Trouble Magnet (13 page)

“Okay,” Missi conceded. “So maybe the police aren’t alerted. These Goalaa people, whoever they are, aren’t going to be real happy about being scrimmed. They’re going to want their goods back. They’re going to want
us
.”

Chaloni shrugged it off. “How active can they be looking for us without drawing attention to themselves? And who knows Malandere better than we do? These people are out at Tethe, not down here in the guts like we are. Missi, you grew up here. Dirran, Sal, Zezu, Subar—all of you did the same. It’s not like we’re a formal organization. Just a bunch of friendlies who vent together once in a while.” He was almost laughing aloud. “They won’t be looking for a bunch of
kids
. They’ll think it’s another seriosity like themselves, or maybe some flipped police, or some group working with port authority. Not only won’t they
find
us, they won’t even be
looking
for us.”

“History from Earth.” Dirran was transposing aloud. “I’d almost be worth the spine just to hold a piece of that.”

“Yeah,” Chaloni quipped. “Hold it for a month or so, and then screed it.”

Dirran exchanged a glance with his girlfriend, then looked back at their leader and nodded once. “We’re in.”

“’Course you are.” To Chaloni, clearly, their participation was never in question. “Sal?” The giant likewise nodded. Without bothering to ask the beautiful slackness that was Zezula, Chaloni turned to Subar. “Kid?”

Used to the snub, Subar let it pass. “Sure thing, Chal. Sounds like a stim deal.” Privately, he was increasingly nervous. It all sounded too easy, too pat, too straightforward. Too good.

But maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was worrying needlessly. He had never heard Chaloni spell out a boost in such detail. No question but that the older youth had put an enormous amount of thought into the proposed scrim.

The only problem, Subar knew, was that the brain that had done all the thinking belonged to Chaloni Taher-a-zind who, while slick and sharp and clever in his own street-surviving way, was no
summa cum laude
graduate of the wider School of Life.

CHAPTER

8

They could have been ready to go within a day, but to his credit Chaloni was taking no chances. For one thing, certain special appurtenances had to be acquired and prepared. Furthermore, all such acquisitions had to be made in Cormandeer, Visaria’s second-largest city. It wouldn’t do, Chaloni explained, to buy anything locally because that would make their purchases too easy to trace. Passing themselves off as a married couple, he and Zezula undertook the journey. They made the buys via crypted electronic transfer from independent sources so that there was no face-to-face, and, when they were ready, brought them back.

That was when the real preparations and rehearsal began. Though Chaloni was upbeat throughout, particularizing instructions and assigning individual tasks, the strain eventually began to show. Not because he was having second thoughts as to the nature of the plan or its chances of success, but because with each passing hour the likelihood of someone getting cold feet and backing out grew in proportion to their competence.

Four days later, everything was in place and ready to go. With final preparations complete Chaloni went over each individual’s tasks, assuring him of his confidence in them, and reminding them of what was at stake.

“More cred than you’ve seen in your whole life,” he was telling Subar. “More cred, maybe, than you’ll need for a long time. Than any of us will need.” Reaching out, he put a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder and squeezed firmly. “I know you can do your part. You’re the youngest, but you’re as smart as any of us, and just as tough.”

Whether it was a bold-faced tall tale or not, it had the intended effect. Subar was juiced. The adren was flowing in all of them to the point that successful completion of the scheme had become its own reward and making off with the goods almost secondary.

The building that housed Goalaa Endeavors was one among dozens of similar nondescript storage facilities that occupied block after industrial block on the outskirts of Malandere’s vast shuttleport. At two in the morning, the locale was devoid of commercial traffic. Diurnal haze had morphed into the nocturnal fog that drifted in nightly off the nearby sea. There were no moons out, both of them having sunk hours ago below the murk-laden horizon. For what Chaloni and his friends had in mind, it was a night made to order.

Alone, Subar approached the west side of the building. He did not mind being alone because he usually was, and according to Chaloni’s plan so was nearly everyone else. His situation was no more sanguine than that of Sallow Behdul, or Zezula, or Chaloni himself. That did not mean uneasiness was absent. But there was nothing for it but to head in when his chrono told him it was time to move. The consequences of abandoning his companions now, at this critical juncture, would be as dire as anything that could happen to him inside the building.

Assuming he could get inside.

It was dead quiet on the service street that separated the Goalaa warehouse from the storage facility opposite. There were no transports in the corridors, no skimmers plying the air routes overhead. They had the lateness of the hour to thank for that. Clad in the negsuit Chaloni had purchased for him, Subar hurried across the street to the truck-sized plastic container positioned up against the wall of the building. While all commercial refuse was properly incinerated and compacted on site, the resultant powdery material still had some recyclable value. Whenever it had filled to a certain prespecified level, the storage bin would notify its contracted automated pickup vehicle that the time had come for emptying.

Reaching the bright orange container, he nearly jumped out of his snug-fitting new neg when a pair of xuelms went whirling past. Mottled gray to blend in with the night, the nocturnal carnivores came rolling and bouncing down the street, their several dozen finger-length feelers fully extended, their eyes tightly shut against contact with the pavement. If a feeler contacted something warm and alive, the xuelms would instantly uncoil from their spherical form to envelop and devour it. By trolling parallel to each another, they could cover more of the street than by hunting individually.

Out on the plains of Visaria it was not uncommon to encounter packs of a dozen or more, rolling swiftly onward, sweeping a chosen stretch of veldt in a long, straight line. Keeping mostly to its less developed, less populated outskirts, some had moved into and thrived within the city, tolerated or ignored by its population. Unable to assemble in full packs, which drew serious attention from the authorities, a couple of hunting xuelms were no danger to anyone over the age of ten. Each about a third of a meter in diameter, this pair was no threat to Subar. Though they had startled him, they angled to their left to keep well away from the young human, who was more of a danger to them than they were to him.

Angry for allowing himself to be surprised by lowly xuelms, Subar turned back to the smooth-faced catchment and began to climb, using the activated suction pads attached to his hands and knees. As long as their storage power lasted, he could ascend a wall of vertical glass. The plastic body of the container provided a much firmer purchase. He went right up and over without being observed.

Safely on top, he withdrew the special mask from his small waist pack and slipped it over his nose and mouth. Goggles protected his eyes. Contact with the compacted refuse was unlikely to be harmful, but breathing in fine particles that might contain all manner of powdered toxic metals and other poisonous elements was not advisable. The check port was sealed, but breaking and entering were among the most basic survival techniques that he and his friends had mastered. A few practiced applications of several appropriate tools, and he was in.

He dropped knee-deep into fine, grayish white powder. It puffed up like talc around him, but his mask and goggles prevented it from entering his body. A quick search located the dump chute that fed the refuse container. Switching on his goggles, he entered the pitch-black conduit and started crawling.

It ascended at a steep angle that presented no problem for his suction grips. A check of the chrono showed that he was well ahead of schedule. The chute executed a few gradual twists and turns—nothing he couldn’t negotiate—before light became visible at the terminus. The sight was a relief. Though Chaloni had assured him that his prep work had shown that reduction operations at the facility took place only during the day, the thought of being confronted by a suddenly activated incinerator at the end of the crawl was one Subar had not been able to push out of his mind.

He emerged into a well-lit holding area near the rear of the building. Used packaging and other detritus was stacked on all sides of the reducer bed. Climbing out of it, he removed his mask and goggles, took a couple of deep breaths, and headed for the center of the structure. That was where any manual override for the building’s various alarm systems would be located.

Sure enough, a short jog carried him through a doorless portal and out into a much larger, three-story chamber. To his immediate left was a small, illuminated room. Inside were lit panels, floating vits, a couple of chairs, and several appliances. The room was unoccupied. That was not good. Keeping a security room lit throughout the night suggested that it was intended to be attended by something other than automatics.

As he turned to check behind him, he found a particularly large nonautomatic frowning down at him.

“Kid, what the borizone are you doing here?” The make of gun the man held pointed right at Subar’s chest was unfamiliar to him. Like its owner, it was impressively large.

Subar did not panic. He did not try to flee. Instead, he raised both hands, one holding mask and goggles, and smiled. “What’s your name?”

The man’s frown turned to one of puzzlement. “My name? What the hell business is that of yours?”

Subar affected a look of honest bemusement. “Don’t you want credit?”

“Credit?” Anger and uncertainty fought for dominance within the night guard’s thoughts. “Credit for what?”

“For doing your job. For catching me.” Subar gestured behind him, toward the open portal that led back to the refuse disposal chamber. “Could have been a few minutes quicker, but still pretty good.”

‘What’s this credit crola? What are you talking about?”

“You’ll find out.” Subar’s grin widened. “Take me to your leader, Mr., uh…?”

The man hesitated, decided he had nothing to lose by replying. “Harani. Quevar Harani.”

When the now uncertain guard didn’t move, Subar took the initiative, heading for the waiting security room. “Congratulations, Mr. Harani, and thanks for the name. I hate it when people who deserve credit for their work don’t receive it. Don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Thoroughly bemused by now, Harani fell in behind the youthful intruder he had captured. The guard’s weapon did not waver and the muzzle of his weapon remained fixed on Subar’s spine, but his thoughts as he escorted his catch toward Central were considerably more muddled than usual.

Boujon would sort it out, he decided. Meanwhile, he had tracked the intruder via the external and wall sensors and had taken him into custody. That was all the credit he needed, he felt. Unless…

Unless there was something more to be gained. Something he knew nothing about. The youthful, skinny intruder had given him no trouble, and had allowed himself to be effortlessly apprehended. What he
had
managed to do was plant a seed in Harani’s mind. Not of doubt but, just perhaps, of expectation.

Zezula entered the building through an upper-level vent whose seal yielded easily to the special reliever she carried, and whose built-in sensor alarm was disarmed in seconds by the burglary tool Chaloni had provided. It was a tight squeeze, but the shiny silver suit she wore was tight fitting enough not only to show off her exemplary figure, but also to allow her to wriggle her way freely downward. Using hands and feet and knees to apply pressure to the sides of the cylindrical tube, she made steady progress.

The drop to the second-floor landing that ran around the interior circumference of the building was less than what she was used to dealing with when fleeing across the rooftops of the city. Landing quietly on padded feet, she stayed low as she searched for a lift or ladder leading to the floor. The interior of the warehouse was equipped with motion detectors designed to sense movement where all should be still, heat sensors to locate heat where none should be radiating, and listening devices to record and analyze sound where silence ought to reign.

Just as appliances were available to cancel out unwanted noise, so Zezula’s suit was equipped with activated fabric that was designed to absorb the beams of motion detectors. They did not see her. The suit’s special outer coating was fabricated to completely hide her body’s heat signature. Continuously monitoring the landing along which she was running, the plethora of advanced instruments noted nothing out of the ordinary. Cushioned, sound-absorbing slippers not only allowed her to move swiftly and easily, but also eliminated even the slightest hint of footfall from her path.

Reaching a ladder well, she checked below. There was no sign of movement. Except for some far-off chatter, all was silent in the vast chamber. In the distance she thought she could make out Subar’s high-pitched singsong rising among other voices. Good. That meant the youngest member of the gang had safely made his way inside. She felt sorry for Subar, always gawking at her whenever he thought she couldn’t see him. He would have made an interesting kid brother, though his interest in her was transparently anything but filial. Sometimes she had to force herself to keep from laughing at him. His interest would have been pitiable, if she had any pity in her body, which she did not. Though he had no way of knowing it, she was doing him a kindness by ignoring him.

Making made her way down the ladder as quickly and efficiently as she had across the landing, she started for the nearest row of stacked and shelved merchandise. While the nature of some goods remained hidden within opaque packaging, the contents of others were clearly visible through the transparent coatings that had been applied to protect them. She wished she had time to linger over some of the inventory. Much of it was legitimate and familiar even to someone who was not exactly a sophisticated buyer. Some of it was exotic but not particularly exclusive.