Technokill

by David Sherman

  "Thom, this poaching goes far, far beyond the men who are on Avionia collecting the gems. I want that whole operation canceled and I want everyone involved removed from the confines of polite society, no matter how high their money or connections may place them. Everyone. Is that clear?"

  Nast smiled more broadly. "Yes, ma'am," he replied enthusiastically. "That is very clear!"

  Well, well, well, Nast thought as he drove back to his apartment. Old Tweed might be onto something after all. Tweed had contacted him the week before with somewhat vague information about a gem-smuggling operation involving Val Carney and his associates. Now it was coming together. That was what the President had meant when she'd said the poaching involved high-ranking individuals. Now how did she know that? And what did the Attorney General know that the President did not—for reasons that were quickly becoming clear—want to share with him, her man in the field?

  Nast had two days before he was to meet with General Cazombi and depart for Avionia Station. He would employ them fruitfully. Mentally, he rubbed his hands. It would be an interesting two days. Special Agent Thom Nast was beginning to enjoy himself again.

  "After you, General, it might be mined." Nast laughed as he, Captain Conorado, and General Cazombi prepared to enter the gangway from their ship to Avionia Station.

  "Been there, done that," Cazombi answered as he stepped into the device. He could never get used to the things. The gangway device was entirely trustworthy but it swayed just slightly under a person's weight, giving the impression it was very fragile protection from the vacuum surrounding it.

  Inside the station, Dr. Hoxey and her staff waited to greet the new arrivals. Their first impression of Dr. Hoxey was not a favorable one; she was not very tidy, and her stringy gray hair and short, squat body did not project an aura of confidence. But it was evident she was relieved to see them.

  "When will the Marines land?" she asked as soon as the introductions had been made.

  "When I give them the word, ma'am, and when Captain Conorado here says he's ready," General Cazombi replied. "First, we need a complete brief on what's going on down there. On our way here, we read the reports you've filed. We understand everything you reported on the poaching. What we need to know is more about the Avionians. Too damned much scientific jargon in those reports. Can someone tell us in plain English what makes them tick?"

  Very quickly Omer Abraham was lecturing them on what he knew of Avionian brain functions and physiology. At length; like most scientists on Avionia Station, he could be quite longwinded when he got started on his specialty. As he wound into his finale, he said, "I must mention one final thing about the Avionians—their bowel functions. You know it is the action of their digestive system that produces the stones men are risking their lives to obtain. The average Avionian excretes a half a dozen times a day, and their output is highly toxic, gentlemen. The toxicity is the result of their diet, their digestive systems, and the food they eat. You probably know that the dung of terran birds is highly acidic and can ruin painted surfaces, for instance, if it's allowed to stay on them any length of time. Well, multiply the corrosive effect a thousand fold and you have an idea of what Avionian dung is like."

  "Oh my." General Cazombi laughed. "All they need to do then is poo-poo on you and you're history."

  "How do they stand it themselves?" Conorado asked.

  Abraham smiled. "How did humans stand it before we developed sewer systems? The Cheereek, on whose lands the poaching is going on, are nomads. They move their camps several times a year. But they almost never excrete inside their camps. Each campsite has latrines far removed from the living area. They go there when they have to, uh, go. Each group has favorite campsites where they establish their villages year after year, as they move with the seasons. Gentlemen, some of the latrines at these frequently occupied sites—we've measured them—are in excess of ten meters deep. One final point. The stuff never seems to dry out. So don't fall in."

  This last comment elicited polite laughter. General Cazombi smiled. But he was especially interested in how the Avionians communicated.

  "I must defer to Dr. Gurselfanks, General," he said. "B.P. is our laryngopathologist with sub-specialization in languages. B.P."

  A stooped, bearded man in a white lab coat worked his way through his seated colleagues to the front of the galley the scientists used as their conference room.

  "B. Proteus, actually," he announced in a reedy voice. "General Zombie—"

  " ‘Cazombi,’ actually," the general said. "What's the B in your name stand for, Doctor?"

  "Excuse me, General. Uh, Benjamin. But everyone calls me B. Proteus, or just B.P. General Cazombi, you would've been better prepared for this mission if you'd read my doctoral dissertation, ‘Speech Patterns of the African Parrot,’ Psittacus erithracus."

  "We did read it, Doctor. That's the African gray parrot, I believe," Nast volunteered.

  "Yes, yes!" Gurselfanks answered brightly.

  "Doctor, all of you," General Cazombi announced, "you should know that every book, every article, any of you have ever written—and that includes those on the other three shifts—were provided to us, and we scanned all of them during the flight. We also reviewed everyone's personal history file."

  "And I remind all of you that our presence here is a law enforcement matter," Nast added. "We're here to stop the poaching, and I'm here specifically to dispose of the poachers and anyone else involved in their operation. I'll tell you right now, I don't think anyone on C shift is involved. Doctor, please proceed."

  Gurselfanks swallowed. "Well, ahem... The Avionians, as you already know from Dr. Abraham's lecture, are as intelligent as humans. You also know their brains possess a combination of avian and mammalian features. Now since you read my book, you also know how important song is to birds on Old Earth. But the Avionians do not sing, they talk. In Terran birds the songs and calls are produced in the syrinx, an organ posterior to the larynx, at the junction of the bronchi and the trachea. But—ah ah!—in the Avionians, sound is produced in the larynx, as—"

  Cazombi interrupted and rephrased his question. "What kind of language do they speak?"

  "Ah-hah, straight to the heart of the matter!" Gurselfanks cackled enthusiastically. "Well, we don't know," he answered, putting his hands behind his back and pacing back and forth. "We don't know how they learn language, for one thing. We've never, uh, taken an immature specimen, a baby you might say, and observed it in association with adults. But the Avionians have a very extensive vocabulary, that we do know. We have compiled a glossary of nearly six hundred Avionian terms. We haven't yet been able to figure out the grammar. Now mind you, what we know only represents a small portion of the vocabulary that the primitive tribes we study have developed. I suspect that, like us, the more highly developed societies have a very complicated and eclectic vocabulary, and undoubtedly the language used varies widely between groups. But we are prevented by law from having any contact with the more developed nations on Avionia, and since they haven't yet developed any sort of electronic communication, we can't eavesdrop on what they say to each other."

  "So how do you communicate with the ones you've taken onto this station?" Nast asked.

  "Holophrastically," Gurselfanks answered enthusiastically. "In other words, like infants. We can say ‘tree,’ and point to one when what we mean is ‘I can see that tree,’ or ‘What a big tree,’ or ‘Let's climb that tree.’ We have no idea how semantic, grammatical, or intonational nuances function in their languages. I'm sure the Avionians consider us idiots with very advanced technology. We use lots of sign language too."

  "Ever heard of a guy named Herbloc?" Nast asked suddenly.

  "Oh, yes, yes! Dr. Spencer Herbloc! He was on B shift but we exchanged notes on our research all the time! He's not with us anymore. Brilliant man. Shame."

  "He was fired," Dr. Hoxey commented sourly. "He's a drunkard." Her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her, and she exchanged a worried glance with Abra
ham. Nast saw it and smiled.

  Gurselfanks droned on for some time, lecturing on the significance of phonemes, morphemes, syntax, and semantics. A series of other specialists then spoke briefly about Avionia's geology, climate, the flora and fauna. A paleontologist said he was convinced by fossil evidence and anatomical studies performed on deceased Avionians that the creatures were once beginning to develop flight, but had moved away from that evolutionary path and adapted wholly to life on the ground.

  "General, would you and your party like to see an Avionian?" Hoxey asked. "We have several here under study just now." The three men looked at one another and nodded. Smiling broadly, Hoxey led the way to the laboratory.

  Chapter 13

  In the lab, several Avionians perched disconsolately inside steel cages surrounded by elaborate arrays of instruments. There was a terrible smell to the place. "We have a hard time keeping the cages clean," a white-coated lab attendant apologized to the visitors. "In their native habitat these creatures usually excrete at some distance from their perches. But here..." He shrugged.

  "We know. Dr. Gurselfanks told us all that. How do they like living up here?" Captain Conorado asked, though he could guess from the Avionians' posture. "How do you like working in here with that smell?" he added.

  "You get used to it," Dr. Hoxey answered for the technician. "As to the Avionians, well, they don't like it much." She went on quickly, "But you see, there is nothing we can do about recreating their native habitats on board the station, and we must get on with our work." She gestured at the cages. "We collect these specimens from the uncivilized regions of the planet," she explained. "These savages have no idea of what's going on when we take them so there's no chance they'll ever figure out who we are or what we're doing here."

  "But these are sentient beings," Nast pointed out.

  "Yes, yes, but primitives, Mr. Nast, intellectually stuck in their Avionial-centric universe, hardly at a level where they can grasp the concept of space travel, much less extra-Avionian life-forms. Many of them aren't even aware that their planet extends beyond the lands of the next tribe or two. Most likely they think we are gods. In the case of those we have returned to Avionia, for example, I doubt many of their compatriots would believe them were they to speak of their adventures up here." She laughed. "Would the Attorney General believe you, Mr. Nast, if you told her you couldn't make it in to work because alien beings had kidnapped you, taken you to their ship and experimented on you?" The lab technicians laughed politely. Cazombi and Conorado avoided looking at each other. That story did not seem so preposterous to either of them, not with what they suspected about Society 437.

  "They look somewhat, um, bedraggled, Doctor," Nast observed.

  "Yes. Well, they don't take well to captivity" Dr. Abraham replied. "In fact, most of our guests so far have, uh, died." He and Hoxey exchanged hostile glances. The exchange did not escape Captain Conorado's attention. Obviously Abraham was not comfortable with some aspects of the creatures' treatment.

  There was a moment of shocked silence. "But I thought we weren't even supposed to have contact with them," General Cazombi said.

  Hoxey shrugged. "For scientific purposes, General, we must have some limited contact, in a controlled environment, of course. What we do here hardly upsets the social evolution of the Avionians, not like what the poachers are doing. In the long run it is better that a few of them succumb while in captivity, so we can learn more about them, and when contact finally is authorized, the transition will go more smoothly. You see, gentlemen, in science it is not the individual that matters so much as the whole—" She was interrupted by a terrible shrieking in one of the cages. The other Avionians began hooting and cawing in their own languages and the din became almost unbearable.

  The hairs on the back of Conorado's neck stood up. The screaming was not so much an angry protest or even a reaction to physical pain as an expression of total hopelessness, a signal of despair such as he had never before heard from a living creature. The Marine officer had heard men scream and cry in the agony of battle, but this—this was terrible. "Jesus God," he shouted, and involuntarily took a step toward the instruments surrounding the screamer's cage. He stopped only when General Cazombi laid a hand on his shoulder. "Easy," Cazombi whispered, "easy. I'll take care of it.

  "Stop it," the general's voice cracked in a tone that demanded instant obedience.

  Hoxey started and shot a glare at him, then signaled to one of the attendants, who immediately twisted a dial on an instrument bank. The screeching ceased. Gradually the other prisoners quieted down. "We're performing gastrointestinal probes, gentlemen," she explained breezily, "and they occasion some physical discomfort. Now, some refreshments, perhaps?"

  Conorado could not believe it: Hoxey acted as if totally unaffected by what had just happened. Worse, she was acting as if she was used to such incidents. "Wh-What were the other ones shrieking? Do any of you speak their language?" he asked as he ignored Hoxey's outstretched arm gesturing them to the doorway. Nobody spoke up for a moment. It was evident to Conorado that the lab technicians did understand at least some of the Avionians' speech but were reluctant to tell him what the aliens had been screaming. "I'm not moving until you tell me, Dr. Hoxey," he said slowly.

  Hoxey could only stare at him open-mouthed. A military drudge addressing her like that? Intolerable! All she could think was that it had been a mistake to bring these men to see her work.

  Dr. Abraham cleared his throat nervously. "They were saying that we were hurting their companion, and they begged us to stop. They asked us to take them home."

  Conorado just stared at Abraham, his jaws working silently. "Home?" he managed to ask, getting control of himself. "Does that mean the same thing to them as it does to us?" It was if he were thinking out loud, not asking Dr. Abraham to explain.

  "Yes, I think so," Abraham answered anyway, his face flushing. "I believe it does," he added.

  "Well, nobody here is that well versed in the Avionians' languages that he can explain their psychology, gentlemen," Hoxey broke in. "We do no permanent harm to these creatures with our experiments. We cannot sedate them for the more intrusive procedures because we don't know what to use that would have the proper effect and we dare not try drugs that would work for humans because their physiology is so different from ours."

  General Cazombi raised an eyebrow slightly. "Then why do they die on you?"

  "It is not because of physical abuse, General. And as I alluded to before, we have returned some to Avionia, with no ill effects. Now, shall we move on?"

  "Because they don't like it here," Abraham said as he walked quickly out into the companionway. "They shit in their cages, Captain," he said from the doorway, "because they simply don't give a damn anymore." His eyes blazed with anger directed at Dr. Hoxey. She ignored him.

  "Doctor..." General Cazombi took Dr. Hoxey aside. "We would be delighted to share some of your coffee, but I wonder if you could give us some private place where I could discuss some matters with my party first. Would you mind? We'll join you later."

  Shown to a nearby tiny but comfortable office, General Cazombi sealed the door and seated himself facing Nast and Conorado. There was really nothing he wanted to discuss with them that couldn't wait, but he wanted—and he sensed they also wanted—just to get away from the scientists for a while. He knew what was coming, but he addressed Nast first, to give Conorado time to cool down. "Let's take stock," he said. "Thom? Captain Conorado needs to know what you know."

  Police intelligence was not the topic Nast really wanted to address either, but he understood what the general was doing. "Well, before we left, I received intelligence that this poaching operation is being led by Sam Patch, a very bad man, Captain. His consort, a woman known as Katrina Switch, is worse in her own way. I don't think Sam will be directly in charge of the poaching. He's got two ships. One of them is a Bomarc executive-class starship. The other's an older model freighter, one small enough to land on a planet's surface.
"

  "What good is a freighter that small?" Conorado interrupted. "It can't carry enough cargo to be economically viable."

  Nast's mouth twisted in a wry smile. "It was designed to carry exactly the kind of cargo it's hauling from here—objects of extremely low mass and extremely high value." He paused to see if there were more questions. When there weren't, he continued. "It's my guess he'll hand over day-to-day operations to a trusted subordinate. That man's name is Sylvestre Henderson, ‘Sly’ Henderson. He's a hard case himself and he's worked with Patch on dozens of jobs. Both these men are very dangerous, Captain. They are being backed by some very high officials in our government too. I can't tell you who. But Patch and his men are heavily armed and their ships have excellent stealth devices. They know what will happen to them if—correction, when—they are caught. When you run into them, be prepared for a fight. Save me a lot of work if you just waste the bastards." Shaking his head, he said, "I've been a cop too long to have much sympathy for men like these. Sorry if I sounded harsh." He sighed. "I will give you the full report on everything we know about these people.

  "Any thoughts, either of you, about our hosts?" Nast abruptly changed the subject.

  "If the Confederation wanted people kept off Avionia, the job should've been given to the navy, sir," Cazombi answered without hesitation.

  "I agree, General. By the way, do you find these scientists to be a bit at odds with one another, especially over the issue of live experimentation?"

  Captain Conorado smacked a fist into a palm. "General, may I speak frankly?"

  General Cazombi raised an eyebrow a few millimeters. "I've been waiting to hear from you, Captain. Please proceed."

  "Sir, I have been a Marine all my life. I have killed men and destroyed things. That's what we do. But that—that—" He gestured toward the lab a few compartments away, where the Avionians were confined. "—is wrong. It's flat wrong, sir. I have never knowingly hurt anyone who didn't deserve it. I think Mr. Nast will understand what I mean. Well, what we saw in that lab makes me sick. I mean we kill vermin, we eat animals to survive, but goddamnit, we don't torture them first. And these Avionians are not dumb animals! Their intelligence is as highly developed as ours is, they just don't know as much as we do. And frankly, sir, what we saw back there makes me doubt that the human race has really learned a damned thing over the past hundred thousand years except how to make itself an insult to the process of evolution."