The address the web had given them was real enough. Ooljee checked it out before calling his wife. Though enjoying her parents’ company and the delights of Albuquerque, she was still wary of the speed with which her husband had changed his mind and boosted her and the kids on their way. Ooljee reassured her in a calm voice, his expression neutral, his words betraying nothing of the remarkable events which had transpired so recently in her kitchen. Only when he’d convinced her all was well did he hang up and prepare to depart.
The pickup took them out of the city on a route designed to avoid both rush hour and the city center. Soon they were cruising at high speed through Ganado’s eastern suburbs, where expensive residences chipped away at tree-shrouded hillsides and people paid fortunes for unobstructed views of the offices and factories they couldn’t wait to abandon during the day.
Gradually the last homes gave way to National Forest. Altitude markers tracked their steady climb. Once, a fox darted across the two-lane highway in front of the pickup. Moody was at peace with himself. The morning was cool, crisp, clear, the contrails of hypersonic shuttles wild white etchings on the cerulean chalkboard of the sky. Cedar and scrub oak gave way to tall conifers. Patches of shade offered refuge to the last, stubborn clumps of winter. The snowpiles sagged in on themselves, pockmarked with bites inflicted by the heat of early spring.
It was late afternoon when they finally turned off the highway. Ooljee shut down the pickup’s scanner and took manual control of the vehicle. The road they’d entered was narrow but paved. Dirt tracks extended through gaps in a fence line on either side, like fingers from a hand.
Though Moody had managed to exert himself in Ganado without much difficulty, he was having some trouble catching his breath now. Not surprising when one realized that the little paved road was winding its way northward at over eight thousand feet. All he could think of was how lucky he’d been not to have had to come here first, straight from sea level.
“This ain’t gonna work,” he said without warning.
Ooljee eyed him questioningly. “Why not?”
“Too easy. It’s too damn easy. All those months of searching and theorizing and querying sources, then we just ask a strange machine a question and that’s all there is to it.”
“Leading up to the question was not easy,” the sergeant reminded him. “I do not feel like we fell into this without having to work for it.”
“Maybe so.” Moody was inhaling the rich perfume of the pines, trying to relax a little. “How much do you think he knows about this web?”
“It told us that someone, probably the man we are after, has accessed it twice—once probably from here, once probably while in Atlanta. That is not much. I think he is unlikely to be an expert.”
The locator on the dash beeped and Ooljee slowed to make a right turn onto a dirt track. They drove about a mile before crossing a small wooden bridge hand-built of huge old wooden timbers. The creek beneath was running loud and wild, snapping with spring strength and fresh snowmelt.
They climbed out of the shallow creek bed and saw the house. Though the entrance faced eastward, no attempt had been made to make it look like a traditional home. It was rectangular in shape, with a sharply raked roof lined with high-efficiency solar panels. A separate garage was attached to the back. An impressive array of non-domestic antennae protruded from the north side of the structure, clustered around a huge satellite dish whose bowl was aimed southward, just clearing the crest of the roof. The pines standing in its way had been professionally topped.
No one emerged to confront them, despite the fact that their approach had to have been both visible and audible to anyone inside. They parked and stood together in front of the truck. The metallic lump under Moody’s arm felt larger than usual.
“What do you think? I’ve spent so much time behind a desk I’ve gotten rusty at making collars.”
“No guns. As we discussed, there is no reason for him to be expecting us.”
“I’d go along with that okay, except for the fact that if this is our boy, he’s killed two people already.” His gaze swept the empty, cool woods, so different from the forests back home. The animals hereabouts were skittish, hard to see. Probably as cold as I am, he thought.
They’d passed the last house a couple of miles back down the paved road, though the sound of gunshots would travel farther than that in this high mountain air. Not that anyone was likely to call the police if they heard anything. Not in this kind of country.
Then he recalled that Kettrick and his housekeeper hadn’t been slain with traditional weapons.
Well, there was nothing traditional about this whole business, and if anyone inside harboring hostile intent wanted to cut them down without warning, they could do so just as easily from a window as in the parlor.
The front entrance was made of wood-grain metal, solid and secure. Ooljee thumbed the intercom switch. After a short delay, a voice issued from the tiny door speaker. “Yes?”
“Am I speaking to Mr. Yistin Gaggii?”
“Yes,” again, without hesitation or any attempt at guile. “I am Sergeant Paul Ooljee, with the NDPS office in Ganado? If you don’t mind, Mr. Gaggii, my friend and I would like to talk to you for a minute.”
“Talk to me?” Just the slightest pause this time, Moody thought. “About what?”
Ooljee glanced briefly at his partner before again directing his voice to the door.
“We’re having a little communications problem with our field spinner. We heard that you knew communications and we thought maybe you could give us a hand.”
“Really? Who told you that?”
“Does it matter? Is it true or isn’t it?”
A long pause ensued. The two officers waited tensely, did not relax when an internal lock popped to grant them entrance.
“It is too cold to discuss this outside, my friends,” the voice declared. “Summer is still a month away. Please come in.”
Ooljee took a deep breath, exchanged a look with Moody, then entered.
They found themselves in a den, or living area, that was startlingly clean. There was nothing to suggest that Gaggii was married, but even allowing for the presence and use ol modern housekeeping devices, the place was cleaner than was natural.
The sterility was muted somewhat by the pretense of traditional artwork and the by-now-familiar earthtone furniture, all pinks, reds, and yellows. The center of the room was occupied by one of the most astonishing holomages Moody had ever seen. It was a medicine yei: seven feet tall, bristling with feathers, elaborate attire, war club and axe and medicine pouch. Unlike the angular abstracts of the sandpaintings, this was a full-figured human form, a life-sculpture of unsurpassed craftsmanship.
The detective admired it as it twisted and danced for them while Ooljee searched for their host. The room was all straight lines and angles, nothing round or curved. There was no softness in it, a feeling that the profusion of sandpaintings on the walls only enhanced. They were impossible to miss, impossible to ignore despite the dominating presence of the holomaged yei. Tiny works a few inches square clustered together as if to ward off the power of larger pieces whose borders could be measured in feet.
“It’s not here,” Ooljee announced after scanning the walls carefully. Moody did not have to ask what his partner was referring to: the Kettrick painting or a copy thereof was not among the dozens that occupied the walls of the room.
Yet despite the presence of the paintings and the powerful holomage and the comfortable furniture, there was nothing in the room to suggest that a distinctive personality lived there. Everything had been laid out and arranged with near-mathematical precision, as precise as a holomask used for cutting molecular chips. It might not look like a hospital room, but it felt like one.
This wasn’t a real room in a real house, Moody abruptly decided. It was a sham, a set for a vid, designed to fool eye and mind.
They had no more time to contemplate the emotional overtones of the decor, because Gagg
ii emerged from a back room. Ooljee shook hands as he introduced himself, politely and with programmed professional enthusiasm.
Moody thought he detected an air of chronic impatience in their suspect. Though Gaggii looked straight at them as he spoke, the detective had the feeling that the man’s thoughts were always several steps ahead of the subject at hand, as though he were devoting only a part of his mind to the conversation. Though he tried to fake it, it was clear that he wasn’t really interested in what was being said. It was just something that had to be dealt with and disposed of, like a leaky faucet or the buying of groceries. The rest of his brain was always otherwise occupied.
It made Moody feel inadequate. He didn’t like that. But then, he didn’t much like Gaggii either. The man smiled frequently, but it was about as honest as the wood-grain in the front door. It was not a genuine smile but rather a conscious manipulation of skin and facial muscles to achieve a desired effect, much as the room had been designed and decorated to appear warm, homey, and accommodating. Like its owner, it was none of those things.
As he listened to his partner engage the suspect in casual conversation it was clear to Moody that Gaggii wanted only for them to leave. Moody did not feel slighted. That would be Gaggii’s reaction, he decided, to any visitor. And yet he sensed no hatred in the man, no outright dislike for other human beings. It was just indifference, he decided finally, as if visitors took up space and time which might otherwise be put to better use.
Moody helped himself to an unvolunteered seat, enjoying the brief look of distaste which slipped past Gaggii’s carefully crafted veneer of hospitality. His gun lay against his chest, unsecured and ready. Still Gaggii displayed neither panic nor concern. That did not induce Moody to relax. The soft-spoken, self-assured ones were the most dangerous because they offered no clue as to what they might do next.
“Actually, Mr. Gaggii, as you may have guessed by now. we are not here because we are having a problem with our communications.”
“Ah,” said Gaggii softly, regarding the sergeant as casually as he might a perambulating bee.
Moody rested his right hand casually on his sternum, close to the butt of his gun, while his partner related some of the events which had brought them to this particular house. Ooljee concluded by declaring that while the evidence they had gathered was not conclusive, it was sufficient to arouse more than a little suspicion, and if he, Gaggii, had nothing to hide, he should be more than willing to accompany them down into Ganado to clear himself by answering a few simple, detailed questions. It would not take much time and it would be of great assistance to the department.
Gaggii listened silently to Ooljee’s words, standing quite still and relaxed except, Moody noted, for his hands. All of his fingers curled back and upwards, so that he appeared to have a fleshy hook attached to each wrist. When the sergeant had finished, Gaggii responded, displaying more interest than at any time since their arrival.
“I think I can answer most of your questions right here, my friends. How did you finally find me?”
Ooljee glanced at his partner. Moody’s fingers slipped inside his jacket to close around his pistol. But Gaggii gave no indication that he knew, made no sudden moves, just stood and waited.
“We used the Kettrick template, got into the web or whatever it is, and asked it,” Ooljee told him.
It had to be a shock, but remarkably, Gaggii’s expression didn’t change. “I had not thought of that, because I didn’t imagine anyone, least of all the police, could figure out what this was about, much less find their way in. For nonspecialists, my friends, you have done astonishingly well. I have only myself to blame. But then, the web was designed to be used by nonspecialists, so I suppose I shouldn’t compliment you too highly. Its simplicity of operation is exceeded only by its capabilities, of which I am every day in awe. How did you happen upon the secret of the template? I thought that when I destroyed the original and the insurance company’s archival copies, I had left nothing behind.”
“Kettrick had his own file.” Moody spoke from his seat on the couch, watching every twitch of Gaggii’s eyes and fingers. “His wife showed us. That’s where we got our copy.”
“Of course.” Evidently Gaggii was not one to indulge in self-recrimination. “I thought of that possibility, but had only enough time for a rapid, unrevealing search. One can only do so many things so fast. It is when things are rushed that people get hurt.” He moved and Moody started to reach for his gun, stopped himself when he saw that Gaggii was only taking a chair opposite the couch. Ooljee remained standing, alert.
“All I wanted was the sandpainting, or a copy thereof. It took me a long time to track it down. Even then, all was still supposition.”
“You are saying that you didn’t know if there was anything to it, and still you killed the two people?”
“He would not let me have a copy of the painting.” Gaggii spoke quietly, as if that explained everything. “When every other method failed, I tried to get it without disturbing anyone, but burglary was not something at which I was experienced. Mr. Kettrick was in a place where I did not think he would be, as was his servant. I tried to discuss the situation with him but he became abusive and irrational. When he started to call the police, I was forced to react.
“Understand that I would not have minded going to jail for breaking and entering. I tried to explain this to him. But he would have forced me to give up the holomage of the sandpainting, which I was making at the time he interrupted me. Like so many wealthy people, he kept confusing arrogance with power. I regret the death of the servant more.
“Much of my life has been spent seeking this sandpainting.” He was watching Ooljee as he spoke. “You have no idea how seminal it is to the history and culture of the People.”
“I’m starting to get the idea,” the sergeant told him brusquely.
“Then you have progressed. That is gratifying.”
“Boom the oil,” Moody snapped. “What exactly is the damn thing, and where’d it come from?”
“What is it…?” Gaggii smiled, an unexpected inner contentment radiating from his lanky form. “I think it is a database of extraterrestrial origin, which can be accessed with remarkable ease. As to where it is from, I believe it was put here by the Holy People.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen that name advertised under Databases in the usual catalogs,” Moody replied.
“I use it for lack of a better local reference.” Gaggii crossed one leg over the other, at ease, enjoying himself. He’s playing a damn game with us, Moody thought suddenly. Well, let him. He and his partner would have the last move.
“That is the reference our ancestors employed. If I had a better name I would use it, but I have been unable to find out anything about them. It is a subject for future study.”
“We got some idea of what it’s like.” Moody’s fingers caressed the butt of his pistol. “One thing’s for sure: it’s dangerous. People a lot more knowledgeable about this sort of thing than you or I need to be studying it.
“Ah, but there are no people knowledgeable about ‘this sort of thing,’ my friend. So why should I not be the one to study it, or you? True, it may be capable of actions our feeble imaginations cannot grasp, but we will not know that until we reach out to it. As for myself, I have a good imagination. It has already given me one idea worth further examination. As you have discovered for yourselves, once
accessed it can be activated by simple voice command.”
“Anything that can override a police department security system and bum down the building it’s housed in isn’t simple, or safe,” Moody argued.
“I do make time for the news,” Gaggii replied with interest. “I heard about the fire in Ganado, but of course had no reason to connect it to my own work. So that was you two toying with the template. You are lucky all you lost was the building. A system simple to direct is also easy to misdirect. One must progress carefully, in modest increments.”
“We won’t make tha
t mistake again,” Moody assured him. “Nor will you. Maybe you have some idea of what it is, but you still don’t have the vaguest notion of what it’s for.”
Gaggii waxed philosophical. “Perhaps it was emplaced to help the Anasazi and later the Navaho, only the Way was forgotten or deliberately obscured by superstitious medicine men. Or maybe the Anasazi did make use of it. Sometime around 1300 A.D. they simply disappeared. Nobody knows why. Nobody knows where they went. Maybe they used the Way to go someplace where the soil and climate were better. Maybe they went into the web. I do not believe that myself, but when one considers the implications of this discovery, many things suddenly become possible.”
“If you do not think that, what do you think it was put here for?” Ooljee asked him, caught up in contemplation of the mystery.
“I do not think it was put here for any purpose at all. It is just a tool, a device. Like any good tool, it waits to be instructed, to be told what to do.” His smile widened slightly. “Unless information to the contrary presents itself, I see no reason not to assume that the beings who built it just left it here.”
Moody frowned. “Nobody would just ‘leave’ something of this magnitude.”
Gaggii turned to face him. “You apply your values to the immense unknown.” He laughed softly, full of self-contained amusement. “Perhaps they were just passing through and paused only long enough to, say, change a flat tire. We cannot imagine what they came for any more than we can imagine them. It is said that one cannot envision a real alien because a truly alien alien would by its very definition be incomprehensible to us. So might it be with their devices, their tools.
“I think the template design is a tool, the web it accesses a greater one. There may be others lying about whose existence we do not even suspect, devices we cannot see or sense.
“Picture it, my friends. You are traveling in your truck through the high desert. You have a flat and stop to change the tire. In your rush to depart you forget some of your tools; the power jack, the lug seal, perhaps some paper clips and an empty beer can. Accelerating to eighty, you vanish rapidly from the scene without anyone witness to your activities.
Cyber Way Page 17
