Quofum

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Araza!”

  Boylan could have raised the tech on his communit, could have located him in an instant, but he wanted to confront his subordinate in person and without warning. How could someone charged with maintaining the camp treat a critical portion of its supplies so cavalierly? While carrying out assigned tasks with reasonable efficiency, Araza had always been somewhat indifferent to orders. But until now there had been no reason for Boylan to accuse him of abject carelessness. Handling vital materials and important equipment in such a slipshod fashion not only threatened to ruin important experiments before they could be run, it posed a danger to far more significant stores such as medicinal supplies.

  He found the technician in the dining area, eating his evening meal. Araza looked up as the captain entered. If the tech noticed anything amiss, it did not affect his appetite. After an acknowledging glance and nod, he looked away and returned to his food.

  With exaggerated deliberation, Boylan sat down in the seat opposite, on the other side of the thin but sturdy table. “Enjoying your supper?”

  Araza forked up another mouthful, chewed, swallowed, shifted his attention to the side dish of reconstituted pasta with its improvised alfredo sauce. “Yes, thanks.” When this reply produced no response, he added politely, “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “In due course.” Boylan leaned back in his chair. “I don’t like eat until after I’ve assured myself that everything is done for the day and that camp is in optimal run condition for following morning.”

  The next forkload paused halfway to the technician’s mouth. “Isn’t it?”

  “Not quite. Not exactly.” The captain’s stare was, if not exactly murderous, at least accusatory. “There a certain storage room whose contents could use modicum of professional attention. In fact, if I did not know better, from looking at it just now I would think it had been vandalized.”

  Araza unhurriedly put down his fork, picked up a hand wipe, cleaned his fingers, and set the soiled wipe aside for recycling. “The camp perimeter is intact. Nothing has been inside that could do such a thing.”

  “I know.” Sarcasm and satisfaction in equal measure now poisoned Boylan’s tone. “That reality would seem to lead us to an incontestable conclusion: that present condition of storeroom in question is responsibility of someone already inside perimeter. Pardon if I exclude myself.”

  For the first time Araza appeared to show a reaction beyond mere annoyance. “With the scientific team away, the contents of the storeroom are not presently being utilized.” He hesitated. “I realize that there is some disarray.”

  “‘Disarray’?” Boylan eyed the technician in mock disbelief. “You mean, as if everything in room had been sucked into a black hole only to be spit out again?”

  Pushing his plate aside, Araza started to rise. “Since it upsets you so much, I will stack and organize everything in the morning.”

  “Sit—down,” Boylan growled tersely.

  For an instant Araza appeared to freeze. His expression did not change. Only after a noticeable pause did he finally comply and resume his seat. Boylan was neither intimidated nor slowed. “I want it fixed now. I want everything back in its proper place, on its indicated shelf, with appropriate labels and spacing. Tonight.”

  Unruffled as ever, Araza eyed his superior. “Why? I will have everything back in place before the researchers return. Right now there is no one else to see the room except you and I.”

  “Well, ‘I’ want it put right tonight.” Boylan smiled thinly. “I’ll sleep a lot better knowing that the necessary work has already been done. It benefits both of us. You will have a lighter workload tomorrow. We’ll both need the rest. The team will have crates and bottles full of specimens to be unloaded, brought to camp, and stored.”

  “Tonight.” Araza checked his chronometer.

  “Tonight,” Boylan told him. “Now would be good time to start.” Again the smile. “So that you don’t forget.”

  “All right. You are correct, Captain Boylan. If I get everything that needs to be done out of the way tonight, the workload tomorrow will be lighter.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Pleased with the result of their little confrontation, Boylan rose. “You don’t have to rush off. Just get on it soon.”

  “No.” Pushing back his chair, Araza stood and stepped away from the table. “I have finished my meal. Perhaps when I have performed the remainder of this evening’s work I will pause for a drink and something else to eat, and to take time to relax. You know that I am not much of a dessert person.”

  “Me, I love the sweets too much.” Patting his stomach as he headed toward the food prep unit, Boylan started around the table. “If I’m still up, I’ll join you for that drink.”

  “There should be time,” Araza murmured as he walked away, heading in the direction of the lab module.

  Boylan had finished his main courses and was scooping up last of the cupuraçu sundae from a self-chilling bowl when the technician returned. The captain frowned.

  “That was quick. I know you can work fast when you want to, Salvador, but that was too fast. Surely you haven’t finished the job yet?”

  “No.” Araza’s voice was even softer than usual. Not like that of a man dead, but like that of one for whom the other half of a conversation had little meaning. “I have only prepared myself to do the work.”

  “Well, damn it then—and damn you, too, man!” Boylan pushed the empty bowl toward the center of the table and wiped his mouth with a cloth. “Is this some kind of joke? Did you think I wasn’t being serious when I told you to clean up the storeroom tonight?”

  “I do not think this is some kind of joke,” the technician replied evenly. “Before I can think of doing the work you specified, one other matter must be dealt with first.”

  Boylan’s sarcasm was in full flower. “Wonderful! What is it this time? You have dirty underwear that need emergency cleaning? There is chapter in a book you need to finish reading? Serious ear wax buildup that desperately need attention, perhaps?”

  Unexpectedly, Araza smiled. There was no humor in it. “You have a voice, Nicholai Boylan, that is deserving of both respect and contempt. It serves you well in your chosen profession. It is to be regretted that your ability to manipulate timbre and words is not matched by an equal skill with numbers.”

  What’s going on here? Boylan wondered to himself. Something was not right. Most obviously, something had gifted the normally taciturn technician with uncharacteristic articulateness. What had suddenly inspired in him the power of speech? And not just minimally comprehensible speech, either. Then there were his eyes. Normally distant or disinterested, they had acquired a new and disturbingly intense focus that had not been there before. It was as if during the transition from dinner to dessert the tech had suddenly become a different person.

  Or was it possible, the captain mused, that this was the real Araza, and the persona of shambling, competent, minimally communicative technician they had known all along was the false one? If that was the case, then what was he dealing with here? In the absence of information it was no disgrace to plead ignorance.

  “I don’t know what you talking about, Salvador. But I do know that I don’t like you attitude.”

  “Only the guilty find detachment threatening.” Araza’s gaze bored into the captain’s.

  In the course of a long career Boylan had been compelled to stare down many men, some women, and not a few aliens. It was therefore hard for him to admit to himself how badly the mechanic was unsettling him.

  “Do you recall,” Araza continued, “a loan of some sixty thousand credits, advanced to you by one Char-pesh Hambilah-ah-Salaam, in the city of Barragath, on Thalia Major?”

  The captain blinked. Corroded bits of memory bestirred themselves and linked together to form coherent thoughts. “Good God, that was twelve years ago!”

  Araza nodded once. “Your recollection is correct. A ship captain and expedition commander is required to have some sma
ll command of figures. Therefore you should be able to roughly calculate the interest that has accrued.”

  Boylan gaped. He started to laugh, stopped when he saw that the technician was dead serious. “I can’t believe this. A minor but still important scientific expedition, with much at stake and already a great many new discoveries made, and I am expected to take the time to explain a prehistoric personal fiscal misunderstanding to mission technician? I don’t know how you know about this or what misleading and outright wrong tales you have been told, but is no concern of yours. Especially not now, not here, on this world and in this place.” Slowly, he pushed his chair back from the table. The last remnants of his sundae formed a streaky puddle in the bottom of the serving bowl.

  “It is a concern of mine, Nicholai Boylan, as I have been charged with extracting recompense.” Araza stared solemnly across at the captain.

  Now Boylan did laugh. How could he not? The situation was so preposterous, so outrageously absurd. “A bill collector! Someone go to trouble of engaging a highly competent, if often slothful technician to collect an outdated credit advance while in the course of an expedition to a new and potential hazardous habitable world. It beggar belief.”

  It was plain that the man standing on the other side of the table did not see the same humor in the situation. “The loan is not outdated. There is no statute of limitations on the payback of monetary advances from this particular source.”

  Boylan took a deep breath. “You have been misinformed, my friend. Misinformed and deceived. When it was made, no time limit for repayment was placed on that old loan. Not by Hambilah-ah-Salaam nor by his associates nor by their company. It will be repaid, I imagine, in due course.”

  “Twelve years.” Araza’s gaze had not wavered. It occurred to Boylan that the technician seemed to have stopped blinking. An unusual and curious skill. “Plus interest. Due on demand. Due now.” The faintest of smiles reappeared to mar an otherwise fixed expression. “Tonight.”

  “Now?” The captain had moved beyond laughter. He was starting to get angry. He had an expedition to supervise, four eager and excited scientists returning to camp in the morning, hostile flora and fauna to deal with, several species of belligerent native sentients to somehow simultaneously study and keep at arm’s length, and—no time for this.

  “There are details involving this financial transaction of which you are obviously ignorant. Maybe I’ll discuss its history with you tomorrow. Or next week. When I can find the time. There is no time now. We both have much to do.” Rising, he glared across the intervening table at his obdurate subordinate. “I have a responsibility to my team and to the Commonwealth.”

  “You have a responsibility to your creditors.” Araza was quietly implacable.

  Leaning forward, Boylan rested his fists on the table. “You not listening to me, Salvador. Pay attention. I have no time for this now. Leave it alone. Get back to you real job. Clean up that storeroom.”

  “You refuse to settle your account?”

  Straightening, the captain turned his hands palm upward and cast his eyes ceilingward. “Oh, sure, I settle it. I send space-minus communication now, to Wolophon III, which passes details to Cmkk, which transfers information to maybe Balthazaar, which coordinates deposit of necessary credit on Thalia Major.” Lowering his gaze, he glowered across at the placid technician. “Is no problem because I have nothing else to occupy my time right now.” His tone changed from cantankerous to the kind one would use when addressing a child.

  “Firstly, no guarantee from this place and location that initial communication would successfully make contact. Secondly, is waste of expedition resources. Thirdly, is illegal to utilize mission equipment for personal matters. And lastly, according to terms agreed upon when original loan was made, time to pay back is incumbent on my ability to do so. That is presently inadequate.”

  “You should have saved your money,” Araza told him. Unlike Boylan, there was not a hint of scorn in the technician’s voice.

  “Even if I had it, I would not be bothering with such a thing now. Not here, not in this place. In case you not noticed, I have other responsibilities.”

  “Your responsibility is to your long-patient creditors. You have been in a position to make payback on numerous occasions during the past twelve years.” Araza was quietly implacable. “You have not paid.”

  The captain shrugged, unconcerned. “Time passes. Things happen. The load will be repaid. Eventually.”

  “‘Eventually’ is insufficiently unambiguous for my clients. You will pay now.”

  Though he was not really worried, Boylan casually let his right hand slip toward his waist. Along with a varied assortment of other gear, it held his holstered sidearm. If he could not make the technician see reason, he would have to force it upon him. A week or two spent locked up in his room should give him sufficient time for reflection. He had delivered his demand and found the response wanting. That would be the end of it. When the expedition returned to Commonwealth space, Araza could communicate that information to whoever had hired him. If his stubbornness proved to be unrelenting, the expedition would simply have to get along without his abilities. Boylan didn’t think it would come to that. The withholding of food, for example, was usually enough to convince the recalcitrant to cooperate.

  “Even if an effective means of doing so existed,” he told the intent technician in an attempt to put an end to the charade, “I couldn’t pay off loan now. I don’t have the credit.”

  Digesting this response, Araza nodded comprehendingly. “Very well. If that is your concluding word on the matter. I have been charged with extracting recompense. I will do so now.”

  Boylan’s fingers furtively undid the snap on his sidearm’s holster. “Don’t threaten me, Salvador. Not to my face. Not in my own camp.”

  Reaching up, the technician fingered the top of the seal that ran down the front of his jumpsuit. The captain tensed, but Araza was only unsealing his jumpsuit. No hidden weapon revealed itself as the tech slipped the seal all the way down to the crotch of his clothing. The green-and-beige camouflage work-suit fell away from slender shoulders. Beneath, in place of the usual lightweight underwear, the technician was clad in a light-absorbing jet-black skinsuit of a type Boylan did not immediately recognize. Encircling it at the waist was a black belt festooned with gleaming, highly miniaturized gear whose functions were unfamiliar and subject to multiple interpretation. The belt buckle…the buckle…

  Boylan froze. His breath caught in his throat. Though it was pleasantly warm in the dining area, a chill ran up and through his entire body as if his spine had suddenly been flash-frozen in a slab of glacial ice. Only his right leg stayed warm, because it was down that limb the trickle of tepid urine from his voided bladder curled.

  The buckle that secured the black belt at the technician’s waist had been faceted from a single artificially enhanced, specially treated crystal of vanadanite. The bright orange-red stone was inset with a gold skull and crossbones. As if that was not conclusive identification enough, the technician proceeded to doff his work cap. Instead of his shaven skull, a second head covering was revealed beneath the hat. This was a black skullcap inlaid with signs, insignia, and cryptic script that had been laid in with crimson foil.

  There was no longer any doubt as to Salvador Araza’s true profession. The revelation was only further confirmed when he reached up and calmly peeled off first one and then the other prosthetic eyebrow.

  The Qwarm favored full-body depilation lest even a single stray hair betray their presence or get in the way of their work. That work, as it had been practiced ever since the clan had been established hundreds of years earlier, ran the gamut of a great many disreputable but tolerated specialties. Bill collecting could be counted among these. Assassination was another.

  Boylan was badly shaken by the disclosure, but he was not paralyzed. The hand that had been sliding toward his sidearm and had unlatched its holster now drew the weapon and fired. His stocky buil
d notwithstanding, the captain could move fast when he needed to. Deceptively fast. The tiny but deadly shells his weapon fired sped straight toward the somber-faced specter standing before him. Unfortunately, by the time they reached the point of contact, their target was no longer there.

  Boylan looked around wildly as smoke rose from the holes the double shot had blown in the module’s interior wall. Araza had vanished. As the captain crouched next to the table, gripping the sidearm tightly, the technician’s voice drifted up to him from somewhere down the corridor.

  “There is neither need nor sense in making this difficult, Nicholai Boylan. I have told you that I am charged with exacting recompense. If my employer cannot have your money, then he must have your life.”

  “I told you!” Boylan was trying to look every which way at once. “I don’t have the money! I need more time.” He was breathing faster than he had in years and his heart was pounding so hard it threatened to punch its way out his chest. “I will have substantial credits waiting for me when this expedition returns. First thing, I will transfer them to whatever account you specify.” Despite his fear, he tried his best to sound conspiratorially convivial. “That need not even be your bedamned employer’s account.” Even as he spoke he was edging stealthily toward the hallway opposite the one from which Araza’s calm voice emerged.

  “I am Qwarm,” the unseen technician told him. The corridor imbued his voice with a slight reverberation. “A Qwarm cannot be bribed. In any event, I have some knowledge of what someone in your position in charge of an expedition on this scale is likely to be paid. The amount would not cover the interest owed, much less a satisfactory portion of the principal.”

  “I told you.” Boylan’s stressed response was half entreaty, half curse. “I need more time!”

  “You have had twelve years.” Had the tech’s voice moved? Boylan couldn’t tell. He was almost to the hallway entrance. Araza continued patiently. “Not only my employer but any legitimate Commonwealth bank or credit monitoring facility would consider that you have already been granted an excess of leniency.”