Director Wallis? Was he the head of the Dakota subdistrict Guide-way Patrol?
"Thank you, Sam," Wallis replied.
From there on, it was routine. Very routine and very boring. After another fifteen minutes of questioning, verification of who I was, and an authenticated agreement to answer any and all questions, they let me go and got on with questioning the others at the meeting. By then, four more safos had arrived, and I was glad to slip away.
On my way out, I stopped by the desk and asked the virty for information on the Spiritwood Inn. I needed to track down who owned the place, because it was unlikely any cydroid could have gotten through the screens at the doors, old as they were, without either cooperation from someone in the organization or a great deal of credits. Usually, the cheaper possibility is right. I also wanted to check out Wallis.
I took the Altus to the Jameston flitterport and actually managed to catch the early flitter to Minpolis. That didn't help much, because I'd just shifted waiting at Jameston to more waiting at the Minpolis maglev station. Waiting and thinking, wondering why anyone would want to take out Damon Erle, who was going to lose the election by a significant margin.
Or had someone tried once more to get me involved? I'd seen more violence in two weeks than I'd ever seen outside the Marines.
Yet Hank Wallis had been more than helpful, unlike Menendez in Epaso. I noted everything I could think of, from the way Erle had handled the meeting and his use of rez and songs, to the cydroid attack. When I couldn't think of anything else, with an hour yet to go before my maglev to Denv left, I took one of the pubcom terminals and keyed in a local news search.
... Nothing new from Mars ... martial law remains in force ... but largely ignored by Mars-born and longer-term immigrants ... Two more CorPak safos wounded by snipers...
... A cydroid took a shot at Damon Erle this afternoon. Erle may be trailing Helen Kagnar in the race for the subdistrict House seat, but you wouldn't have known that today. Safos are not commenting on the rumor that the cydroid is registered to a known LR business here in the High Plains ... Nor have they released the identity of the bystander who disarmed and subdued the cydroid, except to say that the man was, and we quote, "covering the campaign." Damon Erle should be glad someone was...
I winced at the last line. Erle had enough problems without that kind of net attention.
I wouldn't get back to Denv until after midnight, and I just hoped that I didn't have to make any more trips. I'd traveled enough over the years in the Marines, and I had the feeling that traveling wasn't doing much for me, either.
Chapter 33
Sunday morning, I slept in. I'd gotten back to the house late on Saturday, and I hadn't slept that well, anyway, not with dreams of cydroids and snipers. When I finally did struggle into an upright position on Sunday, it was close to eleven, incredibly late for me. I just sat in the kitchen for a time, going through three mugs of Grey tea and some dried fruit and toast. The larder was more than empty.
I was in over my head, and I didn't even have any idea what game was being played or by whom. Someone, or several someones, wanted Carlisimo shut down. Someone else wanted his campaign tactics shut down. They might be the same people; they might not. Someone else was unhappy with me. It might be Abe Vorhees, or one of the unknown parties against Carlisimo. Someone else, long before the events of the past month had happened, had stolen my DNA, blatantly, and no one yet had been able to track down who it might be.
The question that I couldn't answer, the one that I didn't even have a clue to, was simple. Why me? I had a pretty good idea why the Centre wanted me to do their study, because I could provide the best evidence against the use of modified campaign rez. And it was possible that someone didn't want me to finish the study. It was also possible that a dead consultant who was studying the use of rez-based techniques in campaigning would be equally effective as an exhibit before the Legislature as that consultant's study. But, except in general terms of contributors and board directors, I had no idea who was backing the Centre, and no way to find out.
I also couldn't figure out the use of the cydroid against Damon Erle. That made absolutely no sense at all, not that I could figure out. Most crazies wouldn't have the resources to get control of a cydroid, and anyone with resources would have known that Erle didn't have a chance to win in that subdistrict even if he'd spent ten times what Kagnar did, and that wasn't allowed under the campaign acts. It could have been someone in the entertainment business, with a grudge, but that seemed like an awfully strange coincidence, and I never had been a big believer in coincidences.
Because I was tired of the Centre's study, I took a look at the material Chelsa Glynn had sent in response to my inquiry. The technical paper was to be no less than two thousand words and no more than six thousand and was to deal with any aspect of the general topic of the seminar. The topic was, interestingly enough, subperceptual influence and learning, and that explained in part why they wanted me. Someone hoped I'd explain my methodology for determining carry-through of prodplacing. That was something I wasn't about to touch.
I smiled. What I could address, legitimately and fairly, were the difficulties in recognizing and assessing the impact of subperceptual influences. Since I'd never seen anything on that, and since I had file upon file of material that could be adapted, that would be useful both in educating people at the seminar and establishing my credentials without giving away my methodology.
The first thing I did was to run a search on the worldlink to see what, if anything, anyone else had written. As I'd suspected, there was very little, no more than a handful of articles, and none really on the topic. What did surprise me was that I discovered three commentaries on an article I'd written three years before on the history of prodplacing.
I started by pulling sections from various studies and notes, and assembled them into a single file, but was careful to avoid anything with proprietary information. Then I began the business of editing and eliminating.
After almost two hours, as I was drafting—or redrafting—my technical paper for the AKRA seminar, a thought occurred to me, and I pulsed in an inquiry on the media and news stories on the Erle campaign. As they queued up, I scanned through them.
Erle Stunned by Attack...
Attack by MultiCor Cydroid?...
I read that story in more depth—even if it had appeared in Daily-Dem. The writer began by asking what the major multis had against Damon Erle. The story stated that, according to an unnamed source in safety enforcement, the cydroid was one of a standard pattern used by a number of multis in the MultiCor group, but that there was no record of its creation. That suggested that HPlus, or another cydroid/clone producer, was evading NorAm registration requirements. In short, the multis were out to get Erle ... and it was written almost that bluntly.
Cynical as I was, I had to wonder if some backer of Erie's had pulled the whole thing off to call attention to the campaign and to portray Kagnar as a multi tool. If that were the case, no one had really been in any danger, because the cydroid's first blast would have missed. I'd wondered somewhat about the ease with which I'd immobilized the cydroid, and that would explain it.
I stiffened. Wallis. He'd known that the attacker was a cydroid. In the scuffle at the time, I hadn't caught the fact that I'd never said the attacker had been a cydroid, but Wallis had known and been ready. Had he been planted to take down the cydroid? That, or his presence was another unlikely coincidence. Too unlikely, but there was no way I could get to Wallis on it, and no way really to prove what I had realized.
None of that really explained why someone was taking such a risk to attack Erle, as opposed to a more visible PD with a better chance ... unless...
I keyed in another inquiry. Four other PD candidates had been attacked in the last week, but not seriously injured, and no one had been apprehended. Notes or other communications had suggested perpetrators who opposed the PD.
Was this a new campaign device? A way around the spe
nding limits? Who would be behind it, and why? The PD itself couldn't be. At least, I didn't think they were that stupid. It could eventually be tracked. But it was someone who would benefit by PD control of the House. The Senate was out of PD reach, at least in the current election cycle.
I did a little more digging. What was interesting was that all five seats were either open, or relatively closely contested. None of the other four were ones I had picked, but I flagged and added them to my database for the Centre study.
Finally, after doing what I could, I went back to the technical paper for the seminar. The strange aspects of the campaigns were just something else about which I could do nothing. The technical paper and seminar paid and would give me exposure, which I'd need because I hadn't gotten any new requests for work since the short analysis for H F.
I'd probably get some more follow-on work from Reya, and possibly more from Methroy, but when and for how much was another question.
Chapter 34
As Yenci walked toward the door to the secure briefing room, Central Four projected the full holo image of a brunette safo into the chair behind the table.
The bio-safo opened the door, looked toward the waiting image, and nodded. "Thank you. It's easier when you don't appear from nowhere. I know it's a peculiarity of mine. I appreciate your humoring it."
"You made your wishes known." A faint smile appeared on the projected safe's lips, lingered, and then vanished.
"You know, looking at your projection, sometimes it's hard to believe you're not real." Yenci frowned. "That's not right. You are real, but it seems like you're looking more and more like a bio-person, and not virty system-rep."
"You had suggested a more lifelike approach would be useful."
"I don't know ... What do you have on the crysalkie busts?"
"Twenty arrests and detentions. Fifteen are first offenses, four are second-timers, and one is up a third time."
"Second-timers?"
"Fridric Carao completed servie obligations one month ago for running crysalkie four years ago..."
"One lousy month, and he's stupid enough to run crysalkie again?"
"He was caught with half a kilo in the hidden compartments in his belt. He was also running caak. There were enough DNA traces to establish that he had worn the belt a number of times."
"So he can't claim he was duped?" Yenci snorted. "Bet his advocate does. Poor westside boy ... Who are the others?"
"Frank Sebastion, dealing five years back. Angel deToras, dealing seven years back. Arthur Stevenson, running, four years ago. Stevenson was charged with dealing, but was acquitted." Central Four continued to synchronize image and speech.
"The three-time loser?"
"Rees Siegfried. Two previous dealing charges."
"Why's he still Earthside?"
"Extenuating circumstances, sealed records."
"That means he turned in someone big, and he was stupid enough to get back in the business?"
"He is in detention in the medical block on full support. Prognosis is unfavorable."
"You mean that without cendie medicals he'll die?"
"Yes. Requests for star priority have been denied by the district prosecuting advocate."
"That's that, then." Yenci smiled coldly. "The others are booked?"
"They are."
"What about the cydroid cases?" asked the slender safo.
"There are some irregularities in the cydroid facial scan and DNA search analyses." The slightest hesitation occurred before the word "irregularities."
"What sort of irregularities?"
"A similar DNA pattern to one set of cydroids was reported missing twenty-one months ago. A more detailed comparison might prove useful."
Yenci frowned, then nodded. "Do whatever you can with it. Don't know what good it will do if it was stolen, but it can't hurt." After a moment, she asked, "Legitimate theft claim?"
"Ascendent and well-documented. He was very concerned when he heard about the unregistered cydroids. A servie has reported a similarity between the two."
"Friggin' great." The safo snorted. "Now we got cydroid saboteurs cloned out of cendie genes, and no idea who did it. Better do more than whatever's usual. Whatever it takes."
Whatever it takes. Central Four documented the command.
After Yenci left the secure briefing room, the projected safo smiled, then vanished.
Whatever it takes...
Chapter 35
Monday morning was gray and cold. I ran and worked out anyway, getting up a half hour earlier and running close to my normal route in reverse. That had me in my office, mug of tea in hand, close to an hour earlier than usual on Mondays.
I plowed into updating my analysis of the Kagnar campaign, categorizing the various media uses, which ran from straight literature handouts to some slight use of off-chord commercial rez prodplacings in her linksite, and the use of those chords on a muted basis during her rally. All that was minimal compared to what Carlisimo had been doing. By ten o'clock, I had the Kagnar and Erle stuff laid out parallel to all the others, and was working on updating what I'd been sent by the Clerihew coordinator.
A dull crack shivered the house.
Check front entry! Check front entry! The house security system blared through the gatekeeper.
I grabbed the neurostunner from the drawer—the kind allowed in the house, but not beyond its doors—and hurried toward the front door, querying the system. Interrogative status?
Systems intact. House not entered or damaged.
I stopped behind the still-sealed door. Interrogative intruders?
Negative intruders. No objects massing in excess of a quarter kilogram.
Stunner in hand, I eased the inner door open. The outer permaglass door was untouched, not even scratched or scraped, but a sealed envelope was taped to the outside. Using enhancements, and the house scanners, I studied the area in front of the house and to both sides, but no one else was nearby. I closed the inner door and left the envelope there, and went back to get a pair of sterile gloves and a hand-scanner.
When I returned, I checked again, but the area was clear, except for Mrs. Marden, who was standing on her porch, across the cul-de-sac, looking around. I stepped out, ducking as I did, as if to pick something up.
"Mr. deVrai! What was that?"
"I don't know. I just heard a bang."
"You don't think it was one of those awful PAMD people?"
"I don't know what it was."
The scanner revealed traces of something akin to black powder, probably handmade, and likely to be untraceable, and there were shreds of plastic across the front porch, several embedded lightly in the trim around the door. For the moment, I left them there.
I took the envelope, which had no name on the outside, and slipped back inside to the kitchen. When I was convinced there was nothing in the envelope but a single sheet of paper, I opened it, using scissors, and letting the paper flutter to the tile floor. I bent down and used the tip of the scissors to turn it over, then read the words.
You've been warned. Don't ever mess with a Vorhees account again. Another mistake will be fatal.
I straightened and left the paper there, but even as I stepped back, it began to gray. As I watched, it turned into ashes, and then less than that. After sterilizing the scissors, spraying the floor, disposing of the gloves, I turned on the kettle.
Vorhees was behind the warning. That was clear enough from the disintegrating paper. While someone else could have planted it, that didn't seem likely. Who else would have had the motive ... unless someone was after Vorhees, but then that person would have used more durable warnings, the kind that could have been turned over to the safos.
Had the sniper also been a warning, or had he been representing someone else?
I was getting more than a little angry. In fact, I was seething inside. Part of the anger was because there was so little I could do. There was no damned proof of anything, nothing to speak of except my word that these thin
gs had happened. There was literally no evidence of anything, except my own perceptions, and a few shreds of plastic and powder.
I walked back to the front door. A wry smile crossed my lips. The shreds of plastic had also vanished—ultra-biodegradable. A few dents in the trim, some traces of powder, and one person besides me who heard a loud noise. If I reported things like that, especially if I kept reporting them, I'd end up under mental treatment because veradification would show that I believed what I'd seen—and there was virtually no evidence of any of it. Delusions ... and someone would try to cure me of delusions that were real. What that might do to my mind I didn't even want to consider.
After another half mug of tea, I walked back to the office to get back to work on the Centre report. I didn't get more than a half hour done when the gatekeeper announced, Safety Officer Olafson, Jameston Office.
I couldn't say I was surprised. Accept.
Safo Olafson's projection showed an attractive tall blonde with a polite smile. "Dr. deVrai?"
She'd also looked up my background. "Yes?"
"I was wondering if you would mind answering a few follow-up questions. As always, you understand that you are under no obligation, implied or otherwise, to do so."
"I'd be happy to." Given her low-key and pleasant approach, I was inclined to be cooperative—and wary.
"Just for the record, why were you in Jameston?"
"I'm doing a study on the use of various media techniques in campaigns. The campaign between Helen Kagnar and Damon Erle was one of those races I'd been following. I was at the Kagnar rally in Fargo the night before."
"You're a consultant in media, according to the record."
"That's right."
"What alerted you to the assailant?"
From there on in, every question was directly related to the attack on Damon Erle, and Safo Olafson spent a good hour interrogating me, if most politely and gently.
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