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The Jump Point

Page 4

by Anthony James


  He taps his finger and the rapid information march abruptly halts. He chews thoughtfully at his thumbnail for a moment letting his gaze wander about the room. Maybe it's time for a visit to the city. He could do with some loosening up. It would be good to spend some time watching the passing parade and breathe a little air and space. From time to time, he forgets himself in the confines of his personal accommodations and loses touch with how it really is outside. First, however, there is something he has left until last on purpose, just to tease himself. He needs to check the progress of his current obsession.

  The beauty of this one, for Valdor, is the contradiction it presents. Interworld Logic Systems and Germ Cells Inc. are probably the two most visible corporate giants in the system. Yet he has his finger in both. Every time a board member of either as much as hiccups it is newsworthy. The challenge is to move their plans in the right direction — his direction — without being seen to do so. And there lies the true challenge.

  From time to time, he feels the urge to tell someone what he's doing, to confide in someone close, but that urge always passes quickly. Besides, there really isn’t anyone close. No one at all. There are none who can satisfactorily fill the role of Valdor's confidant anyway, and there's no point in breaking open such a flawless effort simply for the sake of a little massage to his ego. Perhaps one day, but not now.

  ILGC will be the new banner; he has already decided — Interworld Logic and Germ Cells. The new corporation will be huge, spanning several worlds and a diversity of interests and all for one small overlap of product and strategy, the bio-comp. Valdor has a hunch about this one. Biological components and hard comp architecture. He is sure, deep inside, that this is the way, but it needs a little encouragement from the right direction. Both ILS and GCI have made forays into the area in the past but each of their strategic visions is too limited to make real progress. Throw the two together and it has the potential to be a whole new game. Valdor intends to be the architect of that change. Now, he needs to see how it's going.

  He hits the key sequence. Pictographs are replaced by words and the words are underscored by figures, all mapping the pathways of his intent.

  "Very pretty, Vald' Carr."

  "What?" Valdor's breath explodes with the word.

  "These figures," continues the heavily accented voice from beyond the screen's scrolling patterns.

  "But how did you ... "

  Valdor lets the question trail off as he readjusts his perspective to focus beyond and through the holo display, to the voice that issues from beyond it. He stands.

  "Questions are not — is not — important," says the carefully enunciated voice. "We have interest in what you do — here, Vald' Carr. We wish your — attention."

  Valdor narrows his eyes and taps the sequence to clear down the screen. As the images fade to nothing, his eyes widen again, for there, sitting across from him, is a Sirona. Never mind the failings of his careful security. Never mind allowing himself to be caught so unawares. It is a Sirona. Eyes still wide, he takes a slow, deep breath and attempts to regain a little of his composure while his mind races.

  Seeing a Sirona is a rare event at the best of times. To say they have a low profile is an understatement of the highest order. But, here on New Helvetica, in his own inner sanctum, sits a member of the strange race. Quickly he runs his mind over what he knows of them. Not a lot, really. Of course he recognises them from the pictures and the occasional newscast.

  The short humanoids make their rare appearances, occasionally popping up in system, in their strangely shaped, silver ships with offers of trade of one form or another. It's usually for goods or objects that make very little sense to those who really think about it, but it's always at just the right time. Nobody really knew where they come from, or for that matter how exactly their ships get them there. Some say that the Sirona have long ago ceased to have a home world and all they do is travel from system to system and trade, fulfilling their own purpose — whatever that might be.

  The last report Valdor remembers, was when they showed up a couple of years ago on his own home world, and the political scandal that ensued. At the time, there had been a mysterious blight that afflicted all the rich kahveh crops on Kalany. The research to locate a cure was mammoth, but to no avail. The public and authorities had naturally poured funds into the effort, as the crops were the world's life blood, but the search was fruitless.

  And then the Sirona arrived.

  Their offer was simple and apparently straightforward in the end. They offered a trade. They would provide a cure for the blight. In return, all they wanted was the contents of the National Kalanian Museum of Art. No negotiations, no deals, just a simple clear-cut trade. That was the way they operated. The ruling council at the time had decided to go with the offer. The economy was under threat. There was no visible reprieve and as far as Valdor was concerned, they took the right decision. There are many now on Kalany who are not so sure. Public outcry was long and loud. There were voluble discussions of moral responsibility and natural rights. Much indignation and several resignations later, the outrage subsided, but the deed was done and there was no going back. In Valdor's view, Kalany was prosperous enough to rebuild an art collection. As far as he's concerned nothing was truly irreplaceable.

  The Sirona's large head is tilted slightly to one side, observing. Its fingers are steepled in front of its lips and it appears almost to be reading his thoughts.

  "We have — offer — of trade," it says carefully.

  Naturally, thinks Valdor.

  "You have for us — something. We have something good for you ... perhaps. Yes?" The Sirona moves its head slowly from side to side, but its eyes never leave Valdor's face.

  Valdor is confused. His thoughts are racing double time, and he tries desperately to focus them. Sure, there are many things he has, many things he has access to, but what is there in among all of it that could possibly interest the Sirona? Added to that, he has no idea what the Sirona might have that could interest him. Slowly, he sinks back into his seat.

  "Fine, let's just move back a step, shall we?" says Valdor as calmly as he can manage.

  "Apology. Your meaning not clear," the Sirona says, tilting its head back and looking ceilingward as it searches for each word.

  "Well ... first, you appear to know who I am. So, if we are to deal together, let's establish a couple of points. You're traders, right? You can understand that, the need to put rules in place, a basis for negotiation. So ... who the hell are you, and what precisely do you want here?" Valdor says clearly, leaning forward a little to add emphasis, the last words coming from between closed teeth.

  "Ah ... understanding. You call me Tarn. Name is — unimportant. Trade important. We — offer trade."

  This is maybe starting to move in a direction that Valdor can begin to understand. He is still confused, but he can feel a hint of his self-composure starting to return.

  "Listen Tarn — or whatever you call yourself — what can I possibly have that you can want? Hmm? And for that matter, what could you have that might possibly interest me?" he asks. Better, Valdor thinks, to feign ignorance of the multiple possibilities.

  "Perhaps there are things that you — would know. Many examples are available?" the Sirona answers.

  Valdor has to concentrate carefully on the meaning of what the creature is saying. It places emphasis in all the wrong places as it speaks.

  "Such an — example." the Sirona continues. "A new substance. Recreational. This — just one example. There is much — the Sirona — could offer."

  "Well perhaps there is ... um, Tarn. Perhaps there is. So, let's presume for the moment that I might be interested. Let us talk in the hypothetical. Sorry ... let us talk possibilities. What is it you might want from me?"

  "So — the matter — in question? You — Vald' Carr — have interest in something that is important for — the Sirona. The two you were watching. They that you — push — together. The ones—on your display,"
says the Sirona. It keeps its unblinking gaze on him as it illustrates by moving outstretched hands together with fingers splayed. "This the Sirona want. This we want."

  "I'm not quite sure I understand you," says Valdor, furrowing his brow. "Tell me exactly what you mean. Another way perhaps? Different words."

  "Yes Vald' Carr. It is — not so hard. The two you — watch. On the holoscreen. They move together. You do this. This will happen. The Sirona see this. But the Sirona — want them. We want Vald' Carr to — shape — this for the Sirona."

  Valdor stares. Slowly he moves his hand up to cover his mouth, to mask some of the reaction he feels, making a show of rubbing his upper lip in thought. The Sirona's large head tilts again to the side, watching him as if assessing the impact of its words. Hidden beneath the shielding hand, Valdor chews at his lower lip and tries to come to grips with what he has just heard. He narrows his eyes briefly as he thinks, still watching as the Sirona's fingers move, touching the fingertips of its other hand in seemingly ordered patterns.

  Valdor is off balance in a way he has not been for some time. There is too much out of place here; too much already out of his control. For a start, there are only one or two who have any knowledge of his involvement in the ILS-GCI merger, and he believes he can trust them to keep their mouths shut. His net is one of the most, if not the most secure in the system. It couldn't possibly have been breached. Or could it?

  No, there's no way anyone could know about his involvement unless he wanted them to, let alone the Sirona. But, and it is obvious, the Sirona have found access to the information by some means. A Sirona sits across from him expressing clear knowledge of his most intimate dealings. Not only that, but it is telling him that they are to be controlled by them. He realises he has to collect himself, and fast. The pause becomes longer, until, finally, the Sirona speaks again.

  "Vald' Carr. We give you — time to — consider perhaps. Yes? We trust — discretion."

  Valdor can do little more than watch as the Sirona clambers down from its chair and stands. Its head barely reaches above the desk surface.

  "Consider well, Vald' Carr. Few options."

  The small trader places one long finger to the side of its nose and then turns and walks to the door. Its body adopts a rolling gait, wide shoulders above the short legs. As it reaches up for the door panel, Valdor stirs himself from immobility.

  "Wait a moment."

  The Sirona's large head turns as the door panel slides open and it steps out into the corridor.

  "We talk — again." it says over its shoulder.

  "Wait — "

  The door slides shut.

  Valdor sits back and stares at the spot where the small alien trader stood moments before. Finally, he lets his hand slip from his face to the desk and he lets out a long breath. Gaze fixed, he taps a slow measured beat with his index finger. After a moment or two, he presses his eyes shut as if to dispel the image of the now-sealed door, and leans back into the familiar security of his chair.

  He wants a drink. Badly.

  Chapter Three

  "Milnus? Is that Milnus? No? Well, where the hell is he? Find him and put him on ... Milnus, is that you? Good. Well, we have a problem that's what…. No. Get up here. Now!"

  Valdor sat where the Sirona left him, elbows on his desk, chewing at the end of one thumb. He stared at the door waiting for his Head of Security to arrive, trying to decide what tone he should use with the man. Milnus was good — very good — and Valdor had not once been let down by him. Before now that was. No, he would be calm and collected. Give him the good grace he deserved. Men as good as Milnus were few and far between.

  Valdor was no longer shaken by what had just happened. Now he was starting to become angry, and he was very, very dangerous when angry. When he became this angry, he ceased to be emotional. He became cold, calculating, and rational, and heads rolled.

  The door panel slid open and Valdor lowered his hand to the desk, palm flat on the smooth, dark surface.

  "Come in. Close the door behind you. Come and sit down, Milnus," Valdor said, indicating the chair opposite with the forefinger of his other hand, voice showing no trace of the fury that now boiled inside him.

  Milnus did as he was told. He was in the same spot as the Sirona had been mere minutes before and Valdor couldn't help replaying the image in his head. He banished the thought with a quick shake of his head and studied the man opposite.

  If there was any way to describe Milnus, it would be that he was grey. His closely cropped hair was grey, his eyes were grey, and the sallow flesh stretched taught across the bones of his unremarkable face had an almost grey tinge. He had the sort of face that was so easily forgotten. It was long, thin-lipped but with no real distinguishing feature to mark it out from the hundreds of faces you might see every day. The man was neither good looking nor ugly and he clothed himself the same way, unobtrusively in neutral colours. He really was the archetypal New Helvetian. If there was ever a cause to attract closer scrutiny though, there was one thing that was noticeable — his eyes. They were the colour of steel with about the same amount of warmth. He sat across from Valdor, hands carefully folded in his lap, back straight and eyes blinking once or twice as he waited to hear why Valdor had summoned him.

  "All right," Valdor said. "Can you tell me precisely what just happened?"

  "I'm not sure I understand the question, Sir," said Milnus. His response was measured with a slight narrowing of his eyes and just the trace of a frown.

  Valdor stared across at him. Forcing control into his voice, he explained just as carefully.

  "What the question means, is that we, meaning you and I, have just had a breach of security ... and I want to know why. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I'm led to understand that security is your responsibility."

  Milnus narrowed his eyes still further and pursed his lips before replying.

  "Who?" he asked, with a sense of threat pregnant in the solitary word.

  "That's what I want to find out, you idiot," spat Valdor losing some of his reserve.

  "I'm sorry. Not who ... then how?" Milnus asked, tilting his head back slightly. His nostrils flared, as if already catching the scent of his quarry.

  Valdor paused for a moment, assessing, before he answered. Milnus obviously knew nothing of what had just happened, and that was strange in and of itself. The man seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere, in places that sometimes even surprised Valdor himself. Well, if he was going to find out what was going on, Milnus was the one to do it for him.

  "How is simple. I just had a visitor. A visitor I did not invite. I also had no notice of this visit, nor any idea of how it happened. Now, there's only one way I can see for that to occur, and that is if that visitor had some assistance getting in and out of here ... am I right? See to it."

  "May I ask, Sir, who this visitor might have been?"

  "I thought we were done," said Valdor, then just as quickly reconsidered. "It was a Sirona," he said, and paused for the expected reaction.

  The only sign of surprise was a slight flicker of Milnus's grey-white eyebrows.

  "I will attend to it Sir," he said, standing. "May I leave now?"

  "Yes, yes. Just see to it."

  Milnus spun on his heel and left the room, the door panel sliding shut behind him. For a moment Valdor experienced flash of doubt. That slight movement of Milnus's eyebrows could have indicated surprise, but it could also have meant disbelief. It was improbable for a visitor of any sort to waltz in unannounced and unnoticed to one of the most highly secured establishments on New Helvetica. There was one way to be sure.

  As a habit, Valdor kept recordings of all the rooms in his urban fortress, especially his own. It allowed him the luxury of replaying meetings at his leisure. He could study people's reactions and the subtle nuances of meaning that those reactions lent to statements and to promises and deals. This one thing had helped him build an armoury of knowledge about the individuals he dealt with and the way they themse
lves dealt. It also gave him practice reading people and the unspoken signs they gave. That, in turn, helped him to better control his own, for he could watch himself in action and learn by his mistakes.

  His comp was set up to catalogue and scan these digitised images, searching for anomalies by taking random selections of the periods when he was absent. All calls in and out were monitored in the same fashion. It provided him with an extra level of security above what was already the best security force on New Helvetica, and it gave him eyes and ears throughout his domain.

  He keyed the comp and set the replay — his office, one hour earlier. He watched as the images formed, saw himself gazing out the window, turning to the desk and accessing the backlog of comp work. Then nothing. The image was blank.

  "No, dammit," he hissed between clenched teeth and slapped his palm down. He couldn't have miskeyed.

  He replayed the sequence again, starting from the same point. Again, the same series of moves, and again the image faded to nothing. He noticed this time, however, that the indicators at the screen's base remained, marking the time and the location. The blankness continued as the seconds ticked over. Then, just as suddenly as it disappeared, the image coalesced, revealing him sitting at the desk in an otherwise empty room, staring at the door with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

  Seeing that look of stupidity on his own face only added insult to injury and he replayed the same section furiously back and forth. The same blank section of recording broke up the continuity of the images over and over. He switched location to the hall outside, but with the same results. The images simply disappeared at precisely the same time.

  Now he was angrier still, but worry was beginning to temper his anger. His sanctum had been violated twice, in ways that should just not have been possible. Either the Sirona were very good, or Valdor was losing his senses. Neither option appealed to him very much. For the Sirona to be that good, they would have to have known about the monitoring devices in advance, and that begged yet another question. None of the implications were good.

 

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