Pet Noir

by Katharine Kerr

  Buddy hesitates with a ripple of colored light across his screen.

  “You do not possess the necessary knowledge to stop me, so I will tell you. I have compiled a report on this incident, and now I am feeding it to every news media input comp in this solar system.”

  “You what?!”

  “The H’Allevae shun adverse publicity. They know that they are hated and feared throughout the Mapped Sector, and they do not wish the situation to worsen. As long as they can act in secrecy, they will not hesitate to blow Captain Bailey’s ship to small pieces. Once they know the system is watching, they may well hold their hand.”

  “Buddy, sometimes you’re a supergenius. Y’know?”

  “Although I agree with your estimate of my intelligence, I must admit that I got this idea from Chief Bates. The way he revealed the existence of the Outworld disease was so clever that I merely applied the same principle here.”

  “Far out. Put on the holoscreen, will you?”

  With a hiss the big screen powers on, and the fourth inning of a game between the Polar City Bears and the Freehaven Pirates appears. Mulligan pours himself a drink and slumps down in the corner of the couch to watch and wait. Two drinks later, at the beginning of the fifth, the picture scrolls off to reveal a grim-faced lizzie announcer standing behind a lectern, print-out in hand, third eyelids fluttering.

  “We interrupt this broadcast for an important news item. Today the Polar City Police Force is alleged to have uncovered a pattern of suspicious action on the part of the H’Allevae Embassy. One of the charges is an attempt at genocide...”

  oOo

  “...against a previously unknown sentient species.” The announcer’s face is blurry and squat on the holopix screen on the launch’s control panel.

  “Hooboy!” Sam says, grinning. “How do they know? How the hell did they find out?”

  “The news guys are pretty good at what they do, man.” Lacey is barely paying attention. “Opening main viewer, captain.”

  With a flicker and brief burst of glare, the enormous screen first lights, then fills with the image of the Montana, hovering right above them and maybe a bare twenty kilometers away, a cluster of silvery spheres, some large, some small, joined by stubby access tubes and wound round with shielded cables. The launch jerks as Sam fires a front thruster to slow them down, then glides gently onwards. Above them the enormous hatch in the launch pod slides open in welcome.

  “Jeezus, she’s low,” Sam mutters.

  “She better be, man. Opening auxiliary viewer now.”

  A bite out of the corner of the first, the second image powers in: a segment of Hagar’s red ball, roiling with sandstorms, and silhouetted against it, the black wedge of an insystem frigate breaking out of the atmosphere and heading right after them.

  “Shit,” Sam says.

  “Atcha, captain. Bring us in, and quick. They’re almost in firing range.”

  Muttering and cursing, Sam plays the board, his fingers moving fast over the glowing touch-toggles. The moment that Lacey’s been dreading is here; she slides open a compartment on the panel and takes out a link-crystal, clutches it for a moment in her palm to let her body-heat activate the circuit, then reaches up and slips it into the implant. For a moment, nothing; then she feels an electric shudder spreading through her mind. For two seconds her eyes blink and blur, responding beyond her control to the stimulation of the neural receptors in the visual area of the cortex. When they settle down again, she sees a swallowing blackness on the main screen, striped with one line of red that thins and disappears as she watches. They are in the hatch, and it’s closed.

  “Fat lot of good it’s going to do us,” Sam snarls. “That damn frigate’s in range by now.”

  When the launch shudders, Lacey shrieks, but they are only gliding into the berth-nipple, which covers the bow with an enveloping swell of plastoseal that begins to turn the main screen pitch-black. Lacey flips on the rear screen to save their passengers an attack of nausea. The frigate is still there, all right, gaining on them.

  Sam is already out of his seat and heading round the panel to the main iris. Rick is right there with him.

  “Come on,” he snaps at Nunks and Mrs. Bug. “Time’s a-wasting.”

  Lacey stays at the panel just long enough to contact Delta Four.

  “Good job, pal. I am in implant mode. Transmit signal to activate the plug, then get the hatch open as soon as you can.”

  “I have emergency hatch pressurization procedure on line, programmer. Implementing both orders now.”

  She hears a quick burst of whine; her eyes flutter rapidly, then settle as inside her head the long strings of numbers in their different and significant colors and the three-dee, endlessly turning navigational cones start playing on an inner screen. She staggers and nearly falls, because she is having a hell of a time recapturing the trick of reading them while also processing data through her own eyes. Just as Carol warned her, the implant hurts, too.

  “Lacey.” Sam grabs her elbow and steadies her. “You okay?”

  “Will be in a minute. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The iris hatch opens directly into a pressurized lift cage. As the five of them crowd in, Lacey hears Delta Four inside her head rather than over the comm headset. To answer, though, she has to use her voice and the microphone.

  “Instructions, programmer?”

  “Start aux thrusters and begin moving us out to previous orbit. We have a gunner aboard. Ready the weapons port.”

  “A gunner, programmer? Have I read you correctly?”

  “You have, Delta Four. Begin feeding evasion program into main banks and otherwise prepare for hostility mode. That frigate could start firing any second now.”

  “Complying, programmer. I am now feeding revised navidata into the link. But I wouldn’t worry about the frigate. It won’t fire.”

  “Yeah? How can you be sure?”

  “I am not at liberty to say. Events, however, will prove me correct.”

  On the inner screen the pattern of cones and lines swells and changes just as the lift sweeps upward, and for a moment Lacey almost vomits. Yet, as the cones flash red to indicate that the Montana has begun to move, the trick comes back to her, one of those neurological balances that are never quite forgotten once you learn them. Instead of being aware of patterns on an inner screen, she sees the data and beyond the data to what the symbols and graphics mean to the continued motion of the ship. In a whisper she keeps up a constant flow of commands to Delta Four, making minute adjustments to the ship’s attitude and thrust as they build up speed and spiral out, climbing Hagar’s gravity well like a fly crawling out of a drinking glass. Although the comp could take them out by itself, her human reasoning and intuition can make the small changes in the standard program that will save them perhaps three minutes, perhaps four, and put a big distance between them and that insystem frigate.

  When the lift bumps to a stop, Sam grabs her elbow again and steers her out into the control station, a half-round of transparent floor in the middle of the spherical command module. Without needing to be told, Rick spots the weapons port below and slides down the access chute to install himself. In her mind Lacey sees its control panel light to allow him in. Before she needs to give the command, Delta Four switches on the learning program for the weapons system; Rick is going to need a few minutes to familiarize himself with this new set of commands and codes.

  “Nunks, Mrs. B, strap yourself in,” Sam barks. “Over there. Lacey, here we are. Right at the comp station.”

  “Just in time. Approaching ultimate orbital distance, captain.”

  “Check. Prepare for breakaway speed.”

  Lacey kneels onto the roll bar and lets her weight fall against the padded chestpiece that runs from chin to hip. When they accelerate, it will inflate, taking some of the gees for those few seconds before they break out of the gravity well. Nunks and Mrs. Bug strap in beside her, navigational aids as much as crewmates. Inside the glos
sy armor of her skin Mrs. Bug looks calm, but Nunks is shedding.

  “Uh-oh,” Sam says. “Switch on your outside comm, Lacey.”

  She does, and a dry official voice crawls around in her ear.

  “Space Dock to RSS Montana, you have no clearance to leave. Do you read me, Montana? Your clearance has been withdrawn. Return to Space Dock immediately or face criminal charges. Montana, do you read me?”

  “Fuck you,” Sam mutters. “Okay, guys, hang on.”

  The Montana quivers, then roars, the sound oozing like sweat out of the hull around them as the pressure of two full gee’s smacks Lacey down into the swelling chest piece.

  “Montana, halt! You are being ordered to terminate your departure. Cut thrusters at once!”

  “I said, fuck you.” Sam gasps into his mouthpiece. “No comprende Merrkan, pal?”

  “Delta Four,” Lacey whispers. “Get us out of here.”

  “Complying.”

  With a wrench and breath-crushing smack of acceleration, the Montana hits full speed to the sound of Nunks screaming. On the aft viewer Lacey sees Hagar shrinking behind them, dwindling to a red dot in the star-flecked sky. The black wedge of the frigate holds steady for a long moment, then slowly but inexorably begins to fall behind. The outside comm line fills with static.

  “Very well, Montana. You will face criminal charges and your ship will be impounded at the next Republic port you attempt to enter. Do you read me, Montana? You now face criminal charges—”

  The line goes abruptly dead as Sam punches the main toggle off with a small karate chop.

  “Comp op, preparing to cut acceleration. Bring the faux-grav online.”

  “Complying, captain. Delta Four, give us point eight gee only, and keep it in temporary mode. We may have to switch off for combat at some point soon.”

  The roar stops, and for a brief moment they float weightless before the artificial gravity field snaps on. Lacey readjusts her weight on the chest piece and pulls her arms free in case she needs to work the panel manually—if, for instance, an H’Allevae ship scores a good hit on them and blows the comp. Beside her Sam is playing the controls keyboard, setting up his thruster units ready for her input.

  “Okay, guys,” Lacey says to the two psychics. “Where the hell are we going?”

  “We have triangulated on my ship. I’m locked into its position, now.” Mrs. Bug loosens her safety straps enough to turn and look her way. “From the memory data Mulligan gave me, I understand you people have a children’s game called Warm or Cold. I think it would be the best way for me to guide your comp settings. Right now you’re somewhat warm. You need to turn outsystem.”

  “Making adjustments in pitch and yaw, captain. Temporary heading, Mrs. B?”

  “Very warm.”

  “New heading only a matter of three degrees of arc, captain.”

  “Hot! Definitely hot!”

  “All right! How far out is she?”

  “At our present speed, I would say it will take three of your hours to rendezvous.”

  “Huh,” Sam says. “If we live long enough. That frigate ain't the worst of it by a long shot. Lacey, I’m picking up Hopper talk on comm. I think we’ve got company out here.”

  “Yeah? They following us?”

  “Damn right. If they’ve been monitoring our little game with the frigate, and you know they were, they savvy we’re no some innocent merchanter. I’ll bet they’re going to let us lead’em to what they want to find, then try to take it from us at the last minute.”

  “Think we can outrun’em?”

  “Maybe.” He leans over the console, his face touched with flecks of colored light, and starts slapping switches.

  In her mind Lacey sees the ship configuration readout change and feels almost palpably its mass shrinking around them. Delta Four sends her a flashing danger signal as the Montana yaws and pitches. Lacey uses the keyboard to punch in the stabilizing factors while she talks to Sam.

  “Hey, man, what are you doing?”

  “Cutting all the cargo pods loose. Hell, I got insurance, don’t I? Tell Delta Four to goose her up, and fast. I got her down to the bare minimal mass I can get and still thrust.”

  As she barks the orders, it occurs to Lacey that the AI unit was perfectly correct, that the frigate never did fire on them. She has no time, however, to worry about that now.

  Chapter Nine

  Since he left his police skimmer with Nagura, and the Bentley went off with Lacey and her crew, Bates commandeers Lacey’s old car to get back to police headquarters. By then the sky is turning the particularly saccharine shade of pinky-purple that signals an imminent clear dawn on Hagar, and as he approaches, he can see a thick crowd of sentients laying siege to every entrance and a gaggle of broadcast vans blocking traffic in every adjoining street. Fortunately the HQ building has a flat roof. After a cautious pass over he makes a perfect landing, parks the skimmer off to one side in case someone else needs the impromptu air-strip, and trots over to the emergency entrance, which is manned at the moment by a force of six armed guards.

  “Chief!” Maggio salutes briskly. “Hey, is everybody going to be glad to see you!”

  “Who’s everybody?”

  “Parsons and Akeli, for starters, sir. They’ve been trying to hold off the holopix guys for hours now. And then the Army’s got a temporary command post set up in your office.”

  “In my office, huh? Well, we’ll see about that. Okay, Maggio, call ahead and tell’em I’m on my way.”

  Bates steps out of the grav-shaft to find a bleary-eyed and hoarse Parsons waiting for him.

  “The story’s out, chief. It’s on the air—everything. The God-damn first contact, the attempted genocide, this creepy fucking disease—everything!”

  For the briefest of moments Bates feels faint; then he pulls himself together with a shrug.

  “Then we don’t have to give a lousy press conference, do we? Tell the pack that they might as well go home. They know as much as we do.”

  “I’ve been telling’em that all damn night. They dunt listen.”

  Bates dredges up a couple of oaths from his days in the Republic Marines.

  “Get me some coffee, will you, Parsons? I better go face the PBI. Then you find yourself somewhere to get some sleep.”

  He finds Akeli crammed into a corner next to the water cooler in his office and staring out the window as if he can read the answer to his troubles in the northern lights. About half a ton of computer equipment is stacked on Bates’ desk with a pair of gray-faced, muttering techs to tend it. Perched on Bates’ chair is General Spinks, commander of the local Provincial Army Reserve unit for Polar City. A dark little man with narrow eyes, Spinks gives Bates a positively hostile stare when he comes in.

  “Off-limits to non-federal personnel.”

  “Like hell, if you’re talking about me.” Bates strides over and grabs him by the collar. “This is my office, and my game, with my rules.” He hauls the one-star wonder off the chair and sets him on his feet. “You can tell that to the president if you dunt like it, boy. Now.” He sits down and swivels the chair toward his PBI counterpart. “What’s going on, Akeli?”

  “Not, at the moment at any rate, a great deal. A state of watchful tension prevails, broken only by the occasional threatening communique from either the carli personnel carrier or the Alliance Embassy. We have, of course, placed formal requests for the one to leave orbit and the other to surrender the murdered H’Allev’jan’s widow and head-neuter.”

  Spinks stares open-mouthed at Akeli’s deference, glances furtively at Bates, then slinks from the room, which is where Bates wants him: gone.

  “So there’s nothing for us to do but wait,” Bates says, ignoring the stunned looks of the comp techs.

  “A frustrating course, but alas, any other mode of action would be futile. By the way, Bates, why did you release such complete data on the current crisis to the popular press?”

  “I dint. Farthest thing from my mind, pal.
These broadcast boys, they’re good at what they do.” He makes a mental note to raise blisters on Buddy’s plastosheet hide as soon as the crisis is over. “Has Parsons started getting the riot squads set up around town?”

  “I took the liberty of assisting the sergeant, actually. I trust that sits well with you. The completed dispositions have been filed in your comp unit.” Akeli allows himself the first human smile that Bates has ever seen on the PBI boss’s face. “Well, if you can find the damn thing, anyway.”

  At that, one of the cringing techs begins clearing black boxes off the desk and stacking them on an extra chair. As soon as Bates finds his screen, the unit flashes an hysterical message: “How nice to see you again, sir, in fact how nice to see anything again they have been blocking my sensors for hours may I speak or is this what I think it is, a hostile situation and where is Bobbie Lacey is she safe???”

  “Hey, pal, be calm. I’m sorry about the sensors, but the planet-wide situation is critical, and I couldn’t get back here right away. As for Lacey, no, she’s not safe, but if anyone can pull this off, it’s probably her. Okay?”

  “I suppose you’re right but ever since this talk came over the network—-I mean—I’m sorry—-ready for input and your commands, sir. You will no doubt want to study the disposition of the riot squads. On screen now, sir, on screen.”

  Although Bates wonders what the unit means by talk coming over some mysterious network, he has no time to worry about it as maps of Polar City begin scrolling slowly by. As far as he can tell from the pattern of little dots—red for PBI personnel, blue for his own police—Akeli and Parsons have done themselves proud, stretching the available personnel into exactly the right net around possible hot-spots. He’s about to hand out some praise when one of the Army comms begins to beep and whine.

  “Security breach. Unauthorized personnel in grav shaft. Security breach. Unauthorized personnel in hallway. Security breach. Unauthorized personnel in doorway.”

  Bates rises, stun-gun in hand, just as Ka Pral sweeps in, magnificent in green robes and a jingling, gleaming welter of gold honor-chains and award-fibulae. Bates holsters the gun in a hurry and returns the carli’s bow.