7th Sigma (2 page)

Kimble watched with interest. If the boy had cut the cord what had he used? Was it still in his ha—

The boy slashed upward with a chunk of obsidian as he rose. Perhaps he meant to scare Ruth, to make her recoil, so he could bolt, but it didn't work out that way. Suddenly he was face down in the hard, baked dirt of the alley, his arm pinned to the ground by an absurdly small hand. The teen tried to move and yelped in considerable discomfort. Kimble saw Ruth's free hand take the back of the teen's hand and bend it, fingers toward the elbow. The teen's fingers spasmed, releasing the obsidian flake. Ruth released the hand but kept all her weight on the elbow.

Kimble was impressed. “Nice
ikkyo
!”

Ruth, without taking her weight off the teen's arm, looked at Kimble. “I
knew
you learned that roll in a dojo.” She took up the flake of obsidian. The teen began to struggle again and she held the flake against his ear. “Feel that?” she asked.

The teen froze.

“I could just cut off your ear.” She moved it down to his neck. “Or, since you attacked me with a lethal weapon, I'm sure the Rangers would understand a lethal response.”

His voice, previously deep, broke, now high pitched. “I just needed some food, for my mother and sisters!”

“Kimble, check his pockets.”

Kimble found a small roll of dollars and a handful of plastic territorial coins in the teen's pants and showed them to Ruth.

“Try another,” she said to the facedown boy.

The teen didn't respond.

Ruth looked up. “Where would we find a policeman? It's not like we don't have witnesses.”

The Jicarilla Apache had started to rise when the boy surged up, but now he was back against the wall since he saw Ruth had things well in hand. He said, “There were Rangers at the city gate when we came in.”

Kimble winced. The gate was only two hundred feet away. Conviction on charges of theft and assault could get the boy a trip outside where, at the very least, he'd be tagged, then jail time or community service. But it was the tag, a surgically implanted LoJack, that would keep him out of the territory. Not just because he could be tracked, but because the bugs would go for the EMF and metal like the chewy nougat center in a candy bar.

The teen spoke then. “No! All right, I did it! Take my money, just don't call the Rangers, I'm already on probation!”

The Apache woman said, “Maybe break his arm, too. The taking arm—his right.” She said it seriously, but Kimble thought she didn't really mean it. The corners of her eyes were crinkling.

Kimble offered the money to Ruth but she said, “Just the coins. To replace the rope. Put the dollars back.”

“What? He came at you with a blade!”

Ruth turned her gaze on Kimble.

“All right, all right.” Kimble shoved the roll back in the teen's pocket. When he'd moved back, Ruth folded the teen's arm across his back and then leaned on it as she stood, keeping him pinned until she was all the way to her feet. She took a sliding step back, releasing him. He got up slowly, rubbing his arm.

Ruth held up the obsidian flake and said, “I'm also keeping this.”

The teen turned suddenly and walked out of the alley, his steps quickening as he reached the open street. He took a sharp right, away from the city gate, and was gone.

A growling tussle broke out at Ruth's feet as two of the stray dogs fought over something.

“Crap,” said Ruth. “I dropped my taco.”

Kimble shook the coins together between his cupped hands.

“You can afford another.”

*   *   *

“I'D
like to talk to your parents,” Ruth said.

She'd replaced and eaten her taco, knotted the cut rope, and now they were standing near the south gate.

Kimble's mouth went still. He could've told her one of the many fabrications he used on occasions like this, but he was reluctant.
My parents are working. They are out of town until next week. My father is on assignment with the Rangers. I'm only visiting today. We live near Grants.

Ruth seemed to sense this. “I'm not going to inform on you. Runaway?”

He held out his hand and rocked it side to side. “My mother died when I was little. My father had heart trouble, uneven heartbeats, last year. He had to have a pacemaker—so he can't live in the territory.”

“He left you here?”

“They airlifted him out. I was supposed to take a caravan north and join him in Denver.”

“What happened?”

“I sold the travel voucher to someone who
wanted
to go.”

She sat still, regarding him without speaking.

Finally, Kimble gave in. “My dad … he's not a nice man. Maybe when my mom was alive but not so much after. I hardly stayed at home when he
was
in the territory, not if I could help it. Not if he'd been working.”

“Working?”

“If he worked he could afford liquor. When he wasn't drinking he was just grumpy. When he was—better not to be home.”

“Where do you live now? The same place?”

“No. We lived in Golondrinas, but the Rangers there knew me too well. I joined a sheep drive here—dishwasher and orphan lamb care. I'm a useful citizen here.”

“Yes,” she said. “A guide.”

“
And
messenger.”

“But where do you live?”

“It depends on the season.” He had a bedroll hidden in a roof garden near Eastgate. Everything else he owned was on his person. “In the winter there are shelters, but they preach at you something fierce.”

“I would still think the authorities are looking for you. I mean, your father must've noticed when you didn't show up.”

“Well, they're looking for Kim Creighton. I'm Kimble. The picture they have is three years old and I was so much pudgier then. I've been asked, you know, if I've seen myself around.”

Ruth smiled briefly. “And had you?”

“Oh, yes. Traveling with a caravan headed into old Arizona. I was positive I'd seen the boy.”

She swung her arm, backhanded, toward his face. There was no warning and, he thought, no reason, but she didn't connect. He moved his head back out of the way and took a back roll.

“Hey!” Kimble said, rising to his feet and eyeing her warily.

She smiled at him.

“Tell me about the dojo.”

“Ohhhhhhh,” he said, in a quiet voice. He squatted on his heels, still out of arm's reach. “That was back in Golondrinas. The kids' class was free if you did dojo chores. They taught karate and judo and aikido.”

“The same teacher?”

“Oh, no. It was a cooperative. There were four different styles of karate. There were two judo instructors, but just one old guy who taught aikido.”

“Old guy?” She stared at him. “Which classes did you take?”

“Aikido, of course.”

“Of course? Is that what all the kids took?”

Kimble shook his head. “Oh, no. If they were the wrestling type, they liked judo. Otherwise, they all wanted to take karate. Punch, kick, punch, kick, and more kicking.”

“So … why aikido?”

“They were the kids who weren't that interested in kicking and punching.” Kimble looked down at the dirt. “I got enough of that at home. Besides, once I got the hang of getting off the line, aikido worked pretty well against the kickers and punchers.”

Ruth was silent for a moment, then said. “I am building a dojo on the Rio Puerco.”

“Oh. Really? You teach aikido?”

“For over twenty years now.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So you already had a dojo. Why did you leave?”

She sighed. “Divorce. You know what that is?”

Kimble glared at her.

“Sorry, of course you do. My ex-husband and his new wife kept the dojo. I left. I left … everything. I'm starting over.”

Kimble narrowed his eyes. She looked back at him, very still, like a rock, like a predator, like a statue.

“You'll need students,” Kimble finally said. “You can't be a teacher without students. I mean, at least
one
.”

She nodded. “Get your things.”

“Yes, Ms. Monroe.”

“Sensei,” she said gently.

“Yes, Sensei.”

2

Walking to Cold Dog

“What should I do, Sensei?”

Ruth dropped the handles of the travois and said, “Ah, that is always the question, isn't it?”

It was their second day on the road, and they'd walked twenty miles since dawn. For Ruth, who'd walked 500 miles in the last six weeks, it was just another longish day, but Kimble's feet, his legs, his entire body hurt. Ruth had chosen a cluster of cottonwoods on the barest rivulet of a stream to camp.

“I could gather firewood.”

“I'll bet you could.”

“Sensei, just
tell
me!”

Ruth smiled. “Ah, I'm too lazy for that.”

Kimble frowned, tired, cranky, and confused. “Right, then. I'll just go get some firewood.”

When he returned with a respectable bundle of deadfall branches, Ruth was setting up her foam-ceramic stove. The collapsible bucket was sitting beside the travois, empty.

Kimble looked at the bucket and then at Ruth. “Uh, Sensei, should I—”

She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

“Never mind, Sensei.” He took the bucket to the streamlet, finding a place where the water ran across a rock and dropped down a foot. He propped the bucket there, letting it fill slowly. When he brought the filled bucket back, she thanked him politely.

That night, before bed, she said, “The trouble with telling someone to do this and to do that is that once you've issued orders on that subject, they'll always expect you to do so. They lose initiative and you end up doing the thinking for two.” She paused. When he did not say anything, she added, “If you do not understand, I will explain further.”

He shook his head in the dark. “I understand, Sensei.”

“Good. Now go brush your teeth.”

He snorted, “But you just said—”

“Yes. What's the last thing I ‘told' you?”

It had been the night before, their first on the road. “Don't drink water that hasn't been boiled, treated, or filtered. Not if you can help it. Not unless you're dying of thirst.”

“Good. Now go brush your teeth.”

*   *   *

IN
the middle of the morning it was Kimble who issued an order: “Down, Sensei!” He grabbed the wheel of the travois and jumped to the slight ditch on the high side of the road, where it tucked into the hillside, and crouched.

Ruth pulled the handles over and joined him, swiveling her head around, looking for the danger. “What are we—”

The first bug zoomed up the road, then another, and Ruth pulled herself into a ball beside the travois. Then they heard the yelling and pounding feet, and even more bugs buzzed through the air, about three feet off the ground. A figure rounded the bend, a man, and he was yelling, “Get it off! Get it off!” He was reaching behind him, one arm high, one arm low, trying to reach something on his back.

“Grab him!” Kimble said, issuing his second order.

Ruth snagged the man's feet, tripping him, and he slammed down hard. His yelling stopped as the breath left him. Kimble scrambled forward on all fours and together they pulled the man back to the ditch.

His back was covered in blood.

Kimble grabbed the man's t-shirt collar with both hands and ripped it down the back.

There was blood pouring out of a hole to the left of the man's spine, just below his shoulder blade. Ruth slapped her palm across it, pressing it to stop the bleeding, but Kimble said, “No. Gotta get the bug.” He shoved her hand aside and reached his thumb and forefinger down into the hole.

The man screamed and thrashed. Kimble's finger and thumb were a good two inches below the skin. “Ah, ah, dammit! I felt it, but it's too deep.”

The man yelled, then screamed and coughed. Blood fountained from his mouth, astonishingly red. His entire body convulsed once, twice, and then he went slack.

Ruth turned him on his back. “CPR!” She tilted his head back to clear his airway but his throat was full of blood. “Oh, God, oh God.” She felt for a pulse on his neck. There was nothing.

“Look out, Sensei,” Kimble said.

Ruth turned her head, looking around.

“Not out there. That bug is going to come out of him somewhere.”

Ruth pulled her hands back, almost flinching away.

There was less blood when it came out of his chest, but the blind black snout of the june-bug-sized creature came right through the remnants of the shirt as if it weren't there. It crawled up and out, wet and red. It stood up high on its legs and spread its wings. It buzzed them and the blood splattered off in a pink mist. Then it lifted off and Ruth threw herself back as it passed over her and flew back the way it had come.

“Huh,” said Kimble. He pointed at the shirt. The shape of the bug was outlined in droplets of blood, as if someone had spray-painted over the bug while it sat on the shirt. He looked at his own outstretched finger, then at both hands, covered in blood.

“Yuck.”

They moved away from the body, still clinging to the bank of the road. There were other bugs in the air and the body was still in the ditch, a potent reminder of the need for caution. Ruth broke out her emergency reserve of water and a bar of soap and they scrubbed until it hurt.

“I wonder if he was traveling alone,” Kimble said.

Ruth stared at him. “Are you all right?”

“Sure. I just touched the tail end before it dropped into the lung cavity. That's not the business end.”

Ruth blinked. “I wasn't talking about your fingers. You ever see someone die before?”

“I did, yeah. My mom. Pneumonia. Saw bugs swarm a shepherd. Also a stabbing—a gang thing—back in the capital.”