GEM Co. Headquarters, Houston,
North American-Mars Federation, Earth
Admiral Chanarr Meng rubbed a hand over his bald head. He needed a shave again. He hated that prickly feeling of new hair growth. Leaning back against the warm, fur-lined chair back, he contemplated the wisps of clouds passing the window of his office. The huge, wrought iron carving of a 19th century galleon that covered the wall opposite his desk gonged softly. 0800.
Right on cue the oak-paneled doors to the left split down the middle. His assistant, Lu Chen, glided into the room with the slightest movement of pure silk. Meng had met her on the Jupiter colony, been impressed with her quiet efficiency and requested her transfer from the TransEuro-Asian Conference to N.A.-Mars.
A tall, black haired man followed her into the room.
Lu Chen bowed her dark head and announced, “Mr. Thomas Ford.”
“Thank you,” Meng said. Lu Chen left the room, the door sliding shut behind her. “Glad you could make it, Tom.”
Ford nodded, glancing around the room. His gray eyes apparently missed nothing.
Meng watched his gaze come to rest on the big ship clock. “Like it?” he asked. “Take it, if you can pack it out of here. The wife’s brother gave it to me. Ugliest darn thing. Can’t understand why people insist on giving me nautical things even if I am an admiral. Closest I’ve ever been to the ocean is flying over it. Sit down, son.”
Meng watched Ford fold his lean form into the big leather chair opposite his, the man’s every movement as lethally graceful as a jaguar’s. He had to wonder again if Ford’s inability to speak was congenital or if the man simply chose not to talk at all. Most people assumed he was deaf as well as mute. That’s what Meng was counting on.
“How’s the President?” Meng asked.
Tom nodded slowly.
“Good. Hope Jake doesn’t mind my borrowing you for a while.”
Tom shrugged. He reached into the pocket of his vest and held up a cigarette case.
“Go ahead,” Meng told him, flicking open the boat-shaped lighter at the edge of his desk. Another gift. As Ford lit his thin, black cigarette, Meng pulled out the control panel from his right desk drawer. “Just put the air filters on here if you don’t mind.”
A slight hiss then the steady rush of a vacuum, lifting away the heavy tar smell of the Martian brand smoke. Meng leaned back again. “Appreciate your helping me out. I’ll tell you the whole story, then you can tell me if I’m just a raving old man.”
Tom nodded, sliding open the ashtray on the arm of his chair. When he looked comfortable Meng continued.
“Just came across a strange memo. Suspect my assistant rerouted it my way but she’s not admitting it.” He lifted a sheet of paper from the desk, reading aloud, “All set. J4. Maneuver P into position. Done by BD 5-7. Mr. Clean.” He leaned over to hand Ford the sheet. “Took it off my drive, that’s the only hard copy. Addressed to The Man, whom I suspect is our chief negotiator, Renner Conlin.”
Tom studied the sheet for a moment. He looked up with raised eyebrows.
“Know it doesn’t sound like much but all the old juices are churning on this one. The last few months, been intercepting strange looks, people stop talking when I enter a room, odd memos like this. My gut tells me something is brewing. Figure J4 means Jidal IV. One of our hospital ships, the
Pasteur
, is there now. Could be the P that’s supposed to be maneuvered into position.” He paused and leaned forward. “Don’t mind telling you someone on that ship means a hell of a lot to me. Anything happens to her...” He paused to let Ford imagine it for himself.
Rubbing his head, Meng continued, “Here’s the part where you come in. Long story, huh? Thought BD meant birthday but nobody around here has May 7th. Think it means the Board of Directors meeting. Big hoopla for the year. Not just the board but division and department heads, spouses, kids. Lasts all weekend. There’s a pre-meeting party tonight. Want you there to see if you can ferret out any information. You’ll be my temporary assistant for the next few days. Lu Chen plans to be lying on some beach--won’t tell me where. If anything is going to happen tomorrow, I want to know about it. Any questions?”
Tom took a pen from his vest pocket, flipped the memo sheet over and scribbled on it. Leaning out of his seat, he slid it back to Meng.
Meng read it aloud. “Do you want me to watch anyone in particular? No,” he answered, “May be getting suspicious in my old age, but I want you to watch everyone. Anything else?” He slid the paper back.
Tom wrote again. The paper came back.
“Been trying to contact the
Pasteur
but haven’t gotten through yet. Getting worried about it. Not sure if it’s a communications problem or if something’s happening.” He handed back the paper.
Lifting his arm, Tom tapped the watch on his wrist.
“The party tonight is at 7:00. Anything else?”
Tom shook his head. Touching the butt of his cigarette to the paper, he watched it catch fire and tossed both into the ashtray. He got up, shook Meng’s hand and walked out the door.
Meng watched him leave. He hoped the man was as good as he was reputed to be. Jacob Montain practically swore by him. And if you couldn’t trust the President of N.A.-Mars who could you trust? Meng was beginning to believe maybe no one at all.
***
Hotel Interstellar, owned by GEM Co., boasted an arboretum filled with plants from every planet where the company did business. It made an interesting confusion of vines, fronds, leaves, needles and flowers set in anything from tiny ceramic pots to huge glass-enclosed environmental control chambers. It also made it easy to sneak up and listen in on conversations.
Tom Ford paused to inhale the deep purple scent of a lolanglin from Matia VII. He had arrived at the party early to check the entrances and exits, look over the security system, do his usual pre-event checklist. It really wasn’t necessary for this assignment but he liked to be thorough. The old man had been right about this being the hoopla of the year. The place had filled fast.
Food had to be the main attraction. Tables filled the lobby and lined the halls on three levels, all overflowing with fruit, breads, shrimp, whole sides of beef, small game, caviar, an entire mangron with its wings spread to a full twenty feet, salo balls soaking in morac juice, platters of Raman kilar keeping cool in crushed ice, and desserts of every kind. The bar was open with every type of alcohol imaginable. Tom had to wonder just how much work would get done the next day. And the bill must have been in galactic proportions.
Tom meandered through the arboretum, getting smiles and nods from most of the women, all dressed and bejeweled within an inch of their lives. He stopped next to a Zarvac tree to light a cigarette.
The old man had been very cagey that morning. And very worried. Though he had met the admiral on only a few occasions, Tom held him in the highest regard. He had been hearing rumors for months in his own circles about some kind of power takeover, but this was the first inkling he had that GEM Co. might be involved.
He accidentally caught the eye of a young blonde woman dressed in a tight black dress, slashed up one side past the thigh who sat on a wicker chair across from him.
She stood and walked over. “Your cigarette smells better than that corellia plant,” she said in a soft, southern accent.
Tom wondered that she could smell it over the heavy spice scent of her own perfume. He smiled and gestured to indicate he could not speak.
Despite the obvious glaze of alcohol, she seemed quick to understand. “You can’t speak? You poor thing. You know doctors can do wonders these days. I know this guy... what’s his name... Ladero or Fadero something like that, he works with brains. He could do something...implants or transplants.”
Tom nodded politely. He had been to numerous doctors. Psychological trauma, they called it. It might help if he could remember past five years ago. He could use computer assisting devices , but he got along without them. People tended to talk more when they knew he couldn’t.
“I notice the big boy isn’t here,” the woman was saying. “He usually takes a whole table of food for himself.”
Tom raised his eyebrows.
“Renner Conlin, my pig of a boss. Whoops,” she covered her mouth and giggled. “Shouldn’t have said that. You’re not one of his spies are you?”
Tom shook his head.
Leaning closer, she whispered, “They’re everywhere you know. I think Conlin wants the Admiral’s job. Can you imagine this place with him as Director-General? Oh, look there’s Conlin’s ultimate toad now. You can be sure Conlin will know everything that happens this weekend.”
She was looking at a thin, balding young man who had just entered the arboretum. The man glanced around and hailed a squat, curly-haired man who was shoveling food into his mouth at an alarming rate. They talked for a moment then walked off together.
Might be an interesting conversation to listen in on. Picking up an empty glass, Tom waved it in the air and pointed at the door.
“Oh, get me a double nebula smasher, please,” the woman said.
Tom nodded. Halfway to the door, he looked back, saw she was engaged in conversation with a couple, and slipped behind another Zarvac tree.
His two quarries stood about ten meters away. Someone chose that moment to turn the music up on the overhead system. Loud, off-key India Wave music flooded the room like oil poured over water. Tom walked by the two men and stopped behind a glass chamber with a bushy luffa plant in it. Pulling a round, skin-colored disk from his pocket he placed the disk in his ear. It took him a moment to filter out the other noises but he finally focused in on the two men’s conversation.
The curly-haired one was saying, “Mr. Conlin has had a lot of trouble with the operation.”
“I just got word that it’s going well now,” replied the bald one.
“How?”
“The Kaprinian was worth his price. He’s turned the bad luck to our advantage. Stirred up the Sclarians,” said Baldy.
“But what about the
Pasteur
? I thought that was the whole point,” Curly-top said, frowning into the half-empty plate in his hands. He must have lost his appetite.
“That was a problem. Dr. Aurelia tried to leave.”
“Bitch.”
“But Tahk took care of that. Now Mr. Conlin is working on that part of the plan.”
“So everything still happens tomorrow?”
“As far as I know.”
The two men stopped talking when the music stopped. Tom took out the disk and listened to the announcement.
One of the hotel officials was speaking, “I’ve just been informed there is a special report on the Worlds News System. We will be going to that on the screens. There are several around if you care to take a look at it.”
A mass migration from the arboretum began. Tom found himself right behind Baldy and Curly-Top in the outer lobby, looking up at the fifty-foot screen.
Kate O’Farrel, WNS’s main anchor, appeared on the screen. Her beautiful, patrician face and warm, Irish-flavored voice were serious as she spoke, “The reports from the planet say a group of Sclarians apparently opened fire on the crowd in the open square. They concentrated most of the attack on the Kaprinians who make up a large portion of the population of Jidal IV. We have not received any...” the newswoman paused, her eyes, flicking back and forth as though reading. “The Triad Council on Kaprine has just declared war with Sclaria.”
The rest of her words were lost in the eruption of voices in the lobby.
Tom leaned forward to catch Curly-Top’s whisper to Baldy. “They didn’t say anything about the
Pasteur
.”
Baldy shook his head, “Something has gone wrong. I’m going back to the office.” He turned to shove his way out of the crowd.
Tom turned to make his way to the door as well. He would have to send someone back to keep an eye on the two GEM Co. men. But the news from Jidal IV meant the President would be needing him. He was afraid they were in for a long night’s session.
Part II
Millie fought against the force pressing her eyelids shut. She had to get away from the flames. Hot. So hot. Mama? Don’t go. I promise I’ll take care of them. Please don’t leave . Breathe. I can’t breathe, Mama, help me. Oh, it hurts. Somebody please.
She heard the whisper then. It slithered between the flames and pain, cold and evil.
Go away. Leave me alone.
Don’t fear me, Mahealani. I can help you. You won’t feel anymore pain. I promise.
No. No. Go away. Help me, Mama! She struggled against the cold wrapping itself around her soul.
You will live. You are mine now, Mahealani. Remember.
She could feel nothing now but the cold. She was aware of nothing but the whisper. It stopped. She slept.
***
Aurelia glared at the little round bald spot on the back of Chief Rekhaan’s head. He leaned into the guts of a control panel in the engine room. Maybe a swift kick would get his attention. Leaning over, she yelled in his ear, “How long before the bay doors are open?”
Rekhaan did not move. After a few seconds of silence, he sat back on his heels, looking up at Aurelia. “They will be open when you stop interrupting me,” he replied.
“In case you haven’t noticed, they’re shooting people downstairs. You should have had this problem taken care of yesterday.”
A vein in the crew chief’s forehead bulged as he stood up. He dropped his scanner with a clang into the open tool box on the floor. “I have been working here all night. For your information, we have been sabotaged.”
“Sabotage? Who did that?”
“How should I know! I do not bother you at the operating table so do not bother me in my engine room.”
“What about the airlocks? Can we bring everyone up that way?”
“They just shut down again.”
“Damn.”
“I am doing my best.”
“Do better.”
As the door slid shut behind her, Aurelia, glad to be free of the hot, oily smell of the engine room, gulped in fresh air. She tugged at the cuff around her wrist. It moved about half a micron. It itched. Dammit.
Who would have sabotaged the
Pasteur
? Althan Tahk. The strange Kaprinian’s image came to mind. Had he been on the ship? Why would he sabotage them?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the announcement: “Dr. Aurelia to the C.C. Dr. Aurelia.”
She reluctantly put one foot in front of the other. Was this ever going to be over?