House of the Sun s-17

by Nigel D Findley

  Proof? Yeah.

  I found myself wanting to trust Jacques Barnard, wanting to believe he was telling me the chip-truth about the trip to Hawai'i. About the fact that he didn't consider me in hock to the corp. That he'd picked me for the messenger job because he respected and-maybe-liked me. Worse, I found myself wanting to like him.

  Trust him? Like him? Get fragging real. Barnard was the Johnson to end all Johnsons-I'd had enough personal proof of that four years before, hadn't I? If I thought he would-or could-feel any genuine human emotion for a convenient tool like me, I was naive at best, schizophrenic at worst. And the fact that I felt an urge to reciprocate those nonexistent feelings… well, maybe it was time to hang up the old trenchcoat and hip flask and carve out a nice, safe career selling greeting cards or some drek.

  With a snarl I shoved my credstick into the telecom's slot and punched Download. As the system transferred the data-ticket, operating funds, and password-I forced myself to think through the situation coldly and logically.

  Okay, no matter how Barnard couched the "request" in polite and friendly terms, the fact was that I didn't have much choice but to go along with him. Debts are debts, and megacorps are even harder on welchers than loansharks. I was going to Hawai'i, carrying a message that I couldn't read, to a person that I didn't know, under circumstances that I couldn't control. Anything I'd missed? Oh yes-facing potential opposition that I couldn't analyze or estimate. Great, better and better. In other words, this situation was the exact opposite of the "shadowruns" I usually chose, I thought bleakly. Maximum exposure, minimum leverage, and probably zero backup. Going in blind and stupid.

  Well, at least I could do some research. I groaned as I thought of spending the next four or five hours whipping together another smartframe like Naomi to scope out any and all connections that Yamatetsu as a corp. and Barnard as an individual, had with the independent Kingdom of Hawai'i. Well, hell, I could sleep on the plane, I supposed.

  Wait a tick here-there might be another option. I had one resource that might be able to tell me something useful. This resource seemed to have an almost encyclopedic memory for facts, factoids, and scurrilous rumors about corps the world over, and key players within them. Considering that he'd been involved with Yamatetsu and Barnard himself-albeit indirectly, through the intermediary of one Dirk Montgomery-he might be able to shed some interesting light on the subject, on what I was getting myself into.

  I leaned forward again, raided a command string into the telecom's keyboard, then waited while it dialed a CalFree State LTG number. For the second time tonight-my time for cold relays, apparently-I watched the icons blink as my call was routed through a couple of intermediary nodes. Then, finally, the Ringing symbol flashed on-screen.

  Someone answered immethately-through a blank screen, audio only-a thin, somewhat asthmatic voice that brought to mind images of a weasel-faced punk. "Do desu ka?"

  "Get me Argent," I told the screen.

  The weasel paused. "And who the frag are you?" he demanded.

  "The fact that I know about this relay means I don't have to answer that, doesn't it? I pointed out.

  "Look, priyatel," the weasel snarled, "you want to play fragging games, you play them somewhere else, neh?"

  I imagined him reaching for the Disconnect key with a dirty forefinger and shrugged. "Okay, omae," I told him, "we'll play it your way." It didn't really matter anyway. 'Tell Argent that Dirk Montgomery wants to talk to him, okay?"

  "Montgomery?" The weasel's voice changed, the habitual hostility vanishing. "Hey, the Man talked about you, priyatel, told me some stories. We got something in common, you know that?"

  I didn't really want to think about what that might be, but the weasel went on, "We're both refugees from the Star. How about that, huh? Small fragging world, neh?'

  "Yeah," I said, muffling a sigh. "Small fragging world. And you are…?"

  "You can call me Wolf."

  "Oh." I tried again. "I need to talk to Argent, Wolf."

  "Can't do it, priyatel, he's over the wall and out of the sprawl. On biz."

  "When's he due back?"

  Wolf/Weasel chuckled thinly. "You ever known Argent to give you a straight answer to that one?" He paused, then went on more seriously, "I'll get him to call you when he gets back, that's the best I can do. Got a relay number?"

  I gave Wolf the LTG number for a voice-mail service in Cheyenne. Nowhere near as secure as a true cold relay, of course, but since the voice mailbox was rented in the name of a dead man, at least it wouldn't lead interested parties directly to my doorstep. I exchanged a few more empty pleasantries with Wolf/Weasel and logged off as soon as I could.

  I sighed again and checked the time. Close to eighteen hundred. It had been a full couple of days, all in all, and it didn't look like the pace would be slowing any time soon. I reviewed the details on my S-0 ticket: departure, oh-six-hundred, check in and be in the boarding lounge no later than one hour before dust-off. No worries there… at first glance. Unfortunately, however, the only airport in the Sioux Nation capable of handling full-on suborbitals is in Casper, not in Cheyenne-and almost 300 klicks away. Which meant a short-hop "Skybus," which left from downtown Cheyenne. Which, in turn, meant a cab from my doss to the Skybus terminus, unless I wanted to pay an arm and two legs for parking my car. Which meant…

  I sighed one more time. I'd better start packing.

  4

  Traditionally, the screamsheets and datafaxes have absolutely nothing good to say about the many short-hop carriers in the Sioux Nation. Too many companies, too little inspection, too many cases of pilot error, too few meaningful after-incident investigations, drekcetera. So when I boarded the Federated-Boeing Commuter VTOL, all shiny in its Sioux Skybus livery, and strapped myself into the window seat, I was expecting a hairy ride.

  No flap, chummer, smooth as synthsilk. Okay, it's true, I could see past the little bitty curtain into the flight deck, and it did disturb me a tad to watch the pilot and copilot-jacked into the flight systems via fiberoptic cables-playing a heated game of crib while we were climbing out. But other than that, no problems.

  We put down at the commuter terminal of Casper International at oh-four-forty-five, which gave me fifteen minutes to collect my baggage and hump it over to the international terminal. According to the signs, there was an automated people-mover to carry passengers the klick or so from one terminal to another. But, according to other signs-hastily hand lettered-the people mover was down for maintenance, and should be back up and running three days ago, thanks for your patience. There were shuttle-buses too, but the one I tried to catch was full-or so the big, burly Amerind driver told me, even though I could see a dozen empty seats-and fragging near rolled over my toes as it pulled out. Well, it was a nice morning for a brisk walk anyway.

  Not only did I get my exercise, but I also got a good view of the international terminal that I would have missed if I'd ridden the underground people-mover. It's a sight I wouldn't have missed for anything… null! In the darkness of predawn, under the harsh glare of arc lights, it looked like an overgrown bomb shelter or missile bunker: prestressed ferrocrete with less aesthetic appeal than a brick.

  The suborbitals, though-they were a different story. As I hiked my way beside the access road-cursing silently at the two shuttle-buses that blazed on by me without even slowing-I could see three of the things out on the apron beyond the terminal building. Gleaming white under the carbon arcs, they were beautiful-geometrically precise, like the crystalline purity of mathematics itself somehow made tangible. Okay, I admit it. I copped that last line from a trideo talking head. But he was right. The suborbitals were unbelievably striking, unbelievably beautiful in a kind of heart-stirring way. They don't belong here, on the ground- that's the thought that struck me. Any time they spend down here in the dirt is just waiting, just marking time before they can re-enter the element for which they were born…

  That heartwarming feeling of awe lasted until I'd entered the inter
national terminal, and vanished precisely one microsecond after I'd laid eyes on the hard-case customs and safety inspectors waiting for me at the security gate. Sigh. You'd think the fact I was carrying an open corp ticket would give me some kind of clout with the inspectors, wouldn't you, would guarantee me some special treatment? No luck there, chummer. (Or maybe-and this was a scary thought-what I went through was special treatment…) In any case, as a gaggle of technicians poked and prodded and X-rayed and assensed and MNR'ed my bag, a couple of hard-eyed and horny-handed trolls in undersized uniforms did much the same thing to me. Metal detectors to analyze the composition of my dental fillings. Chemsniffers to check if I was wearing clean underwear. Magical examinations to make sure I wasn't actually a fire elemental trying to fool them. The whole enchilada. Finally-and only after the fine uniformed gentlemen had made a detailed manifest of every speck of lint in my possession-was I gestured on.

  Then came Immigration Control or Emigration Control, or whatever the frag the Sioux government's calling it now. Once again, I was looking up at a couple more uniformed Amerind trolls while their 'puter whirred and clicked and tried to decide whether it liked the passport data on my credstick. And I was trying not to sweat; it was supposed to be the best fake datawork (a lot of) money could buy, but you never really knew how good this kind of drek was until it was put to the test. My sphincter contracted as the 'puter went brack sharply. But the trolls handed my credstick back without a word and gestured me on. Signs directed me to the departure gate, so I followed them.

  And almost had a childish accident when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. I spun, and I think I stopped myself from yelping aloud. I looked up, expecting another troll… then quickly down when the slag who'd stopped me cleared his throat rattlingly. A dwarf, he was, even stockier and more dour man most of his metatype, still on his toes after reaching up for my shoulder. He was wearing me nondescript black suit I've come to associate with government agents, and a cold fist squeezed my stomach. Somehow, I managed to force a well-meaning smile onto my face. "Is mere some problem?" I asked genially.

  "You're Brian Tozer?"

  I nodded; that was the name on my fake datawork. "That's me, er… sir. Is there a problem with my ticket?"

  "Follow me, please." And he turned his back on me and walked off without looking back, fully expecting me to follow him blindly.

  Which I did, of course-not that I had much choice. I followed him through an unmarked door into a small, bare room, and I braced myself for a cavity search or worse.

  The dwarf didn't say anything once he'd shut the door behind me. He just scrutinized me, dark eyes narrowed beneath beetling brows. If he wasn't going to say anything, neither was I. If we were going to play the old "who speaks first" waiting game, some years from now an airport employee would open the door and find two desiccated corpses in this bare room, still glaring at each other.

  Finally, he frowned, and his brows merged into something that looked like a road-killed squirrel. "You are Brian Tozer?" he asked.

  And that's when I got it. I pulled out my credstick-the one with the digital signature on it-and extended it to him. He sneered-"Fragging twinkie," I could hear him thinking-and he slipped it into the oversized chipjack mounted in the base of his skull. His eyes rolled up in their sockets for a moment. Then, with a quick movement, he clicked the stick free from his slot, tossed it back, and held something out to me. An optical chip: a tiny sliver of impure silicon the size of a pen-point, in a plastic chip-carrier the size of my first thumb-joint.

  'That's your payload for our mutual friend," he grunted, already starting to turn away.

  "Hold it," I said quickly. He turned back, and one of his eyebrows tried to crawl up into his hairline. "Look," I told him, "I don't have any of the details on where I'm going, who I'm supposed to give this payload to, and when. Don't you mink it might make my job a little easier if-"

  He cut me off with a sharp, "You'll be met." And again he turned his back on me and strode off. This time I let him. I glanced down at me chip-carrier in my hand, and for just a moment I had the impulse to throw it to the floor, grind it under my heel, and just run like hell. The pleasant fantasy didn't last long. I sighed, opened the door, and re-emerged into the concourse.

  In the course of following the dwarf, I'd lost track of my gate. Fortunately, some airport employee-a flackish looking slot with a carcinogenic tan and plastic smile noticed me looking lost. He was actually polite to me-a first for the day-and he led me directly to me Global Airways departure lounge.

  That's when things started to look up a tad. I'd expected the usual barren, sterile-looking holding pen with its plastic seats designed to make it categorically impossible to find a comfortable position in them. The usual stained, institutional gray carpet. The usual boarding and departure announcements that might as well have been made in Urdu, for all the meaning they conveyed. The usual crush of (meta)humanity, where you try to avoid having your toes stepped on while you play the old game of "Spot the Hijacker."

  Buzzz, thanks for playing! This was where the open corp ticket came into play big-time. The flackish kind of guy led me right through me holding pen where the hoi polloi were contained, past an armed sec-guard who actually touched his cap to me as I passed, and through a pair of double doors that could have been real mahogany. As we stepped through, me and my flackish shadow, I saw arrays of tiny LED ripple and flicker on both sides of the doorway. Yet another weapon-detector of some kind. I congratulated myself once again for deciding to travel completely unarmed except for my rapier wit.

  The Global Priority Class Stand-By Lounge-that's what the nameplate on the door identified it as-looked like a cross between a gentleman's club in Edwarthan London (or, at least, the BBC rendition thereof), and a high-tone computer dealer's showroom. Heavy wood paneling, burgundy plush carpets, wingback leather chairs, crystal decanters on mahogany sideboards… and everywhere, suit-clad travelers tapping away on palmtop computers, babbling into cell phones, or staring off into space with fiber-optic spider webs trailing from their temples. Of the fifteen or so people in the lounge, the only people who weren't engaged in some form of electronic or verbal intercourse were me, the flack-who, with one final unctuous comment, made himself scarce-and a particularly shapely bartender (bartendress? bartendrix?) whose smile hinted she really needed my patronage to make her day complete. Out of the goodness of my heart I obliged her, and spent the next ten minutes savoring the best of all possible kinds of single-malt Scotch whiskey-free single-malt Scotch whiskey.

  Finally, the boarding call came-delivered in person by a shapely, and decidedly mammalian, flight attendant-and we started to make our way through the priority boarding tube. This was a transpex cylinder-scrubbed so clean you could see the walls only by the way they diffracted lights outside-which extended from the terminal building to the first-class passenger door of the suborbital. Twenty meters away was another, similar tube-which suddenly reminded me of those "HabiTrail" things kids use to incarcerate gerbils-used by the declasse from the economy-class holding pen.

  I took a couple of steps into the HabiTrail, and then stopped dead, earning a bad look from the shaikujin-still jacked into his portacomp-who tripped on my heel and collided into my back. I couldn't help it; I'd never had a chance to look at a suborbital from this close up before, and I certainly wasn't going to pass it up so he could get to his complimentary pretakeoff gin and tonic a couple of seconds sooner.

  The thing was huge, much larger than I'd expected. Hell, suborbitals only carry about 150 people. How much space do you need for that? But of course, there's a lot more to a suborbital than the passenger compartment. There's all the stuff that goes into any standard civilian transport: turbojets, fuel, landing gear, navigation drek, baggage bays, and that place up front where the crew and the flight attendants have their parties. And then there's the extra stuff needed when you're flying at altitudes of 23 klicks (75,000 feet, for the metrically challenged) and speeds of Mach 20+. SCRAMjets
to get you to cruising altitude and speed. Fuel for those SCRAMjets… and lots of it (SCRAMjets aren't known for their fuel economy). Cooling systems to keep your hull from melting under the air friction. And on and on. All in all, the suborbital was longer than a football field, a big integral lifting-body with tiny stub wings bolted on apparently as an afterthought. The body lines followed some complex-and very beautiful-multiple-recurve pattern, making the thing broad and high at the nose, but narrower and thinner toward the tail: something like an asymmetrical teardrop, maybe.

  Finally, the pressure of shaikujin behind me got too much to ignore any longer, and I had to move along. Once I was inside, I could just as well have been in any plane-row upon row of seats in a three aisle three arrangement-except for one detail: no windows. The entertainment suite mounted in the seatback ahead of me made up for that lack, I decided quickly once I'd found my spot. As well as the usual selection of mindless movies, and even more mindless "classic tri-V" reruns, several of the program selections offered views from various microcams mounted on the hull. While the cabin attendants handed out free drinks and flavorless snacks-to the first-class passengers only, not to the great unwashed flying cattle-class, which started one row behind my own seat-I thoroughly enjoyed watching the baggage handlers conduct torture tests on people's suitcases as they threw them aboard.

  Then we got the standard safety lecture-what to do in an emergency, like if the galley runs out of Bloody Mary mix- then we were rolling, and then we were climbing out. On my seatback screen I saw the ground drop away behind us, becoming a detailed scale model, then a contour map. Speed and angle of climb seemed-in my limited experience, at least-pretty extreme. But then the SCRAMjets kicked in- the pilot actually warned us before he lit them off-and I got a taste of what "fast" and "steep" really mean. Some ridiculously short time later, a voice came over the intercom, telling us we were at cruising altitude-23,000 meters, give or take-and flying at a mind-buggering 29,000 klicks per hour.