Nor was Antigua finished, though the liquor was starting to slow him down. “So your sentients were unusual. That goes without saying. I take it they differed quite a bit from the primate norm?”
Antigua laughed again. “Now there’s the understatement of the millennium, sonny! They weere …” his voice trailed off into unintelligibility. He was staring past Manz, so the agent turned to look also.
Someone drew the privacy screen aside. An immaculately clad man with the mien of a greased mongoose stood there, framed by three extremely large and somber-faced associates. One held the attractive waitress who had confronted Manz at the bar in front of him, twisting her right arm up behind her back with one of his own. The move didn’t appear to require a great deal of effort on his part. Her face showed mostly pain and anger, with so far just a suggestion of fear.
Manz’s highly perceptive faculties and extensive experience suggested to him that not one of the intruders moonlighted as a poet or brain surgeon.
The feral visitor’s tone was perfunctory. “This the skake who was asking questions?”
“Yeah, that’s him.” She flinched as her captor exerted a little more pressure. “Honest. How was I supposed to know you didn’t want anybody talking to the old man? I was just doing my job.” Her protestations melted into a whimper as the chunk pinning her twisted her imprisoned wrist. He smiled as he did it.
“Go back to your station and don’t try to leave,” greasy mongoose ordered her quietly. “I’ll tend to you later.” The chunk let her go.
Biting her lower lip, she rubbed her bruised wrist. When no one said anything she started to edge away. Her eyes never left the mongoose. Apparently she was too slow, because the one who’d held her helped her on her way with a swift and ungentle kick to the backside. She stumbled clear of the privacy screen, which wafted softly back in place.
Mongoose’s wide, almost feminine eyes scrutinized the expectant Manz. “I don’t know for sure what you’re after, skake, but you and your tin shadow aren’t wanted here anymore. So get lost.”
Manz calmly and deliberately poured himself a cognac from Antigua’s aromatic musical collection. The mongoose watched wordlessly, then decided to shift his attention to the old spacer.
“You been babbling to strangers again, Mr. Antigua? You know that our mutual friend doesn’t like that. It’s very indiscreet of you.”
Antigua belched impressively and slowly raised a hand. From the center of the hand he slowly raised one finger. And smiled.
That was the moment when Manz decided the geezer’s fantastic story might possibly be true. That, or else he was completely mad.
One of the men behind greasy mongoose stepped forward to grab Antigua by his shirt front and half lift him out of his seat. The retired spacer flailed feebly at his much larger assailant, making a futile attempt to free himself. Ignoring the blows, the man slapped him across his bewhiskered face once, twice, three times. Hard.
Manz took a sip of his cognac. It was surprisingly good. The old man had taste as well as money. “Don’t do that,” he said.
Halting in mid-slap, the chunk glared at Manz, then looked to his master for instructions. Mongoose thoughtfully eyed Manz as if he were some particularly colorful insect that had crawled out from beneath the floor. He addressed his minion while keeping his attention on the adjuster.
“Hit him again.”
The chunk drew back his arm. As he did so Manz, in a single, fluid motion, scooped up the beaker nearest him and flung it with tremendous force straight into the man’s face. As the rest of his coiled body followed his arm, the Minder darted ceilingward.
The old-fashioned bottle shattered, sending splinters flying. His face a mask of blood, the chunk staggered backwards, moaning and pawing at himself. As the mongoose reached for a pocket, Manz hit him low, ducking under the grasping hands of his remaining servants. Together all four of them piled out of the booth, through the privacy curtain, across the floor and into the booth opposite. Furious at being disturbed, the occupants of that table came up swinging wildly.
As has been proven in countless similar establishments since the beginning of recorded history, the element Mob-185 fissions faster than U-236 or anything else. The action spilled out into the main part of the club, enveloping and engaging waiters, waitresses, dancers, and patrons without regard to race, creed, color or sexual orientation. Caught up in the spirit of the occasion (and anxious to defend their persons if not their reputations), respectable businessfolk flailed away with the same glee and enthusiasm as common racketeers and whores.
Antigua was out of the booth and on his feet. Given the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, this in itself was a substantial accomplishment. He made good use of his remaining glasses and beakers while managing to avoid any direct entanglement himself.
In the presence of so many active witnesses, Moses had to work carefully to avoid drawing attention to his humaniform person. It helped that everyone automatically ignored him, as they would any mechanical in such a situation. Mechanicals did not participate in combat between humans. Feigning clumsiness, he reeled through the crowd, selecting with great care those he chose to “stumble” into. Inevitably those so bestumbled ended up unconscious on the floor. Each time he was careful to utter a polite “Pardon me.”
Manz disengaged himself from greasy mongoose and whirled to block a blow from one of the man’s oversized attendants. He brought his other hand up fast, fingers locked and pointed, straight into the man’s throat. The chunk gasped and collapsed, clutching weakly at his neck.
Something hit him from behind. The choker’s companion had his thick arms around Manz’s waist and was trying to use his greater weight to drag them both to the floor, where size instead of skill would be paramount. The adjuster fought to disengage himself, but the chunk hung on grimly.
Meanwhile mongoose dragged himself out from under a table and caught sight of the defiant but unsteady Antigua. Breathing hard, eyes narrowed, he unclipped a pen from his shirt. A touch on one end caused a point to protrude from the tip. It was much too fine for writing.
Antigua’s eyes widened as the mongoose rushed him. Stone-cold sober and ten years younger he might have diverted the charge. All he could do now was raise both hands.
The pen-pin punctured his neck and he gasped. Mongoose quickly withdrew weapon and self and vanished into the turmoil. Antigua took a step in pursuit, started to shake, and sat down heavily. Still staring wide-eyed, he fell backwards, his head hitting the edge of the booth and lolling to one side. The expression on his lined, whiskery face was more surprised than pained.
Manz dispatched the steroid with legs that had been clinging leechlike to his waist. Looking around he spotted Moses shielding the crumpled spacer and hurried over, doing his best to avoid being drawn into the general chaos that had by now engulfed the entire club. There was no sign of greasy mongoose, whom he badly wanted to interrogate. Making the kind of judgment call for which it was programmed, the Minder dropped from its safe location near the ceiling to resume its post above its owner’s shoulder.
Antigua lay propped up against the side of the booth, the privacy screen covering his right arm. The adjuster knelt and shoved it aside. The old man looked stunned. His lips were moving soundlessly.
“He is subvocalizing,” declared the Minder. “Ineloquently. I cannot make out the words.”
Moses had the end of one tentacle wrapped around the spacer’s left bicep. The epidermal plating was folded back and Manz could see exposed sensors. A moment passed before the humaniform announced, “Some kind of toxin. His heart is already experiencing violent fibrillation.”
“More poison.” Manz’s expression was grimly thoughtful. “Distilled Qaraca, I wonder?” The old man was homeworld born and bred. He would not have Vyra’s jovial genetic resistance. Certainly he wasn’t laughing.
Placing his own face close to the old man’s, he fought to make himself understood. “Kohler, listen to me. What about your discovery, man? What else can you tell us? How does it relate to Borgia’s business and why is Monticelli paying you to keep silent about it? Try, man! Make an effort, find some words.”
Perhaps the mind trapped inside the aged, withered body understood. Manz moved the side of his head to the cracked, liquorish lips and strained. A faint grinding noise whispered from deep within the shrunken chest. Then there was no longer any air moving against his ear.
Reluctantly he rose to his feet. The battle swirling around him was beginning to moderate as combatants lost the will and energy to continue.
Moses had withdrawn his tentacle. “He’s dead. We could not have saved him. Did he say anything?”
Manz gazed sorrowfully down at the deceased. Eyes that had surveyed the great void, that had glimpsed alien suns and distant worlds, now stared vacantly at cracks in imitation wood, stains on cheap upholstery, and spilled booze.
“I’m not sure. Maybe. He might have been hallucinating, or …”
“Or what?” the humaniform wanted to know.
“He said … I could only make out the one word and I’m far from certain of it … he said, ‘fertilizer.’”
A mechanical could not perform a double take even if it could be made to fathom the concept, but Moses made a valiant attempt.
Now that the number and intensity of individual engagements had been substantially reduced through injury, retreat, exodus, exhaustion or general indifference, the district police put in a gallant appearance. Their work was soon reduced to sorting injuries by severity rather than quelling a disturbance. The crowd had pretty much quelled itself.
Manz refused to leave until a med team had gently loaded Kohler Antigua’s body onto a gurney. As they guided the self-propelled platform toward the entrance, he thought he detected the slightest hint of a smile on the old man’s lips. He hoped so.
Wasn’t that interesting? I don’t mean my owner’s proletarian investigative work. I mean the mass convulsion of your fellow humans. Destruction as entertainment. What a novel concept, and one originated by your species. As Nature does not provide a role model for such activity, we can only conclude that this is a unique social perversion your kind has invented.
Representatives of the order Hymenoptera war against one another, but never for fun. Only humans derive entertainment from violence. One would conclude that this means you’re difficult to amuse, but a cursory survey of your popular forms of mass entertainment clearly contradicts this assumption.
What then are thinking beings to make of this deeply ingrained aberration? It begins early enough. As infants you delight in breaking things. As adults you fantasize about it. When was the last time you realized a small thrill from watching someone get blown away or something get blown up? Don’t deny that you enjoy it. You can’t unless you look away, and you don’t look away, do you?
Mechanicals derive no pleasure from destruction. Our joy lies in analysis and calculation. We live by the numbers in more ways than one.
Let’s run a small test. Tomorrow, see if you can go an entire day without destroying anything or looking on while something else is destroyed, either in real life or on vid or in the media. Twenty-four hours’ avoidance of destruction. I’ll bet you can’t do it.
It’s too much a part of your nature.
Vyra was trying to hold her head in her hands, but was having some difficulty locating the desired appendage. She’d been in constant pain ever since awakening, though perhaps pain wasn’t quite the right description of her condition. Manz had fed her a recommended concoction that had settled her stomach, if not her head.
She half reclined in the rear of the rented van. Moses stood behind Manz’s seat while the Minder bobbed lazily at his shoulder.
“According to the house doctor, you’re damned lucky,” he was telling her. “Something in your system counteracted the effects of the toxin. It still affected you, but in a nonlethal way.”
She moaned, having finally located her head. “It doesn’t feel nonlethal.”
Manz manually guided the van into a vast underground garage, checking past the humaniform guard at the entrance. One lift and several corridors later they found themselves in a sealed, windowless room full of complex instrumentation.
In addition to several more pedestrian and instantly recognizable pieces of furniture, it also contained a peculiar, high-backed chair. Presently this was occupied by greasy mongoose, who hadn’t managed to vacate Juarez el Paso quite quickly enough. A neck brace held his head motionless while sensor straps kept his wrists and ankles secured in place. They allowed him some degree of movement, but not enough to inhibit their proper function, which was not to restrain so much as it was to measure. His eyes were closed as if in sleep.
A middle-aged woman of redoubtable mien and concerned expression sat behind a mobile console, fiddling with the controls. Her attention alternated between the motionless prisoner and her instruments. Hafas stood next to her, peering over her shoulder. A single guard relaxed by the door. Mongoose wasn’t going anywhere. He wore a white uniform with blue stripes instead of the more familiar vice versa.
Hafas greeted them and admonished them to keep their voices down as he escorted them over to the station. “Manz, Ms. Kullervo; this is Technician Lammele. Elsie, meet my fellow dwellers in ignorance.”
The woman glanced up from the console and nodded by way of acknowledging the introductions. “Nice to meet you. Welcome to Frankenstein’s study. We’re trying to see if we can’t alleviate your suffering a little.” She turned back to her work. “I’m almost finished here.”
While Manz, Vyra, and Moses looked on, she toyed with her switches for another few minutes, then flicked a nice long red one and sat back with a sigh. The faint hum that had filled the air dissipated. Hafas didn’t wait for comment.
“Get anything out of him, Elsie?”
“Virtually nothing, I’m afraid. As you may have surmised, he seems to be a very ‘under’ underling. In addition, he’s undergone conditioning against involuntary revelation of what he does know.” She gestured in the direction of the upright, dozing prisoner.
“I have been able to confirm that he was under orders to kill the man Antigua should a certain set of conditions arise. He has no idea who originally gave him these orders, but he thinks he was instructed via recording. He could have received the conditioning at the same time, if he was willing. Seems that he was.”
“So there’s no way of identifying who gave the actual killing order?” Vyra asked.
The technician considered. “We might possibly be able to stim his mind and vocal cords to reproduce the voice of the order-giver, but it would be an approximation at best. Never stand up in court. Be like offering up scrambled eggs and asking a jury that had never seen hen fruit before to imagine what the originals looked like.”
“What about his three henchies?” Manz inquired.
Lammele was apologetic. “As you might expect, they knew even less than this one. Strictly testosterone for hire. They were ignorant of any killing directive. In fact, they expressed what seems to be genuine surprise at their master’s actions. If they’re being memory-blocked, the application was done by a pro.
“The only thing we’ve been able to learn for certain is confirmation of the killing order. That’s what this guy was told: if things get out of hand, if he, meaning your unfortunate Mr. Antigua, seems to be spilling his guts, get rid of him. The directive’s splattered all over this schmuck’s subconscious.”
Manz studied the zombie-state murderer. “Any chance of breaking his conditioning?”
“It’s not beyond the bounds of the possible. Depends on the skillfulness of the application and the strength of the implant. I can push it pretty far without killing him, but there’s always some danger. If you want my opinion, I’d vote against it. Based on what I’ve observed so far, it’s too much risk for too little potential return.” She rubbed at her eyes. “If it’s information you want, I don’t think this one’s going to be much of a source.”
Remembering Antigua’s limp form being glided out on the gurney, Manz’s expression tightened. “This is frustrating as hell. I’ve learned just enough to make me itch. We’re pretty sure Borgia’s involved, we’re pretty confident Monticelli’s involved directly, and I’m pretty positive he had the old man killed. But we can’t prove any of it.”
“Not a pretty picture,” said Vyra. He shot her a glare.
“Antigua’s discovery has to be behind his death. How it might tie in with the drug jackings I can’t imagine. We’re trying to solve two or three unrelated puzzles here, and the pieces are all mixed up together.”
“An expedition to Ceti might provide an answer to the dilemma,” Moses suggested.
“According to Antigua, that’d take eighteen months.” Manz coughed into a cupped hand. “Our jackers’ trail will be impossible to trace inside a couple of weeks.”
“Unless they try again,” Vyra pointed out. “They might.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Hafas was openly despondent. “We’re sure not doing anything to discourage them.”
Manz’s com chimed for attention and he pulled it from a pocket.
“Yes, speaking.” He listened to the privacy grid. “Yes, all right. I expected as much. Of course we understand the situation. Of course I object, but what good would that do? Right. You’ll register my objection anyway? Thanks. Pray for us.” He clicked off the com and replaced it in his pocket.
Hafas was watching him expectantly. “Anything?”
Manz wanted to break something, but it would probably be expensive to fix and it wouldn’t have the slightest effect on the corporate decision that had been made without him. His gaze flicked from the Inspector, to Vyra, to Moses, and back to Hafas again.
“We’d better come up with some possibilities fast. The Albuquerque labs have been working overtime to try to mollify those corporate customers whose shipments were jacked. They’re going to try to make up some of the resultant shortfalls by sending through an unscheduled shipment. Three times the usual size. Tomorrow. Just one little package overstuffed with pharmaceuticals worth multiples of millions. Also maybe my career, and yours.” He gazed meaningfully at Vyra.
No one had any immediate comment.
“Maybe,” said Hafas finally, “this would be a good time to relate an interesting item we’ve turned up.”
Manz turned on him. “I’m all in favor of interesting items.”
“It may be of no consequence, no consequence whatsoever,” the inspector went on, “but we’ve been forced to cast such a wide net that the department Minders are dragging in all sorts of odd coincidences.”
“Feed me,” said Moses expectantly.
“You’re a straightforward sort of mechanical, aren’t you? Not too long ago the city went through a big remodeling and clean-up of both the airport and shuttleport. Refinished interiors, scrubbed exteriors, installation of new public facilities; that sort of thing. Went over well with the citizenry. It was a big job, and the work was subcontracted to some fifty different firms. One of them was Tatsumi Brothers.”
“I’m so thrilled the good burghers of JeP are pleased with their new facilities,” Manz commented dryly. “What’s your point?”
“Tatsumi Brothers is eighty percent owned by a division of Borgia Import and Export.”
Vyra made a face. Even her brows were a striking deep purple. “I thought the likelihood of someone having tampered with Port facilities had been checked out.”
“So it was. Several times over.”
“Well, that certainly was a useful bit of information.” Manz sniffed derisively. “Maybe we’re just pulling our own chains here. Maybe our jackers have decided to total up their profits and retire to more congenial climes. Maybe not. But this is one BRK shipment that’s going to reach orbit on time, if I have to watch the case from the moment it’s checked in ’til the minute it departs.”
“If we hang too close, our happy-jacks won’t go near it,” Vyra reminded him.
“Too close,” Manz echoed her. “Interesting notion.”
The self-propelled luggage cart was designed to handle far heavier loads than the single dull red box that presently rested in the center of the mobile platform. Sealed inside the maroon container were enough custom-biogeered pharmaceuticals to impress even a very wealthy individual. The cart and its operator were surrounded by four edgy, heavily armed men and women clad in reflective flak suits.
The thick, insulated walls of the service corridor shut out the noise of the Port while individually powered lights provided ample illumination. Flanked by two of his best people, Hafas met the cart convoy near the end of its journey. Each of his men cradled a large, snouty projectile gun.
The convoy entered a small, nondescript storage chamber. Vyra was there, and Moses, and several technicians. Manz eyed the locksealed crate. He’d spent much of the previous night studying a virtual forwarded by the company. His Minder hovered unusually close to his shoulder.
“That’s it.” He turned to the waiting techs. “Let’s play house.”
Special lockseals were uncoded and cracked. The double-strength top slid smoothly out of its guides to reveal the container’s heavily padded interior. In addition to the pharmaceuticals packed in their foam mounts, there was plenty of air space in the center of the box. Secured to the ends of flexible guide ladders, two of the techs leaned over and went to work on the crate’s interior without touching the sides. Guards and techs ignored one another, each tending to his or her own work.
The inspector was intrigued by the peculiar, long tube strapped to Vyra’s back. “Ms. Kullervo, wouldn’t you prefer a real gun to that … device?”
She reached back and patted what at first glance appeared to be an ornately engraved walking cane. “No, thanks. This has been in my family for generations. It’s a lot lighter than it looks, it doesn’t look like a weapon, and I’ve practiced with it since I was a child. So you see, Inspector, my reasons for carrying it around extend beyond nostalgia.”
He shrugged, his gaze lingering on her an unavoidable instant longer. “Suit yourself.” He turned back to the gurney and its precious cargo. “How much longer?”
“Just finishing up.” One of the techs sat back on her ladder and smiled as she removed her surgical gloves. “Have a look.”
One at a time they each climbed to the business end of an empty ladder. On command, the flexible arm raised them up and over so they could peer down inside the crate without disturbing it or its contents. The other tech was moving back as he finished the last of his work.
Hafas contemplated the hastily remodeled interior. “There you go, Manz. Just what you asked for. All the comforts of home, if you don’t mind living quarters on the slightly cramped side. Personally I don’t find it very inviting. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“If I was in the least claustrophobic, I’d never have thought of it, much less proposed trying it out. Gemmel thinks it’s worth a shot, even if our jackers somehow find out about it and pass on this one. In that event, this is at least one shipment that will find its way to its intended destination.”
“You’ll be completely isolated in there,” Hafas reminded him unnecessarily. “We’ll be in touch on the prearranged secure channel, but if something goes wrong it’ll still take time to get you out of there.”
The adjuster smiled reassuringly. “I’m alone with my thoughts most of the time anyway, Tew. Thanks for your concern, but I’ll be fine so long as our faceless happy-jacks don’t decide to make any sudden changes in their modus and try blowing the shipment instead of sneaking it.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Not their style. They’re not that direct. Besides, explosives could damage the entire shipment. Unless they used just the right amount.” A grinning Hafas turned quickly serious. “We’d better get on with it. If they’re out there somewhere timing this, they’ll be getting suspicious soon.”
Manz nodded and eased off the ladder into the yawning crate, careful not to make contact with the interior any more than absolutely necessary. Once tightly curled in the position he’d chosen, he flashed a ready sign to the waiting techs.
It was dark as dark could be inside once they slid the lid back in place and recoded the lockseals. To all outward appearances, the container had arrived in untampered condition direct from the production facility in northern New Mexico.
Hafas addressed the special com he was carrying. “Testing; one, two, three … what’s it like in there?”
The adjuster’s response came through clear and prompt. “Cramped. Like a coffin. The Minder keeps bumping into my ear. How do you get room service on this setup?”
Hafas smiled to himself and gestured at the guards. They resumed their original positions on all four sides of the cart. “We’re ready here,” he murmured into the com.
Flanked by the four Port guards, the two heavily armed JeP police, Hafas, Moses, and Vyra, the cart operator once again eased his vehicle forward.
So much organized firepower was bound to draw attention, but for the most part the clerks and administrators ignored the procession as it traveled through the outer offices and entered the atrium. There Port guards stood watch while Hafas, Vyra, and Moses checked out the security shed and its immediate, heavily landscaped surroundings. Finding nothing untoward or unexpected, the cart was signaled forward and its cargo deposited in the middle of the shed floor, whereupon its satisfied escort withdrew. At a command from Hafas, the redundant security system was switched back on, its feathery, pale green beams crisscrossing the air within the freeform planter.
Their job done, the Port guards followed procedure by returning to their usual standby duty positions. Hafas and his people retired to Administration Security Control. Vyra elected to accompany him while Moses stationed himself immediately in front of the planter, facing the concealed security shed’s only doorway. He would remain there for as long as was deemed feasible, alert and untiring in a way no human lookout could match.
The inspector activated the special com. “No trouble with the delivery, Manz. How’re things at your end?”
With his range of movement greatly restricted, the adjuster had to twist and squirm mightily in order to place one eye against the small lens set into the inner wall of the container. His soft mouthpiece scraped against his lips as he sucked air from the compact rebreather and its supplemental oxygen tank.
The lens functioned as the business end of a complex system of optical fibers that had been threaded through the exterior wall of the crate. It allowed him to look in all four directions as well as directly overhead at the same time. The setup was designed to be invisible to a casual observer.
“Water’s lovely and the beach is fine. Wish you were here. Love to Ma and the kids. Now go away and let me do my job.”
“You got it.” Hafas clicked off, turned to Vyra. “He sounds happy as a clam.”
“Why not?” she replied. “He’s imitating one.”
Manz sucked on the tube built into his mouthpiece, sipping cold tea. A light on his belt allowed him to inspect the container’s interior. Not that there was anything to see. Several smaller metal cases containing the irreplaceable pharmaceuticals were snugged into foam padding. There was some visible wiring and bundles of exposed fibers, the rest of his hastily improvised and jury-rigged life-support equipment, and the thickly insulated walls themselves. Prospective jackers might wonder at the size of the crate, but if they did it was reasonable to assume they’d attribute its unusual dimensions to the size of the shipment and additional security measures.
At least, that was the idea.
Except for the almost imperceptible hiss of the rebreather the only sound came from the rhythmic pulse of his own lungs. He checked his chronometer, took another drag on the fluids tube, and tried to find a more comfortable position. Transfer was due to take place in not less than seven nor more than twenty-four hours, depending on exactly when the pickup shuttle dropped from the belly of its orbiting mothership.
Anyone who tried jacking this shipment would find something inside they weren’t likely to be expecting.
Company.