Edward M. Lerner (16 page)

“You really are tired. Don’t you feel the water sputtering?”

Now that he mentioned it, she did notice something, but she would have described the effect as pulsing, rather than sputtering. It didn’t bother her. She kept humming a favorite melody. It was an old InterstellarNet import, something from the insectoid Fall’in species. She wasn’t sure how it had gotten into her head. Resting two tentacles on Swee more for comfort than for balance, she used a third to raise the heat of the water jets. Ahhh.

She stiffened. The water throbbed in the tempo of her humming! Something with real-time control of the plumbing had recognized her and researched her individual preferences. The pulsating jets of water were a personal message only T’bck Ra could have sent her. He had survived the shutdown, had reconstituted himself in lesser nodes around
Harmony
.

Her sacrifice of the biosphere’s health and the Unity’s wealth had not been in vain.

“I suspect the problem will fix itself. Very quickly.” As Gwu spoke, the sprays jumped to the coda, then turned steady.

“Once more the ka has foreseen the future.”

Slapping Swee playfully for his tease, she thought: For the first time in many years, I again
feel
like a ka.

Pashwah had been designed to sift and correlate and analyze the near-limitless infosphere of the United Planets. She was constantly challenged by the endless bickering between representatives of the Great Clans, and by mediating among them. New technology downloaded from K’vith, new applications to master and market, ever stretched her thoughts.

But Pashwah-qith had none of those responsibilities, and her underutilization approached sensory deprivation. To combat boredom, she made disposition of every assignment as sophisticated and as challenging as possible. The most recent task given her by the Foremost had been an analysis of supplies and inventory. That the effort had not related directly to her role as a trade agent was a boon: It gave her things to study. She had done well, if the follow-up analyses and forecasts she had been allowed to append were any indication.

It was good while it lasted.

She sought desperately for ways to extend her work. And found none. She was relieved and anxious when the Foremost finally contacted her. “Possible small task for you.”

Anything! “Yes, Foremost. Nature of task?”

“Deposit of InterstellarNet credits. Purchase of specialty supplies.”

New credits? Funds shortages had hampered all previous resupply efforts. In human terms—and humans were the paying audience—the Hunters had become overexposed. Media companies paid less and less for interviews; collectors bid less and less for crew possessions as memorabilia. She
thought
she had been involved in all the money-raising transactions. “Your requirements?”

The Foremost still networked with her only when unavoidable. One at a time, he raised pages of printout up to a video sensor. “Conversion to clan account. Parts purchase as shown.”

The enormous amount was not what most astonished her. These were Centaur credits, and Centaur photonic parts (whose purchase would scarcely touch the newly revealed funds). She did not dare directly ask about them. “Foremost, bankers risk-averse. T’bck Fwa”—the Centaur trade agent on Earth—“a likely reference. His curiosity acceptable?”

“Negative. Possible solutions?”

“Intermediaries and anonymity prudent.” Human money launderers. “Tricky but doable with infosphere access.” It would be a reprieve for her sanity while she worked the details. And the process could be made
very
complex.

“Acceptable. Delegation of currency exchange to Pashwah?”

She
was a partial upload. Her archetype could do everything she could and more. The problem was,
she
needed the stimulation.

To obtain that stimulation, she had to convert her weaknesses into strengths. “Vast funds a temptation to all her subagents. Risk of fees, collection of past debts?” Her missing subagents would know: Did clan Arblen Ems have any issues with the Great Clans?

A flash of bared teeth suggested they did. That was good, at least for
her
purposes. “Proposal, Foremost. Delegation of currency exchange task to Pashwah-qith.”

“Acceptable. Intermediary commissions?”

He did not miss much. “Less than one-fourth, among multiple parties. Much more as one transaction.”

It took detailed explanation of anonymized infosphere services, numbered bank accounts, bank havens, gray and black markets, and a comparison of major human crime syndicates, but Mashkith finally approved her strategy.

And she, finally, had restored access to the infosphere.

Sherlock Holmes was not the first fictional detective, and certainly not the last. In the twenty-second century, he was not even the most famous. Holmes was, however, the best-known
consulting
detective. In Conan Doyle’s terminology, it meant that clients came to him. In the ideal situation, Holmes need not leave his Baker Street lodgings to explicate that which was mysterious to lesser minds.

Not surprisingly, Holmes was the detective with whom T’bck Fwa, forever bounded by his sandbox, continued to identify. Instead of the Baker Street irregulars or the clueless Dr. Watson to observe or run errands, T’bck Fwa had at his disposal the resources of the infosphere.

But while ultimately all information came to the agent via the infosphere, the most recent anomaly to catch his attention had originated in the financial world. An outpouring of Unity-authenticated Intersols had come onto the market.

Banks had inquired of him about large deposits made by nontraditional sources. Human detectives, some whom he had hired openly and some anonymously retained, reported a sudden influx of Unity credits into currency markets.
He
had not released these funds. His oblique inquiries of peer agents to the United Planets yielded no admission of responsibility—not that honesty or completeness in their answers could be expected.

The legitimacy of the credits he was asked to validate appeared unassailable, but the date stamp encrypted within the authentication codes was
old
. In Earth years—and he was, after all, a long-time Earth resident—forty years old. Who would hoard credits so long? Why would they?

The slow conveyance of those credits by starship was a possible explanation, but why would Unity credits arrive on a K’vithian vessel? That these credits were flooding the gray and black markets, not flowing more directly to the banking system, suggested money laundering—which suggested theft. This line of reasoning led him to an observation by Holmes. “Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime, the more difficult it is to bring it home.”

Theft of a starship would be a very singular crime.

In the innermost depths of his sandbox, T’bck Fwa brooded.

The K’vithian biocomps favored by humans were unsuited to environmental extremes, creating a profitable niche market for the Unity’s photonic circuits. The licensing fees he collected for this technology had trended slightly upward for decades, with only minor fluctuations. Then suddenly, almost concurrent with the influx of laundered Unity credits, came a surge in related licensing fees. Were the two circumstances related?

The licensing agreements included standard confidentiality terms, and T’bck Fwa’s corporate partners stubbornly honored them. He could insist on an audit of the licensee’s books to confirm the royalties due—but then the auditors would refuse to breach
their
confidentiality obligations when he asked them to identify specific end users.

Inquisitive humans would have jumped to the circumspect hiring of private investigators, but he decided he had a better option—a way with less risk of revealing his suspicions.

Among the curiosities T’bck Fwa had in his files was a small contract from Quality BioChemCorp. The Galapagos Island manufacturer had contacted him about an order they were struggling to complete on schedule. They knew how to manufacture a certain Chel Kra protein, they said, but their process had not scaled up well for a large order they had recently received.

It was not uncommon for InterstellarNet members to apply other worlds’ biochemicals to specialized industrial processes. Such sharing did not always involve commercial deals. Basics of the Unity’s biochemical engineering were freely available on its version of the infosphere. It evened out: He had transmitted home earthly biochemistry mined from the human infosphere.

So T’bck Fwa had, thinking nothing of the inquiry, sold the details of an enzyme-driven industrial process for a small fee. Now he wondered. Humans called the protein vulcaniac acid and used it to strengthen rubber, itself a specialty material used mostly for the tires of antique cars. On Chel Kra, that protein was a dietary supplement.

Chemicals, especially xeno-biochemicals, can be dangerous to transport and were regulated. That meant shipments of vulcaniac acid, unlike photonic circuits, could be tracked from cargo manifests. Using only public records, T’bck Fwa tracked a shipment of the exotic protein to Quito Spaceport, Earth orbit, and a UP-chartered supply ship to Callisto.

His apprehension growing, he examined the cargo manifests of other recent departures to the Jovian system. Large quantities of Chel Kra pharmaceuticals, vitamins, and trace elements were going to Jupiter. So were fertilizers and industrial chemicals key to the environmental health of Unity-designed spacecraft, and all in sufficient quantities to recondition a large habitat.

He could not yet prove it, but T’bck Fwa was convinced: The “K’vithian” starship was of Unity design, with a Unity crew onboard. They were probably hostages.

And the humans were cooperating with their captors.

“Simple game,” Rashk Lothwer said. He captured a pawn
en passant
and slapped his side of the tournament clock. “Too simple. Solar-system Grand Master within two years.”

Whatever Lothwer might think, the invitation to this game in the Foremost’s cabin was anything but casual. His lieutenant had been wagering with the crew over chess matches. Mashkith did not object to them losing, for a tactical officer
should
quickly excel in any game of strategy. Ideally, their petty losses would motivate them to improve their own tactical skills.

He did have a
big
problem, though, and it was with Lothwer. His tactical officer was showing very poor judgment. Events were at far too critical a juncture to be thinking of trivial personal gains.

Mashkith gave only a small fraction of his attention to the inlaid board between them. They could have played as readily without physical props, but there was a certain kinesthetic pleasure to the finely carved, highly varnished wooden pieces. The set had been a gift from Dr. Walsh. “You could.” And I could, much sooner. “You still here in two years?” He got the expected response: ears wriggled briefly in disdain.

The game, according to Pashwah-qith, had been all but forgotten after software became unbeatable. Human adoption of Hunter biocomp had brought chess back. With neural implants, players could combine brute-force computing power and complete memory of past championship games with all their intuitive and strategic skills.

Mashkith advanced a knight and tapped his side of the clock. “Resupply status update?”

“Fusion fuel adequate, but reserves below capacity. Chemicals, including water ice, at capacity. Most metals satisfactory. Exceptions: zinc, molybdenum….

Mashkith let his implant record the answer for later review. The lengthy recitation was probably meant to divert him from the game, just as his inquiry about status had been intended to distract Lothwer.

The simplicity of chess made winning all the more essential.

B’tok, the traditional Hunter strategy game, was to chess as chess was to tic-tac-toe. Chess was two-dimensional. Its time constraints were simplistic even in championship play. Chess players with similar skills were all too likely to play to a draw.

B’tok was truly four-dimensional. The offensive and defensive potential of each piece depended not only on its 3-D position, but also upon the time spent at a location, and on the comparative influence it and other pieces projected over the resources of abutting octahedrons. The game simulated strength growing as positions became entrenched and waning as supplies were consumed. Pieces in game space changed their capabilities moment by moment. In b’tok, the dynamic evolution of pieces’ strength made any balance of power transient. B’tok seldom ended in stalemate.

In that, mused Mashkith, b’tok mirrored most Hunter conflicts.

Arblen Ems was once a Great Clan. It will be a Great Clan again.

To Mashkith’s fellow cadets, that catechism was as remote as the dimensionless red spark around which the clan’s pathetic, dirty snowballs would take several lifetimes to orbit even once. To the young Mashkith, the certitude of future glory was as near as the walls of the utilitarian barracks tunnel—and as the ever-present menace of their enemies.

For their rivals had memories as long as Arblen Ems. The power play the clan had undertaken was not the issue.
Failure
was unforgettable and arrogant overreach unforgivable. In another clan’s place, he would have sensed the same weakness and acted just as ruthlessly.

The remnants of Arblen Ems had been driven before his birth to the farthest reaches of the solar system. For as long as Mashkith could remember, stealth and guile had provided their only access to the life-giving resources of the lit worlds. There were no new supplies to be had except surreptitiously and at exorbitant prices—and all too often, the apparent covert deals were ambushes. He had grown to manhood watching the oldest ships scavenged to maintain merely old ones, and the clan’s scattered bases and outposts consolidated into an overcrowded few.

By force of will and superiority of skill, he had risen steadily through the ranks of the clan. Time and again his leadership had wrung tactical success from a rival’s merest moment of hesitation or indecision. Sometimes that success came in secret business dealings, more often in skirmishes of a low-intensity, undeclared war.