That was why, Paolo suddenly understood, he hadn't recognized Reggie right off. He'd seen Oxenford's picture on the Web, but the picture was intentionally unlike the man! How ironic. Both modern photography and modern plastic surgery made it easy and inexpensive to fool the eye. But modern encryption systems made electronic forgery virtually impossible. So it was easier to trick people with someone else's physical appearance than with their Web brand. Such a strange world. Of course, Paolo's grandfather had said much the same thing in his time.
Paolo turned to the wallscreen. "Luis, please show us our email accounts."
Luis, the central computer server for the house, replied, "Okay." The images of four inboxes appeared on the wall, one for each member of the family.
Paolo continued, "Close Fernando's box." His son's email closed down.
All three boxes were currently empty. Reggie tapped on his palmtop, and seconds later, Luis spoke again. "Mercedes, you have new mail."
"Show me," Mercedes said.
A new piece of mail appeared; the subject line of the mail just read, "Proof." Paolo spoke. "Luis, could you show us the latest article by Reggie Oxenford?"
Reggie looked at him in mild surprise, and Paolo admitted grudgingly, "I have a subscription to your site."
An article about an "Unsung Hero," a woman in Kenya, appeared on the screen. Mercedes compared the author of the email to the author of the article. She nodded. "It's the same brand, all right."
Reggie raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to read the mail I sent you? There's more there than just my brand."
Mercedes eyed him suspiciously. "I suppose so. Luis, please show the whole message."
The message read, Mercedes, I am really sorry I spoiled your surprise. Please let me make it up to you. After you modify and approve the contract, of course. Attached was a separate document, endorsed by the reporter. The contract, no doubt.
Mercedes harumphed; Paolo chuckled.
"Okay, let's see it," Mercedes said.
Reggie and Paolo walked over to the window while Mercedes approached the wall to peer at the clauses of the document Reggie had sent her.
Sofia turned to the doorway. "Well, people, if you are settled, I have things to do." Paolo smiled and waved, and she was gone.
Reggie muttered to Paolo, "Your daughter's pretty feisty, isn't she?"
Paolo's smile broadened. "Yes, she'd give Boadicea a run for her money." Reggie looked sharply at him, visibly surprised and pleased by his knowledge of the greatest virago in history.
The men waited patiently as Mercedes scrutinized the contract with meticulous care. At last she said, "Okay, Dad, it looks decent. He promises to publish the interview only under his Oxenford brand." Paolo nodded; the promise ensured that Reggie wouldn't sell or publish the interview on any of the lurid scam sheets on the Web.
Mercedes smiled wickedly, "Of course, he does have a little wiggle room here." She pulled a touchpen from her pocket and marked briefly on the wallscreen; the digital ink turned quickly into edited text.
Reggie joined her at the wall and examined her revision. "My, you are paranoid, aren't you?" He tapped on his palmtop, endorsing the revised contract.
It was time to get to business. Paolo offered Reggie a chair. "Okay, now please tell me why you came here."
Reggie spread his arms wide. "Surely you know. I came here to find out the Secrets of the Predictor."
Mercedes stared at Reggie. "The Predictor? But that's a myth! A harebrained invention of the gossip mongers on the Web!"
Reggie raised an eyebrow at Paolo. "When were you going to tell her your little secret?"
Paolo held up his hands to block the puzzled look from his daughter as it turned into a lioness' glare. "Um, Mercedes, did you make sure the contract guarantees he'll keep my name and my brand out of this?"
Mercedes waved her hand to indicate it was not a problem, but continued to hold him with the full force of her gaze. "Father! Are you really the Predictor?"
Paolo writhed for her. "Not exactly. The Predictor really was invented by the nutcakes on the Web. But, ah, the hypothetical character they dreamed up does, uh, sort of have a lot of features in common with, uh, me."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" she demanded.
Paolo said weakly, "Well, I was going to tell you at dinner. Really!"
This time it was Reggie's turn to laugh.
Chapter Four
T minus Nineteen
Her back was turned to her father as she neatly folded and tucked a soft green sweatshirt into her suitcase. "Is my room properly cleaned up?" Mercedes shot the question archly at him over her shoulder.
She could feel her father's eyes sweeping the room automatically. "It is beautiful, Princessa. You are far better at cleaning up than I. Rather remarkable, really, considering how you kept your room at the age of seven."
Mercedes was irritated to feel her muscles relax. After all these years, she still dreaded her father's disapproval. Dad said you never get over that—that his father could still do the same thing to him even today—but it was still irritating.
"I don't suppose you could stay just one more day," Paolo wheedled. "We could go climb Chichen Itza and get a better feel for how to preserve our ancient and revered driveway."
Mercedes bit back a laugh. She straightened, snapped the suitcase closed, and turn to her father. "I'm sorry, Daddy, but I really do have to get back to work. Body contact and all that."
Paolo glowered. "Not too much body contact," he warned.
Mercedes glared back. "You know what I mean."
Paolo laughed. "Of course I do. I'm the one who taught you the phrase, if I recall correctly."
"Probably." Mercedes jerked the tan leather suitcase from the bed, but Paolo was right there and he plucked it smoothly from her hand. "Let me get that."
Mercedes let go, and Paolo let the bag fall a short distance with a strangled gasp. "Princessa, you inherited your packing skills from your mother, not me! Do you have a Montana-class battlecruiser in here as well as your clothes?"
Mercedes found herself choking on her laughter, unable to retort, as her father grappled with the suitcase. He mimicked a wrestler struggling against a heavier opponent. "Daddy!"
Paolo chuckled and stopped swinging the case. They walked down the hall toward the stairs together, but as Mercedes turned to the first step Paolo took her arm. "Before you go, I have something for you." He led her farther down the hall, to his office.
Mercedes felt a soothing warmth as she entered her father's inner sanctum. Daddy's office was a very private place—anyone except Daddy himself entered on an invitation-only basis. But when Mercedes had been a small child and her mother was away, Daddy would often let her come in even when he had work to do. She would sit at the worktable and play with her Barbies while he concentrated at his desk, telling her periodically to keep quiet. For an energetic, talkative child it had been too restrained an atmosphere, but she knew how special it was even then. There was no place on Earth as secure and comforting as Daddy's office.
They had lived farther north in those days. This was a different office from the one she remembered so fondly, but it had the same feeling. The carpet was thick and soft, beige with ropes of woven gold forming a gentle paisley pattern. The two walls with neither screens nor windows held a careful selection of pre-Crash artwork. As a child, her favorite painting had been a picture of a flying battleship, dashing fiercely across a field of fire where every color of the rainbow danced in a frenzy of light. The painting was the original cover art for an early SF book about the coming age of global networking. She had read the book once, as a child, and had received a small shock that prepared her well for a future of Web literature. The book had not contained a single word about flying battleships. She liked the painting nonetheless.
She ran her fingers idly across the worn surface of the old worktable where she had once played. The table would have looked out of place to a stranger, but for Mercedes it was just one mo
re element in the composition that spelled cozy familiarity.
Her father broke the spell. "I just thought you might like to see the video I've emailed to you at home," he said, and waved at the wallscreen by the door. "Luis, start the video please. Mute the sound."
The screen came to life. Mercedes watched herself on the screen, standing in the breakfast nook the day before. Onscreen, Reggie entered the room.
Mercedes clapped. "Daddy, you recorded the entire thing."
"Luis automatically records most of this house. Except your bedroom, of course. Though I might change that if you try to bring a boyfriend down here."
Mercedes growled.
Paolo chuckled. "Anyway, I thought this might be useful to you. The contract you made with Reggie specifies the Stossel Rule Book, right?" As Mercedes nodded, Paolo continued, "I thought so. And under Stossel rules, everyone assumes that everyone else is recording, so these tapes are valid evidence in an arbitration."
Mercedes smiled so widely it hurt. "I didn't know you knew so much about arbitrage, Daddy."
Paolo folded his hands modestly. "Hey, I get around."
"Hey, yourself! Don't be so . . ." Mercedes watched the tape of Reggie and thought back on his visit. "You know, I think you really vortexed his mindspace yesterday."
Paolo raised an eyebrow. "Actually, I think you vortexed his, uh, mindspace more than I did. Few arbiters are as lovely as you, Princessa."
Mercedes blushed. "Well, I have to confess you vortexed my mindspace. He at least knew who you were."
A hurt look spread over her father's face. "You can't mean it. Is my true identity really the 'Predictor'? Can't I keep on as Paolo Ossa y Santiago, father of the world-famous Mercedes?"
Mercedes pouted. "Well, now that I know your secret, will you let me be on your team?"
Paolo took a deep breath. "Ah, Princessa, I wish you could join me. But I think it is not such a good idea." He shook his finger at her. "You tell me why you can't be on my team."
Mercedes wrinkled her nose, and after a moment uttered a small, "Oh."
"Oh, indeed, darling daughter. Or should I say, 'Your Majesty, Queen of Contract Specification for Earth Defense'?" Her father swept into a deep and noble bow.
"Rise, gracious lord," Mercedes offered with a wave of her hand. "I guess it would be a bit of a conflict of interest, at that."
"Mercedes," her father began, and she knew he was serious now, "just being the Predictor's daughter would force Earth Defense and your insurers both to review your qualifications." Her father looked grim, knowing that his own career might one day end hers.
She huffed, "Hey, don't go serious on me, Daddy. I'm not the queen, you know. There are five of us—Blake Gosling is really the king."
"Okay," Paolo continued softly, "You're just a princess, then. A remarkable fairy princess. Have I mentioned lately that I'm very proud of you?"
Mercedes turned to the door, embarrassed, and prepared to get on with her departure. "Cut the mush, Daddy. I'll be back after we nail this Shiva, maybe even before." She looked back at him. "And we both have a lot of work to do in the meantime."
Her father made no response to the truth she spoke.
She frowned. "You surprised me another way with Reggie Oxenford. Why did you tell him so much about your team? And your techniques? I'd have thought that stuff would be an important trade secret for your business."
"Hey, if I hadn't talked to him we wouldn't have gotten him to sign a contract, right? So he would have been free to write anything he damned well pleased about us, spreading a rumor that I was the 'Predictor.' With his reputation half the world would have believed him, and we'd have people flying in here just to look at our house. We'd have to sell tickets—if we didn't someone else would." He looked grim again and walked to the window. He tapped on it. "Remember when we retrofitted these windows?"
Mercedes chuckled. "That poor bulletproof glass salesman! I thought he was going to throw himself in front of the window!" Paolo had insisted on a full-power test of the first window they'd replaced, using his father's antique ArmaLite AR-10 assault rifle. He'd splashed a full twenty-round clip against the pristine clarity of the glass before stopping. The glass hadn't been pristine afterwards, but it had held. Paolo had happily paid for a replacement pane for the window, but not before the company rep had come close to a heart attack.
Her father pointed out the window into the majestic distance. "There are still angry people beyond those trees—the children of the Zapatist rebels, nursing grievances once not unfounded. How do you think they'd feel knowing there's a billionaire living here?"
Mercedes pursed her lips. She came to her father and took his hand. "You know, Daddy, somebody else is going to find out. Now that everyone knows there really is a Predictor, people are going to look harder."
"I know." Paolo shrugged. "Well, it was bound to come out sooner or later." A twinkle came into his eye. "Eventually, your mother would have figured it out and told just a couple of her best friends."
Mercedes giggled. "At that point, it would have been better to publish directly to the Web—it would take people longer to find out."
Laughing, Paolo picked the suitcase back up and led Mercedes out the door.
* * *
The preliminaries were all behind them—simulations of the older Shiva battleships made good targets and gave Morgan the opportunity to work the new Angels into a team. But, much as they may have sweated, uncomfortable as they may have found it trying to run with an arm or a leg locked by the suit, all those sims had been simple preliminaries. Now they moved on to SimHell. It wasn't a pretty sight.
This time the pain was considerably more real. An agonizing electric shock accompanied the simulated loss of a limb. And the sweat was more real too—even CJ was dripping this time, without having lost a leg. In SimHell the corridors hooked together in an almost random fashion. Without the accelerometers on their suits they couldn't even tell where they were, and there was no way of telling where they should be going. Mark II minitanks lurked around every corner, and as often as not they were accompanied by hastily snapped-together replicas of the new Destroyers—the two-legged robots that Angel One had encountered on Shiva V. The Destroyers were quite unlike any other robot they'd ever seen—as much of a surprise as the minitank Mark I had been on Shiva III. Whereas the repair mechs and roboguards had two legs and four arms, the Destroyers had only one pair of arms—where the lower arms could have been attached, the Destroyer carried a dart launcher more powerful than the Angels' pellet rifle, and a broadsword every bit as tough and sharp as the Angels' spike. Angel One had encountered six of the things, and hadn't killed any of them. Instead, the Destroyers had accounted for three Angel deaths, including the death of Angel Leader Buzz Hikmet, last surviving member of the team, in the intersection where the Gate should have been.
Roni, the first member of Morgan's new team to encounter a simulated Destroyer and the first one to be killed by it, waved his hand at the replay. "What are we supposed to do with those things?"
Morgan shook his head. "There's a strongly favored forecast on the Web now, that if you can jam a cubic centimeter of duodec underneath each shoulder and light them off simultaneously, you can cook one."
Axel rubbed the spot on his chest where he'd taken a punji stick during an EarthDay festival three years earlier. He smiled in a vain attempt to hide his disbelief. "Are we just supposed to ask nicely before we tickle his armpits? Any proposals for that little problem?"
Morgan shrugged. "There's a ten-million-dollar prize on the board for a reliable Destroyer-killing strategy. As you may remember, a similar prize led to development of the strategy for killing Mark II minitanks. Hopefully someone will come up with a solution in the next two weeks."
Akira waved the matter aside. "We shall approach with stealth and deception. The Destroyers will not be a problem."
CJ smiled. "Check, Akira. You take the left side, I'll take the right."
Lars spoke lightly, "And
I'll hold its arms up to give you easy access."
Axel grunted. "I guess that leaves me with the job of disarming the thing. Think I can shoot its gun and broadsword off their bases?"
Morgan interrupted. "More likely, Axel, after these three get killed playing with the Destroyer, you'll be the one to deliver the football."
Axel smiled. "I'll take that assignment."
"We all will," CJ said. "We'll all deliver that football."
Morgan choked back a sharp retort. "Okay, break time, folks. You've been real good, so maybe we'll practice Destroyer eradication when we get back." He rolled out of the room.
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