ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/harrison/har27

Text File | 1993-01-05 | 40KB | 858 lines

               Copyright 1993 by Jim Vassilakos
                      All Rights Reserved

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



                          Twenty-Seven



The sky was murky, the crimson red sunset almost totally eclipsed
by long, grim sheets of billowing, charcoal-colored vapor. Mike
exited the starport, a tan conveyor belt carrying him beyond the
perimeter gates until he was protected from the pouring rain only
by a thin row of blue and white striped banisters. Linden was
there, ducking his head as the rumbling of thunder rose over the
incessant buzz of air-traffic. He wore his welcome-face, a big
smile painted bright and rosy. It slowly bled away into the tide
of droplets.
   "Mike... where's Bill and Niki?"
   Mike didn't need to say anything. It was understood.
   They drove around for awhile, coasting along the outskirts of
the starport district, over the parked taxi-cabs and the hordes
of pedestrians rushing to and from the subway. Linden finally
turned south, toward the beach.
   "Your place is getting checked for bugs, like you requested.
They should be done in a couple cents."
   Mike nodded. Chuck usually liked to do most of the talking,
but as the sun slowly sank beyond the horizon and the cloak of
evening descended along the coast, he seemed to have less and
less to talk about.
   "You don't have to worry about the security people. We just
finished their review. Got rid of quite a few of the less then
sparkling employees. I think the rest are pretty shook up.
They're gonna be on their toes for quite a while."
   "No doubt."
   "Well, why take chances, y'know? And... uh... with the strike
threats pretty much scuttled, things are starting to get back to
normal. Not that I was ever worried, of course."
   "Of course."
   "They just like to make waves. That's all. Mike... umm... I'm
sorry about..."
   "I know."
   "What happened?"
   Linden stopped the car, letting it hover over the shoreline as
a torrent of raindrops smacked into the front window. Mike didn't
know how to respond. He didn't even know where to begin.
   "It's a long story, Chuck."
   "But it is a story."
   "I don't know."
   "What do you mean you don't know?"
   Mike shrugged, more exacerbated than weary. Linden didn't seem
to take it as an adequate response.
   "C'mon Mike, don't give me this."
   "It's a big story, Chuck. It's the biggest thing I've ever
latched onto."
   "Great."
   "No... it's not great."
   Chuck blinked, then slowly nodded, "It's not great. Okay...
fine... I can accept that. Not. Look kid, you've got too much
sand in your head. A big story is what we want. Bigger the
better. That's a rule."
   "So I've heard."
   "Mike... I know you're upset about Bill and Niki, but they
went along because they wanted to. You didn't twist anybody's
arm."
   "It's not that..."
   "You know better than most people in this business... things
happen. That's part of the job. They knew it also. It goes with
the territory. Okay? Whatever happened out there..."
   "I know."
   "I know you know. What, you've heard this speech three times
now?"
   Mike nodded, "It's a good speech, Chuck."
   "It's the truth."
   "Yeah... well, whatever. That's not the problem."
   "Then what is?"
   Mike took a deep breath, "I assume you've been following the
story on Ambassador Kato's kidnapping."
   "Yeah. They say it was an inside job."
   "Strikes you a little strange, doesn't it? Draconians
kidnapping their own Ambassador."
   "What's your point?"
   "Clay was working for ISIS. He did an about-face on the DSS."
   "What about Robin?"
   "She was programmed to kill me the moment we touched terra-
firma."
   Mike could see the editor's adam's apple go up and down. It
meant he'd digested the tid-bit and was ready for more. Mike kept
talking, words spilling out of his mouth without any more
hesitance. He told Chuck about Ambrose, about Cole, about the axe
and the flight to Xin and how he'd followed Bill. He wasn't sure
how much of the tale the editor was catching. He didn't really
care. All that was important was that he understand one thing.
   "Prometheus device?"
   "Yeah. It... it destroys worlds. Pretty simple concept once
you get past all the scientific stuff. Fork... Erestyl was the
key. He'd destroyed the prototype. Erased the records, the logs,
everything. Tight beamed them into space, actually. Guess he
figured he could pick them up later."
   "He wasn't interrogated?"
   "Of course he was, but somehow the DSS got ahold of him. The
agent who was organizing Erestyl's transport got himself
captured. Like I said, it's a long story."
   "So where is this Erestyl now?"
   "He's dead. He left his final memoirs on this." Mike pulled
out the holocrystal. "It's the key, Chuck. If ISIS finds out we
have it... no more Galactican, probably no more Tizar."
   Linden's mouth dropped open. Mike figured he was starting to
get the picture.
   "By the way, Chuck. You had this grav-car checked for bugs,
right?"
   "You're getting paranoid, you know that?"
   "Yeah, well... just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they
aren't really out to get you."
   When they arrived at his house, Mike had the security people
check the car. It was clean, both the house and the car, or so
they said. Linden stuck around, assigning a guard to the front
door as he fetched himself a beer. The precaution was unorthodox,
but none of them questioned it.
   "So ISIS doesn't even know you're back."
   Mike shook his head, pouring himself a glass of milk. "Nobody
does. Not yet, anyway."
   "We can post guards on you."
   "No."
   "So what would you suggest?"
   Mike shrugged, "I dunno."
   "You know, ISIS might not suspect a thing. Considering how
much of their operation got taken out, they may not even know you
were involved."
   "That's a nice thought, Chuck, but you know I can't take that
chance."
   "So write the story. Tell all. Retire. We'll change your
identity and send you the proceeds in company stock."
   "You think I give a damn about the money?"
   "What do you give a damn about?"
   Mike sipped down half the glass, hoping the guard was out of
earshot.
   "This whole thing... it's not over."
   "Mike, you've done enough."
   "Somebody has to stop that laser-comm transmission. We could
sandcaster it or something. Disperse the pattern. Make it
unreadable."
   "Mike, nobody's going to find it. You don't stumble across
stuff like that. Not in space."
   Mike smiled for the first time in what felt like a couple
years.
   "Space is big. Space is dark. You'll always find a place to
park."
   "What's that from?"
   "Navy chant," Mike put his glass on the counter. "My dad
taught it to me... a long time ago."
   "That's nice, Mike. Look... this isn't your problem anymore.
Let the company handle it from here."
   "Is that an order?"
   Chuck put down his beer, shaking his head slowly as the rain
continued to pound against the roof.
   "What would be the point? You wouldn't obey it unless you
wanted to. Unless you needed to just let this go, and I think you
do. Otherwise you wouldn't be here talking to me. You'd be out
there, getting more involved than a gatherer probably should."
   "I'm already involved."
   "But you don't have to stay that way. It's okay to back out...
let somebody else handle it. What makes you think it all has to
be on your shoulders?"
   Mike thought about that as the rain continued to dance off the
rooftop and make millions of little ripples in the sea. From the
window, he could see a lump of dirt on the beach surrounded by a
small furrow. He imagined that it used to be a sand castle. Some
tourist hadn't read the weather forecast, or perhaps they just
didn't care. It reminded him of that house for the small, white
kitten crabs.
   "You're saying I should just run out on this? The moment I
figure out what's going on, I should just bail?" Mike shook his
head, "I bailed on somebody a long time ago. I was scared. I
didn't know what to do. But I'm not making the same mistake all
over again."
   Chuck nodded slowly, and Mike wondered if he understood. Even
though they were both good friends, there were still things
unspoken, things Mike had never explained but only hinted at
tangentially, like some puzzle-master, waiting for someone to
come along, fit the pieces together, and make sense of it all.
Maybe Chuck was that someone.
   "Just tell me what you need, Mike."


                          *     *     *


"Meow."
   Hunter knelt down, letting the feral beast twist another piece
of cheese-sausage from her grasp. She never caught the creature's
name and was absently wondering what to call him.
   "How does Felix sound?"
   "Meow?" it grappled for another, racing to the corner of the
room to enjoy its spoils.
   "No? Okay, how 'bout... Freeloader?"
   It continued chewing, stopping to look only as the door slid
open. Hunter turned around, dropping the rest of the sausage to
the floor when she noticed a pair of automatic pistols trained on
her.
   "What do you want?"
   "Military Police. Against the wall."
   She let herself be frisked and cuffed, the metal biting
painfully into her wrists.
   "Excuse me, but what am I being arrested for?"
   They never did answer. They didn't even read her any rights,
and as she was being dragged down the hall, getting strange looks
from everyone in sight, she felt her innards turn to jelly.
   "Wait, stop... help!"
   Nobody did, of course. This was Tyber. They passed through an
airlock to one of the Imperial ships. A dozen or so MP's stood
around the entrance. They finally entered a lift which took them
down to a brightly lit room. Her nurse was there, hair shaven and
a faint smile on his lips.
   "Feso... what's going on?"
   He didn't even seem to notice. He just kept staring out at
nothing, his smile growing increasingly serene.
   "Secure her. Then take this one to Disposal."
   The voice came from somebody in a lab coat, sparse, jet black
hair slicked to his skull. Running a shaver over her scalp, he
didn't seem to regard her as anything so sentient as an animal
fit to be slaughtered. It was that nonchalant attitude that
freaked her more than anything else.
   "What's going on?! Who are you?!!"
   He smeared her bald head with anti-static jelly, finally
taping a row of scanning nodes clear from her temples to her ear
lobes. She blinked, the moment crystallizing in painful clarity
as he toyed with the dials.
   "Wait! I'll tell you anything! Please..."
   "I know you will, Doctor. Now just relax. This won't hurt a
bit."


                          *     *     *


"Ow!"
   "What? That didn't hurt, did it?"
   Johanes frowned and shook his head, "Uh... no."
   "Why'd you yell, then?"
   "It looked like it was going to."
   "Oh," Baxter laughed, "Don't scare me like that, okay? For a
minute there I thought I was doing something wrong. I mean...
it's been awhile since I've... you know..."
   Johanes turned his head around so he wouldn't have to see the
blood. "Does he always inspire this much confidence?"
   Baxter just kept working, until the bullet clinked against the
magnetic needle.
   "Contact. Okay, don't move a notch. This is the tricky part."
   He tugged it out slowly, ripping though the flesh that had
already healed. He had to use a clamp just to keep the blood from
pouring out.
   "There it is. Want to keep it as a souvenir?"
   "No thanks."
   Baxter shrugged, pumping in a couple more cubic centimeters
before he sealed the wound with a regen patch and cleaned off his
patient's shoulder.
   "Okay, I'm gonna immobilize it in some castfoam. You should be
getting some feeling back in a few hours. I'll warn you know,
it'll probably itch. No matter how bad it is, don't wash off the
foam for at least another three days. We have to keep this
critter all by its lonesome."
   "Fine, I'll be able to use it in three days?"
   "It'll probably be sore for awhile, but yeah, it'll be
perfectly usable. Just don't strain it too much, and if you have
any problems, go to a real hospital. Okay?"
   Johanes nodded, getting up to leave. No matter how quick and
painless the impromptu operation, he was glad it was over and
wanted nothing more than to leave the area as expeditiously as
possible. Cecil seemed to concur, however, Ami wasn't so quick to
ditch her friend.
   "Thanks Bax. I'm really sorry... I..."
   "Don't mention it. I mean, really, don't mention it. If this
gets out, you know... me without a license and all... we're
talking five to ten, easy."
   "Not a peep."
   He laughed, "I know that's nothing compared to..." his voice
trailed off as he glanced over toward Johanes and Cecil. Ami just
kept shaking her head.
   "I know. Can I help you clean up?"
   "No... I've got it. Um... Ami, we're gonna have another batch
cooking up next week. You gonna be at the harvest-fest?"
   "My schedule's really strange right now."
   "Guests, eh?"
   "Yeah."
   "Okay, just let me know."
   "Will do."
   Cecil was mildly intrigued as they headed out the door.
   "Harvest-fest?"
   "You know."
   She went for groceries as Cecil headed back to the flat with
Johanes. The Draconian didn't seem the least bit interested in
their exchange. It was as though he had other more important
things on his mind.
   "What is it, Jo?"
   "We've got to find Michael."
   "He'll be back in due time."
   But Johanes didn't seem terribly convinced. Cecil wasn't sure
either. He didn't care. Mike had gone of his own free will. He
wasn't chased out or even gently nudged into a corner. He left
because he chose to, and if it was what he wanted, then it was
probably for the best.
   Cecil found Ami's deck on the tower's top-most floor, pretzel
crumbs dusting its surface. He plugged himself in, tumbling into
the net as just another anonymous floater. There were always
thousands of them, scuttling about, most searching for new ways
to destroy their already limited supply of brain cells. He loaned
himself some CPU credit from the Senex and began fine-tuning her
configuration.
   "Can you search for him?"
   The voice was Jo's, almost lost somewhere in the hazy,
background of his senses.
   "It would not be a good idea."
   "Why not?"
   "Taboo topic."
   "Taboo?"
   "Global searches are easily spotted, and unpleasant people may
be watching."
   "I thought you were good."
   "Absolute skill is nothing. Relative is everything. And this
is Tyber. There are wizards out there."
   "How about something relatively innocuous?"
   "Name your poison."
   Johanes cocked his head sideways, "Try the Crimson Queen."
   "There are reams."
   "Anything directly linked to the Empire?"
   Cecil wasn't sure what he meant, but it sounded like it might
be worth a try. There were numerous data logs on the actual event
as well as statements issued by the Imperial embassy. Then
something awful crossed his awareness.
   "Uh-oh."
   "What's uh-oh mean?"
   "Somebody in the Decryption Society must have captured and
posted the damn thing."
   "What?"
   "The transmission."
   "What transmission?"
   "Ours. Between our shuttle and the Crimson, just before you-
know-what happened. When the Imps see this, they're going know
the Doctor was lying."
   "Can you send her a warning?"
   "Uh... personnel files say she's been relocated."
   "Where?"
   "Classified. It's all classified. One can try breaking in,
however."
   Johanes shook his head, "No. It's too late."
   The data flow came to a sudden halt as reality suddenly
careened in from all sides. Cecil just about ducked from the
shock. When he finally got his bearings, he saw Johanes sitting
with Ami's deck in hand, the thin strand of optifiber unplugged
and dangling to the tile floor.
   "Now do you understand? We've got to find him before they find
him."
   "Mike isn't a total fool. Wherever he went, he's taking
precautions. You can be sure of it."
   "Cecil... we're talking about ISIS here. They're going to find
him eventually. And they'll find us too, if we stay around here
for very long."
   Cecil opened his mouth to respond, closing it when he saw Ami
floating over the null pit.
   "Finished shopping already?"
   "I never went," she had an angry smirk on her face, partially
hidden by concern over what she had overheard. "Look, I want you
guys out."
   "Ami..."
   "Cecil, I have enough problems already. I don't need to add
large interstellar organizations to my list of enemies."
   "What about Tyber, Inc?"
   "Look, I choose my own risks. Not you. Not Mike. Now please,
just leave."
   "If Mike comes back..."
   "If Mike comes back, I'll tell him you went to Tizar. That's
where you're going, right?"


                          *     *     *


"Right... we're working on it, Marcie.... No.... Well, how am I
supposed to know? ...Of course, I'm on top of it, but you never
know how these things are gonna work out.... Okay, well, I'll get
back to you as soon as I have a solid estimate. Alright? Okay.
Bye."
   Linden closed the line with a gentle nudge to the receiver
rest. It was old, like the phone itself and most every other
piece of equipment in his office.
   "What's next Jo?"
   "Got a call on two. A Mr. Zared. He won't say what it's
about."
   "Put him through."
   Linden sighed, looking out his office window. It looked like
the storm was clearing as he could actually see the ground again.
   "Hello?"
   "Hello, ah... Mister Linden?"
   "That's right."
   "I am calling with regards to Mr. Harrison. I am a personal
friend of his."
   "Mike Harrison?"
   "That is correct. I was hoping if you could tell me how I
could get into contact with him."
   "I haven't seen Mike in a good while. He's working off-planet.
You can leave him voice-mail, but he won't receive it until he
gets back in-system."
   "That, unfortunately, will not do. I myself am on-planet for
only a short time, and is it very urgent that I see him as soon
as possible."
   "Well, I'm sorry I can't help you, Mr. Zared."
   "Perhaps you can tell me when he might be back."
   "I have no idea. There's no set schedule."
   "Has he sent you mail?"
   "I can't discuss any particulars over an unsecured line. If
you give me your number, I'll call you back."
   "Ah... I think it is okay, you can just tell me."
   "Mr. Zared, all I can tell you over this line is that he's not
in-system. If you'd like me to call you back on a secured
channel..."
   It went dead.
   "Joseph, did we get that traced?"
   "Just barely."
   "Where is he?"
   "Oops. It looks like he wrapped the call through a dialing
service. Sorry Mr. Linden."


                          *     *     *


"Let me get this straight. He wants me to apologize?"
   Clarence smiled, hoping he looked appropriately servile as Ms.
Tyber eyed him menacingly. He didn't relish telling her the news,
but then nobody else had the guts.
   "Roxy, it's not the end of the world."
   "That over-stuffed bureaucrat wants... me... to grovel??"
   "Grovel? Did I say grovel?" He tried to laugh but coughed
instead, velvety blue eyes jostling in their sockets. "He wants
an apology. Whole universe of difference. We did blow up their
missile, after all."
   "To hell with their missile. Don't you take his side. Where is
he, by the way?"
   "Outside."
   "Right outside?"
   Clarence nodded, holding his breath as though anticipating an
explosion. Roxanne didn't seem to notice, but just stood there,
letting him turn purple.
   "Okay. Send him in."
   She didn't like the ambassador. It wasn't that he was a bad
person. On the contrary, she found him to be one of the more
congenial people in Imperial government. The problem, she
occasionally told herself, had more with her than with him. It
was that she simply didn't like fat people. That was to say, she
didn't like obese, bloated, greasy fat people.
   Ambassador Lambe fit nicely into that category. In fact, it
was one of the few things that he fit into nicely. To say that he
was fat was like saying that Tyber's atmosphere was unhealthful.
He was plump to the point of not being able to squeeze through
small doors. He couldn't walk, instead traversing from one point
to another via a floating grav-chair. There were even rumors that
without a personal gravity reducing device, his bones would snap
and lungs collapse under the strain of his own weight. Roxanne
wasn't sure she whether or not she believed the hearsay, but it
was the sort of crazy story that wouldn't surprise her too much
if it actually turned out to be true.
   Of course, it wasn't that he was a glutton. Fat folks rarely
were. In fact, she'd hardly ever seen him eat a bite at formal
gatherings, perhaps, she mused, because his tongue was too
swollen to allow its use in an ingestive capacity. It was a mean
thought, she conceded. His only affliction, if one could call it
that, was that he was a wealthy Coronian. His people considered
corpulence to be a sign of prestige, many of them resorting to
lipo-infusion just to put on the kilograms. Roxanne had always
counted herself as open-minded, but there were still certain
things she detested, and surgically induced grotesquery was one
of them.
   "Ah... Ms. Tyber, so pleasing to see you again."
   "Please have a seat, Ambassador. Oh, sorry. You already have
one."
   He smiled, several chins jiggling as he spoke in a deep,
throaty voice, "Your incredible sense of courtesy overwhelms even
your remarkable powers of perception. I am most humbled."
   "Good comeback. Can I offer you something to drink? A diet
shake perhaps?"
   "Such enviable wit... I would laugh, but as you know, my heart
is weak." He paused for only a moment, running fleshy fingers
though his gray hair, curled and braided with iridium. "Now that
our traditional verbal parley is concluded, I assume you
understand the reason for my visit."
   "The Emperor seeks subservience from his subjects?"
   "Not precisely."
   "Well, then enlighten me."
   He raised a thick eyebrow, circling her slowly in a counter-
clockwise fashion, toward the billowing orange haze which pressed
against the observation window.
   "My superiors are not so much concerned about the missile as
they are about Tyberian intervention into non-Tyberian affairs."
   "Ambassador, the people in OTC are trained to preserve life. I
am not going to apologize for their actions no matter whose
feathers were ruffled, and that's the end of it."
   He nodded, almost approvingly.
   "Since you are so adamant in your loyalty, perhaps you will
allow the Emperor one act of fealty."
   "Such as?"
   "We require access to certain local records."
   "What records?"
   "University of Tyber, student and housing files. It is a small
request, no?"
   Roxanne smiled, wondering if his brain was bloating.
   "What's this all about?"
   "We are conducting an investigation."
   "What sort of investigation?"
   "To be perfectly honest, I have no idea." He tacked on a
slight chuckle, as though it would increase his trustworthiness.
   "Request denied."
   "Ms. Tyber... think first. My superiors will be very angry,
otherwise.
   "That's your problem. I will admit one thing, Ambassador.
You've piqued my curiosity."
   He made a face, as though that was not his intention, but
swiftly recovered, making his fleshy cheeks performs as wide a
smile as humanly possible.
   "I am pleased that my visit has had some positive effect.
Goodbye, Ms. Tyber, and have a nice day."
   "Yeah, same to you."


                          *     *     *


"No, Mike's not even in-system. He's working on an assignment...
no, I don't have any idea when he'll be back. You might try
leaving him mail."
   The voice on the other end didn't sound too thrilled with his
response. Linden didn't care. He had better things to do that act
as Mike's call-screening service.
   "All I can tell you is that he's on an assignment."
   "You mean his little escapade on Calanna?"
   "I can't discuss rumors, Mr. Adyms."
   "It's not a rumor."
   "I can't discuss this over an unsecured line. If you give me
your number, I'll call you back."
   Johanes looked over his shoulder. Giving somebody your number
was the first no-no they'd taught him in basic training. You give
somebody your number, and the weirdos with the big guns zoom in
like wildfire. But there were literally hundreds of call-booths,
enough so that spotting one only by its number would be
improbable at best. He relinquished the information and hung-up,
the pain in his shoulder sparking with the sudden decision. A
moment later, the call box was beeping.
   "Hello?"
   "Now, before I can go any further, I'm going to need your
name."
   "I've already told you, it's Adyms."
   "Your first name. Be honest."
   Johanes bit his lip in frustration. Giving somebody your name
was the second no-no.
   "It's Johanes."
   "Is anyone with you?"
   "Cecil Dulin. Would you like me to spell that?"
   "No, but I do need the name of Cecil's cat."
   Johanes moaned. This was getting ridiculous.
   "It's Pooper-Dumper. Don't ask why."
   "Good. Now all I can tell you is that Mike mailed me. He said
he was going to visit somebody named Little Nicholas to take a
test. Do you know who that is?"
   "To take a test. That's cute. He's a kid who got killed on
Calanna. What are we playing here? Twenty questions?"
   "Who killed him?"
   Johanes made a face as if to squirm out of the question, "I
did, indirectly."
   "Okay Johanes. If you want to find Mike, you'll have to go to
the breakfast hang-out that he and Cecil used to frequent. Be
there at the standard time."
   "Hold on. Cecil, a breakfast hang-out?"
   "Seafood or zardocha?"
   "Mr. Linden, fish or zardocha?"
   Chuck shrugged, "Your guess is probably better than mine. I'm
closing this line now. Watch your tail."
   Johanes listened to the line click and fuzz-out. On a certain
level, he found the cloak and dagger stuff somewhat amusing.
Amateurs always outdid themselves. Not that he minded. It was
generally better to take too many precautions than not enough, so
long as the basic information got from Point A to Point B. But in
this case it hadn't. Cecil tilted his head sideways.
   "Well, what'd he say? Fishies or caffeine?"
   "You tell me."
   Cecil frowned, "Any hints?"
   "He said to be there at the standard time, whatever that
means."
   Johanes watched as the frown fluctuated briefly into a smile.
Cecil knew.
   "Let's blow this sluice-stand."
   They split-up and left the starport aboard conveyor belts,
moving along with just about every other in-bounder on the
continent. Going separately was just another precautionary
measure, or so Johanes hoped. He wore a loose-fitting poncho to
conceal his foam-cast, never before realizing how difficult it
was, trying to act inconspicuous with an obvious bulge around
one's shoulder.
   Being on Tizar would make things easier, however. More so than
any world in the region, it was held to be the undisputed home of
interstellar tourism, at least for those who could afford it.
Thus, not surprisingly, the society accommodated almost every
type of dress-code imaginable and usually without a second
glance. On Tizar, the unusual was blase, a hard place for a
gatherer to get recognized, but the perfect place for a spy.
   Amidst the cheerful throng, Cecil's camera fit right in, the
jacks on his head hidden beneath a wide, colorful beach-hat. Of
course, the customs people wouldn't be fooled. There were laws
against that sort of thing on Tizar, and their metal detectors
would pick him up with ease. Apparently Linden had called ahead
and pulled some strings, as Cecil was ushered straight through
without significant incident.
   The Tizarian night was windy, cold and beautiful, the bright
walkway lamps doing nothing to shatter the brilliance of the
black, star-studded sky. They re-grouped aboard the subway, Cecil
looking a little sheepish though a tad warmer.
   "That was too easy."
   "They just don't want us getting spotted." Johanes looked
around, organizing a mental inventory of the faces. "And since
they're being so careful, perhaps we should reciprocate the
favor. Ever play ditch the nothing?"
   "Only in cyberspace."
   "Then you've got the rudiments down. Follow me."
   They proceeded to hop from one subway train to another,
getting so confused after awhile that neither was sure where they
were headed. It was all an elaborate precaution, Johanes assured
himself, accomplishing absolutely nothing other than giving them
something to do.
   When they finally re-surfaced near the beach, a purple glimmer
had already emerged over the eastern horizon, thin strands of
violet painting shadows along the choppy waves. They found the
long, stone jetty cutting into the shallows and walked together
along its paved surface. It terminated in a series of barbecue
grills, but a row of floating planks led about a hundred meters
further. They swayed with the waves like a drunken snake while a
flock of gulls settled along the narrow boards. Aside from the
birds and the long imaginary snake, they remained alone, the cold
wind almost numbing in its intensity. Johanes wrapped his one
good arm over his chest, trying to conserve what little warmth
his body still generated.
   "You sure we're in the right place?"
   "Don't worry. This place will fill up by daybreak."
   And it did, more or less, scores of fisher-folk with their
techno-gadgety competing beneath a brilliant, scarlet sunrise.
They used little sonar monitors to track their targets moving
beneath the planks. Then, with miraculous efficiency, they'd
point their rods and press their buttons, several dozen sea-
critters snared in simultaneous union and not so much as a single
torn fin in the entire lot. Johanes was genuinely intrigued.
   "Sort of takes the sport out, doesn't it?"
   "That's what Mike always said. He liked it more for the
scenery than the food."
   "I can see why. Do they stock these waters?"
   Cecil nodded, "Obviously."
   They continued to watch as the gulls started having a field
day, swooping down to shanghai seafood right from the grills. A
few people raised their fists and shouted at the birds, but most
of them accepted it as part of the process, laughing about "the
fish that got away" and occasionally feeding the birds fish-
heads, nutri-chips, and even one antacid pill.
   "Now that's illegal."
   Johanes turned, "What?"
   "Look."
   One gull flew up, thrashing its wings violently, until a
streak of red coated its breast and it fell back into the waves.
   "What happened?"
   "That guy snuck a tum-tum inside a piece of bread and fed it
to the bird. You can figure out the rest."
   "Huh??"
   "Birds can't expel gas as easily as a people. Their stomachs
explode if they get too much at once."
   Johanes felt mildly nauseous. He'd killed more than his fair
share of innocents, but it never got his rocks off. The guy
responsible for this little stunt was in a different category all
together. He just stood there laughing, as though the spectacle
had already made his whole day.
   "This is a sick planet."
   "Aren't they all?"
   Only those with people, Johanes thought. They didn't have much
longer to wait. A young red-haired woman in a white sweater
showed up, walking directly toward the two as though she had a
purpose in mind.
   "Cecil and Johan?"
   "Johanes."
   "Close enough. Come with me."
   She led them back to the shoreline and along its edge about
fifty meters until they came upon a small motorboat resting just
beyond the lapping waters. It wasn't a motorboat in the
conventional sense, but more of a rowing gig with a small, motor-
driven propeller attached to the stern. She waded it out, holding
it steady as they plopped themselves carefully inside while she
gave them instructions on how not to capsize.
   "Just hold your oar out... no... flat against the water like
he's doing."
   Then she ambled inside, making not the least disturbance in
the vessel's balance. In a matter of minutes, she had them rowing
their hearts out, until they were driving right into the choppy
crests of the waves and the shoreline seemed like a distant
luxury.
   "Just say when you've had enough."
   "Enough."
   The motor gurgled to life a moment later, pushing them along
at a steady clip. Johanes pulled both oars inside as Cecil wiped
his camera lens with the sleeve of his shirt. Meanwhile, the
anonymous red-head was working the rudder.
   "Where are we going?"
   "You'll know when you get there."
   The place, as they were to later learn, was named Reefland,
and as if that weren't enough, there really were reefs there.
They laid interspersed between small cylindrical cottages, wide
terraces and sunroofs being all that showed above the surface
aside from a network of transparent access-tubes, some half-
submerged. The reefs were ever-present, however, so many and of
such a variety that even though their boat skimmed along close to
the water line and with a very shallow keel, Johanes was glad
they had someone capable doing the navigation. The woman seemed
to have no trouble at all, swishing between the jutting expanses
of rock and coral, as though the place was no more treacherous
than the typical playground. Cecil, meanwhile, thought he could
see the pillars of Aquapolis protruding just over the horizon.
   She switched off the motor, and they rowed into a small
marina. Various craft nestled there: kayaks, submersibles,
aquafoils. They climbed onto the deck, waiting for her to secure
the boat with a spongy cord. She then led them into one of the
submerged tunnels. The lighting was gloomy, and for several
minutes, they just walked, the narrow corridor jiggling back and
forth with the presence of the waves outside. She finally stopped
in front of a door, punching a combination into its access
computer. It opened, and Johanes could see Mike inside, dictating
to a microphone, his words being spelled in context and
punctuated where appropriate on the wall monitor. He paced back
and forth as he talked, moving from one corner of the chamber
slowly to the other. It was the story. He was actually writing
it.
   "Computer command pause."
   "Mike, what do you think you're doing?"
   "Hi Jo. Cecil. It's okay," he motioned for the woman to leave.
"So, umm... how's it going?"
   Cecil smiled, "You wouldn't believe what one goes through just
to say hi."
   "Yeah, I'm sorry about all the precautions. And about leaving
in such a rush. I just needed to get out. It didn't feel right."
   "You could have woke me up."
   Mike shrugged, "I know. Do you guys want something to drink?"
   "How about something to eat?" Johanes was surprised that the
question came from his mouth. Here he was, virtually at the end
of his most important mission ever, and he was thinking about
food.
   "Sure, there's some stuff in the cooler. I'm not real sure how
edible it is. I wasn't the person who stocked it, okay?"
   They proceeded to put together some breakfast, microwaving a
sack of frozen clams and a large, half-eaten flatbread pie. The
pie was coated with cheese and sausage, and Mike admitted to
being its instigator. Even so, Johanes and Cecil had no negative
comments, both considering how much better leftovers compared to
the starship food they'd recently been subjected to.
   "You guys must of been hungry."
   Johanes smiled, wiping his chin with a paper napkin,
"Espionage does that. Speaking of which, we did some snooping
back on Tyber. It seems as though our Doctor acquaintance is in
hot water."
   "I know."
   "You do?"
   "Chuck has a few, well-trusted people looking into it. They
keep sending me updates. I guess he wants an up-to-the-centim
story."
   "Do you?"
   Mike shrugged, "You think I shouldn't?"
   "Well, I have to admit, I'm a little surprised that you're
actually writing it. It'll spoil the mystery, after all, and what
fun is undercover work if there are no secrets?"
   "What's the fun or what's the point?"
   "Both."
   Mike smiled, a grim smile at best.
   "When I came back here, I wasn't sure what I was going to do.
I talked things over with Chuck. It helped."
   "And what did you decide, o' wise master?"
   "Jo, you don't have to be sarcastic."
   "You're toying with the fate of all known civilization, and
you're calling me sarcastic?"
   "Okay. Just hear me out. If you don't like what I have to say,
then we'll argue about it, but just listen for now, alright?"
   Johanes nodded, "Go ahead."
   Mike gulped down, trying to find a place to begin. He decided
to just get to the point. The details could wait.
   "I figured you'd be coming here, with or without Cecil, and I
knew this wouldn't be a social call. You'd want something. You'd
want this."
   Mike pulled the holocrystal out of a pocket, "Go ahead, it's
yours."
   Johanes accepted it, not sure what to say, so he didn't say
anything. Mike smiled. It was the response he expected.
   "Chuck has talked to the board of the company. They don't know
that the crystal is on-planet, but they do know it exists. We
have some experts working with us, and they figure that even
though the Empire lost the prototype and the mission records,
there's no way that this is going to set them back very far."
   "How do you figure?"
   "A scientific breakthrough has been accomplished. They know
that. Most likely, they'll be able to re-construct what happened
from some articles currently in publication. In turns out that
one of Erestyl's associates was rather prolific in terms of
theory, and she didn't mind sharing her ideas. Assuming that the
Empire pours some resources into creating another prototype, and
they will, then we've got maybe ten years at best before we all
have a very big problem."
   "The Empire will go power-mad," Johanes intoned.
   "Or there might even be a civil war. With such a weapon, the
Archduke could conceivably make a run for the throne. No matter
how it works out, there's gonna be new deal for every system that
doesn't get along with the powers that be. The deal will be
cooperate or die. They probably won't make an example out of
Tizar. We pay our dues, so we're a source of income, but there
are worlds out there that they will snuff without giving it a
second thought. New Eden was one of them. The only thing that'll
stop them is fear, and the only way they're going to be afraid is
if somebody else has the weapon."
   "Mutual assured destruction?"
   Mike nodded, "Something like that. The Draconian government is
the binding glue of the Outworld Coalition. And since we happen
to have contact with one of their representatives..."
   Johanes smiled, "That still doesn't explain why you're doing
this story."
   "ISIS has already caught up on the salient facts. We're hiding
next to nothing by not running the story. By doing it, we can
create some political will against the Empire, maybe enough to
solidify the coalition's resolve and create some sort of
political balance so that this weapon never gets used."
   "You believe that's possible?"
   Mike shrugged, "All I know is that we're far from the end of
this. Very far."


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

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 Back chapters available via anonymous ftp on ftp.cs.pdx.edu
 (131.252.20.145) in the pub/frp/stories/harrison directory.
 Better edited back chapters also available via Quanta Magazine.
 Write to [e-mail] for a free subscription.
 Check out The Guildsman issues #2 and #5 for an interview
 with Michael Harrison and a history of the story's setting.
 Guildsmans available on ftp.cs.pdx.edu in pub/frp/ucrgg.
 Comments welcome. Let me know how you liked/hated the story.
            Hasta la bye-bye, gentlebeings...  :-)
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