SUNSET OVER ARCHO CITY dazzled the eyes with brilliant fingers of red and pink and gold. Solomon studied the spectacular colors as he waited impatiently for his ground transportation to arrive. No pollution. No air traffic. Not a person in sight … I might be the last person in this whole world, he thought.
Faint in the distance, a truck rumbled somewhere behind him, breaking the spell. He sighed and glanced around impatiently. Where was his car? It should have been here by now.
I’m a grain buyer. Even in the midst of panic and chaos, they bend over backwards to serve me. He found a certain irony in the fact that he had pretty much destroyed the social fabric of their world. Not that it was particularly worth saving.
“Aren’t you afraid of the plague?” the elderly desk clerk had asked him that afternoon when he came down for an early supper. He saw not another soul in the lobby, nor were any patrons eating in the hotel restaurant. Rats leaving a sinking ship, he thought with an inward chuckle. Only with the planet quarantined, they have no place to go.
“The plague? Not really,” Solomon told him matter-of-factly. “I haven’t had a sick day in my life, and I’m not going to start now.”
“We have begun relocating most of our off-world guests to rural inns. We think they will be safer there, between the plague and the Purity League unrest. If you’d like, we can have your baggage packed while you’re out—”
“No, thank you. I prefer to stay here.”
“But the plague—”
“A minor inconvenience, that’s all.” He gave a dismissive gesture. “I’m sure either the Federation or your own excellent hospital system will soon have it sorted out. Besides, I thought only mixers were affected by it. I’m certainly not half Peladian!”
“Obviously, sir. So far, only those damn mixers have caught it, lucky for us humans.”
“Oh?” I know where your sympathies lie, poor old fool. Feigning interest, Solomon asked, “Have you heard anything else about the plague? Like who’s really responsible?”
“Not really … just a few rumors.” The clerk licked his lips and leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “They say the Federation is terrified that the disease is going to mutate and take us humans next. The Peladians made it, you know, in their secret laboratories.”
Solomon stared at him incredulously. “No!” It was all he could do to keep from bursting out laughing. The Peladians! Oh, it was too funny. The Purity League certainly moved swiftly to put its own spin on the plague virus. Everyone wants to take credit for it but me.
“Yes, sir. It’s true. That’s exactly what I heard.”
“Well, until I catch it myself, I’m not going to believe it. Now, can you check on my transport? It was supposed to be here by now.”
And you really don’t want to see me when I’m annoyed, he added mentally.
“At once, sir.” Turning, the clerk hurried to a comm terminal in the back office.
Solomon leaned on the counter, listening with half an ear as the clerk yelled at some poor dispatcher. He hadn’t realized how quickly a planet’s infrastructure could collapse. Less than 5 percent of the planet is susceptible to the virus, and everyone’s acting like it’s the end of the universe.
A moment later, the clerk returned. “All the drivers called in sick today,” he reported. “When I explained how important you were, Joshua Teague himself—Teague’s the owner—promised to send his son with a vehicle for you. Best they have, he said. His son, Berke, is a good boy. I’ve known him for years. He won’t let you down.”
“Thank you.”
“Best of all,” the clerk went on, “they’re only going to charge you the economy rental rates—to make up for your inconvenience, sir.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m on an expense account.” The General is paying for it, after all, Solomon thought. “I appreciate the trouble Mr. Teague is going to on my behalf. Please make sure he bills the full amount to my room here.”
“Of course, sir!” The clerk looked overjoyed. He’ll probably take half of it for his own services, Solomon thought with amusement. He had never been one to begrudge lowly employees their share of graft. After all, that’s what keeps the universe afloat.
“How long will it take?” he asked. “It’s getting dark, and I am in something of a hurry.”
“It will be here momentarily, sir. Would you care for a complimentary drink while you wait? If you like, I can have it brought out to the lobby for you—”
“No, thank you. I think I’ll wait outside.”
“If you must, sir.” The clerk didn’t seem to like that idea, but Solomon didn’t particularly care. After all, what could possibly happen?
He strolled through the deserted lobby and out to the deserted sidewalk and looked around the deserted square. None of the shops had opened today. But the black marble fountains burbled happily, and small grayish birds—real Earth pigeons, by their look—strutted happily this way and that. He watched, and studied the magnificent sunset as it colored the west with a brilliant palette.
At last a small luxury aircar settled to the ground in front of the hotel. It was a Praxx Cruiser, a couple of years old but once the very top of their line. Ten meters long and three meters high, its body had been elegantly sculpted along aerodynamic lines. Its shiny black paint job gleamed with fresh polish.
Not bad, Solomon decided, ambling over to inspect it. The last aircar they’d sent him had been a twenty-year-old Junco Jett. Certainly much better than I expected. If the Cruiser handled half as well as it looked, he would be one happy customer.
A bearded young man opened the side doors and climbed out. He did not look happy, though. He kept glancing around the square as though half expecting mobs of screaming Peladians to attack at any moment.
“You must be Buck Teague.” Solomon smiled cheerfully and offered his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
“It’s Berke, sir.” Berke shook hands, looking even unhappier. Probably terrified he’s going to catch something from me, Solomon thought with growing amusement. Everyone deals with a plague differently.
Berke turned and pointed into the driver’s compartment. “Autopilot, navigator console, manual controls, computer controls. Everything checked out this morning. Are you familiar with Praxx aircars?”
Berke nodded. “Just park it in the hotel lot when you’re done. We’ll have someone pick it up tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem, sir. Thank you for using Teague Luxury Aircars, the best on Archaria III. Enjoy your trip.” It sounded like a well-rehearsed script.
Solomon didn’t waste any time. He climbed in, took the controls manually, and lifted off. The engine purred. The computer came on-line automatically as soon as he cleared the hotel’s roof.
“Destination, sir?” it asked in its richly timbered Praxx voice.
Solomon released the controls. “Archo City Library, 5562 Vista Place.” He had stationed the first of his fifty atmospheric monitoring stations there, on the rooftop.
“Very good, sir.” The aircar banked to the left and began to accelerate. “We will arrive in approximately five minutes.”
Solomon leaned back in his soft padded chair, which began to vibrate faintly, massaging his muscles. Ah. Nothing like a Praxx vehicle, he thought.
“Watch for aircars following us. If anyone takes a parallel course, inform me immediately.”
“Of course, sir.”
Solomon turned his head to gaze out the window. Nobody had reason to suspect him of any unlawful activities, of course, but with so few aircars out and about tonight, he knew he might catch some unwanted attention.
To the far north, he spotted a couple of official-looking troop transports flying quickly toward the spaceport. People could be so foolish, he thought, shaking his head. In a real plague situation, the last place you’d find him would be in a crowded public place. And yet half the planet seemed to be at the Archo City spaceport, trying desperately to get passage off Archaria III.
That very morning, he had watched a live broadcast from the spaceport terminal—the vid showed scenes of utter chaos, with flight counters closed, screaming masses of humans and Peladians fighting for space in nonexistent lines, children shrieking, mothers crying, fathers and brothers and cousins all on the verge of murder. And all just to escape a plague which couldn’t possibly infect them.
Humans are crazy, he decided, and not for the first time in his life. The Peladians didn’t seem much better.
“Hundreds of mixers trying to flee the planet have been collapsing in the spaceport terminal,” the vid reporter said. “Peace officers cart them off to a makeshift hospital as fast as they fall. Too bad they can’t die at home.”
The makeshift hospital turned out to be a requisitioned circus tent erected on the landing pads between two parked starships. The vid showed a bright red-and-yellow striped tent as tall as the largest freighter, with dragon-shaped pennants fluttering from every peak and pinnacle. It looked ridiculous.
“That’s right, Bob. With so many full-blooded humans here, the peace officers have enough problems keeping order without having to bother with mixer trash—”
Solomon shook his head. Utter stupidity! He thought. They all, human and Peladians alike, needed to go home and wait it out. With all off-world traffic halted by the Federation, nobody would be leaving Archaria III anytime soon … not until the plague ran its course and burned itself out, or somebody found a cure, whichever came first.
He knew a cure wouldn’t be long in coming. The General had a whole timetable set up around the plague. If events unfolded according to schedule, the Federation would find a cure for the plague virus within three weeks of their arrival here … but only after 98 percent of the planet’s half-breed population were dead.
Solomon still had no idea why the General wanted to kill off so many innocent people. Not that it was his problem. But secretly, he half-wished the Federation would find the cure a little faster. He might be a member of the largest criminal organization in human space, but he didn’t consider himself a murderer. And that’s what this is, he thought. Cold, calculated murder.
He coughed a bit and fought a half-second of panic. But the General wouldn’t have infected him. He’s not done with me yet. Phase Two has just begun. He still needs my reports.
The aircar circled down toward the roof of a giant building complex: the Archo City Library. Its roof held parking spaces for hundreds of vehicles. Now, however, it lay completely deserted.
“This is your destination, sir,” the aircar told him. It began landing procedures, flashing bright yellow lights and sounding an insistent beep to alert anyone who might be directly underneath them. “Will you be staying here long, sir? If so, I can power down and recharge my energy cells.”
“No, not long.” He leaned to the side and studied the hundreds of empty parking spaces on the library’s roof. It must be closed for the emergency, he thought. It was probably just as well. He didn’t want anyone to see him checking his monitoring stations. Though that was hardly an illegal activity, he never liked explaining himself to strangers … or peace officers.
His aircar landed beside the lift.
“Thank you for using Teague Luxury Aircars, the best on the planet. Please enjoy your stay.”
“I’ll be back in just a second,” he said. “Keep the engines fully powered up.”
“Of course, sir.”
Solomon popped open the side door, hopped out, and hurried to the lift. It looked like a small square building with double doors. The doors didn’t open for him this time as he approached, not that it mattered—he had no intentions of going inside.
He went around to the back of the structure. A week ago he had installed an atmospheric monitoring station here. It was a small innocuous-looking silver box about the side of a small loaf of bread. Vents on all three exposed sides allowed air to pass through freely.
Pulling a small tricorder from his pocket, he snapped it into a data port on the front of the station. A red light turned green as the tricorder downloaded all the data.
Easy enough. Tucking the tricorder back into his pocket, he jogged back to the Praxx aircar. One down, forty-nine more to go, he thought. He would be lucky to finish by midnight.
He didn’t know what atmospheric conditions the General’s scientists needed to monitor, but then he didn’t need to. As long as they get their data and I get my pay, we’ll all be happy.
As he slid back into the pilot’s seat, the computer said, “Thank you for using Teague Luxury Aircars, the best on Archaria III!”
Solomon rolled his eyes. Forty-nine more monitoring stations … that message is going to get very annoying, he thought.
“What is your next destination, sir?”
“225 Altair Place, Convent Gardens.” He had a monitoring station set up amid the tangle of purple rosebushes along the Rose Walk.