Soon enough, the corridor flitter landed in the Old Man’s territory.
“Thanks,” said the dark operative with a thick bandage on his finger.
They passed several more checks, eventually bringing the SSP detective to a med center.
They cut off the detective’s clothes in order to keep him in restraints. Two burly assistants entered, helping the operatives transfer the detective onto a specialized med table.
The detective struggled mightily at the worst possible moment. The burly assistants used their steroid-enhanced strength to keep the struggling to a minimum.
“What’s with him?” the bigger assistant panted as the last lock clicked shut.
“That’s what we hope to find out,” the second operative replied.
A plump woman entered wearing a green medical gown, a mask over her nose and mouth. Her eyes were hard. Meg Vance was the Old Man’s chief inquisitor, using drugs to unlock reluctant minds.
“I’ll take it from here,” she said quietly.
The two operatives shivered. The burliest assistant grinned nastily at their discomfort.
“Let’s write our report,” the first operative said.
“You’ll have to do the writing. My finger is killing me.”
“We’d better get that checked out.”
“The medikit says its fine.”
“Let’s check it out.”
“Maybe she can.”
The inquisitor scowled at the operatives.
“Maybe not here,” the second operative said, as he held his injured hand. He moved toward the door and suddenly collapsed. As he lay on the floor, he began to tremble and to foam at the mouth.
By the time the assistants stretched him out to calm him, the operative was dead.
The four of them stared at the corpse. Then they turned to the SSP detective strapped onto the table.
“A big fish,” the inquisitor said. “It’s time for me to get to work…”
***
Three hours later, Jon looked up from his desk in his wardroom in the Nathan Graham. He was going over endless reports. The knock on his hatch was welcome relief.
“Come in,” he said.
The hatch opened as the Old Man hurried within. For once, the tall ex-sergeant did not have his pipe. The man looked worried, though. He carried a tablet at his side.
“Sit,” Jon said, as he leaned back.
“Don’t have time for this one, sir,” the Old Man said. He put the tablet on the desk and stepped back.
Jon stared at the tablet and then the Old Man. “I’m sick of reading. Boil it down to the essentials.”
“The Space Tactics Division of the Saturn System Police is planning a strike, sir. They’re going to hit the ship in two days.”
“How reliable is this?”
“Very,” the Old Man said. “I lost a key operative as they brought a kidnapped SSP detective to the warship. The inquisitor tore the details out of him.”
Jon sighed as he leaned toward the tablet, taking it from the edge of the desk. He started reading. He read the surviving operative’s report and then Meg Vance’s findings.
“This is incredible,” Jon said. “The Space Tactics Division has been one of our best tools.”
“Now we know why. They’ve been softening us up, sir, getting us to trust them.”
Jon scowled. “I do trust them. This…” he waved the tablet, “can’t be right.”
The Old Man began patting himself down. It might have been an unconscious gesture. He appeared to be searching for something.
“Left my pipe in my quarters,” he muttered.
“If this is true…” Jon said.
“We have to strike hard and fast, sir,” the Old Man said. “We’ve given the Space Tactics Division more leeway than anyone else. This makes sense, particularly since we caught an intercept from the GSB.”
Jon glared at the report. It felt as if the bulkheads in his wardroom were closing in. This was chilling. He needed the Space Tactics Division. To lose them now…
“What do you suggest?” Jon asked quietly.
“Take a regimental company, sir,” the Old Man said. “Suit them up and take out the entire station.”
“Why not use a few missiles to do that?”
“I want a crack at their files, sir. And we need prisoners, the more the better.”
Jon’s scowl grew as he stared at the poisonous tablet in his hand. “I need to read this again.”
“Time is against us, sir. It’s going to take time to set up a surprise raid.”
The scowl lines deepened even more.
Why am I so suspicious of everyone? The Old Man has done good work. Why is there a knot in my gut?
“Okay…” Jon said.
“Sir—”
“I said ‘okay,’” Jon snapped. “I have to think. What if the detective is a plant?”
“I don’t see how that’s possible, sir. This is…huge. I bet my paycheck the SSP have backup. We have to disrupt the plan before they hit us like a hurricane.”
“That will be all,” Jon said. “I need to read this again and think about it.”
The Old Man looked as if he wanted to say, “Don’t take too long.” Instead, he saluted, turned around and exited the chamber.
-4-
Jon reread the report carefully. Everything seemed to be in order. The two operatives had gotten lucky in apprehending the SSP detective. They might have also gotten lucky with the coagulant in the false tooth. It had certainly been potent enough according to the power of the delayed reaction to the dead operative from a finger wound.
Why hadn’t the detective licked his false tooth and died from that?
Jon read the reports for a third time. Something bothered him about this. Yes, luck aided them from time to time. Good luck and bad luck had struck more than once.
With a grunt, Jon shot to his feet. He had qualms. He could go see Gloria. Her mentalist outlook had proven invaluable more often than not.
No! Jon knew who he was going to see. This was something the Prince of Ten Worlds might be able to comprehend for him.
***
Da Vinci had his forehead pressed against a wall as he stood near the cell’s sink. He didn’t look up as Jon entered. He didn’t complain, didn’t whine, didn’t ask why—
Da Vinci whirled with an oath, and he lunged at Jon. There was something glitteringly metallic in his right hand.
The move almost caught Jon off-guard. At the last moment, he blocked the thrust, knocking Da Vinci’s hand aside.
“No,” Da Vinci howled, with tears leaking from his eyes. He lunged again.
This time, Jon was ready. He grabbed the wrist and twisted savagely. He twisted hard enough so something popped in the thin wrist.
Da Vinci howled with pain as his hand opened involuntarily. A small penknife dropped from his hand.
Jon kicked the penknife aside, and he shoved the little thief at his cot. Da Vinci stumbled backward, falling onto the cot. He backed up, scooting into the corner and staring at Jon like a wild animal.
Jon retrieved the penknife. He’d expected a sharpened shiv of some sort. Someone had given the penknife to Da Vinci. As Jon moved his other hand to fold the blade into the handle, he noticed a sheen on the blade.
Poison.
Stepping to the door and knocking on it, Jon told one of the responding guards to don gloves before he gingerly handed the knife to him.
“Take this to Meg Vance. Be extra careful. It’s a poisoned blade. I want to know what kind of poison.”
The guard acknowledged the order and hurried away.
Jon glanced at the other two guards. He shut the door afterward, regarding Da Vinci.
“Who gave you the penknife?”
“The Old Man,” Da Vinci muttered.
For a second, Jon believed him. Then, he realized the absurdity of the comment.
“I need to talk—”
“No,” Da Vinci said wildly. “I won’t let you. I
can’t. I have to fight for my sanity. You’re driving me over the edge with these talks.”
Jon realized whatever pity he’d had for Da Vinci had dried up a long time ago. He’d used the man for so long now…
Am I turning into a monster? Is that what pressure could do to a man? The skullduggery of ruling a planetary system, or sitting as dictator over it, had definitely come with internal costs. To defeat monsters, he’d had to take on many of the monsters’ attributes.
“I need to speak to the other you,” Jon said.
“Leave me alone!” Da Vinci shouted. “I’m not going to—no, no, I don’t want to. You shouldn’t do this to me. You’re evil. I hate you!”
Even as tears leaked from Da Vinci’s eyes, he began trembling. The shaking intensified, and then his eyes bulged outward.
The next second, the Neptunian’s demeanor changed. He became calm, more relaxed. Using his right hand, he methodically wiped away the tears and ran his hand under his runny nose, wiping the hand on his blanket afterward.
“Thank you, Captain,” the Neptunian said in his confident voice. “The wretch has been stubborn the past few days. The assassination attempt surprises me. He almost killed you.”
“Who gave him—you—the knife?” Jon asked.
The Neptunian smiled knowingly. “Would you believe me if I told you? I don’t think so.”
“Do you know?”
“That’s the other problem,” the Neptunian said. “I don’t know.”
Jon had no idea whether the Prince of Ten Worlds was telling the truth or not. Maybe it didn’t matter.
“May I ask why you’re here?” the Neptunian said.
Jon nodded, telling him about the reports concerning the SSP detective and the Space Tactics Division. He told the Neptunian his doubts and that he couldn’t understand why he doubted.
“Allow me to process this,” the Neptunian said.
Jon backed up to the stool, sitting down, tilting it so he perched on a single stool leg.
Four minutes passed in silence.
“Devious, very, very devious,” the Neptunian said finally.
“Do you doubt the veracity of the report?” Jon asked.
“Utterly,” the Neptunian said. “There are a few too many markers pointing to an extremely subtle mind at play. I believe your enemy—”
“Do you mean the Solar League?”
“Oh, indeed, yes,” the Neptunian said. “I believe your enemy needs the Space Tactics Division eliminated. He desires you to take it out for him. Yet…I suspect there is something more. I almost suspect this is a diversion.”
“How could I find out for sure?”
“That is a difficult course. Your detective—not yours, of course—I refer to your prisoner. His mind was carefully conditioned to fool your inquisitor.”
Jon ingested this in silence.
“There’s only one method I know to get to the detective’s truth.”
“I hope you’re not going to say the brain-tap machines,” Jon said.
“I see you already realize what you need to do. For some reason, you want me to point it out to you. Really, Captain, I think you lack the confidence for this. You’re too full of doubt. You should trust your instincts. That’s what fear is for.”
“I don’t follow you.”
The Neptunian chuckled. “Your race and mine are very similar. They even have similar pets. I recall a report I read as the Prince. Shall I share it with you?”
“Go ahead.”
“A woman reported a gruesome rape and robbery. She told the officer, ‘I don’t know how my dog knew the man was evil.’ Of course, my people did not have dogs as such, but doglike creatures.”
“Of course,” Jon said.
“The woman asked the officer, ‘How did my dog know he was going to rape me?’
“Clearly, the dog did not know,” the Neptunian said. “But the dog knew its owner. The beast read the woman’s unease about the stranger who had come to her door. The subconscious fear in her was a warning that things were not right with this man. For whatever reason, she did not trust her instincts. She did not trust her fears, and she ended up being raped and robbed because of her self-distrust.”
“You’re saying I’m like that woman?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, Captain.”
Jon let the other two stool-legs clump onto the floor. He stood and headed for the door.
“Aren’t you going to thank me, Captain?”
Jon regarded the Neptunian, the cunning in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Da Vinci. I needed the Prince to tell me that.”
“Don’t speak to him when I’m in charge,” the Neptunian said sternly. “It is rude and diminishes my honor. If you are not careful of my honor, Captain, I shall make the assassination attempt next time. And believe me, I will succeed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jon said. He rapped on the door. He had a big decision to make.
-5-
“I see…” Bast Banbeck said.
The Sacerdote stood in his outer chamber. No one had been in his inner chamber for months now. Gloria had informed Jon that Bast considered it his sanctuary. Banbeck had implied before that a human would defile the sanctuary and badly upset his equilibrium. The mentalist had told Jon that Bast worked hard to maintain his mental balance in this chaotic environment.
The outer chamber was large and devoid of furniture of any kind. The floor, though, had an amazingly intricate chalked-out pattern. There were squares, triangles, ovals and octagonal shapes with lines and pathways connecting them.
Even as Bast Banbeck had listened to Jon explain the situation, the Sacerdote had moved in slow motion across his pattern. In many ways, it was like watching a distracted young girl step across her chalked-out hopscotch pattern while trying to talk to her. The Sacerdote had not jumped, but moved in a fluid, kung-fu-like manner, changing his hand positions and stances.
“May I ask you an unrelated question?” Jon said.
“By all means, Captain, as long as it does not involve…” Bast gestured to the floor.
“Oh.”
Bast Banbeck closed his eyes as if preparing himself for something painful.
“Perhaps we could stick to the issue at hand,” the Sacerdote said.
“Of course,” Jon replied, feeling foolish.
“I could no doubt attempt what you wish,” Bast said slowly. “However, the results from the last time still pain my conscience. I failed to eliminate a horror. The Prince of Ten Worlds is slowly driving Da Vinci mad. The reason for this is obvious. Once the human will is driven mad, his resolve will be weakened dramatically. That might allow the Prince to maintain his preeminence indefinitely.”
“Could you do something for Da Vinci?”
“I could try again…” Bast made a complex gesture. “By now, it is useless. The Prince has invaded too many portions of Da Vinci’s consciousness. The man has to use his own resources to implant his will in himself.”
“There’s nothing you could do?”
“I could wipe his brain patterns altogether. This would likely eliminate the Prince’s mind echo. Then, I would have to put down the old pattern. Da Vinci would lose countless memories from the process. Some would argue that he would no longer be the same individual. That is a religious question, however. That means I am unable to answer it.”
“What about the SSP detective?”
“That, Captain, would be easier to accomplish. I should note, though, that it will be decidedly painful for the detective. It is likely he will also lose his sanity from the process.”
Jon bent his head in thought, but it was only for show. He’d already decided. This was for all the marbles, as someone had recently said. Therefore, he was going to do this to the best of his ability, using whatever tools he had to.
As he looked up, Jon saw that Bast was stepping to a different area of the chalked-out room.
Maybe he looked so frankly and wonderingly at Bast, that the Sacerdote said, “I am exiting the
pattern, Captain. I hope you can wait that long.”
“Sure,” Jon said, more curious than ever what the pattern meant to Bast Banbeck.
***
The Sacerdote staggered out of the hateful brain-tap chamber.
Jon had left the chamber some time ago as the detective began to scream hoarsely over and over again. The idea that he must make decisions that caused people such agony had begun to get to Jon. Surely, these kinds of decisions changed a man.
He wondered if the colonel had ever faced this. Certainly, a military officer sometimes gave orders that led to people’s deaths. The worst was losing his own people. But that kind of screaming was different. It had sounded too much like torture. What made him any different from the GSB?
“I have gained your knowledge,” Bast Banbeck said. “Alas, the detective is dead. The process tore him apart. I lacked the skill—”
“Bast,” Jon said, sharply.
The alien jerked his huge head upright.
“I had you do this,” Jon said. “It was not your responsibility, but mine.”
“Oh, Captain, that is simply not true. We are all responsible for any action we take. One cannot hide behind orders. No. If I accept such orders, I am party to the action. Do you humans really believe this, or is it a clever cover to mask your pain?”
“We’re trying to save the human race,” Jon said.
“Captain, I am afraid I must disagree once more. We are doing much more than trying to save your people. That is a noble cause in itself. However, we wish to save the human race in order to create a bastion against the murderous robots. That is our great charge. We fight in the cause of life against those of death.”
“That’s poetic,” Jon said. “You have spoken this truth clearly.”
“Thank you.”
The towering alien and the captain regarded each other.
“About the detective?” asked Jon.
“I uncovered the truth. It is complex and devious. The Prince of Ten Worlds was correct. Your instincts are correct. The detective was given false data and mind-locks against ever revealing the truth. The brain-tap machine proved too strong for the locks. Tearing the truth from the detective killed him, as his superiors intended.”
The A.I. Gene (The A.I. Series Book 2) Page 13
