Trouble Magnet (14 page)

Then there were the objects from Earth.

Even a casual visitor could have picked these out. There was the collection of twenty-second-century long arms, for example, with their simple clips of gunpowder-driven projectiles. Less physically impressive but far more ornate was the sealpak containing eighteenth-and nineteenth-century glassware. Nearby stood a translucent container through which life-sized marble carvings boosted from some ancient Terran temple were visible. An entire mounted saber-toothed cat fossil shared spare with an assortment of intact twentieth-century fast-food containers made from, astonishingly enough, not plastic or cellucene but actual treeboard. Even a quick glance at the shelves was enough to show that there was more, much more. The value of the smuggled Terran items she was seeing was beyond her ability to calculate.

Chal was right. This would put them in serious cred not for months but for years. Disposing of it would be no problem, either. Where there was this kind of cred to be totaled, there was always someone willing to take the chance of handling the marketing end of the business.

She turned right and headed for the back of the building. That was where the automatics that governed the internal alarms and power supply would be located. She was halfway to her destination when a voice hissed at her from the shadows.

“Stop. Do not move. Keep your hands high where they can be seen.”

The command came from a peculiar voice. Not only the pronunciation of individual words was strained, but the cadence was peculiar as well. Someone from the other side of Visaria, she decided, where accents tended to be thicker. Or else the speaker was an offworlder. No linguist, she couldn’t decide.

She could, however, recognize a life-threatening order when she heard one. Extending both arms, she thrust her hands over her head.

The figure that approached her was also wearing a techsuit, one as loose fitting as hers was tight. Oversized boots and a helmet with wraparound reflective face shield completed the speaker’s attire. There was nothing unusual about the pistol pointed at her, however. Letting out a tired sigh, she smiled thinly at her captor.

“Very good. You got me.”

There was a pause. “‘Very good’? I am confused. That should be my feeling, not yours.” The voice was oddly stilted, as if it was being filtered through a miniaturized but effective real-time modulator.

“Not necessarily. You’ll understand in a little while.”

One hand gestured. Rather elaborately, she thought. “I hope so. My momentary confusion, however, will not prevent me from shooting you if you attempt to flee, or otherwise provoke me.”

She nodded. “I’ll be sure to be careful, then.”

Without lowering the muzzle of the pistol so much as a millimeter, the figure backed off to one side. The slightly bent-over guard walked with an odd, shuffling motion. A relic of back damage incurred in the course of duty, perhaps. While these idiosyncrasies attracted her notice, they were nothing out of the ordinary. Irrespective of pay, she imagined it would be hard to sign the best people for a job like nocturnal guard duty. But a man or woman bent or otherwise disfigured by disease, damage, or individual genetics might jump at the chance to work where they didn’t have to interact with other people. She kept her hands over her head and her eyes forward as her captor marched her toward a well-lit chamber located near the center rear of the building.

Having observed Zezula’s capture via one of the warehouse’s dozens of carefully concealed surveillance vits, Boujon was waiting for them in the security center. Short, experienced, muscular, and proud of his competence, with a deeply lined face and what remained of his white hair standing straight up in a buzz cut severe enough to double as sandpaper, he was a troubled man.

The two young, well-equipped, would-be scrim artists standing before him with their wrists now secured behind their backs had entered the premises whose space and contents he was charged with holding inviolable. Even if they were ignorant of who was behind Goalaa Endeavors and felt the worst that could happen to them was that they would be turned over to municipal authorities, they ought at the very least to be showing signs of apprehension. Instead, the older girl wore an air of indifference as lightly as she did her negsuit, while the younger boy seemed impatient when he should have been nervous. It made no sense. It did not add up. Being a man who was proud of his ability to do sums, this disturbed Boujon no end. It found him concerned. It was beginning to make him mad.

“There’s something the matter with you two.” His gaze flicked back and forth between them. “Namely, that there’s nothing the matter with you two.”

“Should there be?” the boy replied. Apparently, the girl’s indifference extended to engaging in conversation. That, Boujon reflected grimly, could be easily rectified. For the moment, however, he was content to converse with only the junior of the pair.

“Yes,” the building’s director of nighttime security assured him. “At the very least both of you should be uneasy, not knowing what might be forthcoming and ignorant of your possible fate. Your future lies in the hands of someone other than yourselves. Me.”

“Well,
tnure,
” the girl deigned to reply casually.

Boujon glared at her. “Are you mocking me, you little slipslut? How about if I tell Harani to break a couple of your fingers?” Standing immediately behind the two captives and next to the bent-over shuffler in mask and loosesuit, Harani looked as if he would not especially mind carrying out such a directive. While Boujon’s threat did not appear to unsettle its subject, it did prompt the bound boy to take a half step forward.

“Everything will be explained real soon,” Subar hastily assured the security director. “You’ve done well so far.”

“I’ve done…?” Boujon’s eyebrows, which were as white as the rest of his hair, drew together in a melanin-free frown. “What the stasis are you talking about? What is this—some kind of suicidal school project? Do you expect to be graded on whether or not you’ve managed to boost the property of another? If you think this is a game of some kind, maybe I should have Harani start with
your
fingers, kid. ‘Real soon’?” He half rose out of his chair. “If you’ve anything else to say before I decide how to deal with the both of you, you’d better say it now.” He did not smile. “While you’re still in possession of the necessary speaking equipment.”

Inside, Subar had begun to panic, just a little. Then a couple of audible alarms went off and he was able to relax again.

Harani looked at his superior, who had turned to stare at a bank of floating control contacts. A pair of cornea-sized telltales had gone bright red. The soft beep of their aural counterparts filled the room. The sound was not overpowering: merely insistent.

“
Now
what?” a thoroughly irritated Boujon demanded of unresponsive listeners.

Harani spoke up helpfully. “Autorive delivery has gone into lockdown.”

Boujon growled without turning. “I can see that, idiot. Go and check it out. No,” he corrected himself quickly. “Stay here. You and Joh keep an eye on these two. Either of them tries to fiddle their bindings, blinks too much, or raises their voice, acquaint them with the inflexibility of the nearest wall.”

Harani stiffened. “Yes sir, Mr. Boujon, sir.” Nearby, the masked operative called Joh continued to hold a pistol focused on both captives.

Holstering his own pair of weapons—one an efficient restrainer, the other lethal—Boujon exited the office as soon as the armor door slid aside. He headed for the cargo receiving area that dominated the south end of the warehouse. What a night it was turning out to be! He needed time to determine the intentions of the two youths who had penetrated outer security only to be detained once they had made their way inside. Each had infiltrated wearing professional-grade equipment, apparently believing that would be enough to prevent their detection. Which meant they were either arrogant or just plain stupid. Not being old enough to have acquired much experience in the way of breaking and entering, they were apparently relying on their high-tech but far-from-omnipotent gear to see them safely through to their eventual goal. He assumed that to be theft.

He had considered calling for backup, but had quickly set the notion aside. First, because it would reflect badly on his abilities and second, because there was no evident need for additional help. Harani and Joh had secured their respective detainees with little effort and no resistance. It was a poorly organized supervisor who called for help before he needed it.

Were the youthful intruders aware of the secrets the warehouse contained? How far did their ignorance, or arrogance, extend? These were questions that needed answers. He would have them before the sun started to warm the urban haze. But first, the early-morning delivery that had gone into lockdown had to be attended to.

The transport remained where automatic detectors had secured it: near the entrance, with the main door shut tight in its wake and appropriate weaponry aimed in the vehicle’s direction. The autorive had, of course, no driver. This was the preferred method of delivery. Having no live driver meant there was no one on the transport in a position to pilfer its contents or divert the valuable cargo elsewhere. It was essentially an automated sybfile on wheels. Skimmer transport would have been faster, but skimmers required the presence of a live pilot to deal with the frenetic traffic lanes of the city.

Facing the transport, whose power had been shut down by building security, he saw nothing amiss. There was no one in the programming and emergency control cockpit, and the vehicle appeared undamaged except for the usual urban dings and scratches. Pulling his communit, he queried the warehouse’s AI.

“One-one-four, access code Blue thirty.”

“Code accepted. Please proceed, Mr. Boujon.”

“Transport arrival noted. Detail reason for security lockdown.”

“Manifest lists thirty-seven containers marked for delivery. Penetration scan shows thirty-eight containers. Resonance follow-up indicates one container of dimensions three by two by two contains an oxygen-breathing life-form of dimensions—”

“Skip it,” Boujon told the AI. With a sigh he drew his retainer, leaving the killing gun in its holster. Given the direction this morning had taken so far, he had more than an inkling of what he was going to find. “Direct transport to unseal and open for delivery.”

Following commands communicated by the building’s AI, the rear of the transport swung down to become a loading ramp. Approaching, the retainer held out in front of him, Boujon ascended halfway before making a casual gesture in the direction of the transport’s container-filled interior.

“All right, you can come on out now.” When no movement was forthcoming, he added impatiently, “Your container has been scanned and your presence detected. You have sixty seconds to come out or I’ll shoot into the container holding you.”

The satisfying sound of seals popping echoed softly through the transport’s interior. The figure that climbed out of one oblong container was wearing a recycler mask attached to a tiny bottle of compressed atmosphere. It was only when the intruder responded to Boujon’s crisp order to remove it that the security director saw that the latest interloper was as young as his two predecessors, albeit much larger.

Backing down the ramp, Boujon pointed with the retainer as he gave the newcomer plenty of room. He was a big kid, but clearly still a kid.

“Let’s go, boy.”

“Yes sir.” Sallow Behdul hesitated. “Uh, you want me to put my hands over my head?”

“Sure.” If he hadn’t been so annoyed by the night’s goings-on, Boujon might have smiled. “Knock yourself out.”

After running a hand-scanner over the oversized youth to check for weapons and finding none, Boujon marched his captive back to security central. One more intruder meant at least one more question. He looked around, studying the high walls and ceiling of the warehouse. Was this going to go on all night? He did not worry about what to do with his (so far) trio of captives. Their eventual fate could, conveniently, be left to a higher authority. What he was looking forward to was an explanation.

One thing he had already decided. The would-be thieves were not wholly unintelligent. Plainly, if the first two failed in their attempts to successfully penetrate building security, it would have been left to this last lummox to hide in his sealed shipping container until all was quiet and then emerge to hopefully make off with a valuable or two. Whoever had planned this intrusion apparently thought of their troops as expendable. That, at least, did make some sense. If one was going to send a couple of advance scouts on a suicide mission, nothing was more natural than to sacrifice the young, inexperienced, and ignorant.

If that was the intent, it had failed miserably. Did whoever was behind the break-in attempt think the owners of Goalaa were ignorant of modern theft techniques, and unprepared for such? A little judicious questioning of one or more of the three captives would reveal who was behind the futile, failed effort. Unless, of course, the trio had been thoughtfully mindwiped of that bit of incriminating knowledge before being sent on their way. Given what he had seen thus far, Boujon was not willing to credit the perpetrators with even that much critical foresight.

Still, one never knew unless one asked. Harani and possibly even Joh might be looking forward to the necessary inquisition, but the security director was not. Harsh questioning was ofttimes unpleasant and sometimes messy work, it was nearing the end of his shift, and given the peculiarities of this night he was more than ready to go home and flop into bed.

With all the activity in the building focused on security central, the rear of the cavernous structure was dark and quiet. That suited Chaloni just fine. As he descended the emergency ladder and tiptoed along the floor toward his destination, the night-vision lenses he wore allowed him to see in the dim and shadowy light as clearly as if it were noon. Impressively impregnated and specially woven, the chameleon suit that covered him from head to toe was fabricated not only to blend in with the color of its immediate surroundings but to bend any type of sensing radiation around its wearer.