Pantin’, I made voice steady. “What ’bout meet?”
“Ya gon’ trayfo permas?”
“Afta.” I nodded.
He shrugged, a tired motion of defeat. “When ya want. Morra, if ya don’ die on us.”
Dunno how I made it back to shop. They put me in carry chair and I sat. By time we reached Three Four, I had some breath back, enough to wave away Subs, unlock shop. I went behin’ curtain, fumbled through medkit, took pill I shoulda brought. Sat an’ waited while it soothed. Chest slowly came free, pain eased. Stupid ol’ man, you die nex’ time you try that. Always carry pills, now on.
Last thing I said to Chaco, “Tell Halber to set meet for ’morra aftanoon.” Either I’d be alive, an’ want meet, or dead, and no matter.
When I felt able, I got together packs of innifo, went out side, foun’ Mids willin’ to help pass word to all other tribes. Was still plenny of day left, so if they quick, could get word to all. Even Parkas.
Nite, I puttered around shop, wonderin’ how to persuade tribes to work togetha. If I got leaders to cooperate, we could send trannie speakfo’ to Unies. If govermen wouldn’ listen, maybe we talk to Holoworl’. Dey wouldn’ give shit about tribes, but if trannie bosses got together, some kinda story innit.
Knock on door.
Heart thudded. “We close.” I shuffle to door.
“It be me.”
Pook.
I leaned head ’gainst door, warnin’ self. He wasn’t your own joey, silly Chang, just wild kit wid no tribe. I was sorry for glad that swept through me. “So? G’way wid ya. I don’ open fo’ no dirtmouth joeykit.”
A growl, then voice extra patient. “Please, Mista Chang.”
I went worry. “Ya hurt?”
“Naw.”
“Hungry, hah? Too bad. Ya can’t yell Chang dead one day, come beggin’ fo’ help da nex’—”
“Wanna trayfo.”
“You? Whatcha got I wan’, hah? Dirty jumpsuit? Scraps a ol’ wires? Nah, Pook.”
“Good stuff. Lemme showya.”
“Daytime is fo’ trayfo. Night fo’ sleep. If tribes see me open at night, soonerlata be trouble.”
“Can’ come in day.” His voice hinted that his patience was wearing. “Mids see what I got, try ta take. You wan’ Pook get diss?”
I smiled. Pook couldn’ have nothin’ so good he afraid to carry in day. But he wasn’ full member of Mids yet, and Karlo still pissoff, so risk could be real. “Okay okay, betta not be swind.” I undid locks one at time, hopin’ Pook not crazy enough to pull shiv once he got inside, finish ol’ Chang once an’ for all. I swung open door. “Ya comin’ in, or no?”
His eyes darted roun’. He slipped in and quick I shut door.
“Well, what—where ya get those?” Knew I sounded like glitch trannie din’ know nothin’ about trayfo, but couldn’ help.
Pook had beautiful pair Uppie boots. Expensive kind that last foreva.
He went swell. “Tolya Pook c’n look afta hisself.”
I looked them over. Hardly wore at all. “Where ya get?”
He frown, like I go glitch. “Whassit matta?”
True. Dunno what I was thinkin’. “Okay okay, whatcha wan’ trayfo?”
“Cansa. Meat an veg.”
Cautious, I said, “How many?”
“Whatcha offa?”
“What I wan’ with ’notha pair boots,” I grumbled, startin’ negotiate.
“Ain’ all I got. I c’n—” He snapped shut.
“Yeah?”
His face sudden showed nothin’. I was proud that he learn afta all, but annoyed ’cause his bein’ smart make trayfo harder.
After we backanforth a while, I realized Pook not too anxious, but ready to take his time, maybe even go trayfo somewhere else. Good fo’ him, but not fo’ Chang. I went exasperate, to push along; if I gonna meet with tribes morra, had to sleep. “How c’n I trayfo, you won’ tell whatcha wan’ or what else ya got?”
Pook’s look uncertain. “Ya gonna swind, if ya know.”
Course; that’s the whole point of knowin’ what they wan’. But this was Pook, and he’d never make somethin a himself ’less I gave him chance. I sighed. “Okay okay, I go easy. Tell.”
He took deep breath. “Enough cansa ta get through winta.”
“Whole winta, fo’ one lousy pair a trayfo boots? Think ya can swin—”
“Enough cansa fo’ two.”
“Now who glitch, hah? Ya starting Pooktribe or somethin’? How ya ’xpect me ta give that much fo’—”
“An’ I also got ...” Grubby hand dug in jumpsuit pocket. I watched sharp, wonderin if he ’bout to pull shiv. Stead, he dumped wad of Unibucks on table.
I reached for them slow, so to not alarm Pook, an’ counted. Twenty-seven. I sat, wonderin’ who he diss. “Wanna tell me ’bout it?”
“Naw.”
I sighed, made him offa I knew he’d refuse, just for start. Instead making offer back he got pissoff, so I hadda fuss with him to calm. Gave him good cuppa tea. Dunno why I bothered with Pookboy, sometime. Final, he said he’d be back ’notha day, tonight he’d jus’ give coupla Unies fo’ coupla cansa. I made good trayfo, thought about it a min, threw in couple extra cansa, so he’d wanna come back.
Before he wen’, I said, “Pook, I need—maybe you inneres’. help some, morra.”
“Whaffo?”
“Big meet, at Sub Four Two.”
“Allie be dere?”
“Who? Sub girl kit? How I know?”
He made face. “Anyway, I got stuff ta do.” Pause. “What kinda meet?”
I hesitated. “Pook, lissen. Tomorra, maybe nothin’ happen. Filmatleven. But jus’ maybe ... could be history. Somethin’ fo’ Pook ta remember, he get ol’.”
His eyes lit. “Big rumb?”
“Gaah. Out.” I thrust cans in his arms. “G’wan!”
“Jus’ askin’.” He made no move to leave. “What comin’ down?”
Dunno why I wanted to tell him. “Buncha tribe leaders meet. No innifo, no passby. Gonna talk about water.”
His brow wrinkled. “Buncha tribe on same turf? Naw. Never happen.”
“Morra, for sure. Early aftanoon.”
“You be glitch, Mista Chang. Get ’em togetha, gonna be biggest rumb eva.”
“You comin’ with me?”
“Ta watch ya get diss?” His face inneres’. Then, “Naw. Can’t leave my—can’t go.” He pawed at locks. “Seeya afta, Changman, if ya live.”
And he was gone.
Chapter 21
PHILIP
I KNEW THAT EVEN with Mom’s chipnote giving permission, I’d have to wait until morning to catch a flight. My voice was high and I wasn’t very tall; some ticket agent might look askance at a young child traveling alone late at night. So, for that matter, might a skytel desk clerk. Anyway, I didn’t intend to use the forged note wantonly; it was for emergencies.
In addition to counting tree species on my rides with Mom, I’d noted homes without fences in safe-looking neighborhoods. I spent the night on the patio of one of them. The deck chairs were comfortable. I considered leaving a note of thanks, but didn’t because word might get back to Mom.
When the sun rose higher I shed my jacket, rode the bus to a cabstand a mile away, and took a ground taxi to the shuttle-port. Changing vehicles reduced the chance I’d be traced.
I paid cash for my ticket. On the suborbital shuttle a reservation wasn’t really needed; seats were usually available. If Jared had realized that, he’d have been harder to track.
To allay suspicion I told an agent my mother said to ask help finding the gate. Would he please show me the way? On the shuttle I asked help with my acceleration belts, though Father had shown me often enough. A cheerful attendant strapped me in. She sat across from me for takeoff, flashing me a reassuring smile as the wings folded.
My only problem was getting a cab from Von Walther to the Sheraton. With my overnight bag I waited my turn at the helicab stand, but passengers jo
stled me aside as if I didn’t exist. I stood back, observed the most successful technique, and practiced on a sweet elderly lady whose mass wasn’t as intimidating as some others. I tried to ignore her look of shock as I rammed past her into the cab.
“Sheraton Skytel, please.” According to the posted rates the fare should be a little over ten Unibucks, so I made sure the driver saw a twenty clutched tight in my hand. He lifted off without objection.
At the hotel I held on to my bag, to save another tip. I wasn’t quite sure how Mom would react to my escapade; money might be tight for a while. I took the elevator down to the lobby, waited my turn at the desk.
“Yes, sonny?”
I kept a polite smile plastered on my face, ignoring his condescension. “A room for two nights.”
“Are your paren—”
“My Mom says not by the elevators or the linen closets. And not too near street level.” I counted off the bills. “She’ll be here after dinner, if the Trans-Siberian isn’t delayed.”
He pursed his lips, still unsure. “Is there a reservation?”
“No, she called ahead and told me you had plenty of rooms.”
“Your name?”
“Philip Tyre. Is the restaurant open? Mom wants me to have a proper lunch. Do you have snack machines? Is there a softie dispenser on my floor? Does it make change?” I kept at it until he thrust me a registration form, took my payment.
Lying is so often unnecessary. You just make adults want you to disappear.
I tipped the bellhop two Unibucks and thanked him politely.
As I’d expected, the room had a generic puter terminal. I dialed into the nets, entered Adam Tenere’s password.
It took me only three minutes to call up his Terrex account.
I was impressed.
Mr. Tenere had deciphered my hint almost immediately, and had set a daily review of his card. I hoped he wouldn’t check again soon; he could spot my access just as easily as I could his.
Jared had withdrawn three hundred from his father’s account. Mr. Tenere must have seen it, but to my astonishment he hadn’t blocked further access.
I spotted a charge at the skytel dining room, two nights ago.
I left my console, called the desk, asked if a Mr. Tenere were registered.
No.
Naturally, Jared would have used another name. But there were too many possibilities; I needed a look at the registry.
I doubted the desk would cooperate, and my asking might raise suspicion.
I took off my jacket, folded it over the chair, got to work.
I dialed up Standard and Poor’s, checked corporate ownership of the Sheraton chain, copied down the owners’ published access numbers.
Next, I windowed out, netted to the multiframe at Georgetown University where I had a standing account, wrote a quick password query loop with a notify alarm, and cracked a few dozen random user accounts.
I loaded my password query into each user’s workspace with a ten hour self-erase, set each user to high-speed dialing into corporate Sheraton’s main puter. Soon I had ninety-six copies of my password query running, courtesy of Georgetown University.
I lay on the plush bed, hands behind my head. Unless I were lucky, it would still take an hour or two.
Lunchtime came and went, but I wasn’t really hungry, and there were snack machines in the hall. Mom said sugar aggravated my energy excess, so at home I didn’t get quickfoods too often. As I saw it, Mom’s perception was skewed; she suffered from energy deficit rather than I from an excess. Snacks would do just fine.
The alarm beeped just before two.
An access code flashed, for Sheraton Corporate HQ. I wiped the Georgetown users’ workspaces. Next I netted to the Sheraton corporate puter, entered the code I’d deciphered, followed a maze of menus into accounting.
A few minutes later, slightly annoyed, I perused a list of the week’s registrations in the New York Skytel. I could have saved so much effort if the desk would show people their registration book. It wasn’t really a secret. Any intelligent twelve-year-old could get access, if he tried.
No guest named Tenere, or anything close.
I had to put myself in Jared’s shoes, but I was much brighter. If I overestimated him, I could end up outsmarting myself.
My eye skimmed the list.
Well, I hadn’t overestimated him. Adamson, Jer. I’ll bet he thought it funny.
I examined the skytel’s ledger, found no checkout logged. Was he still in the hotel? Room 3023. The easiest way to find out was to dial.
“Yes?” A woman.
“Mr. Adamson, please.”
“Wrong room, joey.” She hung up.
I checked the screen. Every other occupied room showed a checkout payment for the day, or a carryover.
Odd.
I windowed back to Mr. Tenere’s Terrex account. Hadn’t Jared realized his card could be traced, or didn’t he care? I worked my way backward from his most recent use. An asterisk, that I hadn’t noticed before. I called up the help menu.
Police notify, priority one.
Whenever Mr. Tenere’s card was used, the New York District police puter was notified. Why, then, hadn’t they been called to the Sheraton restaurant?
I checked the date; the notify had been placed after Jared paid for his dinner.
Well. I had proof Jared had been in the skytel, and I knew he hadn’t used the Terrex card after. He hadn’t checked out, but the room was reoccupied. Where was Jared? I lay down to think it through.
An hour later I slipped on my shoes, put on my jacket. At the puter, I studied a city directory. Then I locked my room, rode the elevator up to the lobby.
“May I see the manager, please?”
“Who shall I say ...”
“Philip Tyre.”
“He’s with someone. I’ll tell him.”
“I’ll wait in the lounge.”
Half an hour passed. I found it hard to sit still, and began to pick at my jacket. Perhaps I would go back to my room, curl up against the wall. Base seven was interesting, because of the irregularities. I solved random equations in my head, feet kicking underneath the chair.
After a full hour I went back to the desk. “Could the manager see me now?” I tried not to sound belligerent. “I’ve been waiting since two-thirty.”
“I’ll let him know.”
If I made a scene, I’d call attention to myself.
I skimmed every holozine in the lobby.
At four, the desk began to get busy with the evening’s arrivals. I stood in line, waited for the clerk to notice me.
“Excuse me, son.” An expensively suited joey brushed past to the check-in desk.
“Can’t you play somewhere else?” A middle-aged woman, lugging three bags.
I retreated. How would Father handle it? I mean, if everyone didn’t recognize him as they did?
I’d missed lunch, and was irritable. With a deep breath, I walked back to the counter, where the woman with three bags argued with a receptionist about her room. Several clerks were on duty, all busy, and travelers waited for the next free space.
“Excuse me, I want—”
I stopped, pitched my voice louder. It was at an annoying stage and could be shrill, which usually I found exasperating. Today it would be useful. “Excuse me, I’ve been waiting to see the manager.”
“Please, joey, we’re busy. Check back in—”
I sang out, “I thought he’d like to know one of his security guards exposed himself in the hallway.”
The woman gasped.
“Three times. I found it quite upsetting, objectively speaking. Mom will no doubt want the jerries called, and—”
Thirty seconds later, I was in the manager’s office.
I sat on a straight-backed chair, swinging my legs while a narrow-faced man with a pencil moustache made soothing noises.
“... terrible occurrence. Can you describe—”
I read the nameplate on his desk. “Mr. Fen
ner, you have worse problems than a guard with an open fly.”
“—or catch the name on his jacket—what?”
I was committed; nothing to do but forge ahead. “Forget the guard. I made him up.”
“You little—” He rang the lobby. “Get this brat out of—”
I recalled Father, the time Senator Wade tried to get him to intervene with the investigators. I made my voice cold as ice. “You made me waste an afternoon in your bloody lobby, while I had work to do. How do you think Mr. Credwin will like that?”
Fenner gaped. “You know him?”
Only from the Standard and Poor’s report, which listed him as CEO of the Sheraton chain. I tried to avoid a lie. “And my family knows Senator Boland, and his son Robert, the Assemblyman. I could mention Joseph Martins, the city Building Inspector, but that’s not necessary, is it, sir?”
The manager studied me, saying nothing.
I flared, “Just because I’m young doesn’t mean you should treat me like dirt!”
Perhaps it was my self-assurance. His manner changed at once. “Look, Mr., ah—”
“Tyre.”
“There must be a misunderstanding. What can I do for—”
I leaned forward. “Jer Adamson.”
His eyes changed just for a moment, but long enough for me to know I’d scored. Jared had that same look the time he denied he had any pornographic chips. I’d only asked to observe his reaction.
“How does that name concern you, Mr., ah, Tyre?”
Father, I know you won’t approve of my rudeness. But I’m committed. For Jared’s sake, I have to go through with this.
“Why the cover-up, Mr. Fenner? Why didn’t Jared—Mr. Adamson—check out in the normal manner? What about his Terrex card?”
He blurted, “You know about that?”
Inside, I relaxed. Now it would be easy. I kept my voice cold. “Tell me the truth, all of it. Or would you rather deal with the police?”
He blustered. “We have nothing to hide, young man. Feel free to—”
“May I use your caller, or should I call Commissioner Johanson from the lobby?” I reached across his desk.
All along, I’d made a point of using names rather than just titles; Building Inspector Martins, Commissioner Johanson. A shallow trick, but as I’d suspected, it worked. The manager snatched away the caller. “Easy, joey. No need. Tell me what you want, and why.”
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 18
