Mirage

by Mark W. Tiedemann

  “The dead are tough, Mr. A very,” Mia said. He started to close the door. “Derec.” He paused, waiting. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  He closed the door and she watched him cross the corridor in front of the transport. They had stopped half a kilometer from the corporate offices of Imbitek.

  Derec and Ariel were not professionals and although so far everything they had done had turned out well, Mia wondered how much longer they could operate without incident. Now they were confronting people, digging where they could be discovered. This would have been a difficult enough investigation with trained agents, but with amateurs...

  She would have to get used to it, there was no choice. When Derec was out of sight, she touched the contact on the dash.

  “Car, proceed to destination three.”

  The transport rolled on.

  DyNan Manual Industries maintained a large suite of offices far out in the Arlington District, away from the majority of its fellow corporations. Looms evidently believed in making statements whenever possible, and his choice of location spoke of his deliberate dissociation from everyone else.

  Coren Lanra, however, kept private offices closer to the heart of D. C., on the fourth floor of an old but well-maintained structure just off the Southwest Corridor, at the outskirts of the Infant District. The area was popular for lawyers and lobbyists and supported a large community of service industries that catered to the wealthier residents. In the mix one found research agencies, professional witnesses, independent forensics labs, physicians, therapists, a variety of technical experts, and private security firms. Mia had never learned why it was called the Infant District.

  The transport parked in the garage opposite, and Mia stepped out onto the pavement. Her leg hurt like an old bruise, but she could walk normally again. The only thing holding her back was fear.

  She crossed to the entrance, sweeping the immediate area for any sign of Service attention.

  Lanra’s office was in the middle of a row of eight along the hallway. No one sat behind the reception desk. Mia stood very quietly in the middle of the foyer, listening for signs of occupation, and slowly searching for evidence of an arrest. But everything was orderly, as if those who worked here had simply stepped out for a few minutes.

  She went to the door marked COREN LANRA, I. S. I. and nervously pressed her hand against it. The door swung in soundlessly.

  Seated behind a desk, Coren Lanra watched her, a vague smile on his lips. Casually, he gestured for her to enter, then put a finger to his lips.

  When the door closed behind her, Lanra reached across his desk and pressed a contact.

  “There,” he said. “Now we’ve got maybe ten minutes before their AIs untangle my encryption.” He smiled, a combination of genuine pleasure and opportunistic anticipation. “It’s not every day the dead walk. How are you, Mia?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Please, sit down. Since we’re on a timer, we should skip the reminiscence and move to the important issues. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. I have one question. “

  “Only one?”

  “The only one there is. Who killed Senator Eliton?”

  Lanra spread his hands, then folded them together. “I wish I knew. The TBI wants to hang it on Looms. They’ve always had a fondness for morally committed outsiders.”

  “You’re sure Looms had nothing to do with it?”

  “Please, not you, too. No, Mia, it wasn’t Looms. Let’s not waste time on a false lead. Besides, I’m fairly certain you’ve looked into enough of the peripheral evidence to have another suspect. Am I right?”

  “The assassins were Managins.”

  “Predictable. You think they did it on their own?”

  “No.”

  Lanra nodded. “They haven’t got the resources. The people, sure. The means, no. I’m still trying to figure out how they got inside Union Station with those weapons.”

  Mia hesitated, wondering how much to reveal, how much any revelation might tell a trained ex-Service agent by what it left out or implied. There was just too little time to be as careful as she wanted.

  “The RI was subverted,” she said.

  He covered it well, kept his expression as neutral as he could, but there was a moment of puzzlement in his eyes, replaced almost instantly by surprise, then masked. He had not known. Lanra, at least, was not part of it.

  “That’s what we get for playing with this positronic crap.” He glanced at his hands for a moment. “I thought it had just failed. So that definitely leaves out the Managins. They were the weapon, not the wielder. So, how are you pursuing this?”

  “First, I want to know why you contacted the Aurorans.”

  “Process of elimination. I knew ‘it couldn’t be the Managins and I knew it wasn’t Looms. Once the TBI started looking at us, I wondered where the Service was. They haven’t asked a single question of Looms. When you were killed--” he cocked his eyebrows and grinned “--it started to look like someone on the inside. That meant someone in the Service was involved, so I couldn’t go to them. The TBI won’t listen, the local authorities could care less once the TBI take over. The official statement from the Spacers is basically wait-and-see, but one of the Aurorans is staying here to try to conduct the conference. I checked on her--a junior member, no experience and almost no authority. The rest of the survivors have returned home, leaving the embassy staffs here to clean up after the mess is finished making. All their actions indicate that they never knew this would happen--confused, disorganized, trying to put a good face on it. I decided not to talk to the Solarians because of their involvement with the RI. The Aurorans are as close to an objective party as we can find right now, and when I asked around to find out who was talking the Spacers living on Earth to stay put and not run, I hear the name Ariel Burgess. Calvin Institute. I started trying to talk to the Aurorans.”

  “You didn’t call Burgess first?”

  “No, I started at the top. I wanted to see who would be willing to speak to me as much as anything else.”

  “What about other corporate security?”

  “Our competitors?” Lanra shook his head. “Besides, they’re all amateurs.”

  “Underestimating your enemies?”

  “No, keeping a handle on leaks. The biggest problem with amateurs isn’t that they aren’t good at the job itself, but that they brag about it. Usually to their employers.”

  “You think it’s corporate.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I can’t see a motive. As far as I can tell, everyone stood to make a lot of money from this treaty.”

  “Legally, yes.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You’re looking at the wrong flow of capital.”

  “The piracy?”

  Lanra grunted. “One of the things I miss about working for the Service is all the alternate labels the government puts on things. ‘Piracy, ‘ they call it, as if ships in space chase each other, shooting, and the bad guys seize a hapless freighter against its will. Crap. It’s tariff dodging, pure and simple, and if the treaty goes into effect, that ends. Frankly, as much as I hate robots, I can’t say I’d be sorry.”

  “You’re saying major corporations are behind it?” Mia asked. “There can’t be enough money in it to make It worth the risk.”

  Lanra gave her a mock incredulous look. “Really? Mia, think about it. Earth exports to fifteen of the fifty Spacer Worlds and another twenty Settler colonies. Leaving out the Settlers for now, do you have any idea how much we’re talking about? On average, ten to twenty billion credits per world annually. Now that’s the legitimate trade. Out of that, the so-called piracy bleeds off about five to eight percent. Just to average that out, let’s say that comes up to one-point-two billion a year that never gets to its destination. The current set-up prohibits Earth from directly trading with the other Spacer Worlds--the fifteen we export to are licensed to distribute to them, we are
n’t--and there’s a stiff tariff system in place between them, not to mention the contractual arrangements on those Settler Worlds where there are also Spacer colonies. Black market merchandise easily commands twice to three times its legitimate market value, especially on merchandise not on the approved export list. So that eighteen billion credits’ worth of ’lost’ merchandise ends up on the black market fetching fifty to eighty billion in sales. And if the Spacers react predictably over these killings, you could see that figure double when they start raising tariffs and putting on more restrictions. And I haven’t even mentioned the import black market or the fact that those ‘stolen’ shipments are insured. In total, I’d guess that you’re looking at a two-hundred-plus billion credit illicit trade volume that could dry up if this treaty goes into effect. Now you tell me that profit isn’t a motive.”

  Mia had known the black market was large, but not that large. Officially, it was estimated that the total volume came up to less than thirty billion credits. Still a substantial amount of money, but hardly enough to jeopardize a treaty that would have lowered tariffs and increased exports. But if Lanra’s estimates were true, there was simply too much money in it to give it up easily. In fact, worsening the situation would seem even better.

  Lanra was nodding sympathetically. “We’re too parochial here, we don’t see things in terms of entire star systems and trade routes extending dozens of light years,” he said, following her thoughts. “It’s too much to take in. We’re willing to believe the official numbers because we can’t imagine past them.”

  “So how have you managed it?”

  “Not easily, I’ll tell you. Looms has been wanting it exposed for a long time. It’s one more reason, he says, that we don’t just turn our backs on space and be done with it. But letting people know how much money can be made at something... that’s not always the best way to convince them to leave it alone. So he’s been waiting and paying attention. He’s got a big file on it.”

  “Does he have a favorite suspect?”

  “No one person could do this. It has to be a consortium, and not just of Terrans.”

  “Spacers?”

  Lanra nodded. “And a few Settlers. “

  “The Settler representative--” Mia began.

  “The Settlers are getting the worst end of the whole enterprise. A lot of Settler colonies have a real start -over-from-scratch attitude and set up their charters to limit trade with Earth. They aren’t well disposed to deal with Spacers, either. As a consequence, a lot of Settler Worlds are austere. The black market for them is like a drug--people buying stuff that doesn’t even exist on the open market. It also makes them an easy scapegoat. Most of us believed that the pirates were Settlers.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “A few individuals, I’m sure. Have to have agents on the ground for something like this. But state sanctioned? No.”

  “How do explain the fact that not one member of DyNan’s party was injured?”

  “What better way to paint us the villain? It’s simple, clear, obvious--all it takes is for someone to point out the fact at the right time in the right way.”

  “It’s too obvious,” Mia said.

  “For who? You, maybe. A judge? Does it matter? This will be a political trial. It’s not too simple for the masses and it has the added benefit of discrediting anything Looms might reveal about the black market before he can say word one.”

  “You’re a cynical one.”

  Lanra nodded. “I’ve learned that expediency is the only constant. When you live like that it’s easy to lose faith in anything else.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any proof of any of this?”

  Lanra pursed his lips. “What is it you’re trying to do, Mia? You’re supposed to be dead. What can you do?”

  “I’m... trying to find out who set us up.”

  “Someone on the inside, obviously. Do you have a name?”

  “Cupra and Gambel.”

  Lanra’s eyes widened briefly. “Well, well. Three surprises in less than a day.”

  “I don’t know them.”

  “Service all the way. If they’re involved, you can be certain someone higher up is, too. I can’t imagine them doing this on their own.” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a disk. He slid it toward her. “This is a synopsis of my conclusion from the last three years. My logic trees, my numbers, guesses. I”

  He glanced at his desk top and scowled. “Time’s up. You need to leave. Now.”

  “One more question. ”,

  Lanra glanced nervously at his desktop. “Quick.”

  “The guns, the assassins. I need a name, a supplier.”

  “Look at Kynig Parapoyos. Now you have to leave.”

  Mia tucked the disk inside her jacket and stood. She looked at Lanra an extra moment--an exchange of sympathies, a way of acknowledging a debt without saying anything --then hurried out of his office.

  running chameleon program, tactical parameters imitate severe motive impairment, isolate memory node to selective disclosure pending coded release, proceed to predetermined retrieval point, avoid undesignated humans, defensive protocols at minimum, corridor uninhabited, continuing continuing continuing, designated humans approaching, two, both armed, assuming wide field, defensive posture

  “I thought it was vaporized?”

  “Well, it’s tougher than we thought. Look at it, though--it hasn’t worn well.”

  “Bogard, confirm command recognition, Agent Gambel.”

  processing command recognition, partially impaired protocol, response limited, confirmed voice recognition

  “c-con-confirrrr-con-firm...”

  “Oh, that’s good, he’ll love this. Listen to it.”

  “Knock it off. That device should have rendered it down to its component molecules. It’s still walking around.”

  “I’m impressed. Can you imagine body armor made out of this stuff? Bogard, command imperative established, Agent Gambel and Agent Cupra. Confirm?”

  “…con-firrrrm-ed…”

  “Bogard, you will accompany us. We are your field retrieval. Confirmed?”

  “... field... re-field-retrieve-field...”

  “Confirm, Bogard.”

  “Con-firrrmed--field retrie-retrieval.”

  “Great. Come with us, now, Bogard. We’re going to take you back to headquarters for debriefing.”

  “De-de-debrief--retrieve--rebrief--”

  “This is going to be a nightmare.”

  “Just so long as what we see is what we get, I don’t care. Bogard, come with us.”

  command recognition confirmed, Cupra Gambel, initiate secondary protocol, conform to request

  “That’s good, Bogard. Come with us. Everything will be just fine. We have a lot to talk about.”

  _

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Imbitek occupied a good portion of the Navy District. Derec had heard stories that its manufacturing facilities went all the way down to the ancient Anacostia River, although these in D. C. were not Imbitek’s main works. The largest plant was somewhere on the other side of the globe, near Kiev Sector.

  Derec entered a high archway into a maze of walkways that wound among the offices. The entrance lay on the opposite side of a large fountain. A series of canopies at various heights obscured the towering bulk of Imbitek while letting light diffuse delicately onto the corporate mall. The result was an impression of Imbitek as warm, considerate, and human-scaled, most of it hidden from sight, like its products.

  He walked through the broad doors and up to the reception desk.

  “Derec Avery to see Mr. Mikels.”

  “You’re expected, Mr. Avery,” the receptionist told him. “Please wait a moment and I’ll have someone take you up.”

  Another woman arrived, smiled pleasantly, and asked him to follow her.

  Behind the reception area, they entered a wide hallway lined by doors. Derec was led to one at the far end. His guide pressed a contact and waited.
The door opened and she waved him into the small cubicle.

  “This will take you directly to Mr. Mikels’ offices, Mr. Avery. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Derec stepped into the cubicle. A bench hung from one wall. The door closed and he felt only the briefest of movements. A few seconds later, the door opened again to admit him into a spacious office.

  Alda Mikels stood before an immense desk, smiling. He was a broadshouldered man, slightly shorter than Derec, with a thick mane of nearly-white hair. His eyes were a muddy brown and he tended toward overweight, though his tailored dark suit hid it well.

  “Mr. Avery.”

  “Mr. Mikels.”

  “My apologies for the way my man Kusk brushed you off. We were rude. I am sorry.”

  “Contract restrictions often leave little room for cordiality, sir. Don’t worry about.”

  Mikels laughed, a deep, pleasant sound. It could be easy to like this man. “Nevertheless, I wanted to make amends. Thank you for coming. Can I get you anything? A drink?”

  “Water would be fine, thank you.”

  Alda Mikels gestured to the opposite end of the office where a bar covered most of one wall. It was not the kind of office where work got done, at least not the hands-on sort Derec thought of as work. He imagined meetings here, drinks or smokes offered, and talk designed to prepare the way for work. Clients met Mikels here, if they were important enough, and perhaps enemies as well. Derec wondered in which category Mikels placed him.

  Mikels filled a tall glass from a crystal pitcher and handed it to Derec. He poured for himself a tumbler of brandy from an ornate decanter. Every move exuded a kind of pride: look what I have.

  “Your original call concerned Union Station,” he said, lifting the tumbler in a half salute. He sipped.

  “Phylaxis Group was supposed to have the exclusive service contract on the RI. I was concerned that everything be handled the best way possible. And Phylaxis was able to get operations back online within hours. We were running all the operations before we were excluded. I’m curious--”