The Return of Nathan Brazil

by Jack L. Chalker

  "Did he just disappear again?"

  "That's about it, Marquoz. He kept ships an awfully long time—two, three hundred years or more, until they wore out. They were all named the Stehekin, a word whose meaning eludes me. The last one was found, a huge hole blown through its midsection. It had been looted. There was blood on the bridge that matched Brazil's—quite a lot of it—but no trace of him or his valuable cargo. It was assumed that he'd been lured out of nullspace by a false distress signal, attacked by pirates, and murdered. There's actually a plaque to his memory in Spacer's Hall."

  "You don't believe it, though," Mavra noted.

  "Of course not. That sort of thing is his favorite way out. No, I think he found some real person, reached the point he had to reach with that person in order to assume his identity, and did so. He is somewhere else now, as someone else, waiting a decent amount of time before he can resume a normal life again."

  A new voice said, "Well, I think he should be pretty easy to find." They whirled, saw that it was Gypsy.

  Marquoz nodded but Mavra looked at him strangely, an odd thought passing through her mind. It was ridiculous, of course, but . . . No, he was a little too tall, a little too muscular, a little too dark. She wondered, though. When Obie had picked them all up from the Temple that first time, the computer had not done anything more than simple teleportation. He'd made no detailed analysis; he hadn't stored the mind and memory of Gypsy and Marquoz. Later, they'd refused to use Obie's teleportation system. Both Gypsy and Marquoz had insisted on using spaceships. Afterward Mavra and Obie had run a check on Gypsy, just out of curiosity, and found nothing. Absolutely nothing. When even Mavra Chang's early history could be found in the files and all travel and expenses required records, there was not even a travel document showing that he existed. His thumbprints, retinal and blood patterns had matched nowhere at all.

  Finally she couldn't resist it. "Gypsy? Ever heard of Malta?"

  He looked a little surprised but didn't bat an eyelash as he replied, "Sure. It's the capital city of Sorgos, I think."

  Marquoz chortled lightly. "I know what you're thinking. I've sometimes thought it myself. But, no, he has the wrong physiology. Brazil has occasionally been able to alter thumbprints but never retinal and blood patterns. Forget it. He's another mystery."

  Gypsy looked confused. "What's that all about?"

  "The lady was just wondering if you were Nathan Brazil yourself, that's all."

  He chuckled. "Oh, hell, no. Whoever heard of a Jewish Gypsy?"

  They all had to laugh at that. Still, Mavra told herself, there was something extremely odd about the man. His strange powers went beyond empathy. In an age in which everyone showed the proper papers just to go to the bathroom and even Mavra's had had to be carefully faked, Gypsy, according to Marquoz, had never been asked for them. In a customs line he would simply be ignored; stiff-necked hotel clerks, even when robots, never thought to ask for his documentation. Even on New Pompeii he strolled into high-security areas without a challenge. Why? What strange power did he have? Where did he get it? Could he influence Obie? Was that why the computer had taken no readout?

  Seemingly ignorant of this mental speculation, Gypsy plopped down in a chair, yawned, and rubbed his eyes.

  Even as Mavra stared, her preoccupation passed; her mind turned to other channels, dismissing the mystery of Gypsy as unimportant to their present work. She turned to the intercom and Obie and never once even questioned why the problem of Gypsy had suddenly become something she shouldn't concern herself with.

  Nautilus

  The Com computers were, with the exception of Obie, the greatest and fastest gatherers, analyzers, and disseminators of knowledge in the Com sector of space. To this had been added Obie, a pleasantly human personality that masked the ability to do millions of different, complex projects all at the same time. The speed and rate of human conversation and the slowness of the human mind must have been agonizing to him, yet he never complained about it or seemed to think of himself as something apart from man. Obie thought of himself as a human being and acted accordingly.

  Still, with all the speed and versatility at their command they had the problems of bureaucracy and interstellar distances. The information they needed would probably be available to Obie in fractions of a second—if he had all the data. Data, however, were gathered on a thousand planets over an immense area. The data were collected by millions of departments, eventually stored, eventually correlated, eventually—sometimes after years—sent on to higher authorities. The searchers couldn't wait for this information finally to reach the Com; they had to go out and get it.

  And that, of course, was where the Fellowship of the Well came in. The Acolytes probed, sifted, stored, and passed on all they could. They were everywhere. If they could obtain the information freely, they did; if it took official sanction, they got it; if they couldn't obtain official sanction, then they begged, bribed, or stole what they wanted. Mavra Chang had once been an expert at computer thievery; Obie was an even better tutor.

  Occasionally, Acolytes were caught with their hands in the informational till. In such cases, human and lower-government agencies were taken care of directly by Marquoz; if all else failed, Mavra and the Nautilus crew could break anybody out of anywhere. If a coverup was needed, Obie could be counted on to provide one.

  Obie was working on the three common points in Brazil's history. Certainly he would try to disguise himself, but it would be a true disguise, not one of the new popular shape-changing techniques. He wouldn't risk exposing himself by resorting to an experimental device.

  Only a small number of Jewish communities remained, and those were carefully monitored. Then there was his occupation—Brazil had always been a captain. It gave him mobility, peace and quiet, and anonymity, all of which he required. Mavra would check in with Obie daily on the Nautilus to keep up with events. Having just returned from bailing out two Fellowship adherents accused of stealing garbage disposal records on the largest city of an obscure frontier world, she was eager to hear of any progress.

  "Progress is where you find it," Obie said philosophically. "So far I have amassed a lot of information on Jewish captains—there are a surprising number considering how tiny a minority they are—but very little that is specific. Material that came in this morning seems to add to what I need, yet it's not enough. I have a number of suspects, none of which might be Brazil. I need an additional correlation."

  "Of what with what?"

  "All the Jewish captains and Brazil's life and disappearance—that's the data still coming in. Check back in a couple of hours when I have the rest of it. I may be able to pinpoint it accurately."

  So she went Topside and asked Marquoz and several of the Olympians to meet her later on. They would come running, although it could take a day or two to assemble everybody on the Nautilus.

  By late afternoon, when Mavra contacted Obie again, he had the search narrowed down fairly well.

  "First of all," he began, "do you know what a rabbi is?"

  She admitted she didn't, so Obie continued.

  "Well, he is a priest in the Jewish faith—except he has no mystical powers, real or imagined. Literally the term is 'teacher' and means that his education has specialized in Jewish law and culture so that he's an expert—just as any other profession is the product of education. Each Jewish temple has a rabbi selected by the congregation for his knowledge of the faith—but there are numerous rabbis who have no congregation, who have other jobs, even, but who are considered experts and can instruct others. Many of these specialize in fine points of the law and live the faith, yet make their money in secular occupations. It's really a fascinating thing. Do you know, for example, that there are three rabbis who are also freighter captains?"

  She was surprised. "Captains? Religious teachers?"

  "See what I mean? And yet it's a triply good living, since it's not only lucrative and provides a lot of time for study but also is the best way to reach the small con
gregations scattered across hundreds of worlds. Of the three, all have at one time or another worked jobs in which Brazil's ship, as a private contractor, was also involved, so they all have met him. Two of them seem to have had extensive contact with Brazil over the years—decades, in fact—and may be considered close friends. But only one of them owns his own ship; the others work for shipping companies. I had encountered this before but had rejected the man because he was Hassidic—the strictest of the sects, or degrees, of Judaism, whose members are bound to rigid laws of dress, of eating, of religious form and observance. The Hassidim function in a modern world without compromising, basically keeping the laws that are thousands of years old. I had not expected to find Brazil in such a role since, clearly, he has observed very few of those laws himself. Also, this particular rabbi, is old; he's already undergone two rejuves, and he's taller and stouter than Brazil, with a full white beard. But, then, data that came in today persuades me of the logic of it all."

  Mavra frowned. "Well, I can see that it would be an easy disguise—some padding, a false beard, some lifts in the shoes like I use. Yes. But beyond that?"

  "Well, I was able to reconstruct route descriptions of this man's ship and Brazil's Stehekin for a period of three decades. You would be shocked at how often their routes are congruent—and remember, they both owned their ships, so they weren't bound by a traffic manager. Their side trips particularly interested me—they touched practically every strict Jewish community at some point in a two- to three-year period. During the twenty years prior to Brazil's disappearance, they had celebrated the highest of Jewish holy days together at one or another congregation. They knew each other very well over a very long time."

  "Doesn't that rule him out, though? Wasn't it Brazil's M. O. to find a young man to replace?"

  "This is just as good. An old man who has outlived all his contemporaries. A freighter captain of repute and reputation. But, more important, roughly six months before his disappearance Brazil and this man met on a small planet. Our man was old, he was having medical problems, his physical was coming up and he couldn't possibly pass it without a rejuve—but medical records indicated that he just couldn't stand another rejuve. Yet, some four months later, with no rejuve, he took and passed a complete examination with flying colors!"

  Mavra looked puzzled. "But—four months? You said they met last six months before."

  "Sure! Don't you see? They swapped identities way back then! Brazil used the time to get the last of whatever he needed to simulate his man properly and then became him, while the old rabbi went off in the Stehekin posing as Brazil, who'd just passed his own examination a year before and had three years before another."

  "Wouldn't somebody notice that Brazil had turned into an old man?" she asked.

  "Oh, sure. If they saw him. But if he served ports where he wasn't known, and if he stayed on his ship for that time, there'd be no mystery. The Stehekin took no passengers during the period but did haul some freight. Then, two months after the switch, an 'attack' is arranged. Brazil is killed and that's that."

  "But what happened to the man he replaced? Did he die or what?"

  "Perhaps. It depends. Consider what Brazil could offer him. An old man who'd been everywhere and seen it all and was having his livelihood and love—you have to love space to work at it for two centuries—taken from him, with death shortly to follow. What Brazil could offer him was a new life in a new body, a renewal, new experience and adventure."

  Mavra cursed herself for a fool. "Of course! There are Markovian gates all around! Brazil could have told him how to use one, even brought him to one. He went to the Well World!"

  Obie chuckled. "I wonder what sort of creature he is now? I should dearly love to see how he manages to keep kosher!"

  "Huh?"

  "Never mind. It's not important. I'm sure that Nathan Brazil is now Rabbi David Korf, captain of the freighter Jerusalem."

  Mavra was genuinely excited at the news. "Then all we have to do is find out where the Jerusalem will make planetfall next and be there to meet it!"

  "So it would seem," Obie agreed. "Except for one thing. After the switch Korf totally changed his operational area—I suppose to minimize chances of running into people who knew the real Korf well. The trouble is, he's an independent. It might be years before the relevant documentation for an independent gets filed. I've checked everything I could, but after about six years ago I have no sign that the Jerusalem ever made a contract or hauled cargo anywhere in our little corner of space. Brazil has not only pulled his disappearing act, he seems to have taken his ship with him this time."

  According to the licensing board, Rabbi Korf had in fact returned and renewed his license only a year before. This was more puzzling than a total disappearance. The last renewal indicated that both Korf and the Jerusalem were still very much in service and, in fact, required recertification. But where? And for whom? There were no records to show.

  "Strictly private, maybe? Perhaps illegal?" Mavra suggested.

  Marquoz, who had arrived just a step ahead of the rest of the crowd, Temple and otherwise, was skeptical. "If that illegal, then why bother to recertify and reestablish his identity at all? If not, then he needs the cover—and that would also mean legitimate business. No, I think he's still hauling cargo in the open and quite legally between Com worlds."

  "Impossible," Obie responded. "As the Fellowship people will tell you, we have all worlds covered."

  Marquoz cocked a large reptilian head and his smile widened slightly in mock surprise. "No, you don't. Not by a long shot. What your Fellowship covers is human worlds. The Acolytes are not very popular in the nonhuman sectors—which, it would seem to me, would be the very place to best avoid the cult."

  Obie was silent for a moment. Then he said, "My cost was astronomical, my builder perhaps mankind's greatest genius. I can do any calculation in an amount of time so small that it is incomprehensible to the organic mind. So, tell me—why didn't I think of that?"

  "Too simple," Mavra told him dryly. "Obie, your problem is that you think like a human being, only faster."

  "All right," the computer retorted, trying to channel the argument away from his own failings. "So now what? There are a lot of nonhuman worlds out there in the Com and allied with it, and we don't have the proper records for them or the proper personnel to get them."

  "I wouldn't be concerned with the allied and associated worlds," Marquoz said. "If he was dealing there exclusively, he wouldn't need to recharter. No, he's within the Com proper, which means one of a very few races. We can eliminate some right off—mine, for example, which is serviced entirely by a nationalized shipping company; the nonorganic boys, since their trade's of a far different type; the non-carbon based, too, I think, are out—he's avoided the human sector because he didn't want to be stuck in his ship all the time. He wants to socialize, and that means a place where we can breathe the air and drink the booze without artificial aid. That narrows it down pretty well, doesn't it?"

  "I agree," Obie replied. "The pattern's consistent. In my files I find that he's always had rather an affinity for Rhone centaurs—the ones called Dillians on the Well World. They meet all the other specifications, too—although this, in itself, is a problem since the Rhone is a spacefaring and expanding race itself, almost as large as humanity, possibly older and certainly more spread out. Without the Fellowship to do the legwork, it's going to be hell to track him down. He's chosen well."

  It was Mavra's turn now. "I don't think it ought to be that hard. I don't know a damned thing about them or their culture—the closest I've come is being briefly in Dillia, which hardly counts—but if the Rhone are highly advanced then they have their own bureaucracy and central controls. They keep files and records someplace and they're probably as efficient at that as humans are."

  "They could hardly be any worse," Obie snorted.

  She smiled and nodded. "So, let's find those records."

  All eyes turned to Marquoz. He sighed a
nd said, "All right, I'll see what I can do."

  It took ten days and a minor burglary. The Rhone, far better organized than the Com proper, required ship listings at five central naval district offices so that ships could be traced if overdue. The human areas of the Com only required that the ship file a plan at two locations before embarking; in many cases even that wasn't done, and the human area didn't really care since the procedure was for the protection of the freighter anyway.

  Disguised as Rhone, with nicely counterfeited orders, seven of the Nautilus crew were dispatched to each naval headquarters. They had to locate a middle-ranking naval officer, one with broad access to traffic files. The newer he was the better, although the operation's headquarters for such large areas were so big that few people would know everybody and a complete stranger could probably walk through without being seriously questioned on his rights—as long as he knew the codes and passwords and had the right ID tags.

  It was on the latter that the Rhone depended most for security; among the things preserved on the tags was an actual tissue sample from the wearer. A Rhone's sample was unique, and an electronic comparison of it with living tissue—say, of the palm—would be an infallible method of making sure the wearer was who he or she claimed to be.

  On the off-chance that there might be an energy-binding system not thoroughly detectable even by Obie's absolute analysis, it was decided that only original-issue tags would be used. The system was simple: Lure the target officers someplace, drug them, transport them to Obie, then run them through the dish. Just as Yua and her supervisor had been reprogrammed by this process, so were the young officers. At some point during the next three days or so they would look at the shipping information and their minds would be able to retain all the information no matter how many ships were involved or how complex the routing. Later they would call a number and repeat that information. At no time would they be aware of what they were doing; they would have no memory of their kidnapping, of Obie, or of anything else. Once the compulsion had been carried out, they would go on about their business never knowing they had been used.