'Sounds like a great theory, Cheradenine, but it hasn't actually worked, has it?'
'No.' He sighed, then frowned. 'There is media input to this place he's in, isn't there? You're sure he's not just a prisoner?'
'There is network access, but not directly. They've got it well screened; even we can't see exactly what's going on. And we are certain he's not a prisoner.'
He thought for a moment. 'How's the pre-war situation?'
'Well, the full-scale still looks inevitable, but the likely lead time's increased by a couple of days, to eight-to-ten, after a viable trigger-event. So... so far, so good, to be optimistic.'
'Hmm.' He rubbed his chin, watching the frozen waters of an aqueduct slide past, fifty metres beneath the turnpike. 'Well,' he said. 'I'm on my way now to the university; breakfast with the Dean. I'm setting up the Staberinde Scholarship and the Staberinde Fellowship and the Staberinde... Chair,' he grimaced. 'And maybe even the Staberinde College. Perhaps I should mention these stupendously important wax tablets to the man as well.'
'Yes, good idea,' Sma said, after a short pause.
'Okay. I don't suppose they have any bearing on what Beychae's got his nose buried in, have they?'
'No,' Sma said. 'But they'd certainly be stored in the same place he's working; I guess you could reasonably ask to inspect their security arrangements down there, or just want to see where they'd be kept.'
'All right. I'll mention the tablets.'
'Check the guy hasn't got a weak heart, first.'
'Yeah, Diziet.'
'One other thing. That couple you asked us about; the ones that came to your street party.'
'Yeah.'
'They're Governance; that's the term they use for major local stockholders who tell the corporate chiefs...'
'Yes, Diziet, I remember the term.'
'Well, these two are Solotol's, and what they say goes; the Chief Execs will almost certainly do exactly as they suggest as far as Beychae is concerned, and that means the official government will, too. They are also, of course, effectively above the law. Don't mess with them, Charadenine.'
'Me?' he said innocently, smiling to the cold, dry wind.
'Yes, you. That's all from this end. Have a nice breakfast.'
'Bye,' he said. The city slid past; the car's tyres made hissing, tearing noises on the dark-surfaced turnpike. He turned up the heating in the footwell.
This was a quiet part of the under-cliff road. The driver slowed for a sign and some flashing lights ahead, then almost skidded at the sudden diversion sign and emergency road markings that turned them off the road, over a ramp and down onto a long concrete channel with sheer walls.
They came to a steep rise with only sky visible beyond; the red lines indicating the diversion led over the summit. The driver slowed, then shrugged and gunned the engine. The hump of concrete raised the nose of the big car, hiding what was on the far side.
When the driver saw what was over the concrete summit, he shouted in fear and tried to turn and brake. The big car tipped forward, onto the ice, and started to slide.
He had been jolted by the turn and then annoyed that the view had been taken away. He looked round at the driver and wondered what was going on.
Somebody had diverted them off the turnpike and onto a storm drain. The turnpike was heated and didn't ice up; the storm drain was a sheet of ice. They had entered near the top, through one small sluice out of several dozen spread in a semicircle; the broad drain led down into the depths of the city, crossed by bridges, for over a kilometre.
The car had partially turned as the driver came over the top of the sluice baffle; the vehicle was sliding down sideways, its wheels spinning and engine roaring, lumbering on and on down the steepening expanse of the drain and rapidly picking up speed.
The driver tried to brake again, then attempted to go into reverse, and finally tried to steer towards the slab-high sides of the drain, but the car was slithering down faster all the time, and the ice provided no purchase. The car's wheels shook and the whole body shuddered as it hit ridges in the ice. The air whistled and the side-on tyres whined.
He was staring at the sides of the drain, whirling by at a ridiculous speed. The vehicle was still slowly turning as it skidded; the driver screamed as they headed for a massive bridge support; the rear of the car banged and the whole vehicle leapt as it battered into the concrete. Bits of metal flew into the air and crashed into the ice behind, then started skidding down after them. The car was spinning faster now, in the other direction.
Bridges, tributary drains, viaducts, overhanging buildings, aqueducts and huge pipes spanning the drain; all flashed by the revolving car, hurtling past in the bright light, some shocked white faces gasping from parapets or open windows.
He looked forward and saw the driver opening his door.
'Hey!' he shouted, reaching forward to grab the man.
The car thundered over the uneven ice. The driver jumped.
He flung himself into the front, just missing the driver's ankles. He landed down at the pedals, grasped at the levers and controls and tugged himself into the driver's seat. The vehicle was turning faster, jolting and screaming as it hit ridges and raised metal grilles set in the slope; he glimpsed one wheel and various bits of bodywork bouncing away behind him. Another teeth-chattering contact with a bridge support ripped an entire axle free; it flew into the air and exploded against an iron leg supporting a building, dislodging bricks and glass and scattering metal like shrapnel.
He grabbed the steering wheel; it flopped about uselessly. He had the idea of keeping the car pointing forward if he could, until the gradually increasing temperature further down the canyon provided a wet rather than icy slope, but if there was no steering he might as well jump off too.
The wheel thumped and burned his hands as it turned; the tyres squealed wildly; he was thrown forward and his nose hit the wheel. That felt like a dry patch, he thought. He looked ahead, down the slope, where the ice was becoming patchy, hugging the shadows of buildings where the shade fell across the spillway.
The car was almost straight. He grabbed at the wheel again and tramped the brake. It didn't seem to do anything. He pedalled reverse instead. Now the gearbox screamed too; his face wrinkled at the appalling noise, his feet juddered on the quivering pedal. The wheel came alive again, for longer, and he was thrown forward once more; this time he kept a hold of the wheel, and ignored the blood streaming from his nose.
Everything was roaring now. The wind and the tyres and the body of the car; his ears popped and throbbed with the rapidly increasing air pressure. He looked ahead and saw the concrete was green with weeds.
'Shit!' he yelled to himself. There was another lip ahead; he wasn't near the bottom yet; there was another length of slope to come.
He recalled the driver mentioning tools inside the front passenger bench; he hauled the seat up and grabbed the biggest piece of metal he could see, then kicked the door open and jumped.
He slammed into the concrete, almost losing his grip on the metal tool. The car started to slew in front of him, leaving a last patch of ice and hitting the section of the slope covered by weed; curved fountains of spray leapt from its remaining wheels. He rolled over, onto his back, spray hissing up into his face as he slithered down the steep, weeded slope; he held the metal tool in both hands, clamped it between his chest and upper arm; forced it down into the concrete under the water and weeds.
The metal thrummed in his hands.
The spillway lip swept up towards him. He pressed harder; the tool bit into the rough concrete, shaking his whole body, jarring his teeth and his vision; a tight wad of ripped-up weed grew under his arm like some mutant hair.
The car hit the lip first; it somersaulted into the air and started tumbling, disappearing. He hit the lip and almost lost his hold on the tool again. He rose and slowed, but not enough. Then he was over. The dark glasses sailed off his face; he resisted the urge to grab at them.
The spill
way continued for another half kilometre; the car smashed upside-down into the concrete slope, scattering debris which continued skidding down towards the river at the bottom of the canyon's great V; the gearbox and remaining axle parted company with the chassis and bounced into some pipes straddling the drain, fracturing them. Water poured out.
He went back to treating the metal tool as though it was an ice-axe, and slowly reduced his speed.
He passed under the fractured pipes, which were gushing warm water.
What, not sewage? he thought brightly. Today was looking up.
He looked, perplexed, at the metal tool still vibrating in his grip, and wondered exactly what it was; probably something to do with the tyres or starting the engine, he decided, looking around.
He negotiated one final spillway lip and slid gently into the shallows of the broad river Lotol itself. Bits of the car had already arrived.
He stood up and squelched ashore. He checked there was nothing else coming down the spillway that might strike him, and sat. He was shaking; he dabbed at his bloody nose. He felt bruised from the battering in the car. There were some people staring at him over the top of a nearby promenade. He waved at them.
He stood up, wondering how you got out of this concrete canyon. He looked up the spillway, but could see only a short way; a final lip of concrete blocked the rest of the view.
He wondered what had happened to the driver.
The concrete lip he was looking at formed a dark bump against the skyline. The bump hung for a few seconds, then came down on the thin coating of water that floated down the slope, staining it red. What was left of the driver skidded past him and bumped into the river, edging past the chassis of the shattered car and setting off downstream, swirling pinkly in the water, revolving.
He shook his head. He brought his hand up to his nose, waggled the tip experimentally, and gasped with pain. This made the fifteenth time he'd broken his nose.
He grimaced into the mirror, snorting back a mixture of blood and warm water. The black porcelain basin swirled with gently steaming suds, pink-flecked. He touched his nose with great delicacy and frowned into the mirror.
'I miss breakfast, lose a perfectly proficient driver and my best car, I break my nose yet again and get an old raincoat of immense sentimental value dirtier than it's ever been in its life before, and all you can say is "That's funny"?'
'Sorry, Cheradenine. I just mean, that's weird. I don't know why they'd do something like that. You are certain it was deliberate? Oof.'
'What was that?'
'Nothing. You are certain it wasn't just an accident?'
'Positive. I called for a spare car, and the police, then went back to where it happened. No diversion; all gone. But there were traces of industrial solvent where they'd removed the false red road markings from the top of the storm drain.'
'Ah. Ah; yeah...' Sma's voice sounded odd.
He took the transceiver bead off his ear lobe and looked hard at it. 'Sma...'
'Whoo. Yeah, well, as I said; if it was those two Governance bods, the police won't do anything. But I can't understand them behaving like that.'
He let the wash-bowl drain and dabbed tenderly at his nose with a fluffy hotel towel. He put the terminal earring back on his ear. 'Maybe they just object to the fact I'm using Vanguard money. Maybe they think I'm Mr Vanguard or something.' He waited for a reply. 'Sma? I said maybe they...'
'Ow. Yes. Sorry. Yes; I heard you. You might be right.'
'Anyway, there's more.'
'God. What?'
He picked up an ornately decorated plastic screen-card, which - against a background of what looked like a fairly wild party - slowly flashed a message on and off. 'An invitation. To me. I'll read it out: "Mr Staberinde; congratulations on your narrow escape. Do please come to a fancy-dress party this evening; a car will pick you up at rim-set. Costume provided." No address.' He put the card back behind the wash-bowl taps. 'According to the concierge that arrived at about the same time I called the police after my car went tobogganing.'
'Fancy dress party, eh?' Sma giggled. 'Better watch your ass, Zakalwe.' There was more giggling, not all of it Sma's.
'Sma,' he said frostily. 'If I've called at an awkward time...'
Sma cleared her throat, sounded suddenly business-like. 'Not at all. Sounds like it was the same lot. You going?'
'I think so, but not in their costume, whatever that turns out to be.'
'All right. We'll track you. Are you absolutely positive you don't want a knife missile or...'
'I don't want to get into that argument again, Diziet,' he said, dabbing his face dry and sniffing hard again, inspecting himself in the mirror. 'What I was thinking about was this; if these people did react like this just because of Vanguard, maybe we can persuade them there's an opportunity for them here.'
'What sort of opportunity?'
He went through to the bedroom, collapsed on the bed, staring up at the painted ceiling. 'Beychae was connected with Vanguard at first, yes?'
'Honorary President-Director. Gave it credibility while we were starting up. He was only involved for a year or two.'
'But there is that link.' He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, staring out of the window at the snow-bright city. 'And one of the theories we believe these guys have is that Vanguard is run by some sort of namby-pamby machine that's developed consciousness and conscience...'
'Or just by some old recluse with philanthropic intentions,' Sma agreed.
'So; say this mythical machine or person had existed, but then somebody else got hold of the reins; disabled the machine, killed the philanthropist. And then started spending their ill-gotten gains.'
'Hmm,' Sma said. 'Mmm. Mmm.' She coughed again. 'Yes... ah. Well, they'd be acting a lot like you've been, I suppose.'
'So do I,' he said, going to the window; he picked up a pair of dark glasses from a small table, put them on.
Something beeped near the bed. 'Hold on.' He turned, crossed to the bedside and picked up the same small device he'd scanned the two top floors with when he'd first arrived. He looked at the display, smiled, and left the room. Walking down the corridor, still holding the machine, he said, 'Sorry; somebody bouncing a laser off the window in the room I was in, trying to eavesdrop.'
He entered a suite facing uphill and sat on the bed. 'Anyway; could you make it look like there'd been some sort of... event in the Vanguard Foundation, a few days before I arrived here? Some sort of cataclysmic change but the signs are only appearing now? I don't know what, especially as it all has to be back-dated, but something that the markets, say, only just get hold of now; something buried in the trading figures... would that be possible?'
'I...' Sma said, hesitantly. 'I don't know. Ship?'
'Hello?' the Xenophobe said.
'Can we do what Zakalwe just asked?'
'I'll listen to what it was,' the ship said. Then, 'Yes; best get one of the GCUs to handle it, but it can be done.'
'Great,' he said, lying back on the bed. 'Also, as of now - and again, back-dating where we can interfere with computer records - Vanguard becomes an unethical corporation. Sell the R&D department investigating ultra-strong materials for space habitats and that sort of stuff; have it pick up stock in companies promoting terraforming. Close a few factories; start a few lock-outs; halt all charitable works; skim the pension fund.'
'Zakalwe! We're supposed to be the good guys!'
'I know, but if I can get our Governance pals to think I've taken over Vanguard, and I think the way they do...' He paused. 'Sma; do I have to spell it out?'
'Ah... ouch. What? Oh... no; you think they might try and get you to convince Beychae that Vanguard's still doing what we want it to do, and so get him to declare for it?'
'Exactly.' He clasped his hands under his neck, adjusting his pony-tail. This bed had mirrors on the ceiling above, not a painting. He studied the distant reflection of his nose.
'Long... um, shot, Zakalwe,' Sma said.
'I think we have to try it.'
'It means wrecking a commercial reputation it's taken decades to establish.'
'That more important than stopping the war, Diziet?'
'Of course not, but... ah... of course not, but we can't be certain it'll work.'
'Well, I say we do it now. It has a better chance than offering the university those goddamn tablets.'
'You've never liked that plan, have you, Zakalwe?' Sma sounded annoyed.
'This one's better, Sma. I can feel it. Get it done now, so they've heard about it by the time I get to the party tonight.'
'Okay, but that thing with the tablets...'
'Sma; I've re-arranged the meeting with the Dean for the day after tomorrow, okay? I can mention the goddamn tablets then. But make sure all this Vanguard stuff goes through now, all right?'
'I... oh... ah... yeah, right. I suppose so... so... oh, wow. Look, Zakalwe, something's just come up; was there anything else?'
'No,' he said loudly.
'Aww... great. Umm... right, Zakalwe; bye.'
The transceiver beeped. He tore it off his ear and threw it across the room.
'Rampant bitch,' he breathed. He looked at the ceiling.
He lifted the bedside telephone. 'Yeah; can I speak to... Treyvo? Yes please.' He waited, dug between two molars with a fingernail. 'Yeah; night-clerk Treyvo? My very good friend... listen; I'd like a little company, you know? Indeed... well, there's a largish tip if... that's right... and, Treyvo; if she comes with a Press pass secreted anywhere, you're a dead man.'
The suit was vulnerable to a shortish list of comparatively heavy battlefield weaponry, and not much else. He watched the capsule vibrate its way back under the surface of the desert as the suit clasped itself around him. He got back into the car and drove back down to the hotel, just in time to meet the limousine sent by his hosts for that evening.
The cluster's media had been cleared from the hotel courtyard that afternoon, on his instructions, so there was no undignified dive through their lights and mikes and questions. He stood, dark glasses in place, on the steps of the hotel as the great dark car - significantly more impressive than the one he'd almost been killed in that morning, he was somewhat disappointed to note - drew smoothly to a halt. A huge man, grey haired, with a pale, heavily scarred face, unfolded himself from the driver's compartment and held open a rear door, bowing slowly.
Use of Weapons Page 21