Context by John Meaney

always detect, and usually counteract, anything which
was too clever. Instead, there were spin-darts and throw-chains; sticky
razor-burrs; toxin-coated spit-needles and snap-blades. A matching pair of
nacre-handled monowhips.
     
    ‘Which army were you going to
take on, Elva?’
     
    Tiny ping-bows, currently
disassembled, with exothermic bolts. Shiver-crystals—plus timers—with
hydrofluoric acid cores.
     
    And more.
     
    Spikes: fast-dissolve toxic, and
armour-piercing vibro. Explosive flakes. A nozzle-spray with unknown contents.
A titanium-handled vibroblade. Extensible finger-claws—
     
    ‘That one will do.’
     
    Tom picked up the lightweight
vibroblade.
     
    He walked out of Elva’s chamber
without looking back.
     

     
    Naked,
covered with slick sweat, he knelt, sat back on his heels, eyes squeezed shut
as he prepared himself, tightened his nerves to the highest tension they were
capable of. Remembering the Seer-induced vision, focusing on that future which
must come true:
     
    Elva spinning to face the
troopers who burst in upon her.
     
    The vibroblade was slippery in
his grasp.
     
    Dark-clad figure, spinning kick,
laughing as he
saves her.
     
    Breathing fast and heavy, as
though he were sprinting, close to the finish.
     
    The one-armed man who saves her.
     
    Crying inside, knowing he had to
do it, to fulfil the Fate he had seen, which he so desperately wanted to make
real.
     
    The one-armed man who is Tom Corcorigan.
     
    Now.
     
    Fear, making him hesitate.
     
    Do it now.
     
    The vibroblade spat into life.
     

     
    Smoke,
acrid yellow/grey, and the burning pain.
     
    Tom screamed.
     
    Cutting high, so the
growth-control implant was removed along with the flesh and soft, growing
bones.
     
    Screamed louder.
     
    The thump as dead meat hit the
floor, smoking. Roasting stench...
     
    Elva!
     
    Wave after black cascading wave
of pain crashed down upon him, pounded him, buried him, smashed him. And
scattered the pieces to dark oblivion.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    12

    TERRA
AD 2142

    <Story>>
    [3]

     
     
    They
danced.
     
    Diminutive brown bodies,
startling mask-faces of turquoise and brilliant white, of black and red, with
fierce eyes and whiskers... But they were tiny, dancing around the bonsai atop
the credenza, waving their minuscule spears and chanting, with the volume
turned low.
     
    ‘Kachinautons.’ Sergeant
Arrowsmith waved them to silent stillness. ‘Traditional.’
     
    ‘I’m sorry.’ Ro hugged herself. ‘I
don’t feel too good.’
     
    Arrowsmith settled back in his chair,
shifting his sidearm’s weight. The belt dug in below his rounded belly. But his
shoulders were wide and athletic, his bronzed face strong. He had pulled his
chair round to face Ro’s, so there was no desk between them.
     
    The air in his office was very
cool.
     
    And quiet.
     
    It struck Ro that this was a
Navajo thing, not needing to fill a void with words. With Anglos it would be an
effective interrogation method.
     
    ‘She was very sweet,’ Ro said. ‘Even
though I’d just met her...’
     
    Arrowsmith nodded. ‘In your statement,
you said it wasn’t just a random intruder.’
     
    ‘There’s a sensor array just
inside the mistfield. Teardrop sniff-cameras floating at random . . .’ She saw
the intense concentration growing in his dark eyes. ‘My home is a UNS A
training school in Switzerland, ran by my mother. I know about security
protocols.’
     
    ‘And the logs show... ?’
     
    ‘I don’t have security officer
access.’ Ro shrugged. ‘Not in DistribOne.’
     
    She wondered if the question had
been deliberate, a trick.
     
    ‘Perhaps you’d like to wait outside,
Ms McNamara.’
     

     
    ‘Something
to eat?’ asked a chunky uniformed woman, pausing in the cool, glassy atrium.
     
    ‘You bet,’ said her colleague, a
lean, tanned deputy.
     
    Not talking to me.
     
    Ro’s stomach growled.
     
    She had not eaten, had not even
thought about it, since discovering Anne-Louise’s