The Peace War Read Free Page A

clumps along the Tinkers' mall.
    The mysterious winner was nowhere to be seen. And yet he should have been. The
game area opened onto the central lawn which gave a clear view down all the malls.
Mike spun around a couple times, puzzled. Naismith caught up with him. "I think the boy
has been about two jumps ahead of us since we started watching him, Mike. Notice how
he didn't argue when Tellman gave him the boot. Your uniform must have spooked him."
    "Yeah. Bet he ran like hell the second he got outside."
    "I don't know. I think he's more subtle than that." Naismith put a finger to his lips and
motioned Rosas to follow him around the banners that lined the side of the game shop.
    There was not much need for stealth. The shoppers were noisy, and the loading of
furniture onto several carts behind the refurbishers' pavilion was accompanied by
shouting and laughter.
    The early afternoon breeze off Vandenberg set the colored fabric billowing. Double
sunlight left nothing to shadow. Still, they almost tripped over the boy curled up under
the edge of a tarp. The boy exploded like a bent spring, directly into Mike's arms: If
Rosas had been of the older generation, there would have been no contest: Ingrained
respect for children and an unwillingness to damage them would have let the kid slip
from his grasp. But the undersheriff was willing to play fairly rough, and for a moment
there was a wild mass of swinging arms and legs. Mike saw something gleam in the boy's
hand, and then pain ripped through his arm.
    Rosas fell to his knees as the boy, still clutching the knife, pulled loose and sprinted
away. He was vaguely conscious of red spreading through the tan fabric of his left sleeve.
He narrowed his eyes against the pain and drew his service stunner.
    "No!" Naismith's shout was a reflex born of having grown up with slug guns and later
having lived through the first era in history when life was truly sacred.
    The kid went down and lay twitching in the grass. Mike holstered his pistol and
struggled to his feet, his right hand clutching at the wound. It looked superficial, but it
hurt like hell. "Gall Seymour," Mike grated at the old man. "We're going to have to carry
that little bastard to the station."
    TWO
    The Santa Ynez Police Company was the largest protection service south of San Jose.
After all, Santa Ynez was the first town north of Santa Barbara and the Aztlán border.
Sheriff Seymour Wentz had three full-time deputies and contracts with eighty percent of
the locals. That amounted to almost four thousand customers.
    Wentz's office was perched on a good-sized hill overlooking Old 101. From it one
could follow the movements of Peace Authority freighters for several kilometers north
and south. Right now, no one but Paul Naismith was admiring the view. Miguel Rosas
watched gloomily as Seymour spent half an hour on the phone to Santa Barbara, and then
even managed to patch through to the ghetto in Pasadena. As Mike expected, no one
south of the border could help. The rulers of Aztlán spent their gold trying to prevent
"illegal labor emigration" from Los Angeles but never wasted time tracking the people
who made it. The
sabio
in Pasadena seemed initially excited by the description, then
froze up and denied any interest in the boy. The only other lead was with a contract labor
gang that had passed though Santa Ynez earlier in the week, heading for the cacao farms
near Santa Maria. Sy had some success with that. One Larry Faulk, labor contract agent,
was persuaded to talk to them. The nattily dressed agent was not happy to see them:
    "Certainly, Sheriff, I recognize the runt. Name is Wili Wachendon." He spelled it out.
The W's sounded like a hybrid of zu with v and
b.
Such was the evolution of
Spanolnegro. "He missed my crew's departure yesterday, and I can't say that I or anyone
else up here is sorry."
    "Look, Mr. Faulk. This child has clearly been mistreated by your people." He waved
over his shoulder at where the kid — Wili — lay