Prophet of ConFree (The Prophet of ConFree)

by Marshall S. Thomas

  "Um, yeah, sure. What's up, Ice?"

  "Follow me," she said.

  She led me to another table where Kwan was sitting, sipping at his tea. Oh no, I thought. Now what? Kwan shot to his feet and stood at attention.

  "Prophet!" he said. "I wish to thank you, with all my heart, for what you have done for me and for my wonderful Ice who is the heart of my heart and my adorable angel. Without you, we would both still be walking in darkness and loneliness. With your help, we have found each other and are facing a glorious future! We both thank you and our future descendants thank you!"

  "Oh. That's quite all right, Kwan. I mean, I'm glad I could help." I gave Ice a what-the-hell look.

  "Sit down, Prophet, sit down," Ice said. "I told Kwan everything. He wanted to punch you in the nose for making me cry, so I told him it was all a story you had devised to help us get together. Now we love each other so much, you can't believe it, I never believed in true love before but I sure do now, Kwan is wonderful, he's so nice, he's such a gentleman, he treats me so nice, he's so considerate, he makes me feel so special, I know I'll never meet anybody else like him, I can hardly believe it, and it’s all because of you, you're so special I don’t know what to say except thank you thank you thank you thank you, oh! I think I'm going to cry again."

  "Please don’t, Ice. Seeing you cry is kind of scary. Also, I don't want Kwan to punch me in the nose."

  Δ

  Well, I was certainly spreading happiness and making new friends. I knew a lot of people who would want to help me, and help the Prof. But this was an unusual situation. I considered everybody. It turned out that Kwan worked for Assidic intel, and had good contacts. I seriously considered asking him for help. But the Prof himself was the squad's own intel guy, and he had excellent access to all sorts of wonderful info and resources from Galactic Info. But none of that was going to get him approval to disappear from Site S. The Legion was busy trying to save ConFree and didn't have time for family reunions.

  I visited Bird's cube overlooking the saucer, which was now swarming with scientists, theoreticians and techs. He looked up from a giant stack of printouts.

  "Prophet! How are you?"

  "Fine. I'm fine. Looks like you're busy."

  "Not too busy for you, my friend. Want some dox? What's cookin'?" He tossed me a fresh dox cup without asking for an answer. He knew my answer would always be yes. I popped the top and took a sip of the wonderful, steaming brew.

  "It's the Professor. I'm trying to figure out how we can help him. You know he thinks he knows where his daughter is?"

  "Yeah, he told me. Frankly – I don't know. They say slaves move fast. She might be there. Or she might not."

  "Do you have any ideas – on how we could help him?"'

  "Well, I told him I'd help him any way I can. But that's not the problem. The problem is he's one of the key guys in Site S – maybe the key guy – and I don’t think anybody's going to sign off on letting him take off for the Gassies on a risky personal mission from which he may not return. No matter how much we sympathize. "

  "Yeah, I know. That's the problem."

  "Be realistic, Prophet. Do you think she's still there? Even if he succeeds in getting there, is he going to find her? He tried that on Drusweaven, and it didn't work. She was gone."

  "But – if – just if – we are able to set up this mission, can you help?"

  "I said I can help. Sure! For the Prof, anything."

  "What's anything?"

  "I can get him transport – a starship."

  "A starship!"

  "Sure. My personal ship. It'll take him right there."

  "You have a personal starship?" I was stunned.

  "Yes, I do. And a downside shuttle – if it's a covert mission we can use a Tri-Ark."

  "What's a Tri-Ark?"

  "It's my own design. A Tri-Ark can cruise the vac, atmosphere, and water – on or under. It's completely cloaked. Basically it's a spy ship. The Galactic Info folks love it."

  "Good lord! How can you get one of those?"

  "I've already got it. It's mine."

  "Yours? How did that happen?"

  "Prophet. I designed it. I manufacture them. The first one was for my personal use."

  "But – but – where is this starship? Where is the Tri-Ark?"

  "Oh, they're both on Quaba. But that doesn't matter. If I call, they'll come here. But look, this doesn't solve the problem. Our whole effort here now revolves around the Prof and his Demon. The future of ConFree – hell, the future of humanity, maybe. Who can sign off on that? It's above my pay grade, that's for sure."

  Δ

  "Ah, Professor. You wanted to see me?" Ambassador Wester was behind his desk, clad in Legion dress black as usual.

  "Yes sir." The Professor stood at attention.

  "Well, have a seat. What can I do for you?"

  "I'd rather stand, sir. It's about my daughter."

  "Yes, I've heard. I'm sorry about that, Professor. It must be heartbreaking for you. The Ringgold Incident was a disgrace for Fleetcom and several officers paid for it with their careers. But of course – you've lost a lot more than they have."

  "I think I know where she is, sir."

  "Quatar, is it? Yes, I've heard. Do you know for sure she is there? Do you know for sure she is alive?"

  "No to both, sir. But she was there. And may be there still."

  "I see. And why have you come to me?"

  "If you can grant me leave, sir, I can be there and back within a week. I'll use no Legion resources. I'll do it all on my own. If you can spare me. Sir."

  Wester looked down at his desk. "You may not have heard, Professor, but you are about to receive a field commission to captain. Your accomplishments here have been extraordinary. You created Louie. And your creation is teaching us all the secrets of the ship. You are the most important player in this research project, which is critical to the survival of ConFree. We are now at a crucial phase of this project. The Demons may attack at any time. And we must be ready for them. Those are facts. Do you agree?"

  "Yes sir." It was almost a whisper.

  "And you want leave."

  "Yes sir."

  "For something that may or may not work out."

  "Yes sir."

  Wester was silent for some time. He was gazing into space.

  "Looking at it from my point of view, Professor," he finally said, "you're certainly indispensable. You've done everything for us. You may already have won the war for us. I have a friend who tells me 'do the right thing'. Well, that's what I'm going to do. How can I say no to you? You've got leave for as long as you need it. Go find your daughter. And you can use whatever Legion resources you need. Tell them Ambassador Wester authorized it. May Deadman bless you." And he made the sign of the Legion.

  Δ

  "The man's a saint," the Professor said. He was talking about Ambassador Wester. We were in the personal yacht Voodoo Honey, which was Bird's private starship. Bird was being very helpful. We had just exited stardrive on track to Quatar 8. It had been a long star hop. The planet was visible ahead of us, a lovely blue-green orb streaked with white clouds, sunlight glinting off grey oceans.

  "Well, he surprised me, I'll tell you that," I said. "I never thought he'd agree."

  "And Bird is a saint as well," the Professor said. "How did I ever come to have such faithful, loving friends?" Only the Prof could have said something like that while sounding completely sincere. He was quite a guy.

  The Voodoo Honey was simply spectacular, a giant luxurious star yacht with a crew of fifteen and room for thirty passengers. There were several individual staterooms as well as a whole slew of criminally comfortable airchair lounges in the main cabin. Bird couldn't come, of course. He was totally involved with the alien ship, but one of his vice presidents was piloting the yacht. It was quite a yacht – it was equipped with a cloaking device that rendered it invisible for those special occasions when you wanted to be alone. It also carried a Tri-Ark in the shu
ttle dock. That was even more special than the starship itself.

  "Prophet, let's review the ops plan," the Prof suggested. He had put me in charge of planning, perhaps worried that his personal involvement might cloud his judgment.

  "All right, it's simplicity itself. Simplicity is good," I said. Arie, Smiley and Bees joined us around the table. I would have liked to bring the whole squad, but that was out. I figured five of us should be able to handle the mission. I had chosen Arie because I wanted him at my side, Smiley for firepower and Bees in case anyone got hurt. "We already have reservations in the Camarilla Towers," I continued. "That's the top hotel for wealthy interstellar visitors. We are all documented as employees of Matheson Engineering. Bird says it fits the profile for his firm; they do a lot of business with all sorts of companies associated with starports, and Rob will do some real business here if it seems necessary or advisable." Rob Crombie was our pilot. He was as wealthy as Bird, and knew his way around interstellar business circles.

  "Bird has provided us with excellent, genuine documentation covering us as employees of his firm. Look over your documents and you will see you have fictitious last names but retain your given first name. This is just to make it easier for us. We're not professional spies and don't have time to learn an elaborate cover story. Just remember your last names and use only first names in conversation when anyone else may be listening. Prof, we don't want to use your real first or last name for obvious reasons. You will be Professor Juan Carlos. Everybody remember that. But 'Prof' is okay for him in conversation.

  "These docs are mostly for flash purposes in an emergency. And for backup, also only in an emergency, we all have ConFree passports in our alias names – provided by Galactic Info, thank you very much. The way things work on Quatar, nobody's going to be examining our documents. And if anybody asks, Matheson Engineering's business is private and none of their business. So we all have excellent documentation, the reservations have already been made in those names, Rob has told me we all now have customs clearance and an aircar will be waiting for us when we arrive at the starport. We will arrive in the Sweet Stuff. That's the Tri-Ark. It may look unusual to the locals but Rob assures me there won't be any trouble. He already has paid port clearance fees for the yacht in orbit and the shuttle landing downside. Money is all that counts on this world. We don't have to interact with any government officials, all we have to do is show up at the starport. They make it easy for wealthy business people.

  "All right, while we're checking into the hotel, Rob will take off in the Tri-Ark and send out hundreds of eyemotes. They will hover over the target and will follow all aircars or groundcars that depart from Household Industries and will note where they go. We'll be in touch with Rob, and we'll see what happens. We'll probably visit Household Industries the next day, once we have reviewed the eyemote reports."

  "Simple," Arie said.

  "It's clear," Prof said.

  "Just tell me when to start shooting," Smiley said.

  "That may not prove necessary," the Professor said. "Bird has been most generous."

  "I hope my services will also prove unnecessary," Bees said.

  "Yes, let's hope so." I replied.

  Δ

  "Hang onto your ass," Rob warned us. Then he pressed a control and the Sweet Stuff dropped from the Voodoo Honey's shuttle dock and fell towards the planet beneath us. The Tri-Ark was most impressive. It was a black streamlined torpedo-shaped structure with stubby, strangely-formed wings and a wedge tail. This particular model was designed to carry a full Legion squad, so we had room to spare, sitting at ease in butter-soft synleather seats. Wide simports lined the fuselage, which from the outside appeared to be featureless. Rob was in the cockpit, which was an amazingly well-organized and well-designed control center. The Voodoo Honey was in the capable hands of Rob's copilot and his crew, and they were to remain in orbit awaiting us, barring some unexpected emergency.

  "Bird doesn't want anything to happen to his baby, which is why he insisted I be the one to pilot it. If I get so much as a scratch on the paint job, he's going to be pissed. So keep me out of the action – please."

  "No problem," I said. "We're all hoping for a quiet visit."

  "What! I thought you folks were headed for trouble. I was only kidding about keeping out of the action. This baby has got a chainlink skysweep that kicks ass, and I'd love a chance to try it out." Rob gave us a crazy grin. He was evidently a wild man, which is what Bird had told us, but he was skilled and dependable. He had a thick head of greasy reddish hair and a scruffy little goatee.

  The Sweet Stuff started glowing as she entered the atmosphere, hurtling along just like a meteor. We were all dolled up in civilian suits, the males in high-fashion, navy blue outfits with fluorescent ties and mirror-shined shoes, and Bees in a very revealing short skirt outfit that emphasized her legs and revealed portions of her black silk panties no matter what she did.

  "Lucky you didn't wear your Legion shorts," Arie commented.

  "Why don’t you shut down?" Bees suggested.

  "Remember we all carry vac guns and only vac guns until I give the word," I said. "And hopefully it won't go there."

  "How about knives?"

  "Oh sure, help yourselves but remember when we enter the target, they'll spot both the vac guns and knives. They won't stop us, but their scanners will see them. So limit your hardware. We don't want to look like a Legion squad, but like prudent visitors."

  The craft shook and bumped. It sure was pretty out there. We were overflying a huge grey ocean.

  "Star City control, this is the Sweet Stuff, shuttle from the Voodoo Honey, approaching Star City and requesting landing instructions. We have paid orbit and shuttle landing fees and wish to be met on field by our aircar."

  "Sweet Stuff, you are cleared for landing at Pad 32, see the landing guide. Your aircar is already there."

  "Thank you, control." He grinned at us again. "Piece of cake," he said.

  Δ

  Our suite in the Camarilla Towers was quite luxurious – a spectacular gold on white themed lounge area with four internal bedrooms, each with its own bath. I set up the scrambler and turned it on as we all gathered around a central table.

  "All right," I said. "Nobody can hear us with this on, and eyemotes are blinded by the pulses."

  "So am I," Arie said. The device was emitting blinding short bursts of blue light.

  "It's a little annoying, but worth it," I said. "Now. We're set. We've cut the chauffeur loose, considerably wealthier, and retained his aircar for the balance of our visit. Rob should be seeding the vicinity with eyemotes. Let's see. Rob, Prophet. Come in, please." I spoke into my comset, which was actually a disguised tacmod.

  "Gotcha, Prophet. Your eyemotes are off and running. I'm going to find a nice place to hide. I'm in cloaking mode already. Believe I'll hide in a large lake that I see not far away."

  "Please stay in touch."

  "Will do. I'm going to be monitoring the eyemotes. You can do the same with your monitors, but I'll let you know if I spot anything."

  "All right. Have fun. All right, folks. Let's set up the monitors and see what's happening. Arie, you're in charge of donuts. I'll do the dox." The suite had everything we needed.

  Δ

  "Prophet, Rob. Eye 445 has found an interesting compound. I'm diverting some more eyes to check it out."

  "Thanks, Rob. Yeah, we already spotted it. It does look promising." We were all staring at the images, on several different screens. Eye 445 and several other eyemotes had followed a sealed airbus from Household Industries to the compound at an isolated location set deep within a forest, about 15 K out of town. The bus had paused to gain entry at a guardpost by a tall electrified fence that surrounded the compound. There was a tall traffic deflector inside the compound to warn off overflying aircars – any aircar that strayed in would receive a powerful jolt that would short out its systems. After clearance, the airbus proceeded to an extensive bloc of single-story portable bu
ilding modules surrounding a large central enclosure and unloaded its cargo directly in front of the main entrance. Two young females, teen Outworlders, were escorted off the bus by two males clad in dark blue uniforms and carrying shockrods. The main doors opened and a hard-looking female wearing the same uniform showed the girls in. The doors closed. There was a blue and white sign above the door that read HOUSEHOLD INDUSTRIES.

  "Bingo!" Arie said. "Doesn't look like they're doing much to hide their compound."

  "This may not be the only compound for their guests," the Prof said. "We continue searching. But let's flood this place with more eyes. Eyes, I want labels for every individual in this compound."

  "Done," the unit replied. We followed the view as Eyemote 445 shot under the door into the building and paused above the two teen girls and the female overseer. She had short reddish hair and fierce dark eyes, she was holding what looked like a leather swagger stick, and she was eying the girls hungrily. A swagger stick! What the hell? The girls were like two rabbits before a snake, hardly daring to move. They were both slender and quite attractive. One had silky, shoulder-length light brown hair and the other had shorter, sandy-blonde hair. The unit labeled the teens V01 and V02. The overseer was labeled H01. It brought us the audio as well.

  "Welcome to your new home," the overseer said. "My name is 'sir'. When you address me you will say 'yes sir'." She struck one of the girls in the face with the swagger stick.

  "When you address me, you will say 'yes sir'," she said again, whacking the other girl.

  "Yes sir!"

  "Yes sir!" They both covered their faces with their arms, tears suddenly gushing forth.

  "You'll like it here, girls," the woman said. "All you have to do is whatever I say, and we'll get along fine. Follow me." She headed off down the hall, and the two girls followed.

  "Go in there," she said, opening a door. It appeared to be a bedroom. They went in, and the eyemote followed.

  "Take off your clothes," the overseer said. "Now."

  The Professor stood. "I can't watch this anymore," he declared, and walked off. It was, admittedly, hard to watch.