Barbara put the drink tray down and pulled off the ski hood, revealing the head they used to stamp on coins; “Liberty” or “Marianne.” A clean-cut dyke face (lesbians make our best Gardas) that suited her lean, tough body. “Ah Bah-Bah-Rah,” she mumbled, then, “Christ, Winter, you led me one hell of a chase.”
He was nonpulsed, as Soho Young used to say.
“Richman, poorman, beggarman, thief.” She put a brandy in his hand. “And so on. Was that deliberate or accidental?”
“Unconscious-deliberate, Barb,” I said. “Rogue really doesn’t understand how he resonates to Anima Mundi patterns.”
“Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief…” Winter nodded. “Of course. No, it wasn’t deliberate. I thought I was just drifting and waiting for Demi to—” He choked on his brandy. “And something was leading me?”
“Gig, Rogue,” I said. “Just the way you were led to finding that drowned child in the Welsh Dome. Soul of the World. The bottom line that lets you hear things talking and lets you see what everybody’s seeing but makes you think what nobody else has. You call it synergy. I call it Anima Mundi. Same thing.”
“God, maybe?”
“Some people call it that. Why not? Same thing.”
He nodded again. “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts, no matter what you name it.” He turned to Barb. “You were tailing me?”
“So assigned.”
“You know about my Demi?”
“So briefed.”
“Did I—Did she—No, wait. I’m so goddam hassled that I can’t put anything straight.” He took a breath. “Was there any living thing always near me, around me, staying with me, that I didn’t notice?”
Barb shook her head.
“Anything try to contact me that I didn’t notice?”
“Outside of Perce the Peacock, nothing but the three Jap-Chink soldiers, and you gave two of them plenty of notice before they died. Man, the Maori really know how to train killers on Ganymede. Attila the Hun could take lessons from you.”
“Two? One got away?”
“No.”
Winter looked at her, then at me. I shrugged. “You were pretty busy taking two, so Barb lent a hand. She’s a dead shot at fifty yards. Hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m not that much of a macho pig. I’m grateful, Barb, damned grateful. Thanks.”
“Us guys got to stick together,” Barb grinned.
“Thanks again. Now look, stand by me still, both of you. I’ve got to bring my girl back to me before anything else, and I’m licked. I never thought the day would come when I couldn’t piece patterns together when I was under the gun with so much at— Never mind. Suggestions?”
“You’ve got to make a deal with Triton,” I said.
“Go ahead.”
“They want the smuggling and bootlegging stopped.”
“Can’t handle it themselves?”
“No. You’re the only one who can, King R-og.”
“I don’t want to.” He began to anger again. “Those cocked-up Jinks, sitting on their Meta, humiliating the Solar, like those old goddam Arabs, sitting on their oil…”
“And the rest of the Solar agrees with you, particularly since Triton has started buying us up with their Meta money… this Paire Banque building belongs to them… but do you want your Demi back?”
“Dear God! What a question! Why d’you think I’ve been making a damned fool of myself all day?”
“Then you’ll have to pay the price. She won’t return until she’s assured that the heat’s off.”
He grunted.
“And the price is ending the Maori Mafia.”
He waved an impatient hand. “Suppose I do. What guarantees do I get that’ll reassure her, wherever she is?”
“Ah! That’s where we bargain. We ask for written guarantees, which aren’t worth a damn. We ask for fines in escrow, and they couldn’t care less. They probably own any bank it’s deposited with. We—”
“Wait a minute. When and where does this take place?”
“When and where they approach you.”
“And what’ll make them approach me?”
“Why, you’re going to apply for a visa to visit the Celestial satellite. That shows you’re ready to do business, and they’ll take it from there.”
He gave Barb a wry glance. “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,” he said. “So I’m the finish of the jingle, sailing off to Triton. I tell you, this Anima Mundi is a race apart.” Back to me. “Then what do you really ask for?”
“Nothing. After the traditional negotiation ballet we spring one hard fact on them.”
“What?”
“That we’ve got a hostage in escrow.”
“No! Who?”
“The highest-ranking mandarin in the Triton directorate. Their information and decision shogun. Head of ‘The Fists of Righteous Harmony,’ once ‘The Boxer Tong’ back in the nineteenth century.”
“You’ve got that macher? Here on Terra?”
“Not exactly. We’ve I.D.’d him, a distinguished researcher… Tomas Young.”
He was flabbergasted.
“Ta-mo Yung-kung on Triton. The ‘kung’ radical signifies ‘duke.’ He’s a Manchu nobleman.”
“The great exobiologist?”
“You got it.”
“The friend who said he’d be honored to examine and advise my Demi?”
“Would have saved them a lot of trouble.”
“B-but— But how?”
“Ancillary covers, Rogue. That’s S.O.P. in Intelligence. I met Tomas as Soho Young, running a hockshop in the Jungle years ago. Ever hear of a hard-porn pleasance called ‘Bedbeat’?”
“Him, too?”
“No, me.”
“My God! How do you clowns play all these different roles?”
“Don’t you play different roles when you’re inquisiting and synergizing?”
“We’re way past the age of simplistic survival,” Barbara put in. “That’s what wiped the dinosaurs. Today it’s: The Multi Shall Inherit the Earth.”
“Cloak-and-dagger kid stuff,” Winter scoffed.
“No, hard-boiled accounting,” I said wearily. “A question of time and budget. We all know there are Intelligence agents operating; we take that for granted. The problem is how to keep your agents working as long as possible before their Counterintelligence catches up. Dig?”
“Gig.”
“So you set up a fake ring as a decoy ring. The fakes don’t know it; they think they’re the only real thing. You hope that Counter will squander its budget on the expendable decoys while the professional ring works behind them, but you have to direct the phonies to keep them from blundering near the realsies. That’s what Young was doing from his hockshop. That’s what I’m doing from ‘Bedbeat.’”
“I will be damned,” Winter muttered.
“Now look, I made a mistake last time. I didn’t give you credit for being as bright and hip as you seemed to be, and I apologize. My only excuse is the second law of Intelligence: Nobody’s as smart as they seem.”
“What’s the first?” he growled.
“That we’re not as smart as we think. So I’m going to level with you.”
“Should you?” Barbara asked quietly.
“I have to, Barb,” I said. “First, apply for a Triton visa. Two: jet to Ganymede and stop the Mafia operation. This is a must because I’ll tell you what’s really at stake.”
“Tell,” he snapped.
“Let Triton keep their Meta monopoly. We can go on paying through the nose a little while longer, but we’ve got to stop their buying spree and takeover of the Solar right now. In fifty years they’ll own us.”
“So you’re going to hang back and bargain?”
“Once your Mafia is cooled and you and your girl are safe, we’ve got Ta-mo Yung-kung as our ace in the hole and a winning hand at best. If it turns into a Mexican standoff, at least it gives us time to work something else out.”
He flew into a murde
rous macho rage. “You and your asshole girly-girly ploys! Bargains! Tradeoffs! Standoffs! Can’t you understand you’re dealing with grown men who don’t play games? We fuck you and dump you and good luck to your goddam delusions. You think you’ve got me as a card to play?”
“Rogue!”
“I’ll tell you what you’ve got, a Maori double-kill king.”
“For God’s sake, man…”
“Oh, I’ll go through your motions, but when I get to Ganymede it won’t be to end the Mafia-bit; they’d only laugh at me. Anybody but a goddam woman could call that. No. I’ll order a hit and every Maori soldier will cheer. D’you understand me, Brünnehilde? You’ve got a Mafia contract on Triton.”
He’d made his decision and shot out of the studio. I looked at Barb, not pleased with the development and even less with myself. “Maybe I should have listened to you.”
“He’s a hopeless M.C.P. Won’t we ever develop partheno-survival?” she asked. “If the aphids can do it, why can’t we?”
“Stay with him, Garda. Want backup?”
“Negatory,” she grinned, then, “and I thought it might be cute to offer him half the take from my beggar’s cup!”
CHAPTER NINE
Strategy v. Tactics
Strategems ever were allowed in love and war.
—Susannah Centime
Those oft are tactics which errors seem.
—Alexander Pope
With 20-20 hindsight, which you’re always decrying, Odessa, this is how I see the gigs and goofs of what I did after I tore out of your office in a flaming rage. I’d yelled about a contract on Triton. Christ Almighty! I was burning to take a contract on the whole Solar if that was the cost of getting my Demi back. Where was she? Where was she holed up? How was she? Was she safe? I didn’t have a clue. It shaped up like a fight with no finish in sight.
I went back to the Beaux Arts rotunda, changed into featherweight jumpsuit, packed a travel tote with more light stuff—you’re only allowed two hundred pounds max. per passenger, bod and baggage—tied a polka-dot bandanna around the psycat’s neck to keep her distracted, and schlepped her to Nig Englund’s office in the zoo.
“Animal hospital’s down the street,” Nig said.
“She isn’t sick.”
“Then why’s her neck bandaged?”
“It’s entertainment. She likes spots.”
Nig looked at my travel gear. “Going places?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you’re presenting your pet to the zoo. Listen, Rogue, we’ve had it with dumped household livestock. They come in with ohmhounds, wombears, zeebats, okapikes, and—”
“I want to board her with you.”
“Oh? Why not a pet farm?”
“You’re the only one I trust, Nig. This cat’s extra-special. I don’t want to take any chances on her picking up some kind of crud in a commercial boardinghouse.”
“Why is she special?”
“Fifth amendment.”
“Indeed. What’s her name?”
“Jer—” I started and cut it off just in time. I was going to give Demi’s last name and then realized that Nig meant the psycat’s, which I didn’t know. “She doesn’t have one,” I lied. “I just call her ‘Madame.’”
Nig could always see through me, but this time she let it pass with, “I’ll see if we have any room.”
She punched the computer keyboard on her desk and the screen flashed, “½ O.K.”
“I don’t want Madame to share a cage,” I said. “She might get hurt in a fight with her cellmate. Can’t she be alone?”
“We’ll try again,” Nig said. “Sometimes tanks answer questions that haven’t been asked.” She punched more keys and this time was directed to Zone 3, House 2, Cage 7. “Right. Your ladyfriend can go in solitary with the sprag-bunnies. What does she eat?”
“Anything with spots; caviar, red and black, or—”
“She’ll get black-eye-pea and pinto-bean mush and like it. When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“No matter. Tell Miz Jeroux she can pick the cat up anytime, provided she pays the bill.”
On that shaft I got the hell out. Damn! How gossip gets around!
Thence to one of my banks—I use three in hope of outsmarting the tax pattern—for a certified bill of exchange for two thousand. Two thousand, even in paper money, weighs, and I was already uncomfortably close to the two hundred pounds max. A few ounces might make an awkward difference.
I wanted the bill on the embossed parchment of Orb & Co., which is so haughty and superior—they even mint their own fifty sovereign gold-pieces—that the entire Solar knows and kowtows to their paper which is the despair of forgers.
To give you some idea of their uppitydom, I once cashed a check and when I got outside the bank I discovered that I’d been given a hundred too much through some mysterious mistake, human or machine. Me, the honest turkey, I went back and tried to return the extra money, and the elegant teller informed me that, “No adjustments are made by Orb after the client leaves the window, sir.”
So I presented myself and requested a “fractionating” bill of exchange. That’s the kind that can be honored in portions until the whole is used up. The teller (not the same one) punched the accounts keyboard and damn if the credit screen didn’t flash, “½ O.K.” Obviously I’d lost track of how much was stashed in each of my banks, a promising omen; if I couldn’t unscramble the patterns of my loot, maybe the IRS couldn’t either. I settled for the thousand; it would be enough to carry me.
I took your advice, Odessa, and went to the Triton consulate to apply for a visit visa and so indicate that I was ready to make a deal for Demi. The Jink in the office was more Jap than Chink, absurdly courteous, smiling and hissing. They don’t hiss out, using the tongue, “Hsss…” they hiss in, drawing a breath over the lower lip, “Hfff…”
“Are most honor, Sieurore Hiver. (That’s ‘Mr. Winter’ in Solaranto, the Solar lingua franca.) Hfff. Such celebrate gentleman care to visit humble, faraway world. Hfff. When honor Triton with visit?”
“Sometime in the next two months.”
“So.” He keyed the hot line that connected the consulate with the embassy and the reply flashed back, “½ O.K.” He was overwhelmed. “You are granted full six month, half year, Sieurore Hiver. Hfff. Highest possible honor. Hfff.”
All smooth and sweet, but if my fury needed fresh fuel it was piled on as I left with my Triton-validated passport. Scholars know the antiquated “agenbite of inwit,” the relentless gnawing of conscience. What about the agenbite of talion, the relentless passion for retaliation, for an eye for an eye? The consulate lobby was decorated with primitive art and artifacts. And there, in a beautiful frame, was stretched a skin, a Maori face, an arresting mask of ceremonial scars and sacred tattoos. It was my adoptive father, Te Uinta.
Yes, sweet talion. Yes!
So.
A Sternreise Kompanie ship was scheduled for liftoff for Ganymede that afternoon. It was booked solid with the exception of a cabin that was half-okay, which meant I’d have to share it with a stranger. Who? How the hell did you finagle it, Odessa? Your dyke Garda, Barbara Bull.
(Simple, Rogue. We booked the full cabin and held half-open. We figured it was six-two-and-even that you’d take off for Ganymede soonest. Barb could always jump ship if you didn’t show.)
I like the lady a lot and am certainly beholden to her, but I didn’t want to spend too much time with Barb. You people are so sharp that I was afraid I’d drop a clue to my future plans. This was a luxury jet featuring the haute cuisine, so I spent most of the trip in the galley, pretending I had an assignment from Media to interview a Null-G chef. Matter of fact, it was quite interesting, would make a grabby feature, and helped take my mind off my headaches.
Cooking in free-fall is unique. The chef floats in the middle of his kitchen which surrounds him, top, bottom, and sides. (He has to be alerted before the ship accelerates or decelerates so
he can batten everything down.) He can stand on his head, as it were, and crack eggs over his shoulder. One problem is that nothing ever pours or drops or spills in free-fall; everything has to be shaken, pushed, nudged, and coaxed into position. Visualize trying to flip a flapjack in Null-G.
He has another problem. His refrigerators are cooled by the zero shadowside of the ship, with heat-boosters if they get too cold, but occasionally a craft will roll in flight exposing them to the blistering sunside. Then he picks up the intercom and berates the flight deck which hates to use the lateral jets because it wastes fuel for no good reason. “Imbeciles! You are sabotaging my crème brûlée! No good reason? Étoilevoyage Compagnie will hear of this!”
It’s a delight to watch him roast meats and fowl. He positions the roast at an exact height above the electric grill and gives it a slight turn. It hangs there, revolving slowly in a free-fall barbecue. If it shifts, a gentle touch will reposition it to the chef’s satisfaction, but he’s painfully particular. Sometimes space-chefs get into hot arguments about RPMs and elevation in centimeters above the grill.
His French-fried shrimp are mesmeric. He shakes a container of the best oil above the grill, producing a shower of droplets. He pats them toward each other until he has a golden globe of oil coming to a sizzle. At the right moment the seasonings go in (I was never permitted to see that), followed by the shrimp, and you’re transfixed by the vision of a delicious, revolving seafood balloon. It’s like the sick tsarevitch being hypnotized by Rasputin’s watch, only you can’t eat a watch.
In Turkish Domes the poppies grow
Between the hemp plants, row on row.
I shook Barbara after the Ganymede landing by leaving my gear in the cabin and slipping out alongside my friend, the chef, wearing his soiled uniform and high chef’s hat. He, of course, was all gussied up for the three-day layover and his Creole girlfriends for whom I helped him smuggle in three dozen ampules of ginseng. I insist on repaying favors. I took a ganyfoil to the Turkish Domes and barged in on Ahmet Tröyj to propose a war strategy.
THE DECEIVERS Page 12
