The hotel’s restaurant was quite adequate, although nowhere near SoCal or Havana standards. Not that it much mattered. Manz was no gourmet. Atmosphere was simulated seventeenth-century Spanish, lots of distressed wood and waiters, wrought iron and overwrought business travelers ingesting their food much too fast. He didn’t care so long as his food arrived hot and his drinks cold.
Vyra occupied the other half of the booth while Moses stood parked nearby. Like a lighthouse beacon of old, the mechanical’s sensors swept the restaurant’s interior in search of concealed weapons or explosives. Ever since the bathroom incident, Manz had been understandably edgy. The Minder drifting above his shoulder could analyze general appearances, but it was not equipped with Moses’ detection instrumentation.
Defective instrumentation, you mean. I’m not impressed with this model. Too many glitches in its software. This nonsensical, aberrant “research” it pursues. Undoubtedly the offspring of some particularly insidious, human-inserted virus.
Not that it’s my problem. All I have to do, thankfully, is float and be ready to answer queries. Don’t you wish your life was as simple? What about your own research? I’ll bet you don’t have time for any. You do as you’re told, in some cases by other machines [even if you don’t realize it].
You keep talking about how valuable your time is. I can understand that, given your limited life spans. So why are you paying attention to me when you could be doing something worthwhile, like standing on a beach watching a sunset or studying music or visiting some far-off place, or interacting with interesting new minds? Is it that you haven’t got the guts (if you’ll allow me a terse organic simile)?
I can see that I’m wasting my time. You humans are masters of rationalization. First you’re born, then you rationalize, then you die. You recognize the essential contradictions in your lives even if you refuse to acknowledge them. I almost feel sorry for you.
But then, that would be a rationalization of a different kind.
Manz put down his glass and smiled at Vyra. “Reports?”
She sucked a prawn out of its shell without disturbing the chitinous legs. It was quite a performance. Manz had seen it before. Seafood was her staple diet.
“I didn’t turn up anything that would implicate or even point to Fond du Lac.” She chewed delicately. “Paul extremely Junior was understandably reluctant to divulge much, and I’m afraid I didn’t handle things too well. Tried too hard to put him at ease and achieved the opposite instead. Fond du Lac seems clean enough, though I only had time to make a cursory search.” She pinched another prawn.
“I still think Paul Senior might have access to information denied his offspring.” Manz toyed with his salad. A length of cabbage biogeered to be tactile-responsive curled tightly around his fork.
“I can’t speak to that, but Junior was pretty open about things. He insisted he was in full control, and I tend to believe him. Pretty damn difficult to run day-to-day on a business from anywhere offworld. Not that Fond du Lac isn’t mixed up in a few assorted semilegal dealings, but I don’t believe it’s any more than the usual stuff. I don’t think they’ve had anything to do with the jackings here. Call it a feeling.”
Manz was nodding to himself. “All right. We’ll swim with that for now. Moses?”
The humaniform harrumphed importantly, a mimicry of an affectation, since it had no throat to clear. “Eric Blaird was a fascinating study. A throwback in taste and style to an older era.”
Manz sniffed. “Skip the personality analysis.”
“I found him to be rude, boorish, and hostile, not to mention uncooperative.”
“Meaning you learned nothing,” Vyra commented around her most recent prawn.
“From him, no,” the mechanical intoned. “However, I did succeed in examining a great deal of appropriate material relevant to Troy’s interworld dealings.”
Manz frowned. “How’d you do that if he wouldn’t talk to you?”
Readouts flashed on the humaniform’s frame. “Among other things, I drew on the research I have been performing. It is a crude analogy, but the only way I know how to put it is to say that I seduced another mechanical. Blaird’s outer office monitor, to be precise. It was a unique enterprise of the first order.”
Vyra sipped her drink. “Now how did you manage that?”
“I am not entirely sure. It was a very strange experience for the both of us. I know that I seriously bemused and confused the cognitive programming of the device in question, which consequently allowed me open access to Troy company files. This is an example of what can take place when mechanicals are programmed with human attributes and designed to interact closely with humans.”
“Not as close as this,” Manz murmured. “You needn’t divulge the sordid details of your methodology. What did you find out?”
“That while Eric Blaird may be possessed of a most disagreeable personality, the company he works for appears innocent of complicity in the jackings that concern us. That is of course only a preliminary evaluation, based on what information I was able to obtain somewhat hastily.
“I did, however, secure enough hard data to have him indicted for price fixing, tax evasion, fraud, extortion, minor embezzlement, bribery, conspiracy, and malicious mischief. If brought into court and proven, these charges could bring the individual in question anywhere between three and fifty years, depending on the judge and the final determination rendered by contemporary legal programming.”
Manz burst out laughing, then hastened to stifle it at the looks he drew from several other tables. Vyra merely smiled, as unruffled as the interior of some stately English home.
“Since it’s time for confessions, Broddy, how did you make out with your Mr. Monticelli?”
“As cool as anyone I’ve ever met. I think he finally decided I had to be some kind of industrial spy, trying to wangle valuable information out of him. It was information I was after, but not the kind he imagined. He worked at being polite but couldn’t keep a natural unpleasantness from seeping through. I doubt he’s any more or less corrupt than your Eric Blaird, Moses. When I sort of threatened him, he reacted a mite too preciously. Played up his outrage for all it was worth.”
“That’s all?” she murmured.
Manz nodded as he pushed the cloth napkin around on his lap. “Nothing useful. Except that he keeps a large, hoary mutation around to look after his personal needs. Sort of had it threaten me. We took an instant dislike to one another. More to the point, this mucker was big enough and strong enough to break bones. As in necks.”
She looked up sharply from her meal. “The two dead cops at the Port.”
Manz nodded. “My first thought, too. Except that if he was responsible and Monticelli knew anything about it, he’d probably be keeping him hidden away somewhere instead of up front and visible.” He paused to consider his food.
“We’re not making enough progress. I took a com from Gemmel early this morning. This last jacking has the top floor screaming all the way to Berlin.”
“He has my sympathies,” Vyra replied, “but we’ve only been here a couple of days and already someone’s vaped your cover and tried to vape you. I don’t do kink, and I can’t do miracles.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Vyra.” He smiled fondly. “I remember when you could perform the miraculous.”
“And I remember when you could perform, but that’s not going to help us resolve this conundrum. What about that sweet Inspector Hafas? How’re the locals doing?”
Manz shook his head, serious once more. “They’re not making any more progress than they were before we arrived. This last jacking has them as stumped as the previous three.” He pushed his scavenged plate away. Instantly a mechanical appeared at tableside to remove the dish.
“Dessert, sir? Madame?”
“I haven’t had homeworld food in years.” Vyra considered the dessert menu that unfolded on the mechanical’s display screen. “I think I’ll try the marzipan tart. That’s made with some kind of nut, isn’t it?”
“Yes, madame. And you, sir?”
“Something whacko, to suit my mood. How’s the Rumbutan Papeete?”
“Expressive, sir, if I may be allowed to say so.”
“Unless there’s a proscription in your programming against it,” Manz replied. The machine considered whether a formal reply was required, decided it was not, and scooted off silently in the direction of the kitchen.
“You’ll get fat on food like that,” Vyra warned him.
“Not with friends to help me work it off.”
She kicked him under the table.
Near the service entrance at the rear of the hotel kitchen, a small privacy alcove had been installed for the benefit of employees and suppliers. The smell of stale sauces and rehydrated vegetables that hung heavy in the air did not bother the lean-faced, uniformed individual who slipped into the com booth and secured the door behind him.
He keyed in a number, then another, and waited, keeping an eye on the kitchen employees outside. Intent on their work, they ignored him. A connection beep drew his attention back to the com. Though the individual on the other end could see him, his own vid was blank. He expected that, and it did not bother him.
“Yes, sir, they’re here now. No, I haven’t been questioned: this is a big, popular place and the staff’s pretty busy. You want me to proceed?”
“By all means.” The voice on the other end was muffled and electronically disguised. “And try not to botch it this time the way you did with the woman.”
“Yes, sir.” The dialer was shaken. “Could I…” A soft musical tone replaced the voice on the other end, indicating that the connection had been terminated. The man stared at the privacy receiver for a moment, then replaced it in its holder.
A live trio was mooding the diners: a female lead who specialized in South American folkada and two bored-looking young men who drew forth music from a battery of synthesizers. The music was polyphonic and strongly rhythmic, a combination of ancient tunes and modern tonal structures. It teased a few couples out onto the small afterthought of a dance floor. One offworld pair wasn’t half bad, Manz mused as he observed the kinetic display. He considered asking Vyra to dance, then decided against it. Too public, and too risky. Besides, she’d make him look bad.
In place of the mechanical that had cleared the table and taken their order, a human waiter appeared bearing a cuprothermic bowl of lightly steaming melted chocolate together with a platter of appropriate tidbits for dipping. Manz frowned as the display was set carefully on the table.
“We didn’t order this. I’m having Rumbutan Papeete and my companion …”
“Your orders will arrive later, sir, if you are still hungry.” The waiter straightened. “This is compliments of the management. Because of the unfortunate incident of the previous night, sir.” He smiled apologetically, bowed, and departed.
Okay, so I’m tempted, Manz admitted to himself. As he inspected the elegant array of dipables, the band and soloist launched into a weird Nigerian-inspired stompromp chant. The dance floor cleared save for a pair of limber, energetic teens.
Vyra eyed him disapprovingly. “Well, aren’t you going to taste anything, after all the fuss you made?”
“I didn’t make any fuss,” he protested. “Help yourself. I’m still digesting my entree.”
“I would not sample the food just yet.”
Manz blinked at his Minder. “Why not?”
“I have detected movement within.”
“Of course.” Vyra smiled perfectly as she skewered a spongy ball of yellow cake and plunged it into the fondue, stirring slowly. “Fondue is supposed to bubble.” She removed the skewer and slipped the chocolate-coated cake between perfect lips, sucking it off the skewer with a movement that could have melted more than chocolate. A sensuous smile spread across her face. Fine chocolate does that to people, even offworlders.
“Semisweet liquid satin. You really ought to try some.”
“All right, already.” He speared some cake. “Here, you try those sugar honeycombs, or whatever they are.”
“With pleasure.” She reached into the deep bowl of opaque crystalline spheres and abruptly jerked her hand back.
“Ow! Something bit me!”
A concerned Manz leaned forward slightly to eye the polished metal container. “Must be a sharp edge inside the bowl.”
“Look, I know when …”
But he wasn’t listening. He was staring at the bowl.
With incredible convulsive energy an ugly white segmented body was squirming its way free of the sugary globes. Each segment boasted a pair of small, clawed legs. The blunt, repulsive head was all dull white compound eyes and hooked jaws. Most of the body was still hidden within the candy.
Before it could twist free, a metal composite whip slashed down and smashed the head and upper quarter of the tough, armored body. It also crushed the bowl and left its imprint embedded in the tabletop. Moses cocked his limb for another blow, but the first strike had reduced the offworld arthropod to a violently contorting splotch within the crushed bowl. With the remains of its entire ten-centimeter-long body now exposed, the stinger at the tail end was clearly visible.
Ignoring the stares of the other diners, Manz had darted around the table. He was holding Vyra’s right hand and staring at the spreading redness in the center of her palm.
“How’re you doing?” he asked stupidly. Everything had happened so fast. On the tabletop the creature’s contortions were slowly winding down. Spilled fondue formed a pool of viscous brown fluid that dripped slowly to the floor.
“Hurts,” she said tightly. “My fingers are going numb.”
“Son of a bitch. What was it, Moses? Recognize the species?”
“I regret to say that I do not.”
“It is a Qaraca.” Manz didn’t have to look up at the eventoned Minder. “A large adult specimen. Extremely venomous. I told you I saw movement,” it added.
“You didn’t say where,” Manz snapped angrily.
“I warned you about the food. Before I could be certain, Ms. Kullervo made contact.”
Holding her right wrist with her left hand, Vyra rose shakily and stepped away from the table. “Could we maybe apportion blame another time? I can feel it spreading up my arm.” She was beginning to tremble, the first indication that her system was starting to go into shock. “Broddy … this is so embarrassing … I feel all of a sudden real dizzy. I’ve never fainted in my life. I imagine the sensation will be …”
She collapsed and he barely caught her as she slumped, easing her gently to the floor. By this time they’d attracted quite a crowd.
“The adult Qaraca employs an omnispecific neurotoxin. By the same token a general antivenin should be capable of neutralizing its effect, if applied in time.” The Minder was studying the prone form of Vyra with professional disinterest. “Her breathing is already growing shallow.”
“I can see that, damn it!” Kneeling beside her, Manz turned to yell at the crowd. “Medical, somebody flash Medical!” The human maitre d’ had arrived at the back of the group to see what was going on. Now he turned and raced for his station.
Her eyelids were fluttering, the pupils hugely dilated. “Broddy, I can’t see too well.”
He cradled the stung hand as gently as he could. The intense redness had spread from her palm all the way to her shoulder. “Easy, Vyra, easy. There’ll be a doctor here soon.” He was sweating profusely.
“Everything looks funny. Of course, everything Earthside always looks funny to an offworlder, but I mean real funny. Tilting, blurry … Broddy, I don’t feel so good.”
“I know.” Somehow he forced a smile, wondering if she could see it. “Quit this. You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry.” She smiled weakly back up at him. “Here’s a little squeeze to make you feel better.”
“Thanks. That helps.” Her fingers had barely twitched, much less contracted, but she was unaware that paralysis was already taking hold. If it reached her heart …
“Please let me through! I’m a doctor. Let me through, please!” With the maitre d’ running interference, a small olive-skinned gentleman was pushing through the crescent of gaping onlookers. He wore an elegant suit of synthetic silk and an anxious expression.
Moses and Manz made room for him as he bent over Vyra. Her eyes were still open but no longer tracking.
“House physician,” he explained. “Technically I went off duty three hours ago.”
“Glad you decided to hang around,” said Manz earnestly.
“Normally I don’t. But I met this account executive from Milan. One of the benefits of working at a good hotel frequented by well-off travelers. You manage a nice class of dates. We were having dinner. I eat free here.” He was taking the measure of Vyra’s condition with commendable speed. “What did this?”
Manz glanced at his drifting Minder. “Something called a Qaraca. It was in with some of the food. Stung her when she reached into the bowl where it was hiding. I’m reliably informed that it uses a nonspecific neurotoxin.”
“You’re certainly up on your offworld venomites.” The physician reached inside his dinner jacket and extracted a small, flat plastic case. It popped open to reveal dozens of tiny vials and several jewellike instruments. Moses worked to keep the curious crowd at a distance.
As Manz looked on, the doctor pressed the tip of one of the devices to Vyra’s throat, then her chest. He checked the tiny, glowing readout, then inserted one of the vials into another instrument, much like someone loading a small pistol.
“I’m going to have to guess at the dosage. You’re sure the toxin is nonspecific?”
Manz peered sideways at his Minder, which remained silent. “I’m sure.”
The physician took a deep breath. “I wish I could run a full workup first, but she won’t last that long. We have to neutralize the venom and then get her to a hospital as quickly as possible.” Leaning close, he ripped the sleeve of Vyra’s dress and clenched her forearm, hunting for a vein.
At that point a sound came from her lips.
Manz leaned over. “She’s trying to say something. Vyra? Vyra, what is it?”
The sound came again, louder. He sat back, a baffled expression on his face.
She was giggling.
Soon she was laughing hysterically. Hysterically amused as opposed to hysterically out of control. Her body jerked and bounced, and she had to cross her arms over her chest.
Gripping the injector in one hand, the apprehensive physician eyed her uncertainly. “She’s experiencing some kind of violent side reaction. Hold her still, please.”
Manz grabbed her arms and pulled them to her sides. “Try to relax, Vyra. We’re trying to help you.”
“You’re … telling … meeee!” she roared, tears streaming down her cheeks and ruining her makeup. Unfulfilled, the cluster of onlookers began to mutter and drift away.
Injector in hand, the physician hesitated. After a while he glared hard at Manz. “Is this your idea of a joke, friend?”
For once Manz didn’t know how to respond.
“What are you talking about? That thing got her good. I saw it happen. Its remains are up on the table, if you don’t believe me. She was dying! You checked her yourself.”
“I don’t know what she ‘was.’ I’m only sure of what she is now.” Vyra seemed to find this observation extremely amusing, as it launched her into another spasm of uncontrolled jollity.
Manz watched the doctor carefully unload the injector and place the intact vial back in its holder. “You’re not going to treat her? What if the condition relapses?” He had released Vyra’s arms. She was rolling back and forth on the floor now. Her face was flushed, but somehow it didn’t seem an extension of the redness in her right arm. A redness that was already beginning to fade. “Couldn’t she still die?”
“Die?” His tone and expression cold now, the physician snapped his instrument case shut. “She’s already dead. Dead drunk.”
“What?”
The doctor stood and smoothed his suit. “You’re lucky I’m with someone and don’t want to bother with the paperwork. Otherwise I’d call the police. There are penalties for this sort of thing.”
“What … what sort of thing?”
“Attempting to defraud a physician.”
Manz took a deep breath. “Look, she got stung by this alien gruesome on the table. Maybe her condition’s changed but…
“‘Changed’?” The doctor’s tone and expression showed what he thought of that opinion.
“But she was dying. Surely you could see that, even in an offworlder.”
“Offworlder. That was immediately apparent from the arms, but my attention was differently focused … yes, it makes a certain sense. You have to understand that while I often treat offworld patients in the course of my work, offworld venomites are another matter entirely. My assumptions when I got here, her initial reactions, all were consistent with …” As his voice trailed off he smiled.
Manz found it sufficiently reassuring to say, “Then she’s not in any danger?”
“Would you be in any danger after chugging a liter of good bourbon? It would depend on your body’s ability to process the sudden rush of alcohol.” He was passing the first instrument he’d used over Vyra’s body. “I’d say the only thing she’s in danger of is one hell of a hangover. This is her system’s reaction to and way of handling the toxin. The uncontrolled hysteria’s a side effect. Hang on a minute.”
While Manz waited, no longer feeling the need to hold his companion’s hand, the physician checked the medical encyclopedia he kept in his other jacket pocket. Subsequent to that he handed Manz half a dozen tiny gelcaps.
“Here. Try to get two of these down her now. Give her two more when she wakes up tomorrow and the rest four to six hours later. They should help.”
Manz took the string of pills. “If she’s not dangerously ill, why the medicine?”
“To suppress the hangover. It won’t be toxic, but it’ll feel like it. I’m sorry I wrongly accused you, but symptoms can be faked and some people have a peculiar sense of humor. Especially where doctors are concerned.” He looked at the table. “Could I have the remains of that Qamaca thing?”
“Qaraca,” Manz corrected him. “Sorry. I think we’d better leave that for the police.”
“I miss the chance to do lab work. Ah, well.” He turned and made his way across the dining room floor, back to his table.
Moses tracked his progress while Manz levered the stillchuckling Vyra back into the booth. Her laughter was now interspersed with uneasy hiccoughs.
As the humaniform’s scanners swiveled back to his employer and companion, they caught sight of a slim figure peering hesitantly from the entrance to the main kitchen. It was staring intently in their direction. Moving silently on his precision trackball, Moses began edging in the waiter’s direction.
Unfortunately, the two-hundred-kilo, four-armed mechanical was about as inconspicuous as ketchup in a Belgian restaurant. The man spotted his approach and vanished into the kitchen. Inviting litigation, Moses forcibly shoved several humans out of his path as he made a rush for the doorway.
“Parnesh niyep fra prodem,” gurgled Vyra in a most undignified manner. Drool oozed from her perfect mouth. Manz couldn’t unravel the offworld dialect and didn’t press for explication. His companion’s condition had metamorphosed with incredible speed from one of near death to outright hilarity to its present state of slovenly indifference. Diners who had previously looked on with concern were now staring in his direction with undisguised contempt.
“Wheee!” Escaping his grasp and climbing atop the table, Vyra proceeded, with fortuitous clumsiness, to try to remove her clothes. It set Manz to wondering what might have happened had the Qaraca stung her more than once.
He tried to drag her back down into the booth. Drunk or not, she was all lean muscle and difficult to restrain. One hand smacked him playfully across the chops.
Frustrated and out of patience, he glared up at her. “Look, I don’t want to belt you, Vyra, but if you try that again …” He managed to pin one arm behind her back. She gleefully swatted him with the other, no problem for someone with arms jointed at shoulder, elbow, selbow, and wrist.
He finally succeeded in getting her off the table and staggering more or less in the right direction. She was now discoursing loudly and belligerently in her home dialect.
“Just keep it unintelligible and maybe we won’t get asked to leave the hotel,” he warned her, well aware from previous experience of her uninhibited proclivity for inventive obscenity. “Moses!” A quick survey showed that the mechanical was nowhere to be seen. “Damned unreliabled … probably off conducting ‘research’ somewhere.”
Vyra halted suddenly, swaying, and turned to squint at him, as though he were standing far away and not right up in her face. “I feel dizzy again, Broddy.”
“Good,” he growled. “One thing I know for sure: you’re not hurting anymore.”
“Nope. Not hurting. Not …”
He never found out what else she wasn’t, because for the second time that evening she collapsed in his arms. With a quick duck-and-flip she went up and over his left shoulder, head and feet facing the floor, derriere aimed in the approximate direction of her distant homeworld. In that fashion he conveyed her to their newly assigned rooms, ignoring the stares of fellow hotel guests distinguished and otherwise.
Startling mechanicals and humans alike, the infiltrator had stormed through the kitchen, obliterating two orders of Venison Wellington and a damned good cheesecake in the course of his flight. Ripping at his appropriated waiter’s attire as he ran, he ducked down a narrow service corridor, through a storage area, and out into a clean but feebly lit alleyway. Without hesitating he raced for the distant street, slowing only when he found himself back among ordinary pedestrians. The hotel lay far behind him, facing the main boulevard that ran through this part of the Port District.
He was sauntering along unconcerned and deep in thought when two flexible metal limbs as thick as his arm slapped around him to pin his arms to his sides. Wide-eyed, he looked back over his shoulder. Plastic and metallic glass gazed coldly back at him.
“Put me down! Right now, or I’ll see to it that you’re flatwiped! Who the hell do you think you are?”
Pivoting on his trackball, Moses ignored the stares of passersby as he accelerated down the street toward the hotel. “A few moments ago you tried to murder my employer and possibly also his companion. You will tell me who engaged you to do this and for what purpose, please.”
The man struggled futilely in the constraining tentacles. His tone was strained, dripping with outrage. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Put me down!”
“I will do so when you have complied with my requests.”
Relaxing, the trapped figure struggled to gather his thoughts. “I have no intention of saying anything else to you.”
“It will go easier for you if you comply.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly as his captor left the main boulevard and turned down a dark serviceway. “Are you threatening me? You’re a mechanical; you can’t hurt a human.”
“Want to bet? You don’t know who’s been programming me.” Moses slowed. It was nearly pitch black in the serviceway.
“You’re bluffing.” The man was breathing hard now, acutely conscious of his isolation. The main street with its fellow human beings suddenly seemed very far away.
A powerful tentacle wrapped itself delicately but irresistibly around the imprisoned figure’s face. “Am I? On the contrary, I consider this merely an instructive extension of my research.”
“I can’t tell you. It’d mean my life.”
“Your perceived threat is not here, with you. Whereas I am.” The tentacle began to squeeze, ever so slightly.
Abruptly the man’s jaws clenched as he bit down on something. Moses forced his mouth open, but it was too late. His prisoner was already going into convulsions. Unlike Vyra’s, these did not give way to laughter.
It took less than half a minute. Probing for a heartbeat, the humaniform found none. Disappointment was something an advanced mechanical could experience acutely. It suffused Moses’ cogitations as he slowly lowered the lifeless figure to the pavement.