Counterweight (14 page)

Even if he had been more suspicious, he doubted he would
have detected the trick. Unasked questions often helped to get past minor
mental blocks but someone who was stealing enough money to retire on would have
had his guard up. Rick wouldn’t have been able to discern the man’s motives.

And, thinking of motives – what was the reason for this
Ufangian’s interest in a penniless newcomer?

Pre-cog probing was far more useful in a case like this. The
Ufangian was at ease, thinking his new friend was sufficiently confused and
biddable. Rick quickly learned he was dealing with one of the members of a
radical group. Their interest in him was spicewood and they’d been following
him from the moment he stepped off the elevator.

They passed a casino. Rick had seen enough old Earth movies
to know what a casino was and he’d often daydreamed about walking into one of
those old, opulent Vegas establishments and coming out rich.

If this planet was going to rip him off, he’d just have to
return the favor. He subvocalized a warning to his guide, telling him that his
own credit chip had just been stolen. He had to stop walking for a moment so he
could watch the ghost Ufangian stop in alarm and reach into his sleeve. Rick
walked through him to catch up with the real version.

“Hey wait!” He grabbed the man’s arm, turning him around.
“Who exactly is this guy you know and what sort of work would I be doing for
him?”

The Ufangian shook his arm free. “It’s nothing you need to
get upset about,” he said, slightly annoyed. “He’ll just talk with you for a
while and figure out where you might like to work. Might even help you find a
place to sleep – not that easy, here in Tsekoh.”

“OK.” Rick took a step back. “Sorry. It’s just been a bad
day is all…”

“Yeah, I hear you, brother.” A nod in their original
direction. “Let’s hurry, yes? Before my friend finishes his dinner.”

Rick followed him for a few seconds more. It was child’s
play to lose him in the crowd.

Tsekoh, Capital of Chaco Benthic

C
allum
looked down at his hand. The homey sounds of the rickety rail-diner faded away
as he read the message glowing on his palm. It took less time to decode than
the one from ten minutes ago. This time he had context before deciphering the
message in the careful choice of words.

He’d sent one of his people to make contact with the
survivor from the
Foxlight II
.  After the trouble with the Stoners,
he’d pulled his observers back and waited for the rumor mill to tell him when
to move back in. When a ship arrives up at the counterweight, everyone in the
down-below knows its story within hours.

For most citizens, it was just another freight crew killed
by raiders but Callum knew G’Maj was the one behind the sudden influx of spice
wood. He couldn’t talk to the captain, as originally planned, but he could at
least talk to the one person who
did
manage to walk off the ship.

It may only be wood but the value it represented made its
source a legitimate strategic target. With that in mind, Ghozen wasn’t the only
operator he’d sent to bring in the subject. Two others were hanging back, watching
the young survivor.

He grinned in spite of the minor setback. Ghozen must have
waited until he was absolutely certain he’d lost the subject before reporting
in. That couldn’t have been easy for him, especially when it looked like their
target had fleeced him in the process, taking his money before disappearing on
him.

Callum held up a chip for the youngster behind the counter.
When he got it back, he downed the last of his floater and hopped off the
stool. He slid the chip into his pocket as he looked out over the diner’s guard
rail  into the busy atrium.

The diner hung from the pedway railing with its kitchen
backing onto the rail itself, wafting delicious scents out into pedestrians’
faces. Customers ate their meals at a long counter, their backs to the open
space of the atrium. He loved eating here: the food was good, the structure was
reasonably stable and it had the best view he’d ever ignored.

He took a polymer toothpick from his pocket and strolled
along behind the other patrons while teasing bits of seaweed from between his
teeth. He passed the last stool and angled right to hop around the main railing
where it ended at a cab stop.

He stepped into the nearest cab, asking to be taken to the gaming
district before settling into the back of the open-top vehicle to assess what
they knew so far.

The only person to walk off the
Foxlight II
hadn’t
been aboard her when she’d left here a few months ago. The official rumor was
raiders but Callum didn’t believe it. The survivor was supposedly from a
passenger vessel and raiders usually preferred ships with cargo.

This guy came aboard on the same world where the wood was
loaded. There were no shipping lanes crossing the path between Benthic and 3428
– Callum’s prime suspect – and the ship only carried enough reactant for 3428.
The odds of two random courses intersecting in the vastness of space were
miniscule. Still, Callum wanted all the information he could get before
contacting Flemming.

The cab eased up to the debarkation zone – twenty levels
above where they’d started, and engaged the docking plates. The magnetic plates
on the small vehicle were so old; they probably wouldn’t stand up to more than
a few kilos of force.

He paid the cabbie and stepped out onto the pedway. The main
casino – The Oceanic – was directly across from the cab zone. It took heavy
bribes and a hells of a lot of pull to get a prime spot like that.

Callum wove his way through the pedestrian flow and started
up the winding path to the front entrance. A carefully tended cross-section of
Republic trees and shrubs helped to isolate the front doors from the outside
world.

He noticed one of his people standing out front, puffing on
a ceramic pipe of nicotine-laced seaweed. He was a low-level operator, someone
who had no idea who C’Al was. He was simply there to pick up the subject if he
happened to leave by the casino’s only door.

Callum walked through the doors, immediately immersed in the
flood of sounds. The constant warbling of happy chimes and bells gave the
impression that somebody was winning money.

He strolled along the winding aisles, looking around as if
trying to decide which table to choose, slowly working his way toward one of
the Empire tables.

Players sat around a holo projection of the early Empire,
buying forces with their credit chips. Each player got ten seconds to deploy
their forces in a race to bring the most planets under their control. The
worlds had their own native defense forces and there was always the possibility
that you weren’t the only one seeking to capture any given planet.

After the set-up, the computer would calculate the winners.
If you won, you got a
revenue credit
from that world as your payout,
while the house pocketed the value of the
lost
forces.

Most players would let the animation play out, cheering on
their units and drinking the free intoxicants. The young man in the EVA suit
sitting in the middle, however, preferred to get the instant result tally. As
Callum watched, seven worlds changed to green, matching the control interface
at his seat. Almost half of the 3
^rd
-Dynasty worlds were under his
control.

The guy was sitting on a lot of money – not bad for someone
who’d walked off the elevator as a pauper.

Callum was just fishing in his pocket for a credit chip when
the player pulled his own chip from the panel. The croupier gave him a deep nod
for what must have been a sizeable tip.

The young man stood up and turned to face Callum. “Let’s
talk outside,” he suggested in a calm tone before setting off for the doors.

Callum stood there for a few seconds, fingers still holding
the chip half-way out of his pocket. He looked up at the green worlds, now
fading back to grey, as his mind replayed the encounter.

He looked behind himself – nobody else there. The subject
was talking to
him
, alright. He followed him along the winding aisles
and out the front door.

“It’s okay.” The subject waved at Callum’s guy by the door.
“You can go now.”

The watcher showed only the briefest moment of alarm at being
spotted so easily.  He simply frowned at the young man and turned away to
continue poisoning his lungs.

With a shrug, the subject led Callum off the path and into a
small grove of trees.

“Do you know me?” Callum asked, still off balance at how
quickly his target had taken away the initiative.

“No but you were about to talk to me, weren’t you?” the
young man replied. “And they were starting to give me dirty looks in there
anyway.” A chuckle. “Seemed like a good time to cash out.”

Something nagged at the back of Callum’s mind. Though it was
said in Dheema, ‘cash out’ wasn’t a term used in the Republic. Electronic
currency had been in use here for centuries – you didn’t ‘cash out’ from a
casino; you ‘pulled your winnings’.

“Where are you from?” Callum tilted his head slightly. “You
have a funny accent…”

“My family are Tauhentan.”

“So are mine,” Callum replied, faking the mild excitement of
an ex-patriate finding one of his own in a distant land.

The subject’s lower eyelids came up slightly as he gazed back
at Callum. Then they slid back down as his eyes grew wide. “No,” he whispered
in surprise. “No.” He reached out and grasped Callum’s shoulders, staring at
him. “You’re not Tauhentan…” His mouth hung open until he needed it to speak
again.

“You’re a Human!”

Adrenaline surged through Callum’s veins and his skin began
to tingle. Somehow, the subject had taken away the initiative and now he’d
taken away Callum’s cover identity as well. One word in the wrong ear and he’d
be a dead man, after they’d wrung him dry in interrogation.

He tried to think of the best way to kill this man and leave
quietly. Finding where the wood was coming from was important to the Alliance
but he wasn’t sure it outweighed his own value as an operative. He could sort out
the math later, assuming he survived the next ten seconds.

Just before he could step in and deliver the initial strike
to his target’s throat, he was pre-empted again.

“No need to kill me,” the subject said, surprise in his
tone. “I wouldn’t rat you out.”

That nagging feeling again. Was he…

“Yes,” the young man nodded. “I’m a Human.”

His intensity was still cause for concern. Callum believed
him but why was he here and why was he so amped up about finding Cal? If
Flemming had sent him here to make contact in person, then he certainly went to
extraordinary lengths to make him look like a raider victim.

Was the Alliance in trouble?

“Who sent you?” Callum demanded.

“Sent me?”

“Who sent you?” Callum insisted. “Authenticate.”

A short pause. “Look, nobody sent me, OK? I had to make a
run for it and the smugglers were my only option.”

Callum was about to ask for more detail but it wasn’t
necessary.

“There was this girl,” the man offered lamely. “Things went
sour, there was some stabbing…” He shrugged. “A guy like me can’t expect a fair
hearing, so I snuck aboard a shuttle and here I am.”

“A guy like you?”

“My ancestors didn’t go along with the mutiny and folks are
still holding that against us.”

Callum stared at him for a second. “What mutiny are we
talking about here?”

“The
Guadalcanal
.”

“Never heard of it.” That had been fifteen decades ago, when
Callum was still spending his nights in the lock-up on Petite Tortue Island.
The folks he’d met at fleet command certainly weren’t inclined to discuss a
mutiny either.

“How many of us are left?” The young man closed in again,
lowering his voice.

“What?”

“How many Humans are there? On Earth and here in the
Republic?” The subject must have noticed the confused look on Callum’s face and
he offered an explanation. “My people have been out of touch for a while.”

“Well…” Callum sighed. “You’ll have to wait for an answer,
until we can figure out just who you are.”

“The
Guadalcanal
,” the young man reiterated. “They
mutinied during the plague vaccinations.”

“And you were opposed to that?”

A confused frown. “That was a century and a half ago. Long
before I was born. Those people are long dead.”

“Good God!” Callum felt a shiver run down his spine. “You’re
the old species?”

The young man’s confused frown intensified but then he
seemed to shake it off. He looked back at Callum silently for a few seconds,
his jaw occasionally moving slightly, and then a look of amazement spread
across his features.

“The vaccinations worked? How many turned?”

“Yeah, it worked,” Callum muttered, not quite sure he was
having this conversation. He’d assumed that any isolated pockets of the old
race had died out long ago and he had never expected any to exist off the
Earth. “Around two percent turned.” He leaned forward slightly. “So, how old
are you?”

“Twenty-two,” the young man answered. “You?”

“One hundred eighty-seven.” Callum watched the subject’s
eyes widen.

“Are you contagious?”

“No. A few days of quarantine and you’re ready to go.”

“How long are you… expected to…”

“Thirty-six hundred years.”

A long pause, followed by a quiet voice. “Wow… My name would
be long forgotten by then, back home.”

It was a pretty good opening. Callum had come to this casino
to find out where home was for this man. He decided on the direct approach but…

“Yes,” the young man assured him. “The wood grows on my home
world.” He tilted his head to the right. “That’s the reason we’re having this
talk, right?”