Grounded!

by Claremont, Chris

  Yet somehow the Wolfpack Nicole destroyed had managed to field a force of a dozen vessels and the support facilities to sustain them. No country could do it, doubtful even for a consortium such as the European NonFederation. No matter how the equation was structured, it always resolved the same: a force, an entity, with the fiscal resources of a country and none of the physical restraints, analogous to the expatriate government of Kuwait fifty-odd years back, driven from their homeland yet still operating a worldwide financial empire they used to tear the heart out of the Iraqi economy. Except that a project like this would beggar even those legendary wizards. Which left only one possibility, possessing the required capabilities, as Al Maguire had told her.

  Cobri.

  But suspecting wasn’t knowing, no matter how blindingly precise and seemingly inexorable the logic. And knowing wasn’t proof. And proof meant nothing when the exercise of it meant going up against the man who carried humanity to the stars.

  “Do you ever relax?” Siobhan asked as they stepped onto the Sky Terrace, with its window walls creating a matte-painting panorama of the glittering city beyond.

  Nicole offered a bemused shrug, with an expression to match. “I’m relaxed,” she said.

  “You may think so, my dear,” her mother said, companionably tucking her arm into the crook of Nicole’s elbow and pulling her gently close, “but I’d say you’re as far from it as can be. You know you never go anywhere anymore without looking about the room. What’s so funny?” Nicole was chuckling.

  “Think about it, Mom. Where I used to work, the rooms keep in the air. Lose your seal, lose your air, you have to be alert for the slightest anomaly.”

  “Always?”

  And Nicole thought back over the weeks to the initial attempt on her life, that supposed “accident.”

  “You never know,” she said, “when you’re going to be bitten on the butt. Like the Boy Scouts, it’s always best to ‘be prepared.’ ”

  “It must be hard, never allowing yourself to let your guard down.”

  You should know, Nicole thought, followed by a ruefully chiding: Nasty, girl, nasty; it may be true but does she deserve that? And covered herself, buying some time and space, by going to collect a round of drinks.

  This was a totally different crowd from the afternoon, and considerably less sympathetic. As she made her way to and fro, she heard comments she’d have loved to respond to, about the Hal and Russell’s policies, but she passed on by without a word, beyond the occasional “Excuse me,” and “I beg your pardon.” No one seemed to recognize her—all they saw was the uniform and the rank, which both instantly boxed her and dismissed her as some high-up’s dogsbody, too inconsequential to be worth noticing—for which she was grateful. She was too busy thinking about what her mother had said and realizing she’d been a little too hasty in her offhand dismissal of it. Yes, every astronaut learned—and carried with them the rest of their life—a degree of extra alertness to their local environment, but how she was feeling, what she realized she’d been doing pretty much the whole day, was far more than that. This was something Ben Ciari had taught her, what he called a “hunting phase.” She’d been on the balls of her feet—literally and figuratively—since landing this morning, body strung with a light tension that left it poised to move on command; in essence, she was ready for a fight.

  And when she met her father’s eyes, handing him his glass, she saw he’d recognized that in her, and her mother as well.

  “You never liked crowds,” Con noted casually, and Nicole shook her head as she sipped her seltzer, wishing it were tequila.

  “You’re the ones who thrive on center stage,” she said. “I could never get past all the poses and attitudes people feel compelled to strike.”

  “Including yourself?”

  She replied to her mother’s gently pointed aside with a nod of the head and a raise of her glass.

  “That’s a stance, Nicole,” Siobhan went on, “which betokens a certain intolerance. These aren’t ‘your’ type of people, therefore they aren’t worthy of your interest.”

  “That’s not fair, Mother.”

  “You don’t particularly like them.”

  “Some of them, there isn’t that much to like.”

  “Granted. That’s also no reason to automatically write them off.”

  “Who needs the grief?”

  “Knowledge, young lady. How can you even begin to deal with the Halyan’t’a”—and Nicole’s eyes widened a fraction at her mother’s perfect pronunciation—“when you can’t deal with your own species? What are you going to do when you find yourself flying with someone who doesn’t quite fit your standards of what is or is not acceptable?”

  “I’m grounded, Mom. Chances are I’ll never be allowed out even as a passenger. So neither figures to be much of an issue, okay?”

  “Nicole, stop it, you’re behaving like a child.”

  “What’s the situation,” her father interjected smoothly, as though the other conversation hadn’t taken place, deliberately catching Nicole before she could storm away, “with you and the Cobris?”

  Nicole shrugged. “I know Manuel and the two kids, I work with Alex, there’s an alert out for him over an incident we had back at Edwards last month. About which,” she added hurriedly, to forestall a question from her mother, “I’m not at liberty to speak. Why?”

  “Had some calls, your mother, too,” he said with a smile, “marginally discreet inquiries about a relationship between you and the boy.”

  “Christ, are you serious?”

  “One of the advantages of the cloistered life,” this from Siobhan, “it’s so easy to remain blissfully oblivious of the outside world.”

  “Also one of the advantages of being a Cobri,” Con again. “You don’t want something printed, it isn’t. Nobody has the resources to risk a serious fight.”

  Nicole rounded on him. “That’s not true, I’ve seen lots of stories over the years.”

  “Yes and no,” Siobhan said. “Manuel is no dummy, quite the opposite. The way to play the game is to preserve the illusion of openness. Raise no objection to the general run of articles—some pro, some con, some even tough as nails—but on some very specific topics let it be known without the slightest doubt that a breach of confidentiality will have the most severe repercussions. One case in particular, when he and his wife split, I think it was about a year after Alex’s birth—and bear in mind, a quarter century ago he wasn’t anywhere near the level of raw power and influence he possesses today—a London paper dug out what was reputed to be some very nasty gossip, complete with allegations of genetic engineering, possibly illicit nanotechnology. Story never ran. Within a year, two tops, the paper was history. Reporter who dug up the material just retired from a very cushy sinecure on the Cobri payroll.”

  “They bought him off?”

  “Him, yes. The editor, yes. The paper’s owner, prince to pauper in thirty months. I think his kids live on trash they scavenge from the Delhi Dumps.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Apocryphal, but true. Even my alma mater, that paragon of truth—and I don’t mean that anywhere near as nastily as it sounds, forgive me—the Guardian, has backed off on a couple of Cobri stories. It isn’t that we don’t run what we know, we don’t even try to find out.”

  “Find out what? What’s off-limits?”

  “I’ve been thinking, while we talked. Not the old man’s personal life—or rather, I should say, not his public personal life. I actually think he enjoys seeing himself in print squiring all these leggy, lissome creatures. And for all I know, gives them as good a time as I’m sure he gets. Interesting though, that not one of his companions has even gone public with an account of their time together. More interesting that not even the Asian or EuroScandal rags have made an offer for one. They’ll take on the British Royals without a second thought, but not Manuel. His work and play, they’re fair game. His private life, no. Not the kids’, either. Which is what spared y
ou, when you and Alex flew off to San Diego. Otherwise, you’d have been all over the networks gossip hour, plus tabloid front pages and magazine covers. Alex got you a free ride.”

  “Money talks, I guess. D’you know anything about that gossip, back when Alex was born, about his mother?”

  “She won’t talk, either. Whatever Manuel did to her, he made it worth her while.”

  “Out of the kindness of his heart, maybe?”

  “He has no heart,” Con said flatly, “and kindness is merely a means to an end, tactical or strategic as circumstances require.”

  “That’s cold.”

  “I’ve dealt with him, on a professional basis. Nothing nasty, nothing brutal”—he shook his head—“just the clearest possible sense of a man who knows exactly what he wants and what he’s prepared to do to achieve it. He analyzes a situation, and arrives at what he believes is a fair resolution, and executes it. And to give the devil his due, more often than not that settlement is quite equitable, he sees no need to actively cheat people. He also has virtually no comprehension of being refused. He’ll give you his price, or his terms, or whatever—with some room to maneuver on the margins, for form’s sake—and that’s that. Take it, period. No ‘leave it’ involved. He simply will not take—hell, won’t even conceive of—no for an answer.”

  Con smiled. “He got the usual description once of being a steel hand in a steel glove, but I thought then—and I’m convinced of it now—that misses the point. The remark always forgets he’s got two hands. One’s velvet, the other’s a spiked mace.”

  “Absolute power.”

  “Corrupting absolutely, as Lord Acton said? I’m not sure. He’s worked for what he’s got, that tempers a person. He knows the value people place on things, which is why his first instinct is to pay a fair price. Try to bad-mouth him, though, or cross him on a deal, and you won’t know what hit you... ”

  “Which is what,” Siobhan interjected, “happened to the English publisher I mentioned. A most injudicious attempt at blackmail. He wanted the status that went with owning the Times and demanded Cobri’s backing for the takeover.”

  “But got destroyed instead. You still haven’t answered my question, Mom, about Alex’s mother.”

  “No,” Siobhan said flatly. “I haven’t.”

  “What about Amy’s?”

  No response at all.

  “The references are oblique, and few-and-far-between, but at least Alex’s mom has some. About Amy, though”—Nicole shook her head—“not a word.”

  “With good reason.” But what that was, Nicole never learned, because as Siobhan spoke, Nicole pivoted so violently she almost decked a passing waiter, her father catching the poor girl as she struggled not to lose her tray of glasses.

  Nicole tried to fob off the incident with a wan smile of apology but at the same time her gaze was flashing about the room, taking in the space and the crowd in a sequence of distinct sectors, a moment for each, not knowing in the slightest what she was looking for, only that something had triggered alarms at the base of her brain.

  “Nikki?” her father asked, touching her elbow to regain her attention.

  She nodded acknowledgment but didn’t spare him a glance until she was satisfied the room was clean.

  “Sorry about that,” was what she thought she said then, what she meant to say, and believed she had—until she saw totally dumbfounded expressions on both parents’ faces.

  “I beg your pardon,” Siobhan said. “Nicole, why are you speaking Hal?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she started to say, then stopped, took a slow, deep, deliberate breath, and spoke the words again, this time making sure they were in English. “Son of a bitch,” she breathed when she was finished.

  “That was interesting,” noted her father.

  Nicole lay fingers across the crest of her forehead, over her left eye, as though trying to divine the state of her consciousness by simple touch, then slid them down to cover her mouth.

  “How did I do that”—still in the same soft and wondering voice—“I mean, I know the language—a bit, anyway—but a reflex like that... ”

  “A residue perhaps,” Con suggested, offering a drink, which she refused with a shake of the head, “from that genetic virus the Halyan’t’a used on Range Guide?”

  She shook her head more emphatically. “Dad, they never gave me the virus.”

  Without warning, that same flash struck again, a sense of wrongness, the world going fluid within and without, perspectives disorienting wildly so that she didn’t recognize anything or anyone she was looking at. Coming back to herself to find her parents a reflexive couple of steps removed.

  Nicole looked towards Siobhan, not trusting herself to speak. “You growled, Nicole,” her mother said softly.

  “Jesus,” under her breath. Then, a little louder, “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Things can’t be that serious.”

  “Mom, the President’s coming. If I’m having some sort of”—she groped for an appropriate term, then hurried on without—“episodes, I can’t afford to be in his vicinity. I’ve no guarantee they’re benign, or they won’t get worse.”

  “There’s a Hal coming,” Con said, before they could leave, “perhaps he can help?”

  “Kymri!”

  “Greetings, Shea-Pilot. I have yet to meet your parents. Whose presence does me honor.”

  “Our pleasure,” Con responded with equal formality.

  “We need to talk,” Nicole said, taking him by the arm, “something’s happening.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Away from here, as quickly as possible.”

  “That will be difficult. All means of accessing the ground from this and the neighboring levels above and below have been isolated by your President’s security.”

  She looked around, hoping to spot another route out, only to find the massive-bodied form of Arsenio Rachiim—his standard blues at odds with the full dress court around him—bulling towards her. In that same sweep, she registered—belatedly—at least a half-dozen men and women, civilian attire belied by the purposefulness of their movements, taking stations around her, creating a subtle but effective separation between the group clustered about her and the rest of the reception.

  “An explanation, Rachiim-Colonel,” demanded Kymri, with the casual authority of one used to an immediate reply. The Edwards Provost Marshal—though far from home and technically way off his turf—responded with equal courtesy and equal confidence in his own authority.

  “With all due respect, Commander,” he replied, refusing to be pressed in the slightest, “this does not concern you.”

  “What concerns Shea-Pilot very much concerns me.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but that’s a matter you’ll have to take up with higher authority. I’m allowed no latitude in this, and to be frank I wouldn’t take it if offered... ”

  “What the devil,” Con started to protest, as outraged at Rachiim’s ignoring him as by the situation itself.

  “If you’ll come with us, Lieutenant,” Rachiim said to Nicole.

  She nodded, quelling anything further from her father with a look and a small slashing gesture, begging silently to be allowed to handle this herself, thankful for the quick exit.

  She wasn’t taken far, just to a small office, moderately removed from the main reception hall.

  “You’ve found something,” she said as the door closed behind them.

  “Techs have been taking apart your electronics,” he began.

  “I know, ever since Simone’s death. And?”

  “Thanks to Tscadi, we’ve been able to interface a linkage with some Halyan’t’a systems. Their optics and visuals are a quantum leap beyond ours.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Your whole house was in effect transformed into a Virtual Reality chamber. Transmissions were piggybacked over the internal wiring, creating an invasive, pervasive field effect.”

  “Jesus.”
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br />   “Evidently the generator matrix resonated on a frequency that managed not only to be outside our sensor range but to reach directly into the subject’s mind, without need of the usual mechanical interface, skinsnug and helmet. Anyone in the house would have been affected to a degree but you were most susceptible, because the system was custom-configured specifically for you.”

  She had to sit. “Alex,” she began. “All the time we were working together,” another false start. “It got to the point where I wore the skinsnug automatically. He said the more comprehensive the subject data base could be, in terms of how my total instrument worked, brain and body, the more effective the Virtual Reality he could generate.”

  “He wasn’t lying. We’ve been trying to piece together the patterns that hit both you and Agent Deschanel.”

  “They’re still stored?”

  “Remember, your quarters have been physically off-line since that night. Whoever inserted the program had no means of removing it, short of physically entering the building and wiping it from an internal console.”

  “If my dreams lately have been any indication, I don’t think I want to know what you found.”

  “As far as the scenarios themselves are concerned, that’s probably for the best. Especially considering what we found at what we consider their source. That isn’t important. What is, and this is critical, is that there was a subliminal text appended to the primary structure.”

  “Brainwashing?!”

  “We’re not sure, but we can’t afford any chances.”

  “To do what?”

  “As near as we can tell, assassinate the President.”

  “That’s nuts.”

  “It’s there, Shea, take my word for it. Built along the lines of an absolute imperative. A reflex action triggered by physical proximity. No conscious thought would be involved. You’d see Russell and, bang, it’d be all over, with you wondering what the hell had just happened.”