Disappearing Act

by Margaret Ball

  But first, clothes, in case they needed alterations. Johnivans thought of everything! Maris investigated the third room, fitted with a bed and hanging rods, with a small travel bag carelessly tossed under the clothes draped on the rods. Swathes of polysilk and other fabrics she couldn't even begin to name. From the way they felt between her fingers, the subtle odors arising from them, she thought some of them were actual organics. All the colors were good ones for her, strong ambers and warm browns set off with splashes of turquoise and emerald. Well, of course, she and Calandra Vissi had the same coloring—what was it the woman had said? Maris looked Sarossian, like her? Maris gave a mental shrug. That kind of talk was for toppies, people with families and dirtside homes. Her family was Johnivans and the Organization, and her place was Tasman—and her job, right now, was to try on one of these bodysuits and make sure it fitted.

  It's going to take more than fine feathers to make a fine bird out of you, jeered a voice in her head as Maris slipped into an amber-colored suit and pulled the bodysuit closures together. A little tight up top, but nothing to worry about . . . as long as she didn't take a real deep breath. Maris inhaled experimentally and felt the bodysuit fabric relaxing around her chest, then molding itself more accurately to her shape. Hah, so even Johnivans didn't know everything—toppie clothes were self-altering, at least some of them! There was a wrap with a design of turquoise and aqua diamonds on a dark amber background that looked perfect with this suit; nubbly texture, but incredibly soft against her skin. And not—she tested with an experimental tug—self-altering. Made sense; you didn't want your wraps to give under pressure, they'd fall off. And she'd bet this was some kind of real organic anyway, not a teachable polymer.

  With a little experimentation she was able to reset the wall screen from "forest glade" to "mirror" and check out how she looked. "From the neck down, very toppie," Maris concluded. Now she could see just how sleazy the "toppie" outfit Johnivans had provided had been, the crumpled bodysuit and the thin sarong with its stiff silver border, but at least the practice she'd had tying the sarong came in handy now as she adjusted the turquoise-and-amber overwrap. From collarbone to ankles she was perfect. She stepped into a pair of the light sandals on the bedroom floor and was relieved to find that these, too, were self-fitting. As the uppers molded themselves to her foot shape the soles stretched out a little, accommodating a slightly longer foot than they were used to. The spongy texture was comfortable to walk on but the sandals themselves weren't really at all like the flimsy things she'd seen some toppie women balancing on; they were more like running shoes disguised as gold-strapped sandals, with the self-teaching polymer straps gripping her foot and ankle firmly, the flat cushiony soles giving a good grip on the carpet. Shoes you could run and fight in, made to look like high-fashion accessories . . . Like Diplos themselves: finely tuned diplomatic and military weapons disguised in a human skin. Maris might get the outside look right, but how was she ever going to fake the interior?

  Well, for starters she could wipe that frightened look off her face, get her natural tumble of black curls restyled into a polished, artful tumble of curls like the toppie girls she'd seen on the way here, and . . . well, maybe she wasn't quite ready for that, to take the disguise out into the public areas of Five. Okay, there were things she could do right here in the suite first, like learning at least a few basic Kalapriyan greeting phrases, like "Hello" and "How are you?" and "What's bunu happening today?"

  The comdesk wasn't so different from the ones Johnivans had appropriated for use by the gang; of course their call-codes weren't in any list this comdesk had stored, but Maris knew Keito's code. She buzzed his personal clip, got voice contact but no picture. "Keito, haven't you got those plugs for me yet?"

  "Plugs?" Keito sounded—what? Blank? Surprised?

  "Kalapriyan language earplugs," Maris said patiently, "and some info-vids on the planet. Didn't Johnivans tell you that I'm—" Well, maybe he hadn't told Keito all about her mission. Maris rearranged her sentence. "Didn't he tell you to get me those materials? Pronto? I'm sorry—" No. Little Maris, lowest-ranking member of Johnivans' gang, might apologize for asking Keito to do things for her instead of the other way around. Calandra Vissi probably never apologized. Besides, she needed those plugs. "I'm sorry you didn't get the order before I left the Hideaway. Now you'll have to send somebody up here with them. Five–sixty-seven–K," she repeated the address in case Keito didn't have that either.

  "Johnivans didn't tell me anything about getting you— Oh. Right. Of course. Um, Maris, I'll, um, I'll be up with the plugs myself. Right away." Keito cut the contact abruptly, leaving Maris staring into the mirror wall with a puzzled frown.

  She'd been some time finding the suite and then learning her way around it, trying on Calandra's clothes and all that. It wouldn't have taken Johnivans two seconds to com Keito and tell him what she needed in the way of support materials. And Keito didn't forget things. So what was going on, with him first sounding like he didn't know a thing about any language plugs for Maris and then promising to bring them up personally instead of sending a runner? Had Johnivans and everybody else gone crazy? Why was she the only person who seemed at all worried about how she was going to learn enough to impersonate a Diplo?

  Trust me, you won't encounter any problems trying to pass for Calandra Vissi.

  You're going exactly where she was going.

  But what if she shows up there?

  I can personally guarantee you that will not happen.

  And he hadn't even bothered to pass on her request for plugs to Keito.

  * * *

  The girl reflected in the mirror grew so pale that she seemed to fade out in contrast with the rich, deep colors of her borrowed toppie wraps. She could only think of one way Johnivans could be so sure that she wouldn't give herself away. There was only one reason he wouldn't even bother to keep his promise to have Keito get her the plugs and vids she would need to carry off the deception.

  Maris was too unskilled and uneducated to pass for a Diplo. But her DNA and retinal scans and fingerprints were all on Calandra's ID and in Tasman's databases. On Johnivans' suggestion, she was wearing Calandra's clothes. Her dead body would pass for Calandra's without any problem.

  Johnivans wouldn't do that. He'd held her life in his hands for the years since he plucked her out of the corridors and let her into the shelter of the Hideaway.

  Maybe he thought her life was his to throw away.

  Maybe . . . With relief, Maris seized on the point that made nonsense of her wild imaginings. Makusu and Daeman had the real Calandra. If Johnivans wanted a corpse in the cabin, why wouldn't he just kill Calandra? Unless she'd escaped . . . Maris didn't think she'd escaped.

  But what if she shows up there?

  I can personally guarantee you that will not happen.

  Daeman was a wild card, but Little Makusu was kind of sweet, if not terribly bright. Maris entered his com code and waited, twisting her fingers together, for him to answer.

  "Yeah?"

  "Hey, Little M, it's me, Maris. Listen, I need some info from that woman you snatched. You okay to go down to the holding partition and let me talk to her over your com?"

  "Can't do that, Maris."

  "Johnivans' orders? Because he wants me to talk to her, Little M."

  "Naah. He didn't say that."

  "How you know?"

  " 'Cause you can't talk to the bunu cow now that she's spaced herself, can you, Maris? I mean—wait a minute—I don' think I was s'posed to tell you that, Maris."

  "I won't tell anybody," Maris promised. If I don't move fast, I won't even have the chance.

  And the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. Johnivans needed a body to pass for Calandra's. He didn't need anybody to pass for a living Diplo; that was why he could be so casual about Maris's ability to pull it off. Faith in her? Ha. Faith in her stupidly following orders without thinking about them until it was too late, more like it.

  It might be too la
te now.

  Maris stood in the center of the largest, most luxurious private space she'd encountered outside the Hideaway, shivering with deep chills that shook her from head to toe. The view of her own white face in the mirror didn't help; with a wave of her hand she reset the wall screen to a forest setting. All that luxury, and she couldn't even play with it. All she wanted was to walk into the illusory forest and disappear.

  She'd known there would be a punishment for her failure in tracking Calandra.

  She just hadn't expected it to be a death-penalty crime.

  Johnivans.

  He'd given her a home. A place to belong. Well, he could take all that away again, and her life too; in a sense it already belonged to him. She probably wouldn't be alive now if if weren't for Johnivans. Corridor happy-girls didn't last long.

  And she'd trusted him. She couldn't remember parents, knew Tasman Central Authority only as a distant threat, but Johnivans had been family and authority and home . . . and she'd felt happy and secure, knowing she had someplace she really belonged, people who accepted her . . .

  People who were casually planning to kill her because her dead body fitted their schemes in a way her living self never could.

  The chills became waves of pain that crashed through her body. She almost cried out with the pain . . . It's not real. It's only feelings. Emotions. Don't feel. Think!

  Maris imagined herself shutting down like a console going into sleep mode, all the displays dimming, only one blinking light that was the one little part of her brain that processed information; all the memories and love and pain temporarily shut down.

  And that light was blinking "Alarm Red." Like the stupid, obedient little girl she was, she'd brought herself exactly where Johnivans wanted her! What better place for Calandra Vissi to be found dead of natural causes than right here, in her own suite? Any minute now they'd be coming to get her, to turn her into Calandra, she could be a good imitation of the Diplo if she were dead, alive she could never pull it off. She had to get out of here right now and go . . . where? Was there any place on Tasman that Johnivans couldn't find her?

  The com-chime jingled and Maris started convulsively. Too late—they'd found her—no. The forest glade was replaced with the image of a young man in Tasman Central Authority uniform. "Diplomat Vissi? With respect, Diplomat, we cannot hold your flight more than another ten minutes. If you do not respond to this last notification—"

  Maris laid her palm on the com panel. It didn't flash alarms yelling "Impostor! Impostor!"

  "Diplomat Vissi!" The uniformed boy wiped his forehead. "Why didn't you respond before?"

  Because I'm dead. The real Calandra was dead and the fake Calandra would be, any minute—unless—

  "Shall I notify the shuttle crew that you're on your way?"

  "Yes," Maris said in a voice tight with strain. "No—wait!" Her head was whirling. "I—I've forgotten which exit bay to go to."

  "Thirty–two eighty-three–B, ma'am. Shall I send someone to escort you?"

  "Please." Maris thought she had managed an appropriate tone of hauteur; she moved her hand to close the display. Johnivans would find it hard to arrange her "natural" death if she were being escorted to the shuttle by someone from Central.

  Or would he just consider the escort as one more witness to dispose of? Don't be silly, even Johnivans can't get away with leaving a trail of corpses all over Tasman.

  She hoped.

  And the escort was already at the door; that boy who commed her must have had someone waiting in the hall. Probably it wouldn't do his career any good to be the one on watch when a Diplo missed her connection. Well, she'd do him a favor as well as herself.

  "One moment!" Maris swept Calandra's personal belongings off the long shelf and into the black travel bag, jammed a few of the hanging clothes in on top, picked it up and prepared to act the part Johnivans had prepared for her. Surely she could pull it off long enough to reach exit bay 283, board the shuttle—and then? Well, at least she'd be off Tasman. And once they reached Kalapriya, she'd shed Calandra's identity and lose herself on that world. A whole world had to be easier to hide in than a space station, and Johnivans would have no reason to kill her anyway. Once she'd boarded the shuttle as "Calandra," his worries about a missing Diplo would be over.

  He could have thought of that. He could have given me that chance. No! No thinking; no feeling; just get to the exit bay. Maris nodded to the escort, handed him the black travel case to carry for her—surely a Diplo didn't carry her own luggage?—and followed him through the corridors of Tasman to the exit bay.

  Chapter Two

  Rezerval

  Annemari Silvan sighed and tapped her deskvid again, harder, one perfectly shaped fingernail clicking impatiently in the lower left corner. You'd think Federation officials at Base on Rezerval would have the latest and best equipment; actually they had the latest, not fully debugged, annoyingly untested equipment. She'd wasted countless hours in meetings with Procurator Taddeo trying to get it across to him that just because they could afford to buy the latest "upgrade" of every program and system didn't mean they should; eventually she gave up and decided to accept that high Federation officials were also, thanks to Taddeo's lust for the latest and greatest technology, unpaid beta testers for comdesks, datafetchers, and anything else Taddeo could convince himself was a timesaving appliance.

  Tap. Tap. Taptaptap . . . Reading the manual was a last resort and one that Annemari, with a twenty-year history in database design and implementation before she got pushed upstairs into administration, always felt vaguely ashamed of using. But sometimes there was no other choice . . . Oh. The new improved interface required you to tap the top right-hand corner to activate com mode before it would let you tap the bottom left to call up your address list. And exactly why that was supposed to be an improvement, who could guess?

  And she was only fretting about the fiddle time wasted on new systems because that was easier and safer to fret about than the very real problems she faced as a servant of the Federation and the mother of an adolescent boy with his own set of problems. With one more decisive tap Annemari initiated a call to the desk of Evert Cornelis. Whose call code she knew by heart, so who was kidding whom about her need to figure out how the new deskvid brought up an address list?

  "Haar Cornelis? I need a favor?" The upward, seemingly insecure inflection worked well with adult men; Annemari suspected, without wanting to think it over too much, that it had some connection with her slight, almost childish figure and a smooth face unlined by twenty-five years in Federation service.

  "Anything I can do for you, Fru Silvan, you know that!" Evert's broad, ruddy face beamed at her from the deskvid, seeming to warm her entire cool, grey, steel-and-plastech office. "If it's about the new communications bill—"

  "Nothing official," Annemari confessed. Time enough to explain the details when they were outside. "It's just . . . Niklaas is in the Med Center again for another round of tests. I promised I'd be there while they were doing the tests, and I was wondering? If you could possibly make time to walk over with me?" No need to fake the slight quaver in her voice. That was real enough. That she knew what effect it would have on Evert, and deliberately didn't control it, was despicable—but no worse than what she'd already done, and trivial beside what she was contemplating doing.

  "I should be honored, Fru—Annemari." Perfectly Evert; on Federation business they were Fru Silvan and Haar Cornelis, on something as personal and unofficial as giving an old friend some moral support at the Med Center they were Annemari and Evert.

  The Med Center was just a short walk across the park from the Federation offices; a pretty walk, lined with flowering trees and decorated with vistas of ponds and statues and follies. Annemari made casual conversation about the plantings, and how lucky they were as Federation officials to enjoy this luxurious setting, and wasn't it fortunate that whoever was in charge of the park didn't share Haar Taddeo's enthusiasm for newness or the trees around them
would have been torn out and replaced by some genetic experiment melding apricots with bristlephlox, until they were nearly at the central pond. Evert very courteously went along with her, making no attempt to lead the conversation to what he must suppose were her real concerns.

  And they—he—Niklaas was her main concern, always and only. But if the next round of medical tests had really been the problem, she wouldn't have gone to this much trouble to get Evert out of the building.