ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/harrison/har04

Text File | 1991-04-25 | 25KB | 499 lines

                    Harrison  -  Chapter Four


Copyright 1990 by Jim Vassilakos.  All rights reserved.  Permission is
hereby granted by the copyright holder to copy and freely redistribute
copies of this work, so long as no commercial or barter consideration is
obtained in exchange for such copies.




                              Four



Mike leaned over the mottled piece of metal which had fused itself
beyond recognition. The analysis specialist scanned his expression.
   "There's no way we can trace manufacture; it's just too far
gone," she explained.
   "Have you found anymore?"
   "Nearly a dozen," Charles Linden broke in, somewhat heatedly.
Mike could almost see his boss's anger steaming off the heavy
overcoat he wore to protect himself from the lab's sub-zero
temperature.
   "I don't understand it at all," he continued. "Why would Clay
go to all the trouble? And what's so important about this dead John
Doe?"
   Mike glanced at the specialist who seemed to be examining the
editor with an unconcerned stare. He hoped she wasn't the type to
blab.
   "Look Chuck, there are warmer places to discuss this."
   Linden was keen on the idea of getting out of the lab, not so
much because of the third party with ears and a mouth as due to
the chill. He and Mike took the lift down to the subways leaving
the company security personnel to the unhappy clean-up their own
incompetence had prompted.
   The subway train to Greenflower was nearly empty, and the trip
uneventful. Linden was, for once, totally unconcerned about what
was happening on the floor. The scores of staff writers would just
be sending him more meaningless trash which he would later strip
to the bare facts and send back due to lack of content. It was
always the same old story at the middle of the week.
   Mike promised something far more interesting for the readers,
and for the editor as well. Linden had suddenly taken a personal
interest in the story, a big no-no in his business. But it was
worth bending a few rules, and it felt right. It was even worth a
trip to the pit of ashes.
   The late morning air warmed Linden as sunshine broke through
the white fluffy clouds and streamed down in long silver threads
from the heavens. He hiked alongside Mike etching a trail through
the dew-sodden expanse of grass. Birds were darting about in the
brisk morning air. Their songs were like a child's laughter, almost
mocking yet innocent.
   The pit suddenly lay before them, its sides sinking into the
earth without warning. A variety of religious symbols decorated
the inner surfaces informing wayward souls to beware the footsteps
of the dead as the familiar sweet scent of ash and apple resin hung
heavy in the air. Linden sat down on the red brick lifting his chin
and squinting at Mike through the bright beams of sunlight.
   "Not what you expected," Mike cautiously broke the silence.
   "No," Linden admitted. "It's too..." He couldn't pull off the
words.
   "Antique?"
   "Old fashioned. It's too dated."
   "I thought you were into that Chuck," Mike prodded smiling.
   "I am, but there's a limit. This is so undignified. It's a mass
burial."
   "Just another screwed up religion." Mike stretched out his arm
pointing down the pit approvingly, "But you have to admit, they
did a great job."
   "What? I don't follow."
   "The Imps. They kill Fork, and get rid of his body so perfectly
that there's no way I can get a confirmation on the time of death."
   "Sure, but why the mass burial? Why not just cremate him and
leave it at that?"
   Mike kicked a stone into the pit, "Because he isn't dead."
   "You just said they killed him," Linden countered.
   Mike shrugged, "I lied. If they just wanted him dead and gone,
they'd have done what you said."
   Linden stood up. He glared at Mike in spontaneous disbelief but
knew the reporter well enough to realize that doubting was useless
and quite possibly counter-productive.
   "Explain," Linden finally insisted.
   "The Imps want to stage a fake death. They snatch Fork and put
some poor fool in his place, kill the guy and send the body to the
incinerators. But that still isn't good enough. They now have to
get rid of the remains in a legal manner, but in such a way that
these remains cannot be later analyzed to prove the guy who got
burned wasn't Fork. Even ashes can be analyzed. Admittedly, it
isn't something we often do, but it can be done. People don't often
share identical body chemistry. A mere difference of as little as
a gram in solid weight would be enough to..."
   "Enough," Linden interrupted, "I've got the idea. The only legal
way to dispose of the ashes in a manner in which they cannot be
later analyzed is to mix them with other ashes. Thus, the ash pit."
   "Exactly."
   Linden laughed, "It's a really neat theory Mike. Now prove it."
   Mike looked at the wet grass in front of his feet, "If I try,
I lose Niki."
   "What makes you so sure you haven't already?"
   Mike considered the editor's question with antipathy.
   "I know what you're thinking Harrison."
   "Do you?"
   "I've already sent for company personnel, off planet. They
should be here in a few days."
   "Chuck, if we had a few days we wouldn't be talking."
   "Regardless of all other considerations, I won't use our current
security staff to deal with this... situation."
   Mike shot his boss a rueful grin, "You don't trust them."
   "After what happened... would you?"
   "We can always go to Tizar police. Even though she's
unregistered, they've been supportive in such matters before."
   Linden shook his head in flat refusal, "You know as well as I
that the paper cannot risk this getting out."
   "She a friend, Chuck."
   "She's also a psyche. And Clay is a damn boardmember. There's
no win here; we have no choice but to wait and let company people
handle it."
   "If we wait, it may be to late."
   "She's already lost, buddy. If you think you'll ever see her
again..." Linden cut himself off mid-sentence. "I'm sorry."
   "It's okay. You're probably right."
   "So what are you going to do?" The editor carefully enunciated
each syllable with the utmost patience.
   "What d'you think I should do?"
   "If they're hiding, we must chase. I'll get one of the paper's
private starships to take you to Calanna. I know you didn't have
much fun last time you were there, but like they say, duty calls."
   "Fine, but don't stick me in some ice box."
   "I wouldn't dream of it," Linden pledged. He knew well Mike's
distaste for low passage.
   "And what about Niki? If there's any chance..."
   Linden gazed back into the pit for some inspiration, but the
same anger kept welling within him. Mike studied his boss as the
sunlight shined off Linden's black boots and whisked the corners
of his eyes.
   "Whatever you do between now and the time you leave is your own
business," he insisted. "You understand?"

                        *     *     *

Mike and Chuck took the escalator down to the floor from p872. As
they entered the ten acre room all they could hear was the clicking
of fingers on keyboards and the dull chatter of hundreds of
gatherers. Linden's press office lay at dead center, and a small
group of grouchy staff writers wandered about outside the entrance.
   "Why the committee," Mike wondered allowed.
   Linden explained, "There's been talk of a strike. Haven't you
been reading the paper?"
   "Must have missed it. Serious?"
   "They just like making waves." It was one of Chuck's pet
phrases. Staff writers and clericals were both labeled as
replaceable by management. If they decided to strike, there would
be no problem finding new recruits. For this reason, their union
demands were generally ignored. But even so, they still liked to
stomp around and threaten the editor every other year or so. Mike
was glad he wasn't following it.
   "I guess you read the news once and you've read it a thousand
times," Mike quoted.
   "Watch that kiddo."
   They went their separate ways, and Mike felt the better of it.
He didn't envy Linden's job in the least.
   "Hey Harrison. Haven't seen you here in a while."
   "Hi Mike."
   "Hey buddy, where've you been?"
   "Walker. Kim. Chris, I've been sick."
   "I see the boss is catching it too. I hope you guys've been
having safe sex."
   "Chris, you're an asshole."
   "Happy birthday to you too buddy."
   Come to think of it, Mike didn't envy his own job either. Not
that he didn't like gathering. He just didn't like many gatherers.
   There also came those moments which he genuinely regretted.
These he called mistakes. Being seen walking in late with the
editor was but one example. He hoped he didn't just call too much
attention to himself. Having a trail of story-starved gatherers
tagging along could seriously jeopardize his chances of sneaking
up on Clay.
   Mike sat down at his desk and switched on his terminal scanning
the latest breaking headlines.
   "Staffwriters Prepare For Strike"
   "Youth Locked In Freezer Eats Own Foot"
   "Upcoming Press Banquet..."
   "So what's up?" It was Bill Walker. He was another crack
investigative gatherer. Not very successful, but crack all the
same. His youth was his greatest advantage and his biggest
stumbling block. Mike could remember what it was like.
   "Not much. How 'bout you?"
   "Nothin'. Did you see the one about the banquet? You're gonna
be speaking." Bill knew how much Mike hated to read the paper and
thus usually never got word about these things until it was too
late to make reservations for an interstellar cruise.
   "The one before it looked more interesting. You write it?" Mike
accused in his most inquiring tone.
   "Wish I did." It was something Bill would write. He had a flare
for the gory.
   "Where'd you get cut?" Mike just noticed Bill had a nasty slash
under his left ear taking the whole length of cheek down to his
dark sunburnt chin.
   "Mama did it," he laid out. There was a glint of amusement in
his grey-blue eyes. Otherwise he seemed deadly serious.
   "Walker, you've got a sweet mama."
   "She is."
   "But you're a sick bastard."
   "Do you really mean it?"
   Mike turned back to his headlines pretending he had serious work
to do.
   "I really got into a fight with my neighbor's cat."
   "That's really fascinating." Mike mimicked Walker's distinctive
"really" without effort. It was a common part of their interaction
on the rare occasion that both were on the floor.
   Mike didn't mind the wasted time. He knew it would pay for
itself eventually. Walker was young and often useful when he wanted
to be. He and Mike worked together occasionally on the difficult
parts of each others assignments. Mike sometimes thought of himself
as a kind of mentor teaching a newcomer the tricks of the trade.
   But as much as he liked working with Bill Walker, he knew the
young man was also dangerous to be around. He took too many
unwarranted risks as far as Mike was concerned. He got himself into
scrapes that he'd have to fight himself out of. But as the boss
would often testify, it was all part of the job.

                         *     *     *

"So what's really going on?" Bill asked an hour later as he
finished picking the seeds out of his xisimo core. His elbows
rested on the clear surface of the table as he tossed slivers of
the fruit cut by his laser knife high into the air and caught them
smoking between his teeth. This was one reason the cafeteria staff
insisted they sit in the corner, Mike thought.
   "You're about to catch your tongue on fire."
   "Only if I miss. C'mon Mike. I need a story. The well is dry
buddy. I'm dying of thirst."
   "So you want to steal mine?"
   "I've shared with you," Bill acted hurt.
   "Yeah, shared crap."
   "C'mon Mike. Admit it. You need me."
   "Like I need my penis to fall off," Mike agreed thoughtfully.
   Bill ignored the comment, "Remember that time on Telmar? Who
saved who? Huh?" He pointed the blade of his weapon at Mike, "You
owe me one."
   Mike gulped down the last of his beer and hoped nobody was
listening.
   "Hell, you owe me two. Remember..."
   "I wasn't aware we were counting. But now that we are, how many
do you think you owe me?"
   Bill estimated a number in his head. Then finally gave in with
a sheepish look, "Okay, I'll drop it."

                         *     *     *

Mike spent most of the afternoon on the computer running searches
on Clay and beginning a journal for the story complete with facts,
photos, and tapes of conversations. Everyone else was minding their
own business which was nice for a change, though they didn't seem
to have very much to do. Private reports kept coming in, forwarded
from Linden, on new melted pieces of metal being found in Chuck's
private residence and on his clothes. There was even one under the
seat he sat in during lunch. Such is the life of an editor, Mike
smiled.
   He kept smiling until his searches started coming up negative.
Clay seemed to have disappeared over the past two days except for
one use of his corporate credit card at a shop in aquapolis just
that morning. He bought an expensive tie.
   Otherwise, zip. He hadn't signed any business or legal
documents. He wasn't at his office. He wasn't at his flat in Silver
Tri. He hadn't been using the subway. He hadn't so much as peed in
an executive toilet. Deadend, pure and simple. The only good thing
Mike could tell was that he certainly hadn't left the planet. That
would have made things a little too complicated.
   "I can tell you where Clay is." Mike turned with alarming speed,
almost giving himself the second near whiplash of the week.
   "You've got to break that habit, Mike. Seriously." It was Bill
again.
   "What the hell do you want, Walker?"
   "I can tell you where Clay is." This time it registered. Mike
opened his eyes wide, then looked around to be sure nobody was
listening.
   "Where?"
   "Snow Country. He's staying in a friend's cabin. Some sort of
ski vacation."
   "What friend?" Mike nearly growled it.
   "Some sort of business associate with the paper. I don't
remember the name, but I can find out."
   "How do you know this?"
   Bill shrugged, "If I told you... maybe it would rain for me."
A smug grin crossed his lips, but his eyes remained laser sharp,
like the knife he carried for "occupational emergencies".
   "You want in on this one?" Mike hated to offer, but he had
little choice.
   "You don't have to let me in if you don't want to."
   "In or out? I'm not saying please."
   Bill considered it for all of two seconds, "Okay, I'm in."

                         *     *     *

The infrared goggles penetrated the icy pitch darkness, making the
chimney top of the well insulated Solomon mansion seem like a
beacon of light on an otherwise frozen landscape. Mike bit his
upper lip as he lay prone in the snow, considering the fair
possibility that Billy's grapevine might be wrong.
   "Thank mama there's no wind," Bill whispered. Mike smiled as
the phrase. Clay would have thanked the lord; Mike might have
thanked the night, but Bill would thank his mama.
   "Thank mama they've got a fire going," Mike countered. Bill
quietly agreed. The house might have been doubly invisible without
it.
   "So get goin'," Bill prodded.
   Mike dropped the goggles and crawled over the hard slippery ice
away from his flycycle. He hoped the vehicle would carry three on
the off chance they'd find Niki inside.
   As Mike quickly reviewed the plan in his head, he began to
wonder if the computer's information was up to date. It showed
three entrances to the house; a front, a garage, and a servant's
entrance. In fact, it gave him the entire floor plans including
electrical access, water, and sewage piping which he and Bill
studied most of the evening. Being a reporter on Tizar accorded
some amazing privileges.
   Mike reached the garage. The door had an hard polymer bolt
fashioned to undermine the courage of any would be thieves. He
couldn't see it, but he knew a fancy security alarm would be hidden
behind. All the locks would be like this one if the computer told
the truth. All would be difficult to saw. At least here he wouldn't
be heard.
   The borrowed laser knife switched on silently. The little bit
of light that it shed was enough for Mike to see what he was doing,
though he didn't need the luxury. He knew exactly where to make the
initial incision killing the alarm as it were. The rest was grunt
work as laser grinded against polymer. Now it was only a question
of time.

                         *     *     *

Mr. John Clay relaxed in a cushioned rocking chair as he warmed
his feet by the fireplace. It was quaint but effective, he mused
as he slowly rocked back and forth, like fire itself. He glanced
at the wooden chessboard where he had defeated his host, Mr.
Soloman; the two kings now stood alone face to face at center
board. Not very happy was he, Clay almost giggled. The corporation
did not encourage good losers. In that, he was somewhat of an
outcast.
   He knew he had failed, but at least he was finished. Now he
would soon leave Tizar and return to the home of his childhood. He
smiled faintly at the thought.
   Suddenly a noise thrust him to full consciousness. Someone was
yelling and slamming his fist against the front door.
   "Who could it possibly be at such an ungodly hour?" Clay got to
his feet, hoping the sound hadn't awakened his host.
   "I'll get it, sir." Marley, the night guard took only few
seconds to appear from the kitchen area. He seemed stiff and angry.
   "Open up! Please hurry! Someone... Oh thank goodness. You've
got to help. There's been a terrible accident. Do you have a
vidiophone?!"
   "Who are you?" The guard's face was stern as he looked over the
young man. His long stringy black hair was wet from the snowfall,
and he held a heavy steel flashlight in his right hand which he
kept shining in the guard's eyes.
   "Oh please! Let me in. It's a matter of life and death! I've
got to use your videophone. There's been a terrible accident..."
The young man was panting from exhaustion.
   "Where?!"
   "Out there," the young man, exasperated, waved his arm back into
the darkness.

                        *     *     *

Mike quickly cut through the lock at the back of the garage leading
into the storage hall. Hearing the commotion up front, he slipped
into the hall and ran to the kitchen area. The polymer bolt had
taken more time than he anticipated. He had to hurry. He reached
the security office just a minute behind schedule.
   The office was full of little television screens, and there was
a desk with a control station. An eight-pack of fun-punch was set
on the floor next to the largest screen where the highlights of a
tourist hunting safari were being broadcast in via satellite from
the far side of the planet by channel #117 sports. Mike scanned the
other monitors and saw the recording light on one. He grinned when
he saw Bill's face, desperate, nearly frantic. Bill was always good
at diversions.
   Mike took out the current disk being recorded and slipped it
into his pocket. He grabbed a blank from the desk and melted it
down with the knife in one swift stroke. Then, by flipping a few
red switches, he disconnected the batteries and shut off power to
the entire mansion.
   The guard turned around in surprise when the stairwell suddenly
darkened. He didn't have time to feel the blow to the back of his
skull. He was already unconscious.
   Mike raced into the room. The fire and the knife blade were the
only sources of light in the entire house. Clay stood motionless,
hoping he wouldn't be noticed.
   "Morning Mr. Clay."
   "Good morning, Michael. You wanted to see me?"
   "Well, yes sir. I was hoping to talk to you about how
irresponsible the press has been acting lately. It's a damn
disgrace."
   Bill walked in, now competing for stage presence. "To think a
few reporters could spoil a whole code of ethics through some gross
dereliction of duty." He was shaking his head sadly and he homed
in on Clay.
   Mike continued, "Overzealous is perhaps more the word. Derelict
implies neglect. What do you think Mr. Boardmember?" Mike held the
blade to Clay's throat, igniting the bare traces of aftershave near
his chin.
   "What do you want?"
   "Niki. You. Robin. Not necessarily in that order."
   "Your research assistant is upstairs in the south guest room.
You can go get her." Clay's breath was heavy with fear.
   "Lend me the flashlight Billy."
   "It broke."
   Mike pivoted his glance, "You hit with the back."
   "I know. I forgot."
   Clay strained a smile, "If you two professionals don't mind
being interrupted, I happened to notice that the guard was
carrying..."
   "Sit down and shut-up."
   "Merely trying to be helpful." He sat back down in the rocking
chair.
   Mike stripped the flashlight off the guard's belt and picked up
an automatic pistol and a pair of handcuffs to boot. He gave the
knife to Bill and wrapped Clay's arms around the back of the chair,
securing them with the handcuffs before he headed upstairs. Slowly,
carefully, he measured each step as he neared the top of the plush
stairwell searching for the barest reason to shoot someone. The
south guest room was just down the hall. He found the door
unlocked. Niki was inside, on the bed, heavily sedated. Mike picked
her up gently, very much relieved to find her unharmed. Content
with his prize, he climbed back down the stairs.
   "Okay sport, where's Robin." Mike set Niki's limp body on the
floor by the guard.
   "Asleep, upstairs."
   Bill rocked the chair roughly at the answer. "I wasn't aware
androids slept."
   "She likes to pretend."
   "So she's heard everything."
   Clay offered a smile, "No, she shuts her senses down, expect
for touch."
   Suddenly the stairwell light came back on. Mike whirled around
to face the kitchen. He lifted the gun half expecting to see Robin
running in to save her master. Clay had, of course, lied. Mike
inwardly debated blowing the old man away right there. He could
almost see the image of blood cascading through the air as the
chair would rock backward plunging its occupant into the fireplace.
Mike nearly smiled at the thought.
   "Mike..."
   "I know. Get Niki and get out of here." He tossed Bill the
flashlight.
   "What about you?!"
   "I'll think of something. Go!"
   Bill didn't argue. He dragged Niki out the front door as fast
as his feet would carry him, leaving Mike with Clay to wonder how
many bullets it would take shatter the circuits of a pissed off
android.
   "She's very cunning Mr. Harrison. You'd best be careful." Clay
seemed amused. He's trying to distract me, Mike thought.
   Ignoring Clay, Mike slinked quietly toward the kitchen entrance,
wondering with each ill-fated step how good the android's hearing
was. Exceptional, he supposed. The designers could make her as well
as they wanted. He tried to make his breathing silent, but he only
succeeded in noticing every small sound he made whether it was a
footstep, a breath, or even a heartbeat.
   Suddenly the door swung open. Miraculously, he squeezed off a
shot in time. Her head snapped back from the impact, but it didn't
stop her. She struck him with phenomenal force, and Mike felt as
if his entire chest were caving in. In another moment her hand
darted up. That was all he remembered.

                        *     *     *

It was a little like watching the stars fall. The cold coastal
breeze gripping and then letting go, the tan sands which seemed
rather darker than tan, and that distant disoriented feeling would
combine on rare occasion when the stars fell from the sky.
   Mike saw the stars falling clearly enough. He could feel the
chill. But it was the disorientation that stole the show. He made
numerous attempts at standing, but he never quite managed it. The
ground seemed to rock like a see-saw back and forth as he lay down,
and whenever he tried to get on his feet he'd upset the balance and
the entire room would turn upside-down and send him
crashing to the ceiling and after a moment back to the floor again.
   He heard voices far away almost shouting. They seemed to be very
angry voices, but he couldn't understand the words. Suddenly he
knew the language was foreign. Then he heard a girl giggling, but
he couldn't place the laugh. It was a sweet innocent laughter which
reminded him of the birds singing at Greenflower. But it was very
near. Mike thought he could touch it if he reached out his arm just
far enough, but suddenly it ceased. He knew she was close. His hand
searched for her, but she wouldn't be found. He crawled toward her
for a few feet, and then slumped down in despair.
   He was too tired and she was too far away. Instead, he listened
carefully for her laughter. But she was gone.

_______________________________________________________________
I  Jim Vassilakos                       I  A rust monster...  I
I  University of California, Riverside  I    Run Awwaaay!!    I
I  [e-mail]                 I         :-)         I
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