Oracle

by Mike Resnick

  Broussard nodded.

  OK—GET HER. AND TELL HER SHE'S GOT TO WORK FAST. IT CAN'T TAKE THAT LONG TO PUMP OUT A STOMACH FULL OF BAD FOOD.

  Broussard smiled and took the pen back. I'LL HAVE HER MAKE A COUPLE OF STATEMENTS ABOUT SEDATING YOU. THAT SHOULD BUY US A GOOD EIGHT TO TEN HOURS.

  The young man turned to leave, but the Injun grabbed him by the arm.

  ONE LAST THING, he wrote. I'M ASSUMING A CAMERA AND A RECEIVER, BUT THERE COULD BE MORE THINGS IN THERE. TELL HER TO REMOVE ANYTHING SHE FINDS.

  Broussard nodded again, then walked to the door and left the emergency room. He was back some ten minutes later with a pretty but grim-faced young woman in tow. She immediately took a pen out of her pocket and wrote a message on a notepad.

  I AM DOCTOR JILL HUXLEY. DANIEL HAS EXPLAINED YOUR SITUATION TO ME, AND HAS VOUCHED FOR YOUR CREDENTIALS.

  THEN LET'S GET ON WITH IT, wrote the Injun.

  “You've been a very foolish man, Mr. Two Feathers,” she said aloud. “Daniel warned you against eating alien food.”

  He managed a groan.

  “It's nothing life-threatening,” she continued while writing on her notepad. “And I've got a couple of patients who are in immediate need of my services. I'm going to sedate you now, and I'll get around to emptying your stomach as soon as I get a chance.”

  She tore off a sheet and handed it to him.

  I WILL HAVE TO MOVE YOU TO AN OPERATING THEATER, it read. AND SINCE THIS IS TO BE DONE IN ABSOLUTE SECRECY, I WILL HAVE TO ASK DANIEL TO ASSIST ME.

  Broussard read the message over her shoulder and suddenly looked somewhat ill.

  HOW LONG WILL IT TAKE? asked the Injun.

  IF YOU HAVE BEEN TAMPERED WITH, IT WILL TAKE ME ABOUT AN HOUR TO RUN A SCAN ON YOUR HEAD AND HAVE THE COMPUTER CONSTRUCT A HOLOGRAPHIC ANALOG. THE ACTUAL SURGERY WILL LAST ANYWHERE FROM ONE TO FOUR HOURS, DEPENDING ON HOW DEEPLY IMBEDDED THE DEVICES ARE. IF YOU'RE READY, NOD YOUR HEAD AND I'LL SEND FOR SOME ATTENDANTS TO MOVE YOU.

  The Injun nodded, then lay back and waited.

  Two husky young men arrived a moment later, transferred him to an operating room, and then departed. Broussard had remained with him, and Jill Huxley arrived almost ten minutes later.

  WHAT WAS THE DELAY? asked the Injun.

  She held up a pair of treated contact lenses, then placed them in a pocket.

  IF YOU'VE GOT A CAMERA IN THERE, IT WON'T STOP FUNCTIONING JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE UNCONSCIOUS. I REALIZE THAT YOUR EYES WILL BE CLOSED INITIALLY, BUT IF I HAVE TO REMOVE THE CAMERA, IT WILL RECORD WHAT IS HAPPENING ONCE I OPEN THE EYE THAT CONTAINS IT. ONCE I DETERMINE THAT A CAMERA INDEED EXISTS, I'LL INSERT THE LENSES IN MY EYES, DARKEN THE ROOM, AND OPERATE IN INFRARED LIGHT ONLY.

  GOOD THINKING, wrote the Injun. I NEVER CONSIDERED THAT.

  THERE'S NO NEED TO ANESTHESIZE YOU UNTIL WE DETERMINE THAT SURGERY IS INDICATED, she continued. THE SCANNING PROCESS ITSELF IS QUITE PAINLESS.

  He nodded his agreement, and a moment later she had wheeled him under a large device that looked like a cross between a punchpress and an oversized camera.

  IT IS ESSENTIAL THAT YOU HOLD STILL FOR THE NEXT TWENTY SECONDS, she wrote.

  He made no reply, but simply handed the notepad back to her and stared up at the machine. It began whirring softly, and deep within its lens a small reddish light glowed faintly. He felt neither discomfort nor pain, and finally the whirring stopped, the light went out, and Broussard wheeled him away.

  Jill Huxley gestured him to join her at a bank of computers along the far wall. One by one each screen came to life, displaying readouts that were totally meaningless to him, but finally one of them produced a three-dimensional rendering of his head, with three blinking yellow dots—one in his left eye, one deep inside his right ear, and one at the base of his skull.

  HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT THIS ONE MIGHT BE? she asked, pointing to the third dot.

  He shrugged. WHATEVER IT IS, IT DOESN'T BELONG THERE. TAKE IT OUT.

  She ignored him for the next half hour, creating cross-sections of his head on her various machines, checking and cross-checking the best routes to reach the artificial implants.

  Finally she picked up the notepad and began writing again.

  I CAN REMOVE TWO OF THE DEVICES, BUT THERE MAY BE A PROBLEM WITH THE ONE IN YOUR EYE. IT'S TIED INTO THE OPTIC NERVES SO INTRICATELY THAT I MIGHT CAUSE IRREPAIRABLE DAMAGE IF I REMOVED IT.

  REMOVE IT AND GIVE ME A PROSTHETIC EYE, he answered.

  She shook her head. ONCE THE OPTIC NERVES ARE DAMAGED, IT REQUIRES A SPECIALIST TO IMPLANT A FUNCTIONING PROSTHETIC EYE, AND PROSTHESES ARE NOT MY FIELD. She paused and stared at him, then wrote: YOU HAVE A DECISION TO MAKE, MR. TWO FEATHERS. I CAN LEAVE THE CAMERA IN, OR YOU CAN AWAKEN WITH VISION IN ONLY YOUR RIGHT EYE. THERE'S NO THIRD OPTION.

  The Injun lowered his head in thought. He didn't especially give a damn whether 32 could see what he was doing or not; his prime concern was to get rid of the explosive device, and secondarily to find a way to silence the voice within his head. But he had sold these two a story, and his answer would have to comply with it if he wanted to retain his vision.

  Finally he bent over the notepad and began writing.

  YOU'D BETTER LEAVE IT IN. THERE'S NO WAY I CAN REPLACE THE EYE ON HADES, AND MY MISSION MAY PLACE ME IN HAZARDOUS SITUATIONS WHERE DEPTH PERCEPTION IS ESSENTIAL. WHOEVER IMPLANTED IT HAS ALREADY SEEN DANIEL'S FACE, AND KNOWS WHAT MY QUARTERS LOOK LIKE. IF I MAKE SURE THAT I SPEND A MINIMAL AMOUNT OF TIME AT THE EMBASSY, I PROBABLY WON'T BE REVEALING ANYTHING THAT THE TRAITOR DOESN'T ALREADY KNOW.

  BUT YOU WILL STILL BE TRANSMITTING EVERYTHING YOU SEE TO THE ORACLE, wrote Jill. WON'T THAT TOTALLY NEUTRALIZE YOU?

  I'LL WEAR AN EYEPATCH, he wrote, smiling as the thought came to him. I'LL REMOVE IT ONLY IF AND WHEN I REQUIRE THE USE OF BOTH EYES.

  ALL RIGHT, she replied. PERHAPS IT'S JUST AS WELL; I WAS UNCOMFORTABLE ABOUT OPERATING IN INFRARED LIGHT. I'LL PREPARE THE ANESTHETIC.

  ONE MORE THING, he wrote, grabbing the notepad back from her. IT OCCURS TO ME THAT THE DEVICE AT THE BASE OF MY SKULL MAY HAVE BEEN PLACED THERE AS A MEANS OF CONTROLLING OR DESTROYING ME IF I GET TOO CLOSE TO THE ORACLE. HAVE YOU ANYTHING THAT CAN ANALYZE IT?

  I DOUBT IT.

  THEN TO BE ON THE SAFE SIDE, GET RID OF IT AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.

  SHOULD I GET RID OF THE RECEIVER, TOO? she asked.

  NO, he replied. IT'S HARMLESS ONCE IT'S BEEN REMOVED, AND IT MIGHT TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT THE NATURE—AND EVEN THE IDENTITY—OF THE ENEMY. SAVE IT FOR ME.

  She nodded. REMOVE YOUR TUNIC, AND THEN LAY BACK ON THE TABLE. I'M GOING TO INJECT YOU WITH AN ANESTHETIC, WHICH WILL WORK ALMOST INSTANTANEOUSLY.

  ONE LAST THING. THAT ALIEN MEAT REALLY IS MAKING ME SICK. CAN YOU PUMP MY STOMACH OUT WHILE I'M UNCONSCIOUS?

  YES, she wrote. THAT'S PRETTY TERRIBLE STUFF. I'M SURPRISED YOU'RE NOT IN EVEN MORE DISCOMFORT.

  He removed his tunic, tossed it to Broussard, who was standing around looking both uncomfortable and useless, and then he lay down on the table.

  Suddenly he sat up and gestured for the notepad again.

  DON'T SPEAK ONCE YOU'VE REMOVED THE AUDIO TRANSMITTER. THERE'S EVERY POSSIBILITY THAT IT WILL STILL BE FUNCTIONAL.

  I'M WELL AWARE OF THAT, she replied.

  Then, aloud, she said, “Well, as long as he's sedated, there's no sense bringing him out of it. Let's go to work, and when he wakes up with the grandaddy of all stomach aches, maybe it'll encourage him to be a little more intelligent about his choice of food next time he visits an alien restaurant.”

  “Sounds good to me, Doctor,” replied Broussard, disguising his voice.

  Then she leaned over and injected something into the Injun's left arm, and he tried mentally counting backward from one hundred.

  He was unconscious before he hit 98.

  13.

  A voice disturbed the darkness that enveloped him.

  “How do you feel?”

  The Injun moaned and tried to turn away, then win
ced as his right ear touched his pillow.

  “Wake up, Lieutenant Two Feathers.”

  “Go away.”

  “The surgery's over, Lieutenant,” said Broussard. “It's time to get up now.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost morning.”

  “All right. Give me a minute to clear my head.” He lay motionless, trying to remember all the events of the previous evening until they finally came into focus. “How did it go?”

  “About as anticipated,” answered Broussard. “She removed the transmitter and the explosive, and left the camera in.” He paused. “She woke you and checked you out briefly right afterward, then had me move you here for a few more hours.”

  The Injun sat up abruptly, then moaned and held his head.

  “No sudden movements for another day,” said Broussard, who was sitting in a chair by the foot of the bed.

  “Jesus! It feels like someone's inside my head, hammering to get out.”

  “Jill said you'd have quite a headache when you woke up.”

  “Was the thing at the base of my skull a bomb?” asked the Injun.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “We dissolved it in acid.”

  “Can you dissolve a bomb in acid?” asked the Injun dubiously.

  “You can when it's an organic device, like a plasma bomb,” answered Broussard. “The trick was getting it out without triggering it.” He smiled. “That's why you've got a headache.”

  “What about the transmitter?”

  “It's in the next room,” said Broussard. “I didn't think you'd want it around until we had talked. I can destroy it if you like.”

  “Not yet,” said the Injun. He paused. “Am I on any medication?”

  “She loaded you up with antibiotics and glucose before she brought you in here, and you'll be on pain medication for a couple of days.”

  “Things look different,” said the Injun, frowning.

  “I took the liberty of putting an eyepatch on you,” answered Broussard. “You can remove it whenever you want, but until I knew what you planned to do, it seemed best not to let the person at the other end of the camera know that you were awake and in a hospital room.”

  “Good thinking,” said the Injun approvingly.

  “Do you think you're up to some breakfast?”

  “Yeah, I could do with some in a few minutes,” answered the Injun. “Except for four or five bites of that alien meat, I haven't had anything to eat since I arrived at the embassy yesterday afternoon.”

  “Speaking of the embassy, I'm going to have to report in to them in the next few minutes, before they start sending out search parties.” Broussard paused. “I called them right after we wheeled you out of surgery and gave them some cock-and-bull story about your having a liaison with a girl you had met—but they're going to start getting nervous before long.”

  “How soon can I get on my feet?”

  “Whenever you want.”

  “Okay,” said the Injun. “Give me another hour and then take me back to the embassy.”

  “I don't think you can walk that far in your current condition, sir,” said Broussard. “Perhaps I'd better get the landcar and come back for you.”

  The Injun nodded, then winced as a bolt of pain shot through his skull.

  “Damn!” he said. “How long is this going to keep up?”

  “What, sir?”

  “Every time I move my head it feels like someone's hitting it with a blunt instrument.”

  “I really couldn't say, sir. I only know that Jill said there would be some discomfort for a day or two.”

  “Discomfort to a doctor is the torture of the damned to his patients. Get me the pain killer.”

  Broussard reached into his pocket and withdrew a small inhaler. “Take one breath of this every four hours.”

  The Injun grabbed it from him, inserted it into a nostril, and took two deep sniffs. “I haven't got time for a slow recovery.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave for the landcar, sir?”

  “Two things. First, where are my clothes?”

  Broussard walked to a closet and ordered the door to open. “Right here, sir. And the second thing?”

  “Bring me the transmitter—and don't make a sound while you're doing it. Then get the vehicle and pick me up in an hour.”

  Broussard left the room and returned a moment later with an incredibly-miniaturized device, which rested on a soft sponge. He handed it to the Injun, saluted, and left the room.

  The Injun waited until the door slid shut, then inserted the device up to his left ear.

  “Good morning, you son of a bitch,” he said.

  “How's your stomach feeling today, Jimmy?” asked 32, his voice sounding distant and tinny.

  “Never better.”

  “I trust you've learned your lesson.”

  “You wouldn't believe all the things I've learned,” said the Injun.

  There was a long silence.

  “Aren't you going to ask?” said the Injun at last.

  “Ask what?” replied 32.

  “Why you can't see anything?”

  “I assume you've got your eyes closed.”

  “One of ’em, anyway.”

  “This is a very juvenile display of petulance, Jimmy,” said 32. “I'm here to help you, and I can't do that if I can't see what you're seeing.”

  “Actually, I'm here to help you,” replied the Injun. “And I think the first thing I'm going to help you do is renegotiate my contract.”

  “What are you getting at, Jimmy?”

  “We're about to change the ground rules,” said the Injun. “How badly do you want the Oracle?”

  “Very badly. You know that.”

  “How much are you willing to pay?”

  “We've already got a deal, Jimmy,” said 32. “Your freedom in exchange for the Oracle.”

  “My freedom was just the down payment,” said the Injun, leaning back carefully against a pillow and wincing again. “Now we're going to start talking money.”

  “Forget it, Jimmy. I'm not going to let you or anyone else take advantage of the Democracy.”

  “Who's taking advantage?” said the Injun. “I want an honest day's pay for an honest day's work.”

  “You've never done an honest day's work in your life,” answered 32. “We have an agreement, and you're going to stick to it.”

  “No, I'm afraid not.”

  “Let me remind you that I possess the ability to terminate our agreement rather forcefully whenever I choose.”

  “You're welcome to try.”

  “Why are you talking like this?” demanded 32. “What's come over you, Jimmy?”

  “Nothing's come over me,” answered the Injun. “But a lot has come out of me. Want to see?”

  He withdrew the transmitter, then faced a wall so that 32 couldn't pinpoint his location from the view out the window, removed his eyepatch with his free hand, and stared at the tiny object.

  “Look familiar?” he asked.

  There was no response, and he realized that even if 32 was speaking, he couldn't hear it until he re-inserted the transmitter into his ear. He covered his eye once again and then carefully put the transmitter back in place. 32 was just coming to the end of a long string of obscenities.

  “I'd show you the bomb, too, but it's already been destroyed.” The Injun grinned again. “Are you ready to talk price?”

  “That's extortion, and I don't deal with extortionists.”

  “No, you just wire them for sight, sound, and extermination.”

  “You go after the Oracle on our original terms or you're a dead man, Jimmy.”

  “I can't tell you how frightened that makes me feel.”

  “I'm not kidding, Jimmy. You may be able to hide for an hour or a day or possibly even a week, but I promise you'll never get off that planet.”

  “Maybe I don't want to.”

  “What are you tal
king about?”

  “The reason we're going to negotiate a price, no matter how loudly you protest,” said the Injun, “is because you're not the only game in town.”

  “Who else is there?”

  “I figure there are at least two other players,” answered the Injun. “First of all, there's the guy who's coming to take her out.”

  “You don't even know who he is.”

  “You've already told me the name he uses, and if he makes it here, he won't be that hard to spot.” He paused. “Once he learns that the Democracy wants him dead, I figure he ought to be more than happy to pay me to learn the identity of the man who double-crossed him.”

  “Who's the other party?”

  “I would have thought that would be obvious,” replied the Injun. “There's the Oracle.”

  “You'd sell your own race out? I don't believe it!”

  “I've got nothing against her,” answered the Injun. “She's never done me any harm—which is more than I can say for some members of my own race.”

  “This is more than extortion!” snapped 32 furiously. “It's treason!”

  “No,” said the Injun. “It's business.” He paused. “Now, I can transact it with you, or I can transact it with someone else. That's the only decision you've got to make—and you've got exactly five minutes in which to make it. If we reach an agreement in that time, I'll return to the embassy and go to work for you. If not, I guarantee you won't find me before I find the Whistler and the Oracle.”

  32 made no reply, and the Injun started counting down the seconds in his mind.

  “Four minutes,” he announced.

  Still there was no reply.

  “Three minutes.”

  “How much do you want?” asked 32 in strained tones.

  “I'm a reasonable man,” said the Injun. “You keep telling me that the Oracle is probably the greatest potential threat the Democracy has ever faced. I don't think ten million credits is out of line.”

  “Ten million? You're crazy!”

  “Come on,” said the Injun easily. “You spend billions of credits waging wars against races that are no threat to you at all. I would think you'd jump at the chance to be rid of the Oracle for only ten million.”

  There was a lengthy pause.

  “Payable upon completion of the job?”