by Mike Resnick
“Then you don't actually know a damned thing, do you?” said the Injun.
“No, we don't,” admitted 32. “That's why I don't want to expose this man. Thus far it has been impossible to get any of my people close to her; perhaps if he distracts her, if her attention is divided between the two of you, if he seems the more immediate threat, you might have a chance.”
“You want a suggestion?”
“I'd be grateful for any suggestions you might care to make,” said 32.
“Sue for peace,” said the Injun. “Based on what you told me, there's no way you're going to kill this woman. All you can do is make her mad at you.”
“Then you are refusing my offer?”
“Who said anything about refusing your offer?” demanded the Injun.
“But—”
“I'd much rather die with a weapon in my hand than locked in a cell.” He paused and stared sharply at 32. “Am I going to have a hand when you're all through with this surgery?”
“Certainly,” answered 32. “I told you: you will look exactly as you do now.”
“I know what you told me,” said the Injun. “What you didn't tell me is what you're going to do.”
“We are going to turn you into a walking holograph transmitter,” said 32. “Your left eye will be removed and replaced with a prosthetic one. It will appear identical to the one we take from you, and it will be tied into your optic nerve center so that you will be able to see through it—but it will also transmit a three-dimensional image of everything you see to me. Also, a microscopic transmitter and receiver will be embedded inside your ear. Everything you hear will also be audible to me, and I in turn will be able to speak to you without anyone else being able to hear what I say.”
“Where will you be all this time?”
32 shrugged. “That's undecided at present. If I can land on one of the uninhabited planets in the system, I will. Otherwise, I'll be on Philemon II, the nearest Democracy world, about four light years removed. You'll be sending and receiving subspace signals; the transmissions will be virtually instantaneous within a range of ten light years.”
“You've selected me because you think I'm good enough to kill her,” said the Injun. “So why do you have to monitor me?”
“I may be able to help.”
“How? All you'll do is distract me.”
“I spent more time with Penelope Bailey than any member of the Democracy except her parents.”
“Yeah?” said the Injun. “How much time?”
“Almost six months.”
“Sixteen years ago?” The Injun snorted contemptuously. “Forget the surgery and just let me get on with business.”
“There is another reason for the surgery,” said 32, unperturbed by the Injun's attitude.
“Oh?”
“You will be operating beyond the boundaries of the Democracy,” continued 32. “Based on your prior behavior, there is every likelihood that, once there, you will take your ship and head straight for the Inner Frontier—or, if you remain in the Alpha Crepello system, sooner or later you will be tempted to revert to your addiction.”
“And you think being able to whisper platitudes about duty and honor in my ear will stop me?”
“No,” said 32. “But I rather suspect that the miniature plasma bomb we plant at the base of your skull, which I can trigger from a distance of up to twenty light years, will act as a deterrent.” He paused. “Now, do we still have a deal?”
The Injun glared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah, we have a deal, you no-good bastard.”
10.
“Can you hear me?”
Jimmy Two Feathers grimaced and rolled onto his side.
“Jimmy, wake up. This is 32.”
“32 what?” muttered the Injun.
“Wake up, Jimmy. You're coming out of the anesthetic now.”
“I'm awake, goddammit! Now leave me alone.”
“Sit up, Jimmy.”
“Go away.”
“I am away, Jimmy. I'm more than five thousand miles from you.”
The Injun sat up groggily. “What are you talking about?”
“Open your eyes, Jimmy.”
“Don't want to. My head is killing me.”
“It will pass.”
“It damned well better.”
“Now open your eyes, Jimmy.”
The Injun opened his eyes, and winced as the light struck his pupils—both the real one and the artificial one.
“It's bright,” he complained.
“That's just because your pupils are dilated. They'll adjust in a minute or two.”
“The operation is finished?” asked the Injun.
“Yes. How do you feel now?”
“Like I've been on a week-long bender. Everything hurts. Especially my head.”
“We did a lot of work on your head. Look around the room.”
The Injun did as he was instructed, and found himself in a large hospital room. A nurse, dressed in sterile white, sat in a corner, observing him intently. From the smarting in his left arm, he expected to find a number of tubes and wires tying him into a life support system, but evidently it had already been removed from the room. A number of small monitors were attached to his chest and neck, but they were more awkward than painful.
“Very good,” said 32 approvingly. “Now hold your hand up about six inches in front of your left eye.”
“Which hand?”
“Either one.”
The Injun held a hand up.
“The lenses adjust almost instantaneously,” noted 32. “Now turn your head to the left and look out the window.”
“I'm not a puppet,” said the Injun.
“Just do what I ask,” said 32. “I want to see how your vision adapts to a sudden change from a darkened room to sunlight.”
“Then what?”
“I don't understand.”
“I don't plan to spend the rest of my life jumping through hoops for you,” said the Injun.
“We've got to test out your new eye, Jimmy.”
The Injun sighed and turned to gaze out the window.
“Excellent!”
“What next?” demanded the Injun in a surly voice.
“Nothing,” answered 32. “Everything appears to be functioning properly. I assume you have no difficulty hearing me?”
“I wish I did.”
“Your surgery doesn't seem to have improved your attitude,” said 32 dryly.
“I don't like having a voice inside my head,” said the Injun.
“That's not all you've got inside your head. Just remember that and we'll get along fine.” The Injun made no reply, and 32 continued speaking. “Now we've got some private business to discuss. Ask the nurse to leave.”
The Injun turned to the nurse. “He wants you to leave.”
“In a moment,” she said, walking over and checking the readings on the monitors. She nodded her satisfaction, then left the room without a word.
“You've got her well-trained,” commented the Injun.
“She was only there in case your implants were malfunctioning. It could be very disconcerting to wake up alone in a room minus half your vision and with nobody to talk to.”
“It's disconcerting just to hear you talking to me.”
“You'll have to learn to put up with it, Jimmy.” 32 paused. “Do you see the nightstand to the left of your bed?”
“Yes.”
“Open the top drawer and pull out the envelope that's in it.”
The Injun did as he was told.
“Now open it.”
“All right. It's open.”
“Now let's examine all the material carefully,” continued 32. “The holograph on the top is Penelope Bailey at age six.”
The Injun stared at the image of a thin, blonde little girl, with pale blue eyes. She looked drawn and tired, and most of the color was gone from her cheeks.
“The next holograph is a representation of the way we think she
'll look today, barring extreme overweight or anorexia. We can only guess at the style and color of her hair, of course, but based on her bone structure, this is probably pretty accurate.”
“You've wasted your artists’ time,” replied the Injun. “If she's as important as you think, I'm going to have to plow my way through a hell of a lot of people to get to her. I'll know her when I see her.”
“Possibly so, possibly not. Even among primitive races, the substitution of an expendable subject for the ruler is not completely unknown. If you run into a woman with brown eyes, or the wrong cheekbones, this may help you.”
“Then why the hell do I need a camera in my eye? Either you trust me to spot her or you don't.”
“I think you have a chance of reaching her. A chance, not a certainty. I do not necessarily think that you have the skill or intelligence to terminate her without my help—or, quite possibly, even with it. Is that plain enough?”
“Thanks for your confidence.”
“Let's be perfectly frank with one another, Jimmy. You accepted this assignment solely because it is the only way you were ever going to get out of your prison cell again, and you doubtless have every intention of reneging on your pact with me if the opportunity presents itself. I chose you because I have lost a number of excellent operatives; you are more adept at deceit and murder than any of them, and you are expendable. Do we understand one another?”
“One of us does,” replied the Injun sullenly.
“Then let's get back to business. The next item is your identification packet. We considered trying to change your retinagram and erase your fingerprints, but there was still the matter of your voiceprint, and if they found too many surgical changes, you'd be a marked man the instant you touched down. Therefore, you will retain your real identity, that of Jimmy Two Feathers, but we have changed every existing database—including the Master Computer at Deluros VIII—to show that you are a naval officer who has been officially attached to our embassy on Alpha Crepello III.”
“Just a minute,” said the Injun. “There are a lot of people on both sides of the law who know my name and my face. What about them?”
“You will fly directly from here to your destination. The embassy staff has been informed that you are working on a highly confidential assignment, and they will be ordered not to question you about it or to discuss your presence among themselves.”
“I could still run into a bounty hunter or a pusher on the street.”
“I think that's highly unlikely, Jimmy. You've been out of circulation for two years; the average bounty hunter doesn't live that long. Still,” 32 added, “that's one of the reasons for your surgery. If you spot anyone who might recognize you, we will take him off Hades if necessary.”
“Hades?”
“That's the informal name for Alpha Crepello III.”
“Sounds like my kind of place.”
“I very much doubt it,” said 32. “To continue: the next item before you is a map of Hades. As you'll see, it's a relatively underpopulated planet for a world that size. There are nineteen major metropolitan areas. The largest is the capital city of Quichancha, which I am certain I am mispronouncing. Next is a street map of Quichancha, with the location of our embassy highlighted.”
“The Oracle lives in Quichancha?” asked the Injun.
“We assume so, but we don't know for certain.” 32 paused. “The next three packets contain all the information we have on Port Marrakech, Port Samarkand, and Port Maracaibo, the three human-populated moons of Hades.”
“What do I need them for, if I'm landing on the planet?”
“We have safe houses on all three moons. Assuming that your mission is successful, you may need a place to hide if your route back to the embassy is being watched.”
The Injun ripped up the three packets.
“What are you doing?” demanded 32.
“Let's stop playing games,” said the Injun.
“I don't understand you.”
“If I'm good enough to kill the Oracle, I'm too goddamned dangerous for you to let me live. Every last one of those safe houses is going to be filled with people just waiting to blow me away.”
“If I want to kill you, Jimmy, all I have to do is trigger the device we've inserted in your skull.” 32 sighed. “I'll have another set of packets on the three moons made up and delivered to you.” He paused. “There's only one item left. Are you ready to continue?”
“Yes.”
“Then pick it up and study it.”
The Injun held up a holograph of a tall, moderately handsome man with auburn hair and pale blue eyes, who appeared to be in his late thirties.
“Who is it?”
“His name is Jeremiah Joshua Chandler.”
“Should that mean something to me?”
“You may have known him as the Whistler.”
The Injun shook his head. “Nope.” He stared at the holograph again. “What's he got to do with the Oracle?”
“He's our distraction.” 32 paused. “He is a top professional, possibly the best on the Inner Frontier. He's operating at a disadvantage: I had a feeling that the termination order would come through, so he, unlike you, was not provided with these maps—but that won't prove much of a hindrance to a man of his abilities. He's currently on Port Marrakech, but if anyone can make it to Hades in one piece, he's the man. If that should happen...”
“You want me to work with him?”
“No.”
The Injun frowned. “Then why the hell am I looking at his holograph?”
“We hope that he'll take the Oracle's attention away from you. After all, he's a covert agent who, according to my information, may already have killed one of her operatives on Port Marrakech, which means his presence is probably known to her. However,” continued 32, “as I mentioned before, his goal is different from yours.”
“If the Oracle is half of what you think she is, there's no way he's going to bring her out,” said the Injun with absolute conviction.
“I realize that the notion of kidnapping the Oracle seems ludicrous,” admitted 32, “but to be truthful, so does the thought of killing her. If she has a weakness, I imagine one is as likely as the other.”
“So what are you trying to tell me?”
“Simply this, Jimmy: we dealt with him in good faith, and I don't wish to sacrifice him—but if at any point it seems that he might actually reach the Oracle before you do, you're going to have to kill him.”
11.
It took the Injun five hours to clear Customs on Hades, which refused to honor the concept of diplomatic immunity. The Blue Devils questioned him over and over again—more than long enough for them to feed his fingerprints and the retinagram of his right eye through their computers, and their allies’ computers, and those computers of their enemies to which they had access—and throughout the long interrogation, 32 kept feeding him the proper answers.
Finally he was allowed to leave, and found a driver from the embassy waiting for him.
“Lieutenant Two Feathers?”
“That's me,” answered the Injun, declining to return the young driver's snappy salute.
“I'm here to take you to your quarters at the embassy.”
“The sooner the better,” grunted the Injun. He looked around. “Where the hell's my luggage?”
“It's still being examined, sir,” said the driver. “Another member of the staff will retrieve it when it's been cleared.”
“What do they think I'm smuggling, anyway?”
“Nothing, sir. It's just their way of emphasizing their independence from the Democracy.” The driver paused. “By the way, I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Daniel Broussard, and I am at your disposal for the duration of your stay on Hades.”
“Jimmy Two Feathers,” replied the Injun.
“That's a curious name, if I may be permitted to say so, sir.”
“Cherokee.”
“Cherokee? Is that a planet?”
“Not ex
actly,” said the Injun. “Let's get the hell out of here. You can tell me your life story on the way.”
“Follow me, sir,” said Broussard.
“Just a minute, son,” said the Injun.
“Sir?”
“My name is Jimmy. That's what people call me; that's what I respond to. You say ‘sir’ and my first inclination is to turn around and see who's standing behind me.” He paused. “If you get tired of Jimmy, you can call me Injun. I'll answer to either.”
“Yes, sir,” said Broussard.
“Kid's a real quick study,” muttered the Injun under his breath.
“He is to be your liaison, Jimmy. Don't start by offending him.”
“He didn't hear me.”
“I beg your pardon, sir ... Jimmy?” said Broussard.
“Just talking to myself,” answered the Injun. “I do it all the time these days. Don't pay me any attention.”
“As you wish, sir.” Broussard caught himself. “I'm sorry: As you wish, Jimmy.”
“Okay. Lead the way.”
The Injun followed Broussard through the small spaceport and out into the hot air of Hades, where a land vehicle was waiting for them.
“You're supposed to sit in back,” said Broussard as the Injun opened the front door.
“I like it up front. Better view.”
“Please, sir—I'll get in trouble if they see you riding up front.”
“Who's the enemy, anyway?” muttered the Injun. “The embassy or the Blue Devils?”
“You know who the enemy is. There's no point in making more.”
The Injun climbed into the back of the vehicle, and Broussard started driving through twisting streets that suddenly widened and narrowed for no discernable reason. The buildings bore no relation to each other, nor to any other structure the Injun had ever seen. No two looked remotely alike: some were tall, others were squat; some were round, some needle-shaped, some trapezoidal, some possessed so many sides and angles that he doubted there was a mathematical term in existence that could properly describe them.
The street itself was as strange as the buildings. It began as a gleaming, super-hardened ceramic near the spaceport, became a pothole-filled rubble in the midst of what seemed to be a commercial section, constantly changed grades and inclines, and moved from ceramic to dirt to gravel to plastic and back again for no reason that he could discern.
