Bug Park

by James P. Hogan

  "It sounds fine for us as it stands," Kevin said. "How come I've never heard of it?"

  "I told you, it's new." Corfe sighed. "Probably it shouldn't be let out of the firm, but in this situation I don't think I'd be too hung up about borrowing one for a night."

  It was the kind of indication that Kevin had been waiting for. He looked at Corfe eagerly. "Does that mean you're in with us, Doug? You'll help us do it?"

  Corfe held up a hand. "Hey, wait a minute. I haven't said anything definite yet. Borrowing a KE mec is the straightforward part—if we decide to do it. Breaking into this guy's office is something else."

  All of Kevin's exasperation with the adult world came pouring back. He threw up his hands, and his voice rose. "But Doug, for two days you've been getting madder and madder about not being able to do anything! All the way here tonight—"

  "Shh, Kev." Taki moved his eyes to indicate the house around and above them. "Keep it down, guy."

  Kevin exhaled and moderated his tone. "All the way here you sounded like you wanted to start a war. Well . . . this is something we can do—something active, where we're not just sitting waiting for . . . for what? I don't know. What else have we got?"

  "And soon," Taki put in. "We've got the holiday weekend coming up right ahead. Nobody's going to be around there then. It would be the perfect time."

  They stared fixedly at him, as if daring him to find an objection.

  Corfe agonized. Kevin could read his mind: loath to shoot the proposition down, but at the same time, way out of his depth.

  "Okay," Corfe said finally. "So suppose you do get in there, and you're into his computer. What, exactly, are you hoping to find?"

  Kevin glanced uncertainly at Taki. Taki returned a look that was about as helpful as a write-only-memory chip. They had been too preoccupied with the technicalities to really give that question much thought. "Well, this codicil . . ." Kevin said finally, to Corfe. "Or something that talks about it maybe. I'm not sure. . . ."

  "You haven't got a clue, you mean," Corfe said. "What does one look like? Where would you look for something that talks about it? You see—you don't know. And neither do I." He had made his point, and he knew it. So did Kevin. Corfe's tone became stronger. "Okay, in principle I think you guys may have something. But I'm not the person to say if it has chances. We've got to bring Michelle in on this too. She's the only one who has the knowledge. And I'll contact her first thing tomorrow and go into town to put this to her if I can. That much I am willing to say I'll do. But beyond that . . ." He looked from one to the other and shook his head gravely. "It'll depend on what she says. Beyond that I can't promise."

  Kevin nodded but looked away at the floor. The fervor had gone out of him. For a while he'd had visions of Corfe in a role as the leader who would cut through the morass of ifs and buts like Samson hacking a path through the hordes. He felt now as if they were on a circle that led back to Monday. As much as he liked Michelle, he just couldn't see her going with the proposition. Worse still, once she had ruled the suggestion out, any possibility of Corfe acting further on his own initiative would automatically have been eliminated also.

  With that, the subject was exhausted for the rest of the evening. Kevin and Taki showed Corfe their progress with the flying mecs. Kevin managed to steer one on a full circuit of the room. That was something of an accomplishment to show, anyway.

  Corfe called Michelle's office first thing the next morning—Thursday—as he had promised. Wendy, the receptionist, told him that Michelle was out until the afternoon, and had appointments scheduled then. Corfe left a message for Michelle to call him when she was free.

  Vanessa went into the city again too. She told Eric it was to spend the day researching neurophysiological papers in the University Hospital library.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  "You stick to organizing the finances," Vanessa said. "That's what you're better at. Don't worry about the scientific side. Leave that to me."

  "I was just curious."

  "There." Fozworth aimed the remote and stopped the tape. It was so brief that Michelle had missed it, but the expression on Martin Payne's face was not a happy one. Fozworth gestured toward the screen in a small conference room that they had found empty. "See the tightened jaw, narrowing of the eyes. . . . There's anger there, but it can't be expressed. Why not? Think where you've seen that look before: the lover rebuffed; the child ridiculed. It could be for all kinds of reasons."

  "But he recovers quickly," Michelle said from a chair by the corner of the table.

  "Oh yes, practically instantaneously. Masking his true self is reflex. Mark of a manipulator. We've got two of a kind here." Fozworth touched a button, and the figures on the screen resumed moving, with Vanessa handing Payne a file.

  "I think you might find this more interesting," she said.

  "What is it?"

  "Open it and see. . . ."

  Noah Fozworth was a behavioral psychologist at Washington State University. His specialty was profiling psychological types and identifying characteristic traits that matched lives of recognizable patterns. The police department, professional recruitment agencies, social welfare counselors, and others whose work involved betting on the fruit machines of human nature consulted him regularly. Michelle had met him a couple of years previously, through a private investigator who worked for one of her clients.

  Fozworth was smooth and round everywhere, with a face rendered all the more moonlike by a brow that extended to the top of his dome, with a terminator of straight, brown hair running in a crescent from ear to ear. He was colorful and animated, and on every occasion that Michelle had seen him, dressed eccentrically—today in a canary yellow bow tie with port-wine cord jacket, which he had draped over a chair. But his advice had generally proved sound, and was always an education. Since there was little as yet in the way of hard evidence, she had come to Fozworth seeking reassurance that the suspicions she was beginning to form at least rested on credible groundings.

  He stopped the tape again. "The remark about understanding the science was insulting. A direct snub. She's doing two things: asserting an area of superiority by putting him down; and staking out her own future territory. His real feelings are suppressed, maybe because they clash with his more immediate goals. Very likely, he's not even aware of them. But he can't stop himself reacting unconsciously." Fozworth waved an arm at the images, frozen once again. He had already watched the full sequence several times in silence. "And that's what will eventually bring those two into head-on collision. Right now they can't see it, or they're refusing to. But the match that will detonate the bomb one day is right there."

  "So there's a pattern that you recognize, even in as little as this?" Michelle said.

  "Plus the things you've told me. A mark of psychopaths is a need to feel superior in some way, which they'll express maliciously but always in a controlled way that lets them seem to be just the opposite on the outside." The arm waved again. "You just saw it. She as-good-as tells him he's dumb, and moments later she's nuzzling up to him. His feelings tell him one thing, but he sees another. That's the way people drive each other nuts. If he's a strong personality, he'll probably end up having her thrown overboard far out at sea one day when there are plenty of sharks around—if she doesn't poison him first."

  "So you would class her as a psychopath? It's not something I'm imagining?" Now they were getting down to what Michelle had come to hear.

  Fozworth started the player again but with the sound muted, and answered while he watched. "Almost a classical case. A compulsive need to control, destroy others, and take, while all the time disorienting them by masquerading behind a facade of perfection—which often expresses itself religiously."

  "Is it something deliberate, calculated? . . . Do they sit down and plan it out this way?"

  "Not really. It's just the way they are."

  "Does anybody know why—what makes them that way?"

  The video stopped. Fozworth started it o
n rewind, stood, and moved over to the machine. "Inner reality is tricky. We all think we know what's going on out there, including how we're responding—but how can you really be sure? All our awareness is ultimately inside. Very often, not everything about the way things affect us reaches our awareness. There are areas of denial, feelings that we block out, usually because we're taught that they're weak, inappropriate, unsuited for survival. With men in our culture it tends to have to do with expressing emotion; with women, their sexuality."

  "You sound as if you're saying there's a bit of it in all of us," Michelle observed.

  "Pretty much all aberrations are something taken to extremes that everyone has to a degree, but more or less keeps within acceptable bounds. With the kind that we're talking about, the denial leads to acute feelings of dissatisfaction and frustration. Since the real cause is repressed, they project it onto others and see them as responsible."

  "They're not at fault, so why should they feel guilty?" Michelle said, taking the point.

  "Quite. They're punishing the guilty. So they can pursue their objectives tenaciously and ruthlessly, without any impediment of sympathy or remorse. But they're quite capable of being outwardly the model of charming, caring reasonableness. That's what drives their victims crazy. They know what they feel on the inside, but they can't reconcile it with what they're seeing and hearing. Take a classical case: The husband's persuaded his heiress wife that she's sick and vulnerable in this big bad world, but not to worry because he'll take care of her; meanwhile, her broker's telling her that he's cleaning out their bank account."

  "I don't think the husband in this case is in much danger of going crazy, Noah," Michelle said. Although she had described the situation, she hadn't mentioned names. If Fozworth had made any connections of his own, he hadn't mentioned them.

  The tape stopped. Fozworth ejected it and turned to face her. "No, he sounds pretty solid: intelligent, independent, trusts his own judgment. A good self-image." He held out the cartridge. The face in the moon was serious. "It's the kid that I'd be worrying more about," he said.

  On the way out of the building half an hour later, Michelle called into the office for any messages. There were several routine items. Doug Corfe had called, wanting her to get in touch. The people she was due to meet at three o'clock wanted to know if she could make it for two-thirty instead. The other meeting for four o'clock across town was confirmed. That evening she was due to have dinner with an old girlfriend from New York who was visiting Seattle. Corfe would have to wait until tomorrow, she decided. She had meant to call him then, anyway. Nothing drastic was going to happen before the weekend.

  Martin Payne, looking casually suave in black blazer and fawn slacks, white shirt worn open with blue silk cravat, stood with his hands on the rail of the after deck on the Princess Dolores. The waters of the lake stretching across to Seattle, and the sky, were gray. White gulls coasted and swooped around the dock extending from the lawns at the rear of the house.

  There could be no doubt that he was the kind of man who was born to win. The twelve-million-dollar boat beneath him, the house, the company that he had built from nothing—they were surely testimony as tangible as anyone could ask for of that. He won because he knew the difference between an acceptable risk and a reckless gamble, and when having assessed the acceptable, having the nerve to see it through. And from knowing, when the signs were otherwise, that the moment was not yet right.

  For three years he had been biding his time for the present situation to ripen. Now, all of a sudden, the pieces seemed to be coming together of their own accord. Jack Anastole's sudden reappearance, which had seemed a problem at the time, had turned out to be the fortuitous event needed to set long-laid plans moving. And two months later, as if on cue, the meddling lawyer arrives on the scene like an essential catalyst to precipitate the final action involving Heber and ensure a speedy resolution to the whole business.

  He had no qualms as far as Heber was concerned. DNC had been born at Microbotics before Heber even had thoughts of getting restless. Payne had paid for every step of acquiring the knowledge that Heber had stolen, from breaking dirt at the lab-block sites to buying the equipment and providing the research teams. It was his technology—Payne's! Any law that gave somebody like Heber any rights to it was a travesty—contrived by sheep to ensnare wolves and put them in harness for the service of all.

  Payne rather liked the wolf metaphor. Wolves lived and survived by their own law. Those who couldn't run with wolves shouldn't mess with them. Heber had made his choice. Now came the consequences.

  The sound of feet climbing steps came from behind. Payne turned from the rail, and Andy Finnion appeared from the aft fishing cockpit. Andy was ex-PD narcotics section, which was a sure indicator of "liberal" morality—the payoff scale made it certain that nobody was going to bring in any potential wrench throwers. A police background that entailed knowing where every wire in the city and state machinery led made him an ideal lieutenant on Payne's staff, and running Microbotics's security operation provided the perfect front.

  "Mike's checked over the systems. Everything's okay except a switch for a pump that he'll get replaced today. Restocking for the bar and galley stores will be delivered by noon tomorrow. He plans moving the boat across to Fox Landing tomorrow evening."

  "Let's hope the weather holds out."

  Apart from the gloomy skies, Providence must have been smiling at him, Payne thought. He'd planned the Memorial Day weekend Saturday-night party on the yacht weeks ago, turning into a cruise that would last through the next day to let the guests recuperate—or relive their favorite parts of whatever transpired; whichever. Fox Landing was the name of a dock at the back of the exclusive "Shoals," a marine club on the shore of Lake Union in the middle of Seattle, which formed part of the Ship Canal connecting Lake Washington to Puget Sound. The Dolores would be moved across to there late on Friday to take the guests aboard on Saturday. Payne really didn't want them swarming around his home in Medina, getting the idea that it was open house. People came there only by specific invitation.

  "Vic Bazhin's decided to stay over the weekend," Payne said. "I didn't think he'd miss out. We'll need to organize some girls. Another half dozen should balance things out."

  "I'll call the agencies this evening. Put in a reservation."

  "Excellent."

  Finnion looked past Payne and motioned with his head. "Isn't that her now?"

  Payne turned to look back toward the house. Vanessa had appeared on the path leading from the summer house, presumably having just arrived and parked at the front. She was wearing a full, calf-length skirt with wrap-around coat and headscarf, along with sunglasses despite the leaden overcast.

  "I hadn't allowed for her on the guest list," Finnion murmured. "Do you want her added?"

  Payne shook his head. "I don't think so, Andy. It wouldn't look very becoming if the police had to trace her here to break the tragic news, would it? She needs to be at home to play the grieving widow."

  "That makes sense." Finnion nodded. Then he grinned crookedly as a thought struck him. "Does that mean I should make it seven more girls?"

  Payne tut-tutted, winked, and moved forward along the walkway outside the main salon to greet Vanessa at the port-side gate. Finnion followed. Vanessa walked quickly along the dock below, climbed the access stairs, and came aboard in a clatter of doe-skin boots. They went down a short flight of steps into the salon. Finnion closed the door leading forward—several of the crew were aboard, working about the vessel. Payne raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

  Vanessa gave a quick nod. "Saturday's confirmed. I've told him that the Jeep is playing up, so he'll be using my car—the Jaguar. The special bug will be concealed among other gadgets and things in a couple of boxes that I'll leave down by the back seat. They'll be thrown all over the car in the wreck, so even if it's found at all, there'll be no reason for anyone to give it a second thought." She looked at Finnion for an opinion.

  He pu
rsed his lips while various improbable scenarios paraded through his policeman's mind. Finally he nodded, satisfied. "Nobody's going to be looking for a weapon. And if the weather breaks, it'll suit us even better. That road's treacherous enough even in an Indian summer." A fact of which Vanessa hardly needed reminding. It was she who had suggested it in the first place.

  "And what's your schedule for Saturday?" Payne asked her.

  "Ostensibly shopping in the city in the morning and meeting a couple of old friends for lunch." She had to be away, in order to be at Microbotics in Redmond to carry out the operation. The matter-of-fact way she was able to talk about it chilled even Payne. "Then back to Olympia in the afternoon. After that, well, just play along with what happens." She ran an eye pointedly over Payne. "I presume you'll be busy with the party."

  Irritation flared in him for an instant. What was she insinuating now—that he was just some kind of playboy, while she took care of the real work? Or was it a veiled reminder that the professional girls were strictly for Bazhin and the other guests? He could feel life becoming constrictive already. But until she—with the patents—became Mrs. Payne, that was something he'd have to practice living with.

  He smiled and put an arm around her. "Someone has to look after those boring people. As you said the other day, taking care of finances is what I do best. In spirit I'll be with you all the way. . . . Andy, how about a drink to welcome our lost sheep back to the fold? . . . Soon-to-be so, anyhow."

  Finnion opened a wooden wall cabinet that had ornaments and figurines lined along the top. "Aye, aye, skipper," he replied.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Monsters in old movies had scales and fangs, and lumbered about squashing cars, picking up trains, and causing heroines to put their hands to their faces and scream. Their modern counterparts symbolized fears of mutant technology more than mutant biology, and consisted, more often than not, of intricate assemblages of machinery and wiring directed by silicon brains that always made the eyes glow a sinister red.