Buff chuckled and ran the butt of the salene across her shaved skull. The photoluminescent array of crisscrossing stripes rippled across the tight black skin. “Colorful, huh?"
"Buff,” ordered the Lion, “put away your guns."
"I will if they will."
The Lion sighed and motioned to the guards. The Costeaus lowered their rifles. Buff slipped her weapons under her open leather jacket, then raised her hands, palms up. “See. Totally defenseless."
"We're happy campers now,” said Nick, smiling serenely at the guards. They did not smile back.
"You came alone?” asked the Lion.
"What you see is what you get."
"Gillian?"
"He's all right. Let me rephrase that. He's as right as he ever is, which means that he's just about as whacked out as the last time you saw him.” She hesitated; a dark scowl crossed her face. “Gillian sent me back here. Something happened. Yesterday, a man—a priest from the Church of the Trust—caught up with us. Lester Mon Dama was his name. He had a message for Gillian, a data brick, from someone called Jalka."
Buff waited to see if the names elicited any response. When the Lion and Nick remained silent, she continued.
"This Jalka—whoever he is, Gillian knows him. There was a definite reaction."
Nick frowned. “What sort of reaction?"
"It scared the hell out of Gillian."
Jalka. The Lion could recall neither a face nor any data to fit the name. He turned to Nick.
"Rings no bells here,” offered the midget, keeping his attention on Buff. “And Gillian asked you to come back to the retreat?"
"Uh-huh. And it was pretty strange. I mean, Gillian's not exactly the most stable person to begin with, but after the encounter with this priest, he got downright weird. We went to a hotel and he sat cross-legged on the bed for about two hours, barely moving, not saying a word, ignoring my attempts to start a conversation. Finally, he snapped out of it. He asked me to leave him alone for a while. He said that he wanted to access the data brick in private.
"So I went for a walk. When I returned about an hour later, Gillian was gone. There was a written message on the bed.” Buff withdrew a crumpled paper from a jacket pocket and handed it to the Lion. He read it aloud.
The pressure never yields. Being more than one and less than one—simultaneously—is like living within a cracked sphere. And every day, fractures grow larger, threatening to shatter my life into fragments. I want to fight and destroy. I want to be fought, be destroyed. The hands of chaos cannot be denied.
I am going away. Perhaps I am going home, to a place that I do not know and a time that I do not comprehend. Only Jalka has the answers now.
There is a good chance that you will never see me again. Give this message to the Lion. And tell Nick that the madness of reason should have never been so cruel as to tear apart a good friendship.
The Lion drew a deep breath. “It's signed ‘Gillian.’”
"Son of a bitch,” murmured Nick.
The Lion was not absolutely certain, but it looked as if a sharp grimace of pain had flashed briefly across the midget's face. Had Nick seen, momentarily, the true extent of what he had lost? Had he realized that the parameters of a real friendship could never be totally deconstructed by endless tangents of denial? If Nick had seen, had realized, then there was a chance that the chasm between the former friends could again be crossed.
But only if Gillian returned. And the message indicated the improbability of such an event.
The Lion crumpled the note and threw it on the table in front of Nick.
"Hell of a goodbye,” said Buff.
Nick folded his arms across his chest and stared at the crumpled shred of paper. “Did Gillian say anything else about this Jalka? Anything at all?"
"Not a word."
The Lion turned to one of the guards. “Lester Mon Dama—this priest from the Church of the Trust. I want you to access every available network. Contact all of our private sources. I want a complete profile of this man, and I want to know where he is. And likewise, find out about this Jalka."
The guard nodded and jogged into the house.
"I'll make a wager,” offered Buff. “I'll bet that you'll find no trace of Lester Mon Dama, that he'll have conveniently disappeared."
The Lion, without knowing precisely why, knew that Buff's hypothesis would be proven correct.
* * *
Four hours later, they were back out on the elevated ridge. Late afternoon sunlight, still triplicated but far less intense than earlier, had begun its staged alteration into the soft reds and ambers of early evening. At the upper and lower edges of each cosmishield strip, subtle bands of violet appeared, outlining the muted glows, giving horizontal definition to the sunsettia: that ancient earthly art form that still attracted virtuosos from the ranks of intercolonial sky programmers.
The Lion was reading a report on Lester Mon Dama from a hand terminal, which included the facts that the priest had missed his last two Church appointments and that his acquaintances had not seen him for several days.
"Too bad I had no takers on that wager,” muttered Buff. “Might have been profitable."
Nick, standing atop a lawn chair, gazed over the Lion's shoulder at the small readout. “Yeah, that's the problem with a sure bet. Can't ever find any suckers."
The Lion frowned. “It says here that Lester Mon Dama had some serious problems twenty-four years ago. There was an accident involving three Church of the Trust obstetricians. They were killed in his car. Prosecutors considered bringing manslaughter charges against the priest—"
He trailed off as three Costeaus emerged from the A-frame and raced toward them.
"Adam Lu Sang is here,” announced the first man, a towering black named Vilakoz, who served as the retreat's daytime security chief. “He's just entered the main lot."
What now? wondered the Lion.
A few minutes later, the young computer hawk came into view along the stone-coated path, which wound its way down through the pines from the parking lot. He gave a hearty wave.
The Lion frowned. “Didn't you tell Adam not to risk coming here anymore?"
"Sure did,” drawled the midget. “This better be good news."
"Why do I get the feeling it's not?” wondered Buff.
The path terminated just below the slightly elevated ridge where they stood. The slender gaunt-cheeked programmer ascended the albino-grass knoll in three quick leaps.
"Here I am."
"Here you are,” said Nick.
"What's going on, Adam?” asked the Lion.
The E-Tech programmer's face drooped; epicanthic folds became more prominent, highlighting his Oriental ancestry. “You sent me the message."
"What message?"
Adam handed the Lion a tiny flotsam brick, a metal chip encoded with a personalized communiqué. The Lion passed it to Vilakoz. The security chief quickly procured an ingress from his utility belt and snapped the brick onto its scanner.
"It's dated today,” announced Vilakoz. “'To Adam Lu Sang: vital that you come to the retreat immediately.’ Those last five words are emphasized. ‘Do not utilize the network. Do not utilize com channels of any sort, including coded ones. Desperately important that you heed this message to the letter. Take all necessary precautions to ensure that you are not followed. Our collective safety depends upon your actions. Do not delay.’”
Vilakoz hesitated for a moment, then faced the Lion. “Sir, the message appears to have been written in your cursive, then transferred onto the flotsam. And it appears authentic. Your DNA prints are encoded, along with the seal of the Lion of Alexander."
"I made sure it was validated,” insisted Adam, looking more worried by the moment.
The Lion shook his head grimly. “It's a forgery. I sent no message."
"Oh shit,” muttered Buff. “Why do I get the feeling that I picked the wrong day for a visit?"
"Bad timing,” agreed Nick.
An u
rgent beeper wailed to life on the security chief's belt. They all turned to Vilakoz.
He switched to speaker and cranked the volume. Another Costeau's voice filled the air.
"This is Majis at the main gate. E-Tech Security's here—three carloads of them. They have warrants—all kinds. Search and seizure, judicial confiscation, unspecified arrest—the works. They say that they're prepared to use force if I don't let them through."
"Let them pass,” ordered the Lion. He faced one of the rifle-wielding guards. “Take Nick, Adam, and Buff inside. Hide them."
Adam shook his head. “I'm sorry ... I should have been more careful—"
"It's not your fault,” said Nick.
"Go!” snapped the Lion. “Quickly!"
The guard turned to obey but froze as a vigorous roar blossomed from the south. A small jet flashed into view, skimming a mere fifty feet above the tree line.
"E-Tech Security assault craft,” announced Vilakoz, speaking into his com.
With a deafening shriek, the jet braked to a near-instantaneous halt, directly over their heads. From the grimy black undercarriage, less than a hundred feet above them, heat baffles snapped downward; vertical engines flared to life, stabilizing the craft. Babelmutes—stringy tendrils of noise-absorbent flux—fell from the underbelly, flapping in the jet's own wind, killing the worst of the engine noise.
A stern, amplified voice, almost as deafening as the unmuted turbines had been, echoed across the clearing. The surrounding trees reverberated with tonal harmonics, making it seem as if the words originated from the soaring pines instead of the bowels of the jet.
"Do not move. You are being tracked. Iso-seeks are fully armed. To those persons bearing weapons, please set them on the ground and take three steps backward."
The four Costeau guards reacted in typical fashion. They aimed their rifles at the hovering jet.
Nick muttered, “We can't be arrested."
The Lion knew that if he gave the signal, his guards would open fire on the craft. He also knew that thrusters against an armed jet bearing isolation targeting systems were suicidal. And starting a war against E-Tech would be the height of dementia.
"Weapons down,” commanded the Lion. The Costeaus reluctantly obeyed.
Buff smiled grimly at Vilakoz. “I've still got a salene under my jacket. What do your people have that they're not showing?"
Vilakoz faced the Lion, directing his words at the grass to discourage audio scanners. “Sir, our systems have targeted the craft. The jet can be taken out."
The Lion shook his head. “That is not an option. Our strategy will be restrained cooperation, Vilakoz. Is that clearly understood?"
Vilakoz nodded.
A line of three vehicles came into view, bouncing down the stony path, their all-terrain tires kicking up fierce sprays of rocks and rubble. The first two cars, black-and-gold striped, bearing E-Tech insignias, screeched to a halt at the foot of the grassy knoll. The third vehicle, lower in profile than the others, and boasting the white-on-white shadow logo of the ICN, stopped about a hundred feet away from the ridge.
"What's the ICN doing here?” wondered Nick.
"Neutral observers,” the Lion deduced. “They've come to make sure that the amenities are followed, that E-Tech acts with propriety toward a councilor of Irrya."
Doors on the black-and-gold cruisers slid back; four uniformed officers hopped from each vehicle. In pairs, they dropped into combat crouches, surrounding the ridge. When they were positioned, a ninth figure, a short pot-bellied man dressed in a drab olive suit, emerged from the second car. A row of tiny black pimples on his lower lip revealed the presence of a multisource transceiver. The Lion noticed that he had only four fingers on each hand: the little digits were missing.
"Uh-oh,” whispered Buff.
"Buff Boscondo!” exclaimed the pot-bellied man. “Plasma necropsy specialist from La Gloria de la Ciencia, isn't it? But then again, that was last month's disguise. Today you are simply Buff Boscondo, loyal Costeau.” He smiled as he ascended the knoll. “That's a very interesting hairstyle. I don't believe I've ever seen anything quite like it."
"That's what they all say."
"Allow me to introduce myself to your friends, Buff. I am Inspector Xornakoff. From E-Tech Security, if that fact is not already apparent.” He approached the Lion and handed him an ingress. The Lion activated the unit and began scanning its multiple pages of documents.
"Warrants, sir,” explained Xornakoff. “They fully detail the extent of our authority here, as well as carefully outline the degree of disruption that you might expect from this unfortunate but necessary intrusion. It is E-Tech's profound hope that a mutually cooperative effort will lead to a peaceful consummation.” The inspector paused. “I know that you have other armed security personnel on the grounds and within the house. I also have the distinct feeling that even with jet support, our small force would be no match for a determined resistance. Naturally, it is our sincere hope that any impulsive acts can be avoided."
"We will not start a fight,” promised the Lion, his eyes still scanning the ingress but privately wondering just how many more E-Tech Security units were being held in reserve. That the retreat was completely surrounded was a foregone conclusion, but Xornakoff—or whoever had arranged the raid—was obviously no fool. He had kept the point force deliberately small and then openly declared that his officers were probably outmatched. Smart and subtle reasoning: the raid had been planned by people who understood Costeau psychology.
"I notice,” said the Lion, “that these documents are all notarized—with today's date—by the director of E-Tech. Since it is my understanding that your director, Doyle Blumhaven, is still missing—"
"Missing since yesterday,” supplied Xornakoff. “Sir, your meaning is well taken. Actually, these documents all bear in absentia authorizations, made by an acting committee of high-level officials. After certain information came into our hands a short time ago, this ad hoc committee issued us the warrants."
The Lion continued to scan the documents, grimly aware that Adam's arrival had triggered the raid. A complete setup. Adam's security must have been compromised. Not surprisingly, Adam Lu Sang headed the list of those who were specified on the arrest warrants.
And three other names were listed as well.
Xornakoff seemed to be following the Lion's thoughts. “Let's see—we have Adam Lu Sang and Buff Boscondo.” He pointed to the midget. “And you must be the one they call Nick."
"Nah, but I can see where you'd get us mixed up. Actually, I'm Lawrence Arabia, the Lion's Jesuit instructor. I just dropped over for a cup of tea."
Xornakoff smiled. “A sense of humor. Yes, that fits the description. At any rate, the three of you are under arrest."
Nick shrugged. Adam Lu Sang swallowed nervously. Buff glared at the closest set of E-Tech officers.
"That makes three out of a possible four,” said the inspector, turning back to the Lion. “And now, sir, if you would be so good as to produce the last individual, a major portion of this unpleasantness will be behind us. I need the man who usually goes by the name of Gillian.” Xornakoff paused. “At least that is the moniker he uses when he is not impersonating technical specialists."
"Gillian is not here."
"Indeed. We will, of course, have to verify that assertion of we have your permission to begin searching the house and grounds?"
"You don't need my permission,” the Lion replied coldly.
"No, sir, I do not. But again, E-Tech desires this matter to be expedited with as little disruption as necessary. I do understand the difficulties you must be facing right now, and, believe it or not, I do sympathize with your emotions. But if you can see clear to grant your fullest cooperation, I can assure you that our search will be conducted with as much dignity as possible.” The inspector let his gaze wander across the entire gathering. “You have my absolute word on this."
The Lion perceived a solemn truth on Xornakoff's face, and he noted
how several of the Costeau guards began to relax. The man projected a blatant honesty, cleanly and without compromise. The Lion wondered how someone as open as Xornakoff had managed to reach the relatively high rank of inspector within Doyle Blumhaven's spirit-crushing bureaucracy.
He realized he was being unfair. Stereotyping remained a sin on both sides; Costeaus, whether mainstream or hard-line, tended to engage in the same sort of prejudicial behavior that they criticized colonials for. E-Tech as a whole could not be totally dismissed because of the misguided actions of its leadership.
The Lion found himself a bit surprised at his own objectivity, considering the circumstances. “Conduct your search,” he said.
The tip of Xornakoff's tongue flicked across one of the raised pimples pasted to his lower lip. Instantly, four of the eight surrounding officers scampered toward the house. Vilakoz mumbled a command into his own transceiver, doubtlessly reiterating to the Costeaus in the house that the coming intrusion was fully authorized by the Lion. Vilakoz did not look happy.
Nick wagged a finger at the ICN car, which still remained a hundred feet away from the ridge, its occupants hidden behind smoked windows. “How about them? If they're observers, they sure as hell should go along into the house to do some firsthand observing."
Xornakoff nodded to the Lion. “Is that your wish?"
"It is.” The inspector raised his hand and signaled toward the car.
They waited expectantly, but the doors of the ICN vehicle failed to open. Xornakoff signaled a second time.
No response.
The inspector frowned; his tongue flicked across another of his lip dots. “You men in the ICN car—have you been following this conversation? Your presence is requested inside the house."
The white car just sat there, a silent presence on the albino grass, and the Lion was suddenly reminded of one of those beach paladins, found on the leisure colony of Aegean—a floating organic shroud—a semitranslucent membrane protecting sunbathers from ultraviolet overexposure, camouflaging its own existence by mimicking the background.
"How many people in that car?” demanded Nick.
The Paratwa (#3 in the Parawta Saga) Page 9