Carson shook his head. The lava and the mountains were riddled with caves. They would never find a spring that didn’t surface to the light of day, where it would generate some form of green plant life.
They continued to trot, the only sounds the clink of the saddle rigging and the low creak of leather. Once again, Carson glanced up at the stars. It was a beautiful, moonless night. Under any other circumstances, he might have enjoyed this ride. He inhaled again. Yes, there would definitely be a dew. That was a stroke of good fortune. He mentally added ten miles to the distance they could travel without water.
Levine skimmed the last, incomplete page of Carson’s transmission, then quickly saved the data.
Mime, are you sure about this? he typed.
Yup, came the response. Scopes was very clever. Humblingly so. He discovered my access and grafted a transparent software relay onto it. The relay triggered an alarm when Carson attempted to access us.
Mime, speak English.
The wily bastard rigged a tripwire across my secret path, and Carson tripped over it, falling flat on his virtual face. However, his aborted data feed remained on the net. I was able to retrieve it.
Any chance you were discovered? Levine typed.
Discovered? Me?
‘Rolling on floor, laughing.’ I am too well hidden. Any attempt would bog down in a maze of packet-switching. But Scopes does not appear to be trying to find me. Quite the opposite. He’s put a moat around GeneDyne.
What do you mean, a moat? Levine asked.
He’s physically cut off all network traffic out of GeneDyne headquarters. There’s no way to dial into the building by phone, fax, or computer. All remote sites have been cut off.
If this transmission is true, PurBlood is contaminated in some terrible way, and Scopes himself is a victim. Do you suppose he knows? Is that why he sealed off the access?
Not likely, came Mime’s response. See, when I realized Carson was trying to reach us, I entered GeneDyne cyberspace myself. A few moments later, I saw what had gone down. I realized our access had been discovered. I couldn’t log out without making my presence known. So I put my ear to the door, listening to all the unprotected net chatter. I learned some very interesting things before Scopes cut off all outside links.
Such as?
Such as Carson seems to have had the last laugh on Scopes. At least, that’s what I think. Fifteen minutes after Scopes terminated the data feed, there was a big ugly net crash and all communications from Mount Dragon ceased. A real patty melt.
Scopes shut down all communication with Mount Dragon?
Au contraire, professor-man. The head office tried frantically to reestablish communications. A facility such as Mount Dragon would have redundant emergency backups up the ying-yang. Whatever happened was so devastating it knocked out everything at once. Heap bad medicine. Once Scopes realized that he could not get through to Mount Dragon, he broke off the GeneDyne net.
But I _must_ communicate with Scopes, Levine typed. It’s vital that he stop the release of PurBlood. Nobody on the outside will believe me. It’s critical that I convince him.
You ain’t been listening, professor-man. Scopes has physically severed all links. Until he decides the emergency is over, there’s no way to call into the building. You can’t hack across clear air, professor. Except...
What?
Except that there is ONE channel out of GeneDyne Boston. I discovered its data signature as I was poking around the edges of the moat. It is a dish uplink from Scopes’s personal server to the TELINT-2 communications satellite.
Any chance you can use that satellite to get me in contact with Scopes?
No way. It’s a dedicated two-way link. Besides, whoever Scopes is chatting with is using a highly unusual encryption scheme. Some kind of end-to-end block cipher that stinks like military to me. Whatever it is, I wouldn’t go near it with anything short of a Cray-2. And if it’s a prime factorial code, all the CPU time in the universe wouldn’t crack the mother.
Is there traffic on the link?
A wee bit here and there. A few thousand bytes at irregular intervals.
Levine looked curiously at the words on the screen. Though the insolence still shone through, the prancing, boastful Mime he usually encountered was abnormally muted.
He sat back a moment, thinking. Could Scopes have shut everything down because of PurBlood? No, that didn’t make sense. What was happening at Mount Dragon? What of that other dangerous virus Carson had been working on?
There was no way around it: he had to speak to Scopes, warn him about PurBlood. Whatever else he might do, Scopes would never allow the intentional release of a dangerous medical product. It would destroy his company. And then, of course, if Scopes had been a beta-tester himself, he might need immediate medical treatment.
It is imperative that I communicate with Scopes, Levine wrote. How can I do that?
Only one chance. You’ll have to physically get inside the building.
But that’s impossible. The security on that building must be massive.
No doubt. But the weakest element of any security system is the people. I assumed you might make this request, and I’ve already begun making preparations. Months ago, when I first began hacking the GeneDyne net for you, I downloaded their network and security blueprints. If you can get your ass into the building, you may be able to reach Scopes. But I’ll need to take care of a little business first.
I’m no hacker, Mime. You’ve got to come in with me.
I can’t.
You must be in North America. Wherever you are, you can be on a plane and in Boston in five hours. I’ll pay for your ticket.
No.
Why the hell not?
I just can’t.
Mime, this isn’t a game anymore. Thousands of lives depend on it.
Listen to me, professor. I’ll help you get into the building. I’ll show you how to contact me once inside. There are numerous security systems that will have to be compromised if you want to get close to Scopes. Forget doing it in real space. You’ll have to make the trip by cyberspace, professor-man. I’ll send you a series of attack programs I’ve written explicitly for GeneDyne. They should get you inside the net.
I need you there with me, not as some long-distance support service. Mime, I never thought you were the cowardly type. You’ve got to—
The screen went blank. Levine waited impatiently, wondering what hacker game Mime was playing now. Suddenly, a picture materialized:
Levine stared blankly at the screen. The image was so unexpected that it took him several seconds to realize he was looking at the structural formula for a chemical. It took significantly less time to realize what the compound was.
“My God,” he whispered. “Thalidomide. A thalidomide baby.”
It was suddenly clear to him why Mime could not possibly come to Boston. And it was also clear—for the first time—why Mime hacked the big pharmaceutical companies with such vengeance; why, in fact, Mime was helping him at all.
There was a rap on the hotel-room door.
Levine opened it to see a disheveled-looking valet in a red suit that was several sizes too small. The valet held up a hanger containing two pieces of dark brown clothing, wrapped in protective plastic.
“Your uniform,” he said.
“I didn’t—” Levine began, then stopped. He thanked the valet and closed the door. He had not ordered any dry cleaning.
But Mime had.
From the welter of tracks at the edge of the lava flow, Nye could see that Singer and his Hummers had stopped and milled about. For quite some time, apparently; they had managed, in their ineptitude, to obscure Carson’s and de Vaca’s own tracks. Then the vehicles had moved up onto the lava itself, scraping and scratching along. The bloody yob didn’t know the first rule of the tracker was never disturb the track one is following.
Nye stopped, waiting. Then he heard the voice again, clearer now,
murmuring out of the lovely darkness. Carson hadn’t continued straight south. Once on the lava, he had either gone east or west, hoping to shake his pursuers. Then he would have doubled back north, or doglegged south again.
Nye gave Muerto the whispered order to stand. Dismounting, he climbed onto the lava, flashlight in hand. He walked a hundred yards west of the mess left by the Hummers, then turned and cut for sign, playing his beam among the lava rocks, looking for the telltale marks of shoe iron on rock.
No track. He would try the other side.
And there he saw it: the whitish crushed edge of a lava rock, the fresh mark of a shoe. To make sure, he continued searching until he found another whitish streak against the black lava, and then another, along with an overturned stone. The horses had stumbled here and there, striking the rocks with their iron shoes, leaving an unmistakable trail. Carson and the woman had made a ninety-degree turn and were heading east.
But for how long? Would they turn south again, or double back north? There was no water in either direction. The only time Nye had seen any water in the Jornada was in the temporary playas that formed after heavy thundershowers. Except for the freak rain shower on that day he’d first suspected Carson was after his secret, there hadn’t been any rain in months. There probably wouldn’t be any more until the rainy season began in late August.
South seemed the obvious route, since the northward journey would be much longer and would cross more lava fields.
No doubt that’s what Carson thought his pursuers would assume.
North, said the voice.
Nye stopped and listened. It was a familiar voice, cynical and high, laced with the salty Cockney tones that no amount of Home Counties public schooling could erase. Somehow, it seemed perfectly natural that it should be speaking to him. He wondered, in a detached way, whose voice it was.
He returned to Muerto and remounted. It was better to be absolutely sure of Carson’s intentions. The two would have to come down off the lava field at some point. And that’s where Nye knew he could pick up the track.
He decided to ride along the northern edge of the lava first. If he didn’t pick up the trail, he’d cross the lava field and ride along its southern edge.
Within half an hour he had found the pathetic marks in the sand where Carson had tried to brush away their tracks. So the voice was right: They had turned north, after all. There was a regularity to Carson’s sweepings that set them apart from the irregular patterns of windblown sand. Nye painstakingly traced the brushed marks back to where the trail began again, as clear in the deep sand as highway markers, heading straight for the North Star.
This would be easier than he thought. He’d catch Carson around sunrise. With the Holland & Holland, he could take Carson down from a quarter mile. The man would be dead before he even heard the shot. There would be no final confrontation, no desperate pleading. Just a clean shot from six hundred yards, and a second one for the bitch. Then he would finally be free to find the one thing that meant anything to him now: the Mount Dragon gold.
Once again, he did the calculations. He had done them innumerable times before, and they felt comfortable and familiar in his head. The amount of gold that could be carried on a pack mule was between 180 and 240 pounds, depending on the mule. In either case, well over one million in bullion alone. But the gold would probably be in the Pre-Revolt stamped bullion bars and coinage of New Spain. That would drive its worth up ten times or more.
He was free of Mount Dragon now; free of Scopes. Only Carson—Carson the traitor in the dark, Carson the sneak thief—stood in his way. And a bullet would take care of that.
By three in the morning, the sharpness in the air had intensified. Carson and de Vaca came over a rise and rode down into what appeared to be a broad, grassy basin. It had been almost two hours since they passed the glow of Mount Dragon on the horizon, heading north. They had seen no sign of lights behind them. The Hummers were gone for good.
Carson drew to a halt. He dismounted and bent down, feeling the blades of grass. Side oats grama, high in protein: excellent for the horses.
“We’ll stop here for a couple of hours,” he said. “Let the horses graze.”
“Shouldn’t we keep going while it’s still dark?” de Vaca asked. “They might send helicopters.”
“Not over the Missile Range,” Carson said. “In any case, we won’t travel far in daylight without finding a place to hole up. But we have to take full advantage of this dew. You’d be surprised how much water the horses can take in grazing dewy grass. We can’t afford to let this pass. An hour spent here will give us an extra ten miles, even more.”
“Ahh,” said de Vaca. “A Ute trick, no doubt.”
Carson turned toward her in the darkness. “It wasn’t funny the first time. Having a Ute ancestor doesn’t make me an Indian.”
“A Native American, you mean,” came the teasing reply.
“For Chrissakes, Susana, even the Indians came from Asia. Nobody’s a ‘Native American.’ ”
“Do I detect defensiveness, cabrón?”
Carson ignored her and removed the lead rope from Roscoe’s halter. He wrapped the cotton rope around Roscoe’s front hoof, tied a knot, gave it two tight twists and looped it around the other hoof, tying a second knot. He did the same to the other horse. Then he took off the flank cinches and looped them through the O-rings on the halters, so that the buckled ends dangled loosely together.
“That’s a clever way to hobble them,” de Vaca said.
“The best way.”
“What’s the cincha for?”
“Listen.”
They were silent a moment. As the horse began to graze, there was a faint sound as the two buckles of each cinch clinked together.
“Usually I bring a cowbell with me,” said Carson. “But this works almost as well. In the still of the night, you can hear that clinking three hundred yards off. Otherwise, those horses would just vanish in the blackness and we’d never find them.”
He sat back in the sand, waiting for her to say something more about Ute Indians.
“You know, cabrón,” de Vaca said, her disembodied voice coming to him out of the darkness, “you surprise me a little.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, you’re a hell of a fine person to cross the Jornada del Muerto with, for one thing.”
Carson blinked in surprise at the compliment, wondering for a moment whether she was being sarcastic. “We’ve still got a long way to go. We’re barely one-fifth across.”
“Yeah, but I can already tell. Without you along, I wouldn’t have had a chance.”
Carson didn’t respond. He still felt there was less than a fifty-percent chance they’d find water. That meant a less than fifty-percent chance of survival.
“So you used to work on a ranch up there?” De Vaca spoke again.
“The Diamond Bar,” said Carson. “That was after my dad’s ranch went broke.”
“Was it big?”
“Yep. My father fancied himself a real wheeler-dealer, always buying up ranches, selling them, buying them back. Usually at a loss. The bank foreclosed on fourteen sections of patent land that had been in my family for a hundred years. Plus, they got grazing leases on two hundred sections of BLM land. It was a hell of a big spread, but most of it was pretty burnt up. My father’s fancy cattle and horses just couldn’t survive in it.”
He lay back. “I remember riding fence as a kid. The outside fence alone was sixty miles, and there were two hundred miles of interior fencing. It took me and my brother the whole summer to ride fence, fixing it as we went. Damn, that was fun. We each had a horse, plus a mule to pack the roll of wire, staples, and stretcher. And our bedrolls and some food. That jack mule was a mean son of a bitch. His name was Bobb. With two bs.”
De Vaca laughed.
“We’d camp out as we went along. In the evening, we’d hobble the horses and find a low spot to lay out our bedrolls and light a fire. The first day out we always had a
big steak, carried frozen in the saddlebags. If it was big enough, it’d just be thawed out by dinnertime. From then on, it was beans and rice. After dinner we’d lie around, faces to the stars, drinking camp coffee as the fire died down.”
Carson stopped talking. It seemed like a vague dream of centuries ago, those memories. And yet the same stars he’d looked at as a kid were still there, above his head.
“It must’ve been really hard, losing that ranch,” de Vaca said quietly.
“It was about the hardest thing that ever happened to me. My whole body and soul was part of that land.”
Carson felt a twinge of thirst. He grubbed around in the sand and found a small pebble. He rubbed it on his jeans, then placed it in his mouth.
“I liked the way you lost Nye and those other pendejos in the Hummers,” de Vaca said.
“They’re idiots,” Carson replied. “Our real enemy is the desert.”
The offhand comment made him think. It had been an easy task to lose the Hummers. Surprisingly easy. They hadn’t turned off their lights while tracking him. They hadn’t even divided up to search for the track when they reached the edge of the lava flow. Instead they had just barreled southward like lemmings. It surprised him that Nye could be so stupid.
No. Nye wouldn’t be so stupid.
For the first time, Carson wondered if Nye was with the Hummers at all. The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed. But if he wasn’t leading the Hummers, then where the hell was he? Back at Mount Dragon, managing the crisis?
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