The Mocking Program

by Alan Dean Foster

  Reaching up, Cardenas felt of his drooping mustachio. It was soaked with her tears and—other fluids. The expression of distaste that wrinkled his face was partially truthful, partially calculated. To his satisfaction, it provoked the desired response. Her smile widened as she continued to rub and wipe at her eyes.

  "You really don't know, do you? My mother didn't tell you?"

  "I really don't know," he confessed as he pulled up the hem of his shirt, exposing his slightly hirsute belly, and used the cloth to try and wring out his facial hair.

  "I'm not just a tecant. I'm also a mnemonic. My father, The Mock, he doesn't trust anybody else. Never lets anybody get close to him. Not even my mother. But me . . ." Her voice threatened to trail away, broken by reminiscences of a submissive, unhappy childhood.

  Speaking in little more than a calming whisper, Cardenas gently urged her to continue. "It doesn't matter what it is, Katla. I'll understand." Reaching out, he used a forefinger to tenderly elevate her chin. "Look at me." Once more her dark, grown-up-too-soon eyes met his. "You know that I'll understand, don't you?" There was no nod of acquiescence, but she did find her voice again.

  "Daddy—The Mock wants me back because ..." She stared off in one direction after another. "He calls me his 'little curly-haired mollysphere.' "

  Cardenas blinked. "I'm not sure I understand. You memorized some things for him?"

  Now she did nod, her black hair bobbing with the vigorous up-and-down motion of her head. "Not just some things. Everything."

  The Inspector was taken aback. "By 'everything,' you mean . . . ?"

  Solemn-faced, the girl touched her forehead with a finger. "His whole business is right here. I don't know that I understand it all. Maybe it's better that I don't. But everything I was told, or shown, I retain. Names, places, people, transactions, times, dates—numbers. Lots and lots of numbers. Mostly about money, but also about— other things."

  "Transactions," Cardenas murmured. "What kind of transactions?"

  She shook her head. "I can't tell you. Daddy said that if I tell anybody, it makes me an accomplice to whatever I talk about."

  In as earnest a voice as he could muster, Cardenas murmured intently to her. "You're a twelve-year-old girl, Katla. Your mother has just been killed. You haven't done anything bad, and you're not guilty of anything except having the wrong man for a father. I swear to you, nothing you tell me will make you an accomplice to anything. All you've done is memorize things. Facts and figures. Like from a book, or a molly. Can a book be an accomplice?"

  She hesitated. "I guess not. I suppose not." Her face took on a slightly dreamy, distant expression as she proceeded to relate, at random, a handful of the kind of "transactions" she had been compelled to commit to memory.

  The small hairs on the back of the Inspector's neck stiffened as he heard her recollections. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he listened to a sampling of horrors and transgressions that would have left the typical twelve-year-old trembling with fear. Katla did not appear fazed in the slightest, leaving him to wonder, in spite of what she had said, how much of what she was reciting she really did understand.

  Eventually, she returned from wherever it was she had gone, apparently none the worse for the self-induced trance. "Was that enough? Should I tell you more?" For all that it had affected her, she might as well have been describing the contents of last week's favorite vit shows.

  "No, Katla. That's fine. Tell me: do you know what 'meroin' is?" She shook her head. "How about 'seventy caliberon'?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "I think the first one is some kind of medicine. Isn't the other some kind of machine?"

  "It has to do with a certain type of gun," he told her, holding nothing back. "The first one is— It doesn't matter." Since she did not question him as to the meaning of evisceration, he chose not to return to it for discussion.

  No wonder The Mock was so desperate to recover custody of his daughter. Better than any spinner, or vorec controller, or para, she was a walking, talking, breathing gram. One he could call upon at any time to confirm the details of a business deal, or recite statistics relating to a previous transaction, or itemize the history and personal characteristics of a friend, an enemy, or a casual commercial contact. Within her innocent, preadolescent self she bore the details of his entire illicit business. What a boon that memorized information would be to a competitor! the Inspector realized. He now had an explanation for the sudden, avid interest shown in the girl by others, such as the Inzini and the Ooze.

  Unlike a box or a molly, there was no way she could be hacked, no means of electronically or remotely accessing the information she retained. The Mock's twelve-year-old "curly-haired mollysphere" could not be corrupted by a virus or copied by a scanner. She could not, as a member of immediate family, even be compelled to testify against him in court.

  That did not mean she wouldn't, he realized. Any lingering friendly feelings she might have held regarding her father had probably perished with her mother's violent death.

  "I didn't want to do it," she was saying. "At first it was kind of fun. Like showing off, just to prove that I could. Then I got tired of it. But Daddy kept insisting. So I kept doing it. It was easy for me. When I got older and started to understand some of the things he was telling me to remember—not like the words you just asked me, but other things—I realized that they involved bad stuff, muy malo. But Daddy, he . . ." She paused, gathering herself. "Never mind that. I don't like thinking about that.

  "He made me keep on doing it. He made me! I didn't tell Mom. I thought if she didn't know about it, Daddy wouldn't do anything to her. When she asked me what I was doing all that time with him and his friends, I lied and told her it had to do with the quantum theft project. Then she came to me one night, real late, when I was asleep, and told me to wake up and get dressed. I didn't understand what was happening until we got in the car and I saw Mr. Brummel. We drove away. We ran." She looked down at her clenched hands.

  "But you can't run away from The Mock. That's what Daddy always told me. 'Nobody runs away from The Mock.' And he was right, he was right, and now Mom's gone, and I'm alone, and what am I gonna do?" As she buried her face in her hands, the tears began anew. "Where am I going to go? I don't have anybody."

  "No aunts or uncles, no cousins?"

  "If I do," she told him between sobs, "I don't know their names, or where they are. Mom never mentioned any to me. Maybe she didn't want me to talk to them because it might get them in trouble. With The Mock."

  Rising from his couch, Cardenas moved to sit down next to her. When one strong arm went around her shoulders, she let herself lean over against him. She did not look like someone who carried within her mind the entire history and records of a worldwide criminal syndicate.

  He waited until she was finished, letting her weep into his side. Then he sat back, gripped both her shoulders firmly, and looked into her eyes. "You'll be safe, Katla. Safe and well taken care of. I'll see to that myself. You'll be able to start a new life, with new friends, in a different place. And eventually you'll grow up, have a normal life, and be able to forget much of this."

  Chest heaving, she shrugged indifferently. "Maybe what you say is true. Maybe it will happen like that. I don't know. It doesn't matter. Mom's gone, so it doesn't matter. I—I'd like to believe you, Mr. Cardenas."

  He grinned and sat back a little farther. "I told you: call me Angel. Use the English pronunciation if it makes you feel better."

  She had to smile at that. "No matter what happens, I won't be able to forget. See, I can't forget anything. I've never been able to. I don't know how."

  A voice came from behind them. "Hey, you two. How's everything going in there?"

  Cardenas glanced back at the concerned sergeant. "We're managing, Fredoso. Be done here soon, I think." The big man nodded and closed the door.

  "Who's that?" Katla was looking past the Inspector. "Friend of yours?"

  "My partner. Sergeant Fredoso Hyaki. He's a
good man. When we get back to the Strip I'm going to let him take you around to meet some people who will help you to begin your new life." He eyed her questioningly. "If that's all right with you, that is."

  "Why can't you do it, Mr.—Angel? You said you'd look after me yourself. I think, maybe, that I could like you."

  It was enough. A weight lifted from Cardenas's chest. "I'll be there, to be with you, every moment I can, Katla. But as an NFP Inspector, there are other things only I can do. I'll visit you and take you around myself as often as I possibly can. When I can't, Mr. Hyaki will look after you." He smiled encouragingly. "You'll like Fredoso. Everybody does. He's just a big teddy bear."

  For the first time, her mood seemed to lighten ever so slightly. "He reminds me of Sorong."

  Cardenas repressed a laugh. "Now that you mention it, he does, doesn't he? You be sure and tell him that, every chance you get. Just think of him as your protector. Anything you need, you can ask him." He rose from the couch. "Will you come with us, Katla? Will you let us help you?"

  "Why not?" Standing, she was almost as tall as he was. "Like I told you before, there's nothing for me here. Not anymore. So I might as well go with you." Her tone, her expression, even her posture radiated hatred and loathing. "Anything's better than going back to Daddy and his lepero friends."

  Putting a comforting arm around her shoulders, Cardenas guided her toward the doorway. "Is there anything you'd like to bring with you? From here?"

  She shook her head sharply. "I don't want anything from here. I don't want to remember this place at all."

  "No clothes, personal items, nothing?" he reiterated.

  She looked up at him. "If the NFP has the money to give me a new beginning, then maybe it could buy me some new clothes?" She showed signs of coming back to life. "I remember some shoes I saw in Olmec. Black, with flutterheels. Of course, I don't guess I can go back to Olmec, but..."

  He patted her shoulder. "The Strip is full of stores. Even I know that a girl can't buy shoes off a box; you have to be able to try them on."

  She nodded. Color was returning to her face. "You can do a virt fitting if you have the right kind of scanner, but that doesn't tell you how it feels to walk in them. They don't have a sim for that, yet."

  "You're a tecant. Maybe you can design one."

  "It'd be fun to work with shoes. See, if you just had a little activatable sensing platform that could link to the virt, and could figure out an algorithm that would let you compensate for the differences in customer mass, you could..."

  As he listened to her rambling, disjointed soliloquy about women's shoes and pressure-sensitive coils and body fat analyzers, he grew more and more aware of what a remarkable young-woman-to-be they were about to accompany back to Nogales. Given some time to grow up, a little peace and quiet, and a suitable education, a bountiful future stretched out before her. A new identity would protect her from such as the Inzini and the Ooze. All they had to do was ensure that she did not revert to being a molly for The Mock. The best way to accomplish that would be to remove from the equation the one individual who most desperately wanted her back.

  As soon as they were safely home in the Strip a determined Angel Cardenas, just as he had promised Katla Mockerkin, intended to take care of that little matter personally.

  FOURTEEN

  IT MEANT CALLING IN A LOT OF FAVORS. IT MEANT long hours of manipulating private as well as departmental crunch, of staring at a vit screen until his eyes seemed to be floating loose in his head. When he could make the time, he visited with Katla Mockerkin as often as possible. For reasons he could not entirely fathom, she found his presence reassuring in a way that Hyaki and the NFP Child Protection Services representatives were not. Not that he minded. Spending time with the precocious, thoughtful girl was a mutual pleasure.

  As it took time even for the specialists at the NFP to construct an entirely new identity for Katla that would survive the most comprehensive search, she was placed in a secure Nogales-area residence under twenty-four-hour watch. Since she had agreed to help them against her father, the need to ensure her safety and security was greater than ever. While still keeping that in mind, every effort was made to render her surroundings as commonplace as possible. Considering her background and what she had already gone through, everyone from the federales to the psychys agreed that the more run-of-the-mill and unpressured her immediate environment, the better it would be for her health and well-being. So when she went out on her occasional approved excursions, usually to an entertainment center or mall deeper within the Strip, she was accompanied by only one case worker. While Hyaki trailed the meandering pair from nearby, two to four other incog federales shadowed them all, alert for the unexpected, the unusual, and the potentially dangerous.

  There were no incidents. Katla had been delighted to oblige her concerned hosts by dyeing her hair and changing its styling, by utilizing more mature cosmetics to make her appear older and wearing special shoes to make her taller. But she adamantly refused to don the prosthetic stomach weight, even just to go out. Cardenas had smiled at that. You could change a girl's appearance as long as she felt it would make her more attractive. Layering on artificial fat was not an option.

  Like anyone else in his position, The Mock tended not to stay in any one place for very long. Owner of a number of elaborate residences both within and beyond the borders of Namerica, he moved around frequently, both to attend to his various enterprises and to prevent rivals and law enforcement from having time to focus on his activities.

  Nearly three weeks had passed since the two federales had returned from the rainforest depths of the CAF with Katla Mockerkin safely in their care when the call came down to Cardenas, seated in his cubicle, that Research had finally pinpointed what they believed to be the heart of The Mock's illicit domain. Eagerly studying the information that hovered in the box tunnel above his desk, he was only moderately surprised to see that the hub centered not on one of the Mock's isolated outposts in the Turks and Caicos, or Cuba, or Hispaniola or Nueva York, but in the Strip itself. Once more, the old saw about hiding in plain sight held true.

  While The Mock vamosed around, his operations center had been built in the center of his operations. Although no one could tell for certain whether Cleator Mockerkin himself was presently staying at his nerve center, analysis of the man's movements indicated that, historically, he was likely to be in residence at the site for a particular two months out of the year.

  Cardenas hastily checked his calendar. He had ten days left.

  "I don't think it's a good idea."

  Pangborn stood with one hand on the door of his cruiser. Around them, the Nogales Central garage surged with activity: the whine of cruisers coming and going, specialized service vehicles shuttling back and forth, the yammering of officers and support personnel echoing off the underground walls, with the occasional curse or spark of excitement rising above and then falling below the general din. The noise within, like that of the Strip itself, was unrelenting around the clock.

  Missing the Captain in his office, Cardenas had tracked him to the subterranean facility. Confronting him when he was on his way home was probably not the best way to secure permission for what the Inspector had in mind, but he was loath to waste even a minute's time.

  "I've thought it through very carefully."

  Pangborn rolled his eyes. "You always do, Angel. But that's not what concerns me here. Not even you can just walk into a place like that and ask to see the boss."

  "I don't want to see him. I want to arrest him and bring him back."

  "Oh, well," Pangborn responded with blunt sarcasm, "that makes it easy, then! That eliminates all my concerns." He eyed his friend and subordinate closely. "I don't want to lose you, Angel. You're the best intuit I've ever seen. You're also a great poker partner."

  "I'm retiring in a few years, so you're going to lose me anyway, verdad?" He smiled winningly, the tips of his profound mustache elevating in tandem with his cheeks.

/>   "I'd rather not retire you on permanent disability. Or worse." Pangborn could have escaped the conversation simply by slipping into the driver's seat of the cruiser and closing the door behind him. That he did not was a sign of the respect he had for the Inspector— and also because he was wavering. Cardenas sensed it—of course.

  "Until this cabron is put away somewhere, his daughter will never be entirely safe. No matter what Witness Protection says or does. Besides," he argued, "even if no one else was involved, even if the future of an innocent twelve-year-old wasn't at stake, this homber should be removed from circulation."

  Pangborn was obviously torn. Locking up someone like The Mock wouldn't hurt his record one bit. "At least take Hyaki with you."

  Cardenas shook his head. "This one has to be done solo. If I go in with a squad, even if they're opto incog people, there's too much risk of them being recognized. Individuals like Mockerkin are always alert to unusual arrivals in their neighborhood. That's why the smart ones don't live in busy, crowded areas. Too much folk-flux. As for Fredoso, he's as big as a whole squad himself, and draws even more attention. Me, I can blend in. I've always been able to do that. Besides, I can usually tell—"

  "How people around you are going to react; yeah, yeah, I know." Pangborn chewed his lower lip. "You might miss him. Research might be wrong and he could be off fishing in the Bahamas or cogering his current pos somewhere."

  Cardenas gave an eloquent shrug. "Then I miss him. I know there's a chance of that. But I'd like to try. For the girl's sake."

  The other man gave up and gave in. "I know it's no use arguing with you. You're always going to be able to anticipate my arguments. That doesn't mean," he added sternly (and largely for appearance's sake), "that I can't order you not to go."