Z-Sting (2475 CE)

by Ian Wallace

  “In 2400,” she eagerly pressed, “at the age of seventy-seven, you elected for euthanasia. Something went wrong, and instead your animation was suspended. You were kept in a tank at London General Hospital for seventy-four years, until last year when you evinced unmistakable signs of wanting out. Since your awakening you have been idle, living on your state-invested pension which at seventy-five years of compound interest is a visible contributor to the Norwestia Constellation deficit. Idle that is, except in writing letters to me: of these there have been three evenly spaced at two-month intervals—according to Berber’s memory, anyhow, since these letters have unaccountably been misplaced in our files. I do remember the last one. These details about your identity and past have recently been certified into the BuPers memory by Assistant Secretary Fiori in Manhattan. Do you too certify them?”

  “To the letter.” Croyd had dictated these details to half-hypnotized Fiori.

  “What in this record indicates competency for responsible missions at the immediate direction of a planetary chairman?”

  “M-13. Beyond that, I suggest that you test me on a mission, this being essential to the deal that you know about.”

  Marta flushed, and that was rare. “What in this record indicates competency to bring off your end of this rejuvenation deal?”

  “Nothing except the way I now look and act. If you will check your report, I think you may find there is also a trivisual of me just after I was released from stir.”

  Marta paled. “I had it blown up from the transmission. You didn’t look so good.”

  “I imagine.”

  “Nevertheless, if you are really competent for high-level operation, you are shrewd enough not to suppose that I will trust you on anything really sharp until I have some evidence that you can deliver—either on that, or on this.” She laid a hand on her breast in the first distinctively feminine gesture he had seen.

  “Give me a for-instance.”

  “I will give you an errand when you give me back my blonde hair.”

  “Did you look closely this morning?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Excuse this impertinence, but—” He got up, leaned across her desk, tweaked a hair from her head, and laid it on the blotter. ‘Try magnilighting that.”

  She studied him, then the hair. Presently she touched a button that illuminated the hair peculiarly, making it leap to an apparent eight times its size.

  Almost all of it was white. But for a segment extending an apparent three millimeters above the follicle, it was blonde.

  As she scrutinized the hair, hands flat on her desk, a soft bell tone sounded once. She ignored it. The tone sounded again. Croyd cleared his throat, She glanced at him, appearing almost frightened, Then she activated the intercom and uttered, “Yes?”

  Said Berber’s voice in the air: “Madame, I have a top-secret call from Dr. Ziska.”

  Again she gazed at Croyd, and now she was definitely frightened. Silently he signaled with his fingers. “One moment, Berber,” she temporized, and disconnected. “What, Croyd?”

  “Ziska’s call may possibly concern the Mazurka, but it will unquestionably concern COMCORD. Please assign me to him as agent-at-large on the COMCORD imbalance.”

  “Now how shall I do that convincingly?”

  “Madame, it is you who are Chairman.”

  She stared at Croyd, stared at her hair specimen, stared at Croyd. Into the intercom she snapped: “Put him on, Berber. Two-way visual.”

  “Madame—”

  “Berber?”

  “Dr. Ziska said it was top secret. The presence of your guest—”

  “Put him through, Berber.”

  Ziska’s hard frailty filled the middle air, and the thin lips of Ziska had lost almost all of their frozen smile. “Madame, I have a later report on the Mazurka, and I have also a late report on COMCORD. I sense linkage. If your guest is present again, as I suspect he or she is, I do earnestly recommend, either that you show me this guest, or that you momentarily excuse this guest.”

  Marta looked at Croyd and jerked her head. He came over to stand behind her chair, in full view of Ziska on the video.

  The two men contemplated each other like two leader wolves of stranger packs. Gradually their impressions firmed into hair-trigger guarded mutual respect. Then Ziska inquired of Marta, permitting himself just a hint of a sneers “Your long-lost brother, Madame?” Both she and Croyd comprehended the two-edged allusion to advanced age.

  Marta responded with chill, her aplomb all back. “In order to get quickly to what is urgent, I will present him to you, Ziska; he knows who you are. This is Mr. Croyd, formerly of M-13. Does my Minister of Internal Security know what M-13 was?”

  She was rewarded by faint discomposure. “I do. But M-13 was inactivated before I was born."

  “Just so. Now let us hear about the Mazurka and COMCORD.”

  The Croyd face remained bland; Ziska’s went dangerous, frigidly smiling. “Madame has not forgotten that I took my assignments by invitation, not by command?”

  “By invitation, Ziska, after you had been in my organization for a decade in lower assignments. Will you get to the point?”

  She had not tamed him, it was a role of subordinate responsiveness that he immediately adopted: Croyd perceived it, and so did she. “Sorry, Madame. To the point, then. As of 0230 hours this morning, the Mazurka was cruising Erthspace in the vicinity of Senevendia, doubtless to sample the tempopattern of Senevendia City. As for COMCORD—the grievance imbalance went critical at 0241 hours, and a countdown has been started.”

  Croyd noted that Marta did not flinch. Instantly she demanded: “What is being done?”

  “The Erthworld Senate is in emergency session. The President of Erthworld has issued orders of absolute secrecy pending more details. The top brass of my Internal Security forces is prepared to move in on Senevendia, before impact in event of public disturbance, and after impact in any event; but no word has yet gone down below general staff level. Our civilian people are concentrating in all Erth-wide megalopolitan centers, and particularly they are concentrating at COMCORD Central in Manhattan. My immediate staff and I are about to depart for Moonbase to supervise operations at close range. Anything else to tell you?”

  “Yes. Three things. First, how could this impossible critical imbalance happen? Second, how will you go about correcting it? Third, remembering that the Z-waves are triggered by the Penultimate Trigger and launched by the Z-sting—do you know where trigger and/or sting is or are located?”

  Ziska was fumbling. His jaw came up, and he asserted: “The common answer to all three questions is—I do not know. And the counter-question is, Chairman Evans—do you know?”

  Her jaw, too, came up. "You know that I do not know. And I should know, and so should you. If we fail in this, Ziska—without counting the human cost—it will disqualify Mare Stellarum from governing the Interplanetary Union or anything else. You are directed to stay awake and active until all three questions are satisfactorily answered—and, very particularly, until the first two cease to be questions.”

  “I had no other intent, May I depart? My frigate is waiting.”

  “You will be delayed just a trifle. Mr. Croyd will accompany you. He is a free agent reporting directly to me. Give him all assistance.”

  Pause. Then Ziska’s brows came down, and his lips compressed. His eyes burned into the eyes of Croyd—who looked steadily back.

  Ziska turned to Marta. “Perhaps you did not quite grasp, Madame, the implicative connections. It is against Senevendia that the imbalance is weighed. The Mazurka began to cruise Senevendia just prior to the critical imbalance. The Mazurka was sent by your rival, Galactic of Rab. The Mazurka has been sampling tempopatterns—precisely the patterns which are targeted by the Z-waves. And I infer that it is this same Croyd who first reported to you both Mazurka and COMCORD.”

  Marta instantly turned to Croyd. “Ziska has almost accused you of complicity in something against us. Your comme
nt?”

  Croyd answered gravely: “Since I departed my tank, I have not been entirely idle, apart from writing letters to you, Madame. I have been using decades of experience as an interconstellational agent in finding, piecing together, and drawing inferences from information related to COMCORD; and these inferences brought me to the trail of the Mazurka via the route of the tempopatterns. I can assure you with a good deal of confidence that the Mazurka has no knowledge of an excessive COMCORD imbalance, and that her position over Senevendia is coincidental. Dr. Ziska will understand that my sources must remain confidential. I wonder whether he can speak with equal confidence about the Mazurka.”

  Marta’s head swiveled. “Ziska?”

  He replied stonily: “I do not have as much confidence as Mr. Croyd, presumably because I do not have his sources.”

  Marta snapped, “When Croyd is with you, Ziska, through him you will have his sources. Croyd, how fast can you be ready to join Ziska?”

  “Assuming that his frigate can supply clothing changes and a dental gun, I am ready now.”

  Marta arose. “Good. My pullman is just over here—”

  “By pullman, do you mean a rekamatic matter-telesend?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I don’t use pullmen.”

  “Everybody else does. Why not you?”

  “The small random factor in a matter-telesend might damage my ability to help you.”

  She sagged a little! Ziska was disguising his own mystification. She rallied and addressed the Internal Security minister: “Apparently your frigate must wait a bit while Mr. Croyd flies to your office in my scouter. Wait for him. Thank you, Dr. Ziska.” She disconnected.

  She thought.

  She turned to Croyd: ‘What is your plan?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “But you’ll think of something.”

  “I hope to.”

  Sitting suddenly, Marta connected and ordered: “Berber, get Mr. Croyd to Dr. Ziska’s office immediately in my scouter. No dental gun.”

  Disconnecting, she thought. Croyd waited behind her chair.

  Frowning, she told her desk, “Croyd! Correct the critical imbalance! Find out how it could have happened!

  Locate the Penultimate Trigger and the Z-sting! Find out what is wrong with Ziska’s organization—with my whole organization. My God, you have only been telling me what I already knew!” She swung around and seized his hands, looking up into his face: “And, Croyd—watch out for Ziska!”

  “To the first four injunctions-—I will try. To the last—I will.”

  She got up and faced him, still squeezing his responsive hands. “While you are away—you will be able to—you know?”

  “This I have already started within you. It will work by itself, up to a point I will try to shoot you a booster very soon. Find a good spot on Moonside of Nereid at 1800 hours daily: I will come through at that hour when I can.”

  “If you fail in this mission, Croyd—my government will go down, and Senevendia’s economy and politics will disintegrate, and by expanding consequence even the humanity of people will be threatened.”

  “I will make every effort not to fail.”

  As he went away, he meditated with a blend of sardonical amusement and pity, both referent to human frailty: Her age—her government—her people. Fascinating order of concern!

  It was the first time he had ever played Rasputin.

  En route to Moon, three hours out from Nereid, Minister Ziska called a staff meeting, excluding this man Croyd whom he had meticulously snubbed. Croyd, who had his own thinking to do, accepted this and went to work in his tiny cabin. He was interrupted an hour later by a Ziska aide who asked deferentially if Mr. Croyd would mind joining the meeting. Noting that the time was 1126, Croyd went along: he had half expected this.

  Ziska, who sat at the head of a long table, silently motioned Croyd to a chair beside him: it was not a compliment, this was evidently a sort of witness chair. Twenty-three civilian faces turned his way.

  “This is Mr. Croyd,” asserted Ziska, the sibilant drawl faintly nasty. “Mr. Croyd, at several turns in our crisis planning, the question has arisen where you fit. I think we need to face this down. What is your concept?”

  Croyd waved his left hand affably. “I know what you all are thinking and feeling—I’ve faced the same type of situation on your side of the table. Please scratch the idea that I’m some kind of commisar; I just happen to have put in some decades as a free-floating lone-wolf operator, it’s a constitutional talent that I have, and the Chairman thought it might be useful to Internal Security. My first reports will always be to Dr. Ziska.”

  They all looked at Ziska, saw that his smile was stony-fixed as he faced Croyd stonily. Ziska repeated: “What is your concept?”

  “Simply that you people do what you do while I find out what I can. You will be the first to be told whatever I learn, and except for the Chairman I will respect our security injunctions—at this sort of discretion I am not inexperienced. In turn I will need to keep knowing what you are doing and what the results are, to prevent me from inadvertently stepping off your catwalk and putting my foot into something.”

  Leaning elbow on table and chin on knuckles, lean Ziska surveyed Croyd and stated, “This is a thin concept—and you come, sir, with thin credentials.”

  Croyd made a brief try at saving the minister’s face. “Sir, with all respect to our colleagues here, I should appreciate an opportunity to discuss privately—”

  “Denied. Speak here.”

  So this was going to be it. Croyd pointed out bluntly: “I hate to seem to swing weight—but my thin credentials are the Chairman’s credentials.”

  Somebody cleared his throat. Croyd gauged that while all present owed their futures to Ziska, none loved him. Ziska’s eyes were smoldering as he riposted: “I walked into that, but you know what I mean. I still feel that we need to know more about your plans.”

  “Will you tell me first what yours are?”

  “Give me a reason for telling you any plans.”

  “I will give you two. If I do not know your plans, I may wastefully duplicate your work, or I may unintentionally foul up your work. I tell you that I am here on orders to operate freely, and that is what I intend to do. It is best for all of us, and for Mare Stellarum, and for Erthworld, that I do so with my eyes open.”

  Laying his hands in his lap, Ziska let Croyd have it. “I put it to you that you are a spy for Galactic.”

  Actually the challenge staggered Croyd, although he did not show it. Croyd was capable of being caught off guard, and Ziska had caught him at his most vulnerable point: a deep-bred compulsion against lying a forthright yes-or-no lie.

  Croyd counter-thrust: “What is your evidence for that notion?”

  They were all taut.

  “I have none,” Ziska cut. “I want your answer."

  “My answer is that the Chairman cleared me and sent me on this mission. And that is enough answer to obviate the question.”

  “The Chairman did not, however, clear through my Internal Security machinery.”

  “That, presumably, was her decision to make. She seems to have been satisfied by the channel she did use, which was Mare Stellarum BuPers, an agency which is supposed to be under constant surveillance by your internal Security. I suggest that if this fencing proceeds much further, you will damage my effectiveness and undermine the Chairman’s intentions.”

  “Are you a spy for Galactic?”

  “What is my word worth to you?”

  “I will not believe a denial. But if you do not deny it, I will believe that you are a spy, and I will behave accordingly.”

  “Defying the Chairman?”

  “Correcting the Chairman’s ignorance—her ignorance in this case, that is.”

  Someone coughed.

  Croyd commented: “I am sorry that you have forced this showdown in front of your staff. I am afraid that you may lose face.”

  “I
f you do not deny espionage, you lose face. If you do deny it, I will have forced this showdown-denial, and I will lose no face. And still you are not denying.”

  “It would be improper for me to affirm or deny to you what has already been established by your executive superior who has issued you orders about me.” Croyd knew while he said it that he was forcing Ziska out of attitudinal ambiguity into mortal and implacable enmity.

  Nobody made a sound.

  Ziska’s face had paled. Ziska stated: “Then finally you have not denied it. I therefore believe that you are a spy for Galactic, that the judgment of our leader has been undermined in this case by your seductive tactics. You will proceed to your quarters, and be locked in there, and remain there until our mission is accomplished.”

  Croyd asserted, “I do not propose to remain in my quarters.”

  Ziska turned to his staff. “Your several questions are answered. He has no part at all in this mission, and we can move along with it.” He nodded at the aide, who came and stood beside Croyd.

  With a faint sigh, Croyd stood and walked out ahead of the aide.

  Systematically then, Ziska assigned men to physical presence with the several constellational chancellors, with the World President, and with COMCORD Central in Manhattan . . .

  Confined alone to quarters, Croyd resumed his thinking, now with a bit more to go on—namely, that Ziska was flatly his enemy and would desist from killing Croyd only as long as Croyd would desist from menacing the personal purposes of Ziska—which were, obviously now, to tame the COMCORD imbalance his own way, and go on to squeeze out Marta as Mare Stellarum Chairman, and eventually to dominate the Interplanetary Union.

  It was on this basis that Croyd had settled himself for double dealing, a behavior which normally stank in his nostrils. Since his entry upon this venture, he had tried out upon his conscience a number of rationalizations. Marta and her crew were doubledealing Erthworld out of control over its government, and their bungling had now double-dealt Senevendia into final jeopardy of enshroudment which would cripple world-wide prosperity quite apart from the decade of death-grimness for the Senevendian people. And so on . . . No go. There had to be another way of doing these things. However, Croyd hadn’t thought of one; and therefore, the stakes being what they were, he was moving ahead.