by Vernor Vinge
Now all he and the Blab had to do was figure how to climb five thousand meters straight up. There was one obvious way.
IT WAS DAVE LARSON’S CAR, but Davey owed him. Hamid woke his neighbor, explained that the Blab was sick and had to go into Marquette. Fifteen minutes later, Hamid and the Blab were driving through Ann Arbor Town. It was a Saturday, and barely into morning twilight; he had the road to himself. He’d half expected the place to be swarming with cops and military. If Ravna&Tines ever guessed how easy it was to intimidate Joe Ortega…If the Feds knew exactly what was going on, they’d turn the Blab over to Tines in an instant. But apparently the government was simply confused, lying low, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed till the big boys upstairs settled their arguments. The farm bombing wasn’t in the headline list anymore. The Feds were keeping things quiet, thereby confining the mindless panic to the highest circles of government.
The Blab rattled around the passenger side of the car, alternately leaning on the dash and sniffing in the bag of tricks that Hamid had brought. She was still subdued, but riding in a private auto was a novelty. Electronics gear was cheap, but consumer mechanicals were still at a premium. And without a large highway system, cars would never be the rage they had been on Old Earth; most freight transport was by rail. A lot of this could change because of the Caravan. They brought one hundred thousand agrav plates—enough to revolutionize transport. Middle America would enter the Age of the Aircar—and for the first time surpass the homeworld. So saith Joe Ortega.
Past the University, there was a patch of open country. Beyond the headlights Hamid caught glimpses of open fields, a glint of frost. Hamid looked up nervously every few seconds. Selene and Diane hung pale in the west. Scattered clouds floated among the Tourist barges, vague grayness in the first light of morning. No intruders, but three of the barges were gone, presumably moved to orbit. The Lothlrimarre vessel floated just east of Marquette, over the warehouse quarter. It looked like the slug was keeping his part of the deal.
Hamid drove into downtown Marquette. Sky signs floated brightly amid the two-hundred-story towers, advertising dozens of products—some of which actually existed. Light from discos and shopping malls flooded the eight-lane streets. Of course the place was deserted; it was Saturday morning. Much of the business section was like this—a reconstruction of the original Marquette as it had been on Earth in the middle twenty-first century. That Marquette had sat on the edge of an enormous lake, called Superior. Through that century, as Superior became the splash-down point for heavy freight from space, Marquette had become one of the great port cities of Earth, the gateway to the solar system. The Tourists said it was legend, ur-mother to a thousand worlds.
Hamid turned off the broadway, down an underground ramp. The Marquette of today was for show, perhaps one percent the area of the original, with less than one percent the population. But from the air it looked good, the lights and bustle credible. For special events, the streets could be packed with a million people—everyone on the continent who could be spared from essential work. And the place wasn’t really a fraud; the Tourists knew this was a reconstruction. The point was, it was an authentic reconstruction, as could only be created by a people one step from the original source—that was the official line. And in fact, the people of Middle America had made enormous sacrifices over almost twenty years to have this ready in time for the Caravan.
The car rental was down a fifteen-story spiral, just above the train terminal. That was for real, though the next arrival was a half hour away. Hamid got out, smelling the cool mustiness of the stone cavern, hearing only the echoes of his own steps. Millions of tonnes of ceramic and stone stood between them and the sky. Even an Outsider couldn’t see through that…he hoped. One sleepy-eyed attendant watched him fill out the forms. Hamid stared at the display, sweating even in the cool; would the guy in back notice? He almost laughed at the thought. His first sally into crime was the least of his worries. If Ravna&Tines were plugged into the credit net, then in a sense they really could see down here—and the bogus number Larry had supplied was all that kept him invisible.
They left in a Millennium Commander, the sort of car a Tourist might use to bum around in olden times. Hamid drove north through the underground, then east, and when finally they saw open sky again, they were driving south. Ahead was the warehouse district…and hanging above it, the slug’s barge, its spheres and cupolas green against the brightening sky. So huge. It looked near, but Hamid knew it was a good five thousand meters up.
A helicopter might be able to drop someone on its topside, or maybe land on one of the verandas—though it would be a tight fit under the overhang. But Hamid couldn’t fly a chopper, and wasn’t even sure how to rent one at this time of day. No, he and the Blab were going to try something a lot more straightforward, something he had done every couple of weeks since the Tourists arrived.
They were getting near the incoming lot, where Feds and Tourists held payments-to-date in escrow. Up ahead there would be cameras spotted on the roofs. He tinted all but the driver-side window, and pushed down on the Blab’s shoulders with his free hand. “Play hide for a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
Three hundred meters more and they were at the outer gate. He saw the usual three cops out front, and a fourth in an armored box to the side. If Ortega was feeling the heat, it could all end right here.
They looked real nervous, but they spent most of their time scanning the sky. They knew something was up, but they thought it was out of their hands. They took a quick glance at the Millennium Commander and waved him through. The inner fence was almost as easy, though here he had to enter his Guide ID…If Ravna&Tines were watching the nets, Hamid and the Blab were running on borrowed time now.
He pulled into the empty parking lot at the main warehouse, choosing a slot with just the right position relative to the guard box. “Keep quiet a little while, Blab,” he said. He hopped out and walked across the gravel yard. Maybe he should move faster, as if panicked? But no, the guard had already seen him. Okay, play it cool. He waved, kept walking. The glow of morning was already dimming the security lamps that covered the lot. No stars shared the sky with the clouds and the barges.
It was kind of a joke that merchandise from the Beyond was socked away here. The warehouse was big, maybe two hundred meters on a side, but an old place, sheet plastic and aging wood timbers.
The armored door buzzed even before Hamid touched it. He pushed his way through. “Hi, Phil.”
Luck! The other guards must be on rounds. Phil Lucas was a friendly sort, but not too bright, and not very familiar with the Blab. Lucas sat in the middle of the guard cubby, and the armored partition that separated him from the visitor trap was raised. To the left was a second door that opened into the warehouse itself. “Hi, Ham.” The guard looked back at him nervously. “Awful early to see you.”
“Yeah. Got a little problem. There’s a Tourist out in the Commander.” He waved through the armored window. “He’s drunk out of his mind. I need to get him Upstairs and quietly.”
Phil licked his lips. “Christ. Everything happens at once. Look, I’m sorry, Ham. We’ve got orders from the top at Federal Security: nothing comes down, nothing goes up. There’s some kind of a ruckus going on amongst the Outsiders. If they start shooting, we want it to be at each other, not us.”
“That’s the point. We think this fellow is part of the problem. If we can get him back, things should cool off. You should have a note on him. It’s Antris ban Reempt.”
“Oh. Him.” Ban Reempt was the most obnoxious Tourist of all. If he’d been an ordinary Middle American, he would have racked up a century of jail time in the last six months. Fortunately, he’d never killed anyone, so his antics were just barely ignorable. Lucas pecked at his dataset. “No, we don’t have anything.”
“Nuts. Everything stays jammed unless we can get this guy Upstairs.” Hamid paused judiciously, as if giving the matter serious thought. “Look, I’m going back to t
he car, see if I can call somebody to confirm this.”
Lucas was dubious. “Okay, but it’s gotta be from the top, Ham.”
“Right.”
The door buzzed open, and Hamid was jogging back across the parking lot. Things really seemed on track. Thank God he’d always been friendly with the cops running security here. The security people regarded most of the Guides as college-trained snots—and with some reason. But Hamid had had coffee with these guys more than once. He knew the system…he even knew the incoming phone number for security confirmations.
Halfway across the lot, Hamid suddenly realized that he didn’t have the shakes anymore. The scheme, the ad-libbing: it almost seemed normal—a skill he’d never guessed he had. Maybe that’s what desperation does to a fellow…Somehow this was almost fun.
He pulled open the car door. “Back! Not yet.” He pushed the eager Blab onto the passenger seat. “Big game, Blab.” He rummaged through his satchel, retrieved the two comm sets. One was an ordinary head and throat model; the other had been modified for the Blab. He fastened the mike under the collar of his windbreaker. The earphone shouldn’t be needed, but it was small; he put it on, turned the volume down. Then he strapped the other commset around the Blab’s neck, turned off its mike, and clipped the receiver to her ear. “The game, Blab: Imitation. Imitation.” He patted the commset on her shoulder. The Blab was fairly bouncing around the Commander’s cab. “For sure. Sure, sure! Who, who?”
“Joe Ortega. Try it: ‘We must all pull together…’”
The words came back from the Blab as fast as he spoke them, but changed into the voice of the Middle American President. He rolled down the driver-side window; this worked best if there was eye contact. Besides, he might need her out of the car. “Okay. Stay here. I’ll go get us the sucker.” She rattled his instructions back in pompous tones.
One last thing: He punched a number into the car phone, and set its timer and no video option. Then he was out of the car, jogging back to the guard box. This sort of trick had worked often enough at school. Pray that it would work now. Pray that she wouldn’t ad lib.
He turned off the throat mike as Lucas buzzed him back into the visitor trap. “I got to the top. Someone—maybe even the Chief of Federal Security—will call back on the Red Line.”
Phil’s eyebrows went up. “That would do it.” Hamid’s prestige had just taken a giant step up.
Hamid made a show of impatient pacing about the visitor trap. He stopped at the outer door with his back to the guard. Now he really was impatient. Then the phone rang, and he heard Phil pick it up.
“Escrow One, Agent Lucas speaking, sir!”
From where he was standing, Hamid could see the Blab. She was in the driver’s seat, looking curiously at the dash phone. Hamid turned on the throat mike and murmured, “Lucas, this is Joseph Stanley Ortega.”
Almost simultaneously, “Lucas, this is Joseph Stanley Ortega,” came from the phone behind him. The words were weighted with all the importance Hamid could wish, and something else: a furtiveness not in the public speeches. That was probably because of Hamid’s original delivery, but it didn’t sound too bad.
In any case, Phil Lucas was impressed. “Sir!”
“Agent Lucas, we have a problem.” Hamid concentrated on his words, and tried to ignore the Ortega echo. For him, that was the hardest part of the trick, especially when he had to speak more than a brief sentence. “There could be nuclear fire, unless the Tourists cool off. I’m with the National Command Authorities in deep shelter: it’s that serious.” Maybe that would explain why there was no video.
Phil’s voice quavered. “Yes, sir.” He wasn’t in deep shelter.
“Have you verified—” clicket “—my ID?” The click was in Hamid’s earphone; he didn’t hear it on the guard’s set. A loose connection in the headpiece?
“Yes, sir. I mean…just one moment.” Sounds of hurried keyboard tapping. There should be no problem with a voiceprint match, and Hamid needed things nailed tight to bring this off. “Yes sir, you’re fine. I mean—”
“Good. Now listen carefully: the Guide, Thompson, has a Tourist with him. We need that Outsider returned, quickly and quietly. Get the lift ready, and keep everybody clear of these two. If Thompson fails, millions may die. Give him whatever he asks for.” Out in the car, the Blab was having a high old time. Her front talons were hooked awkwardly over the steering wheel. She twisted it back and forth, “driving” and “talking” at the same time: the apotheosis of life—to be taken for a person by real people!
“Yes, sir!”
“Very well. Let’s—” clicket-click “—get moving on this.” And on that last click, the Ortega voice was gone. God damned cheapjack commset!
Lucas was silent a moment, respectfully waiting for his President to continue. Then, “Yes, sir. What must we do?”
Out in the Millennium Commander, the Blab was the picture of consternation. She turned toward him, eyes wide. What do I say now? Hamid repeated the line, as loud as he dared. No Ortega. She can’t hear anything I’m saying! He shut off his mike.
“Sir? Are you still there?”
“Line must be dead,” Hamid said casually, and gave the Blab a little wave to come running.
“Phone light says I still have a connection, Ham…Mr. President, can you hear me? You were saying what we must do. Mr. President?”
The Blab didn’t recognize his wave. Too small. He tried again. She tapped a talon against her muzzle. Blab! Don’t ad lib! “Well, uh,” came Ortega’s voice, “don’t rush me. I’m thinking. I’m thinking!…We must all pull together or else millions may die. Don’t you think? I mean, it makes sense—” which it did not, and less so by the second. Lucas was making “uh-huh” sounds, trying to fit reason on the blabber. His tone was steadily more puzzled, even suspicious.
No help for it. Hamid slammed his fist against the transp armor, and waved wildly to the Blab. Come here! Ortega’s voice died in mid-syllable. He turned to see Lucas staring at him, surprise and uneasiness on his face. “Something’s going on here, and I don’t like it—” Somewhere in his mind, Phil had figured out he was being taken, yet the rest of him was carried forward by the inertia of the everyday. He leaned over the counter, to get Hamid’s line of view on the lot.
The original plan was completely screwed, yet strangely he felt no panic, no doubt; there were still options: Hamid smiled—and jumped across the counter, driving the smaller man into the corner of wall and counter. Phil’s hand reached wildly for the tab that would bring the partition down. Hamid just pushed him harder against the wall…and grabbed the guard’s pistol from its holster. He jammed the barrel into the other’s middle. “Quiet down, Phil.”
“Son of a bitch!” But the other stopped struggling. Hamid heard the Blab slam into the outer door.
“Okay. Kick the outside release.” The door buzzed. A moment later, the Blab was in the visitor trap, bouncing around his legs.
“Heh heh heh! That was good. That was really good!” The crackle was Lazy Larry’s but the voice was still Ortega’s.
“Now buzz the inner door.” The other gave his head a tight shake. Hamid punched Lucas’s gut with the point of the pistol. “Now!” For an instant, Phil seemed frozen. Then he kneed the control tab, and the inner door buzzed. Hamid pushed it ajar with his foot, then heaved Lucas away from the counter. The other bounced to his feet, his eyes staring at the muzzle of the pistol, his face very pale. Dead men don’t raise alarums. The thought was clear on his face.
Hamid hesitated, almost as shocked by his success as Lucas was. “Don’t worry, Phil.” He shifted his aim and fired a burst over Lucas’s shoulder…into the warehouse security processor. Fire and debris flashed back into the room—and now alarms sounded everywhere.
He pushed through the door, the Blab close behind. The armor clicked shut behind them; odds were, it would stay locked now that the security processor was down. Nobody in sight, but he heard shouting. Hamid ran down the aisle of upgoing goo
ds. They kept the agrav lift at the back of the building, under the main ceiling hatch. Things were definitely not going to plan, but if the lift was there, he could still—
“There he is!”
Hamid dived down an aisle, jigged this way and that between pallets…and then began walking very quietly. He was in the downcoming section now, surrounded by the goods that had been delivered thus far by the Caravan. These were the items that would lift Middle America beyond Old Earth’s twenty-first century. Towering ten meters above his head were stacks of room-temperature fusion electrics. With them—and the means to produce more—Middle America could trash its methanol economy and fixed fusion plants. Two aisles over were the raw agrav units. These looked more like piles of fabric than anything high tech. Yet the warehouse lifter was built around one, and with them Middle America would soon make aircars as easily as automobiles.
Hamid knew there were cameras in the ceiling above the lights. Hopefully they were as dead as the security processor. Footsteps one aisle over. Hamid eased into the dark between two pallets. Quiet, quiet. The Blab didn’t feel like being quiet. She raced down the aisle ahead of him, raking the spaces between the pallets with a painfully loud imitation of his pistol. They’d see her in a second. He ran the other direction a few meters, and fired a burst into the air.
“Jesus! How many did asshole Lucas let in?” Someone very close replied, “That’s still low-power stuff.” Much quieter: “We’ll show these guys some firepower.” Hamid suddenly guessed there were only two of them. And with the guard box jammed, they might be trapped in here till the alarm brought guards from outside.
He backed away from the voices, continued toward the rear of the warehouse.
“Boo!” The Blab was on the pallets above him, talking to someone on the ground. Explosive shells smashed into the fusion electrics around her. The sounds bounced back and forth through the warehouse. Whatever it was, it was a cannon compared to his pistol. No doubt it was totally unauthorized for indoors, but that did Hamid little good. He raced forward, heedless of the destruction. “Get down!” he screamed at the pallets. A bundle of shadow and light materialized in front of him and streaked down the aisle.