Setting my head down carefully, she moved to the unconscious Muscle. It didn't take long for her to check his breathing and pulse, then roll him into recovery position. As an afterthought, she pried the stun-pistol from his clenched fingers and slipped it into her own belt.
"Stunners are Explorer weapons," she said, turning back to me. "I hate to see one in the hands of these dipshits." She paused, then gave a soft smile. "Dipshit is a technical term—at least I'm trying to make it one. Short for diplomat. Officially, these gentlemen belong to the fleet's Diplomacy Corps... which is mostly a cover for the High Council's dirty-tricks brigade." She knelt beside me again. "How are you feeling now?"
I tried to say, "Great." It didn't work, but at least a sound came out of my throat.
"Don't worry," Ramos told me. "You only caught a light dose. Ten minutes and you'll be ready to break more knees."
Sliding her hands under my armpits, she hiked me up and wrestled my flop-fumbly body onto her shoulder. Her strength impressed me—Demoth's gravity might be mild, but I know how much I weigh. Ramos was almost a full head shorter than I, but she slung me into a fireman's carry and began moving toward the door.
"Sorry we can't wait till you recover," she said with a grunt of exertion, "but I don't know whether there are other dipshits in the neighborhood. Best if we aren't caught hanging around." Lifting her feet high, she stepped over the Muscle's body. "I don't know what the bastards would do if they nabbed us—they'd think twice about messing with an admiral, even a lowly lieutenant one—but this team hasn't shown any scruples so far. Someday I must find out how the Admiralty trains them to the very edge of homicidal non-sentience without actually pushing them over."
If you ask me, Mouth and Muscle had crossed the line as soon as they decided to strip-mine my brain; but I knew the League of Peoples didn't see it that way. If the dipshits (good name) sincerely made their best efforts not to kill me, the League wouldn't raise a stink if I happened to die anyway... or if I ended up a pith-headed vegetable. After all, the League let the Vigil plant a link-seed in my skull, despite the chance of stir-frying my cerebellum. In the College Vigilant, one professor told us, The League doesn't mind if you risk other people's lives, as long as you honestly believe there's some chance for survival... and as long as you take the best precautions you know of. The League's definition of sentience doesn't require us to be intelligent, humane or non-exploitive; we just have to be careful.
And some folks still call the League "benevolent."
Ramos lugged me out the door into a room filled with humming cabinets of the electronic persuasion—probably equipment for jamming my link-seed connection, plus hologram projectors and who knows what else. One black box looks precious like another, especially when you're hanging upside down over somebody's shoulder. Anyway, I was mostly paying attention to a growing queasiness in my stomach: my nervous system was still too jangly to provide accurate feedback, but I could feel the grumbly-rumblies where Ramos's shoulder dug into my gut.
Not good. I'd never bothered with la-di-dah manners, but it wouldn't do to puke down an admiral's leg.
We passed through another doorway into a room with wall-to-wall picture-carpet: currently showing a velveteen view of Demoth from orbit, half daylight, half night. As Ramos walked forward, her feet brushed over a moving image of ships docking at one of our space terminals. "This is a live broadcast," she said, tapping the picture with her toe. "The dipshits have their own sloop parked near your North Terminus. This is probably the view through the ship's nose camera. Or should I say the boat's nose camera? I take great pride in being the only admiral who doesn't know the difference between a ship and a boat... and who doesn't give a flying fuck either way. I wouldn't even know it was a sloop if my crew hadn't told me."
She stopped herself suddenly. "I hope you don't mind me blathering like this—Explorers are trained to give running commentaries whenever we go on missions, and I still haven't broken myself of the habit. If I weren't making one-sided conversation with you, I'd probably be describing the furniture." Ramos lowered her voice to a dramatic near whisper. "We are moving through what seems to be an artificial chamber, surrounded by four-legged assemblages of unconfirmed purpose and origin... perhaps of religious significance." She gave a laugh and went back to her normal voice. "Or would you prefer I tell you about the dipshits?"
"Dipshits," I said. Which came out "ick-ick." Not a bad description for the Mouth and the Muscle when you think of it.
"Dipshits it is," Ramos said. "And I was talking about their sloop... which came to my attention as soon as I arrived at Demoth two hours ago. I was flying in my so-called 'flagship'—which has living quarters the size of a pup tent, and the surliest crew of Vac-heads in the entire fleet. The comm officer made some sulky remarks about a Diplomacy Corps ship lollygagging here, eighteen light-years from our nearest diplomatic mission... and I immediately suspected a team of bad-ass boys had come to town.
"To check things out," she continued, "I radioed the base commander in Snug Harbor. He couldn't tell me anything about the dipshits; they'd never contacted him. But he did say how glad he was that an admiral had finally deigned to drop in—he thought I was following up his report about a mysterious Sperm-tail seen during an assassination attempt. As a new wrinkle, the intended victim of that attempt, one Faye Smallwood, had just been reported missing and the civilian authorities were going bugfuck." Ramos shifted my weight on her shoulder. "Basically, the commander gave me a crisp salute, said, 'You're in charge, Admiral,' and declined all further responsibility."
Step by step we continued to cross the moving-picture carpet—Ramos's feet scuffing past the blue rim of the planet and into starry blackness speckled with parked spaceships, then the brick orange expanse of the terminus itself. The resolution of the rug's image was so finegrained I could see tiny dockworkers in tightsuits, skittering over the space station's hull... as if I were looking down on everything from far above...
Ooo, Christ. Vertigo. Just what my stomach needed.
"So I concluded," Ramos went on obliviously, "that the dipshits from the sloop had been sent by the High Council to investigate this strange Sperm-tail. If the prime witness was missing, the dipshits had probably snatched her; precisely their style. So I asked myself where they'd take you. Most likely answer: an Admiralty safe house. The fleet owns property on every planet in the Technocracy, secret hideaways where admirals can entertain government officials or have sordid little trysts because they think that's what powerful people do. I decided to pay a visit to the house nearest where you disappeared... and you can fill in the rest."
Abruptly, Ramos stopped and bent over to set my feet on the floor. My stomach lurched like a bucket, then settled. I felt a wall behind me; a moment later, I was leaning ass-against it, wondering when my knees would buckle. They didn't. And after a while, I even felt the blood stop draining from my face.
Ramos watched a few seconds, then said, "See? You're stronger already. Wait here while I scout ahead."
She disappeared through another doorway. Now that I was upright, now that I was merely nauseous rather than prevolcanic, I had a chance to survey the room; before, all I'd seen was carpet and chair legs. Expensive legs attached to expensive chairs. Every piece of furniture was made of Grade A smart-stone: cores of depleted uranium topped by a simulated marble foam of nanotech that molded itself snugly to the shape of your rump. Looked like solid rock, but felt like comfy cushions. Farcical when you thought about it. From your butt's point of view, these were just cozy easy chairs... but built obscenely chunky and ponderous (depleted uranium, for Christ's sake!), purely so guests knew you paid top dollar.
I glared at the chair nearest me—letting myself build up a snooty blue-collar resentment, mostly just to keep my mind off the continuing rockiness of my stomach—when suddenly I heard a whisper-faint yipping in my mind. Yes, yipping: like when you accidentally step on a beagle's tail. Suddenly the whole surface of the chair cringed under my gaze... flatteni
ng out against the frame, cowering, nanites fleeing around to the chair's underside, hiding there, even peeking fearfully out from the edges to see if I was going to come after them.
You could almost hear their worried little hearts going pit-a-pat.
"Sorry," I mumbled. "Didn't mean to scare you." Jumbly-mumbly sounds coming out of my mouth, not words; but the nanites began to creep timidly back, slug-slow in case I'd glare at them again...
I shook my head hard, then shut my eyes. Faye, I silently told myself, nanites don't have pit-a-pat hearts. They're teeny soulless machines, the size and intelligence of bacteria. They may be programmed to make a plushy surface under someone's butt, but they are definitely not programmed to act like whipped puppies just because you stared at them harsh.
Hesitantly, reluctantly, I opened my eyes. The chair was back to normal. Stony-surfaced. Stony-faced. And there was no yipping/whimpering to be heard.
Well, I thought, that sure took my mind off the queasy stomach.
Ramos hurried back into the room. "The coast is clear, at least for the moment. Should I carry you again, or can you walk?"
Concentrating hard, I tried to move my feet; they responded, though I could scarcely feel them. Ramos shifted in to help me, taking my right arm over her shoulders and wrapping her left arm around my waist. When I started forward it was more a babyfied toddle than a walk, but we found a rhythm after a few paces—faster than a tortoise, slower than a hare. Somewhere about the speed of a dog with worms as it drags its ass across your best broadloom.
Have I mentioned our family has pets?
Ramos and I shambled down a short passageway into a kitchen, the place sparkling-clean except for two dirty plates on the counter. By the looks of it, Mouth and Muscle had made spaghetti while they waited for me to wake up... and, of course, they were just the type to leave dishes for someone else to clean.
Cavalier buggers.
The kitchen led to a back-porch area, too spotless to call a mudroom. Through the windows I saw black night, as dark as a miner's boot: clouds hid the stars, and thick forest crowded up within ten meters of the porch steps.
"We're still on Great St. Caspian," Ramos said in a low voice, "but a long way from Bonaventure. The air's a little thin outside... not that you can tell inside this pressurized house. We'll be all right out there if we don't try anything energetic—and we don't have to go far, I've got a skimmer parked five minutes away. How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine." This time the words actually sounded like words—slurred words spoken by some pisshead drunk, but at least they had consonants.
"Amazing powers of recovery." Ramos gave me a faint smile. "Hang on, while I make sure we're alone."
She bent down to a small machine that sat on the floor beside the door. It matched the size of a paint can, but its top was a flat glass screen. Ramos picked up the machine and swept it through a slow scan of the yard outside, keeping her eyes on the screen. "The Bumbler shows nothing on IR," she said, clipping the machine to her belt. "Let's go."
The way out was a double-door arrangement: an airlock between the house and the skimpier atmosphere outside. My ears popped as the outer door opened, but it wasn't a fierce hurt; either my neurons were too dizzy to register pain, or the pressure differential wasn't so scary as Ramos thought. I leaned toward the second alternative. Offworlders always get overexcited about the threadiness of our atmosphere.
We hobbled across the dark yard and entered the darker woods. This wasn't a sparse, well-spaced tundra forest—these trees were wild boreal. Instead of demure carpet moss, you got angry snarls of underbrush; instead of don't-bother-the-neighbors bluebarrels, there were cactus-pines thorned up for war, reaching out to strangle each other with as many branches as possible. It all added up to show we were in the south half of the island... just a fraction warmer year-round, but enough to shift the ecology from tightly contained order to every-bush-for-itself chaos.
The only route forward was a game trail, narrow enough that Ramos and I had a devil of a time walking two abreast. Lucky for us, we didn't need to go a long way—just over a ridge and down to a creek gully where Ramos had her skimmer waiting.
In the dark, the skimmer was blessed near invisible—not just camouflaged but chameleoned, its hull perfectly mimicking the nearby terrain. No identification markings either... which was mildly illegal, in a Class II misdemeanorly way. Ramos carried me to the back hatch, which opened as we reached it.
"Get in, get in!" cackled a voice from inside. Exactly the voice I'd heard in a junior-school play, when Lynn's ten-year-old Barry got cast to play an old man: cartoonish, nasal, enthusiastically cracking every other syllable. The old-man voice people use in dirty jokes.
"Faye Smallwood," Ramos said, "this is Ogodda Unorr. Our getaway driver."
"Call me Oh-God," he grinned. "As soon as I start driving, you'll know why."
The man was a Freep. A native of the Divian Free Republic: the closest habitable planet to Demoth, a mere six light-years away. The Free Republic started much like Demoth—a Divian billionaire bought a planet and commissioned a custom-engineered race so he could create his own Utopia. This particular utopia was intended to be staunchly libertarian but had too much wired-in greed to maintain any higher principles; it nose-dived into dog-eat-dog anarchy for three centuries after its founding, then calcified into a corporate oligarchy run by rich trade barons. Cartel capitalism. The Freep plutocracy chanted the mantra of "free markets" while making sure their markets were only free for those who played the right game.
By the looks of it, the Freep driving the skimmer had got himself out of the game by joining the navy—he wore black fatigues, faded and gone shiny in places, but still recognizable as a uniform of the Explorer Corps. The uniform had several circular spots darker than the surrounding cloth: places where insignia must have been sewn on. Oh-God's badges were gone now, leaving no sign of his rank or ship assignment. He must be that rarity, an Explorer who'd lived long enough to retire.
I looked at Oh-God more closely. Yes, he was old. Cracking ancient. Like all Freeps, he was short, stocky, and cylindrical... a chest-high tree stump with arms. His skin was pale orange at this moment, the way all Freeps go orange on Demoth. Back on their home planet, Freep skins can chameleon all the way to black, a tactic for shutting out the barrage of ultraviolet that comes from the smaller of their two suns; but on Demoth, especially on a winter-spring night in Great St. Caspian, the UV was too weak to demand pigment protection.
"Come on, come on, come on," Oh-God said. "Stop gawking and get yourself belted in, missy. We don't want to hang around here."
His voice still had that all-over-the-octave cackle, as if he was intentionally parodying his own age. Except that Divian voices get lower in their senior years, not higher. Then the truth struck me: Ogodda Unorr was an Explorer. And like all Explorers, he'd have some physical quirk that made his fellows edge away in disdain. Oh-God must have become an Explorer by virtue of that odd voice—a grating, googly, whistly voice that had marked him as different his whole life.
Ramos buckled me into place beside Oh-God and took the next seat herself. The skimmer was rising even before she had her safety belts fastened—a whisper-silent vertical ascent followed by the breakneck whip of acceleration as we bolted forward just above the treetops.
I'd never ridden in a skimmer that made so precious little sound. It must have been running state-of-the-art stealth engines—maybe even military grade. Looking at Oh-God's control panel, I saw a slew of other quaint additions to the usual equipment... including a readout labeled radar fuzz. Radar fuzz = nano on the skimmer's hull, dutifully (and illegally) making the craft invisible to groundcontrol traffic stations: a Class IV misdemeanor that often got argued up to a felony, "willful disregard for the safety of others."
"Hot," I said, pointing a wobbly finger toward the read-out. "Bad."
"Aww, missy," Oh-God wheedled back, "I only turn it on in emergencies. Like now. If there's Admiralty scum on t
he prowl, you don't want them seeing us, do you?"
He'd got me there. But this skimmer still had Smuggler written all over it. Silent and undetectable, big enough to haul a bumper load of questionable goods from Great St. Caspian halfway around the world without paying transport tax or trade-region import fees.
Oh-God might have left the Free Republic, but he hadn't abandoned their "free enterprise" mentality.
Three minutes later, we were flying along another creek gully, making no sound but the occasional whip of brush against the skimmer's undercarriage. Taking a deep breath, I mustered my best enunciation to ask, "What now?"
"If I were you," Ramos replied, "I'd scream like a banshee to your civilian police. Report you were kidnapped, and the perpetrators are now lying unconscious, ready to be arrested. I'll gladly testify to what I saw."
"Or," Oh-God said, "you could get a bunch of boyos with blunt instruments, to go back and conduct your own interrogation. All private-like."
Ramos chuckled. "Oh-God disdains subtlety."
"Subtlety's fine, it's police I hate," the Freep corrected her. "Not cuz I've done anything wrong," he added quickly. "Just on general principles. Always coming up with rules and regulations to hamper an honest businessman." He jinked the skimmer up over a rock outcrop, then bellied it down again close to the dirt.
Something scraped loudly against the lower fuselage. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Hands are cold tonight."
"Then warm them up!" Ramos growled. "What's the point of stealth equipment if you make noise hitting things?" She gave me a "See what I have to put up with?" look. "Officially," she told me, "Oh-God is a hunting guide. That's why he needs all these gadgets for skulking. In case your local deer ever develop radar."
"You never know," Oh-God said. "Demoth's already got beasties with sonar."
Ramos smiled. "If you get dragged in front of a judge, you stick with that story." She turned back to me. "Unofficially, Oh-God does a lot of things I don't want to know about. But he survived fifty years as an Explorer, and he's still loyal to the Corps. Whenever something noteworthy happens on Demoth, he passes on a report which eventually lands on my desk. That's why I came here in the first place—I'm interested in political assassinations. All those proctors getting killed."
Vigiant Page 11
