At times I still went to the gates, but not often, because people pointed or turned on their holorecorders. Jared said I should moon them and they’d stop, but I told him to try it first. As far as I knew, he hadn’t.
The guards were former Navy men, and I felt safe in their presence.
Today, there was the usual crowd. Hands in pockets, I wandered to the guardhouse. “Hi, Mr. Vishinsky.”
“Hello, lad.” His tone was agreeable, but his eyes never ceased roving the sidewalk.
“Like me to get you coffee?”
“We have a fresh pot.” He glanced at his watch. The evening shift would relieve his crew at five.
I ducked into the guardhouse while a fat tourist posed her daughters in front of the gates, snapped her holos. When they were gone, I peered out.
Mr. Vish rested his hand on my shoulder. “Five years, and they’re as thick as ever. It’s like they’re on pilgrimage.”
“They just stare,” I said. “What do they want?”
He was silent a while. “Fulfillment.” Before I could ask what he meant, he was gone. “Stand back, please. Not so close to the gate.” One old man ignored him, holding tightly to his grandson’s arm.
“Back away, sir. Stay behind the yellow—”
“I wanta see the Captain.” He spoke with exaggerated care.
“Mr. Seafort’s left town. Sorry.”
“When he come back?”
Mr. Vish’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not for me to say.”
“I wait, if need.”
“The SecGen doesn’t see visitors. He’s retir—”
“He might see me. I knew him.”
“Many did.” The guard’s tone was civil, but I knew his patience was wearing thin. “He won’t see you, granther, no matter—”
“Important.” The old man fished in a pocket. “I have letter.”
“He’s in Lancaster. We’d prefer you sent mail to—”
The boy stirred, reached into his pocket. His eyes held menace. I ducked back into the shadows.
The old man waved a warning finger; the boy subsided. “Please. Take.”
Mr. Vish sighed, took the crumpled paper. “All right. I’ll send it up to the house.”
“Please.”
“When my shift’s over, it’ll go with all the rest. Anyway, he won’t get it for days, ’til he’s home. On your way, please.”
The old man peered with myopic eyes, past the guardhouse, to the drive. He sighed, turned away.
A few moments later Mr. Vish ducked into the shade of the guardhouse. “People.” He tossed the crumpled note into a half-filled basket. “Best be on your way, lad, before the Mizz sees you.”
“Yes, sir.” I ran my fingers along his fat, shiny truncheon. I’d seen him use it only once, when a pair of drunken joes ignored his warning and tried to scale the wall. After, he and Mr. Tzee had hosed the bloodstains from the sidewalk.
I wandered back to the house. Mom was dictating to her puter; she offered a friendly wave without stopping.
I started to my room, halted. Adam Tenere’s puter sat silent in the outer office. A few days ago, Jared had been trying to break into his Dad’s files.
Had he succeeded? I’d given enough hints. I glanced around, sat at the console. If Mom caught me, I’d be sent to my room with a lecture that would make me feel worse. If Mr. Tenere saw, he might never trust me again.
On the other hand, Jared might have left clues. And Mr. Tenere had given permission, sort of.
I unlocked his passwords, skimmed through his files. Letters, and memoranda. Nothing Jared would care about. I blanked the screen, sat thinking. Idly, I checked the remote access log, knowing that Jared couldn’t have been so stupid as to leave a trail.
But he had.
Three accesses, from his own puter. I began to open newly altered files.
The shuttle schedules. Interesting. Jared could have made connections to anywhere in the world by now.
Intercontinental Sheraton reservations. That must have been his Dad; Jared didn’t have the money for a skytel.
The only other file was Mr. Tenere’s Terrex account. Absolutely none of my business. My hand went to the screen-blanker, hesitated.
Surely Jared wouldn’t hack the Terrex account; that went beyond disobedience to a criminal act. But if we didn’t find Jared soon, Father would have to be told, and we couldn’t upset him further, especially after Lancaster.
I opened the file, dialed the worldwide Terrex puter.
“Password?”
I tried their birthdays.
“Access denied.”
Mr. Tenere’s birthday, in base twelve.
“Access denied.”
I heard a sound, spun to the door. If they caught me, my honor was forfeit. No, Philip, it was already forfeit; they would merely learn of it.
My ears burning, I tried other combinations.
It was Mr. Tenere’s birthday, backward. The screen flickered.
A reservation at the New York Sheraton Skytel had been charged to his account. I closed the file, heart thumping, and opened Mr. Tenere’s calendar. He had no trip scheduled. Father was in Lancaster, so the reservation couldn’t be for him.
Back to the Terrex account.
I skimmed past the monthly statements, ordered daily account review. Jared had been gone two days; I needed to see yesterday and—
Four hundred Unibucks, withdrawn at New York Shuttleport.
Jared was in New York.
A thump; an outside door closing. I flicked off the puter, scrambled upstairs to my room. I sat in the corner, head against my knees, picking at my shirt.
All my fault. Because of my vicious attack Jared was a criminal, perhaps even in danger. I tried the calming mantras, drew my knees up closer. My fault.
Mom came at eleven to kiss me good night. I gave her an extra-special hug.
By eleven-thirty all was quiet. I got out of bed, knowing exactly what I’d do. I’d planned it all evening, instead of tackling another chapter of math.
Clothes. I’d need two changes; I’d be back before I used more. In the dark, I opened my small suitcase, the one with my initials on the edge. Genuine leather, one of the few still made. Expensive. Father had given it to me for a birthday present before our trip to Lunapolis. I stacked my clothes neatly, the way Mom liked.
Money. I dragged my stool to the closet, climbed to reach the top shelf.
I knew I’d walk to New York before I’d steal money as Jared had. Once, when I was five, I’d stolen a toy from a friend’s house. Father and I had a serious talk about it, and I was never going to steal again. Nothing was worth feeling that bad.
Anyway, I didn’t need to steal. I opened my toy safe, took out three hundred Unibucks, closed it again carefully. I was supposed to tell Mom or Father before taking more than ten dollars, and I was disobeying. Later, I’d make sure they punished me; I needed their control. But not now.
The money was mine. Four years ago, when I’d proposed my idea to Father, he’d been incredulous. An eight-year-old playing the stock market with lawn money? He gave his assent, warning it was illegal since I wasn’t of age, and if I were caught he’d tell them I was some miner’s son he’d picked up on Callisto. I didn’t think he meant it, but I’d never been caught. I didn’t trade too often; once a week or so, over Jared’s puter nets.
I folded the money in the platinum clip Mom had given me for my last birthday. I’d seen Senator Raines with a similar one, and mentioned how much I liked it.
I glanced at my notes. I’d forgotten to pack a caller. I reopened my suitcase, tucked in my personal caller, red and yellow. Adults think children like bright colors. Perhaps some do.
The next item added to my guilt. I reminded myself I was doing it for Jared. For Mr. Tenere, actually. That should make it all right, especially if I didn’t think about it. I’d talk it over with Mr. Skeer on our next appointment.
Still in the dark, I tiptoed to my puter, dialed to Mom’s, in her office
. She didn’t often change her passwords, and I knew her mind fairly well. I typed out the note I’d composed.
“TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: My son Philip is on route to the Sanders family reunion in New York. Please give him every assistance, should he need it. He is to call home every day. Arlene Sanders Seafort.” I sent the note from her puter to mine, so it would arrive stamped with her personal code. I pushed the eprom, waited for the chip to pop into the bin.
Perhaps an unneeded precaution, but anyone validating my note through Mom’s puter would have it confirmed automatically. There was a chance the skytel’s reservation desk would inquire.
Before flicking off my puter, I sat thinking.
I’d promised to let Mr. Tenere know what I learned, but I was about to go after Jared without leaving a clue. On the other hand, I was reluctant to admit I’d been reviewing his Terrex account.
I posted a note to his office puter. “Suggestion from P.T.: check to see what money Jared could have taken with him.” I hoped that would do it.
Clothes, money, caller, note. I opened my door cautiously, tiptoed down the stairs, left a scribbled note in the kitchen for the morning, telling Mom I’d had a guard drive me to my history tutor, and that I’d go directly to Mr. Skeer by cab. I selected two old pans, took them along.
Outside, all was still. I trudged down the path toward the gate, my suitcase light against my side. I was looking forward to the adventure, objectively speaking, though I was a bit concerned Father might find out, if all didn’t go well. I hoped it wouldn’t provoke him into breaking his promise and giving me a licking. That would upset him.
Chapter 17
JARED
MY FLIGHT LANDED AT Von Walther Shuttleport exactly on time. I retrieved my carry-on, followed the herd to the baggage and transport gates. I had ample funds for a helicab. I’d have to remember to draw more against Dad’s Terrex in a day or two. I gave the cabbie a ten Unibuck tip, which caused him to grin and touch his cap.
Checking in at the Sheraton was a zark. I’d made the reservation as Jer Adamson; no harm in a small joke.
I paid cash. Unusual these days, but still legal. My biggest worry was that some officious joey would question my age, but no one seemed to care, thanks to my foresight in making a reservation from home.
As soon as the bellhop left I dropped my bag, threw myself on the huge, luxurious bed.
My meeting was set for tomorrow afternoon; today, I had only to enjoy myself. I decided on the penthouse restaurant under the sky top lobby. Then a good night’s sleep. I bounced again on the bed. This was the life.
I put on my good jacket over my favorite green shirt, smoothed my hair, rode upstairs.
I frowned at the first table the maître d’ offered, slipped him a twenty just as I’d seen done in the holos. In moments I was at a zarky fountainside table, an obsequious waiter sliding my chair under me. I glanced about; decided the jacket was just formal enough so I wasn’t out of place. Regretfully, I passed up the wine list. A silly mistake could destroy everything.
I opened the menu, gulped at the prices before I realized they didn’t matter; I had ample cash, and Dad’s Terrex besides. For an appetizer I ordered genuine shrimp, not syntho; Dad was always too cheap to get it.
The waiter helped me pick out interesting dishes from the jumble of foreign names. If they were awful I could send them back.
The waiter closed his menu. “And to drink, sir? May I suggest a bottle of Pinot Noir?”
I glanced at his eyes, saw nothing that roused my suspicion. Well, what the hell; it was his idea, not mine. “Sure.” If someone asked for ID, I could claim I’d left my wallet in the room, and cancel the liquor.
I went over my notes one more time. I hadn’t slept well, and my head hurt. Still an hour until my meeting. I rinsed my face yet again, sat in the easy chair.
Last night’s dinner had left me in a fine frame of mind. When the bill came I’d decided against squandering the remainder of my cash. Instead, I charged it on Dad’s Terrex. Though the debit would show up immediately, Dad didn’t pay bills until the end of the month, and by then I’d be long gone.
Now, in my hotel room, I hoped he wouldn’t find occasion to use his card; the last thing I needed was to have it canceled because he thought he’d lost it. I made a mental note to get some more cash before dinner, just in case.
I hadn’t felt much like breakfast or lunch, though I usually had a great appetite. Even now, my stomach was still queasy. I visited the bathroom one more time, went up to the lobby, where we were to meet.
I waited for the desk clerk to look up from his console. “Has a Mr. Echart shown up? I was supposed to meet—”
“Over there.” He stuck out a thumb, went back to his work.
I glared, to no effect. For what I was paying, I was entitled—later, Jar. I’d complain to the manager when my business was done.
I smoothed my jacket, reviewed my mental script, strode over to the waiting area, with its coffee table and chairs. “Mr. Echart?”
A heavyset joe, older even than Dad, sitting with a woman whose gaunt face seemed hard. “Yeah?”
“I’m the one who—a messenger. I was supposed to meet—”
“You?” He looked me up and down, exchanged a glance with his companion. Both remained seated.
I felt my face go red. “I’m just a messenger. I was told to find out if—”
“Who you working for?”
I wanted to turn on my heel, stalk off. Instead, I started over. “Look, I was supposed to meet two joes from Holoworld. I guess that’s you, but how do I know for sure?”
The woman reached into her jumpsuit pocket, pulled out a wallet, flipped it over to show her press card. I’d seen lots of them. An advantage of living with the Old Man.
I peered. “Ms. Granyon? Good to meet you.”
“Sure.” She snapped her wallet closed. “What do you have?”
“The man I work for is staying in—near the hotel,” I said. “He told me you’d make an offer for his story.”
Echart shook his head. “Why would we? He already gave it to us.”
“Not the best parts. If you—”
“How do you know what’s in it?”
The conversation was going all wrong. In my plan, I was the one in charge. “He told me. Why did you waste my—our time if you weren’t interested? Do you want the scoop on Boland or not?”
Again they exchanged glances. Ms. Granyon said, “Sure, joeyboy. Just—”
“Don’t call me that!” I fumed. “I’ll bet World Newsnet will listen, even if you won’t. Let’s forget the whole damn thing!”
The man grinned. “I thought you were just the messenger.” I stumbled to a halt. His foot pushed out a seat. “Don’t con us, joeyb—joey. We’ll deal with a teener if we have to. Hell, I’d deal with Satan if he could get me a lock on the front screen. Level with us.”
I sat, my legs trembling. “I want money.”
“How much, and for what?”
“For a near transcript of Senator Boland and his son the Assemblyman plotting how to prong their old friend, SecGen Seafort.”
“Near transcript? Have any proof?”
Damn. I should have used a recorder. “I was a witness. I wrote it all down, and my memory is good.”
“Who are you?”
I said, “Why do you need to know?”
His tone was reasonable. “What’s to stop anyone from claiming they overheard a conversation, and making one up? Prove you had opportunity.”
I bit my lip. “Will I stay confidential?”
“It isn’t much of a story if we can’t quote the source.”
“No.” I stood. I wasn’t sure why, but I knew I couldn’t have P.T. learn what I’d done. Or even the Old Man. “Sorry, it didn’t work out.” I backed away. “Forget I—”
“All right, you stay confidential.” He sounded disgusted. “Who are you, and what do you have for us?”
“I live in the Old—SecGen Seafort�
�s compound, and I heard them talking. You’ll get my name later. I have what I told you, plus some crap about the tower people lining up behind the Reconstruction bill, and Boland’s plans to run next year.”
“Hell, everybody knows he’s up for reelec—”
“For SecGen.” That stopped him. I rubbed my fingers together. “Unibucks.”
“How much?”
I’d reached the end of my script. I wasn’t sure how much to ask for. “Five thousand.”
“Oh, come on!”
I shook my head. “Five thousand. Take it or leave it. And don’t try to chisel me. I’ll walk.”
Echart turned to his companion. She was silent a moment. Then, “Go.”
I’d won. I restrained an urge to jump up on the chair and whoop. “Where’s the bucks?”
“Not so fast. We record your story, and pay after.”
“I get a written promise that you’ll pay me, before I speak.”
“Fair. We don’t cheat sources, joeyboy. They’d go elsewhere. You have a deal.”
“Zark!” I cleared my throat. “Good, I mean. When do we start?”
“We’ll be back with a cameraman at nine. One hour. You have a room?”
“3023. I mean—” Too late. I blushed. Now they’d know my name. Oh, well. Like they said, a deal was a deal.
“You here alone?”
I bristled. “What’s it to you?”
“Just wondering. You a runaway?” He squinted. “You’re not the SecGen’s—? Nah, he’s younger.”
“Twelve.”
“Yeah. Don’t tell me if you’re a runaway, joeyboy, or I’ll report you. Law’s the law. See you at eight?” He stuck out his hand.
We shook, and I watched them go.
Five thousand Unibucks. Enough to get me out of the city, out of the continent. Hell, off the planet, if I could figure how to forge the papers.
I jostled my way onto the elevator, waited while it dropped. Five thou. Not a bad start. Maybe, after, I should hide my money, go back to the compound like a penitent son, and set up a few recorders in the guest room. Easy money.
The elevator stopped frequently; it was near the dinner hour, and people were heading to their rooms to change. Finally I reached my floor, trudged down the corridor, fishing for my key.
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 13
