Cardenas led the way up the stairs. No glass was in evidence; windows and doors alike featuring only mesh screening. The periodic hiss-sst of an unseen electronic insect repeller indicated that the edifice was equipped with at least one piece of modern technology. Evidently, an inclination on the part of the building's residents to return to the wild did not necessarily include an urge to feed it.
Cardenas was a little surprised to find the screen door unlocked. Exchanging a look with his partner, he entered. It was surprisingly cool and dry within, clearly due to the silent exertions of artfully concealed air-conditioning and dehumidifying appliances. Moving slowly down the hallway and looking to his right, he found himself gazing into a comfortable sitting room. Couches and chairs fashioned of rattan and other local materials cradling cushions imported from the outside world clustered around the ubiquitous vit. Floor mats of woven coconut fiber alternated with decorative pads fashioned from palm fronds. As for the inventive paintings and bas-reliefs and color-crawls that decorated the walls and rested on small wooden tables, he found himself wondering if they had been fashioned by human hands—or by those belonging to close cousins.
"Who is it?" a strong feminine voice inquired from the far side of the hallway. "I hope you were able to find some—"
Turning, Cardenas found himself confronting a slightly stocky and undeniably attractive woman in her early thirties. Shoulder-length blonde hair was drawn back in a single ponytail, an eminently sensible do for the high tropics. Her face was devoid of makeup and cosmetics of any kind. The single wraparound pale yellow garment she wore was dominated by a bold bougainvillea print, more South Pacific than Central America. Her feet were small and bare, the nails unembellished. A sole concession to contemporary convention was the small audio-only muse player that fit neatly into her right ear.
"Surtsey Mockerkin?" Cardenas started to reach into the inside pocket of his short-sleeved shirt to show her his ident bracelet. "I'm—"
The blood seemed to drain from her face. Her expression grew stricken. "Roger!" she screamed.
Before either man could explain himself further, a bulbous streak of muscular red-orange came tearing into the room, brushing past the frightened woman as it flew at the pair of visitors. A heavy, tree sap-stained machete gripped tightly in one hand struck first at Hyaki, descending with enough force to cleave an arm from a shoulder. Remarkably agile for such a big man, and used to dealing with assailants, the sergeant lunged to one side and struck at his attacker as he rushed past. Powerful enough to bring most men to their knees, the blow didn't even slow the figure wielding the big bush knife.
But then, it wasn't a man.
Whirling, the furious orangutan took a second swipe at the sergeant, who darted behind the rattan couch and picked up a chair to defend himself. With one hand the orang, kilo for kilo far stronger than any human, lifted the couch and flung it out of the way. While the reddish-orange ape stalked Hyaki, Cardenas was able to rush to the woman's side. Since her whole posture was reflective of profound inner fear, he hastened to reassure her. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out his ident.
"Surtsey Mockerkin? Inspector Angel Cardenas and Sergeant Fredoso Hyaki, Namerican Federal Police. I spoke to you in Nogales. We're here to help you." He gestured in the direction of the two grim-visaged combatants. "Call off your dog."
Some of the tension eased out of her, but her expression remained wary. Keeping her eyes on Cardenas, she spoke without turning. "Roger! It's all right—they're police, not mataros."
Holding the machete over his head with both hands, the orang slowly lowered his long, powerful arms. Only when the blade neared the floor did Hyaki begin to put down the chair he was holding defensively in front of him. The ape blinked large, deceptively childlike eyes.
"Surtsey sure?"
"For now," she told him. "Wait outside, on the porch." The tone in her voice carried an implied threat as she continued to address her words to the man standing next to her. "I'll call you if I need you. And before you go, fix the couch."
Obediently, again using only one hand, the orang flipped the casually cast-aside piece of furniture back onto its feet, repositioned it on the floor, and tossed the loose cushions back where they belonged. Favoring both Hyaki and Cardenas with a warning glare, it ambled out of the room, still clutching the ominous long blade.
"Your friend?" Cardenas gestured in the direction of the departed simian.
"My bodyguard. He was assigned to me by the Simiano association. I pay them to protect and shelter me here." Her expression softened slightly. "They rotate bodyguards. None of them is especially fond of human company. But they know how to do their job."
Having set the wicker-and-rattan chair back on the floor, Hyaki promptly slumped into it. In the high humidity, the brief burst of physical exertion had started cascades of perspiration from his face and upper body.
"I wouldn't dispute that."
She hesitated a moment longer before finally gesturing toward the furniture. "Well, you're here. I can't do anything about that. So you might as well sit down."
Taking the chair next to the couch, Cardenas folded his hands and leaned forward earnestly. "You said that you pay the, um, people here to shelter you. Where's Katla?"
Surtsey Mockerkin seemed to sink in on herself. Another time, another place, this would be an exceptionally attractive and probably vivacious woman, Cardenas thought. The tropics reduced everyone to the same low, sweaty, common denominator of appearance.
"Since you found me, you obviously know about her." She looked out a screened window. "When she's not sitting in front of a box teasing mollyspheres, she likes to take walks in the forest. Says she's inspired by what she sees." Mockerkin shook her head. "I'm glad for her. This was the safest place I could think of to run to, and I had contacts here."
"You did," Hyaki pressed her, "or Wayne Brummel did?"
She looked over at the big man, but not in surprise. "So you know about Wayne, too?"
Cardenas nodded sympathetically. "That's what started us on this case. You didn't keep your appointment to meet me at the Nogales morgue."
Turning to her left, she passed a hand over a large mockwood sculpture of a tapir. It's back slid aside to expose the interior. Reaching within, she removed a bottle of local beer and flipped the cap, activating the integral refrigerator. As she waited for it to chill she did not offer one to her visitors.
"Poor Wayne. He truly loved me, you know. As much as he hated Cleats, he loved me." Reduced to watching her take a slug of the ice-cold brew, actual pain shot through Hyaki. "Wayne's problem was a common one among men: they always think they're smarter than they actually are. I miss him, but not as much as I thought I would." She indicated their surroundings. "He was the one who did the scut work looking for a safe haven, in case we might need one. Too bad he'll never get to enjoy it." Taking a more decorous sip of the golden liquid, she eyed Cardenas appraisingly. "I'm telling you the truth."
"I know." The Inspector responded comfortingly, without bothering to explain how he really did.
She crossed very alluring legs, most of which were visible below the hem of her tropical shorts. "My first thought when I saw you two standing here was that it was all over, that you were mataros sent by my husband." Her face screwed up in an expression of visible distaste. "'Nobody mocks The Mock,' he always used to say. Pinche cabron, that bastard!" Her tone turned pleading. "He fascinated me, at first. I was very young. Eventually, things got to the point where I couldn't take it anymore. I ran away half a dozen times. Each time, his people found me and brought me back." She looked away from her visitors. "Each time I was brought back things got—worse.
"Then Katla happened. I stopped running away. To raise her, and also to get him to ease off. When I felt she was old enough, strong enough, I started looking for a way out. Having failed so many times on my own, I'd finally figured out that I'd need help. I was just flailing around, going nowhere, until I met Wayne." She drained more of the beer. "It wasn't so much that
Wayne was a good guy. After all, he worked for Cleats. He was just less bad than most of the other men I'd met. And he loved me, and tolerated Katla.
"That was enough for me. I told him what I wanted to do, and he did it. Together, we made the break, tried to lose ourselves in the Strip." She shook her head. "Four new identities in two years, and it still wasn't enough. All the time, Wayne kept searching for a safe place, in case we had to leave Namerica. I don't know how he stumbled on the idea of coming here, but he did. He reasoned that it was one place even The Mock's mins couldn't get in." She offered up a wan smile. "We didn't talk about the federales."
"Your house almost got us," Hyaki felt compelled to tell her.
She glanced sideways at him. "That was Wayne's work, too. It wasn't intended for you. It was designed as a greeting for The Mock's hombers in case they ever showed up. How'd you get away, anyhow?"
Hyaki indicated the quietly attentive Cardenas. "My partner is real good at sensing anomalies in a situation." He added accusingly, "Your house nearly blew off my ass."
She shrugged. "I'd apologize, if I thought it would make a difference. Nothing matters now. Nothing matters anymore." There was a genuine yearning for closure in her eyes as she gazed up at Cardenas. "If you could find me here, then it means that Cleats can do so also."
"Not necessarily," the Inspector corrected her. "Not every official channel of information is compromised, you know. The facts of your case are known only to a very few." He indicated Hyaki. "Technically, Fredoso and I are here on leave, and not here on official business."
She looked as if it made no difference. "Doesn't matter. I can't leave here. The Ciudad Simiano is my last, and best, hope. Katla's, too."
"The NFP has a highly successful witness protection program."
Her laughter was sharp and brittle, though not entirely unexpected. She gaped at him in disbelief. "You must be kidding! Leave this place, where nobody gets in without permission, to go back to the Strip and give testimony against The Mock? I may not be as smart as Katla, but we do share some of the same genes. I'm staying here— even if Cleats's mins can find me." She threw a hand in the direction of the hallway. "Let 'em come. Let's see how they like dealing with Roger and his kind! But go back? Not a chance, fedoco. Not if you could convince me you could sell shaved ice in Spitzbergen."
"All right," Cardenas responded. "If that's the way you feel about it. But if you'll tell us what this is all about, maybe the NFP can extend you some additional help. You wouldn't be against that, would you? If you know something that we can use against Cleator Mockerkin that doesn't involve an actual courthouse appearance on your part, there's always a chance we can move against him while you remain out of sight here. That would remove the threat to you and your daughter without you having to return to the Strip. Wouldn't you like to see that happen?"
For the second time, she hesitated. "You're not going to force us to go back with you?"
The Inspector shook his head. "Can't. This is the Central American Federation, not Namerica. You're not accused of any crime, so extradition law doesn't apply. You can speak freely." He met her gaze without blinking. "I wouldn't try to take you and your daughter against your will, anyway."
She mulled his offer. Suddenly she looked younger than her years, more like a frightened teenager than a hardened survivor of the Strip. "It's the money. The Mock's money. Cleats's cash. Wayne and I, we appropriated quite a bit of mutable credit. Nobody does that to The Mock and gets away with it. The fact that I was involved made it that much worse. Makes him look the goat as well as the goof. He wants his money back. He wants me back."
The Inspector nodded comprehendingly, leaned toward her with- out smiling, and replied softly but firmly, "If you're going to lie to me, Ms. Mockerkin, I'm not going to be able to do anything to help you. The money you and Wayne Brummel-George Anderson stole is only a very small part of this."
Her face flushed with outrage and she half rose from the couch. "I'm not lying, you damn fedoco! Why else do you think someone like The Mock would want me back?"
Not in the least perturbed by her outburst, Cardenas tried to remain as sensitive and sympathetic as possible. "I'm not so sure that he does want you back, Ms. Mockerkin. But we do know that he wants your daughter."
TWELVE
SHE STARED AT HIM. SAVE FOR THE RAINFOREST sounds that drifted in through the screened windows, it was dead silent in the room. "I don't know what you're talking about, Inspector. Katla is a bright, perfectly normal, ordinary twelve-year-old, who suffers only from the problems that are common to girls her age. Beyond the fact that she's his daughter, I can't imagine what special interest my husband would have in seeking her return."
Hyaki sighed resignedly. "Give us some credit for doing our jobs, Ms. Mockerkin. We found you, didn't we? Besides, we can tell when you're lying." He nodded in the Inspector's direction. "My partner is an intuit."
Their host looked sharply at Cardenas. Most of the time he preferred to keep his particular ability in the background. This was not one of those times. She saw the truth in his eyes, and slumped.
"We've talked to your daughter's friends, Ms. Mockerkin. Both inside and outside the soche you had her enrolled in. We know that Katla is rather more than 'bright.' We know that she is a tecant, and that she was working on some important project for your husband when you both disappeared."
Fingers twisting and pulling against one another, Surtsey Mockerkin gave ground only grudgingly. "Katla's my daughter, gentlemen, and I love her." Raising her head, she gazed imploringly at the attentive Cardenas. "But I don't pretend to understand her. Where she got her kind of smarts I'm sure I don't know." She laughed sardonically. "Not from me, I can tell you! Me, I've got street smarts, and plenty of them. But book smarts—maybe it comes from Cleats's side of the family. I'm not so sure that's such a good thing.
"She's real shy, Katla is, but sometimes, when she was sure we were alone and unmonitored, she would try to talk to me about things. Cleats's project was one of them. He—he told her that if she didn't work with him, with his people, then something might happen. Not to her, but to someone else."
"He threatened you to get her to work with him?" Hyaki remarked.
"Not by name." Her attention shifted to the big man. "He didn't have to. It was enough to suggest that something might happen to someone close to her. He might have been talking about a sochemate, or a casual friend. You've never been around him, Sergeant. There's a quality to his voice. It's unforced, natural, but The Mock can order take-out Chinese and make it sound like he's going to commit serial murder. When he actually is making a threat..." There being no need to finish the sentence, her voice died away.
Cardenas pulled the conversation back to an earlier thread. "This project of his, the one that he had Katla working on: can you tell us anything about it? We don't know any details, only that it's of some significance. Apparently, others besides your husband are very interested in it."
She spread her hands wide and shrugged. "I told you. Katla tried to explain it to me, several times. I only remember a little about it, and I don't pretend to understand even the parts that I remember. It has something to do with a procedure she called 'quantum theft.'"
The two federales exchanged a glance. "That's all?" Cardenas prodded her.
"Oh no, there's lots more. I just don't understand any of it."
Brow wrinkling, Surtsey Mockerkin struggled to remember terminology and designations, definitions and descriptions, that were clearly beyond her. As she rambled on, it became increasingly evident to Cardenas that much of it was equally beyond him and his partner. What was worse was that, in the absence of their charred spinners, they had only their own inadequate minds with which to try and record any of the details.
"It all centers on the remote controlling of the optical switches that drive the commercial ganglions of the Box. I'm talking about the global Box, not some local offshoot dendrites." Seeing the expression on their faces, she added wryly, "I told you
I didn't understand it. I just remember some of it."
"Go on," Cardenas urged her, desperately wishing he had his spinner. Or the knowledgeable presence beside him of Aurilac the Wise.
The remembering seemed to help her relax. In between declamations, she drained the remainder of the beer. "Apparently the trick— that's what Katla kept calling it—is to tune the relevant multiple amplifiers so that the lasers being controlled at the opportune moment exactly match a certain wavelength. If correctly pumped, this is supposed to create an onsite duplicate of whatever information is being scanned at that time. The instant this exact duplicate is created at the remote site, the original is destroyed." She shifted her backside on the couch.
"It's supposed to duplicate bank numbers, or stock details, or whatever information is being pumped, on someone else's molly."
"And at the same time," Cardenas added, straining to make sense of what she was telling them, "the original information is rendered useless?"
"Not just rendered useless," she corrected him. "It's obliterated, as if it never existed. But it does, in the form of the perfect duplicate that's been created elsewhere."
Both men were quiet for a moment, trying to digest it all. As he so often did, Hyaki neatly summed up what they had just been told.
"The banks are gonna love this."
"Very nifty," Cardenas observed. "Not only do you steal information, you simultaneously eliminate the original record of its existence. Like running away from someone while brushing out the tracks you leave behind you." His brows drew together slightly as he regarded Surtsey Mockerkin. "If it works."
Setting the bottle aside, she extracted another from storage and flicked on the chill. Once again, she did not offer any to her guests. Cardenas supposed he couldn't blame her.
"I couldn't tell you that. I wouldn't know if something like that was working right even if I saw it in action."
"So you don't know if this wild concept is anything more than a theory? You don't know how far along any practical application actually is, or if your husband's people have gone beyond just theorizing?"
The Mocking Program Page 17