by Larry Niven
Maybe love.
I fell asleep with her in my arms, serene for the first time since I’d left Earth.
I was late again the next morning. Tammy winked at Hunter, who rippled his ears and double twitched his tail in a manner I could only assume was meant to be suggestive. I glared at them both and got another tail twitch from Hunter and a look of “Who? Me?” innocence from Tammy. Tracker snarled something at Hunter, then rippled his own ears as he was let in on the joke.
I was feeling too good to let it bother me. If my lovelife boosted morale I’d just chalk it up to my doubtless outstanding leadership skills. In the meantime, I gathered what was left of my dignity and went into my office.
On my desk display the exhaustive movement trace was done and waiting for attention. I went over my mail first. There was a message from Wunderland and I screened it, expecting a response to my ARM query. It was from a Provo named Loreli Novostet. She was working to penetrate a smuggling operation that supplied UN weapons to the Isolationists. An informant had given her a tranship code that had turned out to belong to a twenty-meter cargo container arriving from Tiamat. The cargo carrier’s crew knew nothing, of course, and both the shipping and receiving companies were fronts. Perhaps I had some information that might help?
She’d attached the crew’s idents and an inventory of what they’d seized. I called up the idents and dumped the dossiers for hardcopy, then scanned the inventory list. My eyebrows went up as I read—cases of pulse rifles with ammunition and battery packs, hiveloc launchers, sniper sights, infantry battle armor, combat drugs, hundreds of kilos of Tridex, boosters, a field hospital’s worth of medical equipment, flash grenades, surveillance gear and more than enough comps and comms to run a regiment.
And something bizarre. A nitrogen freezer jam packed with somebody’s limbs and organs. She’d attached the DNA pattern.
My hands flew over the keyboard. I knew the scans would match even before the computer screened Miranda Holtzman’s gene record.
Organlegger. The word felt strange. A long time ago failure of a vital organ meant death. Transplant technology changed that. With a little luck you could live as long as your central nervous system lasted—as long as you could find donors to keep you going. Everybody wants to live forever but the organ banks couldn’t always supply what you needed when you needed it. Organleggers took up the slack through kidnap and murder. It wasn’t a nice profession but it was very lucrative.
Nowadays medical technology is more advanced. Autocloning has eliminated the need to scavenge for donors. Organlegging is yesterday’s crime, like cattle rustling.
But medtech is in short supply around Alpha Centauri and the UN forces have first call. People were dying because they couldn’t get treatment. The Isolationists had bigger medical problems. A suspected terrorist can’t just show up at a hospital with blast trauma or laser burns and get treatment. Organlegging was a natural for them. They already had an effective and ruthless organization in place. It would take only a few donors to meet their own needs and what they didn’t use themselves they could sell on the black market to finance their operations. Once news of their new sideline broke, they’d probably start using it as a terror weapon. For some reason, people dread being broken down for parts much more than simple death. A few prominent kidnappings would apply a lot of fear in high places.
Not a pleasant scenario but it gave me an edge. Miranda hadn’t been chosen at random. Somewhere out there a terrorist was in need of spare parts. His tissue rejection profile would match hers. I called up Dr. Morrow. Rejection profiles weren’t part of a person’s file anymore, could he derive one from Miranda’s gene scan? He could. While I waited I started a report to send down to the Provopolizei.
He was back on the screen an hour later. Miranda Holtzman was a rare universal donor. There were only a few thousand in system who couldn’t accept her tissues.
I cursed myself. Of course she’d been chosen for exactly that reason. Another blind alley. I shelved the report and ran a trace on the container’s tranship code. The shipping and receiving companies were fake but the container itself was real. Maybe its movements would give me a clue.
Container 19C01FD4 had arrived aboard the freighter Achilles at the up-axis docking hub, customs’ sealed and coded for transport from MUN42104K to TMU19J234C. The manifest said “Machine Tools.” I called up the operations manual for the cargo system and figured out the codes. “TMU” is the up-axis hub’s destination code. “19” indicates the nineteenth of the asteroid’s thirty-two axial transport tunnels. “J2” is the second container bay in the tenth two-kilometer section of the twenty-five that make up the length of the transport tunnels. “34C” is the third level of the thirty-fourth container rack in that bay. Once unloaded from Achilles, the automated routing system would have sent the container down tunnel nineteen to its destination and the receiver would have been notified of its arrival and shown up in due course to sign off with the Port Authority and take charge of its contents.
So far so good, but nobody had signed it off as received. The computer didn’t even log it as arriving at 19J2. The next time there was a record was thirty-seven hours later as the container was being loaded aboard the freighter Canexco Wayfarer at the down-axis hub, still customs’ sealed and manifested as “Machine Tools.” Point of origin TMU19J234C, destination MUN42104K—Munchen Spaceport, Wunderland.
A neat trick. The container had been shipped from Wunderland and arrived on Tiamat, traveled straight through the core of the asteroid, come neatly out the other end and gone back where it came from. Somewhere along the line whatever was inside it had been taken out and Miranda Holtzman and an arsenal of UN weapons had been put in. So far as the computer was concerned nobody had touched the container so there was no way to trace the smugglers through it. The chips containing the tranship codes are crypted and self-verifying to prevent containers from being electronically hijacked en route. You need a Port Authority ident to originate or receive a shipment and of course that gets logged in the shipping control net. Somehow the smugglers had managed to swap origin and destination without the ident.
The trick got neater when I called up the information on container bay 19J2. It didn’t exist. Somewhere in tunnel nineteen a 2000 cubic meter tranship box had disappeared for thirty-seven hours. I screened the history file for container 19C01FD4. It had traveled from MUN42104K to TMU19J234C and back twelve times. The tranship net had never logged it as delivered to anyone anywhere since it entered the system three years ago.
A picture was coming together and it wasn’t nice. The Isolationists needed medical support and had decided to get into organlegging. They’d made a list of universal donors and Miranda was on it. Her departure for Tiamat put only a minor crimp in their plans. They already had a sophisticated smuggling operation set up in the Swarm to ship stolen UN weapons to Wunderland. She’d been targeted, abducted and packed into a freezer to ship down to Wunderland in a weapons consignment already set to go. The freezer wasn’t big enough for all of her so they’d left her torso in the tranship tunnel and sold her skin to the Kdaptist Machine Technician to blur the trail.
I would rather have found a schitz. This was carefully calculated murder for profit. The people responsible for it couldn’t be treated for some neurochemical imbalance. They were cold-blooded killers, plain and simple.
The most frightening thing was the organization. The killers had some major resources behind them. They were probably already long gone. Even if I caught them it wouldn’t stop more innocents from being snatched and killed to fill the Isolationist organ banks. I could only pray they confined themselves to organlegging. If they decided to escalate, things would get a lot worse—and I would be one of their first targets.
It was time to take a better look at tunnel nineteen.
Johansen wasn’t around so I collared Hunter. As an afterthought I belted on my patrol pack as well and we went down to the Port Authority at the up-axis hub. Jocelyn Merral was Port Chief
, a handsome woman in her fifties—iron-gray hair and a penetrating gaze. We asked her to shut down the tunnel so we could go over it with a fine-tooth comb. She didn’t get upset, she just refused. It would be too disruptive to her operations. Tunnel nineteen had been shut down for maintenance and investigation already. The backlog had kept a ship overtime at the down-axis hub. Did I have any idea how much that cost? It wasn’t going to happen again.
I couldn’t just order it done. The Port Authority is its own police within its jurisdiction. I tried to reason with her. “Ma’am, we are investigating a murder that involves the Isolationists and the smuggling of UN weapons to Wunderland. Surely the Port Authority is as interested in resolving this as we are.”
She spoke slowly and firmly. “The Port Authority is not at all interested in shutting down transport tunnels at the casual whim of the ARM.”
“Casual whim” was the key phrase. What she meant was that if we wanted her cooperation we were going to have to supply more information. I didn’t want to do that. The odds were long someone in the Port Authority was involved with the smugglers, and as one of a handful with command access to the tranship net Merral was high on the suspect list.
Instead, I tried bargaining. “Look, we just need to inspect tunnel nineteen. Can that be done without shutting it down?”
“Certainly, I have just the thing.” I was startled by her ready agreement. Information is currency to me, dealing for it is second nature. Merral had just been concerned about the efficiency of her operation. I wasn’t used to taking people at face value.
She ushered us out of her office. The gravity was about a twentieth of a G and the corridors had static fields in the floor to aid traction. Merral walked in effortless forty-foot strides. Hunter moved with easy feline grace. I kept unsticking myself and hitting my head on the ceiling before settling awkwardly back to the ground. They had the manners not to laugh too much.
We left the corridor and entered the hub itself, a vast space full of container racks. I’d been in tunnel nineteen myself but there were no containers in it then. The files on the shipping system contained diagrams of the containers and the hubs but they gave no concept of the scale.
Shipping containers are ten meters square and twenty long. The down-axis hub is a hollow cylinder, a klick across and half that deep. Eight rows of storage racks line the hub—twenty-four thousand containers in hundred-meter piles. From any given point inside the cylinder the floor slopes upwards at an impossible angle and the looming racks seem about to topple over. Eventually the floor becomes what common sense dictates is a wall with the rows of racks marching up it with no respect for the gentle but insistent one-twentieth G tug beneath your feet. Farther still the wall becomes a ceiling with the racks dangling from it like massive swords of Damocles. Containers are moved simply by launching them from the rack sorters on gentle trajectories either to the docking hub at the center of the cylinder or one of the tunnel entrances around its edge. The empty space in the middle of the cylinder was full of containers in free fall and I had to consciously keep myself from cringing as they flew overhead with quiet rushes of air. I felt like a mouse in a warehouse, scampering to avoid being crushed by the frenetic, incomprehensible activity going on overhead.
Merral was watching me. “Impressive, ay?” she asked.
“Impressive isn’t the word. I can’t believe you let those things go in free fall.”
She laughed. “It looks like disaster in motion, doesn’t it? Actually it’s very safe. There are eight hundred sixty-one trajectories. Whenever one is in use, all the intersecting flight paths are locked out until the container is down and clear of its destination.”
I looked up at the graceful, ponderous, hundred-thousand-tonne aerial ballet. It wasn’t that I doubted her, but it was hard to shake the feeling all those containers were going to fall on me as soon as God cut the strings.
Our destination was a cargo box, but this one had doors and large windows cut in the sides. Powerful lights were mounted flush with the walls. Jocelyn thumbed a door open and waved us in. “We use this for troubleshooting and inspections. It carries everything we need, and we don’t have to shut down a tunnel to use it.”
Inside the container was mostly empty space. There were doors and windows in the floor and ceiling as well as the walls and all the surfaces were padded and well equipped with handholds. Strap down chairs with mounts that locked into the handholds were set up beside the forward windows. A quarter of the bottom rear was given over to a series of cabinets that housed batteries, switches and various tool chests. Beneath the forward window there was a spartan control board with a compact data terminal as well as various buttons, gauges and comm gear. Beside it was a small keypad. I recognized it at once from the tranship operations manual. It was the container’s shipping control panel, a duplicate of the one mounted on the outside.
I walked over and examined the panel. When Jocelyn joined me, I asked, “This contains the tranship codes?”
“Not just the codes, everything about the shipment. The freight manifest, maximum and minimum allowable temperatures, power requirements, loading parameters, whether the container is pressure sealed, center of mass, priority level, customs codes, COD status and charges. Everything.” She tapped a few keys and cryptic data slid over the small screen inset on the panel. PRI, COD, KPA, BOT, and others along with numbers that didn’t mean anything to me. I did recognize two codes. SRC and DST indicated the container’s source and destination—both were rack addresses in the up-axis hub.
I tapped a few keys and managed to bring up the DST code. “Can you set this up to go anywhere?” I asked Merral.
“Anywhere on Tiamat. The lockouts don’t allow us to be loaded for an offworld destination. This container isn’t vacc sealed. I’ll set it for the outbound receiving racks at the down-axis hub with a routing override so we get tunnel nineteen. That’ll take us right through Tiamat.”
It was better than I’d hoped for. “Can you try TMU19J234C?” I asked.
She looked at me with the half accusing “How do you know what that means?” look that’s usually reserved for medical patients who show their doctor some basic piece of medical knowledge. Specialists hate it when you trespass on their specialty. It makes them less special. Nevertheless, she thumbed the pad to authorize the change and punched in the destination code. After a couple of seconds the screen displayed ACCEPTED, then reverted to DST: TMU19J234C.
“This transaction is now logged in the transport net, correct?” I asked.
Merral nodded, adjusting the restraining straps that held her in her seat. She motioned for me to do the same.
“Is there any way to circumvent that?” I asked, fumbling with the belts.
“How do you mean?”
“Can you enter destinations into this panel without having the system become aware of it.”
“It could be done. You’d have to block the scan transceiver and trick the panel into thinking it had transmitted the change and received a valid authorization verification. It wouldn’t be easy, we use dynamic encryption. Why would you want to?” She reached over and helped me get buckled in.
“A smuggler might change an onworld destination for an offworld destination, or perhaps just make a shipment the system isn’t aware of.”
“I see what you’re getting at, but you misunderstand me. If you prevent the panel from talking to the net, the net will just ignore it. It won’t get sent anywhere. There’s a lot of ways to break the system, but once it’s broken it won’t work properly.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Look, the system is vulnerable to tampering and there’s no way to avoid that. Rather than try to make it tamper-proof we’ve made it fail-safe. Getting a container to move involves a series of steps, with our control procedures built into the chain. If any link is broken the system flashes us a trouble warning and won’t move the container.”
“And the data in the panel itself is all self-encrypted so you need a Port
Authority ident to change it, correct?”
Merral warmed to her topic. She obviously enjoyed having someone show an interest in her work. It probably didn’t happen too often. “Not quite. The source address is always locked so we can back-trace a shipment, nobody can change that. When the shipment arrives and is accepted, the destination address is copied to the source so the container can be sent out again. Manifest, COD charges and destination are set by the shipper and then locked when the PA verifies and seals the shipment. The user functions—like humidity, temperature and all that—can either be set and locked or left open at the shipper’s discretion in case they need adjustment in transit.”
“So you can’t change the source or the destination in transit unless you have a Port Authority ident.”
“Not even if you do have a PA ident. Once a setting is locked, it can’t be changed until the receiver accepts the shipment and signs off with us. The system only lets that happen at the destination address.”
“What if you hacked it, opened the box and modified the software?”
“All you’d do is cause a self-encryption verification failure. The system would halt the container at the next control point and drop a trouble flag.”
“What if I supplied my own panel that allowed in-transit re-routing?”
“It still wouldn’t work. Firstly, it would fail PA verification at the point of shipping. Second, the tranship net and the panel would disagree on the destination as soon as you modified it. The net would halt the container and you’d get another flag. It’s fail-safe.”
Fail-safe. It’s a one-word lie. Nothing built by humans is fail-safe. I knew someone was playing games with the tranship net. What Merral was really telling me was that I needed to look for hackers in the net’s high-level control software or corruption at the Port Authority itself. I didn’t tell her that: she might be the one I was looking for.
