I launched the driver's tutorial and began studying command options and emergency procedures. Every few minutes I glanced at the rearview display.
After about an hour I shut down the tutorial and told the rover to stop. For ten more minutes I scanned the desert to my rear. No one followed me.
So I entered the coordinates of the outpost “town” of Glendora, and instructed the rover to head there at a moderate speed. The rover estimated the trip at five hours, which would get me in just a bit before dark. After a night's sleep, that would leave me an easy three-hour drive to Johnson's station the next morning.
The rover didn't need my help to adjust for terrain or to steer around obstacles, so I got out of my seat to explore my coach.
Behind the pair of front seats, four swiveling, reclinable chairs formed a roomy oval. Next came a short passageway, kitchenette on one side and bathroom on the other. This opened into the remaining space, as large as the forward seating area; most of it would usually be used for storing a hunting party's gear. A pair of tables folded down from the walls, their accompanying chairs stowed behind a panel. I checked the remaining wall lockers—most were empty, but one held an impressive first-aid kit; another contained additional water and food. Next to the rover's rear hatch, a final panel opened to reveal a rack holding a pair of rifles.
I dislike guns of any kind, but living in Hab Town engenders a certain level of familiarity. These were high-powered hunting rifles, complete with night-vision sights and multispectral rangefinders. Not the latest models, but they looked reliable enough. According to their displays, both rifles were fully charged and loaded.
Without touching the guns, I carefully closed the panel.
Back in the driver's seat, the view hadn't changed much—gray-brown bare dirt, scattered scraggly bushes, the occasional hill or shallow valley. Ahead, near the horizon, I thought I saw something moving. Focusing the rover's forward camera gave me a blurry view of a large reddish blob and two smaller ones, ambling away from me with bouncy gaits. The display's caption suggested they might be a family of ceratopsids, probably hunting for forage.
I considered my own hunt. Suppose that Johnson had somehow gotten hold of the Warrant—he could have hidden it anywhere in the outback. Simply go for a long drive, dig a hole, and record the coordinates. Had Garcia Ortega's people already dealt with such possibilities?
I pulled out my phone, told it to link to the crystal that rested inside the scanner in my pocket. After a minute I found a file titled “Aerial Searches.” Yes—apparently the same sort of frequency-shift probe that Garcia Ortega's crystal could generate would also work, with a strong enough radio beam, from blimps, helicopters, or even satellites. Over the years, the Subcommittee on External Affairs had searched a very wide region indeed—both urban and rural, and more than once.
Of course, a simple metal cage could block a radiowave. So they had also tried various particle beams capable of penetrating such a shield. And still failed to detect any shifted echoes.
The Subcommittee, true to bureaucratic form, had included in its report an estimate of the medical effects of all those particle beams passing through bystanders. Its conclusion—"approximately 350 new cancers, leading to perhaps thirty deaths"—was presented without apology or justification. A telling indication of the attitude toward the rest of us held by our self-appointed rulers.
My employers.
I tried to push that thought away, as I'd long ago learned to do. But, I found myself thinking, what if there really were a resistance movement? And what if it actually had a droplet's chance in the desert of succeeding?
No. For me to picture an imaginary moment of hypothetical success would require me first to peer back at the all-too-real minutes and hours of actual failure. And those images lay behind a door that I refused to reopen.
I looked out over my empty surroundings. The ceratopsids had disappeared beyond the horizon. Complex shadows, already noticeably longer than earlier, extended toward me from each wirewisp bush we approached. The rover's suspended cabin floated in serene ignorance of the terrain's dips and rises.
For almost four more hours today, and then until midday tomorrow, I would be riding outside the world of Subcommittees, Warrants, and resistances; powerless to cause or prevent the turnings of history, the deaths of patriots or fools.
I rubbed a sore spot on my shoulder as I let that thought sink in. Then, after one more inspection of the rearview display, I gestured my phone to bring up a recent article I'd downloaded from the university's net. I scrolled to For m (greater than) 3, assume not, and settled back into my seat.
* * * *
The metropolis of Glendora boasted a small hotel, a grocery and supplies shop, a dry cleaner, a gunsmith, and, of course, a water station. I parked the rover before the first of these and climbed down to the unpaved ground. A halfhearted breeze swirled the dust at my feet; above, a line of high clouds flamed in an amethyst sky.
The hotel—about the size of two back-to-back habs—lacked a formal entrance. One of the doors facing the street was labeled “Manager.” I buzzed; after a long pause the door was opened by an overweight man in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore only a pair of khaki shorts, their top unfastened to accommodate his belly. His eyes drooped under pale blond lashes; matching fuzz covered his scalp, face, torso, and legs.
On seeing me, his initially defensive expression brightened considerably. “Oh!” He peered past me toward my rover, then returned his attention my way with a gap-toothed smile. “Welcome to Glendora! Please, come in, come in!” His voice was surprisingly high pitched.
Great—the stereotypical lonesome outback washout. In another minute, if I gave him any conversational openings, he'd be pouring out his heart to me about his unfortunate life.
He stepped back to let me enter. The hotel's air-conditioning wasn't even up to Hab Town standards—his apartment was noticeably hotter than the cooling evening outside, its air sweetened with greasy cooking odors. His desk faced a side wall; currently floating above it was a flat image frozen from what must have been some ancient Earth movie—a familiar-looking man in a fedora gesturing with a cigarette toward a woman in dark slacks and a white blouse, everything black and white.
He noticed my gaze. As I placed the actor's face—Bogart, of course—he asked, “Are you a fan too? Of the classics?"
"No,” I said. “Jenna Dalmas. Got a room?"
"Um, sure. Of course. I'm Roger. Dalmas—what is that, Irish?"
"Not anymore. So one night probably, possibly two. I do have a request."
His eyelids fluttered as he caught up with the conversation. “A request?"
"I'd rather not register and pay until I check out.” I had no real reason to believe that my account was being traced, either by Garcia Ortega or by Daniel's alleged resistance—but my paranoia level remained elevated. “That won't be a problem, will it?"
He looked completely bewildered, as if I'd asked him for a cigarette. Or a fedora.
I continued, “I know it's a little unusual. So I'll be happy to give you a deposit up front. How about, say, a hundred rips? You could hold it in your personal account, rather than the hotel's."
I waited a moment for him to work that out. Then he gave a slow nod. “Sure. No problem, Ms. Dalmas."
He stepped over to his desk, pushed Bogart to the side, and brought up a fresh pane. He made a few gestures, then looked expectantly my way.
I took out my phone and made a few gestures of my own. A branching chain of innocuous-looking personal messages rippled through a great many public and private nets, each encoding a covert I.O.U. from one person's very unofficial account to the next. After a couple of seconds, one hundred of those ripples converged untraceably into Roger's desk; he grunted happily and closed his pane. Then he slid open a desk drawer and dug through its contents until, with a magician's flourish, he pulled out a blue and white card. He tossed the card onto the desktop, then spent a minute gesturing his way through a new s
eries of panes.
Over his shoulder, he said to me, “Normally we just key the door to your phone, when you register.” He closed his last pane, then turned and presented me the card. “Room three,” he said. “Around back. I can bring you dinner once you're settled in."
"Thanks, but I've got my own food.” I turned toward the door.
"Later, if you'd like to watch a movie or something..."
I paused, then turned back to give him a smile. “Thanks, Roger. I appreciate the offer. But I'm really pretty tired."
"Oh, sure, of course. Maybe another time."
I smiled at him some more. It was the least I could do. “Good-night, Roger."
"Good-night, Ms. Dalmas. Oh—Ms. Dalmas?"
I'd already grasped the door handle. “Uh-huh?"
"I'm supposed to ask what you're here for. Hunting, probably, right?"
"Yes, that's right,” I said. “Hunting."
* * * *
I imagine the pounding on my door had been going on for quite some time. I'm not a light sleeper under any circumstances, and especially not only a few hours after stripping off my clothes and flinging my travel-tired body onto a bed.
"All right!” I shouted into the pitch-black room. “Hang on."
I reached down to the floor where I'd left my phone. The display's glow, when I touched the contact, dazzled. One o'clock. Great.
The pounding resumed. It no longer sounded like someone's fist—I was guessing something igneous.
"Yeah, okay!"
I felt around on the floor until I found my shirt. While I donned that I stood, continuing my explorations with one foot. The chill of an unexpected belt buckle made me yelp. I grabbed my shorts, tugged them on as I headed to the door.
"Okay, what—?” I yanked open the door, revealing a startled Daniel Vargas. The rock in his raised hand glistened darkly in the dim light of Glendora's municipal streetlight.
"Hi,” he said. “Sorry to—"
He was eased to one side by the person who'd been standing behind him. She was a little shorter than me, a lot thinner, and a good deal more awake.
"Ms. Dalmas,” said the woman, “we need to talk. My name is Carla."
I was too disoriented to reply, or to prevent her from pushing past me into my room, followed by Daniel. One of them turned on the overhead light. Squinting against the sudden brilliance, I shut the door by feel.
As my eyes adjusted, Carla smoothed the bed's rumpled covers, then sat herself in the center of the mattress. Daniel leaned against the room's small desk; he pushed its flimsy steel chair toward me. I ignored it.
"How the hell—"
Carla dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand. “You already know,” she said, “who we represent. You seem to be on your way to retrieve a certain object. We're going with you."
I glared at her. I guessed her age at thirty, maybe thirty-five. She wore her black hair very short; slate-gray eyes looked out from a delicate-featured face. A slight smile suggested amusement at some secret joke—but that smile, like the rest of her, was hard and angular.
I said, “You seem to know a great deal about me, Carla. Even things I'm not aware of—as far as I know, it's a bit premature for any talk of ‘retrieving.’ And at the moment I'm really not looking for any chaperones."
She leaned back against the wall, studying me.
Daniel, meanwhile, was staring at the floor, his seventeen-year-old gaze glued to the undergarments I hadn't bothered to slip into. He caught me observing him; with a blush he straightened up and turned his attention to the opposite wall.
"You know,” said Carla, “we're not your enemy. You need to work together with us on this."
"What I need is some sleep. The rest we can discuss tomorrow."
She seemed about to say something else, but suddenly she stood. “Fine. In the morning, then.” She marched across the room and exited. Daniel—with a few furtive glances toward various regions of my person—filed after her.
Damn! How had they managed to track me here?
I waited a couple of minutes, then eased the door open. Through the gap between the hotel and the neighboring building, the town's streetlight illuminated a wide wedge of dusty ground, empty except for a few small bushes and the scattered jagged remnants of an old steel shipping container. Still barefoot, I stepped carefully around the building's perimeter.
A second rover—tan and newer than mine—was parked centimeters behind my own. As I watched, the light within its windows dimmed.
No need for them to stay awake to keep watch. With their rover right behind mine and the hotel in front, there wasn't space enough for me to pull out.
I returned to my room, furiously reviewing the events of the previous day. Where had I slipped up, what breadcrumbs had I inadvertently trailed behind me? As I paced, I massaged my sore shoulder.
The shoulder that Daniel, yesterday, had gripped so tightly.
I yanked off my shirt and lifted my arm so I could scrutinize the side of my shoulder. Among my various moles and freckles, none particularly stood out. Running my finger over the area, though, I felt what could have been a tiny scab on my upper arm. I grabbed my shirt from the floor and turned the sleeve inside out—a minute red-brown stain marked the fabric.
More angry with myself than Daniel, I pulled out my scanner. Setting it to display a wide spectrum of radio frequencies, I held it near my arm and waited. For a minute the various amplitudes wavered up and down—normal communications chatter. Then, for just an instant, there was a sudden spike.
I narrowed the frequency range and turned the sensitivity way down. A minute later, the spike recurred. I dialed the sensitivity even lower, and over the next few minutes confirmed my suspicion—periodic signal bursts were emanating from my upper arm.
I stood there, unable to think about anything but my fury at Daniel and Carla, at myself, at this whole idiotic quest. After a minute, though, the fury gave way to extreme frustration. Which, being essentially my baseline emotional state for the past two decades, freed me to turn my attention to my immediate problems.
I wasn't actually as trapped here in Glendora as Carla assumed. But there was no point in sneaking away while her tracker remained in my arm.
I rummaged through my overnight bag for my multitool. I carried it into the tiny bathroom, where I spread a towel across the sink to work over. I folded out the smallest knife blade, and then—holding my breath—I drew the blade's tip across my arm.
I'd barely scratched the skin.
I took a new breath and tried again, this time pressing a lot harder. The sudden pain made me gasp; blood began welling from the cut.
I probed with the knife—to my surprise, despite the pain and blood, the incision was still only a couple of millimeters deep. But the tracker would probably have been injected more than a centimeter beneath my skin. So I clenched my jaw and jabbed the knife farther into my muscle, first at one angle and then another. Blood streamed down my arm, soaking into an enlarging disk on the initially off-white towel. Finally—as I was starting to grow concerned about the amount of blood a person could lose before fainting—the knife tip scraped against something hard and smooth.
I paused for several seconds to catch my breath.
I dug the hole deeper around my apparent target, working by feel through the upwelling blood. My arm felt as if a lizard with narrow, powerful jaws had taken a big chomp and now refused to release its grip. Each movement of the blade sent an aching shudder up and down my arm; cold sweat coated my body.
I grabbed a thin washcloth and twisted it around my arm, trying to staunch the bleeding for a minute as I lowered my head and waited for my gasping breaths to ease.
Then I unwrapped the washcloth and used it to wipe off the knife blade. I folded that blade back into the multitool, in exchange for a pair of small needle-nosed pliers.
The pain when I pushed the pliers into my arm almost made me throw up. It took a few tries to get a good grip on the slippery object, but fi
nally I managed to extract the tracker—a ceramic needle, no more than a millimeter or two in diameter, maybe five or six in length. I let it drop onto the bloody towel.
I applied another washcloth as a bandage, securing it with a fresh towel tied as tightly as I could manage using only one hand and my teeth. Then I retrieved my scanner and spent a few minutes confirming that the needle, and not my arm, was now the sole source of radio spikes in the room.
I placed the needle carefully into the trash, then wadded up the blood-soaked towel and washcloth and tossed them onto the floor of the shower. I sponged the blood off my arm and torso, along with some of the sweat. Then I returned to the main room and got myself properly dressed.
According to my phone, dawn was still several hours away. I hoisted my bag, took one last look around the room, switched off the light, and started to open the door. Then it occurred to me to close the door to the bathroom—for a second I considered also leaving the faucet running, but I just couldn't bring myself to waste so much water—hoping that the closed door might buy me an extra minute or two when Carla and Daniel came knocking in the morning.
I crept to my rover as quietly as I could. I paused to listen for any sounds from the other vehicle, but apart from the warm breeze rustling the dry branches of a nearby bush, the night was silent.
I unlocked the door and climbed in. There were no signs that anyone had been here since I'd left. I moved to the back of the rover and got out the first-aid kit. After replacing my makeshift bandage with something a bit more reliable and a lot less bulky, I gave myself an antibiotic injection to cover any bacteria my amateur surgery might have stirred up. The kit also held injectors for pain; reluctantly, though, I decided that using those might leave me too doped up to carry out my plans for the rest of the night. A shiny emergency blanket caught my attention; I jammed it into my overnight bag.
I turned toward the rear hatch. Several seconds passed before I could make myself open the panel and take out one of the rifles. I double-checked its charge and ammunition, ran the control system through a self-diagnostic.
Analog SFF, December 2007 Page 20
