Man-Kzin Wars 9

by Larry Niven

  So would taking Miranda apart.

  Did not wanting the computer to know when you were home constitute paranoia? Knowing what I knew about information retrieval, it even made sense. What did Keve know about it? What did I expect from a registered schitz anyway? The drugs weren’t perfect.

  Were they?

  Could a schitz off drugs construct a fantasy so powerful it became an internal reality? If the subject believed he was telling the truth, no lie detector would say anything else.

  Was a schitz truly responsible for crimes committed while off drugs? I didn’t even want to think about that one.

  I had too many questions and not enough answers. I called up Johansen but she’d already gone. I dumped my interrogation files to her desk and tasked her to verify the alibis. I didn’t expect them to be anything but solid. She wouldn’t be thrilled with the job but she’d do it right.

  I called up Dr. Morrow and found he’d gone home too. I hadn’t realized how late it was getting. I asked the night intern a question. No, the drugs weren’t perfect. Readjusting a schitz problem was a tightrope act. Too little and the patient destabilized. Too much and you had a walking zombie. Once upon a time any deviation from the social norm was drugged until it went away—totally. Now the doctors tried to intervene as little as possible. Around Alpha Centauri there wasn’t even a law to enforce dosage. Minor personality quirks were not unusual.

  I asked some more questions. Yes, a schitz off drugs might suppress a memory, or move in and out of an alternate reality. Yes, a schitz off drugs might have the cold control required to beat a lie detector.

  What would happen when a criminal schitz had his drugs reinstated? Would his memory remain? How would he respond to the knowledge of his crimes? Anything was possible, it depended on the case.

  Back to square zero.

  Almost square zero. I left Johansen another message, asking her to collect blood samples from the group as well. Morrow could tell me if they were up to date on medication or not. If one of them wasn’t, it would close the case up in a big hurry.

  I put an ARM tag on their idents. That would stop them from boarding the next ship to never-never land. If any tried it, he’d be back in the hot seat as suspect number one.

  Would a schitz off drugs choose to go back on them voluntarily? Another unanswerable question.

  I screened their psych reports. McCallum was manic depressive and paranoid. That explained his mechanical lock. Sioban was borderline schizophrenic and highly antisocial, hence his habit of walking alone in the park. They were both intelligent and well educated: McCallum was an electronics engineer and Sioban was a process control specialist. Neither had any history of sexual deviance or aggression, neither had a criminal record. Despite their minor quirks both were productive, stable members of the community.

  While they were on their drugs.

  Without treatment they were question marks. They’d been diagnosed early and treated all their lives. Nobody knew what they were capable of, them least of all.

  Even if one or the other was untreated, it wouldn’t prove anything—none of the witnesses had chosen them. It would give me probable cause for a search warrant, which might turn up some physical evidence—the better part of Miranda had yet to surface. Until then I lacked a single link between the killing and—anything.

  I mulled my hyperdrive suspicions over again. I had even less to go on there than I did with the schitzies. I thought about Tanya and Jayce. They lacked motive for starters and they were just too upset by Miranda’s death, genuinely upset. Maybe my instincts were wrong on that point. Maybe if I hauled them in and grilled them with the stress analyzer listening in, they’d crack.

  Maybe I was grasping at straws. I needed another angle, but first I needed a break. If nothing better suggested itself tomorrow, I’d run a detailed movement trace on every ident that went through the Inferno’s accounting system the night Miranda disappeared and if that failed, I’d do it for every ident that even came within a kilometer of the place. If I split the compute task, I could get the results in a day or two, spend two weeks analyzing them and then maybe I’d have something to go on. Maybe. I was the last one to leave the office. Time flies when you’re having fun.

  I didn’t go home after work, though I needed the rest. Instead I went down to the Inferno, eager for the second round of the developing game I was playing with Suze Vanreuter. On the way down I wondered what it was about her that appealed to me so strongly. She was attractive enough but there was more to it than that. Her energy and spontaneity had touched a long-buried chord—a part of me that I’d lost contact with.

  When I got to the Inferno, I waited just inside the entry for a few moments to let my eyes adjust to the lower light levels. The holoshow was a burning pool of lava and the dancers were individually encased in a dynamic, digital flame that clung and followed their movements. Periodically the lava would form into a diabolic face that laughed maniacally, swallowed the dancers whole and spit them out again. The music was darker and heavier than the night before but the insistent, pulsating beat was the same.

  I went in, expecting to find her in the middle of the show. Instead she was sitting at the bar. I sat down beside her.

  “Good evening, Ms. Vanreuter,” I said formally.

  If my knowledge of her name surprised her she gave no sign. “Good evening, Captain Allson.”

  It was my turn to be startled. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been. She probably knew the bartender. It would have been easy enough for her to discover my name. I hoped the surprise didn’t show.

  “Would you care to dance?”

  “Enchanted.” She favoured me with a megavolt smile and took my offered arm.

  We danced as the holoshow engulfed us in living fire. The flames highlighted the blazing halo of her hair as she insinuated herself into the rhythm. Her concentration was complete, but she kept her eyes locked on mine. At first we connected only long enough to begin another energetic maneuver. As the night went on and the fatigue and endorphins built up, we stayed together longer and longer, building our own bubble of intimacy in the swirling throng.

  It became hard to think straight, I wanted her so much.

  After a while we left, half exhausted from the energetic dancing. We walked arm in arm along the pedestrian mall, recovering. The absence of the lights, music, pheremones and people was like a dash of cold water after a hot shower, shocking but invigorating. We talked about inconsequential things. Eventually we found a restaurant that boasted authentic Earth cuisine. The menu was a mishmash of Tandoor, Canton and Milan. The food was good in its own right but only a loose approximation of the originals it claimed to duplicate. It didn’t matter. The atmosphere was cozy and the company delightful. I already knew her dossier, but I asked her about herself.

  She shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. I’m thirty-two. I’m a geologist. I used to do engineering work for the UN mining consortium. Now I’m an independent. That means I charge lots of money and I’m usually unemployed. No children. What else is there?”

  “Parents?”

  “Killed in the kinetic missile raid.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” She shrugged again but her eyes became icy and distant, belying her studied nonchalance. “Everyone dies sooner or later.”

  Talking about the past was risky. Alpha Centauri was heavy with ghosts. I changed tack. “Plans for the future?”

  “I’m on a contract now. It’s a good company. If things pan out I’ll go permanent with them. If not, I’ll find something else up here. I like it in the Swarm.”

  “It’s more relaxing than Wunderland. No gangs. No assassinations.”

  “Is that why you came up here?” She seemed surprised.

  “No, I came because of the corruption in the Provo government…” I hesitated, doubtless out of some residual loyalty to my organization “…and in the UN.”

  She nodded, far away for a moment. I didn’t elaborate. She’d seen more of it th
an I had. “So you’re an honest cop.”

  “I am now.”

  That sparked her interest. She raised an eyebrow and licked her lips. “You weren’t always?”

  “I used to work undercover. I spent most of my time breaking the law in order to enforce it.”

  “And?”

  “I crossed the line.”

  “And you came back?”

  “I couldn’t go back, it was too late. I came out here.”

  She smiled. “And what are you doing here?”

  “You mean what’s a nice guy like me doing in a place like this?”

  She just smiled and raised a querying eyebrow. I answered the unstated question.

  “Investigating the Holtzman murder.”

  “I sort of suspected as much.” Miranda was big news all over the asteroid. “How’s it going?”

  I hesitated, a police reflex. Investigative work-in-progress isn’t classified, but neither do you want it to be common knowledge. Most importantly you never want the criminals to know where you are in the investigation. If they know you’re on to them, they’ll flee. If they know you’re not, they’ll just sit tight. What you want is to leave them uncertain, unwilling to commit to flight, unable to hold their ground with confidence. That way they’re more liable to make mistakes. Once in a while they just can’t stand the strain and voluntarily surrender.

  On the other hand Suze wasn’t with the press. She wasn’t even a Swarm native plugged into the local gossip net. The odds of the information getting back through her were vanishingly low. She was a reasonable person who would hold anything I said in confidence. I was walking the road to paranoia again.

  “It’s going, that’s about it. We’re still looking for connections.”

  “Do you have a suspect?” Her eyes were burning blue electric arcs. The thrill of the chase.

  “I thought it might be a schitz, but it doesn’t look like it now. My partner thinks it’s a kzin.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a different kzin.”

  She laughed. “There’s hope for you yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Most Flatlanders can’t tell kzinti apart.”

  “I couldn’t when I first arrived, I’ve learned since,” I said, a trifle affronted.

  She held up a hand in apology. “I’m sorry. It just reminded of an old joke.”

  “Which old joke?”

  “Promise you won’t be offended?” She was smiling, impish dimples appeared, as if she were already laughing at the punchline.

  “Go ahead.”

  She waited a second to get her expression under control. “How can you tell a Flatlander?”

  “How?” I played along.

  “You can’t, they won’t listen.”

  We laughed together and went on to other topics. Later I told her about Brandywine—and about Holly. After that I told her about tracking criminals and what it was like to crack a major case. She told me about hunting minerals in the Jotuns and how she felt when she made the strike that became the Wind Pass Complex. Her eyes were full of the wild, unbounded sky when she talked about the absolute freedom of hiking the high Jotuns alone and the power of total self-reliance. I suddenly understood what drew me to her. I recognized the look. I’d seen it on Earth, in the mirror.

  We didn’t talk about how we planned to spend the rest of the night but when we left we shared a tube car and she didn’t punch in her address. By the time we got to the door of my apt the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  We went in and I offered her a seat. I have a miniature wine rack that holds six bottles. I went to get the glasses and asked, “Would you like a drink?”

  “I didn’t come here to drink.” I turned around, surprised. She ran a finger down the front of her jumpsuit, unsealing the fabric. Her gaze was steady, half mocking, half inviting. It was the same challenge she’d offered the other night. “Bet you can’t keep up.”

  I put the glasses down and went over and kissed her gently. She returned it with enthusiasm. A while later she pulled me down to the carpet. I didn’t resist.

  Afterwards we cuddled and talked in bed, making love languidly in sharp contrast to the almost desperate intensity of the first time. There was all the delight of exploring and discovering a new lover but little of the awkwardness. There had been other women since Holly. Asheya Ramal, sometime partner and longtime friend had pulled me into bed and away from the brink after Brandywine. Kerry Smythe, whom I’d known since childhood, had given me a last-minute going-away present before I’d left Earth. On Wunderland I’d lost a weekend with a blonde Valkyrie named Hanse who taught at the university. Asheya had been for solace and Keri for remembrance. Hanse was to forget. Suze was something more.

  Was I falling in love this fast? A week ago I would have said I wasn’t capable of it at all. Did I want to get involved? The wounds of my divorce were still too fresh. On the other hand, the sooner I started getting over Holly the sooner they would heal.

  Don’t think too much. Enjoy it for what it is and worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. I traced patterns on her skin with my finger.

  She had a fine scar that ran from her nipple to her cleavage before it faded out. It was thinner than a hair, barely noticeable. I traced it with my forefinger.

  “What happened here?” I asked.

  She hesitated before answering. “You know I worked for the mining consortium. They sent me up to sub-survey a new site. We were doing test blasts and a booster went off in my face.” She shuddered. “It should have been no problem but the UN had all the hospitals tied up with the attack on W’kkai. By the time I got med-aid it was too late to prevent scarring. They told me I was lucky to live.” She sounded bitter. “That’s why I quit.”

  “They’re barely there at all.” I reassured her although I knew it wasn’t the scars she was bitter about. I kissed the uphill end of the line.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she growled, then pulled me up and kissed me hard. I would have begged to differ, but I was otherwise occupied.

  Later I found other scars on her thighs, arms, chest and belly. One ran from her forehead to the side of her nose and across her cheek. They were all nearly invisible, just tiny misalignments in the texture of her skin. My detective’s eye couldn’t help reconstructing the accident. From the pattern of the tracery she’d been kneeling and bent forward slightly—likely setting the time dial on top of the charge. That saved her life. Boosters are shaped to explode downwards and the main detonation cone would have killed her on the spot. Instead she’d taken the backblast in the chest with spillover onto her belly and face. The scars came from agonized weeks spent bathed in Nutrol and breathing through a tube in an autodoc because real treatment wasn’t available—proper clonal reconstructive surgery would have left no marks. I felt a cold wind brush against my back. Such a near thing. A little more pressure on the lever of fate and I would never have known what I missed. I didn’t say anything more, I just held her tighter.

  I arrived late the next morning. Hunter was on his way out. He rippled his ears knowingly but mercifully didn’t ask any questions. Johansen was logged out checking alibis. First Tracker was doing something with the Conservors, probably playing poetry games. The usual backlog was waiting for me when I got to my desk. I scanned my messages first, prioritizing—coroner first. Johansen had delivered five blood samples. All five showed my schitzies had the right dosages.

  Well, it had been a good hunch anyway.

  I scanned down. There was the usual assortment from ’casters, looking for information on the killing. I forwarded them to the PR desk for the official brush-off. The rest were routine, half an hour of dull but essential paperwork. I buckled down to it; I wanted my desk clear when I started setting up the movement trace.

  I was almost done when Hunter came in without knocking. “We have captured the kzin who killed the human Miranda Holtzman.” His voice had more than the usual snarl to it. He turned on his heel a
nd strode out again.

  I sighed, picturing riots in the tunnels when the news broke. Be careful what you wish for, it might come true. I followed him out.

  Work in the outer office was stopped dead with everyone staring at First Tracker. The big kzin was standing with his foot in the small of another kzin’s back. The prisoner was lying spread-eagled and bleeding from numerous minor cuts. Hunter stooped over, grabbed the hapless captive by the scruff of the neck and turned his face to the gaping office staff. “This sthondat,” he snarled “is known as Slave-of-Kdapt!” He screamed something into the prisoner’s ear and dragged him into his office, nearly overbalancing First Tracker in the process.

  Tracker spoke little English. He gestured towards the door as Hunter slammed it and said “Dominance.” He looked around the room, lips twitching over razor teeth. Everyone was suddenly diligently at work again. When he was satisfied that he’d quelled the gawkers, the kzin picked up a box, handed it to me and said, “Evidence.” Then he curled up on a visitors’ couch, cozy as a kitten. He fixed his golden eyes on the door to Hunter’s office, ears up and swivelled forward. For the first time I saw that he too was suffering from various cuts and contusions. The first scream came through and his mouth relaxed into a fanged smile.

  I opened the box. Inside was a large, misshapen hunk of fine leather, crudely tanned. I didn’t need DNA analysis to tell me it was Miranda Holtzman’s skin.

  A crash and another scream came through the door. First Tracker licked his chops. I took refuge in my office.

  It wasn’t much of a refuge. My office is right next door to Hunter’s. Goldskin headquarters was once a factory process floor. It was converted to offices by installing inch thick sprayfoam walls. They were adequately soundproof for normal conversation, but that wasn’t what was going on now. The modulated snarls came through almost unimpeded by the barrier, punctuated by crashes, thuds and shrieks of rage and pain. At least I was away from Tracker and his intent satisfaction at the mayhem.

  Sprayfoam is a mass-saving necessity on ships and a handy convenience on Tiamat. Its strength-to-mass ratio is very high but you can put your foot through it with a solid kick. I expected half a tonne of clawing, raging carnivores to land in my lap at any moment. Someday I’ll have the budget to install privacy fields. I’ve seen a lot of violence, but brutalizing a prisoner like this ran against my grain. Slave-of-Kdapt, or whatever he’d been before Hunter renamed him, was a killer but he was still a human being.