Oracle

by Mike Resnick

  “How the hell do you find your way around this madhouse?”

  “It takes getting used to,” answered Broussard, swerving to avoid a Blue Devil who was strolling aimlessly in the middle of the street. “I've been here almost two years, and I myself needed a guide for the first ten months or so. None of the buildings are numbered, and none of the streets are identified, not even in their native language.” He paused. “Most alien cities have a Human Quarter that makes some sense by our own standards, but we have such a marginal presence here on Hades that our embassy is right in the middle of their financial district. If I were you, I wouldn't wander out alone until I was sure I could find my way back; once you're out of sight of the embassy, you could get lost for weeks.”

  “The city's not big enough to get that lost in.”

  “It's not the size but the structure, sir,” said Broussard. “Many of these thoroughfares bear a striking resemblance to a mad city planner's notion of a mobius strip; they keep turning in upon themselves, and though you're sure you've been walking in a direct line for a mile, you suddenly discover that you're right back where you started.”

  “Where's the embassy from here?” asked the Injun, as they passed a building that seemed tall enough to act as a landmark.

  “It's no more than half a mile away, though I'll have to cover about five more miles of these streets before we reach it.” Broussard grinned. “Actually, you could walk to it much faster than I can drive to it.” He paused. “You won't find it too disconcerting once you become acclimated.”

  “I'm not disconcerted.”

  “That's surprising,” said Broussard. “Most newcomers are.”

  “You ever chew any seed, son?” asked the Injun.

  “No, sir.”

  “You ought to try it sometime. Then all the streets look like this one.” He leaned back and relaxed. “It's like coming home.”

  “You're kidding me, right, sir?” said Broussard, a worried frown on his youthful face.

  “Jimmy!”

  “Right, Daniel.”

  They rode in silence through fifty more right angles and obtuse angles and hairpin turns, and finally Broussard pulled into the driveway of the one building that seemed to make any sense.

  “Here we are, sir,” he announced.

  “Doors, windows, everything,” said the Injun, looking at the large embassy building. “I wonder how the Oracle likes where she's living?”

  Subtlety, Jimmy. Remember: they don't know why you're here.”

  “You ought to fire any of them who haven't guessed yet,” replied the Injun.

  “Fire who, sir?” asked Broussard, confused.

  “Nothing,” replied the Injun. “Let's go inside.” He waited until Broussard had entered the building, then muttered: “You keep talking to me and they're going to change their minds and think I'm here for the Cure.”

  He walked into a large, elegant, tiled foyer. The walls bore portraits of the last three Secretaries of the Democracy including the current holder of the office, plus an artistic rendering of the sprawling, planet-wide city that Deluros VIII had become.

  Three uniformed men stood guard before a trio of doors, looking neither right nor left. Broussard escorted him to a large office where a black woman dressed in a severely-tailored outfit sat behind a polished chrome desk.

  “Yes?” she said, not looking up at him.

  “Lieutenant Jimmy Two Feathers, reporting for duty,” he said.

  “We've been expecting you, Lieutenant,” she replied. “You are not on our duty roster, so you might wish to spend some time settling in and getting acquainted with the embassy and its staff.”

  “Is there anyone I'm supposed to report to?”

  She glanced at a computer screen. “No. You are to make your reports to your superiors by your own means. The embassy is to feed and house you and provide you with a guide, and otherwise leave you strictly alone.”

  She dismissed him with a nod of her head, and Broussard led him out of the office and down a corridor to an airlift.

  “Friendly sort, isn't she?” remarked the Injun sardonically.

  “She doesn't have to be,” answered Broussard, as they floated gently up to the third level of the building. “She's Commander Ngoma, the embassy's Chief of Staff.” They stepped out into a corridor. “Your quarters are this way, sir,” said Broussard, heading off to his left. They passed four doors, then stopped before a fifth. “The computer lock is coded to your military ID number. Since I don't know what it is, I can't open the door for you.”

  “How does the room get cleaned?” asked the Injun curiously.

  “There's a small household robot in each closet. Don't let its appearance startle you—it looks like a cross between a tree stump and a large snake.”

  “Thanks for warning me,” said the Injun. He approached the door and stared at the lock.

  “293Y78Q1,” said the voice inside his ear.

  He touched the appropriate numbers and letters, and the door receded into the paneling.

  “Very nice,” he said, walking forward. The room was quite long, and very smartly furnished. To his right was a bed with a nightstand, to his left a sitting area with two cushioned chairs and a sofa, and straight ahead of him, facing a window that overlooked the carefully manicured grounds, was a desk with a small computer.

  “This is the door to your closet,” said Broussard, “and this is the one to the bathroom. Each will slide away as you approach it, and the bathroom can be locked from within.”

  “Very nice indeed,” repeated the Injun. “My most recent accommodation"—he smiled—"was somewhat more confining.”

  “Any changes or additions to your standing orders will be stored in your computer,” continued Broussard. “It can be activated by your voiceprint and ID number.”

  “Okay, I'm impressed,” said the Injun. “Now let's get something to eat.”

  “The commissary is in the basement, sir. I'll be happy to escort you there.” He paused. “There's every likelihood that your luggage will arrive before we're through.”

  The Injun shook his head. “Aren't there any restaurants in the area?”

  “Restaurants, sir?” repeated Broussard, surprised.

  “Establishments where people who don't want to eat at home go for dinner,” said the Injun sardonically. “Possibly you've heard of the concept?”

  “I have, but the Blue Devils haven't, sir. To them, eating is as private and personal a function as, well, going to the bathroom is to us.”

  “You mean there's not a restaurant in the entire city?” demanded the Injun.

  “Actually, there are three, sir,” answered Broussand. “But they're all in the grubbiest section of the city, a section where the Blue Devils rarely go, and they cater to all offworlders, not just humans. I don't think you'd enjoy the experience very much, sir.”

  “Choose one of the three and let's go. The government will pay for it.”

  “That might be unwise, sir,” said Broussard hesitantly. “We are not exactly the most popular race on the planet. There was an incident between a human and two Canphorites at one of the restaurants just last week...”

  “I can't get the feel of the city by sitting here in the embassy.”

  “I'll be happy to drive you around and give you a thorough tour, sir.”

  “And I can't get it from the inside of a vehicle,” continued the Injun. “You don't have to come along if you don't want to. Just tell me how to get to the nearest restaurant.”

  “I won't let you go alone, and I haven't the authority to prevent you,” said Broussard with a sigh. “So I guess I'll have to accompany you, sir.”

  “Fine. Let's go.”

  They left the room, walked down the corridor, took the airlift back down to the foyer, and were soon outside in the incredibly hot air of Hades.

  “Is it within walking distance?” asked the Injun. “I feel like getting a little exercise.”

  “Well, yes and no, sir,” answered Brouss
ard. “It's probably no more than 400 yards away in a straight line. But we'll have to walk for almost a mile to reach it.”

  “A straight line could get mighty lonely on this planet,” replied the Injun. “Lead the way.”

  “Let me suggest one last time that I drive you, sir. You're not used to the heat, and it can sap your strength before you know it.”

  “This is the best way I know to get used to it.”

  They walked past a large, many-sided building that possessed neither windows nor, apparently, doors, then turned a corner and almost walked through the window of a crafts shop. Seventeen triangles of various woods and metals were on display, and the Injun queried Broussard about them.

  “They're not exactly religious symbols,” was the answer. “I mean, they can't be equated with crosses. I suppose they're more of an emblem, they way you might display a flag or wear a military insignia. As near as we can tell, each substance and color denotes a different ethnic group, though I really don't know if the group represents a clan, a business, or even a military unit. But it's the most common symbol on Hades.” Broussard looked up the street, which contained perhaps forty Blue Devils, some walking purposefully, some window-shopping, a few simply standing still for no discernable reason. “You'll see that about half of them have the triangles, sir. Some wear them as pendants, some attach them to their clothing, some simply tie them around an arm or a leg.”

  The Injun stared at the nearest of the Blue Devils, then shrugged and continued walking. A sickening odor wafted out to him and he peered into the interior of a building, where he saw the corpses of a number of small, six-legged animals hung on what appeared to be meat hooks.

  “Slaughterhouse,” explained Broussard. “The Blue Devils like their meat on the high side.”

  “Stupid place for a slaughterhouse. This looks like a retail area.”

  “Not really, sir,” said Broussard. “They don't cluster their businesses the way humans do. In fact, if there's any order to the way the city was laid out, I've yet to figure it out.”

  “Are there any businesses or shops around here that are run by humans?”

  “No,” said Broussard. “The law doesn't forbid us to own a business on Hades, but as I said, we're not very popular here, and except for a medical center, no human enterprise has been able to obtain a license. The restaurants are owned by a Canphorite, a Lodinite, and a Mollutei.” He pointed to a spherical structure about one hundred yards away. “That's the medical center over there.”

  “It's too small for a hospital,” noted the Injun.

  “We have our own medical facilities at the embassy, of course, but this is for non-embassy personnel. There are currently less than one thousand Men on Hades; the center is more than capable of handling those problems that arise beyond the embassy compound.”

  “You sound like you've been there.”

  Broussard smiled. “Not as a patient, sir. But the young lady I'm seeing is a doctor there.”

  “I hope my presence isn't damaging your romance.”

  “This is my job, sir. If I wasn't with you, I'd be escorting someone else.”

  “Good. I hate feeling guilty.”

  They continued walking through the tortuously twisting streets, with Broussard pointing out an occasional landmark or point of interest to the Injun, and finally they arrived at the restaurant.

  It was a small building, with an even smaller dining room. There were fifteen tables. Nine were empty, and the other six were occupied by a variety of beings, none of them human.

  “As I told you, sir,” said Broussard, as they seated themselves at a table near the door, “very few humans leave their hotels to eat.”

  “No problem,” answered the Injun. “I wanted to see the city.”

  They turned to the small holographic menu that hovered above the table and ordered it to list its contents in Terran.

  “I wouldn't order the meat, sir,” advised Broussard. “It translates as beef, but Hades has no trade agreements with the Democracy, and actually it's their local meat animal. Humans have some difficulty metabolizing it.”

  “You're not going to tell me that you've all become vegetarians?”

  “No. The embassy imports all the food it needs from Port Samarkand—but these restaurants aren't owned by humans, and they don't especially cater to us, so I would consider their meat dishes suspect.”

  “Well, I appreciate your concern, but I've eaten animals on two dozen worlds, and nothing's ever upset my digestion yet.” He stared at the menu again for a moment, then requested the dish he wanted. As soon as it registered, the menu vanished.

  “I think you're making a mistake, sir,” said Broussard with a worried frown.

  The Injun shrugged. “I'll never know if I don't try.”

  “You're being foolish, Jimmy.”

  The Injun ignored the voice within his head and engaged Broussard in meaningless small talk, mostly about sports, until their meal arrived.

  “Looks pretty awful,” said the Injun, staring down at the blue-green piece of meat on his plate.

  “We can order something else if you'd like.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” muttered the Injun. He took a small mouthful and chewed it thoughtfully. “Tastes about the way it looks.”

  Broussard turned to his own plate—a large salad—and the Injun took a few more small bites of his meat during the next few minutes, then announced that his experiment in alien cuisine was ended and that he would dine at the embassy for the duration of his stay on Hades.

  “You can share some of my salad if you're still hungry,” offered Broussard.

  “No, thanks. That stuff killed my appetite.” The Injun shrugged. “When all is said and done, that's just what a meal is supposed to do. I suppose I could get thin and healthy if I came here every night for a month.”

  He waited for Broussard to finish, left his thumbprint and ID number with the tiny computer that had generated the menu, waited another minute until the embassy accepted the bill, and then the two of them left the restaurant.

  He began complaining about the meal the instant they were outside, and kept it up until they were within thirty yards of the medical center. Then, suddenly, he clutched his stomach, doubled over as if in agony, and began moaning in pain.

  Broussard decided that he was too ill to wait for an embassy car, and helped him into stagger to the medical center.

  As he sat, moaning hideously, on the steps outside the building while Broussard raced off to find a doctor, he listened to 32's scathing lecture on the stupidity of eating alien food and managed to fight back a grin of triumph. Then he closed his eyes and collapsed.

  12.

  He felt them lift him onto a stretcher and carry him to an emergency room, then heard them leave in search of a doctor. He cracked open his right eye, looked around, and saw a very worried Broussard standing near him.

  He sat up on the table, and as Broussard was about to say something, motioned him to silence. The young man stared at him curiously as he made writing motions in the air, finally nodded in comprehension, and handed him a pocket computer.

  The Injun examined the voice-activated machine, then shook his head and made the same motions again. Broussard pulled a pen out of his pocket, found some paper on a nearby table, and handed both to the Injun.

  DON'T SAY A WORD, wrote the Injun. AND LOCK THE DOOR.

  Broussard read the message, frowned, and did as he was instructed.

  NOW FIND SOME COTTON AND SOME ADHESIVE, AND TAPE MY LEFT EYE SHUT.

  Broussard searched through a pair of drawers, came up with what was required, and taped the eye closed.

  UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO SPEAK UNTIL I GIVE YOU PERMISSION. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?

  Broussard read the message and nodded, still frowning, then took the paper from the Injun and wrote: WHAT'S GOING ON? WHY CAN'T I SPEAK? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR EYE?

  I AM HERE ON A VERY SENSITIVE ASSIGNMENT, responded the Injun. I AM NOT AT L
IBERTY TO TELL YOU THE DETAILS, BUT IT CONCERNS THE ORACLE.

  A doctor began pounding on the locked door.

  TELL HIM TO WAIT, wrote the Injun. MAKE UP ANY STORY THAT WILL WORK.

  Broussard nodded, walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the hall. He returned a moment later.

  ALL RIGHT, he wrote. NOW SUPPOSE YOU TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON?

  The Injun took the pen back. DURING MY ORIENTATION AND BRIEFING PERIOD, WHILE PREPARING FOR THIS ASSIGNMENT, I LOST A DAY SOMEWHERE. I WENT TO BED ONE NIGHT, AND WOKE UP IN MY HOTEL ROOM 32 HOURS LATER. BITS AND PIECES OF INFORMATION THAT I'VE BEEN ABLE TO PIECE TOGETHER LEAD ME TO BELIEVE THAT I HAVE BEEN TAMPERED WITH.

  IN WHAT WAY? asked Broussard.

  I SUSPECT THAT I HAVE HAD A CAMERA AND AN AUDIO TRANSMITTER IMPLANTED INSIDE MY HEAD.

  WHY DIDN'T YOU REPORT THIS TO YOUR SUPERIORS AT THE TIME?

  BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHICH OF THEM IS IN THE EMPLOY OF THE ORACLE. IF I TOLD THE WRONG ONE, I WOULD HAVE BEEN TERMINATED INSTANTLY. I MADE UP MY MIND NOT TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT UNTIL I REACHED HADES.

  Broussard stared at him for a long moment. WHAT IF YOU'RE WRONG?

  IF I'M WRONG, YOU'VE BEEN INCONVENIENCED FOR TEN MINUTES AND I'VE MADE A FOOL OF MYSELF, BUT NO HARM HAS BEEN DONE AND NO FALSE ACCUSATIONS HAVE BEEN MADE. BUT IF I'M RIGHT, THEN OUR COVERT OPERATIONS BRANCH HAS A TRAITOR IN ITS MIDST.

  WHY WOULD THEY RIG YOU WITH A CAMERA AND AN AUDIO RECEIVER? asked Broussard.

  The Injun shrugged. ANY NUMBER OF REASONS. THE ORACLE COULD BE TESTING HER SECURITY, SHE COULD BE CREATING A FILE ON ALL THE HUMANS ON HADES, SHE COULD MERELY BE HOPING THAT I'LL HAVE ACCESS TO SECRET INFORMATION.

  SO WHAT DO WE DO NOW? asked Broussard.

  NOW WE GET SOMEONE YOU CAN TRUST—MAYBE YOUR LADY FRIEND WHO WORKS HERE—AND WE REMOVE WHATEVER'S BEEN IMPLANTED WHILE WHOEVER'S AT THE OTHER END STILL THINKS I'M BEING TREATED FOR A BELLYACHE.

  Broussard looked thoughtful. SHE'S NOT THE DOCTOR I JUST SPOKE TO, BUT I KNOW SHE'S ON DUTY. He paused. BUT I'D HAVE TO TELL HER WHAT'S GOING ON.

  CAN YOU TRUST HER TO KEEP QUIET?