At the door, I spent five minutes running the fake ID over the scanner, wiping it off, scanning it, bending it, scanning it again. I kept a dopy expression on my face. She managed to do the same, but I could feel the tremors of nerves through the air. She still needed practice in this.
Eventually, someone walked by inside, saw the movement and opened the door. I looked stupid, and in a slow monotone said, “It’s no workin’.”
“Do you know where to get it replaced?” He was security of the generic type. Older, probably retired. Merely a uniform, badge and scanner to provide official color.
“No,” I said, keeping to my cover.
“Pass and ID office is in the front foyer on the mezzanine half, left side, through the glass doors. They open at eight a.m.”
I stared blankly, then nodded slowly.
The man sighed and moved on, muttering about “‘tards.”
We started to park the dumpster and he called back, “Hey!”
“Whu?” I said, hoping it was nothing serious.
“Why’n’t you use her card next time?”
“Oh.”
He sighed and kept walking.
Once he was out of sight, Silver pulled the pack from the protective plastic. It was still mostly clean. I led the way, having memorized the map.
We went up stairs on padded feet, I shimmed a maintenance door, she picked a secured padlock in ninety seconds flat with a rake, tension wrench and magnetic coder, then we were in the far upper mezzanine where the ventilation systems were. I checked by eye and number. That one there.
Silver trembled after crossing the catwalk. Heights were definitely not her thing. She didn’t hesitate, though. Good troop.
We pulled a cover quickly, used a foam block to stop it slamming, then fastened the dust dispenser to the inside wall, up out of reach. Rather, she did that, showing long, sinuous curves through the filthy coverall. The device was a drum with a radio triggered servo. The drum looked like an antiseptic dispenser. It had fake wires that led to an area near one of the outside boxes, where she cut them and jammed them into the insulation so they’d look deliberate. A drop of cement to hold them, and we closed up carefully to avoid any loud noises. The dust was mildly antiseptic and harmless, so even if it was discovered, there was a good chance it would be left alone. Its purpose wouldn’t be apparent to anyone.
We skinned out of the coveralls to regular clothes, a bit sweaty, and wiped the fake grease from our hair, until it turned back into styling gel. A flip of her comb and a wipe of our faces and we were normal staff. The badges went on our pockets. The pack and coveralls went into a fresh trash receptacle for some real menial to dispose of after a few liters of real trash found their way atop. Silver kept a handful of tools in an apron and pockets, and we went about hiding a spare transmitter, in case we couldn’t get our main one in.
Then we slipped out the back, faking punching out on the time scanner en route, and wove back out onto the street. It was cooler by then, but not bad.
She grabbed another small pack from a deep shadow under a bush. A quick trip into a chippy for a laborer’s snack and the bathrooms, where we put on clean shirts more appropriate to our tourist status, and took a ricktaxi back to the hotel, munching fish and chips as we went. Their local whiting is so-so. It probably has to do with both the environment in general, and the lower and different brine concentration of their oceans, than Earth’s.
I cleaned up and went to bed, running through mental practice for the upcoming face-to-face. I was interrupted a few segs later by cool, damp, firm breasts against my spine.
“Uh . . .” I mumbled and woke up.
“Sorry. I’m very unnerved. I need to hold something to calm down.”
I had suggestions on what she could hold, and dammit, I was not going there.
I gave her five segs. I could feel her heart pounding, slowing, reaching normal, and her warmth against me. When she seemed better and I couldn’t take any more, I gently detached, rolled out, climbed into the other bed, and said, “I need to sleep alone or I won’t be rested.”
It was literally and figuratively true.
Tomorrow I might kill a friend.
CHAPTER 6
The Technical Office at the Freehold embassy accepted Silver’s request. Of course, it’s not actually called the technical office. It’s not called anything and doesn’t exist. But, to her request, additional ID was produced, and we assumed identities as university analysts.
“They’re not happy,” she said.
“Oh?”
“They had a couple of people tagged for this. My mission code bumped them. They were going to be doing bona-fide espionage.”
“Well, I understand that. Did you apologize?”
“As much as I could through code groups,” she said.
Appropriately dressed in local suits complete to a tie for me and ruff for her, with a camera case and well-maintained and well-worn gear she’d picked up for it, we showed our ID thrice, were scanned and inspected and allowed in to the convention auditorium, with several thousand of our closest friends. The security was definitely above average. The inspections were reasonably complete given the time frame. Of course, Randall could have been inside for days already, with a rifle. We were betting on the up close, touch, though.
We were early, and found seats only three rows back from the rope. The rope was over a stun barricade, and was twenty meters from the platform. The platform had a stunstrip along the edge. Capital Police patrolled both edges. I wondered if they had tanglers in the gap in between. Possibly not. It was sculpted and colored carpet with the summit and sponsers. Behind us, the seats curved back and up in blocks with broad flat aisles for access.
I settled back. Silver wandered away with portable gear, shooting shots and pretending to cover the event and attendees. That wasn’t really what our passes were for, but no one mentioned anything. Once in the hall we were assumed clean. This would also apply to Randall, if he’d found some way to spoof any finance sector ID, which wouldn’t be too hard.
It was probably going to be a very long day. The ten targets would all be in this hall, all on that stage, sometime in an eight-hour span starting in two hours. They’d be other places, too, but crowded hallways were unlikely. He might target them out of their vehicles, but that meant either a long range shot, or risking being seen up close. I might do that. He wouldn’t.
It was the typical convention. Shuffling in seats led to expectant silence led to presenter with leading joke, introduction of the man who needs no introduction, who stepped up and made leading joke, commented on important issues of the day facing the finance information sector, followed by introduction of the first speaker.
Ms Cape took the podium, waved over her display, and brought up charts. She was a very good speaker, and I would have been fascinated if I could have followed more of it. I got the parts about M1 through M4 money sources. I understood inflation, deflation, purchase and sale of debt. After that, she was speaking Ancient Mesopotamian.
She talked for an hour. I’m sure it was all fascinating, but I had to pretend to be attentive, run my recorder, occasionally pan the crowd, while keeping an eye out for a threat that might not be there and could be invisible if it was.
So I played it as a journalist. I tagged the high points of her speech, summarized on a pad, noted the audience attention and response. That let me get into intel mode and study it by traffic analysis, cryptologic assessment, and such.
She concluded, there was a brief break, and I clicked my phone.
“Spell me at breaks,” I said.
“Observing now,” she replied. Good.
Breaks were good times for him to maneuver, with all the confusion. He’d have to avoid crowds, but the noise and movement would cover him, and if he wasn’t in the chameleon, it would handily fit in a large doccase.
I let my brain reboot, hurried to the restroom with a legion of others, bought a hit of oxygen from a kiosk, then hurried back. I resumed
my position, called Silver and said, “Back.”
“My turn,” she said.
The schedule was well-planned. Most were back in seats, or at tables, or up in el-boxes when the second presenter came up. I watched more intently. Mr. Rothman was one of my more likely targets.
He was also dry as stale toast.
He read in a monotone, flashing graphs with a remote, with little liveliness or presence. He could almost have been a hologram. He might be one of the most brilliant bankers in space, but he was not good at public presentation.
He was certainly important, though. All eyes were on him, and all kinds of notes and murmurs ran through the crowd. They stayed quiet, but never stopped. Whatever he had to say kept their attention. So I watched the curtained wings, the arching, scaffolded overhead, the gallery above and behind where more recorders and the lesser media loitered. It was a sleekly modern facility when seen from this side, though the working bowels were somewhat less impressive.
I was almost busted when the man next to me asked, “What do you think about that notion on logarithmic easing at inverse interest?”
“I’m just trying to get it all down at the moment, so I can follow up later,” I said.
He was bursting with excitement and wanted to talk further, but I shushed him with a gesture, made a quizzical face, scrawled a note, and checked my gear. He took the hint.
It was a tiring task, pretending to be fascinated by something I couldn’t parse, while trying to be a spy not looking like a spy.
Was that a faint shimmer on the stage? It might be. It might also just be airflow across the curtain. It was hard to tell at this distance. Nor did the video tanks show anything. They were zoomed in on Rothman.
I could get a little closer. I’d have to judge the time on this, because I’d have to go through his own guards to pull it off. There really wasn’t any way of keeping discreet after this. Direct intervention meant the masks were off.
I considered again waiting until the exfiltration phase, but that meant the bait would be dead, and his own security milling about. If I pursued at that point, I’d lose lead, still risk public visibility. No advantage.
But I didn’t know if Randall definitely intended to do this. Once I committed, I’d lose the lead.
This was the problem with aging. I knew the odds and didn’t like them. At fifteen they’d been a challenge. At twenty-eight, they were chains.
That shimmer was definitely closer, definitely not airflow, and this was a good time. I hit the button and nothing happened.
Of course he would have a damping field set up. I couldn’t trigger it from here. Or hell, it could be a security protocol in the Hall.
All I could do was try to slip in and wrestle with a ghost.
Silver was very good. She realized I was moving, deduced why, and she keyed something manually into her pad.
The air turned hazy with powder, and there was most definitely an outline there. Definite to me. Everyone else looked up at the vents. Every one of Rothman’s security detail. They were unreactive for over a second and I took marks off.
The shift turned into an outline swishing through the dust. He was slowed because he had to carefully maneuver around gawking people who couldn’t see him.
The security detail did react at last, closing in on the minister and shuffling quickly offstage, as masks came out. This clearly hadn’t been in Randall’s plan, and he hesitated. By then I was near the stage.
The press were in a mob to get photos of the spewing dust and the choreographed movement. I bounced on a chair, onto a cop’s shoulder and then to the stage. Lacking time for pleasantries, I jumped again and tried to hit Randall with a flying kick.
Tried to. By then he was paying attention, and dodged. As I passed by, he struck me in the calf, a blow that paralyzed the muscle but not the nerves. Jagged jolts of pain ripped through it. Between that and the swirling white dust, I was at a huge disadvantage.
The security detail turned to me, still not seeing him, and the press shouted and pointed because their cameras could see the distortion. There was obvious hesitation and trepidation about the crazy man fighting the ghost, but momentarily, the guards figured out what was going on. Half rushed the minister out. The other half came at me and Randall. Having no idea who was on the dance card, I was sure they meant to take us both.
But in the meantime, I was busy trying to stay alive and get the upper hand.
I had him right where he wanted me. If he couldn’t take this target, he could take me instead. That would be an object lesson right back the other way—the best Naumann had had failed. Why don’t you just leave me alone?
I was the better martial artist. He was near invisible. I’d trained for a lot of contingencies, but not that.
Then a blade came out of a rip in the open air, right in front of me.
I figured where the arm was, caught it and the mimetic material protested in spectral waves along his forearm. He tried to wiggle the blade toward my wrist, but I had the elbow, heaved, jabbed, and his own hand and knife cut the suit and caught something underneath. He grunted, and now there were two small apertures in clear air. I felt heat rush from them, and could smell the body inside. It was him.
He managed to kick me off, literally, with a heavy boot to the ribs. I never saw it, nor felt the wind up. Good kick, the bastard. I curled up with lances of pain reaching from my side to my balls and my head, my kidneys, and cramping down my thigh. He did the smart thing and ran.
I collapsed around my ribs, wheezing in agony. That hadn’t worked. I’d saved Rothman’s life, but that was less important than stopping Randall.
The guards then swarmed me.
Of course, they had no idea what had happened, other than I’d tangled up with someone in a chameleon. They were wisely not going to assume I was a good Samaritan, or that it was anything other than the two of us brawling. Their principal was safe and surrounded, I was down, the other fleeing and being pursued.
Silver did the right thing and stayed far away from me.
I made no move to resist when they stretched me and cuffed me, but I did utter some strange noises as my ribs grated. I was saved by a paramedic.
“Uncuff him, you bloody idiots. His ribs are broken.”
They uncuffed me, but kept muzzles pointed at my face. They seemed reasonably well-trained, so I relaxed and did nothing to disturb them. The medic started working.
“Sir, where were you hit?”
“Kicked, toe, roundhouse, between fifth and sixth ribs, left line. I can feel them grinding.”
“I need to put you on a backboard,” he said.
“I understand,” I agreed. There were three other medics now, and cameras all over the place despite the security barriers. Some were remote flyers, others just raised at high angles. I threw my right arm over my face, which was fine until they wanted to strap it down. I couldn’t really protest without giving away that I had an identity to hide, which most certainly wouldn’t fit with heroic intentions. I settled for eyes closed and slack jaw to look as little like the regular me as possible. The cervical support and forehead strap helped cover parts of my face.
I felt the splint inflate under and around me and set in place, then I was on a gurney, being wheeled out, and into an ambulance.
Okay, this was going to take work.
I really didn’t want to be interviewed. Randall might have sources in the government, and I certainly couldn’t have press getting clear photos of me. I was strapped to a backboard on a gurney, however, being wheeled into an ambulance.
It was crowded in the ambulance. The pneumatic splint plus gurney with all the monitors, plus the paramedic, plus a police officer cradling his stun baton just in case, made for no room.
I could conceivably escape the restraints. I could conceivably Boost enough to overcome the pain and disable these two, and the driver. It might result in a punctured lung, but that was manageable. The problem was, that would create a huge scene and make me a targe
t.
The only thing to do was relax and wait. Once at a hospital I’d have some resources and cause less of a scene, assuming I wasn’t restrained to a bed. Would they consider me a flight risk? Probably. I would.
We twisted through streets easily. They had the advantage of remote control of traffic signals and lane clearance. The trip was comfortable enough apart from the knives being stirred and twisted in my side. With focus, I dulled the pain down to mere trauma rather than a sword on a jackhammer. It was an impressive kick. I’d make the dogfucker pay for that.
The officer said, “Sir, I am directed to ask you for information on your activities.”
I said nothing. I didn’t think he’d try force in a moving ambulance with a medic at hand, but I was morally prepared for it if he did.
Nothing happened.
They rolled me into a hospital, and then into a secluded area. At least, being in a nicer area of the city, they didn’t have an actual detention ward.
I didn’t wait long, whether due to triage or police interest. They had the ID I’d been carrying, and it would read as valid without offering anything useful. I feigned disorientation and unconsciousness. I hoped that would work with all the monitors on me. To make it work, I focused on the throb to exclusion. It might limit my alphas.
I alerted slightly as I was rolled into an exam room. A doctor was waiting, southern Asian in ancestry, middle aged, good shape.
The doctor barely looked at me. “Ribs, no obvious sign of pneumothorax. Administer a neural block. We need to take care of that other case. Sir,” he finally looked in my general direction, “there are accident victims we must treat ASAP. We’ll be a little while getting to you, but you are in no danger.”
I said, “I understand. Thank you.” The cooperative angle would be my best defense at this point, and if I was in no immediate danger, I wanted them gone so I could depart.
I was still restrained, though, and there was a policeman in the chair next to me.