A Gathering Evil

by Michael A. Stackpole

  I glanced back at the closet. "Even the suit bag and suitcase there?"

  She smiled. "Not even the remnant of an airline baggage stub on them." She shrugged. "If this room has any secrets, they're going the be the devil's own to unlock."

  "Unlock." I slammed the heel of my right hand against my forehead. I reached for my wallet and fished out the safety deposit box key. "Maybe the secrets are locked away in their vault.

  With the key in hand, getting whatever treasure I had locked away in the vault was not a problem. A perky young woman at the concierge desk required me to sign my name on the signature card they had given me when I put things into the vault. I found it very easy to forge my own signature. Satisfied, the girl took the key and returned from the back with an aluminum attaché case.

  I thanked her, then Marit and I walked through the hotel lobby. Before we stepped out into the central mall area, I excused myself and retreated to the nearest men's room. I checked the stalls, then chose the last one and locked myself in. Seating myself as comfortably as possible, I pulled the case into my lap.

  The case had two latches, each with a three-digit combination. Looking at it I realized I had no idea what the correct combination was, and I did not think I had time to experiment with all the various possibilities. Most folks, when setting such a combination, will chose a number or date significant to them so they would not forget it, but I'd forgotten who I was, so that was of no use to me.

  I knew, from everything I had seen in my unconscious activities, that I was a very methodical person. The lack of memories did not destroy my underlying personality. I still functioned the way I normally would, but I did not know who I was. I needed to let myself run on autopilot to figure out the combination.

  Given the way I reacted to things, I doubted sincerely I would have opted for a personal date or significant number. That would be easy to crack if someone got a line on me. Chances were I used a random selection of numbers when setting the combination. If I did that, I either memorized the result, or had a gimmick for remembering it.

  Mnemonic tricks are an interesting phenomena. Roy G. Biv is one that recalls the different colors in visible light by grouping their first initials: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. I knew I remembered the difference between port and starboard because port and left have the same number of letters in the English language. I knew that whatever mnemonic trick I used, it would be something simple, like the left/port examples and just as constant.

  Staring at the combination, a possible solution struck me. Down and even have the same number of letters. If, in locking the case, I took the correct combination and moved all the even numbers down one position, then moved all the odd numbers up one position, the mnemonic would likewise solve for the combination. As long as I tested that down-even/up-odd theory using odd numbers for position changes, the formula would reverse itself.

  Smiling, I set to work. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I worked out that the key number had to be 1. Tycho Caine has 10 letters in it, which reduced to 1 when you add the two digits. Keying things to my name worked well because, except in weird circumstances, no one forgets his name.

  And, if you are careful about picking an alias, you can vary your security procedure on each job.

  That thought hit me like a slug right between the eyes. Maybe I'm not Tycho Caine after all.

  I applied my thumbs to the latch buttons, and the case popped open. I carefully lifted the lid and chewed my lower lip. No wonder the Krait felt so comfortable.

  Inside, nestled in a bed of black foam I saw a number of things. The first was a Colt Krait. The only difference between it and the gun I wore in my shoulder holster was that this automatic was blued-steel, not bright, and a florescent orange pip marked the front sight. It was loaded and ready for action, with two spare clips in a foam cut-out by the grip.

  Above and around it I saw all the pieces of an Armalite M-27 "Keyholer" sniper rifle. It fired a copper-jacketed 7.62 NATO round, and I had three clips of 30 bullets each and one small clip of five bullets that looked to have been drilled and patched to make them explosive. The receiver had been fitted for an Allard Technologies Espion UV laser scope. Pressing the battery check button in, it showed it was ready to go and had been sighted out to 750 meters. The rifle, I knew, had a midrange trajectory variable of +2-inch at the sight's focal distance, but could hit a target at a klick and a half if the shooter was good enough.

  Somehow I knew I was good enough.

  Aside from the weaponry I found four stacks of $100 bills bound in 10 meg packets. I slipped one of them into my pocket. Another small hole in the foam yielded 10 gold eagle coins, each worth approximately 600 dolmarks in a bank, or roughly double that on the black market. Lastly, a slit in the foam produced a passport and driver's license for me in Tycho Caine's name.

  I carefully closed the case and reset the combination as per the mnemonic.

  Marit smiled sweetly as I rejoined her. "Did you learn anything?"

  "I think so." I slipped on the Serengeti sunglasses from my room. "I am Tycho Caine. And as nearly as I can tell, I'm not in Phoenix for my health, nor anyone else's, for that matter."

  "So you're not a doctor? So much for my mother's dreams of me marrying one." Marit again took my arm and led me from the Mizuno Sheraton. "What is it you would say you do, exactly?"

  "I don't know, exactly. I appear to be a troubleshooter who specializes in retirement." I let my reluctance to discuss the matter bleed into my voice. "I am, however, now well financed. Given that packing up and formally checking out of the hotel would likely set off some alarms somewhere, I will need some new clothing and other essentials."

  "And you need something for the reception tomorrow night."

  "In fact, I do." I pointed out into the tree-lined mall area with the case. "Please lead on."

  Marit had not struck me as the type who would shy away from shopping. We ascended to Level Eight and started wandering the broad walkway encircling the open mall area. Marit laughed and pointed to various window displays. She paused for a moment or two to study a rainbow collection of sequin-studded shoes, then pulled me in the direction of another store. "If I look too long, I'll just have to buy a pair. I can no more resist them than someone else could resist a puppy in a pet store window. Here we are."

  I glanced up at the sign and read the kana symbols. "You have to be kidding."

  She frowned. "No, The Gentleman's Wardrobe is probably the best men's clothing store and haberdashery in City Center."

  I read the English name of the store for the first time as she said it and laughed. "Do you know what the Japanese name for this place is?"

  "No."

  "Dansei no ningen. That means 'virile man.'"

  "Trust me," she giggled, "you can pass."

  "You know how to flatter me."

  The men working in the store recognized Marit almost immediately and, when assured I was her friend, they became very attentive. Roger, a man I would have guessed as being a year or two younger than me and of a similar slender build, whipped a tape measure from around his neck and set to work. As he figured dimensions, he announced them to one of two aides standing behind him, pen pointed and pad ready.

  "Will Caine-san require just a suit, or are we looking for a whole change of image here?"

  Marit smiled coyly. "Mr. Caine wishes a complete wardrobe. Good looking, but a bit conservative. He will require formal wear for the reception tomorrow, two business suits and four days of casual wear. He'll also need underwear, socks, and a full shaving kit."

  "Understood, Ms. Fisk." Roger stood and lifted my arms away from my sides. He looped the tape measure around my chest. "And should we account for both the shoulder holster and bulletproof vest, or just one of them?"

  " Just the vest, I think, Roger," I replied. He grinned as I added, "Conservative on all the clothing except, perhaps, what I will wear to the reception tomorrow. I want to make an impression."

  Roger ro
lled his eyes to heaven. "If you are with Ms. Fisk, you will. Still, I think we can accommodate you. "He turned from me and started giving numbers to his assistants. One of them scurried off to gather up the items he had ordered, while the other continued to faithfully record everything Roger said. At the end Roger took the pad and pen from his aide and dispatched him with a wave.

  Roger flipped the page on the pad over and squinted at me. He sketched something on the paper, frowned, then added heavier lines. He looked at me again, made one last adjustment on his picture, then smiled and showed it to me. "Here, what do you think of this? It has traditional elements and will be in style, yet is different enough to get you noticed. You'll also note, cut this way, we could easily conceal the holster if you still wish to use it."

  I studied the drawing for a moment, then smiled. "And you can have this ready for tomorrow night?"

  "You'll know it was a rush job only by the price you pay." Roger raised his left eyebrow. "The boy-mayor may have to attend in last year's suit, but no one notices him anyway."

  "You do very good work, Roger."

  "So kind of you to say so, sir."

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the $10,000 stack of bills. I saved ten of the Trumans for myself and handed him $9000. "Let's put this on account. You have my measurements, and you can do custom work. Tip your staff generously for their help. I will have more for you to do."

  Pocketing the meg, I turned to Marit. "If you're hungry, we can get something to eat, then pick up the off-the-shelf stuff later."

  She shook her head. "Roger, just have it delivered to my apartment. We can get it there, later."

  "Very good, Ms. Fisk. Mr. Caine, it has been a pleasure."

  "Nine meg poorer and nothing to show for it," I laughed as we walked away from The Gentleman's Wardrobe.

  "You can trust Roger. He'll gouge you on the price of the suits, but he's honest otherwise." She looked out across the vast open gulf between one half of the mall and the other. "Do you like Japanese food?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know."

  "Feeling adventurous?"

  "Marit, I've been living an adventure for the last 36 hours. I've been shot at, chased, and nearly dissected. What could a restaurant offer that could worry me?"

  Without answering me she pointed to a restaurant a quarter of the way around the mall from our present position. "Osome, you'll love it. C'mon."

  I offered her my elbow, and we set off. "I have this impression, Marit, from the hotel and the store staff, that you have a bit higher profile than most of the other people I met today. Am I correct, or has my amnesia begun to slop over into my reasoning?"

  "I'm more notorious than I am famous, I am afraid." Her right hand swept up over her head as she tucked hair behind her left ear. "There was a time when I would not have been allowed access to City Center—just like everyone you met today except for Alejandro and, maybe, Hal. Like the others I grew up a Mike..."

  "Mike?"

  "Ah, bureaucratspeak. Marginal Income, Knowledge Exiguous, Sterile. MIKES was a classification used by United Nations bureaucrats to classify various populations in the newly freed Eastern Europe in the 1990s. They were the ones that were judged to be able to maintain a minimal existence without government hand-outs, yet their chances for advancement in the society were seen as non-existent. The term has bled over into popular use." She looked toward the people crowding City Center. "To the folks here it retains its original meaning and is something you threaten young, misbehaving children with becoming. The folks in Eclipse, on the other hand, cling to it defiantly. Every time something in their lives improves, they've beaten the margin and take pride in the victory."

  We arrived at the restaurant and removed our shoes at the door. After we put on slippers, we were taken to a low table by a Japanese woman in traditional dress. The tables were cunningly arranged over a pit into which people could put their legs if they could not tolerate kneeling throughout dinner. I put my case down in the leg well and knelt.

  Marit watched me and pouted slightly. "Now we can't play footsie."

  I smiled, but shook my head. "Very poor manners in a fine restaurant like this. You're a big girl, you should be able to behave yourself for a little while."

  "A little while, perhaps. I'll just save it up."

  The waitress came, and we ordered sushi a la carte. Marit also ordered a whisky sour, but I refrained from getting a drink. "Marit, you were saying you grew up a Mike?" I kept my voice low as I asked the question.

  She nodded. "My parents owned a small store at Oak and 36th Street

  . That's fairly near the Lorica Citadel, so we got some traffic from the Proles working for them. I made it through high school, then someone mentioned that Lorica was hiring candidates for their security forces. I applied and, because of some complicated quota formula put together by Nerys Loring, I was accepted as a cadet. I trained and, after six months, was put on the force. That was five years ago."

  "How did they train you?"

  "Weapons training, both handguns and long guns, unarmed combat, antiterrorist tactics and crowd control. We also took courses in proper manners for parties, how to be discrete, and some very basic detective skills. For the most part we were trained to be seen but not heard, to protect our execs and keep folks from unauthorized access to the citadel."

  "Interesting." As she spoke I cataloged information on the potential threat level of opposition at Lorica. "Still, that's not the sort of duty that's likely to make you infamous."

  She smiled shyly but her blue eyes sparked mischievously through a thin veil of black hair. "No, no, it isn't. I had been with the security force for just over a year when Lorica decided it needed a corporate video to instruct their executives how to act in various security situations. At times the gang wars in Eclipse threaten the citadels, so we wanted our people to know what to do in that sort of emergency. I was picked to be one of the security people in the video."

  She fell silent as the waitress brought our food and her drink. Marit broke apart her chopsticks and rubbed them together to get rid of splinters. I aped her, unknowing if I knew how to use them. As I tried to imitate the way she held them, the chopsticks dropped perfectly into place in my right hand. I picked a single grain of rice from my plate and ate it.

  Marit nodded her appreciation of my dexterity, then continued. "Back in those days, I was not much to look at. My mother belonged to a rather repressive church, so cosmetics and clothes like these were seen as the devil's tools. I guess I'd grown up figuring that I'd meet my Prince Charming when he off-loaded beer flats into my father's store, so I never set about dolling myself up as bait."

  "So Cinderella awaited the cinematic fairy godmother's touch?"

  She smiled. "Ugly Duckling tale from beginning to end. When they got through with me, I couldn't recognize myself in the mirror. All of a sudden I looked beautiful. In shock, I think, I did everything I was told to do on the set and the video became a hit within Lorica. I'm told copies have even showed up in rental shops under 'Action/

  Adventure—Do It Yourself' headings.

  "That video brought me to the attention of the marketing department in Lorica. All of a sudden I found myself shucked out of flak-suits and stuffed into slinky gowns so I could 'smile and point at the product.' An agent found me, and I signed a modeling contract, though Lorica hired me exclusively. Suddenly I found myself one of the Nomenklatura."

  "A gnome."I spread some wasabeon tekka-maki and smiled. "Such success leads me to find your spending time in Eclipse rather odd."

  "Oh, the first year was wonderful. I moved my parents into the Lorica Citadel, and I bought a place of my own. I traveled, I attended parties and even had a couple of bit parts in films shot in Hollyweird. I was on top of the world. I had just turned 20, and I was definitely an enfant terrible." She sipped some green tea. "As they say, 'Pride goeth before a fall.'"

  "Actually, it's 'Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.' Prover
bs 16:18."

  My correcting her brought her head up. "You are rather amazing, Mr. Caine." She smiled. "Of course, with that name, why should I be surprised at your quoting the Bible."

  Why, indeed? A man with a killer's name and an assassin's rifle quoting the Bible. Is that irony, or some inside joke I missed until noow?" So, how far did you fall? From enfant terrible to enfant perdu ?"

  "Not quite that badly, I think. A highly placed Lorica executive decided that since Lorica owned my contract, they owned me. When he tried to press his claim, he discovered that Lorica's security training is very effective. I broke his perfect smile and severely dented his self-image. His wife made his life a living hell after that and her mother, a substantial stockholder, made Lorica get rid of me. News of a scandal was leaked to the tabloids, and they managed to wedge it onto the front pages between stories about UFO baby-eaters and a man who impregnated his grandmother to give his father the brother he never had."

  "That sounds horrible."

  "It was, for a while. My agent got me some work in Japan, so I lived over there for a year. When I returned here everything seemed smoothed over, but there were still ripples. Through friends of a friend I met Rock and bought a handgun. Rock introduced me into Coyote's circle and I, in turn, was able to get a number of people to patronize Alejandro's gallery down on Seven. It's part of the Mercado."

  "I would like to see it at some point." I reached across the table and caressed her left hand. "So, for the past two years, you have given Coyote entré into the City Center society."

  "More or less. Coyote does not have me introduce him to people. I've only met him twice—and that's if you care to define meeting as talking to a shadow in the middle of a dark warehouse. Most often I get instructions through Jytte or by phone, just like you did today. Coyote generally describes a problem to me and asks if I think there is a gnome who would be willing to help with it."

  "Gnomes would help with a problem in Eclipse?"

  "Sure, if it's presented to them in the right way." She dipped the tip of her index finger in her drink, then licked the liquid off. "Most gnomes are good people, but they are very wrapped up in their lives and careers. With some you appeal to their sense of fairness, especially if you know of a parallel from their own life where they could have used some help. Others get caught up in the delicious danger of dealing with someone from Eclipse. Others act because they want to exact revenge on someone in City Center and the best way they can hurt them is to screw up some sort of power play going down in Eclipse."