Tailored Realities, page 20
“I’m all right,” Jason whispered.
He stood, dusting off his suit, listening to the reporters. They, like the policemen, would probably assume that Jason had come to Evensong to investigate the ambassador’s death. It didn’t matter that Jason’s shuttle had left for Evensong over a month before the murder. An alien had died, and a PC operative had arrived. That would be enough for them.
“I shouldn’t have come to the scene,” he mumbled.
“What else would you have done?” Lanna asked. “This is our duty, after all.”
“Not mine,” Jason said. “I’m here to retrieve a missing scientist, not investigate a murder.” Then, speaking louder, he continued, “I’m certain the local law enforcement is competent. Let them investigate—the PC can handle diplomatic negotiations.”
The officer looked surprised. But, apparently uncertain what else to do, he saluted Jason. Jason nodded, then turned to leave.
“Not that the ‘diplomatic negotiations’ will be too hard,” Lanna noted. “The varvax are so insanely docile that they’ll probably apologize for inconveniencing one of our murderers.”
“They’re all like that,” Jason said, stepping out onto the building’s front steps. “That’s the big problem, isn’t it?”
There was a moment of shocked silence as the reporters realized who he was. They stood in a ring around several beleaguered police, and the commotion was attracting a crowd of curious onlookers. Then the reporters exploded with questions. Jason ignored them, pushing his way through the crowd. He had his head bowed, his hand raised to forestall questions. However, in his mind he was looking.
He scanned the crowd, pushing through the humming and pulsing colors. He looked over each face, comparing them all to the ones in his memory. A smile crept to his lips as he found what he was looking for. The media let him leave—they were used to the PC ignoring their questions. Behind him, Jason could hear their on-the-spot vidcasts. They had all the facts wrong, of course. There was fear in their voices—a fear of what they didn’t understand, a fear of the retribution that might come. In their world, retribution was assumed. In their world, you hurt that which was weaker than you.
Jason continued to walk with his head bowed. Behind him, a man broke free from the group of onlookers and wandered in Jason’s direction, obviously trying to look casual.
“I wish there were more flowers,” Jason said.
A second later, a click sounded in his ear. Then Lanna sighed. “What took you so long?” she demanded. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that ever since you got off the shuttle. I feel creepy knowing someone’s hacking our line.”
Jason continued to stroll forward. His shadow followed—the man moved with the skill of one who had been well trained, but he made the mistakes of one who was inexperienced. There was no change to his step—he probably hadn’t noticed the switchover. At that moment, he would be listening to a fabricated conversation between Lanna and Jason. For some reason, Jason suspected he didn’t want to know what kind of silly things Lanna’s replicated version of his voice was saying.
“Is he buying it?” Lanna asked.
“I think so,” Jason said, walking away from the slums. “He’s still following.”
“Who do you think he’s with?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Jason turned, taking the steps down into an airtrain station. The man followed.
“If you caught him this quickly, he must not be very good.”
“He’s young,” Jason said. “He knows what he’s supposed to do, but he doesn’t know how to do it.”
“A reporter,” Lanna guessed.
“No,” Jason said. “He’s too well equipped. Remember, he managed to hack into a secure FTL comm.”
“One of the corporations?”
“Maybe,” Jason said, strolling into an underground café. It smelled of dirt, mold, and coffee. His follower waited for a few moments outside, then walked in and took a table a discreet distance from Jason.
Jason ordered a cup of coffee.
“We haven’t discussed how he managed to scan your disk,” Lanna noted. “You’re losing your edge, old man.”
“I’m not old,” Jason mumbled as the waitress brought his coffee. It smelled of cream, though he had ordered it black. He turned his ineffectual eyes on a newspaper someone else had left on the table, but his mind studied his follower. The man was indeed young—in his early twenties. He wore softly humming greys and browns.
“So,” Lanna said, “do you want to try and get me a visual so I can look him up?”
Jason paused. “No,” he finally said, taking a sip of his coffee. It did have far too much cream in it—probably an attempt to obscure its poor flavor.
“Well, what are you going to do?”
“Be patient.”
* * *
Coln Abrams sipped his coffee—it didn’t have enough cream. He had to keep telling himself not to look at his target. Coln didn’t actually need to watch the man to monitor the conversation, he just had to stay within range.
What are you doing here, Write? Coln wondered with frustration. How did you know the ambassador would be killed? What does all of this have to do with your plans?
Coln shook his head. Jason Write, head operative for Northern Bell Phone Company, one of the most enigmatic people in the solar system. What was he doing on Evensong? The United Intelligence Bureau knew a lot about the man, but for every known fact there seemed to be two more missing.
Take, for instance, the Tenasi Agreement. Coln had read the document itself a hundred times, and had watched the holovids, commentaries, and old newscasts relating to the tenasi incident over and over. The United Governments military had accidentally shot down a tenasi diplomatic vessel—thereby initiating a rather embarrassing first contact. Earth had been thrown into a chaos of confusion and worry. Were they being invaded? Would they be invaded now that they had made such a horrible mistake?
Then the PC had stepped in. Somehow—using means they had yet to explain—they had contacted the tenasi. The PC had brought peace to Earth. But in exchange, the company had demanded a steep price. From that moment on, the PC had become completely autonomous—untaxable, unquestionable, and completely above the law. In addition, the PC had secured sole rights to the aliens’ FTL communications technology. And, with those two concessions, the PC had become the most powerful, most arrogant force in the system.
Coln gripped his mug tightly, barely noticing as the waitress brought his sandwich. He was still listening to the conversation between Write and his Base Support Operative—they were discussing what color roses they liked best.
Coln had never trusted the PC—and he hated things he couldn’t trust. The PC grew fat off its treaties—it held exclusive contracts with all twelve alien races humankind had met. The alien races all refused to deal with Earth unless they went through the PC first. The Phone Company kept humankind locked in space, refusing to share FTL travel technology. It claimed that the aliens had yet to give it to them. Coln suspected the truth. The aliens had FTL travel, that was certain. The PC was simply keeping it from humankind, and that infuriated Coln. He wanted to find—
Coln froze. The conversation in his ear had stopped midsentence. For a panicked moment, Coln feared that Write had slipped out of the restaurant and out of range.
Coln’s eyes darted across the room. He was relieved to find Write sitting in his booth, sipping quietly at his coffee. It had simply been a lull in the conversation.
“What do you think he’ll do when he realizes his cover is blown?” the Base Support Operative, Lanna, said in Coln’s ear.
Coln paused.
“I don’t know.” Jason Write’s voice was firm. Arrogant. Coln could see Write’s lips moving as he spoke. “I suspect he will be surprised. He’s young—he assumes he’s better than he really is.”
Write looked up, his sunglassed eyes looking directly at Coln’s face. Horror rose in Coln’s chest, an emotion quickly followed by shame. He’d been discovered.
“Come here, boy,” Write ordered in Coln’s ear.
Coln shot a look at the door. He could probably get away—
“If you leave,” Write said, “then you will never discover why I am on Evensong.” His voice was sharp and businesslike.
Coln regarded the man indecisively. What should he do? Why hadn’t any of his classes covered situations like this one? When an agent was discovered, he was supposed to pull out. But what if his target seemed willing to talk to him?
Slowly, Coln rose and crossed the café’s dirty floor. Write’s sunglasses watched him quietly. Coln stood for a moment beside Write’s table, then sat stiffly.
Don’t reveal anything, Coln warned himself. Don’t let him know that you’re with the—
“You are young for a UIB agent,” Write said.
Inwardly, Coln sighed. He already knows. What have I gotten myself—and the Bureau—into?
“I wonder,” Write said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Is the Bureau growing more confident in its young agents, or am I simply slipping in priority?”
He doesn’t know! Coln realized with surprise. He thinks I’m here officially.
“Neither,” Coln said, thinking quickly. “We weren’t ready for you to leave. I was the only field agent who was unassigned at the time. It was simply poor luck.”
Write nodded to himself.
He accepted it!
“I must say,” Write said, setting down his mug, “I am growing tired of the UIB. Every time I think that you people are going to leave me alone, I find myself being followed again.”
“If the PC weren’t so untrustworthy,” Coln said, “its operatives wouldn’t have to worry about being followed.”
“If the Bureau weren’t so poor at investigation,” Write said, “it would have realized by now that the PC is the only company that the Bureau can trust.”
Coln flushed. “Are you going to say something useful, or are you just going to insult me?”
“A clever man would realize that my insults contain the most useful information you’ll likely receive,” Write said.
Coln snorted, rising from the chair. Write had just invited him over to gloat, and Coln had ruined his own career for nothing. He had been so certain that he could tail Write, that he could figure out what the man was doing, discover the truth behind the Tenasi Agreement …
“You may accompany me,” Write said, finishing his coffee.
Coln paused midstep. “What?”
Write set down his mug. “You want to know what I’m doing? Well, you may come with me. Maybe this will finally alleviate the UIB’s foolish suspicions. I’m tired of being followed.”
“Jason,” Lanna said in Coln’s ear. “Are you certain—”
“No,” Write said. “I’m not. However, I don’t have time to deal with the UIB right now. This is a simple mission—the boy may come with me if he wishes.”
Coln stood, dumbfounded. He couldn’t decide what to do. Could he really trust a PC operative? No, he couldn’t. But what if he learned something important? “I—”
“Hush,” Write said suddenly, holding up a hand.
Coln frowned. Write wasn’t looking at him, however. He was staring straight ahead, his face confused.
Now what? Coln wondered.
* * *
Something was wrong. Jason ran his mind around the room, trying to Sense what was bothering him. The café had about a dozen other occupants, all eating quietly. Most of them were in workers’ clothing—flannels and denim that pulsed an irregular symphony in Jason’s mind. He studied their faces, and recognized none of them. What was bothering him?
A line of bullets blasted through the window just beside Jason. They came far too fast for his body to react or dodge, moving with the incredible speed of modern weaponry.
As fast as the bullets were, however, Jason’s mind was faster. He whipped out a dozen invisible mindblades that slashed through the air. The force of his attack slapped the bullets backward and sliced each one in two. There was a series of audible clicks as the pieces bounced back off the window, then fell to the café floor. All was silent.
The UIB kid plopped into his seat, his face horrified as he stared at the window and its holes.
“Jason?” Lanna said urgently. “Jason, what happened?”
Jason Sensed out the window, but the sniper was already gone. “I don’t know.”
“Someone shot at you?” Lanna asked with concern.
Jason regarded the bullet holes—they ran in a small circle in the window just beside the UIB kid’s head. “No,” he said. “They tried to kill the kid.”
The café’s patrons were running about in fear, some calling out, others hiding beneath benches. The UIB kid was looking down at himself with surprise, as if he couldn’t believe that he was still alive. “They all missed,” the boy whispered with amazement.
Jason frowned. Why would someone try to kill a UIB agent? Why not focus on Jason? The PC was a far more dangerous threat.
“How did you let him sneak up on you like that?” Lanna asked.
“I wasn’t expecting to be shot at. This was supposed to be a simple assignment.” Then, turning to the kid, he nodded. “Let’s go.”
The kid looked up with surprise. “Someone tried to kill me! Why?”
“I’m not certain,” Jason said. He ran his Sense over the room one last time, memorizing faces. As he did so, he noticed something. While most of the people were hiding or quivering in fear, one didn’t seem to be concerned at all. A solitary form sat quietly at the back of the café. He was a nondescript man with a long nose and a firm body. He watched Jason with interested eyes—eyes that seemed slightly unfocused. Almost as if …
Impossible! Jason thought. Then, without bothering to see if the UIB kid followed him, he left the café.
* * *
“You must take the apologies of us,” Sonn urged. The varvax foreign minister’s words were delivered by a translation program, of course—the varvax language consisted of clicks and snaps accompanied by hand gestures. The figure on the holovid screen was large and boxy, and its skin shone with quartz and granite. That was only the exoskeleton—the varvax were actually small creatures that floated in a nutrient bath sealed within their inorganic shells.
“Sonn,” Jason pointed out, sitting back in his chair, “your people were the victims here. Your ambassador was murdered.”
Sonn waved a clawlike hand; a symbol of denial. “You must understand that he knew the risks of living in an undeveloped civilization. Creatures of lesser in- telligence cannot be held responsible for their acts of barbarity. You have not yet learned a better way.”
Jason smiled to himself. Comments like that one earned the varvax, and most other alien races, humankind’s disgust. It didn’t matter that the comments were true—in fact, the truth of such statements only enraged humankind more.
“We will return what is left of the body as soon as possible, Minister Sonn,” Jason promised.
“Thank you, Jason of the Phone Company. You must tell to me—how go your efforts at civilization? Will your people soon raise themselves to Primary Intelligence?”
“It will take some time yet, Minister Sonn,” Jason said.
“You are an interesting people, Jason of the Phone Company,” Sonn said, his claws held before him in a gesture of supplication.
“You may speak on.”
“You have such disparity among what you are,” Sonn said. “Some of Primary Intelligence, some of Tertiary—or even Quaternary—Intelligence. Such disparity. You must tell to me: Are your people still convinced of the power of technology?”
Jason shrugged an exaggerated shrug—the varvax liked to watch and interpret human gestures. “Humankind believes in technology, Minister Sonn. It will be very difficult for them to accept another way.”
“Of course, Jason of the Phone Company. We will speak to each other again.”
“We will speak again,” Jason said, shutting off the holovid. He sat for a moment, Sensing the room around him. He couldn’t just relax completely anymore—he missed that. If he let his concentration lapse, the darkness would come upon him.
“They certainly are confident, aren’t they?” Lanna asked in his ear.
“They have reason to be,” Jason replied. “It has always happened as they expect. A race discovers FTL cytonic transmission at the same time it achieves a peaceful civilization.”
“If only they weren’t so cursed ingenuous,” Lanna said. “A part of me wishes I had three varvax diplomats, a card table, and a host of ‘useless’ technologies I could cheat out of them.”
“That’s the problem,” Jason said. “There’s a little of that in all of us.”
“What if they’re wrong, Jason?” Lanna asked. “What if we do get FTL travel before we’re ‘civilized’?”
Jason didn’t reply—he didn’t know the answer.
“I looked up the kid for you,” Lanna offered.
“Go on,” Jason said, rising and gathering his things. The attack the day before still had him worried. Was it an attempt to scare Jason off? From what?
“The day you left, a young UIB agent named Coln Abrams disappeared from the Bureau’s training facilities on Jupiter Fourteen,” Lanna said. “He stole some sophisticated monitoring equipment. The UIB put out several warrants for him, but they aren’t looking this far—apparently they didn’t expect him to make it all the way to Evensong.”
“It isn’t exactly a prime vacation spot,” Jason noted, strolling over to the window and trying to imagine what the city would look like to normal eyes. It would be dark, he decided—most of it didn’t vibrate very much to him. Dark and tall, like a city constructed entirely of alleyways. Lights were sparse and insufficient, and the air smelled musty. It always seemed to be a few degrees below standard temperature too—as if the vacuum of space were closer, more ominous, than it really was.
“So,” Lanna said, “we’ve got a wanted felon. Can we turn him in?”
“No,” Jason said, backing away from the window. He put on his suit coat and slid on his dark glasses.
