Trouble Magnet

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Just so everybody understands what happened,” Chaloni murmured, mollified if not exactly relieved. Putting an arm around Subar, he drew the younger boy to him as the gang turned to head back the way they had come. “Glad you remember how things really were.” By Chaloni’s standards, the remark almost qualified as a compliment. “Everybody’s gonna have to work together to bring off what I’ve worked out.”

  Subar was instantly on guard. Chaloni’s previous venture had not gone exactly according to plan. Dirran and Sallow Behdul, he knew, would comply without question with whatever their leader told them to do. Only Missi looked as apprehensive as Subar felt. Of course, she had her injured foot to remind her of Chaloni’s imperfection. As for Zezula, she was languorously indifferent. Watching her, there were times when Subar felt that she did not particularly care if she, or anyone else in her company, lived or died. Neither the future nor the past mattered to Zezu: only the moment was important. It made him think.

  Was it possible his feverish desire for her was misplaced? Might there be a more worthy subject for his devotion? Try as he might, he couldn’t think of anyone. With Zezula standing there right in front of him, it was hard to consider anyone else. For better or worse she dominated his immediate horizon as thoroughly as the light from Visaria’s star did its often hazy atmosphere. Still, her lack of interest in the world around her troubled him.

  It struck him suddenly that he had never seen or heard Zezula make a decision of her own. She was brave enough, and forthright, and competent at certain things, but it was always Chaloni who decided what needed to be done. Yet she was far from weak, and when she chose to focus it, her personality could be overpowering. How then to explain the apparent contradiction?

  Was it just possible, he decided, that the object of his affections was not very smart?

  Chaloni’s voice rose as he slid his arm away from the younger boy’s shoulders. “Sal! Take that stupid bead out of your ear!” He thrust an obscene gesture toward the largest member of the gang. “How can you hear what I’m saying?”

  Behdul looked bemused, then nodded once and complied, removing the induction player from his ear. Subar fought not to smile. At least where the much bigger youth was concerned, intelligence was no mystery. Behdul could, however, snap Subar in half without breaking a sweat, so the younger boy was careful to keep on the giant’s good side. Sadly, Behdul worshipped the gang leader.

  It was Dirran who prompted Chaloni. “What you got in mind, Chal?”

  “No more bugs.” Putting an arm around her boyfriend’s waist, Missi stared half defiantly at their leader.

  Chaloni chose to make light of it. “Tcnaw, no more bugs, I promise. Look, we only went after the bugs because we need cred, right?” Without allowing time for rebuttal, he raced onward. “So that didn’t go quite like we hoped. Afterward I got to thinking. If we’re going to boost some cred, why risk ourselves again and again for down decimals? I mean, if we’re going to put ourselves in vacuum, what’s the point unless we position ourselves to suck up some serious screed?”

  Warning bells were going off in Subar’s head. Chaloni was leading up to something major. That implied major danger. But there was no way Subar could vent. Aside from the risk of being labeled coward, he had committed too much of himself to this group. Venting prior to peril was not a choice they would appreciate. If nothing else, he had to at least stay and listen.

  “You get cred off the street one of two ways.” Chaloni kept talking as they walked up the avenue. There was no need to avoid other pedestrians. Seeing the ranked gang coming toward them, mundane citizens did the necessary circumventing. “You boost tech, which none of us here has the skills for, or you steal something worthwhile that you know somebody else will buy.”

  Clearly in an unusually defiant mode, Missi spoke up again. “We don’t have the aptitude to boost resalable real property from actual stores any more than we do to scrim tech from the Visaria Shell.”

  “Yeah,” an emboldened Dirran added. “Suppose we were to actually zlip a shop someplace like the Kilandria Complex, up in Hendren District? If Complex Security didn’t get us, we’d move right up to the top of the city police alert.” He looked away. “Me, I prefer hanging around the bottom and avoiding notice.”

  “We’ve already moved up from the bottom, thanks to the shot we took at those two bugs.” Chaloni did not hesitate to point out the uncomfortable fact. “But not that far up. Not dangerously far.” Striding along in the middle of his small group, he lowered his voice slightly. “Suppose, though, we could scrim a place crammed with really valuable solids. Stuff that could easily and quickly be sold all over the planet. Scrimzees the buyers wouldn’t howl about, and that the original owners wouldn’t report to the police as having been boosted?” His tone was exuberant, though others might have called it maniacal.

  Without a doubt, he was pleased at the reactions his words elicited in his companions. These ranged from utter bafflement from Sallow Behdul to suspicious expectation on the part of Dirran and Missi. Even Zezula was prodded out of her apathy by his challenge. As for Subar, he did his best to project a dutiful front. Inside, he was churning. What was Chaloni getting them into now?

  “I don’t see it,” Missi finally said. “Any merchant whose goods are scrimmed is going to wail to the police.”

  Chaloni nodded slowly, in full agreement with her observation if not her conclusion. “Usually—unless the goods are illegal, their sale is illegal, and the whole operation is less legit than tomorrow’s weathercast.”

  Subar wasn’t suspicious anymore. He was frightened. So frightened he forgot to keep his mouth closed. “Chal, are you talking about scrimming malware?”

  The gang leader smiled at him. “I’ve been scoping this for months, during the day. Didn’t want to spill it unless I was sure we could make it work.” His tone grew intense, the way it did when he was outgrabed on stim. “Any of you ever hear of Goalaa Endeavors?” He waited, allowing each of them enough time to confess their ignorance. “Cansure you haven’t. It’s out in Tethe.”

  “Where the main shuttleport is,” Dirran pointed out unnecessarily.

  Chaloni nodded. “Also Tethe Industrial District. Hundreds of warehouses, storage complexes, shipping and transit facilities. One of which is home to Goalaa Endeavors. Heard about it from—well, you don’t need to know. Goalaa brings in offworld goods that aren’t manufactured here yet. Specialized appliances, some integrated heavy building customization units, that sort of thing.” His eyes were bright. “They also bring in offworld furniture. Not unusual for a fast-growing colony world like Visaria that still can’t produce everything it needs or wants. Except that mixed in with the usual everyday, run-of-the-mill, mass-manufactured stuff are antiques. Real antiques. Including some from Earth itself.”

  Not being especially conversant with the details of interstellar commerce except as it might relate directly to them personally—in the matter of the latest bead loads, for example—bewilderment continued to dominate the expressions of the other gang members. The mere mention of the human homeworld, however, was enough to intrigue them.

  “Export from Earth of anything over five hundred years old is strictly edicted by the Commonwealth,” Chaloni finally deigned to explain. “Such objects are considered part of humankind history. Only museums and recognized educational facilities are allowed to take them offEarth, and for that they have to apply for and be granted a special Terran export license.”

  Now Missi was impressed. “You’ve been doing some research, Chal.”

  He snorted. “You think when I’m not looking out for you flies I spend all my time sleeping and stimming? Real Terran antiques can’t be faked. The materials used can be traced right back to their tree, ore, or synthesis of origin. Who wouldn’t want to own a piece of the homeworld? Boosting and reselling them throughout the Commonwealth is serious business. Me, I was surprised there was an outfit way out here on Visaria with enough tech and testos to bring it off.” His energy an
d enthusiasm were becoming infectious.

  “Wait a minute.” As Subar had learned very early on in his active, difficult life, anything that sounded too good to be true usually was. “This Goalaa Endeavors that’s bringing in Terran antiques: whose place is it? Who’s running the operation?”

  “Tfell, I don’t know—and I don’t care.” Chaloni’s bravado was blatant. Or suicidal, Subar was thinking. “Don’t you crawlers see? It’s the perfect scrim! We boost a transport, change the ident. For one night, it’s no big tech. I’ve been scoping the building for a long time. Dirran and I can neut the automatics. If there’s a liv inside, we neut him, too. I’ve been reading up on what slipslides offEarth. We fill the transport with the real history, unload at our place, lose the lift, and then laze awhile. Then we use an intermede to make the necessary contacts for us and we sky our wares out piece by piece.” His smile was broad. “More cred at one time than we’ve had in our whole lives! And the best part of it is that Goalaa can’t say spiss to the police or anyone else, or they get their operation scanned and probed.”

  “Okay,” Missi conceded. “So maybe the police aren’t alerted. These Goalaa people, whoever they are, aren’t going to be real happy about being scrimmed. They’re going to want their goods back. They’re going to want us.”

  Chaloni shrugged it off. “How active can they be looking for us without drawing attention to themselves? And who knows Malandere better than we do? These people are out at Tethe, not down here in the guts like we are. Missi, you grew up here. Dirran, Sal, Zezu, Subar—all of you did the same. It’s not like we’re a formal organization. Just a bunch of friendlies who vent together once in a while.” He was almost laughing aloud. “They won’t be looking for a bunch of kids. They’ll think it’s another seriosity like themselves, or maybe some flipped police, or some group working with port authority. Not only won’t they find us, they won’t even be looking for us.”

  “History from Earth.” Dirran was transposing aloud. “I’d almost be worth the spine just to hold a piece of that.”

  “Yeah,” Chaloni quipped. “Hold it for a month or so, and then screed it.”

  Dirran exchanged a glance with his girlfriend, then looked back at their leader and nodded once. “We’re in.”

  “’Course you are.” To Chaloni, clearly, their participation was never in question. “Sal?” The giant likewise nodded. Without bothering to ask the beautiful slackness that was Zezula, Chaloni turned to Subar. “Kid?”

  Used to the snub, Subar let it pass. “Sure thing, Chal. Sounds like a stim deal.” Privately, he was increasingly nervous. It all sounded too easy, too pat, too straightforward. Too good.

  But maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was worrying needlessly. He had never heard Chaloni spell out a boost in such detail. No question but that the older youth had put an enormous amount of thought into the proposed scrim.

  The only problem, Subar knew, was that the brain that had done all the thinking belonged to Chaloni Taher-a-zind who, while slick and sharp and clever in his own street-surviving way, was no summa cum laude graduate of the wider School of Life.

  CHAPTER

  8

  They could have been ready to go within a day, but to his credit Chaloni was taking no chances. For one thing, certain special appurtenances had to be acquired and prepared. Furthermore, all such acquisitions had to be made in Cormandeer, Visaria’s second-largest city. It wouldn’t do, Chaloni explained, to buy anything locally because that would make their purchases too easy to trace. Passing themselves off as a married couple, he and Zezula undertook the journey. They made the buys via crypted electronic transfer from independent sources so that there was no face-to-face, and, when they were ready, brought them back.

  That was when the real preparations and rehearsal began. Though Chaloni was upbeat throughout, particularizing instructions and assigning individual tasks, the strain eventually began to show. Not because he was having second thoughts as to the nature of the plan or its chances of success, but because with each passing hour the likelihood of someone getting cold feet and backing out grew in proportion to their competence.

  Four days later, everything was in place and ready to go. With final preparations complete Chaloni went over each individual’s tasks, assuring him of his confidence in them, and reminding them of what was at stake.

  “More cred than you’ve seen in your whole life,” he was telling Subar. “More cred, maybe, than you’ll need for a long time. Than any of us will need.” Reaching out, he put a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder and squeezed firmly. “I know you can do your part. You’re the youngest, but you’re as smart as any of us, and just as tough.”

  Whether it was a bold-faced tall tale or not, it had the intended effect. Subar was juiced. The adren was flowing in all of them to the point that successful completion of the scheme had become its own reward and making off with the goods almost secondary.

  The building that housed Goalaa Endeavors was one among dozens of similar nondescript storage facilities that occupied block after industrial block on the outskirts of Malandere’s vast shuttleport. At two in the morning, the locale was devoid of commercial traffic. Diurnal haze had morphed into the nocturnal fog that drifted in nightly off the nearby sea. There were no moons out, both of them having sunk hours ago below the murk-laden horizon. For what Chaloni and his friends had in mind, it was a night made to order.

  Alone, Subar approached the west side of the building. He did not mind being alone because he usually was, and according to Chaloni’s plan so was nearly everyone else. His situation was no more sanguine than that of Sallow Behdul, or Zezula, or Chaloni himself. That did not mean uneasiness was absent. But there was nothing for it but to head in when his chrono told him it was time to move. The consequences of abandoning his companions now, at this critical juncture, would be as dire as anything that could happen to him inside the building.

  Assuming he could get inside.

  It was dead quiet on the service street that separated the Goalaa warehouse from the storage facility opposite. There were no transports in the corridors, no skimmers plying the air routes overhead. They had the lateness of the hour to thank for that. Clad in the negsuit Chaloni had purchased for him, Subar hurried across the street to the truck-sized plastic container positioned up against the wall of the building. While all commercial refuse was properly incinerated and compacted on site, the resultant powdery material still had some recyclable value. Whenever it had filled to a certain prespecified level, the storage bin would notify its contracted automated pickup vehicle that the time had come for emptying.

  Reaching the bright orange container, he nearly jumped out of his snug-fitting new neg when a pair of xuelms went whirling past. Mottled gray to blend in with the night, the nocturnal carnivores came rolling and bouncing down the street, their several dozen finger-length feelers fully extended, their eyes tightly shut against contact with the pavement. If a feeler contacted something warm and alive, the xuelms would instantly uncoil from their spherical form to envelop and devour it. By trolling parallel to each another, they could cover more of the street than by hunting individually.

  Out on the plains of Visaria it was not uncommon to encounter packs of a dozen or more, rolling swiftly onward, sweeping a chosen stretch of veldt in a long, straight line. Keeping mostly to its less developed, less populated outskirts, some had moved into and thrived within the city, tolerated or ignored by its population. Unable to assemble in full packs, which drew serious attention from the authorities, a couple of hunting xuelms were no danger to anyone over the age of ten. Each about a third of a meter in diameter, this pair was no threat to Subar. Though they had startled him, they angled to their left to keep well away from the young human, who was more of a danger to them than they were to him.

  Angry for allowing himself to be surprised by lowly xuelms, Subar turned back to the smooth-faced catchment and began to climb, using the activated suction pads attached to his hands and knees. As long as the
ir storage power lasted, he could ascend a wall of vertical glass. The plastic body of the container provided a much firmer purchase. He went right up and over without being observed.

  Safely on top, he withdrew the special mask from his small waist pack and slipped it over his nose and mouth. Goggles protected his eyes. Contact with the compacted refuse was unlikely to be harmful, but breathing in fine particles that might contain all manner of powdered toxic metals and other poisonous elements was not advisable. The check port was sealed, but breaking and entering were among the most basic survival techniques that he and his friends had mastered. A few practiced applications of several appropriate tools, and he was in.

  He dropped knee-deep into fine, grayish white powder. It puffed up like talc around him, but his mask and goggles prevented it from entering his body. A quick search located the dump chute that fed the refuse container. Switching on his goggles, he entered the pitch-black conduit and started crawling.

  It ascended at a steep angle that presented no problem for his suction grips. A check of the chrono showed that he was well ahead of schedule. The chute executed a few gradual twists and turns—nothing he couldn’t negotiate—before light became visible at the terminus. The sight was a relief. Though Chaloni had assured him that his prep work had shown that reduction operations at the facility took place only during the day, the thought of being confronted by a suddenly activated incinerator at the end of the crawl was one Subar had not been able to push out of his mind.

  He emerged into a well-lit holding area near the rear of the building. Used packaging and other detritus was stacked on all sides of the reducer bed. Climbing out of it, he removed his mask and goggles, took a couple of deep breaths, and headed for the center of the structure. That was where any manual override for the building’s various alarm systems would be located.