Vigiant

by Gardner, James Alan

  In my heart, though, I knew it was too late. Maya and Chappalar had gone out together several times—to Bonaventure restaurants, nightspots, what-all. The plague was on the march, and who knew how many travelers had carried it from Great St. Caspian around the globe? I felt like calling room service to order cinnamon.

  A knock at the door. Festina sat up in surprise. "Are you expecting someone?"

  "No."

  Festina drew her stunner. I hopped off the bed and backed into a corner, as far as I could get out of the pistol's daze-radius. "Who is it?" I called.

  "Proctor Smallwood?" asked an unfamiliar voice. Male.

  "She can't have visitors," Festina answered. "Go away."

  "I'd just like a moment of her time," the unknown man said. "Please. The hostess assured me it would be all right."

  The hostess should mind her own business, I thought. "Who are you?"

  "Yasbad Iranu. I understand you were there when they found my son."

  Festina looked at me. I looked back. "Do you believe in coincidences?" I whispered.

  "Yes. But only when they happen to someone else." She raised her voice. "You're from the Free Republic, right? You're a Divian?"

  "I'm a Freep," Iranu replied. "I hope you aren't going to hold my species against me."

  At least we couldn't infect him. "We have to hear him out," I whispered to Festina. "If only to see what his game is."

  "You're right," she sighed. "Let him in. But I'll stun him shit-faced if he tries any tricks."

  Yasbad Iranu looked much like his son... except that Iranu senior wasn't lying slack-dead in a heap. The man was well dressed, and brash as a baboon's butt. Born on top of the ladder, and blind-smug-confident that he'd climbed there himself.

  The crown of his head only came to my chest, but he wore a red stovepipe hat that reached as high as my nose. Red was the color of mourning for Freeps—something to do with blood. The hat may have been a symbol of grief too, but to my eyes, it was just the trick of an arrogant pip-squeak trying to make himself look taller.

  "Good evening," he said as he came through the door. He held out his hand to me, but I shook my head.

  "Better not," I told him. "My friend and I both have a disease. It only affects humans, but still."

  His hand stiffened, then withdrew. He ducked under my arm as I continued to hold the door open. I closed it behind him.

  Iranu looked across the room to Festina. She held the stunner trained on his face. "You would be Admiral Ramos?" he asked.

  "You've heard of me?"

  "Your name appeared in the report Demoth gave to our embassy. The one describing how you found my son's body." He looked back at me. "That occurred near here, did it not?"

  "Near enough," I answered. "You want to talk about your son?"

  "Of course." He gestured toward a chair. "May I?"

  Neither Festina nor I answered. He sat down anyway.

  "I'd like to know whatever you can tell me about Kowkow," Iranu senior said. He crossed his stubby legs, calm and casual—one of those calculated things some aliens do, imitating Homo sap body language because they think it'll make a subconscious impression. On a Freep, crossed legs just looked witless: stubby and clownish.

  "When I heard the news," Iranu continued, "I came straight to Demoth, to see the place where he died. I've asked everyone in this guest home if they knew anything of Kowkow's last days, but learned nothing... till the hostess was kind enough to inform me you two had just checked in."

  It made me wonder how much Iranu paid for the tip-off. What did a rich man think a hostess was worth? He must have made some standing offer, buckets of cash for any tidbit she could send his way. The moment we registered, she ratted us out.

  "What information did you want?" Festina asked.

  "The official report was so impersonal," he answered. "And documents like that never tell the whole story. I want to know anything that might have been omitted. Little details to interest a father..."

  Lord weeping Jesus, I thought, you're breaking my heart. "I'm surprised to see you back on Demoth," I told him. "Weren't you kicked out on your ass?"

  That got the anger sparking in his eyes. But he covered it up fast with honey smoothness. "Water under the bridge," he replied with a wave of his hand. "A minor incident years ago. And your government deeply regretted the recent death of my son on Demoth soil. Rather awkward diplomatically. So to make amends, they granted me permission to return and arrange a memorial service. Especially since Kowkow's body has been impounded for health reasons and will never be allowed to return to his native planet."

  True enough. The corpse would be studied, then cremated on the spot. No one would be crazy enough to ship a plague-ridden cadaver to a planet of people who could catch the disease... and if anyone tried, the League would stop it. The ban against transporting dangerous non-sentient creatures applied to microbes too.

  "So you want information about your son?" Festina said.

  "Anything you can share," Iranu replied.

  Festina glanced at me, then turned back to the Freep. "Your son was illegally conducting archaeological studies at Sallysweet River, Mummichog, and other sites around the planet—continuing your own work, the work that got you expelled from Demoth. As far as we can see, Kowkow's only archaeological discovery was the biological weapon that killed him, and he didn't even know he'd found it. The same biological weapon killed many million Ooloms because of your own investigations thirty years ago... not that you were directly responsible, but you set the chain of events into motion. I assume you figured that out long ago, but never told anybody. Thanks to your continuing silence, every Freep on this planet stands a good chance of dying in total paralysis. Humans are at risk too, though they'll die with their brains destroyed. Which is how Maya Cuttack is dying at the moment. Do you know Maya, Dr. Iranu? Do you know where she's likely to be?"

  Iranu's face had flushed dark brown... as if his skin was warding off some burst of UV rays focused only on him. His hands clutched down hard on the arms of the chair and his oh-so-casually crossed legs had gone tense. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said in a strained voice.

  "Doctor," Festina told him, "this isn't the time for stonewalling. Everything you've ever done will be subject to intense scrutiny... not just by people here on Demoth, but by your own government. Your son infected the whole Freep negotiating team. Top officials. People with connections. Their families won't be pleased."

  "And," I put in, "your planet can kiss the trade treaty good-bye; Demoth is never going to sign a pact with the Free Republic when they hear what Freeps have been doing behind our backs." I gave him a mean smile. "How do you think the corporate barons will react, Doctor? You and Kowkow didn't just make folks sick, you screwed up a business deal. Your government will throw you to the wolves."

  Iranu stood up. Straightened his jacket cuffs—another Homo sap affectation. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small white card and plonked it on the night table beside the bed. "An invitation," Iranu said frostily. "To my son's memorial service. If you search your hearts and find some respect for the deceased."

  Festina took a step toward him. When she spoke, her voice was like a friend giving heart-to-heart advice. "Listen," she said. "You may think you can just walk away... pretend this has nothing to do with you. But as of now, you aren't just in trouble with the Freep and Demoth governments. You're in trouble with the League of Peoples. I'm informing you you may have knowledge that will prevent the deaths of sentient beings. You may know something about your son's movements, or Maya's. You may know where Maya would run if she wanted to hide. Kowkow talked to you, didn't he? After every trip to Demoth, he must have come home, told you what he'd learned, discussed what to do next. If you don't share all that information with the Demoth authorities, you'll be demonstrating a callous disregard for the lives of sentient creatures. Sentients endangered by lethal disease." She stared him eye to eye. "If you don't do something, the League won't let you leav
e Demoth alive."

  Iranu flinched. Spun away from her. Caught himself and tried to put on an air of wounded dignity. "You're completely mistaken in everything," he said. "If you repeat any of it, I'll sue you for slander. As for the League of Peoples... your navy keeps the masses in line by portraying the League as omniscient bogeymen, but some of us aren't superstitious peasants." He gave his jacket cuffs one more pointless tug, then strode out the door on his stubby little legs.

  Festina and I watched him leave. "Do you think he'll tell what he knows?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "He's probably got a private yacht in orbit. He'll make a run for it... and the second he leaves Demoth's star system, the League will make him regret that 'superstitious peasants' line."

  Silence. Simmering with het-up frustration. Not that I believed Iranu senior had much he could tell us, but his I-don't-need-to-talk-to-you attitude gave me the cranks.

  Feeling seethy, I went back to the bed, lay down, and used my link-seed to submit a report to the Vigil. Copies to Captain Basil Cheticamp, Medical Examiner Yunupur, the Archaeology Liaison Office, the Civilian Protection Office, and the Global Health Agency. All of whom would send copies on to more agencies, boards, and functionaries. Some of whom would leak juicy bits to the media, out of context and inflammatory. Within hours, the wolfpack would be howling their self-righteous hunting calls, stalking me again.

  The joys of being a proctor.

  Still, I downloaded everything. About Maya, about Xé, about my own Peacock. I would catch unholy flak for freeing a potentially dangerous alien; and for decades to come, every half-baked tico on Demoth would claim to have seen Xé, been possessed by Xé, had Xé's baby... but I still didn't pad around the truth. Withholding the smallest detail was murderously irresponsible, given the enormity of the stakes. I drew special attention to Dr. Yasbad Iranu and the possibility he knew where Maya might hide. Let the cops collar him and sweat his smug little britches—if they broke him, he might not be executed by the League of Peoples.

  Noble Faye, trying to save the man who started this mess. Who directly or indirectly killed sixty million Ooloms.

  Including my Lady Zillif.

  Making the report only took a few minutes. High-speed downloading. When I opened my eyes, Festina was perched in the chair where Iranu had been, toying with the invitation card he'd left.

  "Thinking of going to the funeral?" I asked. "When is it?"

  She tossed me the card. I caught it... then found myself thinking how I hoped Festina noticed what a smooth deft catch it was.

  Sure. Trying to impress her with my athletic ability. What was I, a guy? Read the card, Faye.

  THE FAMILY OF THE LATE KOWKOW IRANU

  INVITE YOU TO REMEMBER HIS SPIRIT

  AND CELEBRATE THE GIFT OF HIS LIFE...

  My eye skipped over the blah-blah-blah, past the date/time to a tiny inscription at the very bottom.

  (EVENT PRESENTED BY DIGNITY MEMORIALS,

  A PROUD MEMBER OF THE IRANU GROUP)

  Trust the Freeps to put advertisements, even on funeral invitations...

  Wait a second. Dignity Memorials? The folks who sent androids to lug Ooloms out of our mass grave? Two dozen androids went down the ancient "mine" where we'd stored the corpses...

  Except it wasn't a mine; it had to be another Green-strider bunker. And the Iranu group sent androids into that bunker... to do what?

  What was down there?

  Addendum to Proctor's Report, I sent out through my link-seed. Urgently recommend that authorities investigate a site near Sallysweet River...

  I stopped. My transmission felt like shouting into a pillow. Jammed. Cut off from the world-soul.

  Not again.

  I had time to shout, "Dipshits!" Then a stun grenade crashed through the window.

  Lucky me—I was already lying down.

  NANO SLUDGE

  Another hangover headache. I rated this one a honking great 7.2—either I'd got hit with more stun power than'the last time, or I was slipping out of shape. There's a downside to not getting blind drunk at least once a week.

  This time, my hands were lashed up behind my back: one of those plastic slide-ties, cheap, common, unbreakable. The only way to get the blasted thing off was to cut it.

  Of course, that brought to mind the scalpel in my purse... except that I wasn't wearing my purse anymore. Big surprise. The dipshits were chumps, but not quite so witless as to leave me an obvious weapon. At least they hadn't stripped me buck naked... which I'd half expected, considering how Mouth in particular had a love for the melodramatic. Thank God, the Muscle was around to keep things on a more professional kidnapper-kidnappee basis.

  Forget that now, Faye. Assess the situation.

  All I could see at the moment was a blank wall, painted forest green, bang in front of my nose. I was lying on something soft, a bed with musty unaired blankets. When I tried to roll away from the wall, I bumped into something thud behind me; after some wiggling, I got myself turned enough to see Festina lying on the bed too. She was unconscious but her breathing sounded healthy—just stunned harder than I was, because she'd been closer to the window.

  Speaking of windows, there was one not far from the foot of the bed. Our kidnappers had stashed us in a smallish but comfortable room, not so different from the hotel room at the guest home: a nancy-pine dresser, a frilly little table and chair, windows on two walls. The windows had slat-shutters closed over the outside, and the window glass had been set to frost-opaque; still, sunlight managed to sneak its slatty-frosty way in. The whole bedroom had that "afternoon-nap" feel, darkened but not dark. In other circumstances, it might have come off as a fair cozy ambience... if my head hadn't felt crawling-full of beetles.

  So? Get the obvious over with.

  World-soul? I called on my link-seed. No response.

  Peacock? Nothing there either.

  Festina and I were on our own.

  I nudged her with my knee. She didn't react; and now that I moved my legs, I realized they were hobbled up with a short strap of plastic, ends cuffed around my ankles leaving a stretch of half a meter between. Enough to let me shuffle like a person in leg irons, but no chance of kicking any more knees to splinters.

  Pity.

  The door opened. My old friends, Mouth and Muscle, swaggered in... which means the Muscle swaggered, while the Mouth only managed a swaggery-staggery limp. His one leg was locked stiff, though the knee cast was hidden by his uniform.

  "Surprised to see us again?" the Mouth asked.

  "Not under the circumstances," I told him.

  "But you didn't expect us to be hanging close to the guest home," he gloated. "You walked straight in without the slightest suspicion. And we knew you'd end up there eventually; you had to come back to Sallysweet River, and we were waiting, tapped into the police database. As soon as you filed your report, we knew where you were."

  "You knew I'd head back to Sallysweet River?" I sure as sweat hadn't intended to see the place again—not with pictures of Dads staring out from every shop marquee.

  "We couldn't be certain you'd come," the Muscle said before the Mouth thought up another boast. "But when you got away from the smuggler's house, Sallysweet River was the closest place you might run. And the safest place for us to wait for you. Your home in Bonaventure has cops all around it."

  "If you picked up my latest report," I said, "you know the peacocks are gone. So there's no earthly reason for you to keep after me."

  "Come on," the Mouth scoffed, "you think we believed that crap you told your bosses? Lovey-dovey Sperm-tails reunited after three thousand years, then vanishing into the sunset? Sperm-tails are physical phenomena, not conscious beings."

  I wished the peacocks were still around. They could have transported this clot-head into an active volcano.

  "My report was the truth," I said. "It doesn't matter whether you believe it."

  "It doesn't matter whether you believe it," the Muscle answered, dead calm. "As we've said
before, Ms. Smallwood, with that link-seed in your brain, your thoughts may not be your own. Enemy powers may have implanted false experiences into your mind, to sow disinformation with the Admiralty."

  Enemy powers? Disinformation? Christ Almighty. What fairy-tale universe were these guys living in?

  "When Admiral Ramos wakes up," I said, "she'll confirm everything I reported."

  "So what?" the Mouth sneered. He did love to sneer, that boy. "Ramos is hardly a reliable witness. She's always been openly hostile toward her superiors. For all we know, she may be the one plotting insurrection—using you as a pawn to shake public confidence in the fleet. Not to mention the navy's confidence in itself. After all, how can we trust starship security if any of our Sperm-tails could be telepathic aliens, tapping into the minds of fleet personnel?"

  Fleet personnel with minds? These guys were living in a fairy tale. "So I suppose we're back where we started," I said. "You want to rip open my brain, hack inside, blah-blah-blah."

  "That's the only way to be sure," Muscle replied. "If Ramos has been filling your head with false input, we're doing you a favor finding out."

  "Some favor," I muttered. "I've got a better idea. Suppose I show you real evidence."

  The Mouth gave a beady-eyed glare. "What do you mean?"

  "Are we still close to Sallysweet River?" I asked.

  "A tourist chalet on the outskirts of town," Mouth replied. "It's secluded, the owners aren't home, and the security system was a joke."

  "Then I'll show you a Greenstrider bunker," I said. "Just minutes away. And I'll bet it's the bunker where the Peacock kept his headquarters three thousand years ago. The best place on the planet to find peacock information."

  "If you mean the bunker by Lake Vascho," Muscle said, "it's still crawling with police."

  "No," I told him, "this is different. Once the Peacock fused with that Greenstrider, he dug bunkers all over Great St. Caspian—maybe to house his people, maybe just decoys, I don't know. But I've figured out where the real central headquarters was... and I didn't mention it in my report."