by Ryk E. Spoor
“It’s simpler than that,” I said after a pause. “If these people were willing to wipe out entire civilizations, surely they’re the kind that prefer to be ‘better safe than sorry.’ Because I know you, they’d likely kill me anyway, just to be sure.”
“Indeed.” Verne nodded. “And to be honest . . . my friends . . . I lost my faith—in myself, in the Lady—long ago. In great part, Jason, your friendship has allowed me to start accepting myself again. In the past, between the time of the Sh’ekatha and the time we met, I did things that now repel me, which were the very antithesis of what I am. Yet . . . yet the Lady’s blessing was never truly withdrawn from me, though it could well have been. Her last Speaker survives still . . . and that which was lost may now be regained, as she wished. But I will need friends. And those friends must know that which they face.”
“I’m warning you: I’m not religious, and despite all this paranormal wierdness going on around me, I don’t believe in gods of any kind,” I replied.
Verne smiled. “Raiakafan claims the same thing these days. It does not matter if you believe in the gods; it only matters to those who do believe . . . and whether the gods believe in themselves.” He sat back, the light emphasizing the vampiric pallor that lay beneath his naturally darker skin. Despite his smile, I could see how tired he was. It was clear that no matter how uplifting the resurrection of his son had been, he was under an awful strain.
“Okay, Verne,” I said as I glanced at the time; damn, there went any chance of opening the shop at a reasonable hour. Oh, well . . . cosmic revelations don’t happen every day. “If I have any questions on this . . . I’ll ask later. What can I do for you?”
“A simple question with a simple answer. Two answers, actually. First, Raiakafan needs an identity—a safe one. While I have contacts that can provide such things for me, I’d rather that our identities not share that kind of tie; that is, if either of us is found out, I’d rather it didn’t bring the other one down with the first.”
“Faking an ID isn’t exactly in WIS rules . . . but you’re right, I know people who can arrange it. Jeri might, too. And the second thing?”
Kafan answered. “Find my children. Find Seb and Tai. And Kay and Kei.”
I smiled slightly. “So, we’re back to the thing you originally hired me for: to find someone. At least this is something I’m ready to deal with. Since we’re obviously not going to be asleep at a reasonable hour, why don’t you come down to WIS now? We’ll get full descriptions set up in the machine so I can start my searches.”
“Father?”
“If you want to, Raiakafan, go ahead. Jason wouldn’t offer if he didn’t mean it.”
Kafan looked at me. “You are sure you don’t need to sleep first?”
I snorted. “I probably should sleep, but after all this? I don’t think I’ll be ready to go to bed until tomorrow night. Come on; the sooner we locate your kids and get you settled in, the more all of us will sleep.”
CHAPTER 40
Solve One Problem, Get Two Free
I frowned at the faces on my screen. One was definitely nonhuman: Tai as he might look if he changed. Seb’s inhumanity was less obvious, though it was there in subtle ways. The other two faces were composites of how the children looked in their human guise. This was my first look at the pictures with a clear head. After going over the details with Kafan several times, I’d wandered around my house in a daze before finally going to bed. I hadn’t opened WIS today; it was evening now, and I was finally able to take a look at the pictures and think about them.
This search wasn’t going to be routine. Assuming the truth of Kafan’s story and seeing his furry child, I really couldn’t doubt it, I wasn’t the only one looking for them. I also had to be very careful with my searches so that I didn’t tip off anyone else. The last thing we wanted was to alert the government that there was a genetic experiment living in Morgantown.
For that reason, I’d decided not to involve Jeri Winthrope. She’d taken a job as police liaison here, though it was pretty certain that her real employers were still in Washington somewhere. I couldn’t ask her to set up a phony ID without a lot of questions. Since she tried to keep an eye on Verne, she’d be poking around and asking questions soon enough anyway.
Well, I thought, might as well run the composites through the simple stuff. An influx of money resulting from my involvement in the Morgantown Incident had allowed me to purchase a lot of the new toys I’d wanted, including SearchlightSoft’s photocomparator suite. I’d customized the hell out of it, and I was pretty sure that I had one of the most advanced photo-search programs in the world. I set up a search with various parameters to locate pictures of children from that general geographic area who were within the correct age range, and then to compare those pictures with the two pictures on my screen. As a programmer, I’m so-so, but I’m damned good at pattern logic problems, and that is what information retrieval and photo comparison rely on. I didn’t expect much out of this first run; after all, it would be virtually impossible for the kids to be easily visible without a good searcher finding them quick. But it would be stupid of me to pass up any chance. My search parameters might be different than the opposition’s, or I might have access to pictures they don’t.
I leaned back and sorted through my mail. Bills . . . damn NiMo bill got higher every month; this bulky one . . . oh, the pictures from the State Police they wanted me to look at; invoices from Ed Sommer for the electrical work he was doing for Verne. Verne wanted me to look them over to make sure everything was okay. I wondered for a moment how he’d managed to hide Genshi and Kafan from Ed and his team. I glanced over Ed’s invoices . . . damn, even with the money I was making these days, I couldn’t pay these without selling everything I owned. Complete rewiring, lights . . . the works. I marked a couple of borderline entries—I didn’t know if all these things were needed, but if they had already been installed, we wouldn’t gripe, so I scribbled “tell Verne check if installed” on them and put them aside.
The next letter brought a grin. Mom and Dad had written again. I opened the envelope and scanned the contents. Dad had gone to a jeweler’s convention—he made jewelry as a sort of hobby—and was working on some new stuff. He was about to retire from the college (Professor of Chemistry). Mom had retired from teaching a couple of years ago and we had a continual exchange of ideas going. I was going to have to read that section in more detail later. There was no way to just dash off a reply to Mom; she was too deep for that. They’d also included a Dilbert cartoon they thought I’d appreciate. I’d have to write back soon. It was a little difficult to write these days, though; they knew about Virigar, but I was trying to keep a lid on Verne. But Mom was an awfully sharp cookie and she’d know if I was hiding something.
The rest of the stuff was junk mail, which I consigned to the permanent circular file. I stretched, went to the kitchen and reheated some of the taco meat I’d made earlier that week. Fortified with a couple of tacos sprinkled with onions, cheese, lettuce, and homemade salsa, I sat down at my second terminal and started downloading my e-mail. I flagged one immediately—it came from a remote drop which was a remote drop for a remote drop for . . . well, you get the picture. Only one person used that route: the Jammer.
Probably the best hacker/cracker in the world, the Jammer had taken a sort of brotherly interest in protecting my butt when Virigar first showed up. Since then, we’d had occasional correspondence. Once I’d started thinking about false ID, he’d been at the top of my mind. However, the way he’d disappeared a while back had indicated to me that, like Slippery Jim DiGriz, he’d gotten “recruited” by some bigger agency. So I’d had to tiptoe around the subject to see what his reaction was.
TO:{Jason Wood}[email protected]
FROM:{The Jammer}
SUBJECT:RE: Old days
You’re not bad yourself, JW. I particularly liked the triple-loop trick you set up to make people trying to track this down follow the message in circles. But you reall
y need to relax. Trust me, there isn’t anyone on the planet who can trace or decode a message I want kept secret except God himself, and even He’d have to do some serious work first.
It was hard to decide if I should laugh or growl at that. The problem with the Jammer was that he had an ego the size of the solar system. I was tempted to write back something like, “If you’re that good, who was it that caught you?” but impulses like that are stupid. If stroking his ego got good results, why should it bother me? I laughed. At least he had a sense of humor, which was more than a lot of geeks.
What you’re asking is if I still do some non-legit work? Normally no, but for you . . . as long as it’s not aiding and abetting a real crime, no problem. I’ve been itching for an excuse to hack something on my own lately anyway. My, um, friends don’t like to let me out to play very often except “on duty.” Not that that isn’t challenging work in itself, but . . . Doing an analysis of your prior inquiries, I’ll bet you need an ID.
I blinked. Thinking about it, and glancing through my messages again . . . yeah, I suppose he might have been able to assume that . . . but it took a pattern sense as good or better than mine to do it dead cold. Maybe I shouldn’t call it “ego.”
If it’s one for yourself, I’ve got everything I need already; if it’s for someone else, I need all the info you can give me—blood type, fingerprints, photos, the works. The more I can work with, the more I can give you. Drop me a line and let me know.
The JAMMER
Not bad. One major problem probably solved. I glanced over at the comparison program, sorting through picture after picture . . . no hits. I didn’t expect any. Picking up the phone, I called Verne. As usual, Morgan answered and called Verne to the phone. “Hello, Jason.”
“Got a couple marks on those invoices—you just have to make sure he installed all the stuff he says he installed. I’ll come over and do that now, if you like. I’ve got the machines running on something that doesn’t need my attention right now. I’m going to stop by the mini-mart for a couple things, then I’ll be right over.”
“By all means. Thank you, Jason.”
The mini-mart wasn’t too busy. I noted the security camera with its odd bulbous attachment. Nothing brought home the profound changes that were happening more than this prosaic addition: that attachment was, with slight changes, the same headpiece I’d worn while searching out werewolves in the hospital hallways. Except that this one wasn’t made by me, or under my license. Which means I’d give a better than fifty-percent chance it’s useless. I pulled out my pocket camera and snapped a pic of it; the gadget wasn’t a brand I recognized. One more to hit up for infringement claims.
I paid for my items and headed back out.
There were unaccustomed faint lines of concern on Morgan’s usually impassive, English-butler face. I saw the reason immediately. “Verne!”
Nothing essential had changed in him; he still had the dark, wide eyes that could hold you with a magnetic presence and the distant and aristocratic stance, but beneath the dusky olive color natural to his skin, his paleness had become something beyond mere vampiric pallor; he was washed out, diminished, as though being slowly leached of his color and his strength. The way he stood was unnaturally stiff. And in his dark hair, I thought I could see a few strands of white and gray. “Jesus, Verne, you look like crap.”
A tired smile crossed his face. “As usual, your diplomacy is staggering, Jason. You are not the first to inform me of this. And your face said all that needed to be said.”
“What’s wrong?”
Verne shrugged. “I am not sure. There have been a few, a very few, cases in which I felt similarly, aside from the one time I was forced to cross desert plains with little to no shelter—that was infinitely worse. I suspect all the changes in my life, from finding Raiakafan to simply trying to become more human again, have made me overwork. For if I lie down to rest, and my mind does not enter the proper state, I do not gain the proper amount of rest; those of my sort do not sleep in truth, any more than the Earth sleeps, but there is a difference between activity and rest even so.”
I couldn’t keep the concern from my voice. “I hope that’s all it is. Look, just take it easy. Anyone would be a little punchy after all the stuff that’s happened, but you’re the only one who can take care of you. I mean, what would I do if you collapsed? Call 911 and tell the paramedics I have a sick vampire here?”
“Indeed.” Verne straightened with visible effort. “But let me see these invoices . . . Ah, I see. I believe those sockets were installed, but let us check.”
We went through the huge mansion, checking off the items. Personally, I’d’ve rather seen Verne go to bed, but his tone and manner indicated that, weak or not, he wasn’t going to listen to me or any other mortal doing a mother hen imitation.
I figured he was a lot more worried than he let on. In his room, we stopped and he grabbed a bottle of AB+, draining the entire thing without letting it warm first. This made him visibly less pale, but something about it struck me as vaguely false, like the temporarily alert feeling you might get from amphetamines or a lot of coffee. Still, he moved more easily and the gray strands were no longer visible in his hair. Maybe he just hadn’t been eating right. Was there such a thing as vitamin deficiency for a vampire . . . nature priest, whatever?
“Very good, Jason,” Verne said finally. “All seems to be in order. I will pay these invoices, then. Thank you for checking them.”
“No problem. Where’s Kafan?”
“Sleeping. He tends to keep to Gen’s schedule, and we don’t want Gen to become habitually nocturnal.”
As good a chance as any. “Verne, there’s one thing that’s been bothering me about Kafan.” I grinned momentarily. “Well, one new thing. I know his story now, but . . . there have been a few times when he has seemed to change his whole personality, going from someone who’s as normal as you could expect with his background, to . . . well, I don’t know how to say it. Almost a machine—a killing machine.”
Verne’s expression was too carefully neutral, so I raised an eyebrow. “Well? What’s going on?”
He shook his head. “You are correct in your observation, Jason. There is some other trigger, some other mystery associated with him, and I have talked about it with him as much as I am able. It is not associated with the Project, that much I have learned; but it does have the sort of . . . programmed reactions one might have expected from such an organization if they were to have tried to make use of him. But Raiakafan is adamant about two things: first, it has nothing to do with the Project from which he escaped, and second, that no one must pry too far into this mystery or he will be forced to kill them, or die trying.”
“Even you?”
“He implied that he would try to resist any impulses associated with me . . . he was sworn to my service in ancient days, and that oath still has the force of the Lady behind it. But anyone else would have no protection at all.”
Great. A mystery within a mystery. “I’d bet, if we knew what it was, we’d know how he can be here, today, when he disappeared completely from your city half a million years back.”
Verne nodded. “I, too, believe that is the case. Wherever he went in that time . . . it made him into something else. Something he mostly represses, unless it threatens to probe into that particular secret, or threatens his life.”
I shrugged. This was a problem for later; I had more than enough on my plate for now. “Well, say hi to him and Genshi for me. I don’t know how long this search is going to take me, but I’ve already started on it. Might as well get home and try to get my schedule back on track.”
“An excellent idea. I will see you later, then.”
I stopped and turned in the doorway. “Verne, take care of yourself, okay?”
“Of course, Jason.”
I drove back to my house slowly. If Verne really was sick, I didn’t see how anyone could do anything. Other than Morgan, presumably, and Kafan, maybe. Was there anything
like first aid for Verne’s kind, or was that like thinking of stocking bandages for God?
I really should have started work on those state police photos, but my heart just wasn’t in it tonight. I put in Casablanca and let it run while I ate a late-night snack. Finally, as Rick and Louis walked off through the rain, I headed upstairs to bed. I wasn’t that tired, but if I didn’t get back on track . . . I glanced over at the search station. It had stopped the comparisons, finally. I reached out to shut it off when the message on the screen hit me with delayed impact:
Matches: 10
Ten matches? I hadn’t expected even one! Bedtime forgotten, I sat down at the keyboard and called up the ten matching pictures.
As they appeared onscreen, I heard myself say, “Oh, crap.”
I’d had a vague feeling that the boys’ faces were familiar, but I’d put it down to having seen their father and talked over their appearance for hours. But as soon as the photos with their headlines appeared, I remembered all too well where I’d seen them:
SENATOR MACLAIN ADOPTS TWO VIET CHILDREN.
CHAPTER 41
Worries and Joys
Verne and Kafan stared at the reprinted articles, while Sylvie peeked over their shoulders. “H’alate,” muttered Verne. “This is most inconvenient.”