With careful precision, the stranger shot Bosk through the center of the forehead. The beam bored a neat bloodless hole through bone and brain. The Adonian slumped, slid out of the chair.
The stranger shoved the body aside, sat down in the chair. “Damn,” he muttered softly.
Without Bosk’s hands on the keyboard, the screen had gone blank.
The stranger was only momentarily thwarted, however. Though he had not anticipated this problem, he was prepared to deal with it. He spoke calmly into his commlink. “It’s finished. Come up.”
Bending over the corpse, the stranger slid what appeared to be plastic thimbles over Bosk’s fingertips. Then, adjusting his lasgun’s intensity, the stranger modified the beam to a cutting tool and proceeded to remove Bosk’s right eyeball. This grisly task completed, he placed the freshly severed eyeball in a holder, stood the holder on the table next to the computer. He then removed the fingertip plastics, now bearing the whorls and lines of Bosk’s fingerprints. Carefully, the stranger drew them over his own fingers.
Seating himself at the computer, he rested his fingers on the keypad of the blanked computer.
The screen logged in “Bosk.” The menu appeared.
Studying the list, the stranger hesitated. There was, no doubt, a trap in here. Even if he happened to guess the right file, bringing it up in the wrong sequence might cause it to self-destruct.
Unable to discover even a hint of a clue, the stranger exited the menu. Bosk had been smart, but he had also been lazy. Hopefully too lazy to make certain all the doors into his files had been shut and locked.
Hands on the keyboard, the stranger typed—in case the computer was attuned to Bosk’s voice—the command: “Recall last accessed project.” An old trick, but it worked.
A file appeared. Words, arranged in a definite pattern, filled the screen; words in a language long dead and forgotten by all but a few. The stranger was among the few who could read them, but this wasn’t what he was after. He tensed. The computer scrolled down to the lines:
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,
Before a thousand peering littlenesses,
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
And blackens every blot.
Suddenly, “Idylls of the King” disappeared. The screen went blank. This was either what he was searching for or he’d lost it.
The stranger picked up the eyeball, held it to the retina scan. A file came up. He read the header and smiled.
“Negative Waves.”
Chapter 3
You’re not a man, you’re a machine.
George Bernard Shaw, Arms and the Man
The Wiedermann Detective Agency, with offices in every major city of every major planet in the heart of the galaxy, handled only cases that were far too important, discreet, and delicate for other, less sophisticated (and less expensive) agencies. The Weidermann Agency would not, for example, tail your philandering husband unless he happened to be the prime minister and the ensuing scandal could topple a government.
The agency was expert in corporate intrigue, both detecting it and performing it. They did not handle ordinary or sordid cases. They would negotiate with terrorists and kidnappers for you, but it would cost you plenty. They would not undertake to break your uncle out of prison, or remove him from a penal colony, but they would refer you to people who did that sort of thing. They would not find out who poisoned your sister unless you had proof that the local police were being deliberately obtuse and your credit rating indicated you could pay for a prolonged investigation.
The agency’s offices were always located in upscale downtown professional buildings, rubbing shoulders comfortably with law firms that had twenty-seven names on the letterhead, and the offices of doctors whose names were followed by that many initials.
The agency’s own offices were spacious, elegantly appointed, a soothing gray-blue in color scheme. Corporate headquarters were located on Inner Rankin, the smaller and more exclusive planet of a two-planet system, the larger planet (industrial base) being known as Outer Rankin.
Only the most important clients were ever permitted to enter the agency’s corporate headquarters, which was why the receptionist—a live, human receptionist—placed her finger on the security button when the cyborg walked through the main doors.
It was a long walk from the main doors—steelglass, blast-proof—across the polished floor to the receptionist’s desk, and so she had time to get a good look at the cyborg. He had obviously made a mistake.
The Wiedermann Agency took on cyborgs as clients, but such cyborgs were sophisticated types. Expensive body jobs. Not even their own mothers could have guessed they were more metal than flesh. Plastiskin and flesh-foam, muscle-gel and quiet-as-a-whisper motors, battery packs and pumps enabled most cyborgs to blend in with ordinary flesh-and-blood beings, the main difference being that cyborgs always tended to look just a bit too perfect—as if they’d been tailor-made, not picked up off the rack.
This particular cyborg was, however, what the receptionist would classify (did classify, for security purposes) as “hard labor.” Most planets sent their convicted felons to hard-labor camps. Located on frontier planets or moons, these camps were generally mining communities or agricultural collectives. The work was hard, physical, and often dangerous. Those prisoners injured in accidents were provided cybernetic limbs and other body parts made to be strong, efficient, and cheap—not cosmetic.
This cyborg was bald. Acid burn scars mottled the skin on his head. His eyes—one of which was real, both of which were dark and brooding—were set deep beneath an overhanging forehead. His right hand was flesh, his left hand metal.
The security diagnostic that came up on the receptionist’s recessed screen disclosed that seventy percent of the cyborg’s body was artificial: left side, hand, leg, foot, face, skull, ear, eye. But the receptionist could see this for herself. Unlike any other cyborg she had encountered, this one scorned to hide his replacement parts. In fact, he appeared to flaunt them.
He wore combat fatigues that had been cut off at the hip on the left leg, revealing a broad expanse of gleaming, compartmented, and jointed metal. The left sleeve of his shirt was rolled up over the metal arm, revealing a series of LED lights that flickered occasionally, performing periodic systems checks. His metal hand could apparently be detached from the wrist, to judge by the locking mechanism, and replaced with different hands—or tools.
His age was indeterminate, scar tissue having replaced most of the original flesh of his face. But the right half of his body—the half that was still human—was in excellent physical condition. Arm muscles bulged; chest and thigh muscles were smooth, well defined. He walked with a peculiar gait, as if the two halves of his body weren’t quite in sync with one another.
Truly, he was one of the worst cyber-jobs the receptionist had ever seen.
“I would have sued,” she muttered to herself, and put on the Wiedermann smile, which would be completely wasted on this man, who had probably come in to use the toilet.
“Good morning, sir,” said the receptionist, giving the cyborg the smile but not the Wiedermann warmth that was reserved for paying clients. “How can I help you?” She could hear, as the cyborg approached the desk, the faint hum of his machinery.
“The name’s Xris,” he said, a mechanical tinge to his voice. “I received a subspace transmission. Told to be here, this building, eleven hundred hours.” He glanced around without curiosity, but appeared to note in one swift overview every object in the large room, including—from a momentary pause and stare—the surveillance devices.
The receptionist was confused for a moment, then remembered.
“You’re applying for the janitor’s job. I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. They should have told you to use the rear entrance—”
“Sister.” The cyborg placed his flesh hand and his metal hand on either side of her, leaned over her. She was disconcerted to see the artificial eye readjust
its focus as his head drew nearer. “I told you. I have an appointment.”
“I’ll check the files,” she said coldly.
“You do that, sister.”
“What was the name?”
“Xris. With an X. Pronounced ‘Chris,’ in case you’re interested.”
She wasn’t. “Surname.”
“Xris’ll do. There’s only one of me.”
The receptionist flashed him a look which said the universe could undoubtedly count this as a blessing, then brought up the appointment calendar on a screen beneath the gleaming glass top of her desk. Her fingers flicked over the smooth surface.
The cyborg glanced around the reception area again, noted a security-bot glide out of a recess in the wall. Casually, Xris reached into the pocket of his shirt, drew out a golden and silver cigarette case, adorned with a shield on the top. The receptionist, had she been looking, would have been highly impressed. The shield was the crest of the Starfire family, belonged to the young king. The case was, in fact, a gift from the king. Xris opened the lid and withdrew an ugly, braided, foul-smelling form of tobacco known as a twist. He thrust the twist in his mouth, started to light it with the thumb of the metal hand.
“No smoking.” The receptionist indicated a sign to that effect.
Xris shrugged, doused the light. Keeping the twist in his mouth, he began to chew on it. “Got any place I can spit?”
The receptionist glanced up, eyes narrowed in disgust, but she had located his name on the calendar and was therefore obligated to add the Wiedermann warmth to the Wiedermann smile, which had, unfortunately, slipped slightly.
“I’m sorry for the confusion, Mr.... Xris. You are to see Mr. Wiedermann.”
Xris continued to chew reflectively. “Wiedermann himself, huh? I’m impressed.”
“That is Mr. Wiedermann the younger,” clarified the receptionist, as if, yes, Xris should be impressed but only moderately. “Not Mr. Wiedermann the elder. Please proceed to the eighteenth floor. Someone will meet you there, escort you to Mr. Wiedermann’s office. Put this badge on your pocket. Wear it at all times. Please do not take it off. This would activate our alarm system.”
Xris accepted the badge, clipped it on the pocket of his fatigues. “About that janitor’s job . . .” he began conversationally.
“I’m sorry for the mistake,” the receptionist said coldly. The Wiedermann smile could have, by now, been packaged and frozen. “Please go on up. Mr. Wiedermann doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
She answered a buzz from the commlink. She didn’t like being around cyborgs, even the well-oiled.
The cyborg circled her desk to reach the lifts. The receptionist was talking to a prospective client. A touch of metal on her shoulder made her jump, flinch, so that she accidentally disconnected the call.
“I was about to say, you couldn’t afford me,” Xris told her. “Sister.”
Taking the twist out of his mouth, he tossed the soggy, half-chewed mass in the receptionist’s trash disposer, then walked off.
It shouldn’t gnaw at him, but it did. Gnawed at the part of him that hadn’t been—couldn’t be—replaced by machinery. People in general, women in particular—the way they looked at him. Or didn’t look at him.
You asked for it, you know.
“Yeah, that’s true,” Xris agreed with himself. Taking out another twist, he stuck it in his mouth, clamped down on it hard with his teeth.
But he preferred the pity, the disgust to be up front. Better that than later. Behind closed doors.
Not that there ever was a later. A door that ever closed.
It happens to all cyborgs, eventually. Even the “pretty” ones. Sure, when she digs her nails into your fake flesh, it’ll bleed fake blood—the miracle of modern technology. But when you hold her close, she’ll hear the drone, the whine, the rhythmic clicks. And her flesh, her living flesh, grows cold in your arms, grows cold to your sensor devices. She realizes a machine’s making love to her. She thinks: I might as well be screwing a toaster....
The lift had stopped. It had been stopped for some time, apparently, for it kept repeating “Floor eighteen” in a manner that was beginning to sound irritated.
Berating himself—My God! How many years has it been since the operation anyway? Nine? Ten?—Xris strode off the lift. A young man, dressed in a tweed suit, tie, and knife-creased pants, was waiting for him.
“Xris? How do you do? I’m Dave Baldwin.” The young man extended a hand, didn’t wince at Xris’s grip, even gave as good as he got. “Mr. Wiedermann’s expecting you.”
Turning, Baldwin led Xris down a carpeted hallway, done in muted tones, with muted lighting, polished woods, and the piped-in sounds of a string quartet. Occasionally, passing by an office with its door open, Xris glanced inside to see someone working at a computer or talking on a commlink. In one, he saw several people seated around a large polished wooden table holding cups of coffee and small electronic notepads.
“Where’s your shoulder holster?” Xris asked.
The young man smiled faintly. “I left mine in my other suit.”
“Sorry. I guess you must hear that all the time.”
“It’s the detective vids,” Baldwin explained. “People believe that stuff. When they see these offices and they find out that we look just as boring as any other office place, they’re disappointed. We’ve had a few even walk out. Mr. Wiedermann—that’s the older Mr. Wiedermann—once suggested that we should all dress the part. Wear guns. Smell like bourbon. Go around in our shirtsleeves with slouch hats on. We think he was kidding.”
“Was he?”
“You can never tell with old Mr. Wiedermann,” Baldwin said carefully. “I know our appearance disillusions people, especially when they find out that most of the trails we follow are paper. The only footprints we trace are electronic. We don’t tail beautiful mysterious women in mink stoles. We do file-searches until we find some tiny little discrepancy in her personal finances which proves she’s a spy or an embezzler or whatever. We study psychological profiles, sociological patterns.”
The young man stopped, eyed Xris quizzically. “But you know all this, don’t you, sir? I’ve read up on your case,” he added in explanation. “You used to work for the investigative branch of the old democracy.”
“I was a Fed.” Xris nodded. “But we wore holsters.”
Baldwin shook his head, obviously sympathetic. “Mr. Wiedermann’s office is at the end of the corridor.”
“The younger,” Xris clarified.
“Right. The elder’s almost fully retired now. Through this door.”
Through a door, into an outer office that appeared to be used as a storage room for boxes of computer paper, stacks of file folders, stacks of plastic disks, old-fashioned reels of magnetic tape, mags, actual bound books, all thrown together in no particular order.
“Mr. Wiedermann doesn’t like secretaries,” Baldwin explained in a low tone, pausing in front of the closed door of the inner office. “He says he’s seen too many ruin their bosses. The staff takes turns running his errands for him. He’s a genius.”
“He must be,” Xris observed, glancing at the clutter. “Either that or Daddy owns the company.”
“He’s a genius,” Baldwin said quietly. “He doesn’t often see clients. Your case interested him. I must say it was unique in my experience.”
He tapped on the door. “Mr. Wiedermann.” Opening it a crack, he peered inside. “Mr. Xris here—by appointment.”
“In!” came an irritable-sounding voice.
Baldwin opened the door wider, permitted Xris to enter. Giving the cyborg a reassuring smile, the young man asked if he could bring coffee, tea. Bourbon.
Xris shook his head.
“Good luck, sir. Have a seat. Say your name a couple of times, just to remind him you’re here.”
Baldwin left, shutting the door behind him.
Xris looked at Mr. Wiedermann, the younger.
A thin man with a pale face and a sh
ock of uncombed sandy blond hair sat behind what might have been a desk. It was completely covered over, hidden by various assorted objects, some of which had apparently been elbowed out by others and were now lying on the floor.
Mr. Wiedermann not acknowledging his presence, Xris glanced around the room. It had no windows, was lit by a single lamp on the desk, and by the lambent light shining from twenty separate computer screens that formed a semicircle behind the man’s chair. The rest of the room was in shadow.
Wiedermann sat with his chin in his hands—his hands bent so that the chin rested on the backs, not the palms—perusing a document of some sort, studying it with rapt, single-minded intensity. He breathed through his mouth. A bow tie—clipped to the open collar—slanted off at an odd angle.
Xris removed a stack of files from a chair, kicked aside the clutter surrounding the desk, dragged the chair over, and placed it on the newly made bare spot on the floor.
Wiedermann never looked up.
Xris had just about figured this seeming abstraction was an affectation and was starting to grow irritated, when the blond-haired man lifted his gaze.
He stared at Xris with watery, very bright green eyes, said, “I’ve been expecting you.”
The glow of the computer screens behind him cast an eerie halolike effect over the man. That and the darkened room made Xris think he’d accidentally broken in on some weird religious service.
Xris opened his mouth to introduce himself, but Wiedermann had shifted his attention to his desk. He made a sudden dive at a pile, snagged and pulled out—from about a quarter of the way down—a thick manila folder. The removal of the folder sent everything that had been stacked on top of it cascading to the floor. Xris leaned down to pick them up.
“Don’t touch them,” Wiedermann snapped.
He opened the file folder, flipped through the contents quickly. Satisfied, he returned the green-eyed gaze to Xris.
“A gatherer,” Wiedermann said.
“I beg your pardon?” Xris blinked.
“I’m a gatherer. As in hunter/gatherer. Racial memory. Our ancestors. Men were hunters, women gatherers. Men went out, hunted food. Women foraged. Men could find game almost anywhere. Women had to remember where the berry patches were located from one year to the next, even after the tribe had moved from one hunting ground to another. Nature gave women the ability to remember the location of various objects that would guide them to the food.
The Knights of the Black Earth Page 3