One of the men stepped forward…
Hold on a second. I need some breezy way of distinguishing my two captors — calling one Tall and one Short, something along those lines. But they were both of identical height, both wearing identical uniforms, both sporting identical haircuts: as close to twins as people can get when they don’t actually look the same. All I can think to call them is the Mouth and the Muscle… because one couldn’t stop yapping while the other mostly loomed quiet as a hoar falcon biding its time.
So the Mouth stepped forward. He made a point of walking straight through the hologram of me, briefly disrupting my laser-projected image into a random scramble of pixels. Then he aimed his finger straight at the peacock tube. "Do you know what that is, Ms. Smallwood?"
"No."
The Mouth sneered in disbelief. Not many men can actually manage a sneer — they might glower or grimace, but they don’t have the degree of self-involvement required for an out-and-out sneer. The Mouth looked as if he’d practiced sneering in a mirror till he got something he really liked. "This," he said, pointing to the peacock tube, "is a miniature Worm field. Colloquially called a Sperm-field, or Sperm-tail. Do you know what that is?"
"We use Sperm-tails as transport sleeves to our local orbitals," I answered. "They’re also used in starship drives."
I stared at the peacock again. "But the Bonaventure sleeve is white."
"Sperm-fields look white when they’re stabilized," the Mouth said, "like planetary transport tubes, or a starship envelope after it’s properly aligned. But with an unanchored Sperm, you get flutter around the edges. Makes a characteristic diffraction pattern." He pointed again to the peacock tube.
"Okay," I shrugged, "it’s a Sperm-field. So what?"
"So what?" the Mouth repeated, as if I’d only asked the question to antagonize him. "So where did it come from? There’s no Sperm-field generator in the picture!"
"None that we can see," the Muscle put in. "It could be miniaturized."
The Mouth glared at him. This was obviously a point of contention between the two men… and a precious petulant contention at that. Mouth took a slow and deliberate breath, the picture of a man exercising colossal restraint in the face of grievous tests to his patience. I bet he practiced that look in the mirror too. "The point is," Mouth told me, "current Technocracy science could not create a Sperm-field in the situation you see here. It came out of nowhere…"
"Nowhere big enough to see," the Muscle muttered.
"It came from no discernible field generator," the Mouth said testily, "it immediately shaped itself into a smooth arc without any apparent control magnets, and it ended in a well-defined aperture that held its position for 1.6 seconds without any equipment to anchor it in place!"
He stared at me triumphantly, as if he’d just scored some telling knockout in a political debate.
Ooo. Posturing. As a Vigil member, I’d never seen that before.
I spoke mildly. "I take it those things you listed are unusual for Sperm-fields."
"Unusual? They’re impossible!" the Mouth snapped.
"At least we don’t know how to do them," the Muscle said under his breath.
The Mouth gave Muscle another hissy glare, then slapped his hand through the hologram peacock. His skin fuzzed with green-and-purple streaks. "Ms. Smallwood," the Mouth said, "this is a matter of great concern to the Admiralty. When Outward Fleet personnel saw the news broadcasts of what happened to you…"
"This was never broadcast," I interrupted.
The Mouth looked at the Muscle. The Muscle shrugged.
"When the Outward Fleet obtained this hologram from the police," the Mouth said loftily, not looking me in the eye, "there was immediate concern. The base commander on Demoth contacted the High Council of Admirals, and the council dispatched us to investigate this matter strenuously."
"Strenuously?" I repeated. If I were an admiral, I wouldn’t trust these two with that kind of adverb.
"It’s a matter of security," the Muscle said with a straight face. "The security of the entire human species."
"Because someone pulled a trick you can’t imitate?"
"Ms. Smallwood," the Mouth said, pushing to regain his place as the center of attention, "if this hologram is accurate, someone is employing inhumanly advanced science on a Technocracy world. Your world, Ms. Smallwood. Doesn’t that worry you?"
"Why should it? The Sperm-field saved my life."
"She’s got a point," the Muscle murmured.
"Do you mind?" Mouth tried to give his partner a withering glare. He hadn’t spent enough time practicing the "wither" part — probably too busy working on his sneer. Mouth’s prissy little stare bounced off the Muscle like a wad of soggy tissue.
"Look," I said in my most reasonable voice, "we all know the League of Peoples includes races that are millions of years beyond human technology. Millions of years smarter, millions of years more evolved. I thought it was conventional wisdom that someone was always keeping an eye on humanity. ‘Invisibly walking among us’… even the Admiralty uses that phrase."
"League members may walk among us," the Mouth sniffed, "but they never do anything. If there are invisible aliens wandering through the Technocracy, Ms. Smallwood, they don’t stop children from drowning. They don’t call local police to tell who’s behind a string of serial murders, and they don’t show up in court to explain who’s innocent or guilty. So why should they work a miracle to help you?"
Good question, that. I’d asked it now and then myself in the past few days. "I don’t know," I said.
"We can’t accept that answer," Mouth told me. "The High Council gets extremely agitated at the thought of unknown aliens taking action on Technocracy planets. Especially when it involves political figures like you."
I snorted. "I’m not a political figure."
"You’re part of Demoth’s political system, Ms. Smallwood. And the Technocracy’s charter from the League of Peoples prohibits the League from trying to influence our internal governments."
Hogwash. I’d studied the charter during my Vigil training. The League could and would put the boot to human governments at every level if they thought our race was turning non-sentient. On the other hand, why waste breath giving these dickweeds a lecture on law? "What am I here for?" I asked as calmly as I could. "The way you’ve created this hologram, you must have hacked the full VR recording from the police databanks. That means you know everything I saw and heard. What else do you expect to get out of me?"
The Mouth smiled nastily. Close to a sneer but more smugness. "How about a confession this was all a hoax?"
"It wasn’t," I snapped. "If you want to see the acid burns on Chappalar’s body, let’s you and me take a trip to the cemetery."
"Ms. Smallwood," the Muscle said in a voice that had the decency to sound abashed, "there’s no question Proctor Chappalar died from third-degree burns. But we have to worry about…" He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the Peacock. "We need to know if that’s real or if someone is trying to trick us."
"How could I trick you? This is a direct download from my brain."
The Mouth sneered. Again. Falling back on the tried-and-true strengths of his facial repertoire. "Things can be loaded into your brain as well as out of it," he said. "Link-seeds are two-way technology."
"It could have been done without your knowledge," the Muscle added. "The Vigil has protected your brain with safety locks, but no security is perfect. Someone could have pumped that whole scenario into your mind; you wouldn’t know the difference between planted images and real life."
Blah, blah, blah. As if we hadn’t discussed this a thousand times at the College Vigilant. Yes, it could be done… with the right equipment and at least a day of finessing past the security blocks. And yes, the idea of someone jacking into my brain gave me the white willies if I thought about it too long. But Christ Almighty, you could brainwash anyone, given enough time. And if ever someone did try to monkey with our link-seeds, the wor
ld-soul would notice the next time we made contact. Digital signatures and all that.
"Look," I said, "I’ve only had my link-seed for a few weeks… and the Vigil’s been watching it very close for medical reasons. No one could have tampered with me."
"Except the Vigil itself," Mouth said. "When it had you in its hands for two weeks during mushor. They could have done anything to you."
"They didn’t."
"Of course, that’s what you’d believe." The Mouth gave me a nasty smile. As if petty innuendo was enough to stir up mistrust.
I sighed. "Mushor ended two weeks before the mess at the pump station. How could the Vigil plant false memories of something that hadn’t happened yet?"
"It could be done," the Mouth answered airily. Fair unconvincing too. Which told me these chumps had already decided on their course of action, and weren’t going to heed any argument against.
"Look," I said, "what’s this all about really? What do you think you’re going to do?"
"We’re going to shunt into your brain," the Mouth answered. Gloating. "We’re going to verify whether these Sperm-tail images were put in artificially. If someone has scribbled on your cerebellum, there should be obvious differences between the implanted memories and naturally acquired ones. Obvious to us if not to you. My partner and I will go in to check."
"You want to access me?" I growled.
"That’s it."
"Like hell you will."
The Mouth favored me with another nasty smile. "This is not an optional exercise, Ms. Smallwood. The Admiralty has authorized us to conduct this investigation however we deem necessary. If you won’t confess to this being a hoax…"
"Or if you can’t," the Muscle put in. "Then we’ll crack you open for a look-see." I stared at them. The only light in the room was the glow of the hologram, casting a yellowish gleam on their faces. The Mouth wore the leer of a man who’d enjoy violating me; the Muscle had a noncommittal look, neither eager nor uncomfortable. He’d do what he’d decided to do — he wouldn’t enjoy it, but he wouldn’t agonize about it either.
My throat had turned to gravel. "How about if I demand to see your superiors?"
"We have no superiors on Demoth," Mouth retorted. "Not even the local commander knows we’re here. Or knows you’re here. So if I were you, Ms. Smallwood, I’d lie back on the bed now. It may take hours for us to penetrate your link’s security locks, and you won’t injure yourself so much if you’re resting on a soft surface."
"We’ll be as careful as we can," the Muscle added, "but it’s not going to be easy."
The Mouth nodded. "Think of an epileptic seizure. One that lasts all day long."
I swallowed hard. "Look," I told the Mouth, taking a step toward him, "use your head for a second. How can this be a trick to fool the Admiralty? Who’d want to fool the Admiralty? Why go to the extreme of killing eight proctors just to…"
"To plant false evidence on us?" the Mouth suggested. "Killing eight proctors was the perfect way to catch the fleet’s attention. Mass murder is big; it’s flashy. It guaranteed the commander here would do some investigating, and send the results to the High Council." Mouth showed no sign of concern as I stepped forward again through the hologram. "Doesn’t that sound like a deliberate plot to bring us in?"
"But who’s plotting?" I insisted. "What would anyone gain from deceiving the Admiralty?"
"We don’t know," the Muscle answered. "That’s what bothers us."
"You don’t know how it concerns the navy," I said, taking another step, "but you’re sure it does? Every little mystery has to be about you?"
"Yes," the Mouth and the Muscle said together.
Which was when I broke Mouth’s knee.
It was a jerk-simple side-kick, hard and low — my instep hit the sweet spot of his patella and drove it backward till his whole leg bent the wrong way. Mouth hadn’t suspected a thing. Maybe these two spent so much time researching my link-seed, they’d overlooked the punch’n’crunch training the Vigil gave every proctor.
Always a mistake to concentrate on the mental and ignore the physical.
Mouth screamed… part pain, part the sight of seeing his knee angled back like a grasshopper’s. Damned sissy mainstreamer probably never took a good hit before. The Mouth didn’t even put up his guard when I stepped in to hand-strike range, so I gave him a good palm-heel in the solar plexus to shut him up.
He wheezed and fell. Still breathing, of course, but fierce unhappy about it.
When I turned to the Muscle, he’d backed up against the door and drawn a stun-pistol. "Stand where you are, please," he said.
"Why should I?"
"Because I’ll shoot if you don’t. We can pry into your brain, even if you’re stunned cold; it’s just harder when we can’t see your conscious response. More chance of us making a regrettable mistake. But if that’s the way you want to play it…"
"Shoot her!" Mouth gasped. At least I think that’s what he said — he didn’t have much air in his lungs for making words.
"I won’t shoot unless I have to," the Muscle said, still calm, keeping his gaze focused on me. "No sense in jeopardizing the mission, just because one of us got careless." He gestured toward the bed with the barrel of his pistol. "Are you going to lie down, Ms. Smallwood? Or do we do this the hard way?"
I stared at him, sizing up the situation. Unlike Mouth, the Muscle had been prepared for my attack; maybe he’d expected it as soon as I began inching forward. He wouldn’t hesitate to fire if I took the teeniest step toward him… and I knew from recent experience how fast stun-guns worked. The ultrasonic blast would drop me long before I got within kicking distance.
Throw something at him? No; there was nothing I could grab fast enough. Maybe if I yanked up the Mouth, I could use his body as a shield, let it absorb the sonics.
Useless. As soon as I bent over to grab the Mouth, the Muscle would slab me.
But I had no intention of letting these men into my brain. One lightning rush, zigzagging to make myself harder to hit?
"Don’t try it," the Muscle said, like he’d seen my thoughts on my face. "This pistol’s cone of effect covers your whole half of the room. I don’t have to aim to get you."
I didn’t know enough about stunners to tell if he was lying. Only one way to find out.
"Okay," I said in what I hoped was a defeated-sounding voice. "I’ll lie down on…"
Without warning, I dived forward — old trick, moving in the middle of the sentence, hoping your opponent needs a second to switch mental gears. Even as I struck the floor, I heard the whir of a stun-pistol, felt a wash of dizziness stagger my brain. Not quite out, I thought muddily, not unconscious. I rolled in the direction I thought was the door and blundered out with my leg, trying to sweep the Muscle’s feet out from under him. Nothing. If my leg moved at all, I couldn’t tell; it sure as blazes didn’t hit anything solid. I gave it another try, but my spasm of frantic motion only floundered me onto my back, staring up at Muscle through clumsy eyes.
Sitting duck. Too punchy to move.
The Muscle’s silhouette was framed against the light from the open door. I waited for him to shoot again, put me out for good. Instead, he just stood there, face lost in shadow… till his breath slipped out in a sigh and he slumped like a tired child, toppling across my legs.
Someone was standing in the doorway behind him — someone who also held a stun-pistol. It took a second for me to muddle out what I was seeing. Then I realized the whir I’d heard wasn’t Muscle’s gun, it was the newcomer’s. He or she had shot Muscle in the back… and I was still conscious because I’d only caught the slop of the blast, the sonic spill that hadn’t been soaked up by Muscle’s body.
The newcomer stepped cautiously into the room. It was a woman, a human woman, but with the backlighting I couldn’t make out her face. She moved forward, quickly now, the yellowish hologram light slipping over her body as she strode through the projected images. When she stopped, I could only see her back; she stood
over the Mouth, her stunner trained on him.
"Ten-hut!" she said in a calm voice.
The Mouth stared up at her, eyes squinting, trying to see who she was. Suddenly, his face bugged wide with fear. "Admiral!" he yelped.
"I bet that leg hurts," the woman told him. Her pistol whirred, and the Mouth slouched back limply. "Now it doesn’t," she said.
For a moment more, she stayed with the Mouth’s unconscious body — bending and running her hand carefully over his broken knee. Her back was lit now by the spill-glow of the hologram. Enough light to show she did indeed wear the gray fatigues of an admiral in the Outward Fleet.
Under the circumstances, I didn’t take much joy seeing another navy mucky-muck.
Without jarring Mouth’s leg, the admiral readjusted his body slightly, shifting him into something close to the first-aid recovery position — the safest way for an unconscious body to lie, insurance the victim won’t choke if he vomits. Then she tucked her pistol into a hip holster and came to kneel by me. Her hand gently swept a sweat-strand of hair from my eyes.
She was young for an admiral. Clear green eyes, very alive. And she had a furious port-wine birthmark smeared across the right half of her face.
"Hello," she said. "I’m Festina Ramos. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner."
DIPSHITS
Festina Ramos… a familiar name, thanks to Angie’s son Nate (age 13). Nate, Lord love him, had a whopping crush on the whole Outward Fleet — one of those obsessions some kids get, where they never seem to think of anything else. Drooling over schematic diagrams of star-ships the way a normal boy would ogle skin pix. Sending mail to active and retired fleet personnel all over the Technocracy. Subscribing to the Navy Gazette and keeping his own database of captains, ship postings, duty assignments.
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