Cyber Way Page 11

  However, the materials, if not the designs, were the finest. One store displayed a magnificent watchband fashioned from platinum, turquoise, and blue sapphires. That these were not traditional materials would not deter wealthy businessmen from Hakana, Shanghai, or Frankfurt. The absence of tradition did not in any way detract from the fine craftsmanship or the beauty of the final product.

  He had been doing his best to avoid the many tempting window displays of the various food emporiums, but now as he crossed the street he was attracted to an open establishment from which issued halfway listenable music and the robust aroma of exotic coffees. Stepping through the air curtain, he ordered a double cup of the best Arusha blend from the counter, along with a cleverly woven little Indian basket piled high with scones and an accompanying pot of clotted cream.

  An empty table by the window allowed him to indulge in his high caloric purchase while observing the steady flow of pedestrian traffic outside. He remained thus, sipping the pungent dark brew and noshing, until the last vestige of sunlight was but a recent memory, and existing illumination was supplied solely by electrons which had been bent to the will of determined advertisers, much as toy poodles had been bred for the delight of elderly women suffering from emotional deficiencies.

  With the lateness of the hour the composition of the crowd began to change, growing perceptibly younger as he watched. Businessfolk had retired to their homes and zenats and laptops. The people out and about now were dressed for excitement, for fun. Some were intent on specific destinations, while others simply wandered in hopes of encountering stimuli, or at the very least something to interrupt the monotony of their lives.

  He downed the last of his coffee, the final chunk of scone, and debated ordering another cup, finally deciding that he was going to have enough trouble sleeping tonight. The air door whooshed softly as he exited.

  Out on the boulevard he was surrounded by flashing lights and insistent whisperers proffering suggestions and invitations in a dozen different languages. The crowd pressed close around him as he headed down a side street, seeking enlightenment along with relief from the crush. He was tracing a whiff of Tandoori when something slim and shiny Hashed in an alcove on his right and a voice snapped, “De-mobilate right there, fatso.”

  The voice he ignored, but the object gave him pause. As his eyes acclimated to shadow he made out three figures standing in the shuttered entrance of a shop. One aimed a device at his chest. It might have been a knife, it could have been a gun. The stocky figure standing next to the weapon-wielder beckoned. A cerebromassage red-and-yellow headband pulsed softly against his forehead like a somnolent snake.

  “In here, bilagaanna. Quick, unless you want to die.” A glance showed Moody that he was alone on this side of the street. This bunch had been waiting for someone just like him, which was to say, stupid and preoccupied. Without justification, he’d allowed himself to relax. Just because this wasn’t Tampa.

  Behind the speaker and the one with the weapon stood a last, larger mugger. He wasn’t quite Moody’s size and like his companions he was disappointingly youthful. At least none of them were wildeyes. Just a trio of anxious kids. Potentially murderous kids, but unscrammed. Good. It meant he might be able to reason with them.

  Acutely aware of the gleaming metal lance focused on his sternum, he obediently edged into the shadows while keeping as close to the street as possible. The big kid nervously scanned the pavement while his companions inspected their quarry. Meanwhile Moody had time to identify the weapon, which was neither gun nor knife. He noted the supercooled lithium power cell on top and the crudely fashioned trigger on which the shooter kept a taut finger.

  The homemade device could pass for an innocent-looking decorative baton or cane, until the cell was activated. Then the uninsulated tip would probably deliver enough of a charge to knock any one human being flat on his back. It was a convenient way of avoiding weapons regulations. Moody knew from experience that one thing bureaucrats never gave street punks sufficient credit for was inventiveness when it came to creating devices capable of inflicting severe bodily harm. In this instance it was the power cell that bestowed lethality, not the wand itself.

  The speaker was gesturing anxiously. “C’mon, bilci-gaanna. You can start with the watch, then the wallet.”

  “This won’t do you any good.” Moody’s fingers slipped slowly toward his inside jacket pocket. These kids were not only nervous, they were also dangerous and dumb, he decided.

  Well, maybe not so dumb. The speaker snapped at him.

  “Pause it right there. I just wanted directions. I’ll do the digging. Put your hands on top of your head and lock your fat fingers.”

  Moody obliged, standing motionless as the kid began roughly rifling his pockets. The detective’s wallet he found almost immediately.

  When he came to the police ID, he and his buddies would react in one of two ways: either they’d run like hell or they’d fry him on the spot. Probably there wasn’t enough of a charge in the lith cell to do any real damage, but neither did he relish acting as temporary home for a few thousand volts with nothing better to do.

  “Hey, I told you you’re wasting your time. I don’t carry our credit cards. My wife does.” Abruptly he looked streetward and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Run, Millie!” The big kid in back made a strangled sound and glanced across the road. For an instant, so did his companions. In that instant Moody, who was much quicker than any man his size not employed in professional sports had a right to be, reached out and grabbed the shockwand just above the uninsulated tip, simultaneously bringing his left leg up in a straight front kick. The punk wielding the device let go of it with alacrity, choosing to grab hold of something else instead.

  Yelling, the big kid lunged, a real knife clutched in his right hand. Moody blocked the wild stab and brought the butt end of the shockwand down on his assailant’s head, busting the device all to hell and not doing the punk’s skull any good either. It began to bleed profusely, as head wounds are wont to do. He stumbled away, uttering scattershot obscenities as blood filled his eyes.

  The one who’d done all the talking had drawn his own knife and adopted a combative pose. Moody was already relaxing. Unless he’d badly misjudged their cortexal condition, the fight was already over.

  “I’m going to cut you, bilagaanna!” Moody put a foot on his wallet, which had been dropped in the fighting, and advanced the other. “You might. On the other hand, if you’d had time to look through that”—and he nodded down at his wallet—“you’d see that I’m from out of town but that it doesn’t matter, because police from different departments always cooperate with each other.”

  From nearby, the big kid cursed in Japanese. “He’s a goddamn cop, Ree! You would pick a cop to jump.”

  “Skeel up, man! Don’t you know better than to use names?”

  Moody’s attention was on. the one he’d kicked, who was concluding a brief period of concentrated retching without having paid any attention whatsoever to the preceding conversation.

  “Take your woman and get out of here. Y’all better look into another line of work. You’re not real good at this.”

  The speaker and his companion warily helped the third member of the unlucky trio to his feet. Moody tracked them with his eyes as they lurched up the street. Curious pedestrians gave him the eye as they strolled by, looking away fast when he glanced in their direction.

  He checked and repocketed his wallet, making sure the pickpocket seal was intact, while chiding himself for taking it too easy. Ganado might be a lot smaller than Tampa, but it still had its share of mean streets. Usually his size was enough to discourage punks like these, but this part of the country seemed to be chock full of contradictions and sudden surprises.

  Back on the main avenue he located a public phone, intending to call a cab. Then he remembered the number Ooljee had provided and punched it in instead. He didn’t want the sergeant worrying and waiting up for him.

  It was Lisa Oo
ljee’s face which appeared on the screen above the speaker. The detective thought she looked not worried, but concerned.

  “Hello, Ms. Ooljee.”

  “Mr. Moody.” She was trying to see behind him. “Paul’s not with you?”

  “No.” Moody frowned. “He’s not back yet? He dropped me off downtown. I thought he was going straight home from here.”

  “He must have gone to the office. He’ll do that sometimes. Just for a few minutes, to check on some little detail, he says.” Her tone was tired, as if she’d been through this many times before.

  “So call him there.”

  “I’ve already tried. His phone doesn’t respond and nobody’s seen him. When he’s working really hard he’ll shut himself away someplace with his research, so he won’t be interrupted. But I would like to know. Maybe I should run down and look for him. That always upsets him, though.” She looked into Moody’s eyes. “He’s become so absorbed with this case the two of you are working on. I’d just like to know that he’s busy at the station and not out wandering the streets somewhere. He’s been known to do that when he’s preoccupied.”

  Like me, Moody mused. It was hard for him to envision the ever-alert sergeant stumbling through back alleys, wandering blindly down dark lanes.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Ooljee. I was going to head back there, but I’ll go by the station and have a look for him myself. No reason for you to leave the kids. If he’s locked himself away somewhere, I’ll kick the door in and tell him to get his self-indulgent butt to the nearest phone.”

  She smiled gratefully. “That is very good of you, Mr. Moody. I appreciate it.” She moved to disconnect and he hurried to ask her a final question.

  “Ms. Ooljee, what does bilagaanna mean? Is it Navaho?”

  Lisa Ooljee hesitated. “Could you say it again, please?” Moody complied, trying to repronounce the word exactly as he’d heard it. “It means ‘white person.’ Why?”

  “Just trying to enlarge my vocabulary. Doo ahashyaa da, right?”

  She looked as if she might want to say something else, but he figured on doing her more good by hustling over to Ooljee’s station and hunting him down for her. Let him do any requisite reassuring.

  He plugged his spinner into the phone, called a cab on a local frequency, and waited the necessary minutes until it homed in on his signal. The driver grunted acknowledgment of the address and slid away from the curb. Moody could have made use of police transport, but he didn’t want to pull some cop off duty just to run him to the station.

  As it was, the operator of the cab displayed a distinct lack of urgency in taking him across town.

  CHAPTER 10

  There were few people on the street by the time he reached the station. It was late, cold, and moonless; not the best night for a casual stroll in a sometimes dangerous city. Only the glittering, strobing, relentless ads were unchanged from downtown.

  His police ident card admitted him, utilizing the visitor’s code he’d been authorized. Tired night-shift personnel didn’t spare him a second look. The station was spacious and busy.

  Ooljee’s office was locked and empty. Inquiries as to the sergeant’s whereabouts met with blank stares or negatives, though that wasn’t so surprising: Ooljee was day shift. Moody wondered if he ought to try his home again. Maybe he’d already returned. But if he hadn’t, then a call would only worry his wife further. So he kept asking around, and was soon glad he had.

  “He’s downstairs.” The young Hispanic woman deftly juggled an armful of folders. “Playin’ around, probably. I’ve seen him come in other times and do that, sometimes all night. I think Paul shoulda been a programmer or nexus jammer instead of a street cop. But he claims he’d rather work with people.”

  “How do I get there?”

  Her directions led him to an elevator which descended to a level twenty feet below the street. It was a strange sensation to someone coming from greater Tampa, where there was a distinct dearth of basements due to the fact that the water level lay only an inch or two below one’s feet. Here it made sense to locate the department’s most sensitive electronics and communications equipment underground, where electronic interference could be minimized and climate control made easier.

  The lighting was subdued, the overhead fluorescents brightening automatically ahead of him as they sensed his oncoming presence. Finding the door his guide had described, he thumbed a nearby buzzer.

  At first there was no response, but the third try brought forth a familiar voice from the inset speaker.

  “Go away. I’m busy.”

  Moody leaned toward the vocup. “The whole world’s busy, Paul. You hibernating or what?”

  There was a pause, then a click as the door was unlatched from inside. “Come on in, if you must.”

  Entering, the detective advanced far enough to allow the security barrier to close behind him.

  Ooljee sat in a swivel casket chair on the far side of the room, surrounded by banks of glowing lights, softouch zenat screens of varying size, and digital readouts. Some displayed text, others figures. A few boasted simple diagrammatics. His attention was focused on the single small monitor directly in front of him. Moody ambled over.

  “Look, friend, I don’t give a hog’s rear end where y’all spend your time, but your woman’s concerned.”

  “Lisa’s a worrier.” Ooljee didn’t look up from the screen. “It is one reason why we get along so well. I do not worry enough.”

  “Okay, but just as a favor to me, give her a call so she knows you’re not lying dead in a gutter somewhere.”

  “She knows that. She just likes to keep tabs on me.” He stole a quick glance at his watch. “But I admit I should have called in by now.”

  “How come your desk phone didn’t relay her calls to your spinner?”

  “Turned it off,” murmured the preoccupied officer. “Yeah, she said you might do that.” Curious now, Moody leaned close for a better view of the monitor.

  It was a foot and a half square, the half-inch thick LCD board protruding from the console on a short, flexible stem. Ooljee had his pocket spinner, a standard police Scorpion model, plugged into the main board. One hand worked its keyboard while the other toyed with a ratpad.

  “What are you into so intently?” Moody finally asked him. “X-rated molly ware?”

  “I got curious about the origin of the sands used in the Kettrick painting. I thought that if all the sand came from one place it might give us a clue to the feud angle. Sadly, there is nothing remarkable about where the sand is from. Black from the San Francisco Peaks region. Red from Monument Valley.

  “It is the yellow sand itself that is interesting. It’s radioactive.”

  Moody blinked. “Come again?”

  “Weakly but distinctively so. Oh, that in itself is not unusual. Uranium has been mined on the Rez for more than a century. In fact at one time houses were constructed using the mine tailings, until people understood the danger and had them tom down. Uranium-rich sand provided a nice yellow color for use in sandpainting. It is not used anymore, of course, but there are still some old paintings around which are slightly radioactive. Museums keep them shielded.

  “I told the mollysphere to eliminate every color in the painting except red. Then black, and so on. Nothing of interest resulted from my playing around—until I got to the yellow. This is the result.”

  Moody found himself holding his breath as the image of the painting gave way to—a mass of patternless dull yellow blotches.

  “Am I supposed to react to that?”

  “Not very impressive, is it?” There was a gleam in the sergeant’s eye. “That was my initial reaction. Just for the hell of it I asked the mollysphere to regenerate the original pattern, utilizing one color at a time. I expected it to reproduce the painting each time. That is what it did—until it came to the yellow. Then it asked me a question.” Feeling put upon, the detective mumbled, “A question?”

  “Yes. It asked me, ‘which pattern?’ If
I had entered the query differently, it would not have responded in that manner and we would be no wiser.”

  “And are we wiser?”

  “I replied by asking it to generate all the patterns it could, using only the yellow markings as a basis. This is the first image it produced.” A perfect reproduction of the Kettrick painting appeared on the monitor.

  “This is the second.” He fingered the ratpad.

  A dazzling display filled the screen to its edges; an overpowering melange of swirls and lines, of diagrammed explosions and crystalline constructs, of bubbles with barbed skins and of reticulated transparencies.

  “What the hell is that?” Moody blurted.

  “Watch what happens when I enlarge a portion of it.” The molly-eye zoomed in on the upper right quarter of the crazed image, which changed without losing any of its complexity. Again the sergeant enlarged, this time by a factor of four. Alteration and enlargement in no way reduced the amount of detail on the screen.

  Moody had to swallow. “I’ll be damned. Fractals.”

  “Yes. Julia Sets within a Mandlebrot Set, the likes of which nobody’s ever seen before. All extrapolated from the yellow grains in the Kettrick painting. The radioactive yellow.”

  “The fact that the sand that was used happened to be radioactive has nothing to do with this.”

  “Perhaps not, but it makes for an interesting coincidence, don’t you think? I instructed the web to repeat the exercise again, utilizing each individual color from the painting: red, black, all of them. They generated random garbage. The yellow generates this.” He indicated the monitor.

  “The work was so delicate that only a molly could find the underlying fractal pattern. Which leads one to a question: if you need the use of spinner and molly to uncover the pattern in the yellow, how was Grandfather Laughter able to insert it there in the first place? Never mind how did he do it; how did he know what he was doing? Fractals were known in his time, but why put them into a sandpainting, in disguise no less?”