Trouble Magnet

by Alan Dean Foster

  If that was the intent, it had failed miserably. Did whoever was behind the break-in attempt think the owners of Goalaa were ignorant of modern theft techniques, and unprepared for such? A little judicious questioning of one or more of the three captives would reveal who was behind the futile, failed effort. Unless, of course, the trio had been thoughtfully mindwiped of that bit of incriminating knowledge before being sent on their way. Given what he had seen thus far, Boujon was not willing to credit the perpetrators with even that much critical foresight.

  Still, one never knew unless one asked. Harani and possibly even Joh might be looking forward to the necessary inquisition, but the security director was not. Harsh questioning was ofttimes unpleasant and sometimes messy work, it was nearing the end of his shift, and given the peculiarities of this night he was more than ready to go home and flop into bed.

  With all the activity in the building focused on security central, the rear of the cavernous structure was dark and quiet. That suited Chaloni just fine. As he descended the emergency ladder and tiptoed along the floor toward his destination, the night-vision lenses he wore allowed him to see in the dim and shadowy light as clearly as if it were noon. Impressively impregnated and specially woven, the chameleon suit that covered him from head to toe was fabricated not only to blend in with the color of its immediate surroundings but to bend any type of sensing radiation around its wearer.

  Like the structures that surrounded it, the warehouse was hooked into the municipal power grid. On this moonless, cloudy night, turning off the electrical supply to the building should plunge it into immediate darkness. That, however, would be both too easy and too obvious. To properly render the structure’s watchmen blind and ignorant, the same negation needed to be applied to the inevitable individually powered emergency backups.

  Both necessary feats were to be accomplished by the special device he carried in the backpack he wore beneath the chameleon suit. Plugged into the building’s power panel, it would not only disrupt the main supply to the structure but also send out enough homing radiation to quietly fry every electrical connection within. That in itself would, of course, alert any guards to the fact that something was amiss, but by the time they localized the trouble, he should be in and out with an armful of goods.

  He needed to move fast and choose wisely. Though the distinctive gear and clothing he and his companions were utilizing was only rented, he had still been forced to borrow against earnings in order to pay the fee. As to the others, ways and means of springing them from the clutches of the building’s supervisors were already in place. He grinned to himself. Backup, he had learned early on in his life on the streets of Malandere, was always the first part of a job to be worked out, not the last.

  He was sure they had, all three of them, already been picked up. That was the intention all along. Send in the troops one at a time, each utilizing a different approach, to keep the building’s operators preoccupied both physically and mentally. Now it was his turn. Through the night lenses he could see the power panel directly ahead, attached to the far wall behind a protective metal grid. A sensor built into the lenses indicated that the grid was not charged. Locked, yes, but that would delay him only until he could get at the tools in his backpack.

  He had removed the necessary pair of small, efficient devices and set to work when a cool voice called to him from behind.

  “All right, that’s enough. Lie down on the floor, legs spread, hands out in front of you and over your head.” A pause, then, “I can’t see you perfectly yet, so I’d just have to spray the whole area to be sure of hitting you, and I don’t want to have my pay docked for damage to walls.” He started to look behind him. The voice sounded again, more sharply this time. “Don’t turn around! I’d as soon shoot you as talk. Maybe rather.”

  Taking a deep breath, Chaloni did as he had been directed, dropping prone to his belly and spreading his limbs. A hand was on him almost immediately, checking for weapons. Finding none, the strong fingers pulled off his night lenses and tugged back the hood of the chameleon suit to reveal his face.

  “Stand up,” she told him. He complied. The woman facing him and cradling the stubby, widemouthed weapon in both arms was short and squat. She wore her hair cut short beneath a service cap, and her duty blouse was bedecked with tubes and instrumentation. Her eyes were a fashionable, and startlingly bright, orange. She eyed him up and down.

  “Same as the others, maybe a little older. Turn around.” Offering no resistance, he stood calmly while she placed wrist restraints on him. He could feel the slight burst of heat as the synthetic protein bonds melted into place. “Okay,” she told him, “let’s go.”

  As they marched off in the direction of building security, he couldn’t keep from inquiring, “How did you spot me? I should have been completely blanked.”

  “You were,” she assured him. “No tracking echo, no viz, no heat signature, nothing.” Though he couldn’t see her fiddling with the relevant instrument, he did not need to. “Carbon dioxide emission. Moving fast, you were exhaling enough to fog the sensor screen, even at a distance. D’you think the people who run this place are scrawn-spawn? Even the portable I’m using is sensitive enough to pick up the breath of intruding mice.”

  Intriguing, he mused. He hadn’t thought of that one; nor had the people from whom he had rented all the infiltration gear mentioned the possibility. Life was a series of learned experiences, he told himself.

  Taking his calm for resignation, his captor allowed herself to relax slightly. “I don’t figure this. None of us do, including Mr. Boujon. I mean, what were you kids thinking, trying to break in here? If you have any idea what’s sometimes stored in this facility, didn’t you think it would be properly looked after? Do you have an idea who really owns and runs this operation?”

  “No,” Chaloni told her honestly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Not my place to opt,” she replied brusquely. “How much you get to know is up to Mr. Boujon.” He could not see her grin, but he could sense it in her tone. “That, and what happens to you and your friends. Me, I hope he leaves the close-in work up to the hourly help. Nothing to do night after night, it gets real boring around here. Maybe I ought to thank you for the distraction. Harani and I, we get real lethargic sometimes.”

  “Glad to be of help,” Chaloni told her.

  Something hard and unyielding jabbed him solidly in the back, causing him to stumble slightly forward. The grin, both physical and verbal, had vanished. “You think this is funny, you little street scrug? You making fun of me? Wait till Harani’s let loose on you. The big guy, he’s got hands like a doctor. A mad one.” The smile returned, more than a little twisted this time. “And I get to play his favorite nurse.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  “Tnay, Chal.”

  Zezula was the first to espy the latest arriving captive. Following her cheery greeting, Subar and then Sallow Behdul added their own. The hood of his suit still pulled down off his head, Chaloni acknowledged each of them in turn.

  Closely monitoring the youthful interaction, Boujon was more perplexed than ever. None of what had happened made any sense. If the four young intruders had any sense, they should all be cowering and sniveling in fear, terrified of what might lie in store for them. And with good reason, since Boujon had several unpleasant things in mind. His employers granted him considerable leeway in such matters, and he had no intention of simply turning over the unsuccessful thieves to his superiors—or summarily disposing of them. Not without first discovering their hopes, notions, and specific intentions. His curiosity needed to be satisfied.

  It had occurred to him that their presence might be a diversion, intended to draw his attention and that of his staff away from some larger, more elaborate and sophisticated assault from outside. But the storage complex had been on full alert all night, as always, and there was no sign of any additional unauthorized movement either inside the main structure or in the buffer zone immediately wit
hout.

  To look at them, he thought bemusedly, one would think this was nothing more than an evening’s entertainment. Not a one, not even the youngest boy, showed the least concern for his or her important body parts, not to mention life. This indifference convinced Boujon he was overlooking something. It upset him. He prided himself not only on maintaining tight security on behalf of the complex’s operators, but also on knowing the details of every attempt at penetration. It was a matter of professional pride. Stepping forward, he determined to find out what he was missing. That he would do so, sooner and simply or later and more messily, he had not the slightest doubt.

  “You know,” he began casually, “I could just have you all shot, right here and now, and the police would sign off on it without even having to be bribed. Breaking and entering repulsed by force. Filling out the relevant form would take less than five minutes.” Boujon focused his attention on the youth who appeared to be the leader of the group. “What have you to say to that?”

  Chaloni nodded by way of agreement. “That’d be real efficient of you—but unnecessary. Also counterproductive. We can’t put together our report if we’re dead.”

  “Report?” Boujon frowned. “What ‘report’?”

  Harani was tentative as he gestured at Subar. “The small one there, he kept talking to me about some kind of ‘credit.’”

  Instead of obtaining answers, Boujon was growing more confused. “What is all this?” He glared warningly at Chaloni. “I don’t like games. I don’t like being played for a fool.”

  Chaloni raised both hands and chuckled. Forced amusement, or genuine? the security chief found himself wondering. What was he overlooking?

  “Take it easy,” the strapping youth advised him. “Everything will be made clear.” He adjusted his stance, paying no attention to the weapons that were trained on him. “This has all been a test. Of building security. Of your competence and”—he glanced behind him at the trio of skeptical guards—“that of your staff. To see if this complex could be compromised by intruders you wouldn’t expect. I’m happy to say that, at least as far as I’m concerned, you’ve passed with flying colors.”

  The woman who had brought him in gestured with her free hand as she addressed her boss. “What a load! Give the kid credit for nerve, though.”

  An unruffled Chaloni looked back at her. “Think about it. What team of scrimmers would try a serious boost like this without a single gun?”

  Her reaction showed that she had not considered this obvious fact. It was the same with Harani, though the expression on the face of the guard Joh remained hidden behind his protective face shield.

  The security chief’s increasing anger gave way, at least temporarily, to indecision. “You found no weapons on any of them? Nothing?”

  Harani shook his head. “Not so much as a pulsepopper, Mr. Boujon, sir.” He glanced over at his two associates, who indicated agreement.

  That was, if nothing else, passing strange, Boujon decided. It was hardly conclusive proof of the smirking youth’s outrageous claim, but if true it would go a long way toward explaining his coolness and that of his companions. Such a thing was not unheard of, nor unprecedented, but it still struck him as a desperate attempt to turn a potentially deadly situation upside down. One way to find out the truth was to simply shoot them one at a time until those left alive finally cracked.

  Unless he was all wrong about this, and they were telling the truth. Then he would be the one left facing Shaeb holding his future in his hands.

  Do like the kid recommended, he told himself. Take it easy. No need to rush things. The truth, whatever it was, could be drawn out.

  “Why would anyone wanting to run a check on building security send a bunch of kids to test its efficiency?”

  Chaloni had anticipated the question. “It was thought it might lower your suspicions if any of us were spotted outside, and that we might be able to get in close more easily for just that reason: because you wouldn’t be as threatened by a bunch of ‘kids.’ Incidentally, we were all specially trained for this job.”

  Looking on while listening intently and fighting to keep his breathing steady and even, Subar worried that the older youth might be overdoing things. But the security chief didn’t challenge him on the claim. Leastwise, not yet.

  Rubbing his chin, Boujon eyed the gang leader shrewdly. “Uh-huh. Then tell me this. If you’re here to test security—why haven’t I heard anything about it?”

  Subar tensed, but once again the wily Chaloni had prepared for the query. “Wouldn’t be much of a test of security,” he murmured with a diffident shrug, “if the system and managers responsible for maintaining it were warned of the forthcoming test in advance.”

  Boujon said nothing. Then he gestured at the woman and the one called Joh. “You two: I want you to act as if you haven’t heard a word this scrug has said. As far as you’re concerned, they’re all low-grade thieves. If they move funny, look funny, talk funny, take their legs out.” He then nodded at Harani, who followed his supervisor to a far corner of the office.

  “What do you think about this, Quevar?” Boujon whispered. “Bunch of crola?”

  “With froth on top,” the big man agreed. “But what if it’s true? Could be a bonus in it for all of us.”

  “Bonus or a bullet.” The security chief let out a snort. “Only one way to know for sure. Check with Mr. Shaeb.”

  “Sure.” Harani nodded eagerly. “Why didn’t we think of that before?”

  Boujon made a face. “I thought of it as soon as the kid with the sly mouth made his preposterous claim. There’s only one problem.” He indicated his wrist communit. “It’s still three hours to sunrise. You know Mr. Shaeb. If I wake him out of a sound sleep now, it won’t matter whether these kids are thieves or testers. He’ll have all of us mindwiped or worse just to make a point.”

  Mention of their superior’s sometimes toxic habits was enough to make Harani swallow hard. “Then what do we do, Mr. Boujon, sir?”

  The security chief grunted. “We wait. Until sunup. If nothing else, Noritski’s day crew will be coming on and we can turn the watch over to them while we proceed.” He glanced in the direction of the four captives. None betrayed the least indication of unease as they waited for the two men to conclude their private conversation. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep questioning them. Maybe they’ll slip up and let something out. They’re secured, so they can’t hurt anything or get away.” He smiled softly at his subordinate. “Better to be safe than sorry—especially where Shaeb is concerned.”

  The two men rejoined the rest of the assemblage. Hirani resumed his watchful stance behind the youthful quartet while Boujon once more confronted them. “My associate and I have decided to let you live.”

  “Good call,” the unfazed Chaloni replied approvingly.

  “For a little while,” Boujon finished. “Until I can check out your story you’ll stay here.” A thin, humorless smile creased his broad visage. “Bound and determined, I suppose.”

  “Really, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” Despite his age, Chaloni sounded very reassuring. “You’ve all done a great job, and it’s going to reflect well on you.”

  “We’ll see,” Chaloni responded. “We’ll know everything we need to know within a few hours. If you’re telling the truth, I’ll be first in line to apologize. If you’re full of…” He broke off, blinking and swaying slightly. “That’s funny.” Leaning forward slightly, he tried to focus on his subordinates. “You don’t look so good, Harani.”

  The burly guard was swallowing repeatedly, as if he had just ingested something that didn’t agree with him. “Don’t feel so good, either, Mr. Boujon, sir.”

  “In fact,” the security chief went on, “none of you looks right.” Feeling suddenly unsteady himself, he turned sharply to confront the leader of the young pack of infiltrators. “You’d better tell me, right now, if anything is…” He failed to finish the sentence. Hands secured behind his back, Chaloni was equally shaky on
his feet. He looked distant as well as dazed.

  “Don’t…don’t know what you’re talking about, tvan. Does feel kind of hot in here, though.”

  “Hey,” Zezula piped up, “I think I can smell my own blood.” She looked around at her companions. “Anybody else got something wiro or viro up their nose?” With that, she promptly sat down where she had been standing. Ignoring the muffled orders of the guard Joh, she closed her eyes, rolled over onto her side, and was almost instantly asleep. Next to her, Subar gave up trying to keep his eyes open and his attention focused, and he joined her in sprawling out on the floor.

  “Get up!” Simultaneously angry and afraid, Harani gestured with his gun. When neither threat had any effect, he kicked the now dozing Chaloni in the ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, but forcefully enough so that the blow could not be ignored by anyone attempting to feign unconsciousness. The hitherto talkative youth didn’t respond.

  Thoroughly disoriented now, Boujon stumbled toward the one interloper who had not said a word since being hauled into the room. Though misting over, the security chief’s gaze was still focused enough to repeatedly take the measure of the biggest youth. Approaching Sallow Behdul, he scowled.

  “Say, weren’t you…weren’t you taller when I brought you in?” Frowning, Boujon’s gaze dropped again, this time to the boy’s feet. No, not to his feet. To his shoes. The soles, the thick soles—they were almost gone as they seemed to be evaporating before the security chief’s eyes. These shut before they could widen, and Boujon toppled over onto the floor.

  Only the guard Joh realized what was happening. Seeing coworkers and captives alike collapsing to the ground, he turned and staggered in the direction of a rear cabinet. Wrenching the doors open, he reached in and began fumbling for one of the transparent masks that lay on a top shelf. His other hand he kept pressed to the center of his face, which almost seemed to collapse under the pressure. Realization had come too late, however, even for the most resistant of the security team. Instead of sitting down, the guard settled onto his haunches. Only then did his head fall forward, indicating that he had gone as insensible as his companions.