transport, escorted by fighters. No more than 300 Graftonites were involved in the invasion," said the Chief. "And Grafton IV, their target, has a population of 40 million."

"You're saying that 300 Graftonites took over a planet of 40 million?" said a general. "That's impossible."

"Facts on the ground would indicate otherwise," said the Chief. "They have a quite solid hold on Grafton IV."

"Have we spoken with their government, sounded out their intentions?" The Chief of Staff asked.

"There is no government," said the Chief.

The murmuring increased.

"What do you mean?" said the Chief of Staff. "Every planet, even a small colony world, has to have a government. "

"There is no government," the Chief repeated. "Tane?"

"There is no planetary government," Tane repeated. "You have to remember, these are fiercely individualistic people."

"Impossible!" said one of the admirals. "Who provides for planetary defense?"

"The citizens do. Nearly every citizen has their own spacefighter," said Tane.

"Who provides for social welfare?" a civilian analyst asked.

"The citizens provide for themselves," said Tane. "All essential services are privatized. Living on Grafton isn't a cheap proposition. That's part of the reason that the planet's so underpopulated."

"What about schools?" This question came from the Chief of Staff.

"They're privatized," said Tane.

"Privatized?" said the Chief of Staff, looking puzzled. "But who sets the curriculum? Who instills the citizen's duty, the social conscience, the sensitivity training-"

"They don't seem to do very much of that. Their basic education focuses on reading, writing... and shooting," said Tane.

"Maybe that's the Graftonite version of sensitivity training," Croft muttered.

The Chief gave Croft a hard look.

The Chief of Staff looked incredulous. "Children training with guns? What about the justice system, police?"

"There is no justice system, or police, or laws," said Tane. "There is no crime, legally speaking."

"But... what if one civilian gets robbed, or attacked...."

"Then that citizen can use his gun and hunt down the attacker," said Tane. "That's another reason that Grafton II is underpopulated. If you're not good with a gun you don't tend to last long there."

"How does the population respond to murders?"

"If a particular killer incenses the locals with his choice of targets, locals can band together to hunt him down," said Tane. "There is a limited form of local government. Water, sewage, and roads are provided by limited local authorities, the equivalent of county governments here. They function by assessing a property tax, which is set on a sliding scale based on the property owner's fighting ability."

"Fighting ability? What does that have to do with anything?" a civilian asked.

"The county authority hires as its tax assessor a gunman, the best it can find, but usually someone with average or slightly above average gunfighting skills. The tax assessor goes from home to home assessing the property tax for each establishment. Before the assessor sets the tax, he takes into account how formidable the owner of the home is. Because the owner can appeal the ruling by attempting to kill the assessor."

"How barbaric!" said the civilian.

"If the tax assessor/gunman knows he's a faster draw than the owner, he assesses a relatively high fee, figuring that the owner will find it more reasonable to pay than to go up against him. If the gunman thinks the owner is faster than him, then he assesses a relatively low amount, figuring that at such a low amount the owner won't think it worthwhile to kill someone he hasn't been paid to kill."

There was a lot of murmuring now in the conference room.

"So there's no central government at all?" asked one of the generals.

"Sometimes Graftonites get together to discuss issues. When a lot of Graftonites, say a 100 or more, get together, it's called a Peaceful Debate," said Tane, smiling in case anyone had missed the irony.

"And that's all the government they have?"

"About a hundred years ago there were a lot of Peaceful Debates about the idea of electing representatives to form a national government," said Tane.

"What happened?" a civilian asked.

"The delegates met, but given their fiercely individualistic nature, they could only agree on two things, and disbanded," said Tane. "One of them was their planetary national motto, 'Live Free or Die'."

"What was the other thing they agreed upon?"

"Not to draw guns in the debating chamber," said Tane.

The murmuring grew louder.

The Chief raised her voice to cut over the side discussions. "We have an embassy on Grafton, of course, to represent the interests of our people there, but very little information about the current situation."

"What about our Column operatives on Grafton?" said one of the generals. "What do they say?"

The Chief pressed a button. A holoimage appeared of a man, lying on the ground with a burn in his forehead. "The agency chief doesn't say much."

"Neither do his deputy operatives," the Chief added. The holo expanded to show two other people in a similar condition. "Meanwhile our embassy staff are huddled in their offices, afraid to come out. Since they don't have a government of their own, the Graftonites don't think much of the concept of diplomatic immunity, I'm afraid."

"Where do we go from here?" asked the Chief of Staff.

"We need more information about this Quandry and his intentions, and what the situation on the ground is," said the Chief. "That's why I'm going to send another agent in."

"One agent? Will that be enough?" said a general.

"I'm sending the best," said the Chief, looking meaningfully at Croft.

The best? This was the first time the Chief had ever referred to him in this way, publically or privately. What was really going on here? And then he knew. It was a one-way mission. Croft would have no chance of surviving against the Graftonite gunmen, with their enhanced reflexes. The mission was about getting rid of Croft, permanently. Croft looked over at the Chief, and their gazes matched. But Croft could not discern what was behind her impassive face.

Ten minutes later Croft was seated in the Chief's office. They looked at each other in silence for a moment, like combatants sizing each other up.

"This is not a mission for one of the Eight," said Croft. "It's too dangerous."

"That's precisely why it is a mission for one of the Eight," said the Chief. "If anyone can survive, you can."

She had her arguments already prepared.

"Why don't you send a Graftonite instead?" Croft asked.

"I would, if we had a Graftonite operative, but we don't," said the Chief.

"Why don't we hire one? We've done it before." Croft was thinking of a very specific Graftonite when he said that.

"Because I need feedback from one of our own, not a Graftonite operative," said the Chief. "We've been trying to hire a Graftonite to accompany you, but anti-League sentiment is on an upswing there, undoubtedly thanks to our friend Mo Quandry, and we'll be lucky if we do find someone by the time you land there."

"When Quandry learns I'm there he'll probably send one of his high speed killers after me. Do you really expect me to survive that?" said Croft.

"You'll have to rely on your cunning," said the Chief. "You'll be dressed as and will pass as a Graftonite when you're in public. When you meet with people in private you'll have a different cover, as a League diplomatic official."

"I'm going to pose as a Graftonite? Who thought up that crazy idea?" said Croft.

"I did, Mr. Croft," said the Chief coldly. The silence that followed was deafening.

"Why have you selected me for this mission? Aren't I better assigned to housetraining Gammas or emptying waste baskets here in HQ?"

There. It was out in the open, now.

The Chief regarded Croft coldly. "Mr. Croft, if you believe that I disapprove of your methods, you're entirely correct. Your record is filled with adventurism from one end to the other. However, in a situation such as this..." she let her voice drop off.

"Adventurism, as you call it, is required, is that it?" said Croft.

"Survivability," said the Chief, giving a tight smile. "I have spoken with the other department heads. I have asked them who, of all their operatives, are best capable of surviving difficult circumstances. They all tell me different names, but only one name comes up over and over. Yours. They say that you are the best. That's why I am sending you."

And there it was. She wasn't sending him because she wanted to get rid of him. She was sending him because if he couldn't survive, no one else could. For a moment, Croft actually believed her. It gave him an odd streak of pride.

"All right," said Croft. He paused a moment, considering. "But if you're going to send me there, I'm going to need some help."

"I was actually thinking along the same lines," said the Chief. She appeared to change the subject. "What did you think of Ms. Tane's presentation?"

"It was good, what little you let her give," said Croft.

"She's very knowledgeable about the Graftonites. One of our top analysts in the area," said the Chief.

"Are you suggesting I take a non-operative on a mission?" said Croft, suddenly comprehending.

"I'm not suggesting anything," said the Chief. "I am ordering you to take Ms. Tane. Your service record indicates a tendency to disregard cultural norms and a failure to appreciate local culture-"

"The local culture here is armed and dangerous-"

"Precisely why you need Ms. Tane," said the Chief. "I need to find out what the Graftonites are up to and we need to understand their culture to understand them. Ms. Tane will provide invaluable assistance. Now, is there anything else?"

Croft opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Yes. A gamma operative."

"Denied. Gamma operatives-"

"-are limited in number and strictly intended for critical missions," said Croft. "I know, I've heard it all before. If the Graftonites are planning to invade other planets, I'd say that's pretty critical, wouldn't you?"

The Chief paused for a moment, considering. Then she looked up at Croft, sighing. "Who do you want?"

Croft also considered for a moment, then he said, "A telekinetic would be nice."

"A telekinetic," said the Chief, punching some buttons on her keyboard. "You say it as if we had a whole warehouse of such operatives available." She pressed another button and the holoimage of two faces appeared in the air.

"The Clapper and the Bopper," Croft groaned.

"Which will it be?" said the Chief.

Croft considered, trying to decide which one was less brain damaged. Gamma operatives had special abilities, but almost all of them had "personality quirks", some more serious than others. The Clapper had a tendency to clap his hands continually, which was irritating, but was not nearly as annoying as what the Bopper did.

"The Clapper," said Croft.

"Very well," said the Chief. "There's a freighter leaving tomorrow. We've booked special passage for you."

"Thanks," said Croft. He got up, and turned to go.

"Croft?"

"Yes?"

"I want regular reports. I intend to run your mission myself. There are to be no headstrong actions without consulting me. Are we clear?"

"Oh, of course," said Croft, as sincerely as he could muster.

The first thing that Croft did after leaving the Chief was to send a quick message using his wrist comm. Then he started deeper into the complex towards one of the most heavily guarded section of the base--the Institute, in the basement. He had been there just a few hours ago to administer Red Sally's "therapy", and now he had to return there once again.

His ID was checked several times at several checkpoints staffed with heavily armed guards, before he finally found himself in a large room filled with screaming, shrieking individuals.

Croft tried to filter out the noise.

"No, no, it's my toy, mine, mine, mine!"

"I must have 15 raisins with my dinner, not 14, not 16, but 15!"

"Do they thank us? Does anyone ever thank us? No, no gratitude!"

Croft tried to screen it all out as he approached a trainer in a white uniform. He asked her a question. She pointed to a room down the hall.

Croft had just reached the door when a flame spurted out of the open doorway, almost burning him. He jumped back, waiting for the flame to subside, before entering.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" said Croft, seeing Red Sally as he entered. "You almost burned me!" So much for the morning training session.

"Told you (clap clap) you might burn someone (clap clap), told you (clap clap)," said a skinny man to one side of the room.

"Sorry, I didn't see you," Red Sally grinned, a sheen of perspiration on her head as her hair color slowly returned blonde.

"We just had a lesson in controlling your powers this morning," said Croft. "Didn't any of that stay with you?"

"What lesson?" said Red Sally, looking momentarily puzzled. And then, frowning, she tried to think back. "Oh, you mean that."

Croft turned to the Clapper. His real name was Robert Clerk, but to everyone here he was just the Clapper. "I'm here on a mission."

"Mission?" said the Clapper. His eyebrows perked up, and he looked excited, like a pet promised a walk outside.

"We're going to Grafton," said Croft. "Have you heard of Grafton?"

"Is it pretty?" said the Clapper.

"Very pretty," Croft assured him, automatically falling back into liespeak. Actually, though, Grafton II was mostly untamed forest woodlands and mountains. It really was pretty. But the truth wasn't foremost in his mind right now. "Come along now."

Croft was successfully escorting the Clapper to the door when Red Sally said, "Take me with you!"

"Not possible, Red," said Croft.

"Why not?"

"This is going to be a dangerous mission-"

"Dangerous?" said the Clapper, his face contorting.

Oh oh, wrong thing to say. "Dangerous for Red, not for you," Croft corrected. "We're going to a planet of people who like to start fights. With your temper-"

"Who says I have a temper!" said Red Sally. Steam rose from her hair, which started to turn faintly red again. The room grew warm.

"Sally, you're not going to win an argument by committing arson," said Croft. "And if you create a tantrum and start a fire again, I'll have you put in the ice room."

"Oh...." The heat started to dissipate. She took a few steps forward. "Take me with you. Please!"

"No," said Croft.

"Please!" said Sally again.

"No!" said Croft, wagging a finger at her. "Stay!"

Sally stopped.

"Good girl!" said Croft, in a rich voice intended for puppies. "We'll send you a holocard." He turned to the Clapper. "Let's go."

As they left the facility Croft inured himself to the screams and yells. But one voice in a forest of conversation caught his ear. "Never grateful, never grateful, no.... do not try the first hamburger, not the first one, Croft!"

But when Croft turned to find the person who had spoken, he was gone.

Two hours later, after dropping off the Clapper and running some other errands, Croft made his way to the roof, on the 392nd floor. It was only there that one could appreciate the majesty of August, the capital of the League and the Alliance, one great city of skyscrapers spread out over most of a continent. Here, near the palace at Sarney Sarittenden, the bulk and height of the buildings were especially dense.

The sun beat down at him and the wind whipped at his body as he walked on the crunchy green turf. A man in a chef's hat stood cooking on the far side of the roof, on an old fashioned grill. Croft slowly walked towards him.

"Really, Levi, I don't know what you see in all this," said Croft.

"I like outdoors," said the man. His name was Levi Esherkol, and he was one of the most brilliant scientists working for the Column. But he also liked to cook. Levi pressed down on the meat, and the dripping juices raised a fire which surrounded the burgers. "Ready, I think."

"Levi, I don't have time for this."

"Always time for quality food," said the cook. He handed Croft the hamburger. The smell was delicious. Croft's first instinct was to bite into it, but then, remembering something he had heard, lifted the bun and looked at the burger. "Levi!"

"What?"

Croft showed him the burger. There was a large insect mashed on top of it.

"How that get there?" said Levi. "Sorry." He took it away and gave Croft another.

After careful inspection, Croft bit into it. It was really good.

"Eh? Eh?" said Levi, watching his expression. "Use specially flavored hickory chips. You like?"

"Um," said Croft, chewing a bit and then swallowing. "I like, I like. But Levi, about the problem I commed you about-"

Levi looked down at Croft's boots. "I look in service, file, your boot size 10.1, correct?"

Croft nodded.

Levi reached behind the grill and handed Croft a pair of black boots that looked identical to the ones that Croft was wearing. Levi looked pleased with himself. "I even got color right!"

"Yes, Levi, but I already have boots, and how is this going to protect me from Graftonite gunmen?" said Croft. "I was expecting some sort of portable forcefield-"

"Don't have portable forcefield, certainly not on short notice," said Levi.

"What do you have?"

"Look in boot," said Levi.

Croft raised the right boot and looked inside, but only saw darkness.

"No, left boot!"

Croft did the same with the left boot, but only saw the same thing.

"No, not look!" said Levi. "Feel!"

Croft started to put his hand in, but Levi grabbed his arm.

"Gently!" said Levi.

Croft, nodding, cautiously put his hand in. He felt an unfamiliar lumpiness on the roof of the interior of the boot.

"The padded area?"

Levi nodded. "Gas injector. Step on foot like this, and injector will send compressed gas injection through skin."

"What kind of injection?"

"Accelerant. Experimental," said Levi. "May accelerate bodily functions fast enough to temporarily compete with Graftonites."

"May?"

"Experimental," said Levi. "Works on chimps for short periods."

"Chimpanzees," said Croft. "Will this make me faster than the Graftonites?"

"Not sure," said Levi. "Depends on your bodily chemistry, and formula."

"Maybe I'd better ask a chimp," said Croft.

"One more thing. Watch out for side effects."

"What side effects?" Croft asked.

"Dizziness. Maybe some nausea," said Levi. "Not likely life threatening. Only lost one chimp."

"Only one?" said Croft.

"Not directly related to serum," said Levi. "Chimp fell off roof. Wrong to test it up here, but was nice sunny day."

"Oh," said Croft. "It still sounds dangerous. Isn't there anything else-"

"Best can do on short notice," said Levi. "Do you have few weeks?"

"No."

"Then all I can give."

"Well, that's all I can ask for, I guess," said Croft. "I'm bringing the Clapper, maybe that will help even the odds."

Levi gave a short laugh, as if Croft had said something amusing.

Croft turned to go, but was called back after only a few steps.

"Croft?"

"Yes?"

"Looking for new meat recipes, Graftons famous for. If time, can you-"

Croft thought about the danger the Graftonites posed to the galaxy, and he said, "You bet, Levi. Recipes. Priority one."

********

Actually, Grafton really was famous for its meat dishes. That was one of the many useless things that Croft learned on the tedious trip to Grafton II. Sylvia Tane was a veritable fountain of information, telling him much more than he ever wanted to know about Grafton. Croft had actually briefly been to Grafton once before, very briefly, but he had to admit that Sylvia knew a lot more than he did.

"Did you know that over 90% of the population are dedicated carnitarians?" said Tane. Carnitarians; that meant they only ate meat.

"No," said Croft.

The Clapper sat quietly, watching the conversation, clapping softly. He generally only clapped when he was nervous, or bored, or for half a dozen other reasons or no reason at all.

"They refuse to eat fruits or vegetables," said Tane.

"Fascinating," said Croft. "Is there anything in your database that tells us how to win a gunfight against them?"

"Gunfight? You're not planning to challenge any Graftonite, are you?"

"No," said Croft. "I was thinking of the other way around."

"It is not uncommon for Graftonites to challenge others to gunfights, but only if they feel insulted, or if they don't get what they want," said Tane. "My advice is not to insult any of them and to give them whatever they want."

"I wonder if any of our late operatives insulted the Graftonites," said Croft, remembering the holos of the dead agents.

"I did notice from the holoimages that all of them had their blasters out," said Tane. "If someone challenges you, simply refuse to fight."

That was ridiculous. "Haven't you ever heard of Graftonite killers? They'll kill me whether I defend myself or not," said Croft.

"Well, certainly, there are some of those in Grafton society. But there is also a strong cultural belief in the fair fight," said Tane.

"The fair fight?"

"Yes," said Tane. "That all gunfights should be one on one. That a Graftonite shouldn't be attacked by surprise, or sniped at long distance."

"A code of conduct for a planet of killers," said Croft dryly.

"Don't dismiss it so casually, Mr. Croft," said Tane. "I've read of instances of Graftonites who disregarded the rules who were hunted down and killed by their neighbors. Some of them take these things very seriously."

"What about the Graftonites who hire themselves out as killers?"

"Well, they also have a code of conduct, of sorts," said Tane. "But their victims are almost always non-Graftonites, so the same rules may not apply. But as long as no one has been hired to kill you, you should be all right. After all, you're a sheep."

"A what?" said Croft.

"That's what Graftonites call non-Graftonites. Sheep. It's meant as a visual metaphor for the weak, those unable to defend themselves. It's meant disparagingly, but actually may help us," said Tane.

"How?"

"Well, sheep are looked down upon, but they're also pitied. If someone simply killed a sheep without cause, his neighbors would look negatively on that," said Tane.

"Uh huh," said Croft, aware that despite what Tane said, any Grafton could kill them for any reason he wished. Then another thought struck him. "But we're not posing as off-worlders, as least not in public. We're supposed to be posing as Graftonites, so we won't even have that theoretical protection."

"Well, that was the Chief's idea. I can't be responsible for that," said Tane.

The Clapper clapped twice.

It was going to be some trip.