The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Top sector."

  "That will cost."

  "Don't I know. Can pay the freight if you can do the jack."

  "Do I ever let you down?" Elmero said with his awful smile.

  "Not never," I said, "but hardly ever. Doc around?"

  "Should be soon. Bout time for his midday whiff."

  "If you see him, ask him to wait around for me. Be by in a tenth or so."

  "Sure." The screen blanked.

  "Fees fren, come he–?"

  "Say it in Realtalk," I told him.

  "If...he's...you...friend, how... come... he... charge?"

  "'How come he charges.'" Felt like a tutor machine. "He charges because that's his business – one of his businesses. We're friends, but that doesn't mean I dip into his trade whenever I want. Business is business."

  Could tell he wasn't following me too well so shifted to a topic I was sure he could track. "Interested in lunch?"

  "Course. Y'got?"

  "Not here. A restaurant."

  His eyes saucered. "Mean sitdown?"

  You'd think he'd just been offered a trip to Skyland Park.

  "Yeah. There's a nice place on level 12 that has–”

  He was out of his chair and heading for the door. "S'go!"

  6.

  "Don't make yourself sick, now," I told him. The urch was ready to order two of everything on the menu.

  "Nev had steak."

  He was talking more carefully now. I guess sitting in a roomful of Realpeople was influencing him.

  "Won't get one here, either."

  "Said 'steak'?" he said, pointing to the glowing tabletop menu in front of him. The table had read off the menu selections in its feminine monotone, brightening each line as it went. Searched through the printed list. My reading skills left much to be desired, though I'd improved them a lot in the past year.

  "Yeah. Here it is: steak with mushroom gravy. But it isn't real grass-fed steer steak." Not with the economic stratum this place serviced – no one could afford it. "You can either get chlor-cow or soysteak."

  "'Chlor-cow'?"

  Didn't want to go into an explanation of photosynthetic cattle so I told him, "The soysteak tastes pretty much like the real thing. And it's bigger."

  "Soysteak me. Two."

  "'I'll have two soysteaks, please,' and no, you won't. You'll have one. It's a big one – half a kilo." He made a face so I said, "If you finish it and you're still hungry, I'll get you another."

  He smiled and for a fleeting moment he was a real little boy.

  Ordered a shrimp culture sandwich and a beer for myself. Felt like his father or something as I helped him punch his order into the console, letting him add sides of chocolate soymilk and double speedspuds. Hadn't been called on to act like a father in an awful lot of years. Ten, to be exact. Gave me an odd little warm feeling, one I might want to get used to if I wasn't careful.

  "What's your name, kid?"

  "B.B."

  Easy enough. "Okay, B.B. Your meal will be here soon. Just sit back and relax.

  Watched him as we waited. He couldn't take his eyes off the servers wheeling by. On two occasions I thought he was going to lunge at the dessert cart. Finally a server wheeled up and slid our meals onto the table. When it asked if we wanted to modify our order, I told it no and stuck my thumb in its pay slot. As it trundled away, I turned back to the urch. He had the steak in both hands and was gnawing at it.

  "Put that down!" I said in as forceful a whisper as I dared. To his credit, he didn't drop it, and he didn't buck me on it. He eased it back onto his plate.

  "S'mat?" he said with a wounded expression as he licked the gravy off his lips.

  "You trying to embarrass me? Ever hear of a knife?"

  "Course."

  "Well, unless you want everybody in this place to know you're an urch, use it!"

  He proceeded to hold the steak down with his left hand while he cut with the knife in his right. Was ready to get real angry when I realized he wasn't trying to turn my screws.

  "Okay, drop everything," I said softly.

  He did, reluctantly, and sat there sucking his fingers.

  If I was going to have to sit here with him, I didn't want him making a spectacle of himself. Held up my fork and said, "This takes the place of your fingers when you're eating with Realpeople. It's called a fork. Here's how you use it."

  As I picked up my knife and reached across to demonstrate, he lunged forward and covered his plate with his hands. Just as quickly, he pulled them away and leaned back. Instinct, I guessed. I speared the gnawed corner of the soysteak, sawed through his teeth marks, and handed him the loaded fork. Watched him grab it and shove it into his mouth, watched him close his eyes as he chewed.

  "S'steak?" he said in a hushed voice after he had swallowed.

  "Well, something that tastes a lot like steak. Only the mushrooms are real."

  He attacked the meal. My shrimp culture sandwich was only half gone when he looked up at me from his empty plate. Nice thing about soysteak – no fat, no bone, no gristle.

  "Said nother."

  "Look, if you're not used to gravy and that sort of–”

  "Said!"

  "All right, all right!"

  Punched in a reorder of the soysteak but skipped the speedspuds. Finished my sandwich and watched him work his way through the second steak. Knew he was going to have a bellyache by the way he was wolfing it down. Surprised me, though. Asked for dessert. Treated him to a chocolate gelato-to-go as we left. He had it finished by the time we got up to midlevel. As we waited on the platform for a slot in the crossBrooklyn tube, he turned green.

  "You feeling all right?" I asked.

  "Na' s'good, san."

  "Not surprised after the way you–”

  And then he was running for the pissoir. Never made it. Chocolate-colored soysteak-speedspud stew splattered the platform. When he was empty, he returned to the boarding area, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  "Told you not to have that second soysteak."

  He smiled up at me and jerked his thumb at the gravity chute that led back to the restaurant. "Third now?"

  Took a half-hearted swing at his head. He ducked easily, laughing.

  7.

  "An urch search, ay?" Elmero said, smiling horribly after I'd explained Khambot case. He repeated the phrase. Seemed to like the sound of it.

  Doc was there, whiffing a pale yellow gimlet. He had a round black face, a portly body, and owlish eyes. He still had a year to go before his license suspension ran out and tended to spend a lot of time here.

  "Where do I come in?" he said.

  "Need an opinion on the autopsies of those dead kids. What's your consultation fee?"

  Doc snorted a laugh. "I believe it would approximate my tab at this establishment."

  Glanced at Elmero who shrugged his narrow shoulders.

  "Not unreasonable," he said.

  "But I don't have access to those data," Doc said. "Can't tell you anything without data."

  "That's okay. Elmero can jack into–”

  "Elmero can't jack anywhere!" Elmero said, his face a stony mask. He was looking past me at the urch.

  "He's secure," I said quickly, placing a hand on the kid's shoulder. He'd been good. Hadn't said more than one hello since he came in. "B.B. is tight. Tight as can be."

  Elmero arched his eyebrows and cocked his head. "You guarantee that?"

  "To the Core." Knew I was safe saying that. Not being Realpeople, urches couldn't testify in court.

  "Good enough."

  Elmero rode his chair over to his comm chassis and began his jacking procedure. He broke into the coroner's datafile and then we began to search. In the under age five category, we found one John Doe and one Jane Doe, each with an unregistered genotype, deceased on the date in question. Doc took over then and scanned the data. Twice.

  "Nothing here but trauma, all simultaneous, consistent with a fall. No biological or chemical toxins or contaminants, no m
olestations. Generic foodstuff in the intestines. What we have here are two otherwise healthy kids dead as a result of a fall from a height consistent with the middle sixty floors of the tower complex they were found next to."

  B.B. piped in. "No drug? No sex?"

  It was the most he had said since we'd entered Elmero's.

  "I believe I covered those fields," Doc said.

  "Has to be drug!"

  Looked at him. "Why does there 'has' to?"

  He glared at me, then turned and stalked out.

  "'B.B.' is an urchin name," Elmero said.

  "Really?" Hadn't known that.

  "Common one. The other most common is 'B.G.'"

  "That's all very interesting, "Doc said, "but what I'd like to know is why a couple of toddler urchins were up on the middle level of the Boeddeker North building in the first place."

  "Something nasty, I'll bet," Elmero said with a sour grin. "Something very nasty."

  This was getting interesting. Intriguing, even. But it was time to settle up accounts: Elmero canceled Doc's balance, then deducted that amount plus his jacking fee from the big store of credit I had with him from the gold he'd fenced for me after the Dydeetown girl job.

  Then I hurried out, looking for B.B. Found him watching somebody playing the new zap game. Procyon Patrol was passe now. Bug Wars was the current rage. Grabbed his arm and pulled him outside where we stood in the midst of Elmero's latest holo envelope – a classic Paris sidewalk cafe. Nice, but don't try to sit on one of the chairs.

  "We've got to talk, urch. You're not telling me everything you should be tellng me."

  "S'n'true, san–” he began, then stopped himself. "That not true."

  Caught and held his eyes with my own.

  "Why were you so sure of drugs? Truth now, or I walk."

  He looked away and took a deep breath. He spoke carefully.

  "Beggee kids be snatched."

  "Snatched?" It was the first I'd heard of it. "By who?"

  "D'know."

  "How many?"

  "Lots."

  "Why?"

  "D'know."

  Was almost glad he didn't know. Wasn't sure I wanted the details on why someone was kidnapping little urchin beggars. Was sure it wasn't for ransom. But now I knew why there had been six urchin guards for that little blonde beggargirl down by the Battery yesterday.

  "Were the two dead ones snatched?"

  He nodded.

  "Have any others been found dead besides the ones at Beodekker North?"

  He shook his head. "Jus' th'two. Get others back."

  "You mean they're snatched and then returned to you?"

  "Drop off where snatchee."

  This was making less and less sense.

  "Unhurt?"

  B.B. shook his head vehemently. "No! N'same. Eve af back, still gone. Dull, dumb, stupee, bent."

  Now I understood. Whoever was snatching the little urches was returning damaged goods. That was why B.B. had been so sure we'd find drugs in the post-mortem report.

  "So you think they're being dosed up and – what?"

  He shrugged. "D'know. Can't tell. N'good sure."

  "No signs of...abuse?"

  Thought of my own daughter. For perhaps the first time since Maggs had spirited her away, I was glad Lynnie was out among the Outworlds.

  "Nup," he said, shaking his head. "Checked by Wendy. Sh'say bods okay, b'heads f'blungit."

  "Who 'round Sol is this Wendy? She a doctor or something?"

  B.B. was suddenly flustered. "Sh'Mom. D'worry. Sh'know. An'way, kids get better, b'ver' slow. Weeks."

  They're returned slow and stupid but get better with time. Sure sounded like a drug to me. This was getting stranger and stranger. Little urches snatched and returned, physically okay, but dosed up on something. To what end? Maybe just dosed up and posed? Or maybe overdosed on purpose so they couldn't talk afterwards? But why bother with such elaborate precautions? Urchins had no legal existence. They couldn't bring charges or testify against anyone. So why coagulate their minds before returning them?

  Why return them at all?

  "How many days were the two dead kids missing?"

  He thought a moment, then said, "Oldee three, youngee four."

  Missing three to four days – were they so gelled on something that they walked right off the outer walkway? No, wait: No trace of foreign chemicals or toxins in their systems.

  My own mind was beginning to feel a bit gelled.

  "Post-mort said they were clean."

  He looked at me as if I were stupid. "Druggee-druggee!"

  Maybe he was right. Suddenly had an idea.

  "Come on," I said, pulling him toward the chute up to the tube level. "We're heading uptown."

  8.

  Boedekker North was the biggest thing in the Danbury borough – too big for a holographic dress-up. It towered above everything around it like a giant stack of rice cakes on an empty table. We tubed into the midsection and hunted up a directory.

  "Lookee, san?" When I glared at him, he sighed and said, "What we looking for?"

  "A pharmaceutical company."

  "Farmers–?"

  "No. Pharmaceutical. As in 'pharmacy.' They make drugs. You know – medicines?" He gave me a puzzled look. "Wait," I told him. "You'll see."

  Had a brainstorm. Suppose somebody was using the kids as lab specimens to give some new drug a clinical trial? Something so new and unique that the coroner's analyzers wouldn't spot it? Suppose this new drug backfired? And suppose the testers weren't prepared to house the damaged kids? What would they do with them?

  Send them back where they came from, of course. That would take the kids off their hands and allow the researcher to observe the longterm effects of their botched trial.

  Urchins as human lab rats. What a wonderful world.

  There were a few bugs in my scenario but it fit most of the facts. A little more information and I was sure I could fill in the empty spaces.

  "Sh'tell more," B.B. said as we sorted through the midlevel directory's stores and services.

  Gave him a sidelong look. "What else you been holding out on me?"

  "N'hold, san–” He stopped and cleared his throat. "Not hold out. Jus' membered. Saw comet side of flit snatchee lil Jo."

  "Why didn't you tell me this before!" It would have made things so much easier!

  He shrugged. "Din think–”

  "Never mind. What color was it? Red, yellow?"

  "Pointy silvee star w'long silvee tail."

  "Any words?"

  He shrugged again.

  Right. Remembered he couldn't read. No matter. Starting to get real excited about this case. A stylized comet in silver. Obviously a company logo. Now we were getting somewhere.

  Or so I thought.

  Boedekker North housed thousands of lessees. We sorted through the entire mid-section directory and looked up every single firm or store that might conceivably have anything at all to do with drugs, medicine, research, doctors, even kids. Then we ran a match search to see if any of these had a silver comet in their logo.

  No match.

  Another run looking for the word "star" or "comet" or "meteor" or any celestial body associated with their company name.

  No match.

  So we searched for any company name that contained any reference to outer space. Even checked out names related to speed. We found quite a few, but none of them had a silver comet for a logo.

  We came up equally empty on the top-section and under-section directories.

  The hours had slipped by. It was dark out. We found a roving soyvlaki cart and I treated B.B. to a couple. He wolfed them down as we sat and watched a lot of the workers head home for the night.

  "Howc y'don work l'them?"

  "You mean a steady day job?"

  He nodded.

  Thought about that. Maggs had asked me the same question maybe a million times during our marriage. Couldn't come up with a new answer on the spot so I gave him the
stock reply:

  "Too much like being a robot."

  He gave me a strange look so I explained.

  "You know – everything on a schedule. Be here now, get there then, do this before lunch, do that before you go home. A regimented existence. Not for me. Like to make my own hours, be my own boss, go where I want, when I want. Work for myself, not some big corporation. Be a corportion of one."

  He gave me a half-hearted nod, like he wasn't really convinced. Couldn't believe it. An urch who'd lived by his wits all his life – how could he have the slightest doubt?

  "Don't tell me you'd want to be like them!"

  He watched the scurrying workers with big round wistful eyes. His mouth was pulled down at the corners and I could barely hear his voice:

  "Love it."

  Couldn't fathom that at all. Struck me speechless for a moment. Then I understood.

  Here I was talking about bucking the system to a kid who'd have to spend his entire life scratching out an existence in the shadow economy, who would never get a hand on the bottom rung of the system's ladder no matter how hard he wished, hoped, or tried. From where he was, that bottom rung looked like heaven.

  Somebody should have come by then and daubed my face white, painted my nose red, and turned on a calliope. What a clown, I was. An idiot clown.

  Suddenly my appetite was gone. Offered the kid my second soyvlaki. He took it but ate it slowly.

  When he was finished he said, "Where fr'mere?"

  Wasn't sure. Tired. Knew we weren't finished here at Boedekker North, but didn't want to go back to Brooklyn tonight and have to tube up here again in the morning. Wanted to milk this trip.

  "Back to the directories," I told him. "We're going to go through the mid-section firm by firm and look at every logo of every lessee in Boedekker North until we find something that looks like a comet."

  "Cou b'wrong," he said.

  "About the comet? Don't think that hasn't occurred to me. That's why you aren't going home till I do."

  We seated ourselves at the directory console, queued up the ads of each lessee in alphabetical order, and let them run in the holochamber. Started getting bleary along about "J" and was nodding around "M". Suddenly B.B. was yanking on my sleeve.

  "It, san!" He was bouncing in his seat and pointing at the chamber. "It! It!"

  Opened my eyes and stared at the holo. Felt my blood run cold at sight of the name: