The alien was making a palpable effort to cling to consciousness. "My starshrine, Serge . .." he whispered. "The engineers . . . they will disturb it.
Perhaps . . . steal it. It is ... a great treasure. . ."
"I know," Serge said.
"You must take it, lad . . ." the Heeyoon said. "Don't let them have it. .." The gray head dropped onto the pallet, the soft ears drooped limply. The yellow eyes closed.
'Time to go," the Apis physician commanded.
Knowing the alien was either unconscious or asleep, Serge hesitated. But even if Greyshine couldn't hear him, Dr. Strongheart could. She would tell her mate as soon as he awoke. Drawing himself up to his full height, Serge's voice rang out with the strength of one taking a solemn oath. "I will retrieve the star-shrine, Professor, I promise. Don't worry."
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Turning, he left the infirmary with dragging steps.
Heather clutched the edge of her terminal desk with both hands, fighting back the sobs threatening to surge past her clenched teeth. She would not cry. She hadn't cried in years, not even when Uncle Fred had slapped her silly, and nobody, nothing, was going to change that. Not even Serge LaRoche.
Especially not Serge LaRoche.
Little bitch, little bitch, littlebitch, bitch,bitchbitchbitch , . . His mental "voice"
rang in her mind, and her fingers tightened until the edge of the desk scored her fingers. "I hate you," Heather whispered, her voice harsh in the silence. "I do. Damn you! Damn you to Hell, Serge LaRoche! You bastard!"
After a long time her trembling and gasping eased, and she was able to straighten up, trying to ignore the pain she felt inside. The girl was surprised to realize that the hurt actually felt real-- physical, as though someone had taken her heart and wrung it viciously, leaving it twisted into some agonized shape within her chest.
Heartache, she thought dazedly. It's real. I thought they made that up to put in sappy love songs . . .
"I hate you . .."
But that was the worst of it... she didn't. Instead she was guilty and ashamed of herself, and the memory of how violated Serge had felt made her bite her lip as tears threatened again.
Of all the people in the universe that she didn't want to hurt, Serge was the one--but she had hurt him. She'd hurt him badly. If only she could talk to him, apologize .. .
No! He's pissed off, and he'll never forgive you, her survivor- self insisted. All you can do now is get out of here. That will show him. That will show all of them . . .
Straightening her shoulders, Heather began willing herself into a calm, analytical state of mind. There was nothing she could do about Serge. He'd never accept her apology, and she didn't want to remain at StarBridge if the person she cared about most really hated her. Serge might even report her mental snooping to Rob Gable, and the psychologist had warned her that she was here on probation. Rob was already suspicious about her role in Khuharkk's "accident"--Serge's complaint might very wel convince Gable that he should ship her back to Earth.
But she wasn't going back-- ever.
Forcing herself to take deep, steadying breaths, the girl opened her eyes and ordered on the computer. What was done was done. All she could do now was continue the work on Phase Two of her
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contingency plan--the plan to gain her enough wealth to get off this rock, and go wherever she wanted ... in style.
Her fingers moving rapidly over the keyboard (she didn't want' to speak aloud in case Hing came in quietly and heard her commands), Heather called up the secret account file she'd set up several days ago, skipping over the multitude of entries to examine the total. Excellent! The balance was growing nicely. It was time to open an interest-bearing account up at one of the StarBridge Station banks, so the money would grow even faster.
Heather had written her money-garnering program almost a week ago, then had turned it loose on StarBridge Academy's accounts. After a day to test it for possible bugs, she'd then duplicated her baby within the fiscal programs on StarBridge Station. It was an old idea, and for anyone else, it would have been impossible to implement, given the intricate safeguards programmed into modern computers. Even the simplest fiscal system now boasted a veritable maze of trips and traps to catch a would-be thief. For hundreds of years computer programs had been designed to avert any such tampering--
but the systems engineers and programmers had never reckoned with Heather and her unique skills.
Simple, so simple. .. and foolproof. And it wasn't even stealing--not really.
Heather frowned. She supposed the damned authorities would deem it illegal. But, practically speaking, if nobody knew about it, and nobody missed the money, you couldn't call that stealing, could you?
Every day, hundreds--in the case of StarBridge Station, it was| thousands--
of financial transactions occurred. Heather's program' intercepted these figures before they could be entered, then skimmed rounded-off credit fractions randomly from the totals, depositing the fractions into a secret account. The skimming wasn't enough to change totals, and would probably never be noticed shi of a comprehensive audit and systems overhaul.
Heather planned to be long gone before that possibility threatened.
Now, working busily, she opened an ordinary savings account under the name Helen Benson (she'd seen several of Rob's treasured antique
"movies" since her arrival) and channeled her new funds into it. As her skimming programs continued to swell the total balance, the account would grow by leaps and bounds. Heather realized that a mere savings account wouldn't bring her the best interest rate, but this would do until she was ready to implement Phase Two.
At this rate, she'd have a lot of money in a surprisingly short time. Possibly enough for a ticket out of here by the end of
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the week. Where should I go? she wondered, repressing a pang as she thought of Serge and Hing. She could try one of the Terran colonies ... Jolie, Novaya Rossiya, New Am, or Yatnato. But a kid traveling alone would make human authorities suspicious. Scratch that.
Maybe I could go to Sorrow Sector, she thought. She knew you couldn't just buy a ticket to the legendary outlaw sector of space, where the criminal elements of many planets lived on worlds and space stations outside the bounds of CLS authority. Even the League Irenics, the peacekeeping arm of the CLS, didn't dare venture into Sorrow Sector--at least, not if they wanted to return. But there were worlds on the fringes where it was rumored that you could buy a ticket-- if you had the money to grease the right palms. Or paws.
Or tentacles.
They even said that the entire criminal underworld of Sorrow Sector was controlled by a Mizari-- a very ancient Mizari. The girl found that possibility intriguing, but difficult to credit. All the Mizari she'd ever met, both at StarBridge and at Melbourne, had been so boringly upstanding and ethical that they made her roll her eyes. Heather had a very good imagination, but even she found the notion of a bad Mizari almost impossible to picture.
If he actually exists, I'll bet he could use someone with my skills, she mused.
Someone like that has to worry about being bumped off or snuffed. . .
whatever they call it. I could warn him about that. And I could help him break into any system, that's bound to be worth a lot...
Well, she'd decide where she was going as soon as she had the money for her ticket. At the moment, she'd better make progress on Phase Two. Phase One, the credit-skimming program, was clever, but Phase Two was
Heather's pride. She'd begun the program days ago, and now, after hours of work, it was finally beginning to take shape. Sitting at the terminal, the girl called up another clandestine file. The holo-tank flickered, then a three-dimensional image coalesced, eyes closed and waiting.
"Activate," Heather said.
The red-haired woman who still bore a considerable resemblance to the real Heather Farley opened "her" eyes. They were jade green, doubly arresting given the creamy, flawless complexion that stretched tau
t over aristocratic cheekbones and elegantly molded chin. Heather's freckles had been the first things she'd deleted when she'd begun working on the image. "Hello, Heathertoo," the girl said, smiling.
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"Good morning, Heather," the image replied, articulating every syllable precisely--too precisely.
Have to fix that, Heather thought. Real people slur a little when they talk, even classy people. And the voice is still too high, still too mechanical sounding... For the next twenty minutes she made minute adjustments to the voice-generating program she was using to modify the computer's own speaking capabilities.
"Hello, Heathertoo," she tried again.
"Good morning, Heather. How are you?" the image responded.
Still not perfect, but better. . . much better, Heathertoo's creator thought, nodding with satisfaction. Then, after flexing her fingers, she began working again on the image, toning down the fiery red of the hair to a bright auburn and rearranging her own unruly curls into a stylish coiffure. Then she concentrated on "making up" the image, keeping it subtle, the way a successful businesswoman would be likely to--putting a blush of deeper color across the cheekbones, faintly shadowing the eyelids, then darkening and lengthening the lashes. The lips ... they were still Heather's own.
Working carefully to shift the image's color and dimensions, the girl evened the slightly irregular upper lip.
The lower lip was still a bit full, but didn't adults regard a full lower lip as sensuous or seductive or some such? After a moment of cogitation, Heather decided to leave the lower lip the way it was. Then she made the nose turn up a hair, the way her own did. She didn't want her altered image to be too perfect. Humming off-key, she rouged both lips, but not much--Aunt Natalie had used lots of lip color, and the girl had always thought she looked like a vampire with her pale features and too-bright mouth.
After some consideration of the "completed" image, Heather went on to suggest lines-yet-to-come at the corners of the eyes and mouth.
"Much better," she mumbled, studying her "aged" image. "Now you look mature, but not really old. Or should you actually be old! Thirty, maybe?"
She ruminated, but in the end decided that the same effect could be achieved without crow's-feet or furrows. She'd work on the clothes and the body. Heather expanded the image to a full-body one, then rolled her eyes.
Heathertoo's lovely face atop the unchanged image of her own
preadolescent pudgy body was ludicrous. Have to do something about that...
The image's body lengthened, lengthened, thinning in the middle and widening at the hips and bosom. Breasts, Heather thought glancing ruefully at her own barely budding chest. What would
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you like . . . small, medium, large, or humongous? Grinning, she keyed the computer and suddenly Heathertoo's green StarBridge tunic bulged out as two monstrous mammaries extruded. Nah, the girl decided after a moment.
That looks cheap, and I want you to have some class. ..
The breasts shrank until they were high and defined, but no more than average in size. Better ...
After adjusting the rest of Heathertoo's figure to match, Heather called up several fashion catalogues to check current styles. She hadn't worn a dress since her mother had died, and clothes weren't normally something that interested her much. But Heathertoo had to look--and dress--just right. After some consideration, Heather chose a beautifully tailored (and extremely expensive) mauve business suit and pink blouse. After copying the image from the catalogue sans model, she recolored the blouse to an emerald green, and the suit to a pearl gray.
Then, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she concentrated, Heather merged the two images, keying in the minute adjustments until Heathertoo stood garbed in the clothes she had selected. The girl added accessories--a jade pin, conservative earrings, dress shoes--then sighed with pleasure as she regarded her creation. If only I could look like that someday!
Glancing down at herself, she grimaced. Yeah, fat chance ... Searching the catalogue entries once more, she began constructing an environment suitable to her image. She duplicated images of a handsome teakwood desk, an antique lamp, reproductions of two Monets and a Manet for the walls. Then, quickly ploughing out the dimensions of an office, Heather began moving per images into place. It was fun, actually--almost as much fun as real shopping would have been.
An hour later the completed Heathertoo sat behind her beautiful desk, with just enough clutter to make the image believable. After a moment's further consideration, Heather added in an antique wall clock as the finishing touch.
Perfect! Now for some practice, so she could refine Heathertoo's dialogue and conversation subprogram. "Activate," she said. Heathertoo, from this moment on, only I will call you ESHeathertoo.' When you receive or make calls from outside, you will refer to yourself as 'Helen Benson,' understood?"
"Yes, Heather," the image replied obediently. "Good. Now prepare to receive an incoming call--audio only. Access all financial programs and open a high-yield investment
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account using the present balance in the 'Helen Benson' bank account.
Ready?" "Ready, Heather."
Quickly the girl changed the pitch on her audio input channel, so her voice would deepen. Then she switched off the input scanner on the screen.
"Good morning," she said, consulting a script she'd prepared yesterday.
"This is Dwayne Hicks of First Galactic Investment Corporation returning your call, Ms. Benson. How may I help you today?"
Heathertoo sat silent. Her creator counted seconds, then burst out impatiently, "You're supposed to respond according to program, Heathertoo!"
"The question was not addressed to me," the image said reasonably.
"Of course it was!"
"You instructed me to respond to the name 'Helen Benson.' Mr. Hicks did not address me in that way."
"Oh ..." Computers were so damn literal. Some of the time that was an advantage, but other times, it was definitely a pain in the ass. "Uh, Heathertoo, the term 'Ms.' coupled with your new last name is an acceptable address for you, and you should respond to it. Let's try it again. Are you ready?"
"Ready," replied Heathertoo.
Quickly Heather repeated the greeting and inquiry from the fictitious Mr.
Hicks, then waited tensely.
Her idealized, age-enhanced image smiled politely, showing the tips of perfect teeth. "Good morning, Mr. Hicks. I wish to open an account with your investment company."
"What kind of account were you thinking of, Ms. Benson?" "Dwayne Hicks"
inquired. "We have several kinds."
"List types of accounts," Heathertoo ordered.
"Pause program," Heather snapped. Damn! She still sounds so mechanical!
How can I get her to sound real?
She sat staring at Heathertoo's frozen image for several minutes, slowly realizing that in order to make Heathertoo sound real, she would have to merge her mind into the computer's while the program was activated. Then she could direct Heathertoo's speech and movements from within the program itself, pull Heathertoo's strings from inside the image, as it were.
That would require going deeper into the machine's short- and long-term memory and "thinking" processes than the girl ever had before. Heather felt goose bumps pop out on her arms, and she shivered slightly. Before this she'd only merged her consciousness
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with the computer for scant moments while she'd altered programming, accessed guarded storage for passwords, or tampered with memory. But this linkage would require deep, almost total immersion, for many realtime minutes.
For a moment she was tempted to forget the whole thing, trust that the programmed responses she'd given Heathertoo would do the job, but then the girl's jaw tightened stubbornly. She could do it--and the results would be worth it.
Little bitch .. . she could hear Serge's words echo in her memory. Uncle Fred had called her that, too.
; I'll show you .. . all of you! Taking a deep breath, Heather closed her eyes and launched her mind ...
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CHAPTER 8
Images, Past and Present. ..
The intercom on Rob Gable's desk had barely begun to beep before the psychologist reached it and silenced it. "Rob here," he said tersely. "Janet?"
"I'm here at the airlock with Jeff and his assistant. I'll bring them down immediately," she said.
"We'll be waiting," he promised.
Glancing up, he regarded the other two occupants of his office steadily.
"Janet's bringing them down," he told Esteemed Ssoriszs and StarBridge's Chhhh-kk-tu Administrator, Kkinfha ch'aait. "They'll meet us in my conference room."
"Have they already been out to the site?" Kkintha asked. The little furred alien appeared doubly small and compact next to the Mizari's sleek, elongated length. Her bright blue eyes studied Rob anxiously from a bandit mask of dark seal-brown, though most of her body was a pale fawn in color.
Her whiskers quivered as she nervously groomed her thick chest ruff with her tiny clawed fingers.
"I believe they were planning to do a quick site inspection before they met with us today," Rob said. "When Jeff got back, and whether he had time to go over the site, I don't know."
Rising, he headed into the room next to his office. He could hear the quick patter of Kkintha's feet behind him, as well as the sinuous whisper as Ssoriszs uncoiled his massive body and slithered after them.
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The neutral-colored, burgundy-carpeted conference room was fitted with a variety of seats and resting places that could accommodate most life-forms from the Fifteen Known Worlds. Each place was also equipped with a computer terminal and small holo-tank. Quickly Rob programmed the room's controls for three human-style chairs, plus seating for one Mizari and one Chhhhkktu. Moments later Kkintha scrambled nimbly up onto a high, padded stoollike seat that would bring her up to the same eye level as the humans, while Ssoriszs coiled himself into one of the boxlike Mizari compartments.
Rob himself was too keyed up to sit; he paced restlessly, then, remembering that Jeff was a coffee drinker, keyed the servo for a pot.
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