We walked down the long central hallway, Ida in front, Kiernan bringing up the rear. The passageway was lined with original oils, mostly landscapes, and he stopped twice to admire the work and compliment Ida on her taste. He seemed quite knowledgeable, and Ida was clearly struck by him.
Eventually we reached the study, and she told Henry to unlock the display cabinet.
“You keep it here,” he said, “in this room? I assumed you’d have it inside a vault somewhere.” It was a joke, but his tone suggested he was serious. It’s precious. Take care of it. There are unprincipled persons about.
“Oh, it’s perfectly safe, Marcus.” She opened the top of the case and removed the duplicate jumpsuit, lifting it by the shoulders and letting it fall out full length. It was dark blue, the color of the sea at night. The Polaris patch was on the left shoulder, and ENGLISH stenciled in white over the right-hand breast pocket.
Kiernan approached it as one might a relic. “Magnificent,” he said.
Unaccountably, I felt a pang of guilt.
He reached out with his fingertips and touched it. Touched the embroidered name.
ENGLISH
Maddy. I think, in that moment, I understood why passengers riding the Sheila Clermo felt the presence of Mendoza and Urquhart and White and the others. And especially Maddy. Poor tragic Maddy. Nothing worse can happen to a captain than to lose the people who travel with her, who depend on her to bring them safely through whatever obstacle might arise. Ida must have felt it, too. Her eyes were damp.
Kiernan stood as if drawing strength from the garment, and finally he took it in his own hands. “I can hardly believe it,” he said.
“Marcus,” I asked, “have you been on board the ship?”
“The Clermo? Oh, yes. I’ve been on it.” His expression changed, became troubled. “Years ago.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. I was just thinking that Survey should never have sold it.”
“I agree,” said Ida, with indignation.
“It’s of immense historical value.”
I looked at the jumpsuit. And at him. He had to raise it a bit to keep it off the floor. Maddy had also been taller than he was.
We all gazed at it. At the smooth dark blue cloth, at the shoulder patch, at the pockets. Six in all, breast pockets outlined in white trim, back and cargo pockets plain.
“Nothing in them, I suppose?” he said.
“No,” said Ida. “I should have been so lucky.”
Casually, as if it were an afterthought, he looked. Opened each pocket and peeked in, smiling the whole time, saying how you never know, shaking his head sadly that no scrap of Polaris history had drifted forward inside the suit. He had me almost believing it was the original. “Pity,” he said, when he’d finished. “But it’s enough that we have this.” He refolded the jumpsuit and gave it back. “Thank you, Ida.” He looked at the time. “It’s gotten late. I really must go. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Ida. And you, Chase.”
He started toward the door.
“You’ve come a long way, Marcus,” said Ida. In fact we weren’t at all sure how far he’d come. “Can I offer you anything before you leave?”
“No,” he said. “Thank you, but I really must be on my way.”
Bows to both of us, and then we were all walking toward the front door. It opened, and he swung out into the sunset, waved, climbed aboard his skimmer, and rose into the evening sky.
I collected the duplicate jumpsuit, and I was putting it carefully into a plastene bag when Alex charged into the study.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Where?”
“Ida.” He beamed at her. “You were exquisite.” And, glancing at me, “Both of you.” We were headed toward the front door. “Thanks, Ida. I’ll get back to you. Let you know what happens.” He took the duplicate jumpsuit and put it under his arm. If nothing else, we had “Kiernan’s” DNA.
We paused in the shelter of the house to watch the skimmer moving out over the treetops. Gave it a moment to get clear. “He seems like such a nice young man,” said Ida.
When we thought it was safe to do so, we climbed into our own vehicle. “What’s the plan?” I asked him.
“Let’s see if we can find out where he lives.” We lifted off, and Alex opened a link to Ida. “Probably best, Ida,” he said, “if you don’t mention this to anybody.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Just a precaution. Until we find out what it’s about.”
“What do you want me to do if he contacts me again—?”
“Let us know right away.”
“And keep the doors locked,” I said.
I asked Alex whether he thought she was actually in any kind of danger.
“No,” he said. “Kiernan got what he wanted—”
“—An opportunity to search the jumpsuit—”
“Exactly. There’s no reason for him to come back. But it’s just as well to be safe.”
“Your notion that they’re looking for something—”
“Yes?”
“—Looks as if it’s on target.”
We could see Kiernan in the fading sunlight, headed east toward Andiquar. “Follow it,” he instructed the AI. We rose above the trees and began to accelerate. He turned in my direction. “What did you think of him?”
“Actually, he seemed like a nice guy.”
He smiled. “I’m willing to bet you and Ida were just talking to the man who set the bombs at Proctor Union. Or knows who did.”
I had to run that through a second time. “What makes you say that?” I asked. “Why would Kiernan try to kill the Mazha?”
“He didn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Alex; I’m not following the conversation.”
“What I’m saying is that he took advantage of the Mazha’s presence to destroy the collection and make it look like something else.”
That was hard to believe. “You don’t think it was an assassination attempt?”
“No, I don’t. And they got away with it, Chase. The investigators are looking for an assassin. Not a Polaris conspirator.”
“But I still don’t see—”
“They didn’t want anyone to realize what was really happening. They don’t want people asking a lot of questions. It was a perfect opportunity. They find out the Mazha’s visiting, and nobody is surprised when assassins try to finish him off.”
“That’s incredible. But why? If there’s something they’re trying to find, why destroy everything?”
“Maybe they just want to be sure that whatever’s there—” He hesitated.
“—Doesn’t fall into somebody else’s hands,” I finished.
“Yes. Now think about the bombs again.”
“They turned the artifacts to slag.”
“It’s obvious Kiernan doesn’t know where to find the thing he’s looking for. It might have been in Maddy’s jacket. Or in her jumpsuit. Or in her blouse.”
“It’s always Maddy,” I said.
“That might be an illusion. Most of the stuff we took from the exhibition belonged to Maddy. So we need to withhold judgment a bit.”
The sky was getting dark. Below us, lights were coming on. “But what could it be?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How’d they find out the Mazha was coming? There must be a leak someplace.”
“I suspect there were leaks in a lot of places. Organizations like Survey aren’t used to keeping secrets. That’s why he came with a small army of bodyguards.” He jabbed an index finger at Kiernan’s aircraft. “They didn’t want to kill anyone, so they called in the bomb threat minutes before it went off.”
“It was a close thing.”
“Yes. Whatever they’re looking for, they’re willing to risk killing a few people if that’s what it takes to find it. Or to make sure no one else does.”
“Hey, that means Tab Whatzis-name is involved.”
“Everson.”
“Yes
. Everson.” The guy who’d bought the debris, incinerated it, and launched the ashes toward the sun.
“Are we beginning to see a pattern?”
“But what could be that important?”
He looked at me. “Think about it, Chase.”
“The Polaris. There’s something that would tell us what happened.”
“That’s my guess.”
“You think somebody wrote a note? Left a message of some sort?”
“Maybe. It may not be that clear-cut. But there’s something that somebody’s afraid of.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Even if there had been some sort of conspiracy, everybody who could have been involved in it is long dead or out of power.”
Kiernan was still headed east. We were gaining on him, trying to get closer without being spotted. “Let’s go to manual, Chase. Move up, but stay in traffic.”
I disabled the AI and activated the yoke. “We’re in legal jeopardy here,” I said. Going to manual wasn’t strictly an offense, but God help you if you did it and then got involved in an accident.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
“Easy for you to say.”
Kiernan’s Thunderbolt joined the east–west stream along 79, over the Narakobo. It was the middle of the week; traffic was moderate and moving steadily. “I still think we should call Fenn,” I said.
“What do they charge him with? Fondling Maddy’s jumpsuit?”
“At the very least, they ought to be able to bring some sort of charges against a man who wanders around the countryside gaining entrance to people’s homes while using false identities.”
“I’m not sure that’s illegal,” he said. “Anyhow, all it would do is let him know we’re onto him. If we want to find out what this is about, we need to give him a chance to show us.”
Ahead, we could see the lights of Andiquar on the horizon. The Thunderbolt rolled into the northeast corridor and headed toward the estuary.
“He’s going out to one of the islands,” I said.
The night was alive with moving lights. Aside from the air traffic, some were on the river, others on the walkways. Compared to most Confederate capitals, Andiquar is a horizontal city. There are towers at its four corners, and the Spiegel and Lumen towers downtown, but otherwise the tallest buildings run to about six stories. It’s a beautifully designed amalgam of parks and piers, monuments and elevated walkways, fountains and gardens.
It was a cold, still evening, no wind, the moon not yet up. We passed a hot-air balloon.
“Late in the season for that,” said Alex.
Kiernan was staying with the flow, doing nothing to draw attention to himself as he passed over Narakobo Bay and headed out to sea. There are hundreds of islands within an hour’s flying time of Andiquar, and in fact they hold almost half the capital’s population.
As we drew abreast of the city, we started picking up heavy traffic. “Let’s get a bit closer,” said Alex. Most of the aircraft were running between altitudes of one and two thousand meters. The long-range stuff was higher. I dropped down to about eight hundred and moved in behind the Thunderbolt.
“Good,” said Alex.
I should have realized immediately something was wrong because a sleek yellow Venture that had been down at the same altitude now pulled up behind us.
Alex hadn’t noticed. “He’s talking to somebody,” he said.
“You mean there’s someone else in the skimmer?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s on the circuit.”
The Venture swung to starboard and began to crowd me.
Alex’s attention was riveted on the Thunderbolt. “I’d love to hear what he’s saying.”
The hatch on the Venture popped open. That never happens in flight. Not ever. Unless somebody wants a clear shot. “Heads up, Alex—!”
I swerved to port but it was too late. There was a flash of light, and, in that instant, I felt the downward jolt of normal weight slamming back, and we began to fall.
Alex yelped. “What are you doing?”
I tried accelerating to provide more lift for the wings. Skimmers, of course, are designed to function with antigrav pods. During operation, the aircraft weigh about eleven percent normal. So it doesn’t take much wingspan, or much thrust, to keep them airborne. Consequently, the wings are modest, and the vehicles are slow. You’re not going to get past 250 kph with any of them. And that’s just not enough to keep you in the air when you’re carrying full weight.
We were sinking toward the ocean. I fought the controls but couldn’t get any lift. “Going into the water,” I told him. “Get ready.”
“What happened?”
“The Venture,” I said. It was accelerating away, pulling out of the traffic as we fell.
A male voice broke in over the circuit: “You okay in there? We saw what happened.”
And another, a woman: “Try to get down. We’ll stay with you.”
I got on the link to the Patrol. “Code White,” I told them. “I’m in free fall.” That wasn’t quite true, but it was close enough.
The surface looked dark, cold, and hard. “Hang on,” I said.
We got a voice from the Patrol. “I see you.” I love how those guys keep calm when somebody else is falling out of the sky. “We are en route.”
I didn’t have enough velocity even to get the nose up. “Try to keep loose,” I told Alex. He managed to laugh. I had to give the guy credit.
Water can be hard. We blasted down, bounced, flipped, turned sideways, and crashed into a wave. The roof tore away. Skimmers are routinely driven by AIs, and they never collide, either with each other or with anything else. Furthermore, the lighter they are, the more efficiently they run. Consequently, they’re not built to withstand impact. Even the seat belts are intended only as a precaution against rough weather.
Water poured in on us. I had a glimpse of lights, then we went under. I could feel myself rising against my harness.
I checked what was left of the overhead to make sure we had clear passage to the surface. When I saw that we did, I released my restraints, but held on, and twisted around to see how Alex was making out. At that moment, the power failed, and the lights went off.
He was struggling with his belt. He didn’t know where the manual release was. That was no surprise; he’d probably never had to use it before. It was located in the center of the aircraft on the board between the seats. But I had to push his hand out of the way to get at it. It was a bad situation because at that moment he thought he was going down with the skimmer and was fumbling desperately and in no mind to accept help. I literally had to rip his hand clear before I could thumb the release. Then I pushed him up. He went out through the top, and I followed.
The Patrol picked us up within minutes and wanted to know what had happened. I told them. An unknown person in a late-model yellow Venture had taken a shot at us. Apparently she had hit the antigrav pods.
“You say she. Did you know who it was?”
“No idea,” I said.
The interviewing officer was a woman. We were seated on the deck of the rescue vehicle. “Why would she do that?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “No idea.”
“But it was a woman?”
“I think so.” Not much help there.
We were both drenched and shivering with the cold and wrapped in blankets. They gave us coffee. When the Patrol officer allowed us a moment alone, Alex asked whether I’d thought to rescue the duplicate jumpsuit.
“No,” I said. “I thought you had it.”
He looked at me and sighed.
eLeVeN
He looks here, he looks there, he looks, by heaven, everywhere. He searches the dark corners and all the shadows, behind the doors, and down in the cushions.
—Chen Lo Cobb, “I Put It Here Somewhere,”
from Collectibles
When Fenn caught up with us, he was indignant. How could we not have confided in him? We were at the country h
ouse the morning after we got dunked, and the police inspector was on the circuit. He was parked behind his desk, a glowering angry bulldog, while I wondered what had become of the light-footed thief he had been in that earlier life. “You could have gotten yourselves killed.”
“We didn’t think it was dangerous,” Alex protested.
“Ah,” he said. “You’ve got someone stealing artifacts, and you didn’t think it would be dangerous.”
“He wasn’t actually stealing artifacts.”
“Why don’t you tell me precisely what he was doing?”
So Alex explained. Someone looking at objects salvaged from the Polaris. Searching through them, actually. Changing his name from place to place. A woman involved too. One Gina Flambeau. We showed him pictures of Kiernan at Ida’s house.
“Is Flambeau the woman who was driving the other vehicle?”
“Don’t know. But she was doing the same thing as Kiernan. Trying to get a look at a Polaris artifact. In her case by pretending to give one of our clients a monetary award.
“Pretending?”
“Well, the client did get the money. But that’s not the point.” It all sounded lame. Except that someone had tried to kill us.
Fenn was reluctant to believe the Survey attack was anything other than an assassination attempt. There had, in fact, been a plot to kill the Mazha while he was in Andiquar. Members of two independent groups had been arrested. They’d denied everything, and both were telling the truth. To the authorities that simply meant there was a third group. Or a lone rider.
“There’s one thing about it that’s strange, though,” said Fenn. “The experts tell me these people don’t like to use bombs for assassinations. In Korrim Mas they’re considered too impersonal.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “The correct way to do an assassination is with a knife or gun, up close. Lots of eye contact. Anything else is unsporting.
“There are rules.” He couldn’t resist laughing. “In any case, I’m glad you’re both okay. This is what happens when civilians get involved in these things. I hope next time, we can see our way clear to do it by the book.”
Polaris Page 17
