Liege-Killer

by Christopher Hinz

  Jerem shook his head vehemently, more to hide embarrassment than to contradict the man. Occasionally, Paula bent him over and smacked him good.

  “A beating,” Smiler continued, “can become a special pleasure.”

  “But if you...”

  Paula interrupted. “Jerem, that’s enough. These two men are probably weary of being questioned.” Her son was already well on his way to learning about the bizarre world of adults. She did not intend for these perverts to advance his education.

  “Such questions are rather tiring.” The smile degenerated into another sneeze. He produced a kerchief, blew his nose. “Excuse me, please, but these trees...” He waved his arms at the surrounding forests. “I believe I’ve developed an allergic reaction.”

  “Don’t they have trees in your cylinder?” Jerem began.

  “Yes,” Paula answered, “they probably have trees, but of a different variety.”

  She faced Smiler. “Our gallery uses a filtered air system. You would probably be more comfortable inside.” She did not want to let him in, but she could not think of a polite way to refuse. Best to get it over with.

  “Jerem,” she continued, “I want you to go upstairs and get the key to the gallery.”

  He nodded and dashed into the house. “Get the key” was their signal that the security system monitoring the gallery was to be turned on. The control panel and recorder were located upstairs in a hall closet. A pair of microcams, hidden in the gallery walls, fed audio-video to the master unit.

  Antique robberies seldom occurred on Lamalan and a surveillance system would certainly not prevent one from happening. However, the police could later use the recording to ID suspects.

  Many galleries employed a permanent on-line security system. Paula dealt with clients who requested anonymity and she honored such requests. She used the security system only in unfamiliar situations.

  She nodded to Smiler. “Follow me, please.”

  They don’t look like robbers, she thought. Then again, they don’t look like anyone else I’ve ever met.

  She led him down the entrance hall, past their living and dining rooms to the imposing wooden door near the back of the house. I should be thankful for small favors, thought Paula. Sad-eyes had elected to remain outside.

  “Marth Antiques,” read Smiler. “A most phonetically pleasing name.”

  The sign was mounted on the thin strip of wall beside the gallery door; gold letters etched onto a flat-black rectangular plate. The door itself was solid oak, grown on Earth and chiseled into diamond patterns by a woodcarver some two hundred years ago. Inset emerald bands glittered under the hallway’s soft golden light.

  “A most beautiful portal!”

  “Thank you.”

  Jerem bounded down the stairway and, with a breathless nod, handed her the old-fashioned twistkey. She felt a bit safer knowing that the security system was activated, though a faint chill swept up her spine as Smiler followed her into the gallery.

  He appraised the room carefully. The chamber was a twenty-five-foot square with rounded corners. Lush ivory carpeting covered the floor and rose up the walls to blend into vertical slabs of white pine, which were hesitantly streaked with rainbow gloss. The pine studs tongue-and-grooved into the slightly darker ceiling timbers. Brass lanterns hung from the rafters, spotlighting the various daises under diffused yellow light. The lanterns were computer-controlled and randomly programmed to vary the intensity of illumination so that different exhibits were periodically accented by stronger light.

  Paula cleared her throat, caught Smiler’s attention. “We specialize in twenty-first-century microprocessor tools. I believe you’ll find that we have one of the finest small collections outside of the museums. Naturally, we have a full E-Tech license for the vending and purchasing of machine antiques. And we are always interested in new acquisitions, provided they are at least one hundred and seventy-five years old.”

  Smiler nodded. His eyes calmly panned the gallery.

  So much for her standard speech. As always, she had intimated that Marth Antiques dealt strictly over the counter, which was not really true. Occasionally, she came across black-market items, and although she never purchased them herself, there were trader shops over in New Armstrong that would. If one of Paula’s referrals resulted in a sale, the trader shop would kick back a small percentage. It was a fairly safe way of making a little extra money. The Guardians had their hands full just trying to keep tabs on the major black marketers; people who made referrals were almost completely ignored. And Paula had her principles—she refused to consider dangerous or degrading items. Weapons and genetic toys were the province of the more covert dealers. Like Bob Max.

  Smiler hesitated for a moment in the doorway, then walked to the nearest dais. He examined the steel-gray rectangular box with a critical eye.

  “It’s a mid-twenty-first century. Pre-Apocalyptic,” she added needlessly. “It’s a programmable table saw with an enclosed beam sander. Cuts and polishes all woods and most plastics and metals.”

  “Made on Earth?” he asked.

  “Yes. And it still functions. We sell only fully operable antiques. Would you like to see a demonstration?”

  “Indeed, yes!”

  Paula flipped open the recessed control panel beside the doorway and activated the switch for that exhibit.

  The table saw’s plastic casing jerked upward, split in half, and unfolded rapidly to expose the inner working surface. Paula was always prepared for demonstrations—a piece of sheet aluminum had already been placed within the chucks.

  She hit the second switch and a soft hum filled the gallery as microlasers ignited and carved a preset pattern in the aluminum sheet. In less than ten seconds the work was done. The table saw shut itself down.

  Paula walked to the dais and withdrew the aluminum doily that had been carved out of the sheet. She handed it to Smiler.

  He held it up to the light, examined the finely laced edges. “My. Such a pretty example. Why, with such a machine, one could quickly become an artist!”

  “Yes, they could.” Paula had been in the business long enough to know that the machine was of no real interest to him.

  She decided to probe. “What sort of antiques are you here to see Max about?”

  Smiler moved to the next dais—a modular ice cutter—and ran his fingers in a circular pattern on the side of the casing. “We seek the esoteric.”

  He pivoted to face her. “That is not to say that you do not possess a most beautiful collection, Ms. Marth. At my owner’s bidding, I have traveled extensively. Rarely have I come across a more beautiful selection. I am surprised that you do not advertise yourself—a small sign outside this building would doubtlessly attract more attention.”

  “This is also my home,” said Paula. “Besides, we are a little off the main urban routes. And I do advertise in the Antiquers’ Guild bulletins and on several of the major trade channels.”

  “Of course.”

  Jerem coughed loudly from the doorway. “Mom, can I go now? To do my chores,” he added wistfully.

  Paula nodded and he was out of the gallery in a flash. Being around a pair of self-professed slaves obviously did not compare to the prospect of a free Saturday.

  Smiler wandered through the room, carefully examining each item. Paula patiently responded to his simple questions, knowing all the while that he had no interest in her answers. It was all a polite game.

  She came to the tentative conclusion that he was a black marketer. Bob Max certainly operated on the fringes—her trader friends in New Armstrong claimed that Max had even been to the surface on illegal prospecting expeditions. That was very risky business. Lately, the Irryan Council seemed to be making a more concerted effort to crack down on the pirates. Costeaus, however, did not scare easily. They would take their shuttles anywhere for the right price.

  Paula did not think that Smiler was a Costeau, but he could be an illegal dealer. There was a quality of toughness beneath his
manners that reminded her of some of the hardcore traders she had come across.

  He finally ran out of questions. “A most blessed collection, Ms. Marth. You may be assured that my owner will be apprised of what I have seen. Perhaps he will someday have me return here ... to make purchases. Exquisite!”

  Paula forced a smile, ushered him toward the door. “Come back any time,” she said tightly.

  Outside, the sky had darkened considerably. Black storm clouds masked the colony’s three alternate sun sectors, and only the eastward forest, gently curving up the cylinder, still received a measure of reflected light. To the north, visibility had been reduced to less than a mile. The usually comforting view of the south-pole circle, six miles distant, was hidden beyond thick clouds.

  Sad-eyes stood like a sentinel at the corner of the porch. “No sign of Max,” he said without turning. Paula repressed another shudder at the sound of that bleak voice.

  Smiler shook his head. “This is most disappointing. We have come a great distance and unfortunately cannot linger any longer. Other appointments await us.”

  Paula shrugged. “Would you like me to give Max a message?”

  He seemed to consider her question for a moment. Then the smile brightened. “Yes, please do. Tell him that his Philadelphia friends were here. Perhaps you could even gently chastise him for being tardy.”

  “Of course.”

  Without another word, Smiler turned and ambled away from the porch. Sad-eyes fell into step beside him. In the same awkward mincing shuffle as before, they stepped over Paula’s small fence, marched to the road, and headed north. Jerem appeared around the corner of the house.

  Her son carried a bulky white plastic case. It was an authentic duty trunk used by spacemen over two hundred years ago.

  “Mom, I still don’t understand why they’d want to be slaves.”

  Paula shrugged and watched the pair vanish as the road curved into thick woodlands. “It’s sort of an illness ... they probably can’t help it.”

  “Will they always be like that? Can’t they get into a psych-plan?”

  She smoothed the front of her culottes. “I don’t know.” Answers would be complicated enough if the men were really slaves, but she doubted there was much truth in anything Smiler had said.

  Jerem produced a serious frown. “Maybe they were real slaves and they were too embarrassed about it, so they pretended to be pretend slaves.”

  Tension broke and she exploded with laughter. “Come on, I’ll help you get to work on that trunk.” She gave him a quick hug as he set the case on the porch. He grimaced.

  “Mom, I’m too big for that!”

  Paula matched his somber tone. “Of course. Now why don’t you run upstairs and get a sprayer. The inside of this trunk is filthy.”

  He nodded, ran through the doorway.

  “Oh, and turn off the security system!” she yelled. “And code the last segment for filing.”

  Normally, the system erased its data after twenty-four hours. But Smiler ... he was going into her permanent files.

  She scratched a fingernail across the compartmented interior of the duty trunk, searched for a nametag or corporate logo beneath the layers of encrusted grime. The Antiquers’ Guild possessed a master list on the millions of workers who had constructed the Colonies. Dating the relic would be simple if the original owner had indeed marked his property.

  Jerem dashed from the house. The security recorder was clutched in his arms.

  “Mom, look at this!”

  He thrust the square plate in front of her face and tripped a sensor on its beveled edge.

  An image appeared on the surface of the plate—the gallery as seen from high up on the southern wall. The door opened and she watched herself enter the room. But behind her, where Smiler should have been, came a twisting blur of multicolored motion.

  The blur moved through the gallery. Paula stared in disbelief, heard herself explain the buying policies of Marth Antiques and the operational capabilities of the table saw.

  She shook her head. “There must have been a malfunction in the recorder...”

  “Shhh!” Jerem hissed. “Listen!”

  A weird undulating sound came from the screen. It reminded her of a crowd of whispering people.

  The noise stopped and she heard herself ask what sort of antiques Smiler was interested in. There was a pause; again, haunting whispers sounded. Jerem clutched her arm.

  “That noise comes whenever he talks!”

  She nodded thoughtfully, switched off the device.

  “Maybe he wasn’t human! Maybe he was an alien! Maybe the starships have come back!”

  She gripped his shoulder. “Calm down. He was a man. And he was wearing a device called an AV scrambler. It distorts security systems, even passive ones like ours.”

  “I never heard of that!”

  “They’re very rare,” she explained, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. Rare, hell! On the black market, such a device would cost a fortune. AV scramblers were part of E-Tech’s outlawed technology.

  “Do you think they were Costeaus?” A bit of eagerness was gone from Jerem’s voice, but real live pirates would still be considered an event.

  Paula nodded calmly. “Yes, they were probably Costeaus.” She did not believe it.

  “I want to see where they’re going!” He dashed across the yard but careened to a halt at the sound of Paula’s words.

  “Jerem Marth, get back here!”

  “I just wanna see...”

  “Jerem!” She used her sternest voice.

  “Awww, Mom!” He kicked at the grass and reluctantly trudged back to her side. “I wasn’t going to do anything dumb!”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “Those men could be dangerous. If they saw you following them, they might get angry.”

  “I’ll bet I could run faster than they could,” he whined.

  She nipped the argument by pointing at the duty trunk. “Where’s that sprayer?”

  His reply was sullen. “I left it upstairs.”

  “Go get it.”

  He booted the grass. “Even if they were slaves, I’ll bet they got more freedom than I do!”

  * * *

  The storm grew steadily throughout the afternoon. By five o’clock, the air had become sticky and humid. Sporadic thunderclaps could be heard in the distance. Sunlight disappeared altogether. Black and gray clouds rolled across the sky, dissolving into one another and reemerging in new formations. The first lightning flashed just before six. There was no longer any evidence to indicate that they were living inside a huge cylinder. Jerem was ecstatic.

  Paula came to the porch with his jacket, ignoring, as usual, protests that he did not need to cover up. He squirmed into the nylon garment just as a thunderbolt cracked directly overhead, shaking the air. In a matter of minutes, the temperature plummeted at least twenty degrees and cold mist began to dampen their faces. A huge fissure blossomed in the western clouds. Scarlet-yellow lightning strobed the heavens.

  “Did ya see that!” Jerem whispered. “That was chroma-controlled! You wouldn’t believe how hard that is to phase into the storm! Our science teacher says that they gotta generate millions of volts and then they put petro dust into the atmosphere and they trip the banks and inject feeder currents and they can make it any color they want by changing the chemicals in the dust!”

  Paula faked a fascinated nod and tightened the Velcro tab on the collar of her own jacket. Despite the claims of safety, these immense storms unsettled her. There was something inherently disturbing about megavoltage forces ripping apart the sky, sucking at the very air: ecospheric temper tantrums.

  Throughout the day, local news channels had been proclaiming the storm. Psychologists gave testimony to the benefits of allowing regulated loss of control. Lamalan social planners congratulated themselves for creating an evening of mass entertainment. People tended to buy excessive amounts of food and supplies prior to a storm, a curious phenomenon that insp
ired grocers and the Intercolonial Profarmers Union to roundly endorse thunderstorms.

  Others objected to the raging spectacles. The Anti-T-storm League fought for the abolition of thunderstorms throughout the Colonies, and they had been vocally demonstrating their cause on Lamalan during the past week. Paula suspected that there were a great many adults like herself who tread the middle ground—disliking thunderstorms but tolerating them. Jerem’s obvious joy had a lot to do with her own acceptance.

  Green lightning spiraled lengthwise through the cylinder. The accompanying roar shook their porch. Jerem’s excited words were lost beneath crackling aftershocks.

  One thing was for certain—the controversy over thunderstorms was growing. Lamalan’s last storm, two years ago, had sparked only a handful of protests. Today’s event ignited official statements, both pro and con, from numerous organizations.

  Even major Intercolonial groups had been drawn into the fray. E-Tech’s archnemesis, La Gloria de la Ciencia, had come out strongly in favor of the storms, praising Lamalan’s “courage in the face of a vocal minority.” E-Tech had issued a statement denouncing the excessive technology inherent in T-storm creation, although their protest had been carefully worded to assure everyone that they had no intention of calling for the outlawing of such events.

  The heavens burst apart into a spider web of fierce golden light. Paula covered her ears as thunder rocked the house.

  “Jerem, why don’t we go inside and watch the rest of it from the window? You can see just as well.”

  He shook his head and wiped the rain from his face.

  “Okay, so why don’t we at least move back from the edge of the porch. There’s no sense in getting completely soaked.”

  A trio of loud booms drowned out his reply.

  “Jerem?”

  “What’d ya say, Mom?”

  “Why don’t we...”

  Blue-white explosions blistered the sky. Paula gave up. She had promised that he could watch this storm outside, a privilege that she had denied him two years ago—much to his chagrin and to her later regret. Arguments that had nothing to do with thunderstorms inevitably ended with: “Yeah, and you wouldn’t let me watch the storm like everyone else, either!” Another two years of that was not worth it. She had, however, put her foot down when he suggested observing tonight’s aerial calamity from atop their gently slanted roof. There would be a different sort of lightning right across his backside if he dared set foot off the porch.