Trouble Magnet Page 16

  Corsk laughed. “Hear that, Arad? Little scrim’s never heard of your world.”

  “That is your people’s name for it, not ours,” the alien remarked calmly.

  “Never been there myself,” Corsk commented conversationally. “Hear it rains there all the time. All the time.” Leaning forward, he whispered conspiratorially to Chaloni, “Arad doesn’t like humans.”

  “You interfere in our lives,” the alien declared. “Your presence distorts our culture. You favor the unmentionable Deyzara. Those of us who want no part of your Commonwealth have no choice in the matter. We must participate, or wither.”

  Corsk was nodding knowingly to himself. “Pretty tough folk, these Sakuntala. Still have a thing or two to learn about cred-based economies. A few of the smart ones have realized they can make more hiring themselves out to perform certain services than they ever could stuck on their soggy, backward homeworld.” He smiled at his partner. “No offense.”

  Aradamu-seh’s nonhuman expression was unreadable. “Accumulate cred,” he murmured. “Also mula.”

  They were playing with him, Chaloni realized. Well, if they were trying to crack the veneer of innocence he’d worn to the shop, they were going to have to do better than that. “I still don’t understand what this is about. What kind of questions do you want me to answer?”

  “Oh, we don’t need the answers.” Corsk leaned closer. “It’s our employer who wants answers.”

  As best he could, Chaloni held his ground. “Who’s your employer?”

  The big man gestured casually behind him, toward the precious antiques Chaloni had carefully laid out on the countertop. “The owner of those wares. He wants them back.” Corsk’s voice dropped ominously. “He wants all of them back.”

  Chaloni shrugged diffidently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My brother brought home a whole crate of that stuff. Crate was all banged up, like it had fallen off a skimmer or something. Said he found it in a serviceway. Being younger than me, he asked if I’d try to find out if it was worth anything. So I asked around, it was recommended I try here, and sure enough, I sold a few pieces last week.” Turning slightly, he looked back into the silent shadows that cloaked the rear of the shop. “Ms. Belawhoni paid a lot for them. If I’d known they were that valuable before I sold them, I might have tried to find the original owner.” He mustered a smile. “You know—for a reward, maybe. But there were no markings on the crate, and you put out the word, pretty quick there are fifty tshonds claiming ownership rights.”

  Corsk had been nodding patiently while listening to the youth in the chair. Now his head stopped bobbing. “Nice story. The lady who runs this establishment would have been a good choice—except that she values her relationship with our employer more than she does the opportunity to market his stolen property. There’s a reward for its return, all right, but she’s the one in line to get it, not you, you miserable little lying yibones.”

  Taking offense, Chaloni started to rise from the chair. “Thoy, why you calling me that? I be linear with you…!”

  A massive hand slammed him back into the seat so hard it nearly overloaded and broke the chair’s spinal adapter. Corsk didn’t care. He was certified to damage property.

  “Sure you are, yibones.” From a breast pocket of his slicksuit, he withdrew a security sensor tridee freeze. Unfolding, it showed several figures inside a nondescript warehouse loading a variety of antique items into a transport. “Recognize any of these cheerful scrawn?”

  Heart thumping, Chaloni made a show of examining the freeze. “Never saw any of them, don’t know any of them.”

  Corsk nodded, still patient. “Of course you don’t. How about these?”

  One by one, several additional freezes were presented to the youth in the chair. His reaction was unchanged. None of them looked like him. He was secretly thankful. The costly disguises had proven their worth.

  “Sorry. Can’t help you.” His expression turned guileless. “Are these the scrims who originally stole this stuff?”

  Corsk’s tone was mollifying. “Indeed they are. Recognize any of them now?” Running his thumb across the back of one freeze, he enlarged a portion of it until the three-dimensional figure he had isolated filled the entire framing square. It was Chaloni. As he stared at the image, he gave thanks to the invisible powers in charge of Malandere Utilities that it was cool in the front of the shop. Otherwise, he might have started to sweat.

  “Don’t know the scrim, I told you. I could tell that before you bumped it.”

  Corsk nodded understandingly. His thumb moved again. “Please. Try just one more time.”

  Floating in the space between them, constrained by the freeze borders, was a close-up of a portion of the isolated figure. It showed only the side of the individual’s head. An utterly nondescript image, except perhaps for the simple triangular earring that punched one earlobe. Held in place by a permanent charge in the exact center of the triangle was a very small synthetic red diamond. Chaloni had worn an earring like that for years. Had worn it day in and night out while zlipping and shopping, while showering, and while making love. Had worn it for so long that it had become a part of him.

  A part of him he had forgotten to remove when donning his disguise prior to infiltrating the ransacked storage facility.

  Smiling, he reached out to take the freeze, the better to have a closer look at it. Corsk let him take it. As soon as it was in his hand Chaloni brought it closer to his face, frowned—and shoved it straight at the big man’s right eye. Letting out a yelp, Corsk stumbled backward, grabbing at his face with one hand while striking out blindly with the other. Fast and agile, Chaloni exploded out of the chair in an instant. He didn’t try for the front door, which he already knew had been locked against any possible flight. Instead, he flung himself toward the back of the shop. There had to be a rear entrance. The two scrims had used it to enter without him seeing them, the double-crossing Ms. Belawhoni almost certainly used it to bring in merchandise, and with any luck it would be unlocked and he could use it, too.

  He went down, hard, before he could get out of the front portion of the shop. Twisting wildly, he saw that something black and ropelike had wrapped like a whip around his ankles. Even in his rising terror he wondered how either of his inquisitors had managed to unlimber, aim, and loose a rope or wire fast enough to bring him down. Then his gaze rose and the explanation was self-evident. The bulge in the Sakuntala’s right cheek was gone. The alien’s mouth was open wide.

  It had brought him down with its tongue.

  Strong as it was, he might still have escaped from the organ’s sticky grasp. He could not, however, escape the blows that an angry Corsk rained down on him. The eye the youth had poked with the freeze continued to water slightly as the big man and the Sakuntala slammed the bloodied, battered visitor back down in the proprietor’s chair. The ocular irritation served as an ongoing reminder to Corsk as he and his alien associate renewed the questioning. Not that the big man needed any inspiration to continue with his work.

  In the rear of the shop where she kept the bulk of her stock, Melyu Belawhoni was using the downtime to peruse a catalog. As had been the case since the advent of commerce, dealers often bought from one another as a way of freshening their inventory and occasionally putting one over on a competitor. In the darkened alcove, articles of value spun and twisted and changed depth and color in front of her, their descriptions playing out beneath them. As the screams from the front of the shop grew louder and more agonized, she switched to audio mode so that the descriptions of the items being displayed were spoken in a pleasantly neutral male voice via the catalog’s adjunct virtual speaker. Wincing slightly, she directed the catalog to increase the volume. Though she made it quite loud, the occasional high-pitched shriek still rose above the steady stream of descriptive information.

  Feeble, sprightly boy, she mused sadly. He and his brother (if the younger thief had indeed been a blood relative) had seemed nice enough. Personable
and pleasant, if a touch arrogant. She had known as soon as she had set eyes on the fragile Terran memorabilia that it had been sourced from someone important. A quick check of the appropriate links had revealed both the extent and the value of an especially brazen recent robbery. Also the name of the stolen property’s bona fide owner, who was known to her.

  She could have passed along what she knew to the city authorities, of course. But doing so would have made her an accessory to the crime in the eyes of the violated. Property illegally obtained and imported from anywhere outside Visaria, much less from Earth, would be returned to the original possessors and, if those could not be traced or contacted, would end up being confiscated by the planetary government. Such a resolution would not be kindly looked upon by the violated individual with whom she had previously done business.

  Much more profitable and much more healthy to inform he who had been ripped off of what she had learned. As expected, that worthy had been properly grateful. That the rest of his property would soon be returned to him she had no doubt. According to what Corsk had told her, there had been at least half a dozen of the shameless and stupid little scrimmers. She had seen the security freezes. Neither of the two youths who had paid her a visit the previous week resembled any of the individuals portrayed in the freezes, but the smiling Corsk had been confident. It was not just a matter of looking at such tableaux, he had assured her, but of knowing how to look, and with the right tools.

  Still, she wished he had brought along another human associate to assist him instead of the creature. Intelligent it certainly was, albeit in a primitive way, but its steady stare and hostile attitude gave her the creeps. Well, they would all be gone from her shop soon enough. Another desperate scream infiltrated the expressive monotone emanating from the virtual speaker. She hoped her visitors would finish their work soon.

  She would need time to clean up the mess before lunch.

  CHAPTER

  11

  His new Adheres made Subar feel as if he were flying. From microsecond to microsecond, the sensors built into the soles scanned and analyzed the surface underfoot, adjusting the malleable material to the appropriate consistency. If the ground was smooth, the soles morphed to provide additional gripping power. If rough, they comported themselves to follow the terrain. If he so wished, on command they would turn virtually frictionless, allowing him to skate-slide at high speed across paved city surfaces. Through the shoes, walking was transformed into a wondrous, exciting experience that was as easy on the feet and legs as it was on the mind. Also an expensive one.

  His share of the first sale of the warehouse loot had more than covered the cost of the Adheres, which had to be custom-fitted to his feet. He had enjoyed having the much older shop staff kowtow to his requests almost as much as he delighted in the shoes themselves. Nor were they his only purchase. His pockets and backpack held an assortment of electronic fripperies designed to do little more than entertain. Shoes and gear, of course, had to be kept hidden from his erstwhile family lest they rapidly become “lost.”

  The pod’s clandestine rooftop meeting room provided adequate storage space for such needs, though at the rate he and his friends were buying things they were soon going to need to build an annex just to store their purchases. He grinned as he worked his way up the narrow pedestrian access. Having too much stuff was a problem he had never before in his life had to contemplate, and one he was more than ready to deal with.

  The bottle stopped him. A casual visitor wouldn’t even have noticed it. The lightweight, self-chilling metal cylinder lay on the side of the winding walkway where it had been discarded. Frowning, he picked it up and examined the label. As with most such beverages, the temperature differential between the liquid contents and the container’s composition also powered the lambent advertising. Now that the bottle was empty, the label had been reduced to unilluminated, flat print.

  He knew the brand. A mildly alcoholic brew containing at least two synthetic narcotics imported from offworld. None of his friends drank it. For one thing, it was way too expensive compared with similar-tasting domestic options. Also, it was tart and dry. He and his friends were of an age where tart and dry as yet had no chance when competing against sharp and sweet.

  Certainly, given their new-won cred, one of them might have decided to feign sophistication by trying the brew. He could see Chaloni doing so. Alternatively, envisioning the mouth of the bottle sliding between Zezula’s parted lips brought to mind another possibility. But there was no ego boost to be gained by trying it out of sight of everyone else. He would have been less surprised had he found the exotic metal container lying on the floor of the priv place. And he doubted anyone else in this neighborhood could afford to indulge in such a pricey libation.

  It just didn’t feel right.

  Tilting back his head, he peered up the walkway. The usual cacophony of squabbling and shouting, of infants bawling and pets disputing, filled the air of the crowded residences. What was he so worried about? It was only an empty bottle.

  Standing alone in the walkway, hemmed in by battered, quick-poured walls on both sides, he was sure of only one thing: lack of action never brought enlightenment. Feeling at least half a fool, he turned and descended, retracing his steps until he came to a certain half-hidden marginal accessway. Jogging up to its terminus brought him to a rooftop. Climbing higher, he resumed his ascent. Only this time he abjured any designated walkway, alternately shinnying and climbing over walls, windows, porches, and roofs.

  Slow and difficult, the climb eventually put him on a roof opposite the building that was crowned by his pod’s improvised hideaway. From there it was a short jump across a twenty-meter drop to the top of the conjoined air recycling and composting ventilation system that served the sprawling apartment complex below. The smell from the latter was a principal reason he and his friends had been able to construct their secret rooftop shelter without interference: nobody and no organization felt inclined to make use of a space that was simultaneously small and stinky, or to object when someone else did.

  Keeping low and concealing himself within the forest of moaning vents and massive, concealed blowers, he advanced on the priv place from the rear. Almost immediately, he saw that he had been right to proceed with caution, and was thankful for his new shoes that allowed him to move in near silence. A pair of strangers were standing in front of the entrance. Identical twins, both women were massive, the product of genetic selection and the application of certain hormonal supplements and chemicals. Their faces were as pale and as rough as the raised patterns of bumps that adorned their bare forearms. As he looked on, one of them took a small inhaler from a pocket and sucked out a smile.

  Heart pounding, his breath coming at shorter and shorter intervals, he worked his way around toward the back of the hideaway. High up in the crude, jury-rigged lavatory there was a small window that served as a vent in the absence of proper plumbing. It was usually kept open. Anyone engaged in business within could look out at a patch of sky unmarred by grungy construction or the fetid exhalations of surrounding structures. From the rooftop one could peer down inside and, if the inner door was ajar, into the single room that constituted the priv place itself.

  The screaming and crying he heard as he approached should have made him turn and run. The sounds were truly bone chilling, both because of their timbre and because he could identify who was uttering them. But he could no more flee from the vicinity of that former place of refuge without trying to steal a look inside than he could have closed his eyes in the presence of Zezula’s nakedness.

  She was there, too, though fully dressed. Peering cautiously through the open slot of the vent window, he could see her seated on one of the battered old lounges on the far side of the main room. Her hands were behind her. When after a minute or so she failed to show them, he assumed they were bound. It was the same with Missi, who was seated next to her.

  A large, thickset man was confronting them. He was talking, though Subar couldn
’t make out what he was saying over the loud throbb music that was being played—to blanket the area with sound, not to provide atmosphere—and the constant sobbing and bawling of the two girls. That in itself was unsettling. Though Missi was known to lose it at the mere sight of an abandoned puper, Subar had never seen Zezula cry. Having always thought of her as having a compassionate heart sheltered behind a wall of duralloy, it was traumatic to see her weeping and shuddering as violently as her far more demonstrative friend.

  Moving closer and leaning to one side changed the angle of view into the room. That was when he saw the alien. Tall and absurdly slim, with ridiculously long arms and hands that ended in half a dozen fingers apiece, it stood between the lounge and the talking stranger and the doorway. Subar found himself fascinated by the high tapering ears that shifted slowly to point in different directions like furry scanning antennae.

  The alien’s appearance was almost as mesmerizing as the body draped across one of its shoulders. As Subar looked on, it proceeded to dump this burden on the floor of the priv place at the girls’ feet. They looked down at it, recognized it immediately, and resumed screaming all over again. Zezula did not move, but in spite of her bound wrists Missi kept trying to kick her way backward over the lounge. Or dig into its depths—Subar couldn’t be sure which. What he could be certain of was the identity of the corpse. He had to look hard at it, though, because it had been—altered. Unlike the girls, he didn’t scream, but he did stop breathing for a moment.

  It was Chaloni. Or rather, something that had once been Chaloni.

  Death was no stranger to Subar, or to anyone who had grown up in Alewev. But there were all kinds and ways of death, from the accidental to the natural, from the premature to the premeditated. Among the later, amateurishness of execution usually dominated. What had been done to Chaloni was different. It showed every indication of having been carried out in a manner that was slow, professional, and merciless. It not incidentally explained how his killers had found their way to the secret meeting place. Before he had expired, Chaloni had told them. Chaloni had probably told them everything they wanted to know, and more besides.