Copyright 1993 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. --------------------------------------------------------------- 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 ( ) <--- jimv@ucrmath.ucr.edu U jimv@silver.lcs.mit.edu Aachk! jimv@wizards.com ------------------------------------------------------------------ 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 quanta@andrew.cmu.edu 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... :-) ------------------------------------------------------------------