ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/harrison/har16

Text File | 1992-12-30 | 40KB | 814 lines

               Copyright 1992 by Jim Vassilakos
                      All Rights Reserved

     Permission is granted by the copyright holder to copy
      and distribute this work such that no commercial or
 barter consideration is obtained in exchange for such copies.

---------------------------------------------------------------



                             Sixteen



The condo's comm-board continued to beep, muted light from the
Sintrivani sketching dim lines across the white, plaster walls.
Cecil curled his lip into an angry grimace.
   "Great hindsight, gatherer."
   "Just answer it." Mike added a t-cross with his finger and
thumb, an old gatherer hand-sign, and one of the few which he
remembered teaching Cecil. It usually meant "track" or "follow",
but given the proper context, it could mean "trace". Cecil's
cameras bobbed in comprehension as Johanes' image appeared on the
three-vee, a slight nod displaying all the greetings he wished to
convey.
   Cecil snorted, "Speak of the devil and he shalt come."
   "Look, I don't have time to dance the verbal footsie with
either of you. I know that you're probably tracing this call, so
just stop me if I start getting long-winded."
   Mike smiled, "Fat chance."
   "I'm calling on your behalf, Michael. I realize that right now
you probably think that I'm lower than a swamp slog."
   "You could have killed thousands of people, Johanes."
   "But I didn't."
   "And you tried to set me up. You sacrificed Nicholas. And for
all you knew, that nuke could have gone off in the heart of Xin."
   "All true."
   Mike shook his head is disbelief, "You don't even care."
   "There's a lot at stake, Michael."
   "Doomsday?"
   "I've already told you far too much."
   "Now you have to kill me, I suppose?" Mike grinned his baiting
grin, waiting for anything that would keep Johanes on the line
just a few moments longer. The Draconian seemed to read his mind
from afar, sifting implications through the pours of Mike's skin.
He took a deep breath.
   "If I wasn't pressed for time, perhaps I would do the honors,
but I imagine the Imps will do a far better job with you."
   "Too bad. You could have done us all. Why didn't you?"
   "Just do yourself a favor, Michael. Get back to Tizar. Forget
about this story. If you try publishing even half of what you
know, it'll be the same as signing your own execution warrant."
    "How many times have I heard that before?"
    "This isn't like the other stories. Don't give them a reason
to pay you a visit. It's not worth it."
    His face flickered off the depth box as the connection broke,
and within a minute, Mike had dismembered the "bug" from its
battery.
   "Hmm... didn't self-destruct like the others. Did you trace
him?"
   Cecil shook his head, "He's a crafty one. He piggy-backed on a
remote dialer. Could have found him, but he dropped the line
before it became apparent."
   "Damnit, Cecil! I had him on for how long?!"
   "Cecil be sorry." The camera's made a dejected pose. "Got the
last of it recorded from the remote if you're interested. Just
didn't think to extend the trace in time."
   "Great hindsight, hacker."
   The camera nearest Mike perked sideways like a confused dog
trying to see things from a slightly different perspective:
Cecil's way of acknowledging a turn-about. However, something
about its hound-like stance and the crumpled flimsi in his pants
pocket told Mike the chase wasn't over. The comm-address
glittered faintly as Mike flattened the flimsi out on the rug.
   "Cecil, I just thought of something."
   "Congratulations."
   "Spokes managed to trace a call I made him from Gardansa's to
a restricted comm-address."
   "So?"
   "He was using amplitude logs or something. Can you do the same
thing?"
   The camera seemed to shrug.
   "That could take days."
   "I bet you he's at the Arien mansion. Just compare the dialing
records to the mansion and the immediate area around it."
   Cecil half-sighed half-grumbled.
   "He's not going to be that stupid, Michael. If he doesn't want
you to find him, that's the last place he would go."
   "Unless...
   Cecil's cameras started rotating in victorious delight as Mike
looked out the window toward Xin.
   "...he has an good reason to be there. That was fast. He's
inside the mansion, I take it?"
   "You aren't planning on going down there, are you?" The
cameras stopped rejoicing as Vilya's cat pawed at one of them,
uncertain as to it's edibility.
   "I'd like to know more about the Ariens themselves. They're
playing some part in this, Cecil."
   "And probably on both sides of the court, knowing how psyches
are."
   Mike smirked. It was like Cecil to understate the galaxy's
most common prejudice just to needle him. He was probably baiting
for the sort of reaction that could get them into an hours-long
argument. Anything to waste time and keep Mike from going there.
Cecil would simply consider it a friendly favor on his part.
   "I'm going down there. I don't believe Johanes will carry out
his threat."
   "Well, then say hello to the rioters. Tell them you're a nice
neghrali and maybe they won't hurt you either."
   "I doubt I'll see any. Whatever unrest there is in Xin is not
being directed against the Ariens."
   "Oh really?"
   "Yeah, really."
   "Anger, once sparked, burns a path toward the most
opportunistic form of release, no matter how malign or
misdirected."
   "What idiot said that?"
   The quote flashed across the three-vee. Below it, "Shattered
Eden, Michael J. Harrison, Tyberian Publications." Mike scratched
his head trying to figure out whether or not Cecil was pulling
his leg.
   "So I write a lot of stupid things. Big deal."
   "What are you going to gain by going there?"
   "Maybe I'll be able to talk to Mr. Arien. I met him briefly,
the last time I was here."
   "Met him?"
   "Okay, Tara met him. I was there."
   "Along for the ride."
   "Yeah. All right. I don't really expect him to remember me,
but if he does, it could be the break I need."
   "Or break you don't need."
   "You have a better idea?"
   Cecil shrugged, "Investigate from afar. It's less dangerous."
   "If I had access to Cindy, I would."
   "SNDI? Supernatural Data, Incorporated? You've got it,
Michael. What did you think the Doggie Blitz ran on? Punch
cards?"
   Mike tried to formulate an appropriate response as Cecil
taught him how to hook into the phone jack. From what he
gathered, higher brain functions were off-limits to all save the
super-users or "wizards" as they were called. Mike considered
calling the favor, but he figured that lower-brain would be just
fine as long as he could avoid running into snags. Cecil retired
to the balcony. Outside, the warm, jetting waters of the
Sintrivani carried a late evening crowd high above the dispersed
illumination save for the few strands of blue and purple laser
light captured within the misty fog.
   "Woof!"
   Mike jumped slightly, though the cat seemed neither to notice
nor care. The noise was in his head, no more than an electrical
illusion.
   "Access. File. Information. Library. Galactic Press."
   "...Woof!"
   "Does that mean..."
   "Woof!"
   "Damnit."
   "...Woof!"
   "Access. File. System. Output parameters. Errors. Command. Set
format. Long."
   "...Pant pant."
   Mike rubbed the side of his face. For a moment, he could
almost smell wet, sticky, dog breath.
   "Very funny."
   "...Woof! Illegal command ignored."
   "Access. File. System. Output parameters. Errors. Command.
Ignore. Keyword woof."
   "...Pant pant."
   "Access. File. System. Output messages. Command. Galanglicize.
Message. Most recent."
   "...Done."
   "Access. Userlog. Current. Command. Find. Username. Spokes."
   "...Done."
   "Query. Date. Login through logout. Most recent."
   "...Insufficient format specification."
   "Tora-centric. Positive past. Unit centim. Single decimal."
   "96.2 through 71.9."
   Mike looked out the window wondering what Spokes was up to.
The evening was hacker time, and Spokes had been gone long enough
to make it back to Xekhasmeno. Long enough to get pulled off the
road and molested by locals, Mike figured.
   Cecil was leaning back in a lounge chair, luxuriating in his
abstinence from the electronic environs as thin layers of warm
mist settled over him and the gleeful screams of children
resounded in the distance. He used to say that he needed the
condo to get away from it all. Then, when he was rested, he'd go
back into a little cubicle somewhere and not be seen for days or
weeks. It didn't make a great deal of sense to Mike, but then a
lot of things didn't make much sense. He hoped that Spokes had
the same idea. Better isolation than dislocation.
   "Access. File. Information. Library. The Aggressor.
Interstellar society page. Command. Search. Keyword Arien."
   "...Insufficient file specification."
   "Most recent."
   "...Done."
   "Say file."
   "...Incompatible format error."
   "Show file."
   A page of the local paper appeared in glowing blue Calannic in
front of Mike's face. Even blinking his eyes refused to dislodge
it, and whoever scanned it into memory hadn't bothered to reduce
it into text. Instead, it was simply an image with a list of
keywords attached to it. Sloppy but cost-efficient.
   As he began to scan the first few lines, Mike realized that
the article wasn't about the Arien family at all, but he
instantly recognized the picture. Long, dark hair fell straight
along her spine, her sharp, brown eyes watching the row of black
grav-limos rising from a well manicured lawn. The color of the
cars clashed against her white evening dress, her shoulders bare
save for the reflection of headlights on deep, bronzed skin. In
the background, a crowd of people were escaping the Lion's Den.
Mike remembered the awards ceremony all too well. The headline
read, "Draconian Ambassador Disappears."
   "Cecil!"
   "...Illegal command ignored."
   "Command. Pause."
   Cecil poked his head in.
   "What is it?"
   "I got something. How do I display this on the three-vee?"
   Cecil strolled in, unplugging Mike and plugging himself in
with two swift motions of his wrist. The image appeared on the
depth box a moment later.
   "You know her?"
   Mike nodded, "I met her at an awards banquet just before
coming to Calanna. It looks like this image was taken just after
it."
   "How did this turn up?"
   "It says she was married to..."
   Mike read the paragraph again, still shaking off his
disbelief.
   "...Alister Arien. An unnamed source in the Draconian Embassy
blamed the DSS. I don't believe this."
   "Good. The written word is rarely worth believing."
   "Why would they kidnap their own ambassador?"
   "Cloak and dagger stuff. Conspiracy of hate. You know how it
is."
   Mike looked up incredulously. His old friend wore a fool's
grin, the sort he'd throw on for guests he was planning on
throwing out. Mike stood up, stepping toward the door.
   "You don't buy any of this, do you."
   "It's a local rag, Michael. The Aggressor rarely prints
anything worth reading beyond its entertainment value. Too bad
Doggie Blitz doesn't carry The Galactican. But then we'd have to
deal with those silly writers' royalties, not to mention all
varieties of interstellar propaganda."
   Mike winced, "I'm not biting, Cecil. I have to get to the
Arien mansion."
   "You already know Cecil's opinion."
   "That I'm being hideously stupid?"
   The nearest camera nodded, and Cecil sighed.
   "Before you go, there's something more you should know."
   "Such as?"
   "Found something interesting while sifting through the booty
from that android brain."
   "Robin?"
   "She had some very peculiar orders, Michael. Orders which she
had to consult before deciding to fry you. She was to kill you
and Niki upon touch down and then report to her temporary
supervisor for further instructions."
   "Clay?"
   "A chap by the name of William Walker."
   Mike blinked, "Bill?"
   "One and the same."
   "That doesn't make sense."
   "If she recognized him and he had the proper access code, then
he could have gotten inside just like we did tonight. Judging
from these orders, he could have gotten further."
   "Why would Clay turn her over to Bill? Why would he send us on
this mission just to kill us?"
   Cecil smiled, "A change of plans, perhaps? Now, at least, you
and Johanes might have something interesting to talk about. Give
the Draconian Cecil's warmest regards. Translation: if he blinks,
fry him."


                          *     *     *


Evening descended into night as Mike approached the outskirts of
Xin, his impatience forcing a speed well beyond the limits
proscribed by Calannan law. Judging from the radio reports,
however, he wouldn't have to worry about being pulled over. The
police were most likely busy in the inner city, quelling the
incessant looting and vandalism.
   He'd seen riots before. Even in his early youth, he'd learned
what to expect. What made "Shattered Eden" a success wasn't so
much the accurate description of such events. It was the human
nature that got people, the law of opportunism as Cecil might
have called it. To Mike, it was just sloth.
   People liked to take the easy out in nearly all endeavors
whether they were flagellating their brains in the electronic
void or expressing rage at things they only barely understood.
Even the grand Imperial bureaucracy which sought to destroy an
entire world had shied away from the big bang approach. Too
messy, they must have figured: bad for interstellar relations.
Germ warfare had been far easier for them, far less newsworthy.
   These locals were no different. Mike knew they would try to
hit the obvious targets. But unlike Eden, the two most obvious
targets, the Arien mansion and Xekhasmeno, were both out of the
way and very defensible. The Calannans could fume and fuss,
destroy small businesses, even kill a few unfortunates. But if
they wanted to make the sort of statement worth making, they'd
have to take casualties. Mike suspected that few rioters would be
so inclined, because at heart, those most indolent were often the
most cowardly.
   Thus, the Arien mansion resembled not so much a war zone as a
refugee camp. Bathed in the moon's faint luminescence, a
quarrelsome throng resided outside the front gates, tossing
occasional molotovs onto the lawn and shouting threats into the
studded darkness. Mike parked at the side of the road among the
other vehicles and started circling the mansion grounds on foot
to glean some idea of his chances. He guessed that the direct
approach would likely constitute a recipe for suicide, as just
outside the moat, he could discern the movement of clumsy shapes
in the darkness: a row of Alister's mutated minions most
probably. He could imagine the worgs wearing hungry grins, the
sort normally reserved for career bureaucrats and used grav-car
dealers named "Slim-price Sam".
   Half way around, he spotted the yellow motorbike. It sat
beside a row of shrubs on the near side of the moat, plainly
visible from the fence but hidden from the mansion itself. Mike
figured that either Johanes was taking half-hearted precautions
or he was planning a swift get-away. Another step yielded sudden
pain from below. Several thick cords of barbed wire lay strewn
about, one snagged on his bare foot. Mike knelt down, tearing it
loose with a determined yank. Someone had cut it off the top of
the gate, motion sensors and all, and a new wire was strung
loosely between the severed ends carrying electricity from one
side to the other but skipping the portion in between. Mike
climbed up and over, smearing blood on the cermelicon rails and
finally settling himself on estate grounds just inside the gate.
   As though on cue, the noise of gun spray cracked through the
air. Mike froze, huddling into a ball before he realized that he
wasn't a target. The gun towers were firing on the front gates as
gas canisters exploded in the crowd's midst. Though nearly half a
kilometer distant, Mike could still see the gates open,
cermelicon railings reflecting the moonlight as they slid to the
side allowing the worgs to charge through. It was a slaughter,
pure and simple, and those who couldn't make it back to their
vehicles were chewed up and left to rot on the blood stained
pavement.
   Mike picked himself off the grass, the moments ticking in his
mind with each heartbeat in his ears as he began bolting toward
the mansion. Every stride ate precious time, but with all
attention focused on the front gate, Mike skidded to a halt
beside Johanes' bike having apparently attracted no notice
whatsoever. The bike's motor idled quietly, its noise muffled by
a black, plastic jacket. A long, insulated tube extended from the
jacket, running to the moat beneath the shrubbery. It was a
cooling sheath, Mike guessed, keeping the bike both quiet and
invisible to infra-red sensors as well as protecting it from
overheating.
   Reaching up, Mike gently switched off the motor and pocketed
the key, glancing toward the moat as though it were an after-
thought, a fifteen meter wide after-thought with gun towers
looming overhead and tales of a moat monster fully appreciated.
Still, the mansion walls beckoned, and Mike knew he'd never have
a better chance. The water was warm and mucky, its thin layer of
brown surface jelly sending memories of Aiwelk tumbling about in
his head. Holding the automatic pistol overhead, Mike tried
wading across but sunk into the deep, slimy mud along the moat's
banks. He finally resorted to lodging the barrel between his
teeth and dog paddling like a mad man.
   Leafy, moist vegetation hugged the mansion's stone walls
amidst a tapestry of drab moss which dipped gently into the
water. The thin vines were surprisingly strong, and Mike found
himself climbing upward toward the second floor windows when he
felt an annoying tug at his legs. The moat had extruded a long,
grey tentacle which had wrapped a determined hold around his
ankles.
   "Good evening, Mister Harrison. So good of you to drop by."
   Mike nearly fell off the wall, his mud caked hand frozen just
inches from his mouth. The voice came from the nearest gun tower.
He could see Mr. Arien's head sticking from a window one floor
above him, his sparse, silver hair glittering in the dim
moonlight. Johanes stood beside the old man, a dour grimace
painted across the Draconian's lips. The barrel of a rifle poked
out an adjacent window, its laser sights cutting a fine beam of
light through the damp air between it and the back of Mike's
neck.
   "At a loss for words?"
   Mike spat, propelling the pistol from his mouth into the murky
water below. The grey tentacle immediately retreated back beneath
the surface either in response to some unseen command or in order
to examine its new, metallic visitor.
   "That's better." Someone handed Arien a flimsi. "Let's see
what we have on you. Mmmm... juicy. You've been up to mischief,
young man?"
   "A little. Can I come inside?"
   "Just hang out."
   Mike gripped two vines and stayed put, the thought of diving
back into the moat playing back and forth between his brain
lobes. Leaning over slightly, Johanes seemed to whisper something
into Arien's ear.
   "Kill him?! Our first truly determined trespasser in how many
years?" Johanes winced and gritted his teeth as the old man
continued. "Mr. Harrison, being that I am expecting company
rather soon, I don't have a great deal of time to chit-chat, so
you'll have to be brief. Why shouldn't I blast you off my walls
like the bug you are, and more importantly, why does your
Draconian friend want me to?"
   "To your first question: Ambassador Kato. To your second: he's
not my friend." Mike bit his lip, half expecting to become a late
night morsel for the moat creature. Arien, however, seemed to
frown in consideration.
   "Bring him up."
   The rope was easier to climb than wall carpet, and Mike
accepted the invitation with a healthy tug. Inside, Johanes and
Arien were surrounded by a number of guards, each wearing black
body armor and carrying automatic rifles with electronic sights.
Perfect for sniping the locals, Mike figured, though a bit long
ranged for disposing of nosy gatherers.
   "Do not be afraid, Mr. Harrison. I have no intention of
killing you so long as you speak the truth. Where is she?"
   Mike gulped down, trying to conjure the knowledge as Johanes
answered for him.
   "You're wasting your time. He knows nothing. If you refuse to
punish him directly, Alister, at least turn him over to the
police."
   "Silence, Draconian. I wish to hear what he has to say."
   Mike looked back toward the open window. Muddy footprints left
his trace easily visible. He shook his arms off, finally turning
toward Arien with a discouraged shrug.
   "I don't know where she is. The last time I saw the Ambassador
was on Tizar. She wanted me to come here to Calanna."
   "To do what?"
   "To die, apparently, or so Robin said."
   "Robin?"
   Johanes stepped between them, "We don't have time for this
nonsense, Alister. Sule will be arriving with the Ambassador and
Erestyl at any moment."
   Mike squinted, "Sule? ISIS?"
   "Stay out of this, Michael."
   "ISIS is coming here?! What, their mind scanners didn't work,
so you're cooperating?" Mike gazed, incredulously.
   "I'm warning you..."
   "No. No, you're not. You want Sule. One bullet, and it'll be
over. You're aware of the nuclear detonation today, Mr. Arien?"
   "Michael!"
   "There's a fair chance that the Ambassador was at ground zero.
You already know that I'm wanted by the police for homicide. Well
Johanes here isn't wanted for anything, and it's very likely that
he's guilty of murdering your wife."
   "Michael, we're not playing games here! Your fantasies will
have to find another audience."
   "Why the fast getaway, Johanes? You planning to just kill and
run?"
   "I have no intention of running."
   Johanes drew a pistol from his coat, an integral laser pistol
to be more exact. It's polished iridium handle made it look more
like a hood ornament than a weapon, however, with it aimed
between his eyes, Mike didn't doubt its lethal competence. Given
the proper setting, he'd seen such devices carve holes in flesh
so neatly, they could cauterize the wounds they inflicted before
spilling a single drop of blood. He guessed that Johanes had been
saving this weapon for a special occasion and tried to feel
honored.
   "No!"
   The voice was Arien's, and Johanes obeyed it, if only for a
moment.
   "Alister..."
   "Put it down."
   "I am politely asking your permission to kill this liar."
   "Put it down or be punctured."
   Nearly every automatic rifle in the room pointed toward the
Draconian, the glint of steel wary with expectation as three of
the guards crouched down at the corners to avoid the cross fire.
It was the sort of threat that would be carried out with neither
postponement nor afterthought, and Mike watched, silent and
breathless, as Johanes, wavering with indecision, reluctantly
complied.
   "Restrain him."
   "Of for... there's no need to..."
   "Remain still, Johanes. I do not wish to see you damaged.
Please continue, Mr. Harrison. Your hypothesis intrigues me."
   Mike sat down on the window sill, oblivious for once to the
squashing sound of his muddy pants. He imagined falling backwards
into the moat, nose cartilage sunken deep within his skull and
Johanes' boot print embedded firmly upon his face. Johanes was
thinking it too. His eyes betrayed him, if not his fists or the
veins in his neck. Throat dry with expired fear, Mike swallowed a
warm drop of saliva and blinked in consideration of where to
begin.
   "It's no longer hypothetical."
   Mike withdrew the key from his pocket.
   "Your fence has a hole in it. Just across the moat you'll find
Johanes' bike. There's a cooling sheath wrapped around the motor.
That he was planning a quick escape was obvious. I just couldn't
figure out why. Now I can. If Sule is coming here with Erestyl,
it means that the mind scanner wasn't a success. They need a
telepath to get inside his head. Somebody good. Like you. Am I
right?"
   "Continue."
   "However, you've never worked for Imperials, at least not to
my knowledge, and according to Kitara, you have as much reason to
hate them as I do."
   Arien's eyes sparkled at his recollection of the Siri.
   "You knew Kitara?"
   "Very well. You probably don't remember me, but we've met
before. A year ago. She told me a few things about you. If you're
working for the Imps, you must have a very good reason. That's
where Ambassador Kato comes in. ISIS has her. Just stop me if I'm
wrong."
   "You're right."
   "Are you're certain she's still alive?"
   Arien looked down, drawing a deep breath. "No. However, as
long as the possibility remains..."
   "You'll do anything for anyone. And Johanes here, he's to deal
with Sule as soon as the Ambassador is safe. To let Imperial
blood fall on Draconian hands. Pardon my candor, Mr. Arien, but
you're a fool."
   "Perhaps."
   "Did Johanes explain to you what's at stake?"
   "He didn't have to. I've known of the Prometheus device for
some time."
   "Prometheus device?"
   Arien glanced toward Johanes, his eyes betraying a mixture of
uncertainty and solicitation.
   "He doesn't know?"
   Johanes shook his head, "I was trying to protect him from the
details."
   Mike broke in, "What about this Prometheus device?"
   "It's like one of those weapons we were talking about, Mike,
the kind that kill en masse. Only this one gives en masse a whole
new definition."
   "Doomsday?"
   "You don't want to know the details. Trust me."
   "What makes you so sure?"
   "Because... if you publish so much as a peep, you're dead
meat."
   "The Imps already want to kill me, Jo, and at least one member
of the DSS seems to feel the same way."
   Johanes smiled, "I don't want to kill you, Mike. I want to
throttle you, and then I want to kill you."
   "Oh, thanks. That makes me feel so much better."
   "Don't take it personally. I want to do likewise with Alister
here."
   "Now is not a good time to be threatening me, Johanes."
   "You think I give a damn? You think I'm in this for my jollies
like Mike here? Tell me something, Alister. Even assuming that
Sule's telling the truth and Kato is somehow still alive, heaven
forbid that should be the case, but just supposing it is... tell
me something. Is she worth it? Doomsday for a single human life?"
   Arien looked insulted, then confused, then finally a mixture
of the two.
   "How am I supposed to answer that?"
   "Don't answer it. Just think about it. It's not too late. We
can still turn this thing around. All I'm asking for is one clear
shot. I'll take Sule out like a can of garbage. We'll have
Erestyl. We'll find your wife, if she's still alive. Just trust
me. For one lousy night, trust me."
   "If I let you kill Sule..."
   "I know what you're going to say, Alister, and she's already
dead... or worse than dead. Why the hell can't you see that?! You
know what ISIS does to captives like her."
   "Mental mutilation."
   "That's right. She'll be a zombie, Alister. You'll be trading
the secret of Promethius for a zombie. Think it over."
   "I have already," He looked toward Mike as he announced the
decision, not so much at him as through him, and strange it may
seem, Mike found himself frozen, unable to turn aside from the
tone of finality in the old man's voice, unable to blink from the
sight of his eyes nor even shut his mind to the message they
contained. It was as though Alister had seen something in him, a
fragment of thought, a whisp of spirit, or even a moment of
future destiny. Whatever it was, he counted on it, settling more
weight upon its value that Mike cared to ascertain. And then
Alister turned away, the moment lost in the shuffle of a
heartbeat.
   "As you perhaps know, Johanes, there are ways of repairing
such injuries given the proper precautions, and Draconians are,
generally speaking, very cautious people. I'd thought I'd
convinced you to bide your time, to wait for the right moment,
however, it seems that you have reverted to your original idea.
Kill her at the first opportunity, and leave old Alister to pick
up the pieces. Who can tell why? Perhaps you expected that the
right moment would never come, that it was stolen by things that
go boom in the daytime."
   "Nuke?" Mike queried.
   Arien nodded, "I'd always known it was a fitting nick-name.
Her temper was rather explosive. But if I'd known what would be
her end..."
   "Both Sule and Erestyl apparently survived."
   "Regardless, this Draconian filth tried to sacrifice her like
some..."
   "I know what I did! I'm not pleased about it anymore than you,
but I'd do it again, and you know damn well the reason!"
   "Yes, of course. You were just being cautious."
   A small, metallic sphere floated in through the door, a red
light flashing at its zenith.
   "Speak."
   "Sule has arrived, my lord. She is outside the front gate
awaiting permission to enter."
   "Grant it. Guards, make our guests comfortable."
   Arien left, bequeathing his private soldiers with a simple if
indefinite task. Mike stood back, smiling ever so slightly as
Johanes was physically searched in the most comprehensive manner
allowable by law. Being that Calannan law was rather lax on such
matters, he had some time to wait and wonder if he was to be
their next victim. Several minutes later, they found themselves
in a basement cell, Johanes wearing a towel one of Arien's more
generous employees had loaned him. He stood in the cell's corner,
feet together and legs slightly bent, the white towel knotted
around his waist. Mike tried to churn forth a wholesome
expression.
   "Did it hurt?"
   Johanes merely gritted his teeth in response, angry eyes
glaring stubbornly at the opposite wall. Mike nodded, trying to
look sympathetic.
   "I'm just asking, because if you think you need a proctologist
or anything..."
   "Shut-up, Harrison."
   "Right... um," Mike paused, searching for the right words, "Do
you mind if I ask you a question?"
   Johanes ignored him, wincing as he shifted his weight
slightly.
   "Were you really going to shoot me back there?"
   "Yes."
   "You were."
   "Absolutely."
   "May I ask why?"
   Johanes snorted and then winced again as the vibration crawled
down along his spine. Mike looked away, granting him some private
latitude for expression of discomfort.
   "I mean, it's a little extreme, isn't it? To shoot somebody?"
   "Why don't you ask Bill Walker."
   "Where did you hear about that?"
   "Various places. Before the operation you were telling Cecil
all about it."
   Mike shook his head, "Then you heard it was self-defense, and
Bill was a friend."
   "A friend, perhaps. As for self-defense, I understand that he
was unarmed."
   "I had no choice."
   "Precisely. You were protecting your own precious hide from an
unarmed friend as you put it. I, on the other hand, am trying to
protect millions of people."
   Mike smiled, "Let me get this straight. You pull out a laser
with every intention of carving holes in me, and two cents later
you're calling my morality into question?"
   "You got it. Oh, and by the way, I didn't have the heart to
tell you this before, but you'll probably figure it out sooner or
later. Your friend was working for the Imps, true enough, but he
didn't know it until it was too late. He thought he was working
for the DSS, for John Clay to be more precise. He didn't really
know what he'd gotten himself into until Sule came prancing
along."
   Mike stared back incredulously, the smile wiped from his face
as thoroughly as if he'd been hit by a ton of bricks. Johanes
simply nodded and continued.
   "ISIS found out about Erestyl being on Tizar when Clay, one of
our boys, decided he was getting a lousy deal from the agency. He
cleverly diverted our internal investigations after the raid on
the med-center by shifting the blame for Erestyl's capture to
you. Then he disappeared, and that disk you stole from the
Solomon mansion... that disk you left in Walker's hands... it
became extremely valuable to ISIS. I don't know whether Clay told
your friend what to expect from Robin upon reaching Calanna or
whether he just figured it out by himself, but either way, Walker
saved your life, and you repaid him by blowing a hole through his
chest. Why, if it wasn't for your juvenile curiosity combined
with those amazing trigger-happy reflexes, your friend would
still be alive."
   Mike held his breath for a moment to keep from bolting to his
feet. Getting into a fight with Johanes was not something he
would let himself be talked into.
   "You're twisting it, Jo. He was with Sule. He was trying to
get me captured by ISIS."
   "For questioning. My guess is that he figured that you knew
just about nothing regarding Erestyl. Sule probably promised him
that you'd be set free, and who knows, you might very well have
been at that point. You were still blissfully ignorant, and you'd
already done them a great service. You played right into their
trap, after all."
   "You don't honestly believe that."
   "What you or I believe isn't particularly important. It's what
Bill believed that is interesting. You wrote him off as a traitor
without even bothering to attend the funeral. When the locals got
around to doing an autopsy on the body, they found the primary
arteries in his neck already shattered. The culprit was a tiny
capsule with its own radio receiver, timing mechanism, and
explosive charge courtesy of ISIS. Their leverage over him,
Michael. Your friend knew that he'd made a huge mistake. He knew
that you were in the process of making another similar mistake,
and he wanted to get you out of the picture as quickly and as
painlessly as possible, even if it meant handing you over to the
Imps. As far as he was concerned, they'd catch you sooner or
later."
   "The psyche bloodhound?"
   Johanes nodded, "A gift from Alister. Before the Imps admitted
to having Ambassador Kato, they had Clay pay Alister a social
call. Clay, I am told, was very convincing in blaming Kato's
capture on rogue elements in the DSS. He requested psychic
assistance in tracking her down."
   "Arien couldn't see through it?"
   "Clay has a psionic shield implant."
   "You're reaching, Jo."
   "If you don't believe me, the why don't you look at his file.
I'm sure Cecil could supply it now that he's virtually jumped
Robin's bones."
   "She doesn't have any bones, and I'm not buying any of this."
   "Her circuits then, and yes you are. Because it's true, and
you know it."
   Mike took a deep breath. "Why are you telling me this?"
   Johanes shrugged, "Because, it's as close to throttling you as
I'm likely to get... at least in this lifetime. You may not
realize it yet, Michael, but you're not long for this world."
   "Sule doesn't even know I'm here."
   "If Vlep lives, she knows."
   "Vlep?"
   "The psyche bloodhound."
   Mike winced, "He lives."
   Johanes cocked his head sideways, "What makes you so certain?"
   "I hand-cuffed him to a steering wheel this morning."
   Johanes coughed, "You what?"
   "It's a bit of a story."
   "We seem to have a bit of spare time."


                          *     *     *


Despair curled about the corridor like knotted strands of raw
meat, a nourishing meal, though people rarely gobbled it with
enthusiasm. Pausing, she carefully rested her hand upon the stone
tile. Johanes and several of the guards had passed recently.
Remnants of their emotions lay scattered carelessly, and yet
there was more, the gatherer she had yet to meet. He was neither
angry nor dutiful. Instead, he seemed relieved, as though being
jailed in the mansion's dungeon had been more reprieve than
punishment. Why Sule had requested him, she could scarcely
imagine. The bio-synthe was difficult to read. So many of them
turned out deranged, trying to establish a telepathic rapport was
rarely worth the effort.
   Mixtures of fear and respect pressed quickly away as the
guards stepped aside to let her pass, and with a slight motion of
her thumb, the one at the end opened the tall, brown door. Its
metal plating was rusty with age, and its grey, galvorn lock
jutted out conspicuously like some misbehaved organ. Inside,
Johanes leaned against a wall as the gatherer sat on the bench,
looking up cautiously, his eyes keen and brown, a web of fear
swept over whatever curiosity still lingered.
   "Korina?" Johanes pressed against the bars. "Kori... tell me
you've come to let me out of here."
   "In your dreams, Draconian. Father sent me for the gatherer."
   She watched the figure on the bench. He stood slowly, naked
save for a pair of mud-caked britches. Turning, Johanes slumped
his shoulders.
   "Sule wants him, eh? We'd already assumed as much."
   "Get out of the way."
   Johanes complied, escalating Mike forward with a swift boot to
the back.
   "Go ahead, Michael. And good fortune. You'll need it."
   Mike let himself be escorted down the corridor. Two guards
stayed behind them, their rifles ready for a moment's
distraction. The young woman at his side seemed to ignore them,
her green eyes lost in a dreamy haze. As they passed a row of
windows, he considered making a break for it. To die with bullets
in his back or bullets in his front, it made little difference.
Even the gullet of the strange moat creature seemed preferable to
a meeting with Sule. Green eyes watched him from the corners of
their vision.
   "Don't be afraid. As long as you are here, my father will see
to your safety."
   Mike nodded doubtfully, the poke of a muzzle nudging his
spine.
   "And what about Erestyl?"
   "He is Imperial property."
   "Oh," Mike gulped, "so that's how it works."
   She stopped in the antechamber before the sanctuary. Mike
remembered the mauve carpet and indigo tapestries all too well.
Tara had been ignoring him the night of their visit, so he'd
wandered around until he was sure he was lost, eventually winding
up in the meditation chamber with his head poked out a window,
sky-diving snot wads and half-nibbled hors d'oeuvres on the
patrolling worgs. She found him after a few direct hits,
apparently aware of some bizarre sense of satisfaction he was
feeling and curious as to its source. They ended up spending half
the night there before the servants finally kicked them out.
Green eyes stared through him, her expression lingering in the
grey stretch between curiosity and bewilderment. Mike looked back
at the floor and consciously cleared his mind.
   "My thoughts are my property."
   She opened her mouth as if to respond and then shut it again.
Mike regarded her indecision with contempt.
   "If you have something to say, say it."
   "I was curious as to why she wants you."
   "Sule? Why don't you read her like you did me?"
   "She..." green eyes narrowed, "it is difficult."
   "Must really stink to have a puzzle, eh?"
   "I'll survive."
   Mike let his annoyance fade into a mediocre smirk. "Are we
going in or not?"
   She thumped the base of her palm against the door, the
resulting sound dull but determined, and as though by its own
volition, the wooden barrier slid quietly into the wall. Sule
stood at arm's reach, her silver-hued eyes glinting with the
barest trace of anger.
   Mike gulped down, "You called?"


           _   /|
           \`o_O'          Jim Vassilakos
             ( )     <---  [e-mail]
              U            ucsd!ucrmath!jimv (uucp)
           Aachk!

------------------------------------------------------------------
 Back chapters available via anonymous ftp on potemkin.cs.pdx.edu
 (131.252.20.145) in the pub/frp/stories/harrison directory.
------------------------------------------------------------------