Death Sentence

by Roger MacBride Allen

  "Why would you trust us with such vital information?"

  "First, because I think it has been demonstrated that it is not safe or prudent to do such research here. Second, because we will not be trusting you. The message is held within two layers of encryption. The key sent with Wilcox merely unbuttons the first layer. There is a second-level key, held by a Metrannan diplomat on Center. A mixed team of human and Metrannan researchers will use the message to develop the actual treatments while working on Center."

  Information had been so compartmentalized on the UniGov end that Jamie had not even known about the second-level key. At a guess, neither had Commander Kelly. But here he was, being briefed by the local head of the secret police. "I do not understand," Jamie said. "Why would you want or need human scientists to be involved in a vital program?"

  "You are a young member of a very Young race, but you have skill in questioning," said Fallogon. "The reason is simple--and it is also the reason that the underlying data and research cannot be replicated here."

  For the first time, Fallogon looked uncomfortable, even embarrassed. He shifted in his saddle-chair, and fiddled with his drinking tube. "The reason--the reason is this. Your biochemistry is different enough from mine that you do not dare try this excellent thatchberry soup. However, human and Metrannan biochemistry is in fact quite similar. Similar enough that Hallaben had no need to do much in the way of original research. He simply read a number of your scientific journals and based his work on what he found there."

  Jamie had gotten a fair number of shocks already, but that one had to rate as one of the biggest. An Elder Race using human scientific research as the basis for a breakthrough treatment? It seemed inconceivable. His first thought was that it would be a huge propaganda win for the human race--but then he realized how much of a humiliation it would be for the Metrannans--especially on the subject of geriatrics and life extension. And would UniGov really want all the Elder Races suddenly realizing that humans could teach at least some of them a thing or two about biochemistry, and, perhaps, about other topics?

  The human race was far too weak to dare appear as a threat to anyone. Jamie had been starting to think that the War-Starter designation had been hung on the case because of the near civil-war disturbances on Metran, or perhaps because the potential disruption caused by life extension might be as bad as a war. But maybe BSI-DLO had been more worried, and rightly so, about the dangers of humiliating Elder Races. They wouldn't like it if they thought we were getting uppity, he told himself.

  It might well be wiser, far wiser, to continue to be underestimated while making forward progress that no one noticed. And on the other side of the coin, keeping quiet about the whole affair, providing low-profile assistance to the Metrannans, could be a very useful way to gain some leverage, to do some horse trading, to gain a useful ally.

  "That is interesting information," Jamie said, in one of the great understatements of his life. "But why couldn't his successors simply return to the journals and find the information again?"

  "Because all of his work notes, including the journal articles, were destroyed by those who feared change. Much good it did them. What, exactly, he studied, how he applied it, and how far different his final results were from the reading that inspired them is impossible to say. I know it sounds absurd, but one of the items our people are most eager to recover is the bibliography, the citations of what papers Hallaben read. That data, all by itself, might provide signposts enough to reconstruct the work. Without those clues, it might not be possible to replicate his work in any reasonable time, or to do it at all, based on just the few surviving reports on the results of his work. But if it could be done, it would require workers intimately familiar with the subject area--that is to say, human workers."

  Fallogon was silent for a time. "But all this is for nothing unless we have the message and the first-level key," he said at last. "We have the message. If you have the key, then all is well."

  Jamie knew that he was far out of his depth, so far out at sea that he couldn't even touch the bottom or see the far-off shore. "As you suggested, respected senior, I think it would be best if I reflect and consider."

  "I expected no other answer," Fallogon said. "But come. I believe it is time for the next course."

  Jamie looked up to see that the soup tureen in the center of the table was empty, and the other diners at the table seemed to be very pointedly not noticing that he and Fallogon were deep in conversation. Fallogon made an imperceptible gesture, and the chime sounded, signaling the end of the course. The entire room had been waiting for them--or, more accurately, for Fallogon. It would seem that this one of the Three cared not at all if everyone knew he was talking at length to a Younger Race xeno--so long as no one knew what they were saying.

  Jamie pushed back his chair and stood as rapidly as he could, before Fallogon could get up, and the rest of the table did the same--one or two of them leveling undisguised glares of annoyance at Jamie. Maybe they did not care to be kept waiting between courses--or perhaps they were jealous of the attention one of the Three had lavished on him when Fallogon should have been making conversation with them.

  Fallogon bowed very slightly to the others at the table, then turned once again to Jamie. "I've enjoyed our conversation," he said. "Reflect well. We shall talk again, sooner than you think."

  Jamie watched as Fallogon allowed himself to be guided to his next table. "There's no hurry," Jamie said as his own escort materialized at his elbow. "No hurry at all."

  TWENTY-TWO

  HIDING THE LOST

  The dance of the diners went on and on, from table to table, leaving Hannah feeling more and more distracted with every move, a pawn moved around too many times in too many directions. Jamie's prolonged conversation with Fallogon had been agony for her. What had that been all about? Jamie had kept up a devil of a good poker face throughout--but not good enough to fool Hannah. Something had happened. Something big.

  Adding to the irritation was that Fallogon talking to Jamie was seen as some sort of signal that humans were acceptable dinner companions, even fashionable. Stony silence turned to endless condescending chitchat from every Metrannan who spoke Lesser Trade, all of whom seemed suddenly eager to tell her how clever it was of humans to have survived as long as they had, and how they were sure to get some scraps of good-quality technology, and, better still, advice, from the wise and good Metrannans--perhaps even from the Unseen Beings.

  It took all of Hannah's training, along with every drop of patience she could muster, to be civil in the face of it all, even as she faced two more courses for her hosts that looked no more appetizing than the first one, while she received yet another bowl of yogurt-substitute at every table. It left her very little chance to think things through.

  But the next time the chime sounded, she found herself in luck, at least of a sort. Taranarak was seated next to her. But on second thought, Hannah could not believe there was any luck or chance involved in the fact that she was not only at the same table as Learned Searcher Taranarak, but at a table wherein Taranarak was the most senior, thus placing her right next to Hannah. The only real luck that Hannah could see was that the dish being served at her new table was a salad. It was not moving and did not appear to be alive. But even so, she was going to stick with her yogurt-substitute.

  It had to be that they had been deliberately placed together. But by whom, and for what reason? She had to assume Fallogon had manipulated things at least insofar as seating himself next to Jamie--but that did not mean he was the only one manipulating the game of musical chairs. For the moment, it didn't matter. What she had to decide was what to do about it.

  "We are known to each other, and thus may dispense with rituals of introduction," Taranarak announced to Hannah.

  "Yes, we know each other," Hannah agreed. What a strange and rigid world this was, where announcing that one could forgo a ritual had become a ritual in and of itself. But Taranarak was not "known" to Hannah in any meani
ngful way. Hannah had only learned her name while en route to the mission, had only met her the day before, and by the most generous calculation, they had spent only a couple of hours in each other's presence.

  Even so, Taranarak was as close to an ally, a partner, in this case as Hannah was likely to get. And Taranarak was willing, even eager, to talk. However, that was of limited value, given their fellow diners and their surroundings, and the near certainty that their conversation was being monitored. But Hannah's own ignorance was so profound that her gut feeling was that she had to grab any chance to question her.

  Obviously, anything discussed during their little chat on the aircar landing pad had to be off-limits. But there had to be something worth asking that could be spoken of here. Hannah remembered something Taranarak had said either a lifetime ago or the day before. "I will tell you things you will quickly learn in any event from studying our news reports, or by speaking with any person you might meet." That was the key. What was common and everyday knowledge to everyone in the room who wasn't human?

  A thought came to her. Learned Searcher Hallaben. He was at the center of the case. In a sense, he had set everything in motion--then vanished from the stage. Hannah leaned toward Taranarak and spoke in low tones, trusting to the noise and bustle in the room to keep the others at the table from hearing--and hoping none of them would try and intrude on the conversation. She had to assume there were listening devices directed at her, but why should she care if she kept to topics that were common knowledge? "I wish to know about the death of Hallaben," she said without preliminaries. "I am not even clear as to when, exactly, it happened."

  "Hallaben died two days after Special Agent Wilcox departed," Taranarak said, seeming puzzled that Hannah would bother asking about such a minor matter.

  "That seems a particularly inconvenient moment for him to depart life."

  "Is there ever a convenient time for death?" Taranarak asked, nibbling thoughtfully on a stalk of something celery-like she had fished out of the salad. "And, for example, it would have been far more inconvenient if he had died two days before Special Agent Wilcox departed."

  Which is another way of saying that he died as soon as he was no longer useful, Hannah said to herself. She didn't see anything to be gained in sharing that thought with Taranarak. "What, precisely, was the cause of death?" she asked.

  Taranarak gestured dismissively. "Old age," she said. "He was found in his quarters the next morning. As I recall, the postmortem reported that he had died about eight to twelve hours before he was found, of sudden-onset-aging syndrome, if you want the technical term."

  "Sudden onset?" An alarm bell started to go off in the back of Hannah's mind. Someone else had died of what might well be termed sudden-onset-aging syndrome.

  "It's a perfectly ordinary way to die," Taranarak said, "even for a geriatrics researcher. Hallaben was a trifle young to die that way, but not remarkably so. In fact, the syndrome is more or less a side effect of living a healthy life. It's the death we hope for."

  "I do not understand."

  "We Metrannans often say farewell to our friends by saying 'May you live long and die quickly.' As I am sure you are aware by now, we have made only very limited progress in extending our life span." Taranarak grimaced in the Metrannan version of an ironic smile.

  "Yes, I am aware of that," Hannah said, playing along. Except for a certain longlife treatment we won't mention in public or near microphones.

  "However, we have made great strides in delaying the onset of the symptoms of old age. Instead of spending the last few years of life in gradual decline, generally speaking, Metrannans enjoy vigorous good health--until the very end stages of life. At some point, the body stops responding to the various medications that prevent physical decline, and the subject experiences rapid, sometimes sudden, even abrupt, deterioration.

  "We have learned to hold off the decline for years, but then it comes all at once. That is an oversimplification, but it is close enough. A Metrannan of advanced years will awaken one day, perfectly capable, active, and alert. By evening she might be muddleheaded, tired, and confused. That night, or the next, one organ will fail, releasing toxins that cause another to shut down, releasing another wave of toxins, and so on. Once it is set in motion, the cascade effect can proceed very quickly, normally in a day or two--sometimes much faster, half a day or so."

  "From what you say, the whole process, from onset to death, takes something like three to five days. Was Hallaben exhibiting symptoms by the time Wilcox departed?" Hannah asked, trying for a tone of voice that would suggest that she offered the question for no other reason than force of habit and reflex, because investigators thought in terms of witnesses, sequences, evidence. Not because she was starting to see it, to understand.

  Taranarak frowned. "No. But that in and of itself doesn't mean anything. The process doesn't take place on a rigid schedule. I was speaking in generalities. But there is at least a theory that onset can actually be triggered by the release of tension. One finishes a job, or a worry goes away, and one allows oneself to relax, to breathe easy again--and, so goes the theory, that in and of itself can trigger sudden-onset-aging syndrome if the subject is already susceptible."

  "So, just to play it safe, a Metrannan should never finish all his or her work."

  If Taranarak recognized that as a joke, she showed no sign of thinking it funny. "Perhaps not," she said, a touch of frost in her voice.

  Hannah frowned and turned her attention to her yogurt-substitute, spooning the tasteless stuff into her mouth. Was she reaching, trying too hard, bashing together puzzle pieces that didn't really fit each other? It all sounded perfectly routine and ordinary--but on the other hand, Taranarak had just described a Metrannan who died of something he was too young to die of, died of it faster than usual without any of the normal early symptoms, died of it just after the discovery he had made had been successfully suppressed by sending it off-planet, and died of it alone.

  Add to all that the fact that Hallaben was the most important scientist on the planet, that the Order Bureaucracy was run by a pack of borderline paranoids, and that, nonetheless, his death was apparently met with no interest all, and the alarm buzzers in Hannah's head were sounding twice as loud. There was an old rule of thumb in internal investigations: If there's a serious crime that a corrupt police official hasn't looked into, assume he is a suspect.

  "Agent Wolfson, it is time to shift to our next tables."

  "Huh? What? Oh!" Hannah looked up to see everyone else getting up from the table.

  "I had to call to you twice," Taranarak said with a smile. "You seemed to be enjoying your food quite intently."

  "Oh, yes. Absolutely," said Hannah, scanning the room to see what table Jamie was headed to this time. As far as she understood at least, this was to be the final course. All they had to do was get through it, and they would be all right. But then she saw that whoever it was pushing the pieces around the game board was not quite done with them yet.

  Jamie was being seated next to Bulwark of Constancy.

  From any distance away, Jamie reflected as he sat down, a being encased in a carapace that resembled a metallic lobster on ostrich legs merely looked ridiculous. From a distance of roughly eighty centimeters, the same being was absolutely terrifying. Jamie found himself understanding exactly what a jack-lighted deer felt like.

  But Bulwark of Constancy declined the opportunity to lunge at Jamie, pin him to the table, and tear out his vital organs. Instead it stalked to the table, folded its legs, and remained utterly stationary. The four Metrannans at the table were obviously just as nervous as Jamie was. Having seen the behavior of the other Metrannans and Xenoatrics during the meal, it didn't take much to deduce it was Bulwark of Constancy that worried them and not Unseen Beings in general. That knowledge did nothing to comfort Jamie.

  Jamie decided that the best reaction was no reaction at all. He reached for his inevitable bowl of pap and began to eat it as slowly and carefully as possi
ble, trying to make it last as long as he could, doing his best to look straight ahead and at nothing else at all.

  "We are known to each other," said a loud booming voice in his ear. Jamie jumped half out of his chair and nearly threw his bowl of flavor-free paste across the room. "We may dispense with rituals of introduction."

  Jamie turned and saw that Bulwark of Constancy had shifted its body around and bent its head--if it was a head--down to be exactly level with Jamie's face, no more than ten centimeters away. "Good," said Jamie. "Yes. Right. I agree."

  Bulwark of Constancy studied Jamie's face for an uncomfortably long time and spoke again. "You should be killed," Bulwark of Constancy announced, then pulled its head back and up to the vertical position and resumed its previous motionless state.

  "Right," Jamie muttered in English. He realized he was gripping his bowl and his spoon almost hard enough to snap them to pieces. He relaxed his hands and tried to calm himself. "Got it," he went on, half-babbling. "Thanks for the information. And just by the way, if you're wondering why you don't get invited to more parties, I think I have a theory."

  But right at that moment, it would have suited Jamie right down to the ground if he was never invited to another dinner party, ever again.

  At long last it was over. Hannah collected her jacket and rushed to find Jamie. It wasn't hard to do, as he was searching for her. "We have to talk," she said. "Now, and fast. I found out more than I wanted to know."

  "I sure hope you didn't find out more than I did, or else we're in real trouble," said Jamie, his face pale and his expression grim. "Scratch that. We're in real trouble no matter what. Let's get outside, where there's at least a chance no one will be listening."

  "No argument from me," said Hannah. She grabbed him by the forearm and half dragged him outside to the area around the aircar landing pad. The night was dark, and though the landing pad itself was well lit, there was only spotty illumination around its edges. The other dinner attendees were there as well, of course, chatting among themselves and waiting for their transportation. There wasn't enough light for signing or shorthand, but that didn't matter. Between the darkness, the outdoor setting, and the ambient noise of other conversation and the aircars coming and going, they ought to be private enough. And if not, then so be it. They had to talk no matter what the risk. Keeping their voices low and using English would have to be sufficient security.