by Janet Morris
Maybe.
"So what's this box got to have, besides the EHF component?"
"A 'howdy-do, pleased t'meetcha, c'n I come in?' relay, coupled with a down-freq transponder so's I c'n talk to it if it c'n talk to me."
Talk to it? "Anything else? A nail file or a shoe-polisher, maybe? How small does this thing have to be?"
"I need t' be able to carry it out ... EVA it."
"Okay, so it's got to be space-sealed. Smaller than you are. Anything else?"
"Yeah, one more thing. It's got t' remember how it got in, an' be able t' repeat or reverse the process."
"If you're talking expert program, old man, the price just doubled. You want an expert that can make sixty thousand or so decisions per second for something like this, and an AI like that costs." It was Sling's turn to put his hands on his hips. His gut knew this wasn't legal, somehow. The old guy was being too evasive.
"I don't need no expert program, just memory, sonny. Memory with repeat and reverse fer the winnin' sequences."
"Okay, now you tell me what it is you're trying to get into. Because if it's some government something, I can't have any part of it."
"This thing's not made in our damned spacetime, Mister Hotshit Aftermarket Cowboy. It's from somewhere else entirely. It's a gen-u-ine alien artifact, like I said, from a superior civ'lization, an' there's no law against it. Not yet."
This guy was crazy as a Loader on dope.
"You've convinced me, Captain Keebler." Sling wanted to get rid of this scavenger, and there was only one way. "I figure that'll cost you about a quarter K-note, what with the self-contained power source and memory and all those presets." That should scare Keebler away. Sling mentally kicked himself for not trying money talk before. But before, he wouldn't have had any data on which to base a price.
"Half now, half later," said the scavenger brusquely, and held out his ham of a hand.
"Uh . . . yeah. That's fine with me. But payment in full on delivery." Sling tried not to wince under the pressure Keebler was applying to the fine bones of his hand. A quarter K-note? This must be some rich scavenger, or some seriously lucrative piece of space junk. Or something so illegal he'd be glad he'd recorded the scavenger's proposition. Just in case.
"When c'n that be?" The scavenger let his hand go.
"What? Delivery? Now you're in a hurry?" Sling rubbed one hand with the other to restore circulation. He bent over and looked at his calendar. "If I put everything else aside, I can have it for you by tomorrow night."
He'd get half the money before this crazy left today. And since he had nothing much to do, putting everything aside wasn't a real hardship.
If he didn't get busted for doing this, it was going to be a godsend. If he did get busted, he could try replaying the tape where he warned the scavenger that he didn't want anything to do with any illegal activity. So if it was a sting, he was probably in the clear.
When the scavenger gave him the down payment on a Space University Bank credit card, Sling was almost sure it wasn't a sting. Too upper-crusty for his image, by half, if that image had been constructed by the Interstellar Commerce Commission, the Contraband Enforcement Agency, or Customs.
When the smelly old eccentric lumbered out of his office, Sling was a comparatively rich man. Next time Captain Keebler showed up, there'd be something to drink around here.
Right now, Sling was going to have to hustle: he had to buy the components he needed to make the box, which, from what the old man had told him, didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of working.
No alien artifact was going to respond to the black box that Keebler had ordered, but Keebler had told Sling exactly what he wanted, and Sling would make him exactly that box.
The box would perform its functions, so Sling would earn his pay.
What in all of creation did that fool have out there, that he was trying to get into it without even an expert program to think the parameters through for him?
Sling stopped wondering about it and picked up the phone. He had to call around and see who had what he needed on the shelf. There wasn't time to order parts. With a quarter of a K-note riding on this fabrication order, he didn't want to be caught short, or come in late, or give Keebler any reason to leave him holding the bag—or, in this case, a black box virtually useless to anyone else and probably useless to Keebler himself.
CHAPTER 14
Caught in the Act
By the time Vince Remson assembled his ConSec backup team and had secured his clearances to enter the Cummings building, he'd had plenty of time to work up a head of steam over the possible repercussions of what he was about to do.
The sidewalk in front of the NAMECorp CEO's residence was crawling with officials. Richard Cummings, Jr.,'s son was in this up to his triply immune ears.
Every time Remson took three steps toward the building, somebody stopped him: a representative of NAMECorp; a nervous functionary from TTT (Threshold Trust Territory) Internal Security; one of the UNE people that were here to make sure that none of the rights of the Medinan girl were violated; and a worried staffer of his own with a communique' from the Secretariat.
Remson kept telling everyone the same thing: He had a full understanding of what was at stake here. And he did.
The girl up there with Richard Cummings III wasn't going to be handed over to her own people for summary execution if Remson had anything to say about it. He had a medical team with an ambulance waiting to examine the girl. With any luck, she was still a virgin. If she wasn't, that still didn't mean that Remson was going to turn her over to the brutal justice of Medina. Doing so would make him an accessory to state-sanctioned assassination. He was determined to find a way around that possibility.
Finding a way around it involved the Cummings boy, who was also under a knee-jerk sentence of death already, according to Medinan representatives. But the kids had been tried and sentenced in absentia within minutes of the mullahs receiving Remson's report.
Nobody had expected the Medinans to play into the Secretariat's hands by going so far. But somehow, Remson was going to use the Medinan overreach to save the girl. You couldn't declare the son of NAMECorp's CEO, and NAMECorp itself, with all its star-flung outposts, the enemies of your state, its religious laws, and subject to death and destruction on sight, without somebody giving you an argument. Not in this day and age. And not on UNE and TTT turf.
So when one of Mickey Croft's personal security people came shouldering his way through the crowd of officials and police and vehicles to Remson, he assumed the man was delivering one more Medinan threat of reprisals and broken relations if both kids weren't immediately turned over to Medinan justice.
But the fellow said, "Hey, Vince. Got a message for you from Customs that Mickey said you'd want to hear. Director Lowe requests your presence on the negotiations team dealing with the Relic, ASAP."
"Damn the Relic," Remson nearly snarled, so unexpected was this additional complication; "and damn Riva Lowe, as well. I don't have time for her games."
The functionary put his hands in his pockets and looked at his feet, trying to stifle a grin. "You don't want me to tell her that, sir."
"You're right. Tell her to start without me. I'll be along as soon as I can."
The functionary turned to go.
"And tell Mickey thanks for the modeler—off the record."
The security man didn't look back as he raised a hand and waved to indicate that he'd heard, understood, and would comply.
Remson took a deep breath and headed for the knot of people congregated before the Cummings Building. In their midst were Ali-7 and the mocket, now happily sniffing feet in its new shape of earth-type bloodhound.
Watching the mocket turn itself into something three times its size had been a real experience, enough to raise your short hairs. But by then, Remson had run the Ali through Croft's psychometric sampler-modeler, and his incredulity index was already redlined. There was nothing in the model of Ali-7 that differed in any way f
rom a well-trained human commando—the sort of commando that Vince Remson had once been.
Well, Medina was far away and subject to UNE laws, if it wanted to trade with the rest of humanity. Once human and subhuman rights on Medina came under UNE scrutiny, lots of things were going to change. Things like treating women as little more than incubators with legs. Abortion was illegal on Medina. So was sex outside of wedlock, and wedlock was still a camel-trading affair.
Maybe Cummings, Jr., had enough camels to trade with Ayatollah Forat to save Cummings III's miserable life. Mickey's staff was trying to find the NAMECorp CEO right now.
But Medinan women hardly ever married infidels. . . .
So this conference could turn into everybody's worst nightmare, even without the Ali matter; even if Remson could bring himself to let what he'd learned about Ali-7 die with him.
But Remson couldn't—wouldn't—do that. Ali-4 and Ali-5 were going to die if Remson kept silent. So he wasn't about to do that. The least these fighting men of Medina deserved were real names. You had a right to die with a name, for heaven's sake. You had a right to walk around with your head high and some basic human dignity, no matter what you were trained to do.
The Ali-7 model had been more forthcoming than Ali-7 could bring himself to be, because Remson could filter out the cultural restraints of Medinan conditioning.
But the Ali-7 model wasn't admissible as evidence in court. Ali-7 was.
Remson cut through the crowd around the Ali and straight to the Medinan bodyguard. Ali-7 was still holding the bloodhound's leash.
"Is the mocket ready?"
Ali-7 looked at him with liquid eyes that held a degree of fellowship and trust in them that Remson hadn't seen since he'd left the Peacekeeping service. And also a brittleness that came from knowing you were walking into a situation that could kill you.
"The mocket is ready, Remson," the Ali told him. Ali-7 loved his life, however repugnant that life might be to an outsider. He pulled a corner of Dini Forat's veil out of his pocket and dangled it before the red-furred bloodhound's nose. The hound bayed.
Or at least the mocket gave as good an imitation of a baying hound as it could, having seen only one stock vid on bloodhound behavior.
Again, Remson recalled the cloud that the little white mocket had exuded before it tripled its size. All its hairs had stood on end. There'd been a smell that was sweet and fecund, and the air pressure in Mickey Croft's modeler room had seemed to change. Remson's ears had popped.
Maybe the mockets tapped Dirac's energy sea, like some sort of biological A-field transformer. Remson's atomic wrist-watch, in exact sync with the clocks in the modeler room, had been two seconds slow thereafter to all the clocks outside, which might indicate A-field effects.
However the mocket had managed its transformation, it was a bloodhound now, and there wasn't any reason to delay putting it to good use.
Before the gathered representatives of the various interested parties, Remson said, "Okay, boy, find your mistress. Seek."
The bloodhound better be right. Otherwise, Remson's ass was in a concrete sling, all these people were here for nothing, and young Cummings was going to catch a different kind of hell for not answering his vidphone and probably aiding and abetting the interstellar transport of a minor.
Because Dini Forat had come back to the Cummings Building with young Rick. The information gathered by Ali-4 and Ali-5, and passed on to Remson by Ali-7, had checked out perfectly: Cummings had brought the girl here; Remson had the surveillance recordings to prove it.
As he and the Ali-7 let the bloodhound lead them into the Cummings Building's lobby and to the private penthouse elevator, Remson began praying that he hadn't made some awful mistake in judgment. His neck prickled as if he could feel the recorders trained on him. All on the record. All by the book.
If he was just flat wrong about the girl still being here, he couldn't even imagine what it would do to Secretary Croft's position vis-a-vis the Medinans in the hours and days to follow.
If he was wrong, he'd stopped all other avenues of search and let the girl get away clean. Or he'd been set up by the Medinans and fallen for some deadly bait, hook, line, and sinker.
The elevator closed behind them, cutting off the observer teams. Above his head, ceiling cameras rotated slightly, focusing on the Ali-7 and the bloodhound. Remson eyed the cameras and shook his head: Don't talk.
The mournful-looking Ali nodded imperceptibly. The bloodhound/mocket sat on its haunches and lolled its tongue.
Remson's ears reacted to the elevator's speed and he yawned to clear them.
Then the upward rush stopped, and the elevator door opened onto the penthouse floor.
The three of them stepped into the anteroom. The bloodhound strained toward the door into the suite and scratched at it with one paw. The Medinans held dogs to be unclean. Therefore, Dini Forat, avid vid fan, had made her mocket into the simulacrum of a vid star's little white dog. That should have told her parents something, if anybody'd given a damn.
The Ali wasn't armed. The Medinan bodyguard wouldn't take the zero-point stunner that Remson had offered. Ali-7's function was to protect his charge with his life, not to protect his own life, the Ali had reminded Remson placidly.
Remson wasn't going to argue with Ali-7. Yet. But something in him was so outraged at the Medinans that he had to remind himself that he was supposed to rescue the girl and her dumb boyfriend, not contrive their deaths.
If those kids died in some sort of scuffle up here, maybe it would be cleaner, but it wouldn't be better for the Ali.
If Dini Forat died, then Ali-7 died. It was that simple under Medinan law. If you were an Ali who failed in your duty, you died. When your charge died, you died.
Vince Remson reminded himself that everybody died, and pushed the doorbell like the civilized man he was. He could shoot his way in if the Cummings kid didn't have enough sense to open the door.
But the Cummings kid did open the door, smiling benignly, with a raccoon riding on his shoulder that had its tail wrapped around his neck.
Cummings III resembled his father, Cummings, Jr., whom Remson had seen numerous times and met once. Rick Cummings also looked like his dossier photos.
But there was something odd about the way Remson felt when he confronted the youngster. Why was Remson hesitating? Why did he feel this sense of wasted effort, of chagrin? Why didn't he just tell the kid to get out of the way and let him in?
The Cummings kid was saying, "Officer, there's been some terrible mistake. As you can see—"
The bloodhound, with a deep-throated howl, lunged past Cummings, dragging Ali-7 with it, into the suite.
The abrupt movement startled Cummings. The blond kid didn't get out the way fast enough. He collided with the Ali. His legs got caught in the bloodhound's leash. The raccoon fell from his shoulders as he stumbled.
Everybody went down in the melee except Remson.
Suddenly his head cleared. He saw a girl—Dini Forat, for sure—standing right behind Cummings, her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes huge over it.
Remson could have sworn she hadn't been there before.
"Dini Forat? I'm Assistant Secretary Remson, from—"
Remson also saw two more of the raccoons. One was struggling out of Dini Forat's grasp. The other was all humped up and hissing at the bloodhound.
"—from the Secretary General's office," Remson continued, struggling to get the words out. It was as if something was trying to stop him. "Don't be afraid, Ms. Forat. You're under our pro—"
The bloodhound was exuding another cloud of sweet-smelling miasma.
And it was changing shape.
While Remson watched, speechless, the mocket changed itself into an exact replica of the raccoons.
And Ali-7, who had it on a leash, pulled its choke chain tight so abruptly that the mocket nearly flew into his arms.
All of a sudden, the sense of restraint left Remson. Cold fury took its place, so that he nearly
shouted at the Cummings kid on the floor: "Get up, you stupid bastard. Get your things. And the girl's. You're both coming with me."
The raccoons—the real ones, all but the mocket that Ali-7 held—were running madly around the room.
The Cummings kid scrambled up, his blond hair falling over his forehead. His face was reddening. He ignored Remson, saying, "Here boy. Here." He snapped his fingers.
One of the raccoons stopped in its tracks. Remson thought he saw it raise something to its mouth and bite on it: a beetle, with wildly waving legs.
Then he didn't see it.
Then Ali-7 and his mocket stepped between Remson and the Cummings kid, and he saw the raccoon eating the beetle again. And other beetles. There were bugs all over the room.
He looked closer. They weren't just any beetles. . . .
The Cummings kid yelled, "Don't you touch that!" as Remson shouldered by him to pick up one of the beetles.
"Leetles! Kid, you're in serious trouble!"
The Cummings scion ignored him. He turned on the Forat girl. "Now see what's happened. It's that damned mocket of yours! How am I going to get us out of—"
Dini Forat began to shake. She hugged herself and sat down there, in the middle of the room. Before Remson could stop her, she picked up a Leetle and popped it into her mouth.
At least she wasn't crying.
Ali-7 was stroking the raccoon on his shoulder, murmuring to it. The mocket/raccoon was munching a Leetle.
Ali-7 said, "Mistress Dini, come with us please. My friend Remson has promised me that I can be with you all the time, and that no harm will come to you. Up, now, please, Mistress."
The Forat girl chewed her Leetle placidly.
There were Leetles crawling over the rug, everywhere. The place was alive with them. And the raccoons were chasing them wildly.
Remson didn't get it. He didn't get it at all. "Excuse me, Ms. Forat. Ali, watch her. Cummings, let's have a little talk. Out here."
He had the stunner in his hand. He didn't remember how it had gotten there. Years of training couldn't be totally wiped away.
