The War Machine: Crisis of Empire III (16 page)

“He’s always gouged us,” the Capuchin allowed cautiously.

“But with our ship, the
Duncan
in port for repairs, all of a sudden the harbormaster got greedy, and he wanted a bigger cut. Right? Then you said no to the higher bribe, and so did your fellow Capuchin techs—that glee club behind you—and you were expecting us to be a delegation of thugs from the master, threatening you to come around if you know what’s good for you. I guessed wrong at first. The other Capuchins aren’t your guards; they’re the other union leaders.”

Dostchem snorted uneasily and the other Capuchins furled their tails up around themselves. That was supposed to be a sign of nervousness, if the xenoentho crowd had got something right for a change.

“Maybe you don’t talk too much, but you certainly
say
too much,” Dostchem said.

“Then I will say more. Aid us now, cooperate with us—and the harbormaster need not take a cut at all.”

There was a brief, stunned silence as the Capuchins digested that offer, a silence suddenly overtaken by an excited chatter that seemed to be taking place in three languages at once. Suss looked up to Spencer, seeking his approval. Spencer was tempted to protest, but stopped himself. After all, what business was it of his whether or not a corrupt harbormaster made a profit? And it occurred to Spencer that they were going to need some help surviving in this city—it might as well come from someone they could repay. Maybe. Repairs to the ship were going to be delayed, but it seemed the wrong moment to point out that
Duncan
was heading back into orbit for a while. He nodded once, very slightly.

Finally, Dostchem turned and spoke for the Capuchins while the others in the group dispersed immediately, as if eager to get away from each other. “Agreed. Our strike was perhaps unwise anyway. We were inspired by Chairman Jameson. He promised to resolve such graft when he took over StarMetal, but nothing ever came of it. We will assist you where we can, and you will provide our guild with direct work contracts, without going through the harbormaster. What is it you want to do?”

“First off,” Suss said, “I wonder if we couldn’t continue negotiations off the street.” She tried to speak without letting her relief show. “We were headed to a place we know—”

Santu supplied smoothly, “The La Atsefni Arms.”

“—the La Atsefni Arms.”

Dostchem flicked her tail derisively. “Your information is out of date. That place burned to the ground two years ago. It was not by accident, and good riddance. I shall lead you to my own place. There is a spare room there you can use without disturbing me.”

Without saying more, she turned and led them down the street. The humans followed—nervously.

Dostchem turned in at a crumbling sancrete building. By the look of it, the place had been meant as affordable housing for low-income humans, then abandoned by humans when the “aliens” started moving into the area, perhaps a century before. It certainly didn’t look suited to aboreal beings. Dotschem scuttled up the outside stairs and through the exterior door without turning to see if the humans were still with her. Once inside, she led them up four rickety flights of plastic steps and into her apartment.

Spencer and Suss hesitated on the threshold of the flat. This was not the sort of place they had expected. An apartment in such a building should have been as shabby and worn and dreary as everything else in Undertown—but these rooms, modest as they were, fairly gleamed with elegance and dignity.

There was little in the rooms, just a few pieces of simple handsome furniture, a rug on the floor, and two or three unidentifiable but handsome wall decorations that were not quite painting, not quite sculpture, but something in between. Everything perfectly, gleamingly clean. The effect was not one of barrenness, but of a deliberate and reserved sparseness and simplicity.

This was not merely a place to stay out of the rain, but a quiet refuge, a retreat. The three humans stepped into it cautiously, almost shyly, knowing they were stepping into a most private place.

Dostchem vanished into an inner room, closed the door behind her, and reappeared in moment or two, wearing a long flowing red gown of brightest color, decorated with the most delicate of abstract patterns picked out in a dozen colors of thread. It reminded Suss of the ancient kimonos she had seen in books about Japan. Dostchem now wore a cap also red, but of a more subdued color, almost a burgundy.

Dostchem slipped a hand inside the sleeve of her robe and produced a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. She put them on, balancing them carefully on her flat, upturned nose, and took a seat by the window, looking even more like one of the wise old mystics or philosophers of Earth’s lost ages.

She gestured impatiently toward the other chairs in the room. The humans sat down carefully. The chairs, intended for the lighter Capuchin frame, were small for humans and just a trifle on the flimsy side. Spencer’s chair creaked.

Dostchem looked at each of them in turn, her solemn, spectacled face giving very little away. Suss wondered if the absurdly old-fashioned spectacles were merely there for effect, as unlike the Capuchin way of doing things as that seemed. Then she remembered reading somewhere that corrective surgery did not work on Capuchin eyes.

“I see that you are interested in my garments,” Dotschem said. “These are the proper robes for a scholar of instrumentation, such as is worn by all of that rank on my planet. On this unpleasant world, I would be scorned in the street if I chose to wear them—most of all by the degenerate, illiterate Capuchins that seem to have settled here. But in my own home, I will not deny myself the honors of my station in life.

“Now then, you claim to be from the
Duncan.
I require proof of that before I can help you. While I assume first of all that you know you would not leave Undertown alive if you do not satisfy me on this point, and secondly assume that you are therefore prepared to convince me, no wise being ever relies on assumptions.”

Spencer pulled out his Pact ID card and tossed it on a low table in front of Dostchem. “Any ID card can be faked,” he said, ‘but I think you’ll find that authentic, and properly identifies me as
Duncan’s
master. This woman is not Pact military, but is working with me.”

“I will ask you to remain in this room while I examine this ID with my own devices. As you say, any ID can be faked. But few fakes can fool me. I will return shortly.”

Spencer waited until Dostchem had closed the door to her inner room, then leaned back and sighed in relief. The chair creaked once more, a bit ominously it seemed, but it held.

They were safe, and they could count on being safe tor more than the next thirty seconds. Dostchem was not going to betray them—not while there was a chance of her making a profit on the deal. There seemed little chance of the autocops tracking them here. They were even clear of the murderous parasites aboard the
Duncan.

It was time to talk. Suss, Spencer, and Sisley began to compare notes. Spencer wasn’t quite surprised to find the two women had trouble believing in the parasites at first, until they realized the parasites would explain the autocop attack. No rational police controller would have handled the cops with a tenth that level of violence—but put a parasite into the central autocop command computer and you didn’t need a human controller.

Far more disturbing to Suss was the news that McCain’s AID had been infested, and had killed its mistress. Clearly, she would have to operate without her AID for a while—and Spencer decided he would have to do the same. If the baddies were able to track them, maybe they had had a chance to drop a parasite somehow. It seemed unlikely, but clearly they did not understand much of anything about the parasites.

But dammit, there were too many things that didn’t make sense, that they needed to figure out. He sat and thought while Suss and Sisley talked together, trying to come to grips with the idea of the parasites.

Spencer found that it was gradually sinking in that they had stumbled into a much higher-stakes game than they had bargained for. Getting a parasite aboard the
Duncan
and into McCain’s AID was one thing—but good lord, if the parasites could take over the autocops what else could they control? Every machine on the planet? In the entire star system? It seemed the parasites had to be in direct physical contact with a machine before they could control it. That ought to limit the spread for a while—but what happened if one of them was carried aboard a ship and out of the star system? Good God, could the things
breed?
How big
was
this?

And how could one semi-functional cruiser (that might still be sabotaged) and three overage destroyers stop them? Especially as Spencer did not dare take his own ships out of the system for fear of carrying one of the damn things along. Hell, could the
Duncan
even be trusted to fly? How close was Tarwa to boosting the big ship out into orbit?

He could not send a message out of the Daltgeld system without using a ship, as the enemy (whoever that was) had demonstrated that it controlled the faster-than-light comm links. None of his ships carried Hyperwave sending gear—the hardware was too big to fit in anything smaller than a monitor-class vessel.

Which left him with the planet’s Hyperwave comsat gear. StarMetal controlled it, and McCain’s problems had shown it to be contaminated.

He could not send a ship, or a message. He could not send for help, or call for it.

He was on his own.

Another thing to worry about: if he were commanding the enemy forces, he would not be happy with the
Duncan
sitting where she was. She was a threat. Sooner or later, the baddies were going to neutralize that threat. And a capital ship was a sitting duck in port. She couldn’t use her primary weapons—or even lift for orbit direct from the port—without vaporizing half the city.

Damn it, if he had elected to land one of the destroyers instead, they could have landed her at the spaceport, on dry land, in the middle of clear open spaces designed for a ship to boost from. But the
Duncan
was just too damn big for even the local spaceport to accommodate.

He had to get her out of harm’s way. That might be the opposite direction a warship was supposed to go, but Allison Spencer told himself he was not fool enough to endanger his command for the sake of his ego. He had made a mistake in landing the cruiser. Now he had to rectify it.

Spencer took a deep breath. “I don’t think there is a large conspiracy here,” he said. “A very small group in the StarMetal hierarchy—”

“Or one man,” Suss said.

“And he or they are using self-operating or remotely controlled machinery. Power doors, autocops—”

Suss smiled grimly. “Especially autocops. Which shouldn’t be able to use deadly force without a pair of human supervisors in the circuit.”

“He—or they—controls the parasites,” Spencer concluded. “And the parasites control everything else.” He swallowed. “I need to warn the
Duncan.”

Dostchem reentered the room. “Yes, Captain, you are you. That ID is no fake or I’ll hang up this robe for good.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re satisfied. Now, I need to get in touch with my ship; and I don’t trust AIDs or radios of any sort. Those means of communication would be monitored. But I’ll bet that
your
phone line is untraceable, isn’t it?”

Dostchem blinked in surprise and her tail curled up out of her kimono to wrap itself around her neck. “Astonishing,” she said. “I’m not used to a human smart enough to do its own thinking. My apologies, Captain. Yes, of course. Very few of the phone lines in Undertown are what they seem to be. Your opposition will not be able to track my line to its point of origin—and my instruments would immediately detect any such attempt. Is there a hardwire line from the pier into the
Duncan?”

“Yes, there is,” Spencer replied—wondering if it were another way in for the parasites.

“Then if I may lead you to the phone?”

“Good.” Spencer thought of something else, and unholstered his AID from its hip pouch. He tossed it to Suss. “Let’s play it safe,” he said. “Put our two clockwork pals on ice, and keep them out of contact with each other.”

Suss caught the AID in mid-air and grinned at Spencer. “Will do,” she said. “But it’s a little late in the day to start playing it safe. You should have just stayed in bed.”

Spencer smiled wearily. “Now she tells me. Come on, Dostchem, show us to the phone.”

Chapter Ten
Contacts

Chief Engineer Wellingham glared at the parasite as it undulated across the bottom of the sealed plastic cube, slithered up the side of the box, crept over the inside of the lid, then back down the side, endlessly seeking a way out.

Wellingham had concluded some hours ago that there were too many hiding places in the glovebox itself—too many nooks and crannies, too many access doors, too many handling arms and other devices in the glovebox that damn thing might be able to take over. The whole glovebox unit was sealed from the outside environment, of course—but Wellingham didn’t like the idea of the parasite slithering up into the workings of the glovebox and commanding the air lock to open.

So he had used the air lock himself, putting a clear plastic storage cube inside the glovebox. He urged the parasite into the cube, and sealed the thing in by using the laser to melt the box’s lid on. For good measure, he kept the sealed box inside the sealed glovebox. It made some of his tests harder to run, but that little bastard wasn’t going anywhere.

Which was but faint comfort. There was
another
of these wee beasties loose in his ship, and they had no way to catch it, no way to detect it. About all they knew was that it wasn’t still on the door controls, either central or local—those Wellingham had ordered searched with a microscope.

So even if they had this one caught in a box, Wellingham didn’t regard himself as having made much progress. The captain had ordered him to find a way to detect the little bastard that was still skulking around inside the
Duncan.
So far Wellingham hadn’t even found a way to make the parasite inside the plastic box show up on any remote-sensing instrument.