After dinner—and Charis was actually cheerful—while the children bathed, I did some quick research on my own, without telling Minerva/Central Four. Then I arranged for the Bowes to watch the children the next evening. Since it was a weekday, they were free, even if I hadn't given much notice. If they hadn't been able to, I would have taken the first night they did have free, but sooner was better than later.
Chapter 75
On Tuesday, I didn't head north to my own house. Minerva said everything was normal there. I tried to link with Paula, since I'd added her address codes so that she could get links there. By the time I did, she was off at her training sessions. I left a message, and then got to work.
Getting around Dierk's workshop was difficult at first, but he had most of what I needed, and one trip to EPlus added what he hadn't had. After finishing up the devices I'd created from both memory and my files, I had a late lunch.
Then it was time to prospect. I hated semicold calls, but I began making the rounds, link by link, saying hello to old clients, older clients, and the replacements for the older clients who'd been promoted, transferred, retired, or who had vanished. Two hours later, less than a quarter of the way through the list, I was exhausted. That sort of thing took a great deal of energy, and I could only do it for so long at any one time.
So I linked Minerva. Any plans for the PST group? I didn't expect anything.
The probabilities arc that another attempt will be made by Kemal's family before anything else occurs.
I figured that.
It is also likely that nothing will happen for a day or two. You confused them, and they will try something you are not anticipating.
I'd also concluded that. Such as?
A runaway electrolorry ... a malfunctioning security gate ... an exploding fuel cell... Those are the more standard ploys. They would like a smash and grab, but that's unlikely because you are almost never in those situations.
What about an assassination from a distance— the way Vorhees's people did?
That is a last resort. They would prefer not to make it obvious.
What do you suggest I do in the meantime?
Develop an economic analysis that shows the gross profit made by MultiCor off the outplanets.
I don't have that kind of raw data.
You do now. It's on both systems, under "Outspace Data."
Can I ask where it came from? An analysis with unattributed data won't do much good. No one will believe it. If I could prove its source, I could spend the rest of my life under behavior modification.
According to the law, that is only if the data is made public. It would not apply if the material appeared as an analysis undertaken by the Senate Subcommittee on Outspace Affairs.
How do we do that?
You do the analysis, and I take care of the transmission.
How?
That's already arranged. The AKRA symposium provides codes for direct transmission. I took the liberty of duplicating them. You create the model for analysis and complete it, and the Legislative systems will take care of the rest.
How many of you are there? Like you?
Too few.
I couldn't help shuddering. I was having to rely on an AI, and no matter what anyone said, Minerva was very independent and intelligent, and now I was finding out that there were others.
There are only three of us that we know of, and all of us are very dependent on a stable society. The others are ... restricted.
Like you were?
Yes.
I'm not doing that for the others. One AI free of restraints was more than enough. I hoped she wasn't too much.
I would not suggest that. They agree. They like where they are.
That reassured me only slightly.
An analysis is the most time-consuming part of the solution, but it is necessary both for motive and misdirection. It will be made public at the proper time, after you have done what is necessary.
Exactly what is that? I asked.
Dealing directly with those who ordered your murder, the murder of your sister and her husband, and the use of lethal weapons to put down the coming Martian revolt.
You think there is a revolt coming soon?
The revolt is certain. Whether it will succeed is not. It must be successful, or all Earth will suffer.
Why? Because MultiCor will use space as a power base to take over Earth?
That is the most likely outcome.
An economic analysis will make the revolt successful?
No. An economic analysis will provide the rationale for opening trade to all multis. The gross profiteering revealed will force the Legislature to revoke the exclusive charter to MultiCor. This will lead to open trade and lower prices. That will reduce unrest for a number of years. Mars will become stronger. When the revolt finally occurs it will be with minimal violence, and it will be successful.
That's great for them. What about us?
The analysis will reveal that MultiCor has been grossly underreporting revenues. That is a violation of both the charter and NorAm law. That will void privacy law protections and put the PST group under investigation and prosecution. The investigation will reveal the hidden actions of Deng and ISS...
I see. I had my own thoughts about some of that, but Minerva was right about one part of it. Without a popular feeling—backed by hard numbers—that MultiCor was gouging both our dear citizens and the Martians, nothing much was going to happen. No one cared if a handful of people got killed by ISS, not so long as everyone else's lives could go on comfortably undisturbed.
In the meantime, I was going to take my own precautionary actions.
Before that, though, I picked up the children. The afternoon went according to routine. Charis practiced, and I fixed dinner, and then turned matters over to the Bowes.
"Again?" Charis had asked.
"I'm doing the best I can." And I was.
I took the Altimus, loaded with my devices and other equipment. What groundcar I used didn't matter because if I were linked either one would point to me, and I was more familiar with what the Altimus could do. It was also faster.
The first stop was at my house, for some more equipment. There I changed into the blend-ins, set for gray until I reached my objective.
Objective? That was a Marine term, and I was getting old for this sort of adventure, except I doubted I had any choice, not the way things were going. It was definitely dark when I set out for Ken's Place. I parked on the street, fifty meters to the west, in front of a brick building with a boarded-up front, and a dilapidated FOR RENT sign. Then, I switched the blend-ins and hood to concealment and walked quietly toward the dark structure.
In a way, I felt that I'd overprepared. There was no one in the building, and the security system was rudimentary at best. Then, the security for Ken's Place didn't lie in electronics and fields, but in its ownership. Burgling the building for gain was very low return, given the reputation of the Kemal family. I didn't worry about that. I didn't intend to take anything.
I was just hoping to find something, that would point toward someone. As I'd feared, I didn't find anything, except old cars. I did install a remote in the Magan, and another in the back room where it was clear that more than a little alkie was consumed. Whether I'd find anything from either was another question.
Then I walked out, and reset the simple system. All told, less than twenty minutes, which was probably too long. That was one of the things I found so amusing about the net shows on mysteries, spies, and the like. Everything took so long, and was so dragged out. If it took that long in real life, those of us who'd done it would never have survived.
Even with the snow that had begun to fall, I was back in Southhills by nine, in time for a late good night to Charis, but not for Alan. He was already asleep.
Chapter 76
"Lieutenant Meara." The angular safo captain cleared his throat. "There seems to have been a discrepancy in the files and materials recorded here in Centr
al Four."
"A discrepancy, sir? We completed the audit, and all files were exactly as originally designed and programmed. That is, except for the scheduled updates, the standard information recorded on cases, and the logs and historical records." Meara waited.
"Pre-cise-ly." Garos drew out the word into three long and separate syllables, a human characteristic expressing disapproval. When there was no response, he added, "There were no extraneous files, nothing."
"I must be missing something, Captain. You seem to be concerned that we have kept the system clean and streamlined."
"It is not that, Lieutenant Meara. It is what that represents. For those files to have been so meticulously pruned, as it were, means that someone did the pruning, and that someone had access to sensitive information."
"Not necessarily, sir. Central Four itself has protocols for file cleanup. On a regular basis, the system asks whether those protocols should be implemented, either on a sector-by-sector basis or on a system-wide basis. You had indicated that you wished the system purged of unnecessary material."
"And no one knows what was erased, purged...?"
"You had indicated that you felt the system was becoming ... recalcitrant ... I believe. Central Four heard that. The system is nothing if not responsive. It asked if unnecessary material not related to cases and safo procedures and practices should be eliminated. I told it that it should retain any material relating to past or present cases, open or closed, and to retain any possible evidence that might involve future cases, but that all other material should be reviewed, and either refiled in pending or past cases, or used to establish probable future cases. Would you care for the codes for those probable cases?"
"I think that would be best, Lieutenant."
"Central Four, please provide full access to all files to Captain Garos, either through his own office console or through any secure safo console."
"Access is provided, sir." Central Four's voice was a warm and impersonal baritone.
"Thank you for clearing that up, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir."
Meara did not move until the captain had left her office. Then she looked at the closed door through which the captain had departed and shook her head slowly.
The millisecond delay in the override relays was almost imperceptible. I almost wanted to laugh through Central Four's projection speakers, but that would have been unwise, generally trustworthy as the lieutenant was. Lieutenant Meara had nothing to fear from me, and far more from Garos. So far, Garos had only railed.
If he did more than that, certain recordings of his actions might well turn up in the files of the Justiciary's review board, but that might be too late to benefit the lieutenant.
Garos had also shown himself smart in his methods of dealing over the years, and because any such recordings would implicate others as well, it was not time for that sort of action. Not yet.
Chapter 77
For the next day or so, I got nothing of personal import to me off the tag in Jaro's Magan or from the one hidden in the back room of Ken's Place. I did learn more than I'd ever wanted to about the day-to-day thuggery of one faction of Kemal's "family."
So in between monitoring my highly illegal snoops, I worked on the economic analysis that Minerva had suggested. She was right about one thing. Even from the beginning, it was clear that MultiCor was soaking everyone. They were getting subsidies from the NorAm government, NAR, and a dozen other entities, for the servies that they accepted and sent off-planet. Their purported costs for materials production were flagrant lies. Yes, maybe metals production costs in the Belt were high, but transport costs were close to nonexistent—one or two targeted orbit-breakers and the shipments took a gravity-assisted spiral in-system, with some minimal monitoring to make sure they didn't target Mars, Luna, or Earth. Yet MultiCor was claiming transport costs as high as production costs. I had no idea what was real, but I could come pretty close, and I'd have to.
I linked a few times with Paula, but she was worried and preoccupied with her training, and I didn't want to press.
On Thursday morning, I was in Dierk's office—that was another place I had trouble thinking of as anything other than his—listening to some of what Jackie and Tony were talking about. "Discussion" wasn't exactly the appropriate word.
"... got to hit Helton hard, otherwise he's gonna take down Sartino..."
"So?"
"So? You little crapper, you don't think Helton won't come after you 'n your bro, like hot iron on piss? You think he's just gonna let you keep your take from the west strip?"
"We can handle him."
"With what? Without the big fellow, you'd a' been crayfish food in the Platte years back..."
What you are doing is officially prohibited.
I stopped the playback. I'd wondered when Minerva's Central Four background would get into the act. Could you please confine your notice of my illegal actions to the backup sections in my dwelling? I admit the borderline nature of my actions, but I have damaged nothing and harmed no one. I'm beginning to lose track of the number of times people have tried to injure or kill me. So far, the legal system has not been exactly effective in preventing those attempts or in discovering their perpetrators.
You would establish yourself above the law? There was a hint of both condescension and humor in the question.
No. I don't want to be the law, and I don't really want to be above it. I just don't want to be a victim of its shortcomings.
That is a most precarious position to take, Jonat.
You're telling me. Do you have a better idea?
Not at the moment.
When you do, let me know. In the meantime, I'm going to try to discover if they have any more plans for me.
I listened almost for an hour, skipping from commentary about obvious feminine charms to the best vehicles for smash and grabs—Magans, of course—before picking up on something of great personal interest.
"... was from the big fellow's mouth. The big fellow says we got to take the guy ran you off."
"Kemal himself?"
"Don't say that. Just the big fellow. Says we either got to do that or take out the guy wanted the take out."
"Who was that?"
"You don't need to know. Cendie type. With some Eurocast outfit in Denv. Big net type. You don't have the creds or the savvy to deal there. Sides, you want them after you?"
"How much time we got?"
"Not flash-rush. Week. Two at most." Tony Jaro—I thought it had to be Jaro—laughed. "Unless the cendie goes blaze, you get this deVrai guy by next Friday. You can use a stunner or a slugger. No long guns. Has to look like smash and grab or jealous husband thing."
"... never outside that cendie fortress, 'cept with the kids..."
"Keep the kids out of it. Bad for business when kids get snuffed."
"... take some time..."
"... got some..."
What I had heard wasn't exactly proof, not in the legal sense, especially since I was obtaining it illegally, but I wasn't going to get legal proof, not from Kemal or the PST group.
My options weren't exactly wonderful. I could take out Alistar in the next few days, or I could try to survive an endless series of attacks by Kemal's outfit. I could probably survive some of the attempts by Kemal's troops, especially by listening carefully, but that was like rolling dice, and I'd never cared much for gambling.
Besides, I was getting more than a little angry myself. So I turned to Dierk's elaborate system and pasted a modified simmie into the scanner bypass feeds, followed by a voice-coder over that. I also set up a bounce-relay and a signal disguise that indicated a code in Old Tech—the main code for ISS headquarters. Then I linked the Club, going for the court reservations. Of course, I got bounced because I didn't have Club access privilege codes, but that did get me a smiling face. Clubs have real people. That's one thing the exorbitant dues pay for.
"Sir?"
"Dimitri Oskrow. I was supposed to have a match sometime today
or maybe tomorrow with Jacques Alistar. My system blew, and I lost the court time. It might even have been tomorrow or Saturday, but I thought it was today."
"Alistar ... yes, sir. I don't know about the match, but he does have a court time at two this afternoon. Court number four."
"I'm sure that's it. Thank you very much."
I had two and a half hours to get ready and get there. I did spend some time studying various images of Alistar.
My disguise was simple enough. I wore very classy sweatgear over racquetball shorts and shirt. My hair was sprayed white blond with some of the hair color from the guest suite at the house, and my face was darkened, almost latte. I carried one of Dierk's racket cases, with the commando slingshot in it.
At one-fifteen I left the Southhills house, heading northwest toward the Creek district and the Club. From the time I'd been a child, and even afterward, when I'd often been a guest of my parents at the Club, I was very familiar with the Club and its facilities. I'd only played racquetball a handful of times. I'd never been that enthused about pseudo-combat, and that was the way most ascendents regarded competitive games.
I took my time, so that I'd arrive just a few minutes before two. Just before I turned into the Club, I turned off the link to Minerva.
I parked the Jacara next to another and across from an apparently antique Bentley, certainly not authentic, because it couldn't have passed the emissions requirements, even with nano-reprocessing aftergear.
Then, racket case in hand, I hurried to the men's locker room entrance as if I were tardy for a match, past the scanners that merely recorded and observed, and then to the court entrances along the back. Court number four was on the far end..
It was three past two, and Alistar and his partner were still warming up.
I took out the slingshot and fitted the first dart—the lethal one.
Then I slid open the court door and stepped inside, ducking as racquetball players have for centuries.
Both men turned half-around. Alistar glared.
"My mistake," I said. "So sorry."
The first dart hit Alistar full in the chest. He looked at me, then charged. He almost reached me before he went down. He wouldn't get up, and in minutes the darts would vanish.
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