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Stories from the Verse
A Dozen Verses
Chapter 124: Kondor 297
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Cooper 113
Venturing with the others into a long, barrel-vaulted room at the Victoria & Albert Museum, he eyed the ceiling with its sculpted inlays appreciatively. A shot rang out behind him. A distant part of his mind said ‘Nine MM’ due to its higher note than the slower, bigger .45. Screams echoed through the long halls and rooms of the art museum, and those near him huddled up, except for Zeke (going by Walter Walters), who was looking around.
Why was he doing that? Oh, and for a second that tasted of soap in his mouth, he was tempted to curse the English. He had abundant weapons, an M-16, a Mark VII kinetic blaster, a pistol (the aforementioned .45), and a Bowie knife which were all stowed in his motorcycle in the parking lot several hundred yards away. But no one was going to allow him to walk into an English museum with a pistol. Simply unthinkable! The pearl clutching that would then occur!
“Two rooms previous, Lieutenant.”
“Right, Captain.” Zeke ran for the wide doorway through which they had just entered, and Kondor followed. A policeman came by as another shot blasted the tranquility of a Tuesday afternoon. Kondor wondered if the officer would be better armed than they were.
“Hide!” the cop said, and then ran. It took Kondor a second to realize the policeman was running away from the sound of the guns. Disgusted, he followed Zeke to the room after the next down the hall. Inside were dozens of implements of personal defense or offense. Swords, spears, daggers, helms, shields, and even a couple morningstars adorned the walls or filled glass cases. This was what Zeke had been looking for: weapons.
Zeke yanked at a spear on the wall, but it was locked in place by a pair of metal brackets. A sword had the same issue.
“Here, Walters.” Bradley tossed a Swiss army knife to Zeke who caught it but then stared perplexed. “Great scot, man, it's got a screwdriver on it. You’re the tech, figure it out.” Kondor turned and saw that Svaya and Deirdre had also gone with them, leaving the rest of the group back in the barrel-vaulted room.
“Jesteście wojownikami,” Svaya said in Polish before turning to English. “You are fighters. We stay with you two.”
Zeke got out the proper blade, and furiously began to unscrew a bracket. Kondor looked around, saw a silver salver dish, and passed over it as too beautiful to ruin. More shots were coming closer, and one zipped down the hall outside. A woman ran past and skidded to a halt before coming back in. Kondor reached up, and did his best hammer kick on the glass walled case that held a long curved saber. The room resounded like a drum, but the evidently bullet proof glass remained unfazed.
Quick steps came up alongside him, and a familiar voice was heard.
“Here.” Amanda held a small set of metal bits in her right hand, and despite the long red fingernails quickly opened the glass case. Kondor lifted it back and let it flip out as he grabbed for the silver-chased sheath with the other hand.
“I was wondering if I could take you up on that favor now,” Amanda said, and Kondor’s eyes widened as he looked down at her. Despite her request, she seemed ready to run. She would not force him to protect her by staying was the message he got. Instead, he grabbed the matching knife and sheath for himself, pulled off the sheath, and handed it to Svaya.
“Zeke!”
“Got the spear, Captain. I’m coming.”
“Give the spear to Bradley; I’ve got a saber for you. You’re trained for that.”
Weapons were passed around, Zeke with the sword, Deirdre carrying its sheath, Bradley armed with a spear, and Kondor wielding a knife. He trusted that the museum wouldn’t mind them raiding the displays to arm themselves against raiders.
Quietly walking to the doorway, and to its edge, he murmured to Amanda.
“I hope you have a weapon.”
She smiled warmly, and took off her heavy gold necklace before wrapping it in a figure eight around her right forearm and fist.
“Taser, knuckleduster, and guard against knife slashes.” She reached down to her high heeled shoes, and shoved something inside both. The heels collapsed in on themselves like a reverse of an extendable snapstick weapon. Now she was on flat soles, and stood with more ease.
A middle-eastern man with pistol in hand came around the corner, saw Amanda, and turned back to shout.
Zeke slashed him open from throat to solar plexus so that he fell away splashing blood. Kondor’s medical training kicked in for a second. That type of cut was even worse than a pistol wound. With a deep cut like that, even if the ambulance was at the front door the man was walking dead. He would have to be at a top-flight trauma center when it occurred to survive.
The noise in the hallway of moving feet stopped. Ten seconds passed, then twenty. A calm male voice with a strong Arabic accent called out.
“Well, it seems our little errand girl has found some friends. Send her out, and we’ll let you live, and--”
He was showing signs of liking his own voice quite a bit when Svaya shouted something that Kondor was pretty sure would have gotten his whole mouth thoroughly washed out with soap. He was not sure what it was, but it sounded angry, and rude, and Polish.
A huff came from outside down the hall, and a number of feet shifted. Yells came from farther out in the museum.
“Listen--”
“No, really--” Bradley drawled out the word really, as an Englishman might, “I’d rather not. Do go away now, or I’m awfully afraid something bad might happen to you.”
Kondor turned and stared at him astounded. Bradley tilted his head just a tenth of an inch, and Kondor saw in him something he had heard of--a febrile, cool madness, an Englishness inherent to his bloodline. It was not something he had, or something he wanted, but he could see it, and be glad it was in the world.
As for Deirdre, she was stuck behind Zeke, and looked as if it might take high explosives to separate her.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
