Kill Ratio

by David Drake

  Spenser glanced around her littered office once, a quick, furtive check: everything was in its usual disorder, her desk and even the visitor's chair facing it littered with papers. Just as the Pest Control Research head's office should look.

  Security. From the UN - probably at the lunar colony, the way their luck had been going lately. Did this visit have something to do with de Kuyper's agitation? But he was on his way. She hesitated transiently. She could tell the security lieutenant she was busy. She would be, momentarily, when the woman with the blue attaché case de Kuyper was so concerned about showed up.

  But for now she wasn't busy. No need to take chances that the security lieutenant would know that. She touched a colored square on the intercom: “Send the lieutenant in, but I've got another visitor coming. Buzz me when that one arrives.”

  Good, she thought, a built-in reason to get rid of this snoop. She wished de Kuyper had been more communicative. The last she'd heard, he'd been on his way to the Moon on some routine business which should have included Ella Bradley and a number of burning questions. Now he was back. There was something wrong, really wrong, and de Kuyper wasn't telling her. Not leveling with her at all.

  There was, of course, always the phial. Her fingers caressed it as if it were a pet. Always that. The security officer might tell her something, by the very purpose of her visit.

  She moved stiffly to her desk and sat behind it, smoothing her lab smock, envisioning a blue-clad, blue-jawed bull of a man with UN credentials ambling down the hall . . .

  Yesilkov had monitoring electronics in her briefcase, radio-linked to a button secured behind her ear by the post of the pierced-ear stud whose back it formed. Couldn't risk a visible wire in these circumstances.

  A shame, because there was too much metal paneling for the radio transmitter to function beyond the office's walls. Or else she could have been talking to - or at least listening to - Yates the entire time. As things stood, she was storing the data her system was recording on magnetic cassettes which digitized everything she said and heard. When Spenser half rose from behind her desk in greeting, Yesilkov fingered her right ear, enabling the discriminatory voice-signature mode to isolate Spenser's voice.

  From now on, everything the fiftyish, horse-faced lady doctor said would be scrutinized mechanically for stress, as well as recorded verbatim. Yesilkov would hear a beeping that increased in frequency when and as the respondent's voice-stress heightened.

  Later she and Yates would go over the tape. “Lieutenant Yesilkov,” she said, approaching Spenser's desk with her hand outstretched.

  “Yes, I assumed ... I mean, that foolish boy at the desk gave me to understand you were a man, Lieutenant - if I seem startled, that's why.”

  Beep. Beep, beep. Beep beep beep. Beepbeepbeep. Beep, beep. Beep. Beep, whispered the monitor in Yesilkov's ear as Spenser spoke. Startled, I guess, lady. That middle group was an outright lie. Whatcha got to lie about, this early on? Thinking about it as she took the chair before the desk, beside which a pile of files was strewn, Yesilkov realized that Spenser had lied about the receptionist giving her the impression that Yesilkov was a man. Off to a great start, Dr. Spenser. And, aloud: “Happens all the time, Doctor. No sweat.” Yesilkov settled the blue attache case on her knees and rested her elbows on it.

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant Yesilkov?” Spenser's lined, heavy face was emotionless. “From the UN, I was told. Have you credentials?”

  This time the telltale in Yesilkov's ear only beeped once, immediately following Spenser's enunciation of UN.

  Yesilkov reached for the chain around her neck and drew it out from under her blouse to flash the poly-card hanging from it. If Spenser wanted to examine it more closely, she'd have to ask. Then she might realize that Yesilkov's UN Directorate of Security, Patrol Division, Company Four credentials didn't entitle her to any special treatment - or give her any real authority - on Sky Devon, a British protectorate. But most people didn't understand international law as it pertained to UN signatories that well. “UN, lunar colony,” Yesilkov said, watching Spenser's face.

  The horsey jaw didn't twitch, but lips stretched closed over a sufficient overbite to pock the woman's chin with the effort. And the telltale in Yesilkov's ear went beepbeep-beep as Spenser said, “Really. I wonder what it is you think I can do for you, Lieutenant Yetsiloff?”

  “Just some routine questions about yer work - we had a recent outbreak of disease, y'll have heard. Lot of our food comes from - “

  “Nothing,” said Spenser sharply, while in Yesilkov's ear the monitor brayed an unbroken beepbeepbeep-beeeeeeeep, “that came from Sky Devon could have precipitated the sort of illness you're talking about.” Spenser's nervous fingers found a wisp of graying hair escaped from its clip and tugged on it.

  Yesilkov said, “Oh yeah? That so?”

  “Yes.” Beep. “It's so - nothing that could be carried by pork, or by grains or fruits or vegetables - not botulism or ptomaine or even salmonella'' - Spenser grinned as if she'd made a joke, which was lost on Yesilkov - “has symptoms such as the media described as present on the Moon during that outbreak. Which, I've heard, has now subsided.”

  Except for the single, lonely pulse at the beginning of Spenser's reply, the telltale remained silent. A little truth, for what that was worth. Yesilkov shifted in her seat and steadied the attache case on her lap. A much more precise, much more expensive, sophisticated, and dedicated piece of lie-detection equipment known as Sonya Yesilkov was monitoring Dr. Kathleen Spenser, and redlining.

  This weird old bag was in this up to her whiskery chin. All Yesilkov had to do now was prove it - get sufficient beeps on her tape to justify bringing the woman in for questioning. So she needed samples of non-stressed responses - clear, truthful statements as controls. She said, “That's good to know, Dr. Spenser - it'd wreak havoc with our budget to have to import from Earth. Nobody wants to quarantine Sky Devon's agrigoodies - synthetics don't taste that good yet, and Earth-boosted stuffs too expensive for the rank and file. What we've got here, then, is a routine enquiry. Could you tell me a little about your boss, Doctor, uh ...” An inquiring stare.

  “Director, not Doctor, Sutcliffe-Bowles? Yes, indeed, what would you like to - “

  No beeps. “Y'er kiddin'? That's his name? I thought it was a computer screwup. Yeah then, I'd like to know how you think - “

  Behind Yesilkov the air-conditioning duct high in the wall seemed to burp. Then a blower somewhere behind its grate speeded up audibly.

  “Drat. That thing's so noisy, Lieutenant, that sometimes I wish -”

  Spenser's apology turned into a gasp and then a strangled cry as a hollow bang sounded, followed by a susurrus of sound and billows of gas that filled the room with haze in moments.

  Yesilkov was on her feet, attaché case clutched under her arm, by the time Spenser had risen, an amazed look on her face as she craned her neck toward the duct's grating.

  Then Spenser fell, inelegantly and flaccid, facedown across her desk.

  Free hand grabbing for her stunner, Yesilkov dove for the floor, where the air should be better, thinking to crawl to the door. But by the time she landed on her knees, Yesilkov was losing control of her limbs. The stunner wouldn't stay in her clumsy fingers, and the attaché case was skidding out of her grasp. Her knees felt like jello melting in the sun.

  She balanced herself on her hands and knees for an instant, determined to reclaim the stunner, the case, and make it to the door. Then she forgot what she was trying to do, as pink peppermint clouds enveloped her mind, already miles away from the unresisting body that lay motionless on the floor of Spenser's office.

  Behind Spenser's desk, unbeknownst to the two unconscious women, a wall panel shifted, then slid aside.

  Jan de Kuyper stepped through the detached wall panel into Spenser's office wearing nose filters and an unpleasant smile. In his left hand was a plasma gun. In his right he held a roll of tape, the kind used for strapping payloads to vacuum jeeps.r />
  Carefully he approached Kathleen Spenser, who was sprawled over her desktop with her hand cupping the crystal phial she wore like a religious medal around her neck. Our Lady of Pestilential Roulette . . . The phial, however, wasn't broken. Not even cracked. The hand curled around it had cushioned it from the impact as Spenser collapsed. That was good news.

  The Afrikaner considered removing the phial, but try as might, he couldn't steel himself to touch it. With a grimace, he contented himself with a kick at the unconscious, but still unpleasant, female before he turned to her companion.

  Binding the blond security officer as he had her male traveling companion who now lay, trussed and stunned, near the air lock where de Kuyper had left him in a maintenance closet, de Kuyper noticed the chain around her neck. It was the nature of the chain - a string of tiny metal beads - that made him pull it from her blouse to see if anything hung from it.

  What he found there - the credentials of one Lieutenant Sonya Yesilkov, UN Directorate of Security - dovetailed with what he'd learned from Yates when he'd pulled the unconscious man's wallet. Sort of. What were these two up to? Yates was Lunar Entry Division, Yesilkov from Patrol Company Four . . . neither were authorized hitters in this ballpark - at least not by their credentials they weren't.

  With a growl of frustration, de Kuyper shelved speculation. He continued binding Yesilkov until she was securely trussed, then made his way through the volatile mist that filled the office until, at Spenser's desk, he could slap his collaborator with an antidote injector.

  Spenser would not be pleased when she awoke, not with her terrible headache or de Kuyper's improvised solution to their mutual difficulty. But then, Spenser was the least of his worries.

  Yates and Yesilkov had been with Bradley at the lunar docking tube. Bradley should have been in van Zell's hands. Piet van Zell had left a message on de Kuyper's machine, but it told him nothing more than what he'd learned on his own - that the attempt to abduct Bradley had ended in failure.

  Something would have to be done about van Zell and his men. Done fast. If it weren't already too late. And something would have to be done about this woman, Yesilkov, and Yates. It was obvious by their presence here that they knew too much.

  Jan de Kuyper was beginning to sweat as he dragged the bound lieutenant toward the gaping hole in the office wall. It wasn't so much that he knew he was going to kill both Yesilkov and Yates, it was that he'd have to report this problem if he couldn't solve it. And that might imperil the Plan. He didn't like the thought of what reporting even a partial failure might mean, not only to the Plan, but to his own future.

  Right now his choices were too limited. He was feeling an operational claustrophobia he knew could be deadly. So he would continue to act until he reached a point where any report he made would be more hopeful, more survivable.

  To reach that point he needed to get Yates in here before the big man was discovered, interrogate the pair with Spenser's help, and dispose of them. Before that he had to keep Spenser from doing anything foolish when she'd recovered sufficiently to be angry.

  He straightened from the trussed lieutenant, moved to the stirring woman sprawled across her desktop, and began rubbing Spenser's wrists. He needed the doctor awake and cooperative.

  In order to get Yates in here, Spenser must help him clear the lab of regular personnel. Only then could he go about his business: finding out how badly van Zell had screwed up, and what must be done to preserve the Plan and his own life.

  Chapter 23 - BRADLEY'S MOVE

  In Ella Bradley's apartment the phone only rang once before she snatched the handset from its cradle. “Yes?”

  “Dr. Bradley, please,” said a staticky voice.

  “This is she.” Some secretary, from some distance. Ella was disappointed because none of the priority calls she'd been expecting should have started this way.

  “... from NYU main office at Washington Square. Deputy McLeod's assistant has been in touch with us concerning your request for background data on one Rodney Beaton.”

  The hostility in the voice on the other end of the line came through, despite transmission quality so bad that Ella was unable to tell if the caller was male or female. Whichever, this was the owner of the tail Taylor'd had his people tweak for her, calling personally - and at no little expense - because that tail had been tweaked.

  Bless Taylor and his hallowed connections! At last she was going to get the dope on Beaton. Next to a call from McLeod himself, or from Yates and Yesilkov, it was the best thing that could have happened to her right now.

  But she'd ignored the name of the speaker when it had been given. She'd have to wait for an opportunity to ask for a repetition. . . . “Yes,” she said. “I've been waiting for that file. If you'll just hold on, I'll set my equipment up to take a dump, and you can upload it to me.”

  The signal delay in Earth/Moon communications always made it seem that one party or the other had a hidden agenda; it made honest conversations fill with awkward pauses, so Ella didn't at once realize that there was an actual hesitation on the part of the person on the other end of her downlink.

  Until that person said, “Well, that's it, you see. We can't give you that data because we can't get it. Not right now, not just yet.”

  Pause.

  “What do you mean? I'm cleared for anything that could be in this Beaton's file. And surely Deputy McLeod's office instructed you that this is a priority matter.”

  Pause.

  “Be that as it may, Dr. Bradley,” said the other party stiffly, “when we followed up on your request - which we did with all speed - we were told by Sky Devon that it was to be handled by a Dr. Spenser. Now it seems that there's been an accident at this Spenser's lab and no data's going to download from there any time soon. We'd appreciate it if you'd relay to USIA your personal assurances that this office has been cooperative to the extent of its ability.”

  In the ensuing pause Ella realized that this was the reason for the call: NYU wanted off the hook. But it was the rest of what the New Yorker had said that bothered her.

  “What kind of accident?” she demanded.

  And the pause before the response came back was a lifetime long: “We don't know, exactly. We don't have a need to know. I doubt it's anything too catastrophic, but whatever it is, it's going to take time to iron out. You will forward our apologies to your friends in Washington and make it clear that no one at NYU was less than helpful? After all, you're on our staff, not theirs.”

  That stung. This wasn't a flunky, not if the person dared to make that kind of crack. Ella said, “Just give me your name again, friend, and I'll do that,” before she realized she was talking to dead air.

  Hung up on her, whoever-it-was had. She slammed down the phone and slid sideways on the couch, one arm over her eyes. Damned bureaucrats. But she wasn't as angry as she was concerned.

  She should have heard from Yates by now. Yesilkov might not have called, but Yates would have, if he could. She was almost sure of it. And an accident right where they were going ... it was too pat, like so much of this chaotic interval, just too damned coincidentally convenient for someone - the same someone who had her kidnapped, she was willing to bet.

  She hadn't told McLeod about the kidnap attempt, because he'd tell her to chuck her job and take the next shuttle to Earth. Or put her under such tight security that the men stationed in shifts outside her door would seem more like freedom than constraint, in retrospect.

  At least it was only one man at a time. She could book a shuttle from here, then make the security guard trail her to the women's gym, where she'd shaken the last one when she'd needed to. A background in the third world didn't hurt when push came to shove.

  Ella Bradley sat bolt upright, realizing where her train of thought was taking her. Was she really going to go running after Sam Yates like some high school girl, because he hadn't called her?

  Not because he hadn't called her - because he might not be able to call her. Yates and Yesilko
v might be Security, but they didn't seem to be able to look more than one step ahead. That lack of imagination could be fatal, if there really was some conspiracy, called the Plan, into which time and money had been put by powerful people.

  Two beat cops against a high-level plot to eradicate certain genetic strains from humankind? It just wasn't plausible that they could win, but she hadn't been able to convince either security officer of that. They didn't have her sort of experience with totalitarian thinking, revolutionaries and counterrevolutionaries. They also didn't have her kind of friends.

  The sensible thing to do was what she'd wanted to do all along: bring higher authority in on this, get backup, alert someone who could follow through in case Yesilkov, Yates, and she couldn't single-handedly save the world. That was what she'd said. It should have done the trick. It would have, if either Yesilkov or Yates could admit to what was going on and what they were trying to do.

  Yates had told her he wasn't in the world-saving business, just in the Yates-saving business.

  Yesilkov had rolled her eyes skyward and muttered about conspiracy theorists.

  Now they were probably sorry. Now it was up to her.

  She picked up the phone, dialed a coded downlink, got a busy signal, and left a priority redial. Then she got together an overnight case, and stuffed into it the stunner she'd found when she moved the couch to clean this morning, a stunner that must have been there since the kidnap attempt. Not a good commentary on the effectiveness of Yates' and Yesilkov's people, but they weren't trained for this sort of thing.

  Neither was Ella Bradley, officially. But she'd been around covert actions in Africa, and she had friends who were trained to deal with exactly this sort of exigency. Friends who didn't think she was paranoid - or no more paranoid than was necessary to get along in the world they'd chosen to frequent, the world of geopolitical struggle that had managed to export itself even into space.