"That was close," she muttered, crawling over the upper curve of the hull and undogging the hatch.
"You all right, ma'am?" Lowe asked.
One of the Haitian crew brought towels and a first-aid box. Gwen waved it aside as she dried herself off; no point in bandaging, when you couldn't get infected and wounds clotted quickly.
"Never better," she said. "Just a little singed and scraped. Jacques, fetch clothing. Lowe, back to the dock."
She looked upward with a slight smile as the
Reiver
canted and turned, imagining her enemy's rage and frustration. Still, that had been too close for comfort. It was time to tighten up a little.
***
They were all sitting in a booth, and like nearly everybody else they were watching the TV. Every news channel in the city and the nationals besides were focusing on this one; it wasn't all that often that a section of the West Side went up in a giant ball of flame. The view from the helicopter had been on loop since he got up this morning; so had the interviews with dazed passersby, most of them swearing that ray-guns had set the cars on fire. Of course, a lot of them were also swearing that they'd seen the aliens with the ray-guns getting out of flying saucers, or into submarines in the Hudson.
The helicopter loop came on again. The beginning showed cars exploding across the lot, merging into a single pillar of flame that buffeted the aircraft until the picture jiggled with the updraft. And there were the little straight-line flashes of light that had everyone talking, flashes ending in explosions.
A talking head came on, some retired military type, pointing to a freeze-frame:
"Definitely rocket launchers," he said. "Or rocket propelled grenades . . ."
"If that dickhead ever saw an RPG fired, I'm the Queen of Siam," Carmaggio said disgustedly.
He
had
seen RPG's fired, far more often than he'd liked, back when.
I want a smoke.
If it weren't for Jenny, he thought, he'd bum one right now.
"Firefights with energy weapons are like that," Lafarge said. "I suppose the observers need some sort of explanation to account for what they saw."
"Oh, that's all right then," Carmaggio said. The other man nodded, then looked back at the policeman sharply.
"It attacked me," he said. "I had to take the opportunity." His fist clenched. "I nearly
got
it. Damn, damn, how did it get away underwater?"
On the screen a tiny metallic figure dashed through the flames. A jerky close-up showed it hurling tiny objects into the Hudson. Each time a shock-fractured hemisphere billowed out of the surface as the underwater explosion punched the surface of the river. Then the living statue dove into the water itself . . . .
Someone from a nearby booth blew a raspberry. "Hell, I saw better'n that in that
Terminator
flick.
Who'd they think they're shitting?"
"I nearly
got
it," Lafarge repeated.
Which gives me a better sense of
your
priorities,
Carmaggio thought. The warnings about biological weapons had been real enough, but if this character got a chance to off Ms. Ingolfsson, he'd go for it.
"And I learned that it has already begun bio-bombing," Lafarge said.
"She
what?
" Carmaggio said, freezing with the beer halfway to his mouth. He felt his stomach twist and sweat break out on his forehead.
I
am getting fucking sick of this sensation.
"Launched a biobomb. Not a lethal one; aimed at fertility. It probably feels the planet is overpopulated. Which it is, but that's no excuse for . . . never mind. I checked. Numbers of third and fourth births have started dropping all over the Earth, in the last two years. The pattern indicates an initial aerosol seeding at major airports in 1997, every continent, followed by rapid spontaneous spread. At a guess, it's a modified rhinovirus—common cold."
"It
sterilizes
people?"
"Women. After the second birth, for about seventy, eighty percent. Most of the rest after the third, and a very small percentage would be naturally resistant. It works by sensitizing the immune system so that it treats spermatic cells as foreign matter. Very subtle, by your standards. Nothing visibly wrong with the ovulation cycle, and the eggs could be fertilized in
vitro.
"
"Urk." Henry finished the beer. He had been a fourth child himself. "Wait a minute; virtually nobody has more than a couple of kids these days. Except the Amish, maybe."
"Not here, but this virus is spreading
everywhere.
In areas with high infant mortality, population growth could go into reverse in a few years."
There was a choked sound from the other side of the table. Henry looked up sharply; Jesus had turned a muddy shade of gray, and his grip on the edge of the table was turning his fingernails white and pink.
Wait a minute,
the older policeman thought.
Yeah, he and the wife were planning on more kids.
He looked away for a moment; there were times when a man needed privacy.
"Now you see what we're dealing with," Lafarge said. "Something that looks at humans as domestic animals—or as wild game to hunt for pleasure."
"Yeah," Henry said carefully. The flush faded from his ears. He'd
known
this sort of thing for a while now, but for some reason that news brought it home. "You okay, Jesus?"
"
Si,
" Jesus said tightly. "I think."
"Goddam," Henry said.
We're probably going to have to go for a straightforward attack.
The risk was insane, but so was waiting.
"Well, if you'll excuse me," he said. Amazing how the rituals of daily life continued. "I've got to get some sleep today; hard night's work ahead tomorrow.
And
I've got a date."
Lafarge reached out and touched his arm. That was extremely rare with the Samothracian; Carmaggio stopped.
"Is that Miss Feinberg you're speaking of?" Henry nodded. "I don't want to . . . Please be extremely careful."
"Yeah, I won't let anything drop."
"Not just that. Nobody who's been in the
drakensis's
presence for more than a few hours can be completely trusted. The dominance mechanisms . . ."
Carmaggio freed his arm with a slight jerk "Thanks," he said flatly. "I'll certainly keep that in mind."
"And here's the list of subcontractors and component manufacturer's it's dealing with."
Gwen looked down from the newly-installed overhead office, onto the floor of the warehouse, through air thick with a haze of dust. It was a maze of cables and sections of equipment now; her nose caught the heavy scents of ozone from arc-welders, smells of metal and oils and plastics, underlain with sweat and the omnipresent gasoline stink of the city. Behind her were several thousand feet of pastel-colored post-modernist office space, plus a suite for herself and rooms for staff and guards; all nearly complete.
Very different from the dusty abandonment she'd smelled that first night here. She remembered dropping into the midst of the humans and growled slightly.
The contractor looked at her and frowned. Gwen schooled her features and nodded at him to continue.
"Ms. Ingolfsson, I can build this," he said, tapping the computer screen, "but I'm damned if I know what it'll do."
Much of it was completely beyond local theory; and there were gaps in the CAD data, elements that were being hand-fabricated by Singh and Mueller down in the Bahamas.
Haven't these people ever heard of the concept
"
Do as you're told?
" she thought. The contractor went on:
"I don't have the slightest idea what it is. And you'll need a pretty heavy set of capacitors to energize magnets like that."
She smiled without looking around at him. "Just put it together exactly as specified," she said. "It's .
. . experimental equipment. We're planning to surprise the competition."
The man's jacket rustled as he shrugged. "It's your money. What I
can't
do is build it in the time-frame you're asking for."
The man took a half pace backward as Gwen's head rotated around to look him full in the eyes.
She controlled herself with an effort, and he relaxed slightly, swallowing.
"Those were your own estimates," she said softly. "Why, exactly, are you changing your mind?"
"Look, ma'am, I'm only the prime contractor here. If subcontractors are willing to pay the penalty clause rather than deliver components to me, I can't send out a goon squad to take the stuff."
Gwen felt her hair rise and bristle, her ears lay themselves back. She forced down the reaction.
Who else would be ordering rare-earth alloys in this quantity?
"Why are they willing to do that?" she asked, her voice still a deadly monotone.
"Because somebody else is bidding for 'em. Paying so much above market that it's worthwhile to forfeit. And those components are the bottleneck for the whole . . . whatever it is."
"Exactly," Gwen said dryly. "Well, let my people have the data on the defaulters, and I'll see what can be done. In the meantime, press ahead with the things you
can
do. That's all."
He nodded jerkily. "We'll knock off for the day, then."
Gwen stood, with her feet spread and her hands holding her elbows behind her back. "Dolores will see you out."
"The Samothracian?" Tom asked, when the door closed behind the outsider.
"Possibly. Possibly through a local agent. It's ingenious, in its way; but it smells local. Only the Samothracian could have identified the critical elements, of course, and we'll have to check everything that comes in with redoubled care."
She frowned. "I'm really going to have to have a talk with that man. This is becoming annoying."
Alice cleared her throat: "Another health inspector's notice," she said. The bureaucratic paperwork for having so many of the staff living on-site had turned out to be formidable.
The Draka turned and smiled at her.
Lovely scent she has now,
she thought. Almost as mellow as a
servus's.
And a beautiful glow to her skin, as if the being within were shining through the human envelope. She patted the woman on the stomach with a surge of protective affection.
"Somebody's harassing us again," Gwen said, taking the paper from her. "Considering the sweeteners we've spread out, somebody with influence . . . or a great deal of money, or both."
Vulk Dragovic came through the door in time to hear her.
"The enemy?" the security chief said.
"Probably. It's a little subtle for one of them, though." She paused. "Again, he could be acting through local agents. I
did
leave a bit of a trail when I first came through, and no doubt he could convince some others. We know he's contacted some of the local police, although not how much he's told them."
Another pause. "We'll have to look into that. There are certain obvious leads . . . that policeman, for instance. The computers don't show anything, but that's meaningless with a Samothracian involved.
Meanwhile, get this paperwork squared away."
"I'll see to it," the Californian said, with a weary sigh. "It'd be easier on the west coast, or back in the Bahamas."
"Yes, but the signaler wouldn't
work
in either of those places, probably," she said, handing over the form. "Get right on it, Tom. Vulk, have you finished the postings?"
"Yes," the Serb said, jerking a nod. "All approaches covered. There were some difficulties, but the weapons will be within reach, despite the Americans."
Gwen stretched and rose. "Then that's everything for this evening. Go wait for me in the room, Vulk; I'll be having you tonight."
The Serb's darkly aquiline features flushed as he left the room, a combination of hatred and longing.
Alice chuckled, with a touch of malice.
"I don't think Vulk likes being the girl," she said with a sly smile.
Gwen stopped for a moment. Then she laughed. "I see what you mean," she said. "Well, he's just lucky it wasn't a male of my species that got dropped through, isn't he?"
She was still laughing and unbuttoning her jacket as she walked through the door.
***
"Damned right," Jennifer said.
She speared a french fry with her fork and ate it slowly, then took a bite from the pastrami sandwich, savoring the rich flavors. Chez Laurence
did
have them, if you asked. She hummed a little under her breath.
"Don't tell me," Louisa said. "You got laid."
Jennifer looked at a french fry with an elaborate expression of innocence, then ate it, slowly.
"
No.
Not the Italian cop?"
"Henry. And he's more than an ethnic identifier and a job, you know. He's a sweet guy. And smart."
Louisa rolled her eyes. "
Puh
-leez
.
Sweet? Oi vey gevalt, this is worse than I thought. Think of what your mother would say."
"Don't be sarcastic. He
is
a sweet guy; not only did he call, but roses, no less, today. Pass the ketchup."
Louisa looked at her. "How long have you been off the diet?" she said.
"A few months—since the Bahamas."
"But you've
lost
weight, I'd swear."
"Twelve pounds," Jennifer said, and patted her stomach. All from the right places, too. "And for once, it wasn't a 'tits go to China, tummy stays' loss, either."
"My god, how did you manage that?"
"My secret," she said, and nibbled on a pickle. "I've been working out more." She had, too—somehow she felt more energetic. "Maybe that's what I needed, fuel."
"So, how did the Bahamas turn out? You had a bad feeling about it."
"Strange, Really strange. Like a visit out of the world, somehow. But the money's there. This is going to be
big,
Louisa."
The pastries came, several of them. Louisa watched incredulously as Jennifer bit into one.
"What was the mysterious Ms. Ingolfsson like?"