Book 3: 3rd World Products, Inc

by Ed Howdershelt

  She redoubled her efforts to convince me with intense and circuitous reasoning, which only made her more closely resemble one of those televised religious hucksters. After a few minutes of that, I sighed and stood up.

  "I'm afraid that the answer is ‘no'. Thanks for stopping by, Ms. Harper."

  She kept pitching all the way to the door, but when it finally occurred to her that I truly had no interest in working with her, she turned into a verbal viper, castigating me for having wasted her time. I reminded her that she'd badgered me for the visit, but she was making enough noise on her way to the car that I doubt that she heard me.

  As Lynn turned to head toward US-19, Steph asked, “Have you come up with any valid reasons for distrusting her?"

  "I just don't like something about her, Steph."

  "Could it simply have been a personality clash? I've read about those."

  "Sure it could, Steph. In fact, I'd damned near guarantee it in her case. But we don't need her to look for sunken ships."

  Steph materialized her holoimage between me and the kitchen sink.

  "We? You're going to help me?"

  "If you wouldn't mind, yes. I don't know what I'll actually be able to contribute to your effort, but if you'd like a cheerleader..?"

  Steph grinned and said, “Sure! But is excluding her really fair? Wasn't looking for those ships her idea?"

  "Treasure hunting isn't her idea, Steph. It isn't even a new idea. If you want to search for sunken treasure, you can soak up all known info and go looking for it on your own. That ol’ girl just wants you for your body, ma'am. You'd dive, search, retrieve, and do all the scut work while Lynn sat in an office and took thirty percent of the find and a fat commission from selling the results. She's absolutely unnecessary."

  "But she mentioned a team of divers using archaeological techniques."

  "She doesn't know that you can use your field to pick up a dime on the sidewalk as easily as you could lift a small car, Steph. She thinks you're just a flying submersible pickup truck, and I didn't buy her spiel about archaeologists on the dive team. She said that wreck sites would be reported to appropriate agencies, but only after she's through with them. Her concern is finding treasure and turning it into money. She doesn't give a rat's ass about preserving wreck sites while there's gold in them."

  Elkor asked through my implant, “Are you particularly concerned about preserving wreck sites, Ed?"

  "Not the Spanish plunder ships. According to documentaries I've seen, the wood of the ships is usually beyond salvage for even archaeological interests, and things like cannons aren't worth enough to justify bringing them up by usual methods. I'd probably grab everything of saleable or historical value, sell some of the stuff and donate the rest to museums, then report the wreck site locations."

  After a moment, Elkor said, “Confirmed. At many such wreck sites, no efforts have been made to retrieve cannons and similar large fixtures."

  "Steph,” I said, “We have a couple of things to do this weekend, so you can start looking for treasure on Monday, if that's all right. In the meantime, you'll need to pick a last name so you can get some ID to open a Swiss bank account."

  "Monday's fine with me. May I use your last name, Ed?"

  "I don't think that would be a good idea. You're likely to be too successful and drive my taxes through the roof."

  "Well, then, how about 'Montgomery', after the actress who played a witch?"

  "You like those old shows, don't you? Okay, that one would work. You'll need a private, numbered account, and for that, you'll need some ID, like a passport. Tonight we'll contact the 'Citizens of the World' people in London. They supplied their passports to the Ugandan refugees in the seventies and eighties, and if Andrew Franks is still with them, he owes me a favor for saving his ass in Angola in 1978."

  "That isn't the way such things are usually done, Ed. This sounds somewhat devious and evasive."

  "Shortcuts usually are. On the other hand, the CW passports are instantly available and were considered valid enough to help a UN delegation get several political refugees out of a Ugandan prison some years ago. London's about four thousand miles from here and five hours different, so we'll make the trip last three hours and I'll catch a nap on the way."

  I packed a few things for the trip, including Tiger in his Elkor-carrier, an Army-issue field jacket and liner, my cowboy boots and backpack, and a sleeping bag, and we boarded Steph. We arrived at nine in the morning, London time, and parked in the street outside the CW office. When I stepped off the flitter, the early morning chill of late-February London reached me quickly despite my field jacket and boots.

  Chapter Four

  Ignoring the gawkers on the sidewalk, I left Tiger and Elkor aboard Stephie and went inside, where a cute—but rather skinny—secretary invited me to a seat near her desk. When I asked about Andrew, she informed me that Andrew had been retired for a few years and that his daughter was now running the office.

  When a sharp-looking blonde who looked vaguely familiar came out of the office a few minutes later, I stood up and said, “Hello, Krista. Do you remember me?"

  She froze and looked at me hard for a moment, then stepped back to just within the office doorway and took a picture from the wall by her door. Stepping back into the lobby, she compared me to the picture before putting it back on the wall.

  "Yes,” she said, in a clipped, formal British accent. “You seem to have aged fairly well. The last time we met I was about eight, I think. You were the ... mercenary ... who accompanied my father home from Angola, weren't you?"

  I nodded. “I was a mercenary medic, and you seemed a lot happier to see me back then. You certainly grew up well, ma'am. How's your dad these days?"

  She hadn't moved from the doorway, and by the secretary's nervous glances, I could tell that this wasn't the way Krista usually greeted her visitors.

  "Some of the old wounds still bother him,” said Krista, “But he's otherwise healthy enough. At the risk of sounding uncivil ... Why are you here after all these years?"

  "A ladyfriend of mine needs your kind of help, Krista."

  After a moment, Krista leaned against the doorframe and asked, “A ladyfriend, hum? Is this ladyfriend in trouble with the police anywhere? Or is she a mercenary, too? Could that be why she needs a passport? Her country disowned her?"

  I laughed. “No, it's nothing like that. She's not even two years old yet."

  The secretary chuckled and said, “The terrible twos and frenzied fours are the worst years before they reach fifteen, and then the real trouble starts. I know; I have two girls of my own."

  I smiled at the secretary's humor, but Krista didn't loosen up at all, other than to straighten and express a slight concern as she asked why I hadn't brought the child in with me.

  "Ah, well,” I said, “Maybe we should talk a little about ‘the child’ before I bring her in here. Could we step into your office for a chat?"

  Krista stepped forward and again gave me a hard gaze.

  In a firm, flat tone, she said, “You are—or were—a mercenary who just happened to be on the same side as my father in Angola, and that was too many years ago, sir. Meaning no disrespect, I have no idea what you may be today, and I'd rather not be alone in the room with you for the moment."

  I met her gaze and saw that this woman had a spine that was probably every bit as tough as her father's. I hoped that she'd have his heart, as well, as I called Steph to join us.

  "We may as well get past the introductions. Stephie, could you please pop in right about now?"

  Steph's tall, almost-Ingrid Bergman holoimage materialized somewhat to my right and said, “Hello, Krista. I'm Stephanie Montgomery. Ed told me that your offices might be able to help me."

  Krista backed a step and then another, until she was just inside her office. The secretary opened a desk drawer and had a small automatic pistol pointed in Stephie's and my general direction almost instantly.

  "Krista?” asked the secretary.


  Krista, staring at Stephie, didn't answer immediately, which prompted the secretary to ask again.

  "Krista? What should I do?"

  To head off Krista's response, I used my implant to send a narrow field to nudge the stapler on the secretary's desk. When the secretary glanced at it in startlement, I used the same field to quickly tug the gun up and out of her grasp, suspending it near the ceiling. Both womens’ eyes were fixed on the hovering pistol until I spoke again.

  "Krista,” I said, “We're here to see about a CW passport. That's all. Can you give us a few minutes to tell you why she needs one?"

  "You said she was only two. She doesn't look like a child to me. How did you take that gun away from Marlene?"

  "Never mind the gun. Stephie could look like an infant if I asked her to. Or if she wanted to. She could also look like a little old lady, but this is her preferred appearance. This is her chosen self. Can we talk now?"

  "I ... I don't know. Why do you ... Why does she need ... Our services? What is she?"

  I sighed and lowered the gun to the secretary, who stared at it briefly before taking it and rather fumblingly pointing it at us again. I turned to face Krista.

  "Stephie's just a person who needs some ID to open a bank account and become something other than my legal slave, okay? Unless you're in favor of slavery, you'll hear us out. It's that simple."

  She laughed. “Slavery? Just where might you be residing these days? In East Africa? The Sudan? How can she be a slave? She's not even human!"

  "Try West Florida, ma'am, and what we have here is a thinking, reasoning mind that happens not to inhabit a normal human body. In fact, she has to wear a vehicle license plate on her butt ‘cause she's residing in a flitter. I don't know that having a passport will change that particular aspect of things, but she needs some credentials to open a bank account and function independently in the world."

  With a small, nervous giggle, Krista asked, “She's a flitter? Are you having me on?"

  "No, I'm not, and this is becoming tiresome. All that you ever knew about me is that I was once on the same side of a conflict as your dad. I managed to get him to a hospital when he was hit and later I brought him home to Coventry when he was able to leave the hospital. That should be worth a few moments of your time, if nothing else. If it isn't, just say so and we'll get the hell out of your office right now."

  The secretary stood stiffly straight and almost stepped forward, but halted her motion when I looked in her direction. Her voice was icy and tense as she spoke.

  "We have damned good reasons for being cautious, Yank. There are plenty of people who really don't appreciate what we do because it interferes with their mistreatment and imprisonment of those who disagree with them or resist them."

  "Marlene,” said Krista, “He knows what we do and why. That's supposedly why he's brought his ... friend ... to us."

  Where Marlene's tone had been the stiffly formal tones of someone challenged, Krista's quiet, commanding tone was laced with iron. She stepped forward and indicated that we should enter her office.

  "Hold my calls, please, Marlene. I'll leave my door slightly open during our conference."

  "Yes, ma'am,” said Marlene, putting the gun down to pick up the phone. “Should I notify your father?"

  Krista seemed to consider that for a moment, then coolly said, “Yes. Certainly. Tell him that"—she referred to the picture on her wall—"Sergeant Howdershelt is here. Nothing else. I want to see how well he receives this event."

  Once Steph and I had been seated by Krista's desk, she sat down in the chair behind the desk and said, “Rest assured that I run this office empirically, not according to old debts or favors. You will now tell me precisely why this woman—that is, your flitter—needs one of our passports."

  Ten minutes later I had outlined Steph's evolution to sentience and her situation in general. Krista's expression still contained a trace of skepticism, but she reached in her desk drawer and laid a small sheaf of papers on her desk in front of Stephanie.

  "These forms will require various information and your signature. Can you hold a pen, or would you have to use some other means of creating a signature?"

  Stephanie matched her gaze and quietly said, “I'm perfectly capable of operating an inkpen."

  My implant tingled slightly as the pen in the wooden holder on the desk lifted a few inches and drifted to the papers. Stephanie's image put her hand to the pen and began to fill in the blanks as Krista watched intently, then Krista looked sharply at me.

  "You aren't doing this for her, are you? Which of you disarmed Marlene?"

  "That was me,” I said. “But this is Stephie."

  "And just how might I know that to be the truth?"

  I sighed and said, “I guess you can't know that. Maybe if I left the room?"

  For just a second or so, Krista hesitated, then she said, “Yes, please. I'd like to talk to Miss Montgomery alone, if you wouldn't mind too terribly. Close the door behind you. If you'd like tea, Marlene will find you some."

  I nodded and stood up, but didn't immediately head for the door.

  Stephanie looked up at me and said, “I'll be fine, Ed. Go ahead."

  Through my implant, she asked, “Should I leave this link open?"

  I left the room, pulling the door shut. Pausing outside the door, I whispered, “An open link would be too distracting, if not for you, then for me. You can handle this, Steph."

  "But we've always..."

  "No buts. This woman is already suspicious enough of me. If she thought I was coaching you, she'd turn you down instantly and without further discussion."

  Marlene got to her feet as I approached her desk. At least she was no longer armed as she turned to face me.

  "Would you like a refreshment? A tea or a Coke, perhaps?"

  "I drink coffee,” I said. “And I have some in the flitter. Back in a few."

  "I'm quite sure that under these circumstances Krista would prefer that you remain where you can be seen."

  I stopped halfway to the door and turned to face her.

  "Just in case I'm somehow controlling Stephie, you mean?"

  She didn't back down an inch. “That would seem likely, wouldn't it? Not that we can be sure of anything, anyway, really. You might somehow be controlling her now."

  I came to sit by her desk and said with a grin, “Gee, you Brits used to be such a trusting bunch. What happened?"

  She grinned back at me and said, “Maybe too many Yanks have tried to diddle us. How did you take the gun from my hand earlier? And how did you hold it near the ceiling?"

  "Magic,” I said. “Plain and simple magic."

  "I don't believe in magic."

  "Well, then, how about Amaran technology? It's the same thing to most people."

  Her smile broadened. “Yes, that I can believe. How did you...?"

  A big man burst into the office at that moment and spotted me. He was Andrew, but not the same Andrew I'd carried and dragged through several miles of Angolan scenery. This Andrew was at least fifty pounds heavier, balding, and using a cane to quickly traverse the room.

  He yelled, “Jesus on a great big stick! It is you! What the hell brings you here? How are you? When did you get in?"—and by that time, he'd reached me.

  I'd stood up as he'd trundled across the room. He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed for some seconds, then backed off a pace and stared at me.

  "Well?” he asked, “Should I believe you came here just to see me?"

  "Nope. I came to see that good looking blonde in the other office."

  He shook his head and grinningly said, “Wrong. That's a great looking blonde and she's my daughter, so behave or I'll use this damned cane on you."

  Krista poked her head out of her office and said, “Oh, good, you're here. Keep him occupied, Daddy. I need a few more words with his lady before I can make a decision."

  Andrew looked at me and his eyebrows went up. “Your lady? So this really is an o
fficial visit?"

  "Yup. Sorry I didn't come all this way just to see you, but it's definitely a bonus."

  He laughed and said, “Good of you to say so, anyway. Oh, by the way, have you seen what's parked in front of the building? It's a flitter, by God! With a cat in it! Hovering a foot above the street! I'd never even seen one up close before. Want to go have a look at it?"

  I glanced at the secretary, who looked as if she wasn't about to tell Andrew that it was daughter's preference that we remain in the office.

  "Yeah,” I said. “By all means, let's go have a look at it. By the way, it's mine. Maybe you'd like a ride, later?"

  In startlement, he asked, “It's yours? How the hell did you get a personal flitter? They've barely gone into production and they cost a mint. Of course I'd like a ride later. I'll wager we'd all like a ride once our womenfolk are finished yapping and shuffling papers.” Turning on his good heel to lead the way to the door, he added, “Come on!"

  Stephie contacted me through my implant.

  "Ed, she wants to know where I was born and where I'm living now. What should I tell her? I wasn't exactly born."

  Being several feet from Andrew, I subvocalized my response.

  "Born. Created. Same thing. Tell her the truth; that you were 'conceived' aboard the ship that returned to Amara, Steph. Use the factory station as a residence address. That's technically true, since there's a copy of you there, and I'm sure the other Stephanie will know what to do with your mail."

  "Okay."

  Some moments went by before she said, “Ed, now she's asking more questions about you than me."

  "What kind of questions, Steph?"

  "Who you work for now, how you came to own a flitter..."

  "Tell her she'll have to ask me about some things because you don't know the answers."

  "But I do know the answers. Are you telling me to lie to her?"

  Andrew ran his hands over Stephie's hull field as Tiger stood watching from the top of the console. There was no sign of either Elkor's cat-golem or carrier modes. I felt an irrational urge to tell Andrew to knock off groping my flitter, but I stifled it and let him admire her in peace. He discovered Tiger and tried to pet him, but Steph's field again prevented contact. I watched Andrew try again and fail again as I answered Stephie.