by M. C. Planck
“Sergeant Baumer,” a voice called from the bedroom. “Could you give us a hand?”
Smooth kids. Aware that they might be being recorded, they chose their words with care.
Baumer looked at Kyle expectantly.
“I think the League is trying to kill me.” “Think” wasn’t really the right word, but it didn’t matter. Baumer had never liked the League. He’d made plain his unhappiness over Kyle’s involvement with it. That Kyle couldn’t afford to tell him the truth was another crime for the ledger. “Cover for me, and I’ll slip out behind you.”
Baumer shook his head. “No way. What if they’ve got backup waiting out there? A rifle across the street. Or a car full of gunmen. You need an escort.” He tugged Kyle’s arm and led him into the bedroom.
“Looks like he’s burned bad, boys.” The kids were staring oogly-eyed, but keeping quiet. “Put him on the stretcher and let’s get him to the transporter.”
The short one must be Baumer’s nephew. He had the thick bullfrog look already developing.
“Gotta foam him, Sergeant. Or he won’t survive the trip.” They had the stretcher out by the time the kid finished talking. Kyle lay down on it, and the two young men started spraying him with medical foam.
Wonderful stuff. It came out like shaving cream, but quickly hardened to plastic. Porous enough to breathe through, it was waterproof and antibiotic. Within seconds Kyle was a white, lumpy mummy, covered from head to toe.
“Is it bad?” Baumer was saying. His nephew took the hint.
“Real bad, Sergeant. Hope he was having sweet dreams, ’cause he’s never gonna wake up. A few days in the trauma tank, and then it’s over. Burns like this, it’s a waste to even try.”
Kyle had gotten a glimpse of the bed before they sealed his eyes shut. If he’d really been sleeping in it, he would be a pile of ashes by now.
The sensation of being carried was more unpleasant than sitting on the deck of the Launceston under fusion power. In both cases he had to wait passively while someone else saved or lost his life.
He could feel nothing through the foam, so he didn’t know when they went into the cold, open air. Only the sound of doors slamming told him he had made it to the transporter without catching a bullet. Either there was no backup, or the kids were putting on a great performance. If he was as good as dead, why complicate the inquest?
The transporter was gravitics powered. They had spent a lot of money making it small enough to fit in city streets, and it was still half the size of a bus. But it sailed over traffic and buildings smoothly, and carried medical berths for four patients.
More important, it would be almost impossible for anyone to follow them. Only emergency vehicles were allowed in the air. Once the vehicle landed, Kyle would have a head start over any ground pursuit.
The nephew made it even better. “Hey, Jones, head for M7.”
A voice responded through an intercom. “Navcom says Golden Hill is closer. And they have a great burn ward.” That’s where they would be waiting for him, then.
“Yeah but…” Baumer’s nephew fished around for a reason. “I heard some dog on them, man. Their tank fluid’s being recycled.”
The intercom was disbelieving. “Are you serious? No way!”
“Earth, it’s just what I heard. I dunno. But this guy hasn’t got any skin left. I don’t want him in a tank that somebody else might have to share. He’s gonna die anyway, so what’s the difference?”
A subtle shift in direction. The rumor was mightier than the computer.
The rest of the very short trip was in silence. The inside of the transporter was certainly under continual surveillance. Kyle revised his opinion of Baumer’s nephew again, upward. Without the foam, the ruse would have been exposed immediately. The kid wasn’t just reacting well, he was actively planning ahead.
Descent, followed by a gentle bump. The landing was smoother than being lifted out of the transporter. Kyle was helpless, his awareness of the outside world blocked by a layer of foam. He had to wait until the nephew told him when he could make a break for it.
More bumps—he must be on a gurney. Amazing that they spent so much money on a smooth ambulance ride, and then jostled him like a sack of potatoes for the last ten meters.
“Tell Kragen I’ve got a special for him.” The nephew was speaking loudly—too loudly. Obviously half the message was for Kyle.
“Dr. Kragen is with another patient.” A female voice, officious and bossy. “Take it up to the tank ward.”
“Trust me, Kragen is gonna want to see this guy.”
“Dr. Kragen doesn’t specialize in burns, medic.”
“Yeah, but this guy’s a League member.”
A brief silence.
“I’ll page him.” Then, mumbled, “Poor sap.”
It challenged all of Kyle’s newfound faith in the nephew not to panic at that.
More rolling, and then stillness.
It was only ten minutes. Kyle knew this because he counted his pulse. He didn’t have anything else to do. After fifteen minutes he would assume he was alone, and try to escape. But he forced himself to wait, first. That was the most basic mistake the nefarious always made: not having enough patience.
Not enough prudence, even. The humor of the pun was quickly overwhelmed by the desire to share this warm, soft cocoon with her.
“Still alive, I see.” A man’s voice. Given that aura of authority, it had to be a doctor, which implied it was Kragen. “If you can hear me, try not to move. If you can’t hear me, then don’t worry about it.” Graveyard humor. Not exactly what Kyle looked for in a doctor.
Something pressed on his chest. A monitor. The readings it would be giving off had to be most unexpected.
The monitor remained for a very brief moment. Then Kragen spoke in his ear.
“A curious chart. It says you’re a badly burned League officer, in danger of dying at any minute. Given my public opposition to the League, one might think that you were sent in here to finish dying in my disinterested hands. The monitor, however, says you’re perfectly healthy, and even a little bit aroused. But my sexual preference is a matter of public record, and in any case it’s not my birthday.”
A sharp edge brushed against Kyle’s upper lip, pressure was removed, and then he could taste fresh air unfiltered through the antiseptic of the foam. Kyle was still catching up to Kragen’s logic. The doctor was a fast thinker.
“My staff, expecting the possibility of my failing my Hippocratic oath, will automatically compensate by looping the vid recording, making it look like I spent five minutes in diagnosis instead of five seconds, thus covering up whatever criminal negligence they expect, or possibly hope, for me to commit. I suggest you keep your explanation terse.”
It made sense. If the League was trying to kill him, why not take him to an anti-League doctor? Kyle was pretty sure it was only part of the League trying to kill him, though, and that meant that the anti-League might still view him as League, since their contacts in the League might still think of him as loyal. Unless those contacts happened to be undercover League anti-League agents. Like Kyle.
Okay, it didn’t make sense.
Unable to meta-game so many layers of deception, Kyle settled for the truth. “I am in danger of dying. The League set my bed on fire.”
“And I should care why?” Kragen was annoyingly direct.
“Because I’m undercover against the League.” Kyle almost laughed. He had revealed his secret just like that, as easy as pie, to a complete stranger. The irony was that the only reason he could do so was because Kragen might believe him. And then he could claim to the League that he was pretending to switch sides, so Kragen would let him in the secret club, so he could bust them to the League. After all, why else would the League have arranged such an inept assassination, if not to get him a chance to infiltrate the opposition? It was such a compelling argument, Kyle almost half-believed it himself.
Kragen was still unimpressed, though. “What,
exactly, am I supposed to do about your personal problems?”
“Get me out of here.” Kyle didn’t need much, just a few minutes’ head start on the assassins. He’d calculated that it would take them at least twenty minutes to reach M7 by ground car. Assuming there was active pursuit, of course. But Kyle always assumed the worst.
“For the record, which won’t exist since my staff is not recording this, I don’t believe you. I am assisting you solely because you ordered me to, in your capacity as a League officer. I may hate and despise the League, and everything it stands for, but I am a loyal citizen. I will testify to this statement, should I be required to.”
Kragen’s capacity for double-dealing was awe-inspiring, even to Kyle. A whooshing sound, and then Kyle was covered in a layer of wetness as the foam melted away.
The doctor was hardly older than Baumer’s nephew. Kyle hadn’t realized people that young cared about politics.
“Thank you,” Kyle said.
“I have a patient in another ward with terminal brain cancer. He is in a coma. It would be a simple matter for me to assign him to a different room, intercept his gurney along the way, cover him with foam, and switch charts. Robert Anton Wilson would leave a room, and Kyle Daspar would enter one. It would be days before anyone noticed the switch, and then I would explain I had been ordered to do so by a League officer, in an attempt to uncover a plot against the government.”
“Thank you,” Kyle said again, weakly. It was starting to sound inadequate.
Kragen agreed, and went on to explain just how inadequate it was. “It’s ludicrous that a healer should be involved in such shenanigans. But it’s ludicrous that a professional of my skill should still be assigned to the night shift of an emergency room. Either I have proven myself obedient to the League, in which case it must cease crippling my career, or I have aided an agent who will destroy the League and eventually achieve the same effect.”
But now Kragen had said too much. He clearly wasn’t that naïve. The League wouldn’t stop harassing him just because he did what they asked. They wanted obeisance, not merely obedience. Which meant that he was telling Kyle he really was anti-League. But only if Kyle was wise enough to understand it, which would imply that Kyle really was anti-League.
Kyle nodded in agreement. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make his head hurt.
“Naturally, I can’t be held responsible for the theft of Mr. Wilson’s identity cards from his room. That’s a matter for the police to look into.”
With that, Dr. Kragen threw a sheet over him and spoke a command. “Attendant … take this patient to room 715.” And then the rolling journey again, as Kyle, protected only by cloth this time, waited yet again for someone else to take him somewhere else.
An elevator ride and several turns later, Kyle was left alone. Unable to remain passive any longer, he tore off the sheet.
The room was dark and empty, but he could hear voices coming. He hid behind the bathroom door, leaving it half-open so he could still see.
Two attendants rolled another gurney in, and spent a few minutes transferring a comatose old man to the bed. They puzzled over the second gurney for a moment, but unable to solve the mystery, settled for solving the problem. When they left, they wheeled both gurneys away.
Just as Kyle thought it was safe to come out into the open, Dr. Kragen strolled in.
With businesslike efficiency, he switched charts.
“Sorry about your grandfather, Mr. Wilson.” Kragen spoke to Kyle without looking at him. “He’ll be more comfortable here for the next two days. At most.”
“Thank you,” Kyle said again, but to Kragen’s back as the doctor walked out of the room.
A brief fishing expedition through the hospital bag next to Mr. Wilson’s bed yielded cards and papers. Kyle dropped them into his pillowcase.
Another elevator ride, this time under his own power, and he walked out the front door. It was amusing to think he might have passed some of the same people on the way down as he had on the way up, and they were completely unaware of it. Such were the dubious amusements of secret identities.
Outside, in the cool air, he thought about how Prudence and he had passed each other, buried under their own secrets. Dubious amusements, indeed.
NINE
Speculations
Zanzibar was a very fanciful name for such an unremarkable place. The spaceport was painted in bright colors that clashed, with tassels on overhanging awnings and faux crenellations on the shop fronts. But the colors were faded, the awnings threadbare, and even the stonework had holes and scrapes revealing the stucco underneath.
It was supposed to produce an exotic but personable impression, like an open-air market where travelers from faraway places mingled with friendly locals. A place where rules and regulations took a backseat to fun and adventure, and the import taxes were as lax as security.
The impression it always left on Prudence was that she should double-check the security settings on the Ulysses before leaving the ship unguarded.
“Are you going to let me find some real cargo?” Garcia was complaining, for good reason. He got paid a percentage of the profits. She’d left Altair with a full hold, but it had been merely contract shipments, the only thing he could arrange in eight hours. They paid a flat fee per tonne, barely enough to cover the cost of fuel. She couldn’t really compete with the big freighters for economies of scale. Instead, she made her money speculating: buying goods outright and reselling them on other worlds. Garcia was generally very good at sniffing out deals and hawking wares.
And Zanzibar was the kind of place Garcia worked best in. Not because it lived up to its amusement-park hype of exotica, but because it was so disorganized that market inefficiencies abounded. Altair had huge computers listing every commodity and service imaginable, with inventory backlogs and appointment calendars updated continuously. Zanzibar was lucky to get the current temperature right.
“Sure, Garcia. Take your time.” She’d already broadcast her news, from space, and now the sense of urgency was gone. She had spent the last two weeks running fast and hard, making four hops with no more than a day in between. At Altair she’d only delayed to refill her fuel tanks. Garcia had found them a contract shipment literally sitting on the docks.
She had cast her news out on placid worlds, like pebbles in a pond. Then she had fled before they could think to start asking hard questions. On Altair she hadn’t even dared to inform the local spaceport authorities, just the dozens of free-trader captains that conglomerated there. Fleet already knew, and would tell the rest of Altair when they felt ready to. They wouldn’t appreciate Prudence spoiling their surprise. And it didn’t matter. She’d told the people that needed to know.
The news would spread like waves, as the independent freighters rushed to take advantage of it. Any day now she expected the overlapping splash, a fellow captain dropping out of a node and breathlessly telling her of the disaster on Kassa. Such was the nature of communications that had to be carried by hand. Radio didn’t travel through nodes.
This had an unappreciated effect on social development. You could get anywhere on a planet in a few hours with a low-orbital flight. You could reach anywhere on a planet with vid comm instantly. People grew up that way, thinking of their whole world as one small place. That made the several-day trip through a node into a hurdle that most never bothered to leap. Unleapt, it was unthought-of. Nothing had done more to still-birth stellar empires than this reflexive laziness. Prudence had read stories of old Earth explorers, who had spent months or even years traveling just to make one journey, often under the most grueling circumstances. That spirit was dead, snuffed out by telecommunications and padded chairs.
It was an ironic fact that it could take longer to travel in-system from one planet to another than it did to travel through a node. But people didn’t think of it that way. In-system, you were still in contact. An hour delay on radio chatter was not the same as absolute silence. So the
frontier, the wilderness, was made up of other planets and moons, asteroid belts and periodic comets. The worlds on the other side of the nodes were not distant; they were imaginary.
Prudence had been to several hundred worlds. Every place she went, they asked her about her last port of call. But no one ever asked about her first port. No one ever dug deeper than the last hop, because one hop was indistinguishable from a thousand. They were all merely someplace else.
Melvin wandered past her, a glazed look on his face. She’d taken him to a dozen worlds, and he’d gotten stoned on all of them. Zanzibar was a good world for him, too.
“Keep your comm on,” she called after him. He’d spent the last two weeks more incapacitated than usual. She was beginning to think about replacing him. He might be permanently broken.
“Can we go see the castle?” Jorgun liked Zanzibar too. He couldn’t see through the illusion. To him, it was an exotic and mysterious bazaar.
Prudence finally confronted the fact that she was the only member of her crew that didn’t like the place.
“Sure, Jor.” It would probably take Garcia days to line up something profitable, and Melvin at least that long to decompress. Prudence could stop running now, and let her crew catch their breath.
Herself included. Of all the local worlds, Zanzibar was the least likely to accede to an Altair extradition request. So it turned out she could find something attractive about Zanzibar’s slipshod security, after all.
She made herself wait three whole days, until her news had been confirmed by other captains coming out of the node. Of course, all of them had originally gotten the news from her in the first place, but that didn’t seem to occur to anyone.
Not directly from her. She saw a few ships she hadn’t talked to. They must have gotten their information secondhand. Naturally they were the loudest, and the quickest to cry “alien.” Ridiculous pictures were being passed around, claiming to be scientific projections leaked from government labs: the old standbys like skinny gray dwarves with bulging eyes and octopi-headed humanoids in flowing gowns, but also giant slavering spiders dripping venom and waving bulbous weapons in multiple legs.
