Much of it was completely beyond local theory; and there were gaps in the CAD data, elements that were being hand-fabricated by Singh and Mueller down in the Bahamas.
Haven't these people ever heard of the concept "Do as you're told?" she thought. The contractor went on:
"I don't have the slightest idea what it is. And you'll need a pretty heavy set of capacitors to energize magnets like that."
She smiled without looking around at him. "Just put it together exactly as specified," she said. "It's . . . experimental equipment. We're planning to surprise the competition."
The man's jacket rustled as he shrugged. "It's your money. What I can't do is build it in the time-frame you're asking for."
The man took a half pace backward as Gwen's head rotated around to look him full in the eyes. She controlled herself with an effort, and he relaxed slightly, swallowing.
"Those were your own estimates," she said softly. "Why, exactly, are you changing your mind?"
"Look, ma'am, I'm only the prime contractor here. If subcontractors are willing to pay the penalty clause rather than deliver components to me, I can't send out a goon squad to take the stuff."
Gwen felt her hair rise and bristle, her ears lay themselves back. She forced down the reaction. Who else would be ordering rare-earth alloys in this quantity?
"Why are they willing to do that?" she asked, her voice still a deadly monotone.
"Because somebody else is bidding for 'em. Paying so much above market that it's worthwhile to forfeit. And those components are the bottleneck for the whole . . . whatever it is."
"Exactly," Gwen said dryly. "Well, let my people have the data on the defaulters, and I'll see what can be done. In the meantime, press ahead with the things you can do. That's all."
He nodded jerkily. "We'll knock off for the day, then."
Gwen stood, with her feet spread and her hands holding her elbows behind her back. "Dolores will see you out."
"The Samothracian?" Tom asked, when the door closed behind the outsider.
"Possibly. Possibly through a local agent. It's ingenious, in its way; but it smells local. Only the Samothracian could have identified the critical elements, of course, and we'll have to check everything that comes in with redoubled care."
She frowned. "I'm really going to have to have a talk with that man. This is becoming annoying."
Alice cleared her throat: "Another health inspector's notice," she said. The bureaucratic paperwork for having so many of the staff living on-site had turned out to be formidable.
The Draka turned and smiled at her. Lovely scent she has now, she thought. Almost as mellow as a servus's. And a beautiful glow to her skin, as if the being within were shining through the human envelope. She patted the woman on the stomach with a surge of protective affection.
"Somebody's harassing us again," Gwen said, taking the paper from her. "Considering the sweeteners we've spread out, somebody with influence . . . or a great deal of money, or both."
Vulk Dragovic came through the door in time to hear her.
"The enemy?" the security chief said.
"Probably. It's a little subtle for one of them, though." She paused. "Again, he could be acting through local agents. I did leave a bit of a trail when I first came through, and no doubt he could convince some others. We know he's contacted some of the local police, although not how much he's told them." Another pause. "We'll have to look into that. There are certain obvious leads . . . that policeman, for instance. The computers don't show anything, but that's meaningless with a Samothracian involved. Meanwhile, get this paperwork squared away."
"I'll see to it," the Californian said, with a weary sigh. "It'd be easier on the west coast, or back in the Bahamas."
"Yes, but the signaler wouldn't work in either of those places, probably," she said, handing over the form. "Get right on it, Tom. Vulk, have you finished the postings?"
"Yes," the Serb said, jerking a nod. "All approaches covered. There were some difficulties, but the weapons will be within reach, despite the Americans."
Gwen stretched and rose. "Then that's everything for this evening. Go wait for me in the room, Vulk; I'll be having you tonight."
The Serb's darkly aquiline features flushed as he left the room, a combination of hatred and longing. Alice chuckled, with a touch of malice.
"I don't think Vulk likes being the girl," she said with a sly smile.
Gwen stopped for a moment. Then she laughed. "I see what you mean," she said. "Well, he's just lucky it wasn't a male of my species that got dropped through, isn't he?"
She was still laughing and unbuttoning her jacket as she walked through the door.
***
"You're having all that?" Louisa Englestein said.
"Damned right," Jennifer said.
She speared a french fry with her fork and ate it slowly, then took a bite from the pastrami sandwich, savoring the rich flavors. Chez Laurence did have them, if you asked. She hummed a little under her breath.
"Don't tell me," Louisa said. "You got laid."
Jennifer looked at a french fry with an elaborate expression of innocence, then ate it, slowly.
"No. Not the Italian cop?"
"Henry. And he's more than an ethnic identifier and a job, you know. He's a sweet guy. And smart."
Louisa rolled her eyes. "Puh-leez. Sweet? Oi vey gevalt, this is worse than I thought. Think of what your mother would say."
"Don't be sarcastic. He is a sweet guy; not only did he call, but roses, no less, today. Pass the ketchup."
Louisa looked at her. "How long have you been off the diet?" she said.
"A few months—since the Bahamas."
"But you've lost weight, I'd swear."
"Twelve pounds," Jennifer said, and patted her stomach. All from the right places, too. "And for once, it wasn't a 'tits go to China, tummy stays' loss, either."
"My god, how did you manage that?"
"My secret," she said, and nibbled on a pickle. "I've been working out more." She had, too—somehow she felt more energetic. "Maybe that's what I needed, fuel."
"So, how did the Bahamas turn out? You had a bad feeling about it."
"Strange, Really strange. Like a visit out of the world, somehow. But the money's there. This is going to be big, Louisa."
The pastries came, several of them. Louisa watched incredulously as Jennifer bit into one.
"What was the mysterious Ms. Ingolfsson like?"
"Even stranger. Really forceful personality, and die-you-bitch-die gorgeous. In a very odd way . . . sort of like the most dangerous jock elf you ever saw."
"Oh, come on now, Jenny—in Danielle Steel, maybe, you get gorgeous seductresses starting wildly successful companies and making a mint before they're forty. Even in the romances they're mainly in cosmetics."
Jennifer shrugged. If you only knew how seductive. There were some things, however, that you didn't tell even your best friends.
"Every once in a while, truth has to be stranger than fiction," she said.
***
"Welcome to the Fortress of Solitude," Henry Carmaggio muttered under his breath.
The reception room was empty except for standard office furniture, a stack of used magazines and one of the new voice-recognition computer receptionists. Henry hated them; it was like talking to an answering machine . . . although come to think of it, Lafarge probably had one that could do literary criticism, or even something really difficult like ordering Chinese and making sure the restaurant understood not to add MSG.
"Fortress of Solitude?"
The voice came out of the air. Carmaggio hid a start.
"Local reference," the detective said.
He went through the door behind the desk of the non-existent receptionist and through a corridor flanked by storerooms. Up a flight of iron stairs, and then past a plain bedroom and another, larger space fitted out as a gym. The workroom occupied most of the rear of the building, full of tables and conduits and enigmatic s
hapes on overhead trackways; Lafarge was bending over a mechanical shape held in a clamp. Something almost familiar lay on a cloth spread across a bench nearby.
"It's a plasma gun," Lafarge said, without looking up from the workbench. "I'm making a number of them."
Henry picked up a finished model, keeping his hands well away from the trigger assembly. It was about the length of a short rifle, with a butt-plate at the rear and a short stubby barrel at the front. He swung it up to his shoulder, and a LCD display just in front of his eye came live. A red dot appeared on the wall, moving as his hands pivoted the weapon.
"This'll bring her down?" he asked.
"Quite effectively. There's a range next door, and a target set up."
Henry took the hint. Lafarge's workroom gave him a mild set of the creeps, anyway. Not that he knew much about laboratory equipment, but he could recognize it. A lot of the stuff around him was perfectly ordinary high-tech gear. Among it were . . . differences. Melted-looking apparatus that gave no clue to its function except that things happened. One was about the size of an attache case, with flanged pans on either side. The left-hand pan held an assortment of materials: coins, small ingots, bundles of wire. The pile shifted occasionally, as if bits were disappearing from beneath. Something was forming on the other pan, small and complex and precise.
"It's a faber—a fabricator," Lafarge said, following Henry's eyes. He could do that, somehow, without looking up. "Just a portable model. What I wouldn't give for a full-scale industrial type! As it is, I'm using it for the absolute essentials and relying on local components for the rest. I'll be through here in a minute."
The detective walked through into the long target range. A rack held local weapons, mostly highly illegal; a Barrett .50 sniper rifle, assault weapons, a couple of machine guns, high-capacity handguns. Ammunition was stored below. At the other end of the narrow room was a metal plate, with outlines sketched on it. Human figures, for the most part, and something that looked like a giant baboon with a knife.
He brought the plasma weapon to his shoulder. It balanced remarkably well, easy and precise. That put his eye behind what he'd assumed was an optical sight. Instead it was some sort of video display, very clear. The targets leaped up to within apparent arm's length of him, much more brightly lit than the rather dim background.
"Slick," he muttered. He steadied the red dot on the chest of an outline, and his finger stroked the trigger with remembered gentleness.
CRACK
Henry sprang back with a yell, almost dropping the weapon. The sound was stunning in the confined space, but it was the flash that startled him, like close-range lightning. He swore and shook his head, pawing at his eyes and blinking at the afterimages and tears. The air stank of ozone and hot metal, a dry angry smell.
"Sorry," Lafarge said from behind him. "I forgot you didn't have implanted protectors. Here."
He held out a pair of goggles, each eye covered by a hemisphere of some nonreflective material.
"Golly gee, Batman," Henry growled. If he had any sense of humor, I could resent that remark. But he didn't, so presumably he really had forgotten.
The goggles were simply a pressure on his face, utterly invisible from the inside. Not quite, he decided after an instant. The ambient light level had gone up. He looked over at the target again, squinting . . . and jerked as the point-of-view rushed toward his focus, steadying at about six inches away. A fist-sized hole had been punched in the metal, the edges still glowing a sullen red with the heat. Something paler showed behind.
"What is that stuff?" he asked.
"An absorbent plastic for trapping solid shot, backed by an inch and a half of titanium steel," Lafarge said. "With a ceramic baffle behind that."
Henry's lips shaped a silent whistle as he looked down at the weapon in his hands. "Shit," he said reverently. "Now, that's firepower."
He swung it up to his shoulder again. Line-of-sight, he thought. That would make aiming dead easy. "What's the range?" he asked.
"Several kilometers, depending on field-strengths in the vicinity."
"This would make infantry work real interesting," Henry mused. "Watch out."
He fired again. CRACK This time the light was only a bar of brightness across his vision. The recoil was a lovetap, about like a .22 rifle. With this sucker you could snipe out tanks and shoot down fighter jets—no lead-off, striking in an absolutely straight line at the speed of light.
"This is sort of like the gun that Ingolfsson's got?"
"Very like, although a little more bulky. Both twenty-first-century designs, quite basic. I analyzed the impacts from the weapon in Bermuda, and it's an antique. Probably it was carrying an old model for sentimental reasons, or as a trophy. I did tell you it's one of the first generation of its kind?"
"Yeah," Henry said.
I just shot a fucking ray gun, he thought. Even now, every once in a while it came up and bit him on the ass.
"How many of these have you got?"
"Half a dozen," the man from the future said. "I can make a few more, perhaps twenty or thirty, in the next few weeks. The bottleneck's the components from my faber, and assembly; I have to do that myself. One torso hit with one of these should kill it. And I'm making some backpack shield generators. They'll offer some defense against its hand-weapon."
"That doesn't solve our basic problem," Henry pointed out, putting the plasma rifle down reluctantly. One shot to the head. Sigh. It wasn't that simple.
"I have to get at its systems," Lafarge said. "Here, and in the Bahamas. Simultaneously. To do that, I have to either get the drakensis out of its nest and immobilized for at least a few days, or I have to get someone on the inside to plant some devices of my own. With that, I can disarm the trigger system for the biobomb, and then we can kill it."
Henry grinned. "Well, kemosabe, your faithful native sidekick may just be able to help you with that."
***
Kenneth Lafarge walked through Central Park, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. The AI scanned again, through the numberless sensors amid the vegetation and life all around him.
No anomalous presences, it said.
I wonder if I'm being foolish? he thought.
Unfortunately, that was not a question the quasisentients made of graven atoms could answer. Knowledge and logic they had, even a kind of consciousness, but neither wisdom nor folly. Those, only the non-algorithmic brains of organo-sentients could produce.
He took a deep breath, cold with the late-spring rains. It brought his attention back from the multiple feed of the nanobugs, like closing a thousand eyes. Even with only his own sight, everything had the laser-cut diamond clarity of the overdrive system laid along his neurons. He could hear the drakensis long before he saw it, hear its heartbeat and breathing. When he did see, it was almost shocking. Hardly different from any native human woman, sitting in slacks and roll-necked sweater and long unbuttoned coat. There was a book on the bench beside her.
It certainly looks human now, he thought; then remembered to clamp down on subvocalization.
***
Gwen cracked another peanut and flicked the kernel at the squirrel. The beady rodent eyes fastened on her suspiciously, and then it darted closer and scurried away with the nut. There was a raccoon not far away, sleepy but interested.
She leaned back and set the bag of nuts on the bench, crossing her ankles and her arms.
"It?" she said to the tall blond man. "It? Come now. I am a female hominid, if not exactly the same species as you. Surely I rate a she, at least."
He lowered his head slightly into his broad shoulders, motionless and silent as none of the primitives she'd met here could ever be. She enjoyed the sensation of danger for a second, a subtle pleasure, then sighed at his boulder-solid patience. He'd be thoroughly buffered against pheromonal dominance, of course. His scent was as odd as his body language: human, but with overtones of something else. Almost mechanical, in fact.
"Has it occurred to you," sh
e said, after they had studied each other for a moment, "that our little conflict here is a paradigm for the past six centuries? Six centuries of our own history, that is, not this timeline."
He showed his teeth slightly. "It must be frustrating, never being able to get away from us pestiferous Yankees."
"There is that," she said, inclining her head. "But I was mostly commenting on the futility of it all."
His eyes shifted to the book. Wittfogel, Oriental Despotism.
"Odd choice," he said.
"You recognize it?"
"I've looked through the literature here."
"Interesting analysis," Gwen said. "Very acute. Nothing like it in our history, that I have data on; although if someone had come up with this back when, my ancestors would probably have killed him. They were an intolerant lot."
His brows rose. "You aren't?"
"We drakensis don't need ideology, much; we've got genetics instead. Our social order is hard-coded into our nervous systems." She saw the distaste on his face, an infinitesimal movement of his facial muscles.
"What is there to discuss?" he asked.
"We're neither of us constrained to obey the dictates of our societies," she said equably. "Even Draka have free will, of a sort."
"You're offering to surrender?"
At that she laughed, a clear warm sound. "No more than you, cyber-warrior. Come now, though; you must be an intelligent man. Why should we extend the feuds of our respective peoples here?"
"Duty."
She nodded. "Consider the implications, though. I've been giving this 'many worlds' matter some serious thought. There are a near-infinite number of variations on possible outcomes. Ones where I never came here; ones where you never came here. Ones where half of me got chopped off by the transition phase shift, like poor Wulfa's arm. Ones where I've already won, ones where you've already won."
"In other words, there has to be an alternate where every possible outcome occurs. What of it? That doesn't alter the fact that each of us has only one world-line to live on and it's the only one we get. The event wave is deterministic in retrospect."
"A point—yet we live in the present, not retrospectively, and anticipate the future. But it's also true that, practically speaking, nothing we can do here will ever affect our home time-line. Considering the physics . . . there has to be a substantial degree of fuzziness, somehow, in any world-line's location in the universe's wave function. You may well not be from exactly the same timeline that I am—if exactly has any meaning, in this situation. And if I succeed in building an anchoring beacon, the world-line I contact may be subtly different from the one I left. I'd probably never know for sure."
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