Vigilant lop-3

by James Alan Gardner

  I didn’t even have time to phrase a command before Xe acknowledged the deed was done. The germ factory, far to the north, was shut down forever, nanites dispersed.

  Just like that. All Xe ever needed was for someone to make the request.

  "It’s done," I said. And brought the rock down hard.

  Xe’s bliss was so strong I nearly fainted — a bursting-blazing headrush that drenched me with sweat. Colored lights filled the room like a blizzard of blue and green as Xe danced, pranced, soared, everywhere all at once… till my foggy brain realized the dance was not one peacock but two. My Peacock had slithered out to join her, to celebrate — so many emotions shooting off sparkles I was too giddy to appreciate a thousandth of them.

  Two peacocks. Old lovers. Old enemies. Dancing.

  Then suddenly, it stopped. The blur of lights snapped into focus, straight in front of Festina and me: two Sperm-tubes open side by side, flowing out of the room, down the corridor, and off God knows where.

  "This would be our ride out of the tunnel," Festina said. "To where?"

  "Don’t know," I answered. "But we’d better go — there’s still work to be done."

  "You mean tracking down Maya?"

  I nodded. Feeling breathless. Realizing Xe had planted more facts in my mind than just her own history.

  "What’s wrong?" Festina asked. "Something to do with Maya? Something that… oh shit."

  She bit her lip. She knew.

  "Maya and Iranu," Festina whispered. "They’ve both been exploring Greenstrider bunkers." She took a deep breath. "They both met the germ factory, right?"

  I nodded again. "Iranu met it six months ago. The factory analyzed him, then created the Freep disease. The disease killed Iranu and nearly did the same to Oh-God."

  Festina steeled herself. "When did Maya meet the factory?"

  "Four months ago," I said.

  "And the factory created a disease that’s absolutely lethal to humans?"

  "Yes. Xe says this version of the plague affects the brain."

  "Shit." Festina’s face had grown pale. "So Maya’s been spreading the infection for ages. In Sallysweet River. And in Bonaventure."

  "You’re forgetting Mummichog."

  "Damn," Festina said. "Maya stayed with Voostor and your mother for days. Your mother must have caught the disease. The whole house has to be filled with it."

  "All over the place," I agreed. "Xe says we’re both infected. And the olive oil cure won’t work this time. It’s a brand-new disease. Old medicines mean bugger-all."

  There. There it was.

  After twenty-seven years, the other shoe had dropped: a disease to kill humans without touching Ooloms. Scary having that inside me… and yet.

  And yet.

  I had a queer sense of completion. Botjolo Faye — waiting all this time for a death of her own. Finally belonging.

  Relief. Sick dread, and scalpelly relief.

  In front of us the peacocks still twinkled, ready to carry us somewhere they thought we should go. I reached out, took Festina’s hand, squeezed it. Our palms were both damp with fear sweat. "Sorry," I said, "this wasn’t meant for you. But it’ll still be all right. There’s time."

  Whatever I meant by that.

  I tugged her hand gently, pulling her toward the open peacock tubes. She squeezed back, a strong brave grip; then she let me go and we dived forward, side by side.

  FUNERAL INVITATION

  From the torch-dim bunker in Mummichog, through the twisty bends of a peacock’s gut, and out again into blackness: skidding to a stop facedown, with the lye-soap smell of yellow-grass close under my nose. I lifted my head to see the Henry Smallwood Guest Home, backlit by the million stars in a Sallysweet River night.

  Something thumped the ground beside me. Then Festina’s voice. A growl. "Bloody hell. Back into the fucking cold."

  We stood up. The peacocks rippled in front of us, glimmering softly in the darkness. I couldn’t tell which was Xe, which was my own guardian.

  Or should I say, former guardian.

  Uchulu, said my father’s voice inside my head. Goodbye.

  Uchulu, said another mental voice — Tic’s voice. Xe always liked Tic; so why shouldn’t she decide to sound like him? Uchulu i jai. Good-bye and thank you.

  Then the two of them began to rise, slowly at first, staying horizontal to the ground till they were above the treetops, then suddenly swooping straight up toward the sea of stars.

  "Will the League let Xe leave?" I whispered.

  "The League isn’t noted for forgiveness," Festina replied. "But who knows?"

  We watched till the peacocks were out of sight. It didn’t take long. Then Festina shook herself; the gesture turned to a theatrical shiver. "Very touching, I’m sure. Now can we get inside where it’s warm?"

  The same Oolom hostess stood on duty behind the registration counter. I gave her a vague smile, glad there weren’t humans in the room; it’d only been an hour since we contacted the plague from my mother, but Festina and I might be contagious already. As for the hostess, she’d be safe from us — this disease was sole property of Homo saps.

  "Welcome back, Proctor Smallwood," the hostess said. "And Admiral…" She gave a small bow… very gracious of her, considering how we were grimed with grass stains, dirt, and jungle dung. "What can I do for you tonight?"

  "A room, please," I told her. "Just one."

  Festina raised her eyebrows. I ignored her, rather than explain in front of the hostess. We needed a place to hole up for an hour, somewhere we wouldn’t infect other humans; but I doubted we’d stay the whole night. I’d make my report as soon as we locked ourselves away from healthy people. The medical authorities would come screaming in and cart us off to an isolation ward, then burn everything we’d touched in the guest home. Why force them to sterilize two rooms, when Festina and I could make do with one?

  "One room," said the hostess. "Certainly. And will this be billed to the Vigil?"

  "Let’s have the Admiralty pay," Festina replied. "I love making them foot my bills."

  I lay down on the bed before starting my report. Might as well make myself comfortable. "This may take a while," I told Festina. Then I closed my eyes and linked in.

  Protection Central, please. Emergency.

  The acknowledgment came back straightaway… and even in that short interaction, I could feel the difference. No personality on the other end of the link — just an empty machine. Xe was gone; the world-soul had lost its soul.

  Poor Tic. Poor lonely old bugger. He’d never hear nanites giggle again.

  First: a message to Argentia health authorities warning that Mummichog was a ticking bomb. The world-soul told me a med team had already picked up Oh-God and were beetling back to Pistolet… but they hadn’t got home yet. There was time to warn them of Pteromic C, the Homo sap variant. Anyway, they’d followed high-infection protocols right from the start, because of Oh-God; yes, it was good to tell them they might be carrying a human disease, but it wouldn’t make much difference in what they did. They were already walking on eggs.

  As for Maya… Tic had reported her escape and police were searching for her through a million hectares of rain forest. The world-soul estimated only a five percent chance they’d find her; but if they did, they now knew to treat her as a plague-carrier.

  I could imagine how that would overjoy the cops. A bomb-wielding murder suspect carrying a deadly microbe, flying over unpopulated jungle. They’d be tempted to splash her skimmer across a few acres of bush, and fret about forest fires later. Through the world-soul, I told the police we had to take Maya alive; we needed to ask her where she’d been, where she might have spread the disease.

  In my heart, though, I knew it was too late. Maya and Chappalar had gone out together several times — to Bonaventure restaurants, nightspots, what-all. The plague was on the march, and who knew how many travelers had carried it from Great St. Caspian around the globe? I felt like calling room service to order cinnamon.
/>   A knock at the door. Festina sat up in surprise. "Are you expecting someone?"

  "No."

  Festina drew her stunner. I hopped off the bed and backed into a corner, as far as I could get out of the pistol’s daze-radius. "Who is it?" I called.

  "Proctor Smallwood?" asked an unfamiliar voice. Male.

  "She can’t have visitors," Festina answered. "Go away."

  "I’d just like a moment of her time," the unknown man said. "Please. The hostess assured me it would be all right."

  The hostess should mind her own business, I thought. "Who are you?"

  "Yasbad Iranu. I understand you were there when they found my son."

  Festina looked at me. I looked back. "Do you believe in coincidences?" I whispered.

  "Yes. But only when they happen to someone else." She raised her voice. "You’re from the Free Republic, right? You’re a Divian?"

  "I’m a Freep," Iranu replied. "I hope you aren’t going to hold my species against me."

  At least we couldn’t infect him. "We have to hear him out," I whispered to Festina. "If only to see what his game is."

  "You’re right," she sighed. "Let him in. But I’ll stun him shit-faced if he tries any tricks."

  Yasbad Iranu looked much like his son… except that Iranu senior wasn’t lying slack-dead in a heap. The man was well dressed, and brash as a baboon’s butt. Born on top of the ladder, and blind-smug-confident that he’d climbed there himself.

  The crown of his head only came to my chest, but he wore a red stovepipe hat that reached as high as my nose. Red was the color of mourning for Freeps — something to do with blood. The hat may have been a symbol of grief too, but to my eyes, it was just the trick of an arrogant pip-squeak trying to make himself look taller.

  "Good evening," he said as he came through the door. He held out his hand to me, but I shook my head.

  "Better not," I told him. "My friend and I both have a disease. It only affects humans, but still."

  His hand stiffened, then withdrew. He ducked under my arm as I continued to hold the door open. I closed it behind him.

  Iranu looked across the room to Festina. She held the stunner trained on his face. "You would be Admiral Ramos?" he asked.

  "You’ve heard of me?"

  "Your name appeared in the report Demoth gave to our embassy. The one describing how you found my son’s body." He looked back at me. "That occurred near here, did it not?"

  "Near enough," I answered. "You want to talk about your son?"

  "Of course." He gestured toward a chair. "May I?"

  Neither Festina nor I answered. He sat down anyway.

  "I’d like to know whatever you can tell me about Kowkow," Iranu senior said. He crossed his stubby legs, calm and casual — one of those calculated things some aliens do, imitating Homo sap body language because they think it’ll make a subconscious impression. On a Freep, crossed legs just looked witless: stubby and clownish.

  "When I heard the news," Iranu continued, "I came straight to Demoth, to see the place where he died. I’ve asked everyone in this guest home if they knew anything of Kowkow’s last days, but learned nothing… till the hostess was kind enough to inform me you two had just checked in."

  It made me wonder how much Iranu paid for the tip-off. What did a rich man think a hostess was worth? He must have made some standing offer, buckets of cash for any tidbit she could send his way. The moment we registered, she ratted us out.

  "What information did you want?" Festina asked.

  "The official report was so impersonal," he answered. "And documents like that never tell the whole story. I want to know anything that might have been omitted. Little details to interest a father…"

  Lord weeping Jesus, I thought, you’re breaking my heart. "I’m surprised to see you back on Demoth," I told him. "Weren’t you kicked out on your ass?"

  That got the anger sparking in his eyes. But he covered it up fast with honey smoothness. "Water under the bridge," he replied with a wave of his hand. "A minor incident years ago. And your government deeply regretted the recent death of my son on Demoth soil. Rather awkward diplomatically. So to make amends, they granted me permission to return and arrange a memorial service. Especially since Kowkow’s body has been impounded for health reasons and will never be allowed to return to his native planet."

  True enough. The corpse would be studied, then cremated on the spot. No one would be crazy enough to ship a plague-ridden cadaver to a planet of people who could catch the disease… and if anyone tried, the League would stop it. The ban against transporting dangerous non-sentient creatures applied to microbes too.

  "So you want information about your son?" Festina said.

  "Anything you can share," Iranu replied.

  Festina glanced at me, then turned back to the Freep. "Your son was illegally conducting archaeological studies at Sallysweet River, Mummichog, and other sites around the planet — continuing your own work, the work that got you expelled from Demoth. As far as we can see, Kowkow’s only archaeological discovery was the biological weapon that killed him, and he didn’t even know he’d found it. The same biological weapon killed many million Ooloms because of your own investigations thirty years ago… not that you were directly responsible, but you set the chain of events into motion. I assume you figured that out long ago, but never told anybody. Thanks to your continuing silence, every Freep on this planet stands a good chance of dying in total paralysis. Humans are at risk too, though they’ll die with their brains destroyed. Which is how Maya Cuttack is dying at the moment. Do you know Maya, Dr. Iranu? Do you know where she’s likely to be?"

  Iranu’s face had flushed dark brown… as if his skin was warding off some burst of UV rays focused only on him. His hands clutched down hard on the arms of the chair and his oh-so-casually crossed legs had gone tense. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said in a strained voice.

  "Doctor," Festina told him, "this isn’t the time for stonewalling. Everything you’ve ever done will be subject to intense scrutiny… not just by people here on Demoth, but by your own government. Your son infected the whole Freep negotiating team. Top officials. People with connections. Their families won’t be pleased."

  "And," I put in, "your planet can kiss the trade treaty good-bye; Demoth is never going to sign a pact with the Free Republic when they hear what Freeps have been doing behind our backs." I gave him a mean smile. "How do you think the corporate barons will react, Doctor? You and Kowkow didn’t just make folks sick, you screwed up a business deal. Your government will throw you to the wolves."

  Iranu stood up. Straightened his jacket cuffs — another Homo sap affectation. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small white card and plonked it on the night table beside the bed. "An invitation," Iranu said frostily. "To my son’s memorial service. If you search your hearts and find some respect for the deceased."

  Festina took a step toward him. When she spoke, her voice was like a friend giving heart-to-heart advice. "Listen," she said. "You may think you can just walk away… pretend this has nothing to do with you. But as of now, you aren’t just in trouble with the Freep and Demoth governments. You’re in trouble with the League of Peoples. I’m informing you you may have knowledge that will prevent the deaths of sentient beings. You may know something about your son’s movements, or Maya’s. You may know where Maya would run if she wanted to hide. Kowkow talked to you, didn’t he? After every trip to Demoth, he must have come home, told you what he’d learned, discussed what to do next. If you don’t share all that information with the Demoth authorities, you’ll be demonstrating a callous disregard for the lives of sentient creatures. Sentients endangered by lethal disease." She stared him eye to eye. "If you don’t do something, the League won’t let you leave Demoth alive."

  Iranu flinched. Spun away from her. Caught himself and tried to put on an air of wounded dignity. "You’re completely mistaken in everything," he said. "If you repeat any of it, I’ll sue you for slander. As f
or the League of Peoples… your navy keeps the masses in line by portraying the League as omniscient bogeymen, but some of us aren’t superstitious peasants." He gave his jacket cuffs one more pointless tug, then strode out the door on his stubby little legs.

  Festina and I watched him leave. "Do you think he’ll tell what he knows?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "He’s probably got a private yacht in orbit. He’ll make a run for it… and the second he leaves Demoth’s star system, the League will make him regret that ‘superstitious peasants’ line."

  Silence. Simmering with het-up frustration. Not that I believed Iranu senior had much he could tell us, but his I-don’t-need-to-talk-to-you attitude gave me the cranks.

  Feeling seethy, I went back to the bed, lay down, and used my link-seed to submit a report to the Vigil. Copies to Captain Basil Cheticamp, Medical Examiner Yunupur, the Archaeology Liaison Office, the Civilian Protection Office, and the Global Health Agency. All of whom would send copies on to more agencies, boards, and functionaries. Some of whom would leak juicy bits to the media, out of context and inflammatory. Within hours, the wolfpack would be howling their self-righteous hunting calls, stalking me again.

  The joys of being a proctor.

  Still, I downloaded everything. About Maya, about Xe, about my own Peacock. I would catch unholy flak for freeing a potentially dangerous alien; and for decades to come, every half-baked tico on Demoth would claim to have seen Xe, been possessed by Xe, had Xe’s baby… but I still didn’t pad around the truth. Withholding the smallest detail was murderously irresponsible, given the enormity of the stakes. I drew special attention to Dr. Yasbad Iranu and the possibility he knew where Maya might hide. Let the cops collar him and sweat his smug little britches — if they broke him, he might not be executed by the League of Peoples.

  Noble Faye, trying to save the man who started this mess. Who directly or indirectly killed sixty million Ooloms.

  Including my Lady Zillif.