“Know what I just did? First, that’s a straightline to the local precinct station. My friendly ‘hood federales will be on their way here in thirty seconds. Second, it snapped up a scramble cage around me. Anything electronic tries to slip through—holo, virus, bacterium, lethal charge—it gets reducioed like an electric chicken. You want to try gas, I got a mask in my desk I can put on faster than you can spit. I don’t see your holo carrying no gun, so I won’t even tell you how I handle that.” He checked his chromo. “You better get moving. The feds will be here any minute.”
The mage continued to regard him with sorrow. At that moment the door opened and the night manager poked his head in. Huachuco hastened to reassure his assistant.
“Check this out, Benny. It wants prayers and money. Bet you can’t guess which it wants primero.”
The older man crossed himself reflexively, much to the disgust of his boss. “You… sure it’s just a projection, Paily?”
“Not you, too? The feds will be here soon. Be sure and let ‘em in fast. If this thing will hang around for another minute or two maybe they can track it to its generator. That’d put a permanent end to the irritating visits from our most persistent local collection agency.”
The figure radiated serenity as it drifted toward him.
“This should be interesting,” Huachuco said expectantly. “I’ve got the scramble up. Will it come apart, make lots of pretty sparklies, or just disappear?”
“Paily…” the manager began uneasily.
“Relax, Benny. Go back to work. Tell everybody what’s sequencing so they won’t freak when the feds show up at the front.”
The night manager hesitated, unable to take his eyes off the beatific floating figure.
It impinged upon the scramble screen. And drifted through it.
There was no combustive flash of light, no coruscating disruption of the holomage’s structure. The figure simply passed through the screen as though it didn’t exist. Huachuco’s gaze narrowed as he grabbed for a drawer in his desk. When his hand reappeared it held not a gun but a small rectangular plastic box. There were buttons on the end he gripped and LEDs on top. He thrust it out in front of him, a portly Van Helsing preparing to ward off a persistent phantasm.
“You know what this is?” he blurted, his voice still strong. “It’s a fed box disruptor. You touch the tip to a box, a board, a vorec receiver, a projection of any kind, and it sends a coherent static charge back through the box net to the control source. Turns it to mush. It makes a scramble screen look like a toy. Now get away from me or I’ll sludge your whole operation at one touch.” He peered past the incandescent female form. “Benny, see if the feds are here yet!”
The manager found himself unable to move.
A delicate feminine hand reached toward the owner, who started sliding backward in his chair, the now wavering disruptor held out before him. Refulgent fingers closed upon the plastic. One made contact with Huachuco’s hand. He felt pressure, slightly warm though cooler than that which would have been produced by a normal human hand.
The disruptor began to melt, the plastic to run hot and liquid in his grip. He flung it aside when it started to burn his fingers.
“Benny!”
The night manager stood staring.
The melancholy expression on the flawless face never changed as both arms reached out to embrace Paily Huachuco. Mouth ajar, he gaped up at it. Then he twitched, just once, and slumped in his chair, his head lolling to one side, seeming to melt a little; not unlike the disruptor.
A trembling Benjamin Martinez fell to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him, his head bent as he began to pray. He prayed faster as the figure turned and drifted toward him. Outside in the store below one of the sales clerks was debating with the three federales who had just arrived. As bemused customers looked on she turned and pointed up toward the executive offices on the second level.
The seraphic figure reached Martinez and extended a hand.
“Please. Please, God,” he murmured desperately. “I have a wife and two children.”
The Virgo Gloriosa placed a glowing palm on his forehead. He felt an infinitely light pressure tilting his face up and back. The Madonna smiled reassuringly at him. “Those who give to those who have devoted themselves to helping the needy have little to fear, in this world or the other. Least of all from me.” The voice was music incarnate, pristine and refreshing as clear mountain waters. Then it vanished, a quick fade to nothingness.
Weapons drawn, the feds burst into the office. One tried and failed to coax Ben Martinez off his knees while the others examined the motionless form of Paily Huachuco. It was a brief examination, lasting only long enough to ascertain for certain that his heart had stopped.
III
The wiry figure in the brown suit slipped the cowl back off his head the better to study the storefront. It was new, the location having been completely remodeled and popped only a couple of weeks ago. There were no windows, but that was to be expected of a shop that specialized in guns and other means of self-defense. If such an establishment could survive in so dangerous a neighborhood, it promised to be highly profitable. Profitable enough, surely, to spare a small percentage of its monthly gross for a worthy charity. He checked his collar as he ambled toward the entrance.
The store’s security was impressive. Just inside the outer door armored vits scanned him visually while other sensors checked him for concealed weapons. Only when the system was satisfied was he admitted past the second, warhead-proofed inner door.
The place was much bigger than he’d expected, and full of customers. Most encouraging. The male and female staff looked competent and active. No doubt they were adept at manipulating the same devices they sold. Drawn by her brassy blondness, he chose the most attractive of the female personnel to approach, his mind toying with decidedly impious thoughts.
“Pardon me, but where can I find the owner?”
“Is there a problem, padre?” She was polite without being deferential. He kept his eyes on hers.
“No, no problem. I only wish to speak with him about a contribution to our Order and its program of public works.”
She sneered. “Good luck. Padron Cardenas ain’t real free with the dinero, either his own or the business’s.”
“I can only try to persuade him.”
She shrugged, thumbed a pickup. “I’ll find out if he’ll see you.”
The visitor pretended to ignore the conversation that ensued, until the saleswoman turned back to him.
“He says because we’re new in the ‘hood he’ll give you three minutes.”
“I heard. Which way, please?”
She gestured. “In the back, past the bioweapons cooler. I don’t suppose I can interest you in a chili gun? We’ve still got a few left from our opening week special.”
He smiled tolerantly. “I have no need of violent devices. Our Lady watches over me.”
“Glad to hear it. Good thing she doesn’t watch over everybody or we’d be out of business. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re on partial commission here and I think I see a mark with money.”
He raised an open palm by way of parting. “Bless you, my child.” I’d like to bless you for about an hour, on a hard floor, he thought crossly, but that wouldn’t quite be keeping in character. Business primero.
The black laminate carbide inner doorway was blocked by a huge dark man with an expansive glower. A repeating pistol made a prominent knot on his hip. Collar and cowl notwithstanding, he gave the visitor a thorough once-over before passing him on. There was no need to check for weapons, the sensors at the main entrance having already seen to that.
The inner office was swollen with a surprising amount of tech. There was nothing readily recognizable as a desk; only a chair occupied by a small, muscular man who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. A prominent, drooping mustache that gave him the appearance of a jaded basset hound underlined startling blue eyes and a small but jutting chin.
He wore a neat charcoal-gray business suit with pink vertical stripes down the right side and a matching filigree-pattern shirt. When he gestured, the three huge rings on the middle fingers of his left hand shifted like platinum, not silver. The visitor was much encouraged.
“Have a seat, padre.” The owner gestured at an empty chair. “What can I do for you?” His tone was soft and inoffensive, the kind of voice that made you feel instantly at ease. His attitude was friendly and accommodating. The salesbitch had him all wrong. Maybe this one would go easy, the visitor mused as he sat.
“Señor Cardenas, I represent a local religious Order which has devoted itself to serving the poor of the Strip. To those in need we provide food, shelter, medicines, and sometimes a modicum of necessary funds. Since we are not a nationally recognized institution we are forced to survive on the charity of local merchants. Yours is a new establishment in our parish and you seem to be doing well.”
“We are,” Cardenas informed him.
“Then perhaps you might see your way to contributing on a regular basis to our good works.”
The owner looked thoughtful. “Let me tell you something, padre. When I was very young my mother died. I prayed to God to let her live. She did, for months, in great pain from cancer. Only then did her suffering end. My father was killed by a spazzed ninloco on parole from San Luis. It is my feeling that I have no use for your church or any other. So I will not contribute to your Order. You may leave now.”
“Please, Señor Cardenas. I ask you to reconsider. For the poor.”
Ice-blue eyes blazed unexpectedly. “You have ten seconds to get out before Fennel renders you unable to collect from anybody, much less me.”
The violence of the owner’s retort caught the visitor off-guard. Not that he was long troubled. He rose to depart.
“Our Lady is not pleased by those who speak so indifferently of those in need. I sympathize with your history…”
“Don’t,” said Cardenas sharply. “Just get out, and stay out.”
“God can persuade as well as heal,” the visitor declared as he moved toward the thick door. “Though you have not been long among us it may be that you have heard of others in this part of the Strip who have had doubts of a similar nature resolved.”
“I haven’t been here long enough to hear much of anything except multo gracias from my suppliers, and I never listen to street gossip. Hasta your lego, padre. Better luck elsewhere.” The door shut firmly behind the visitor.
He nodded at the glowering guard outside and strode briskly toward the exit. Clearly this Cardenas was one of those who could not be recruited by mere supplication. But if he were to meet with a fatal condition a venture like the weapons shop might easily fail. That would not be in the best interests of the Order. Dead men made poor contributors.
The gun monger had struck the visitor as a very straightforward type. Skeptical to be sure, but once convinced, forever amenable. The visitor smiled. He and his Brothers would pray over this.
Behind him, the guard and the saleswoman caucused with Cardenas.
“If he’s a real priest, then I’m a pedigreed poodle pamperer,” the woman announced. “He was mouthing all the right words, but his eyes were on my chest half the time and it wasn’t benediction he had in mind. You could see it in his eyes. Hell, you could practically smell it.” Her mouth wrinkled at the remembrance.
“Thanks, Darcy,” Cardenas told her. “He’s obviously had practice. His performance was good, but not perfect. His origins kept showing.” He glanced to his left. “Any thoughts, Corporal Fennel?”
“Sergeant Delacroix’s right. It’s a scam from the venga, sir. I’d bet my pension the poor pavers in this part of the Strip don’t see a single credit from this guy’s ‘Order’. The recorders made a good snatch. If his reality’s in the active files we should have something on him by tomorrow; a little longer if he’s not.”
Cardenas nodded knowingly. “Before he left he as much as threatened me with the same kind of fatal visitation that expiated that music-store exec last month.”
“Anything we can wind him on, sir?” the big man asked.
“No. He’s too clever for that. Everything was implied. But the threat was real enough. I’m never wrong about such things.” The officer didn’t dispute this. Everyone knew Cardenas’s reputation.
The sergeant looked grim. “All the tech’s in place, Inspector. If anything weird manifests we’ll be ready for it.”
“We’d better be,” said Cardenas. “The hook’s been set. I don’t want any casualties on this operation.”
“Orthodox, sir.” She turned and departed. The chevroned steroid went with her, hesitating at the door only after he was sure that his fellow officer was out of hearing range.
“Inspector?”
Cardenas eyed the officer. “What is it, Lukas?”
“Well, sir, it’s just that… my family’s Catholic, sir, and I was wondering if maybe…” He broke off, looking like a man who’d lost a contact lens instead of the right words.
“Wondering what, Lukas?”
The big man gazed back down at him. “This really couldn’t be a manifestation of the Madonna, could it, sir? I mean, I’ve read the reports and the descriptions testified to by those who’ve seen it, especially the night manager at the musik store….”
“Lukas, do you really think the Madonna would stoop to soliciting donations on behalf of false priests?”
“No, sir, of course not, sir, but the musik exec had a scramble screen and a disruptor, and they didn’t save him. They didn’t work at all. Any kind of holomage, even a tactile, should drop before either of those kinds of defenses, much less both.”
“Officer Fennel, are you sure you’re going to be able to carry out your duties on this assignment?”
The corporal stiffened. “Yes, sir.”
“Then go back to your station and stop thinking so much.”
The big man nodded and left, but it was clear he was still troubled. He might fool his colleagues into believing everything was okay with him, but not an Intuit.
It was pretty bad, Cardenas thought, when your own people started giving credence to the utterly outrageous. That was the reality of modern supratech for you. Virtually convincing. The idea that a Madonna was at work in the extortion business was as patently absurd as the notion of one appearing in an Ajo farmer’s pecan orchard, an actual incident that had been related on the vit not all that many weeks ago.
This part of the world had been reporting such manifestations for centuries. Madonnas were seen in twisted tree limbs or in shadows cast on walls, or in the reflections of badly installed bathroom mirrors. There were Madonna sightings several times a year, usually by rural folk for whom the scientific method and common techniques of simple analysis remained as unfathomable and mysterious as the inner workings of a modern vehicle. When resigned specialists arrived on each scene to propitiate the inevitable outpouring of misplaced fervor, a natural explanation for each event was always quickly found.
This one was more sophisticated than most and would take a little more effort to explain. The only caveat awaiting its explicators was that it was also a lot more deadly than a perceived silhouette on a wall or a benignly misshapen pumpkin.
IV
They didn’t have a chance to see what the active files held on their insistent padre because the apparition manifested itself before the requested report could be delivered. For a sanctimonious visitation, Cardenas thought, it was remarkably responsive to the complaints of its chosen supplicants.
He recovered quickly from the initial surprise when it coalesced in his sealed and supposedly screened office. That it could bypass conventional security measures they knew from the way it had actively penetrated the defenses maintained by the recently deceased founder of the budding Musik-Niche music boutique chain. As to its appearance, it was exactly as described by surviving eyewitnesses such as the music store’s night manager and the shop owner’s widow.
It w
as quite a show, he decided. Traditional yet stirring, more than substantial enough to convince the gullible. And if the reports were to be believed, capable of unique feats of physical manipulation. That was what really intrigued him. In his career he’d had a pair of unprecedented encounters with tactile projections: more-than-virtual electronic matrixes capable of interfacing with solid objects, including people. He had to admit that the lifesize, softly glowing woman in her simulated white robes was as impressive as anything he’d previously experienced.
“You’re very well made.” His finger nudged the switch mounted beneath the arm of the chair. No one knew how the specter had managed to kill several perfectly healthy men, but no matter what transpired it would not add Cardenas to its list. A touch of the switch would instantly lower the chair in which he reposed to the basement below.
“You mock me.” The voice was perfectly attuned to the figure, but voices were easy to synthesize and mate to a holomage. Active corporeal tactility was an infinitely more ambitious achievement.
“Not at all. It was a compliment.”
“You do not believe in me,” the hovering Virgo declared.
“I’m willing to be convinced.” This was true, as far as it went.
The phantasm turned toward the blank wall that faced the main part of the store. “You deal in violence.”
“Does that trouble you?” Cardenas’s finger lightly massaged the safety switch.
“Of course it does.”
“But you’d still accept money from me that’s derived from the sale of weapons.”
From beneath brows of graven ivory limpid eyes fraught with imponderables deliberated. “Not I. Those who serve me. For the sake of the poor and needy, yes, I would not turn away such a tithing. Until the time comes for violence to be banished from this world I will take from the misguided to help the needy. There has after all been violence even in Heaven, when Michael and the Host cast out Satan and his followers.”
Montezuma Strip Page 19