The City and the Ship

by Anne McCaffrey

  It was an open secret that did little to endear them to most of Central Worlds, including the Clenst Defense Group. Who nonetheless felt compelled to maintain a diplomatic silence regarding the Phelobites' less socially acceptable business practices.

  Seg stretched his fingers and then folded his hands again.

  "There are several bio-weapons that are particularly dangerous that we've been working intensively to find counteragents for."

  "Why not just buy 'em from the Phelobites?" Bros asked reasonably.

  "Apparently," Seg said nervously, "they never got around to developing them."

  Bros sat up straight and folded his hands before him on the conference table, mirroring Seg !T'sel's posture.

  "Go on," he said.

  "All of these diseases attack the brain or nervous system on some level. Their premiere creation, and the one we're most concerned with, has the effect of destroying the memory center of the brain. Fairly rapidly and with, unfortunately, permanent results. It's highly contagious, primarily airborne, but can also be transmitted through handling things that have recently been touched by an infected person. We estimate that perhaps twenty humans in a hundred will have a natural immunity to it. Actually, we believe that's part of the design, predicated on the idea that one person afflicted will need two or more to take care of them. Obviously," Seg spread his hands in a gesture of appeal, "if this disease were released on a planet the results would be . . . catastrophic."

  "To put it mildly," Bros agreed. He wasn't ready to ask questions yet, though he sensed where this lecture was leading.

  "Yes. Well," Seg continued. "Three others that we received samples of, from a package of brain or nervous system influencing agents this pirate company has been marketing, are not diseases, exactly. But we've found that a subject can be immunized against them as though they were. However, they're not something we would wish to fall into the wrong hands." He glanced nervously at Bros. "They seem to have been developed with the dual aim of acting as methods of discipline and interrogation. The first creates intense pain, the second intense fear, the third produces euphoria and an overwhelming desire to please."

  Here the scientist in him took over, and he said enthusiastically: "The degree of control is exquisite! The timespan and extremity of effect are determined at the time the dose is made up. And the effects may last only seconds or permanently; in other words, at the discretion of the user."

  Bros caught his eye at this point and Seg dampened his enthusiasm. "Um, physical side effects will vary depending on how long the dosage lasts. The pain bug can cause neurological damage in very high doses, the fear instigator is likely to produce psychological problems in most people, which the pleasure bug may, depending upon what the victim has been required to do. You see they act by exciting certain glands or in the case of the pain drug by exciting the synapses . . ."

  Bros was holding up his hand.

  "Before we get too involved in the actual workings of this stuff, why are you here?" he asked. He thought he knew, and he was impatient to hear it said, to have his worst fears made real. Anxiety is worse than pain. Pain does not hurt; the fear of pain hurts.

  The Sondee studied his folded hands for a moment, then looked directly across at Sperin.

  "We succeeded in developing a serum for the memory wiping disease. A simple injection will immunize a subject. It cannot reverse damage already done, unfortunately, but it can halt the progress of the disease. The counteragents we've developed to the others are, unfortunately, less effective and require a stepped series of injections. But then, we'd really only begun research on them. I'm sure we would have come up with something more effective if given time."

  Bros waved his hand in a rotary motion, "And the reason you're telling me all this is . . ."

  Seg looked down/sideways—a disconcerting sight in itself—and remained quiet for a time, as though gathering his thoughts. At last he raised his eyes and looked at Bros again.

  "We were due to give a full report to a Navy representative and had gathered everything together, samples, both of the diseases and the antidotes and serum, research, everything we had. It was stolen. Worse, we subsequently discovered that our information about the serums had been corrupted. Meaning that mass production will have to be delayed while crucial research and testing are duplicated. What we fear is that someone intends to use these weapons and soon, while we have no ready supply of counteragents."

  Bros sat back slowly, his gaze thoughtful.

  "Have you found your spy?" he asked calmly.

  "No," Seg told him. "To be honest we consider that the least of our worries. Our primary interest is to find where the information went. There are three arms dealers in particular that Navy intelligence feels are the most likely candidates for handling this product. Agics LLege, the Yoered Family and Nomik Ciety.

  "I've been assigned to your team because I have a full understanding of this weapon and clearance to make any necessary decisions regarding it, or the stolen information. I also have a full range of shots to immunize you and your agents. Fortunately we still had a minute amount of the working samples left in the lab."

  Bros studied the young Sondee scientist. A horrible suspicion nibbled at the edges of his mind.

  "My team? Mr. !T'sel, I can understand the need to send word of this by courier, and of course the need for these shots is obvious. What I don't understand is why CenSec and Clenst are both willing to put someone of your skills in a position of risk. Do they seriously expect me to take you into the field with me? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

  "This discussion has already taken place at a fairly high level, Mr. Sperin," !T'sel informed him haughtily. He reached into his suit jacket and withdrew a datahedron. "This is a recording of the meeting at which it was decided that whatever happened to the stolen materials was my responsibility. It goes without saving that if that necessitates being called into the field, then I will go."

  !T'sel wore the most heroic expression Bros had ever seen on a Sondee outside of an opera. The suspicion hardened into certainty. !T'sel was no doubt as good a scientist as his documentation claimed, but he was a romantic. Specifically, a romantic aficionado of espionage.

  Bros restrained an impulse to beat his head against the table. What did CenSec expect him to do? Work miracles? Find the Benisur Amos, find the stolen bio-weapons, put the notorious Ciety out of business and shepherd a glory hungry kid-scientist through it all without letting him get scratched?

  Sometimes, he thought, I regret my oath to Central Worlds Security. He could have been an aquaculture specialist. He could have written dramas for the feelie market. He could . . .

  He rose and gestured towards the door. "I'll review this immediately, Mr. !T'sel . . ."

  "It's Doctor, actually. But please, sir, call me Seg."

  "If you'll promise not to call me sir."

  Seg laughed nervously, "Whatever you'd like, Mr. Sperin. I realize calling you sir wouldn't be good tradecraft."

  The Sondee dropped the term as if it were a magic talisman. He'd probably like to have a union card with SPY written on it.

  "Bros, call me Bros. But not in front of the people here. Here you'll have to call me Clal." He winced mentally. "That's my cover name. Okay?" Seg nodded eagerly. "Uh, I'll assign someone to help you get settled and tomorrow we'll see if we can come up with a plan." He slapped Seg on the shoulder and guided him out the door. "Don't trust anybody here, Seg. And don't tell them anything."

  Bros sent the young Sondee off with one of the younger of Sal's operatives via the back door of the club. His last sight of !T'sel was of the young Sondee looking eagerly back with an expression of abject hero-worship in all four eyes.

  With a weary sigh he sank back into his chair, burying his face in his hands.

  * * *

  This was wonderful! Seg's blood bubbled like champagne. He couldn't believe that he had actually met Bros Sperin. Had shaken his hand, had briefed him, for the love of !Gretz.

>   He tried to hold his features to a properly cool expression as he followed the young operative Bros had assigned to him. It was hard. Cool, he reminded himself. An experienced agent displays no emotion. Certainly no genuine emotion. He'd practiced fake ones often enough.

  Sperin was a legend in the lore of Central Security, and Seg had hunted each and every story about him to the source, confirming every unbelievable tale. Such panache, such wit, such daring! he thought. Somehow, Seg had imagined that Mr. Bros Sperin must be dead. Heroes simply didn't live in the same world as industrial scientists.

  Not Mister Bros Sperin, Seg reminded himself, but Bros, by !Gretz! He shook my hand and told me to call him Bros.

  Now Seg had only to hope that his supervisor would confirm the alleged field appointment he was supposedly reporting for. Once, the recording—which Bros was probably viewing even now—had merely authorized Sperin to call upon Dr. Seg !T'sel for any advice he needed pertaining to the stolen diseases and their antidotes. But Seg had made a few artistic adjustments to the original, lending a whole new aspect to the tape.

  The Directors are a conservative lot, he thought. Lost in credentialism. Convinced that merely because his formal training was in analysis, he couldn't be an effective field operative as well.

  Seg was aware from his research into Bros's exploits that he was careful about details. There was no doubt that in this case one of those details would be to check the contents of the recording Seg had given him with Clenst.

  Seg had arranged for any calls regarding himself to be referred to his immediate supervisor. A human—about whom Seg had assembled an intimidating dossier that seemed to confirm his guilt in the theft of the missing diseases.

  Actually, Seg had no idea whether his boss was guilty or not, but the appearance was so damning that the man had gone along with his plan.

  Hoping, no doubt, that I'd get myself killed, Seg thought happily. Little did he know.

  Seg was going to be an agent, and he was going to shine.

  * * *

  "Oh, great unborn planets," Bros whispered. The documents looked solid. They were solid. What on earth were they thinking of, to saddle him with this amateur?

  "Run this through for confirmation," he said wearily, and his comp immediately began working.

  He sighed. Well, the work he'd already been engaged in was just as pertinent to the new investigation as to the old. His instincts told him that the Kolnari were involved. The symmetry of the whole thing was too perfect; fitting so well with the shape of their defeat and the Kolnari need for revenge. And if the Kolnar were involved then so was Nomik Ciety.

  He sat at his computer and began reviewing the latest batch of outstanding warrants he'd been sent.

  Words scrolled up the screen, mostly unheeded except for an occasional term or name that Bros registered. His mind was mostly on Joat Simeon. And Joseph ben Said, who had apparently disappeared.

  Right into Joat's ship, and for all I know, into her bed, he thought sourly. He hadn't liked the idea of the older man proposing marriage to her. But the memory of her response brought a smile to his lips.

  His eye caught a familiar name on a warrant scrolling by and he stopped it, pulled it back down for inspection.

  The complaint was ten years old, but might as well have been centuries old for all the effect it'd had. It had been filed by Channa Hap and Simeon, the Brain and Brawn of the SSS-900-C on behalf of their adopted daughter, Joat Simeon-Hap.

  Bros sat up and leaned forward. The warrant had been signed out against a Nom Selkirk, Joat's uncle. It seemed the man had lost his seven-year-old niece in a poker game with the captain of a tramp freighter. The child had subsequently been viciously abused and then abandoned on the SSS-900-C. Both Channa and Simeon had demanded some sort of action. They'd gone so far as to post a reward for information.

  Nom Selkirk was one of Nomik Ciety's aliases, one of his oldest, perhaps even his real name. If he has any real name other than vermin, or something of that kind.

  The hair crawled on Bros's neck. And I sent her after him, he thought with horror. An image of Joat's smile rose in his mind; and the memory of holos taken during the Kolnari occupation of SSS-900-C. Most of which Joat had spent in the ventilation system, planning and executing—literally—her ambushes. During which she'd used a monofilament dispenser to give a whole new layer of meaning to the ancient saying "Cut them off at the knees."

  If Ciety was her uncle, his life wasn't worth spit from the moment Joat landed on the same surface. Not that Ciety would be any loss, but the consequences to the mission . . .

  "Outsmarted yourself again," Sperin muttered to himself. "Tell me I'm not as stupid as a vid-series spy. Please!"

  * * *

  The customs corvette was a slender needle next to the Wyal's torpedo, built to transit atmosphere and fast in space as well. An unpleasant beeping sound echoed over the bridge as the merchantman's sensors picked up the lock-on of the gunboat's particle beam weapons and single torp tube. The corvette came around sharply to match vectors, reached zero-relative velocity, and extended a docking tube.

  Joat's eyebrows rose when the airlock door swung open to show the corvette's commander; of course, the crew was only six people, but she'd expected a junior officer.

  * * *

  Commander Chang-Yarimizu stared, nonplused, at Captain Simeon, who stood with her arms outstretched to block his entrance to her hold.

  "This device is perfectly safe," he insisted. "Stories of its destructiveness are mere superstitious nonsense."

  "Nevertheless," she insisted, "I've got a hold full of extremely delicate electronics. I can't afford to take the risk. I'm within my rights Commander, and you know it. I'm not denying you the right of inspection, I'm merely refusing to let you use that instrument."

  "But if we do the inspection by hand, Captain, it could take all day, or longer!"

  "I'd rather arrive late with a clean cargo than on time with a hold full of trash. This is a freighter, not a garbage scow dumping radioactives! If it takes time, it takes time. I've got nothing to hide, so we'll go through the whole shipment, one item at a time. But I'll tell you this, Commander," Joat waved a stiff forefinger under his nose, "I'm going to protest this! Nothing in my record or reputation could give you reason for this. Nothing!"

  "You're going to Rohan, ma'am . . ."

  "Captain!"

  "Captain. After a conference with a woman who has a reputation a lot less pristine than yours. You're known to have a crushing debt to New Destinies. All in all, it's really not unreasonable to assume that you might have been tempted off the straight and narrow."

  "Well, Commander," Joat said, crossing her arms over her chest, "put down that gadget and we'll go discover the truth about that. Shall we?"

  * * *

  Several hours later, Joat and the two luckless sailors assigned to inspect her cargo had finished examining the electronics, now twice reopened and sealed, and were beginning on the laser crystals.

  "Lasers?" the Commander said.

  "Mining laser crystals. As you'll note, they aren't milspec."

  If I have trouble selling those electronics, can I make a claim against customs for making me open up the containers? Joat wondered.

  "My fingers hurt," one sailor complained.

  "Yeah," Joat agreed, "my cuticles are beginning to peel back." She sighed. "I'm really sorry to put you through this, guys. But what could I do? I don't care what he says about that instrument, too many people have warned me against it."

  "I don't think it really causes problems, ma'am. But I can see where you wouldn't want to take a chance," the other sailor said.

  They'd gone through several hundred boxes and were beginning to close in on the hidden cache of crown rubies.

  Fardles! she thought, Doesn't that nardy Commander have anything better to do? We've been at this for hours! Surely someone, somewhere is committing a vicious crime that these guys should be trying to stop!

  She reached out an
d grabbed a box that she knew contained one of the doctored Crown rubies. She could feel the difference in weight. The two sailors reached for two more ruby filled boxes. Her heart began to pound as she readied the lie she'd been preparing.

  "What the hell is this?" one of the men asked.

  "It's slag," Joat told him taking it out of his hand. "It's what's left over when they've cut the crystals from the matrix they're grown from." Please, she thought, be ignorant about laser crystals. Be dumb, please!

  "Here's another one," said his companion.

  Joat opened her box and dumped out the disguised ruby.

  "Fardles! I'll bet the rest of the shipment is like this! I should have known better! There's no such thing as a bargain, just deals you regret. I bet I end up paying top dollar for every good crystal I've got." She slammed the ruby back into the box in disgust and tossed the box contemptuously over her shoulder.

  "Pereira, Benavides, heads up! We're moving out."

  The two sailors put down their boxes with sighs of relief and rose. Stretching to get the kinks out, they smiled at Joat.

  "Sorry about the mess," one said.

  "Don't worry about it," Joat told them, grinning. "Perils of passage," she assured them.

  She rose too and escorted them to the lock that connected her ship to theirs.

  The Commander was there and he and Joat gave each other a fish-eyed stare.

  "Sorry for the inconvenience," he said stiffly.

  "Not at all," she said, smiling. The hatch clanged shut. "You meddling, officious twit!" she added with a snarl, kicking the hatch-cover.

  Joseph and Alvec had stayed carefully on the bridge, on the general principle that absent faces generated no awkward questions. Joseph handed her one of the glasses of Arrack he held and Joat took it solemnly. The three of them clicked glasses and drank.

  Joat smacked her lips. "I never thought I'd live to say this, but I needed that."

  "We better clean up this mess," Alvec said, "and get underway before we attract any more attention."

  "Attention," Joseph mused. "True, I am from a backward planet, but still . . . in my trade—" he made a gesture of apology "—which for the moment is yours, Joat . . . drawing attention to oneself is not a good thing."