Authors: Alan Dean Foster
Or buy premixed. That was even more profitable than the customized music in which Huachuco’s stores specialized.
His door buzzed and Cina stepped in. She was pretty and efficient and had been with him since the opening of his second store.
He’d made her a vice president.
She brushed at her blond surgical transplants. “That Collar’s here to see you again, Paily. The padre?”
“Cina, I told you to deal with him yourself.” Paily indicated his desk. “I don’t have time to talk to chariters. I’m trying
to pare down the margin on Hokusai’s next delivery by another quarter percent and you’d think I was prospecting Mons Olym-pica
without an airsuit. The stinking tight-assed Hivers don’t want to cut an eighth on a single
cancion”
“He won’t talk to me and he won’t go away.” She waited immovably.
Huachuco briefly considered having the obnoxious solicitor unceremoniously heaved pavewise, but if he
was
a bona fide man of God, however much his approach and timing sucked, someone might see. Or worse, take a recording of the
incident.
“Mierde:
send him in. I’ll get rid of him.”
Cina wafted. Her space in the doorway was filled a moment later by a short man in a brown business suit. His jacket’s integral
hood was pushed back off his head to reveal the white collar. He wore his black hair cut short all over and had more Indio
in him than the average Strip dweller.
“Why do you keep pestering my people,” Huachuco said belligerently. “No, don’t sit down. I don’t have time for this.”
The Collar considered his host calmly. His attitude verged on the patronizing. Huachuco took an instant dislike to him.
“Everyone must make time for God’s work, my son,” the visitor declaimed solemnly. He had a scratchy, accusatory tone on which
words splintered like thin sheets of glass underfoot.
It did little to engender any empathy on the part of his impatient audience.
“I’m not your son, padre, and I don’t believe in God. I’m a businessman.”
“God is also in business: the business of saving souls. Those who avert their eyes from the pressing needs of the poor would
do well to look to their own.”
“Hey, I look after the poor. We have a big sale at least every other week. Tell you what: why don’t you bring your parishioners
in next Saturday for our monthly half-off? If you have any, that is.”
“We of the Order do not preach in the obscenely moneyed halls of the great churches. We do our work quietly while embracing
worthy individuals such as yourself, so that the contributions so generously made in our name may be guided straightforwardly
to those most in need.”
“Like yourselves, maybe? Go on, get out of here. I have work to do. Go vend your shtick on Centrale. If you show yourself
here again my security people will put you nearer heaven for at least three seconds. That’s how long you’ll be airborne before
you kiss the pave.” He bent to his work.
His expression stiff as his collar, the visitor stood. “Our Lady does not take kindly to those who mock the Lord.”
“That has a nice ring to it. I’m sure one of our pro mixers can set it to trip-trop for you. But if you’re not going to buy
anything, you’d better get out.”
The brown-suit departed. Without any yelling or cursing, for which Huachuco was grateful. Ill-considered obscenity was tiresome.
The pave was home to some wild evangelicals, he knew. From the traditional End-of-the-Worlders to the more trendy Oceanics
and the Silicon Surfers. He’d really have to take a moment to dictate a formal memo to Security, directing them to be more
selective about who they admitted. Though you had to watch it or the Equops would be all over you, claiming you’d failed to
provide equal and unprejudiced shopping opportunities for left-handed lesbian Rastafarians with Down’s Syndrome, or something
similar.
Musik-Niche stores never closed, but the administrative staff worked normal shifts. Except for Huachuco, who frequently stayed
at his desk far into the early hours of the morning. That was how you built a business: by being the first one to open and
the last to close. It was up to the boss to lead by example. Besides, Huachuco enjoyed his work. He liked drafting memos and
scanning reorder sheets and negotiating for store space and licenses.
It was suddenly and unexpectedly much brighter in his office.
She was exquisitely, ethereally beautiful, and she hovered several centimeters off the floor as she gazed mournfully down
at him. Her perfect face was unlined and unblemished, the nose sharp and Semitic, the large liquid eyes overflowing with unabashed
concern. Her immaculate white robe, pure as unsullied chalcedony, covered her from head to sandaled feet in the fashion of
an earlier time. She wore no jewelry or other form of artificial adornment. She needed none.
Huachuco leaned back in his chair and considered the specter. “That’s good. That’s very good. I have to admit it: you’re the
best holomage I’ve ever seen. But then you’d have to be to convince so many people. Or do you think I don’t listen to the
pave rave? Tell me: where’s the projector? Hard to believe it’s a portable; you’re too dense. Talk about steady-state renewal:
I can’t see through you at all. They must tap into a building conduit nearby. Do they have to steal crunch as well as power?
Sustaining your configuration, not to mention moving you around, would take a
mass.”
“You have no faith,” murmured the female figure in a gentle, disapproving tone.
“You’re right there.” He raised his voice slightly. “Listen, you
vacantes.
When I opened my first store I had some stupid
pendejos
in every other night trying to hold me up for protection money, or just to see what they could steal. After I sent the first
couple to the hospital and one to the morgue the word got out on the pave not to mess with Paily Huachuco. I guess you haven’t
been around long enough to get the word. I’m
not some dumb convenio store owner you can frighten with words and holos.” Leaning forward, he casually thumbed a switch on
his desk. A loud hum filled the room.
“Know what I just did? First, that’s a straightline to the local precinct station. My friendly ‘hood federales will be on
their way here in thirty seconds. Second, it snapped up a scramble cage around me. Anything electronic tries to slip through—holo,
virus, bacterium, lethal charge—it gets reducioed like an electric chicken. You want to try gas, I got a mask in my desk I
can put on faster than you can spit. I don’t see your holo carrying no gun, so I won’t even tell you how I handle that.” He
checked his chromo. “You better get moving. The feds will be here any minute.”
The mage continued to regard him with sorrow. At that moment the door opened and the night manager poked his head in. Huachuco
hastened to reassure his assistant.
“Check this out, Benny. It wants prayers and money. Bet you can’t guess which it wants
primero.”
The older man crossed himself reflexively, much to the disgust of his boss. “You… sure it’s just a projection, Paily?”
“Not you, too? The feds will be here soon. Be sure and let ‘em in fast. If this thing will hang around for another minute
or two maybe they can track it to its generator. That’d put a permanent end to the irritating visits from our most persistent
local collection agency.”
The figure radiated serenity as it drifted toward him.
“This should be interesting,” Huachuco said expectantly. “I’ve got the scramble up. Will it come apart, make lots of pretty
sparklies, or just disappear?”
“Paily…” the manager began uneasily.
“Relax, Benny. Go back to work. Tell everybody what’s sequencing so they won’t freak when the feds show up at the front.”
The night manager hesitated, unable to take his eyes off the beatific floating figure.
It impinged upon the scramble screen. And drifted through it.
There was no combustive flash of light, no coruscating disruption of the holomage’s structure. The figure simply passed through
the screen as though it didn’t exist. Huachuco’s gaze narrowed as he grabbed for a drawer in his desk. When his hand reappeared
it held not a gun but a small rectangular plastic box. There were buttons on the end he gripped and LEDs on top. He thrust
it out in front of him, a portly Van Helsing preparing to ward off a persistent phantasm.
“You know what this is?” he blurted, his voice still strong. “It’s a fed box disruptor. You touch the tip to a box, a board,
a vorec receiver, a projection of any kind, and it sends a coherent static charge back through the box net to the control
source. Turns it to mush. It makes a scramble screen look like a toy. Now get away from me or I’ll sludge your whole operation
at one touch.” He peered past the incandescent female form. “Benny, see if the feds are here yet!”
The manager found himself unable to move.
A delicate feminine hand reached toward the owner, who started sliding backward in his chair, the now wavering disruptor held
out before him. Refulgent fingers closed upon the plastic. One made contact with Huachuco’s hand. He felt pressure, slightly
warm though cooler than that which would have been produced by a normal human hand.
The disruptor began to melt, the plastic to run hot and liquid in his grip. He flung it aside when it started to burn his
fingers.
“Benny!”
The night manager stood staring.
The melancholy expression on the flawless face never changed as both arms reached out to embrace Paily Huachuco. Mouth ajar,
he gaped up at it. Then he twitched, just once, and slumped in his chair, his head lolling to one side, seeming to melt a
little; not unlike the disruptor.
A trembling Benjamin Martinez fell to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him, his head bent as he began to pray. He
prayed faster as the figure turned and drifted toward him.
Outside in the store below one of the sales clerks was debating with the three federales who had just arrived. As bemused
customers looked on she turned and pointed up toward the executive offices on the second level.
The seraphic figure reached Martinez and extended a hand.
“Please. Please, God,” he murmured desperately. “I have a wife and two children.”
The Virgo Gloriosa placed a glowing palm on his forehead. He felt an infinitely light pressure tilting his face up and back.
The Madonna smiled reassuringly at him. “Those who give to those who have devoted themselves to helping the needy have little
to fear, in this world or the other. Least of all from me.” The voice was music incarnate, pristine and refreshing as clear
mountain waters. Then it vanished, a quick fade to nothingness.
Weapons drawn, the feds burst into the office. One tried and failed to coax Ben Martinez off his knees while the others examined
the motionless form of Paily Huachuco. It was a brief examination, lasting only long enough to ascertain for certain that
his heart had stopped.
The wiry figure in the brown suit slipped the cowl back off his head the better to study the storefront. It was new, the location
having been completely remodeled and popped only a couple of weeks ago. There were no windows, but that was to be expected
of a shop that specialized in guns and other means of self-defense. If such an establishment could survive in so dangerous
a neighborhood, it promised to be highly profitable. Profitable enough, surely, to spare a small percentage of its monthly
gross for a worthy charity. He checked his collar as he ambled toward the entrance.
The store’s security was impressive. Just inside the outer door armored vits scanned him visually while other sensors
checked him for concealed weapons. Only when the system was satisfied was he admitted past the second, warhead-proofed inner
door.
The place was much bigger than he’d expected, and full of customers. Most encouraging. The male and female staff looked competent
and active. No doubt they were adept at manipulating the same devices they sold. Drawn by her brassy blondness, he chose the
most attractive of the female personnel to approach, his mind toying with decidedly impious thoughts.
“Pardon me, but where can I find the owner?”
“Is there a problem, padre?” She was polite without being deferential. He kept his eyes on hers.
“No, no problem. I only wish to speak with him about a contribution to our Order and its program of public works.”
She sneered. “Good luck.
Padron
Cardenas ain’t real free with the dinero, either his own or the business’s.”
“I can only try to persuade him.”
She shrugged, thumbed a pickup. “I’ll find out if he’ll see you.”
The visitor pretended to ignore the conversation that ensued, until the saleswoman turned back to him.
“He says because we’re new in the ‘hood he’ll give you three minutes.”
“I heard. Which way, please?”
She gestured. “In the back, past the bioweapons cooler. I don’t suppose I can interest you in a chili gun? We’ve still got
a few left from our opening week special.”
He smiled tolerantly. “I have no need of violent devices. Our Lady watches over me.”
“Glad to hear it. Good thing she doesn’t watch over everybody or we’d be out of business. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re on
partial commission here and I think I see a mark with money.”
He raised an open palm by way of parting. “Bless you, my child.” I’d like to bless you for about an hour, on a hard floor,
he thought crossly, but that wouldn’t quite be keeping in character. Business
primero.
The black laminate carbide inner doorway was blocked by a huge dark man with an expansive glower. A repeating pistol made
a prominent knot on his hip. Collar and cowl notwithstanding, he gave the visitor a thorough once-over before passing him
on. There was no need to check for weapons, the sensors at the main entrance having already seen to that.
The inner office was swollen with a surprising amount of tech. There was nothing readily recognizable as a desk; only a chair
occupied by a small, muscular man who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. A prominent, drooping mustache that
gave him the appearance of a jaded basset hound underlined startling blue eyes and a small but jutting chin. He wore a neat
charcoal-gray business suit with pink vertical stripes down the right side and a matching filigree-pattern shirt. When he
gestured, the three huge rings on the middle fingers of his left hand shifted like platinum, not silver. The visitor was much
encouraged.