The Virtual Dead

by E. R. Mason

  Chapter 27

  With late morning, came a cool drizzle of rain. A mildly despondent weather forecaster on a local radio station was claiming that a fast-moving cold front was on its way. Markman stared through the wet glass of the hotel window. The foggy day seemed reluctant to begin. Despite considerable fatigue, neither he nor Cassiopia had slept well. It was to be a day of preparing for the trip home. Surprisingly, those in charge had relented and released the TEL robot to Cassiopia. That concession had come only after a thorough check of legal ownership had been established, and Cassiopia had exhaustively lectured the bureaucrats about the fragile agreement she had made to remain silent about the Salantian affair. Later, in retaliation, she had told Markman everything.

  By early evening, Markman had finally secured the only rental van suitable to transport a TEL 100D robot all the way back to Florida. His misgivings about the timely disappearance of Fishkin and Inkman continued to trouble him. Adding to his discomfort, were the baggy, brown trousers Cassiopia had purchased for him earlier. His luggage had lost the battle to keep up with its owner.

  As he drove the glistening black streets of Manhattan, his mind searched for mistakes made by Fishkin or Inkman. The other Salantian immigrants were dying, but they had been of the lower castes. That would not be the case with the hierarchy. The smell of death had not been about those two. They would live on and try to propagate. The Matriarch, the layer of eggs, never had been found. To locate any one of them would be to locate all three. How unfortunate it was that there had been no chance to plant the second proximity sensor on Inkman. Had that happened, a telltale radio signal would have been transmitted the instant the two of them met.

  Markman replayed the events leading to his dismissal from the case, over and over in his head. The story had become worn out and empty. Still, something kept tugging at the back of his mind. There was a nagging feeling that something had been overlooked. It was like trying to find the picture hidden within a picture, one that can only be seen by refocusing the mind as well as the eye.

  Things left unanswered, what were they? The list. There had been a problem with some sort of list. If only Rogers’s group could have gotten their hands on that. It had probably contained the names of those in the organization. And then there was the drop-off point, S18. It had never been found.

  Fishkin’s mysterious car accident on a bridge somewhere was an equally disturbing detail. An extensive records search had been done, and no such accident report had been filed. Rogers’s people had been thorough. They had written the incident off as an unreported fender bender, but no one could explain how Fishkin was managing to sometimes escape surveillance.

  As the road narrowed and passed close by the Hudson, Markman breathed a sigh of frustration and looked out over the bay. In the misty night, the vague silhouette of a man under the canopy of a large pleasure boat came into view. He was working his spotlight in search of channel markers. He guided his mid-sized cruiser skillfully toward the shore, sweeping the bright spot across the water as he went.

  Something in Markman’s mind clicked. Boats had bridges. Could Fishkin’s accident have been on that kind of bridge? And the problem with the list. Boats could list to one side, couldn’t they? In fact, if someone screwed up badly enough on the bridge of a heavily loaded boat, that could cause a list!

  No, it was too wild an idea, a fantasy. But there was something else, something to do with water. On his first visit with Fishkin, the man had spilled the contents of his pocket out onto the dining table. There had been something then...a naked girl sitting on an anchor. What was the name? It was easy, a famous president, one that had been assassinated. Kennedy! Kennedy Point!

  Oh, my God, thought Markman, S18--Slip 18!

  Light from an open gas station glistened in the misty rain. He jerked the van hard over and up into the parking area and leaped out of the vehicle. There was a public phone next to the entrance. The partial phone book was badly torn and tattered but the listing was there. Kennedy Point Marina and Restaurant. A street map from the small store indicated it was not far.

  Markman headed briskly for the van. He reached for his cell phone to call Rogers but hesitated. They had ridiculed him every step of the way. If this was a wild goose chase, he would look bad all over again. Better to check it out and then call in.

  At first glance, the large expanse of boat yard looked expensive and well maintained. Through a high, chain-link fence, long, clean white docks, illuminated at even intervals by subdued light, stretched along the shore, and outward in fingers that reached well into deep water. An expensive collage of boats huddled against clean, white bumpers with matching worn spots. In the damp air, the place smelled like seaweed, salt, and fish, mixed unevenly by a steady offshore breeze. Everyone with reason to be here had long since been chased indoors by the persistent drizzle.

  One end of the high chain-link was fastened to a huge boat storage facility. At the halfway point, an open gate had been left unguarded. A darkened, empty guard shack stood next to it. Markman climbed out of the warmth of the van, keeping a watchful eye out as he did so. He reached carefully under the driver’s seat, retrieved his unregistered Glock pistol, and shoved it under the back of his leather jacket. He closed the van door quietly and went to the open gate, passing through it unchallenged. Dampness from the wet air collected on his face and clothes. In all directions, the marina appeared deserted.

  Each finger pier had a lighted post with a stainless steel marker plate. The slip numbers for each were neatly engraved within a pressed metal rope border. Markman stopped in front of one that read S50-59. The numbers counted down on the columns to his right. He walked casually along, secretly watching and listening.

  Water lapped at the crusty pylons that supported the docks, the sounds of it blending faintly with the never-ending noise from distant traffic. He crossed the white planks of the shoreline dock and passed by the huge, closed doors of the gray storage hangar. Just beyond, the finger pier marker read S10-19. S18 was the second to the last slip at the deep water end. A white, thirty-foot cabin cruiser, new and well kept, sat moored in the spot, her bow facing the shore. Opposite her, a very mean-looking red and white cruiser that resembled a small version of an offshore racer was loosely tied with its canvas pulled back.

  Markman walked the length of the finger pier, and with a last, careful look around, climbed aboard the darkened cabin cruiser at S18. She had an elevated, open-air command bridge, packed with state-of-the-art electronics that surrounded a white, raised swivel seat. A J-shaped cushioned couch was tightly fit in beside it. The wide walk-around deck, where Markman stood, was clean and uncluttered. He guessed a single diesel lay below. An unusually large wood grain door, split at the middle, led below deck. Gently, he slid it open and bent over to gaze down into the shadowy salon-galley. On the right, a hexagon dining table was positioned next to tan, wraparound seats. A familiar-looking black briefcase sat on the middle of the polished table. On the opposite side, dirty dishes were stacked high in a small double sink.

  Suddenly an old familiar feeling crept into Markman’s conscious, a feeling of alarm that usually signaled he was being watched. As he straightened up, he caught the first glimpse of three dark silhouettes standing on the pier to his left. He turned, with one hand still on the salon door, to face them.

  In the dim evening light, the three men appeared almost like grim reapers from a bad dream. Two athletically-built men in glistening wet trench coats, with the brims of their hats pulled low, stood on the dock. They shielded a third man, who waited behind. The man on the right held a large-caliber handgun with a very long silencer attached to its barrel. It was leveled at Markman. As the tall, dominant man in back began to speak, the two bodyguards parted slightly, revealing his dark, damp suit, and round-brimmed hat. He carried a shiny, silver cane that he tapped twice on the dock to accentuate his position of command.

  “Ah, well, I am surprised. It’s Julian is it not? David Julian? Of course, I’m sure t
hat is not your real name, but your face is quite familiar to me. Would you mind, Mr. Julian, if we came aboard our boat since it now seems unavoidably necessary to speak at some length with you?”

  Markman straightened up and made no reply. The bodyguards were clearly not amateurs. They boarded the craft with the utmost care, keeping their eyes carefully fixed on their target, allowing no chance of escape or counterattack. Their tall, lanky boss followed with far less skill, resuming his position behind and between them, appraising Markman with a cold, empty stare.

  He spoke haughtily. “I am certain you’ve heard of me, Mr. Julian, or whatever your name is. Mine is Inkman. Leo Inkman. We are quite surprised to find you here. I’ll give you that much. It was I who originally doubted your credentials and disapproved your bid to join the Dragon Masters. I don’t suppose you would care to tell me your real name, and which agency you work for?”

  Markman rested an arm above the open hatchway and tried to appear unimpressed. He stared blankly over Inkman’s shoulder and watched the lights of a distant ferry glide by in the night.

  “No matter,” continued Inkman. “We will know all we need to know before we are done with you. How you managed to find us is of great concern to me. Those pitiful members of our group who were recently captured had no knowledge of our presence here. There is no way they could have conveyed such information to you. Tell me, do you know anything about the Matriarch, Mr. Julian?”

  Markman carefully appraised his situation. The bodyguard on the right held his weapon with poise. He was at least three feet away. It was another sign of a true professional. Any closer and there would have been a good chance the gun could have been taken away. At the moment, that option did not exist. On the left, the second guard carried no gun, but his confident stare suggested he felt it unnecessary. The only alternative left was to buy time.

  “You mean the egg layer? Yeah, we know all about that. We expect to wrap that end of it up shortly.”

  An irreverent smirk formed on Inkman’s wet face. “I don’t think so, Mr. Julian. If what you say is true, where are your boats and men? I can see the Matriarch’s lair from here. She is quite undisturbed, I assure you.”

  Inkman turned slightly and looked out across the deep end of the pier and the open water beyond it. The lights across the bay were not visible through the foggy rain, but in the distance the lights of a large motor yacht anchored offshore glistened. Inkman looked back at Markman. His smile had faded into an expression of affection.

  “Can you see her lights, Mr. Julian? One hundred and ten feet, though quite low in the water at the moment. We thought it was the perfect place, a vessel inherited from the Inkman estate. Large enough to hold the central game computer, and also the perfect station to transmit from. It left plenty of room for the Queen’s cocoon. We thought it would be the last place anyone would look. We thought if our enemies learned about us they would also learn that we despise water and would, consequently, search elsewhere. It worked, despite Mr. Fishkin’s ineptitude on the control bridge.”

  Markman shifted his weight very carefully and stared out at the lights in the mist. “Although I have managed to find you.”

  “Yes, that is disturbing, Mr. Julian, but not very. You see, shortly the Matriarch will emerge from her shell and take charge of the establishment of a new colony. Mr. Fishkin is there waiting for me as we speak. We will christen the new Queen and leave with her. A very fast boat will take us to a waiting airplane, where a carefully predetermined route has been prepared. No longer will we require the painstakingly slow process of worker insemination. We will produce our colony with no help needed from Salantia. So you see, it is too late, Mr. Julian. Within the hour, we will have disappeared from sight to an even better-prepared hiding place.”

  “They’ll find you, wherever you go.”

  “Perhaps when it is too late. Perhaps after other Queens have been bred. And there is someone else on board our gracious boat that might interest you, Mr. Julian. Until now the soldiers we have produced have been of very poor quality, not even capable of understanding weapons. The first of a new breed, however, has finally emerged. You see, one of your agents did manage his way into the Dragon Masters. He was sent through the Vortex and returned as one of us. The briefcase you saw on the table below is for him. Using his face and fingerprints, he will deliver that briefcase to the place where your records are being kept, and he will set it off at the busiest of times so as to remove as many in your leadership structure as possible. We have many such plans.”

  Markman wished for a chance. He had always believed that, in any given situation, a chance would come. It was the philosophy of the Tao Chane, the Way. Markman waited with quiet transcendence.

  Inkman’s voice became impatient and slurred. “Get the tape and don’t take any chances with him. Do it quickly.”

  The man who held no weapon went to a compartment built into the side of the deck wall. From it, he pulled a fat roll of wide, silver tape and kept a steady eye on Markman as he did so. It was another sign of professionals. Neither man ever assumed the other had coverage. Something in the background caught Markman’s eye. It was an incoming swell, the wake from the ferryboat that had passed by.

  His captors were completely unaware of the incoming wave. The man with the duct tape approached him cautiously and stopped just outside his range. His wet hands slipped as he struggled to start the roll, and he cursed under his breath. He looked up at Markman with a cold stare and spoke matter-of-factly. “Put your hands in your pockets.”

  Markman tracked the advancing wave trying not to be obvious. “Gentleman, can’t we discuss this and maybe find some...common ground?”

  The gunman on Markman’s right spoke with controlled irritation. “Check him out first. He’s gotta be carryin’.”

  The man’s partner, having started the roll of tape, inched slightly closer. He spoke calmly with one hand pointed out in front of him. “Now just be cool, buddy. One wrong move and you’ll get popped three times right here and now, so don’t blow it. Turn around and put your hands on the upper deck. Do it right now.”

  The first of the rough water would hit in less than two seconds. Markman held his hands up and out at chest height and slowly started to turn, knowing that one way or another he would never finish.

  Chapter 28