Black Steel (11 page)

Reason touched a control on his reader and the dim text vanished. He appeared thoughtful. "Doesn't resonate offhand," he said. "Rift."

"In Delta," Sleel offered.

"I know where it is. I'm trying to remember if I've ever been there." He shook his head. "I can't recall anything. Certainly not recently."

"How recent is recently?"

"Thirty years."

Sleel nodded. "All right. It would be nice to know why, but it's more important to know who at this point. I've got a couple of worms digging for information on this guy."

"Cierto," Reason said. "No, the name doesn't mean anything to me. Are we certain that is who it is?"

"No. He could be lending his ship out, I suppose. But according to Dirisha, this guy likes to play with swords. Black swords. "

"Ah. "

"Yeah. And he's got a lot of money if he owns his own starship; he'll probably figure out a way to get into The Brambles. "

"Despite the security?"

"I can think of three or four ways without taxing my brain."

"What do we do?"

"We don't stay here. There's a camp about a hundred and fifty klicks away, used by one of the local religious groups for retreats. It'll be empty this time of year. We'll go there." Whatever his parents were or were not, Sleel wouldn't bring deadly danger to their cube. It had been a while since he'd lived here, but he knew the territory. Once thing nice about an orchard with a lifetime harvest cycle was that it stayed pretty much the same. The advantages were his when it came to terrain, and also when it came to training, he figured. Like he had told Dirisha, it was a piece of easy.

Still, just in case, he ought to pick up a few things. If the bad guys knew he was guarding Reason, and surely they must, given what had happened to the last would-be assassin on Earth, then they would plug that into their equation. It would be good to alter that picture before they came to call.

Getting to Mtu was easy enough. Finding the ship she wanted was not much more difficult. It was up there, all right, circling at the outer limits of the atmosphere, as regular as a pulse timer. Getting to it was another matter.

Wu sat in a booth at a theme restaurant, working her way through a meal of Lagomustardorian waterfowl. Supposedly it was fresh and supposedly it was steeped in a genuine mchele and namna ya tunda sauce, but Wu had trouble believing that either was true. The bird was tough and the sauce awfully bland for the normally fiery rice-and-strawberry liquor.

The restaurant, on the edge of the tourist quarter, was somewhat better appointed. It had as its focus the early history of the Wild South on the neighboring world of Mwanamamke, complete with holographic representations of a vast struthio ranch. The large and ungainly flightless birds, half again the size of a tall man, most of the height being legs and neck, padded back and forth across the grasslands of the high plateau with appropriate sound effects, squawks, trills, mating whistles and the thud of splay-feet.

To Wu's left, where a gilded rope prevented the unwary from smacking nose first into the wall hidden by the holoproj, a pair of struthio went through an arcane mating dance, bobbing and stretching, doing small leaps back and forth, singing in raspy tones to each other. The female was the aggressor in this ritual, nature's balance on the plain having produced fewer of them than of the male birds; too, the female was the bearer of the brighter plumage.

The female, having excited the male so that a small and glistening purple penis now peeped from his downy feathers, turned and presented to him in a half squat. The male mounted her, having to rise up onto his toes to accomplish the insertion. As he began to thrust, the female beat her vestigial wings in time to his movements. The act of copulation itself lasted no more than a few seconds. The male withdrew, shook himself into a fluffy state, smoothed his feathers, then turned and padded off. The female straightened from her crouch and went in the opposite direction. Neither bird looked back at the other.

Seemed like a lot of dancing for such a short climax, Wu thought. Must be particularly intense for the birds. Whatever, it was more interesting than the meal.

Wu did not think that Cierto had come all the way to this world merely to fly round and round it; likely he would come down sooner or later, had he not done so already. She had begun discreet inquiries, hiring a local private investigative firm to that end. As long as his ship was still up there, she guessed that Cierto would be here. True, this was not an appropriate assumption, any more than the one that Cierto hadn't come here simply to circle in orbit. One was not supposed to assume anything; Master Ven had always been quite explicit about that. Still, sometimes it was hard to be in the moment and not jump to that juicy conclusion just ahead in the path.

Wu sighed and pushed away the remains of her supper. There was nothing wrong with personal ambition-Master Ven had taught her that, too-unless it got in the way of spiritual progress. The paths of power and magic were seductive; a seeker must stay on guard to avoid being lured into a dead-end road.

It was all too easy to become rich or famous or influential, were such things all that one wished to accomplish. The growth of spirit required much more than these and they could easily stunt that growth, did not one tread with great care. Master Ven himself had been the most powerful man Wu had ever known, yet only a handful of people had ever seen it, for he was careful to keep it hidden unless there was a great need for demonstration. She had never seen him walk on water, but there was a part of her past her rational mind that would have believed him had he ever said he could.

This thing with Cierto was a personal goal, an ambition, and Wu must take care that she not allow it to block her way. Easier thought than done, however.

Behind her, another pair of giant birds began to dance. She shifted to watch them.

An old man came into the restaurant. He wore a standard gray business one-piece and sandals and looked ordinary enough, save for the old-style tripolar droud sockets on the sides of his shaved skull. He walked to where Wu sat and nodded at her. "Fem Wu?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Scanner, from the agency. We spoke earlier on the com. "

The transmission had been without visuals, but Wu recognized the scratchy voice. "Please sit down."

The old man did. "I've located our subject. He has a suite at the Vivu Hotel. There are seven others with him from offworld, including the boxcar pilot, and at least one local staying there. His people have been making inquiries about The Brambles."

Wu nodded. "You are very efficient."

The old man tapped one of his drouds. "Electron dances can tell you a lot, if you know where to look."

"Anything else?"

"Our subject has just bought a small chemical manufacturing plant in Pau; that's a little industrial town about forty klicks away from here."

"A chemical plant?"

"It mostly produces several forms of chlorine, bottled gas, blocks, and a granulated dry powder. The various aspects are used primarily where UV or US water treatment is impractical. Swimming pools and small drinking-water tanks, like that."

"Odd," Wu said.

Scanner-shrugged.

"And where is Cierto now?"

"As of thirty minutes ago, in transit to the plant at Pua."

Wu shook her head, puzzled. Certainly Cierto's business was his own, but it did seem passing strange that he would travel all the way across the galaxy to personally buy something like this.

"Thank you," Wu said to Scanner. "I appreciate your skill and speed."

The old man smiled. "Years of practice."

"Any of my retainer left?"

"About half."

"Keep it."

"You're too generous, Fem Wu. You want an opinion?"

"Sure."

"The chlorine plant has a contract to deliver in The Brambles; been doing it for years."

"So?"

"So, unless you have a stack of clearances, you can't get into the place. Tight security. You know what they're doing there?"

"I've heard."

"Well, hopping the fence is dangerous, apt to get you killed, and incomings and outgoings are checked.

But if you wanted to get past the guards, owning a hovervan that has been making the trip for years would be one way to go about it."

Wu nodded again. "All right. But why would he want to sneak into The Brambles?"

"Got me. I'm just saying he probably can, if he wants."

Wu considered that. Buying the chem plant would make more sense if there was some ulterior motive involved.

"Thanks again," she said.

"All part of the service, fem." As he stood, he measured her with a look. "As one kind of dancer to another."

She nodded once, acknowledging his call. He might be old, but his eyes and the mind behind them were still sharp.

Now, the question was: why did Cierto want to go into The Brambles?

Chapter ELEVEN

"ALL IS IN readiness, Patron," Miguel said.

The morning's heat had already started to rise, the tropical foliage steaming under the bright sun, the air vaporous and heavy over the chemical plant. The sharp stink of the chlorinating compound stabbed at Cierto's nostrils as he stood next to the hovervan watching the final plastic barrel of the stuff being loaded.

"Very well. Tell it to me again."

Miguel, a squat and muscular man of twenty-two, nodded once. "Luis and Juanita are en route in their vans. Juanita is already within the compound; Luis will be arriving at the border within a few moments. The scientist has rigged Luis's van for the diversion. Dona is on-station and ready to bring up the escape vehicle. Your suit is inside, as are the two gliders."

He indicated the van with a glance. "All of the identification materials have been logged and vetted. The quarry has been positively located and the maps and overlays are in the van's computer. The quarry is alone with the single guard. Everything is just as planned."

Cierto rubbed at his lower lip with one finger. "Very well. Let us depart."

He and Miguel entered the van. The young man moved to the control seat while Cierto went to put on his special clothing. This was a third-generation shiftsuit, which gave the wearer the ability to match a stationary background almost to the point of invisibility. Seated upon a barrel in the back of the van, a man wearing such a disguise would appear to be part of the truck's wall even in bright light. In addition, the shiftsuit had been lined with spidersilk panel armor, so that it was roughly equivalent to class-two military gear. Wearing such, with the hood and matching face shield, would not only make a man virtually undetectable by human eyes, but also impervious to many personal hand weapons. It was not as good as a full class-one hardsuit, or even the new issue softsuits-a powerful thrust from a sharp knife would surely pierce it, for instance-but it would stop a spetsdod dart.

A special pouch on the left side hid his sword; on his right hip, a shielded holster contained a 12mm Rynar projectile pistol. This weapon held a magazine containing nine squashed-ceramic frangible bullets that could be driven to very high velocity by electromagnetic pulses. His armor wouldn't stop these, either. The thief should die by Cierto's blade, true enough, but the matador need merely be gotten out of the way with whatever means necessary.

Each of his students also had such gear ready for use at the proper time. True, it was bulky and it tended to slow one's moments, but the advantages outweighed the disadvantages for this encounter. It was hot, even with the built-in regulators, but in the cooled compartment of the van this was no problem. With luck, he would only have to wear the suit outside for a brief time.

As he dressed, Cierto reviewed the plan once again. It was simple enough. Miguel had a delivery flight that would take them within a few kilometers of where the old thief was hiding. At an appropriate place, he and Miguel would leave the vehicle and fly between the rows of trees using small delta-wing gliders powered with tiny, silent repulsors. The hovervan would continue toward its distant destination on robotic controls. It would overfly the stop and either be shot down or eventually crash on its own, but by then; Cierto would be long gone. '

Juanita would perform a similar 'action with her van. Luis would also join them, via glider, but not before he allowed his van to supposedly develop repellor trouble. After Luis called for help, his van would crash into the trees.

The scientist had explained it to Cierto with a kind of delight. "Certain chemicals when mixed produce a delayed but very intense form of combustion. These chlorinated granules, for instance, are relatively harmless when dry, see?" He dipped one hand into the white grains and allowed them to sift through his fingers back into the container, a metal bowl that held about a liter of the material.

"This is common hydraulic fluid," the tame scientist said, holding up a clear cup filled with a reddish liquid. "It is used in wing controls, landing gear and such. By itself it is harmless. Mix it with the chlorinating compound, however-" With that, he dumped the liquid into the bowl with the granules.

"And the combination proves to be something else altogether." The scientist glanced at his timepiece.

Cierto looked at the sludge formed by the liquid and the granules. It bubbled a little, but nothing else seemed to be happening. "Very impressive," he said, his voice dry.

"It takes about four minutes," the scientist said. He continued to monitor the time. "Please stand back, Patron."

Cierto moved back to a spot indicated by the scientist, five meters away from the mixture. A strong odor, bitter and sharp, reached him, and a smallish amount of smoke arose from the bowl. The time dragged. "I don't see-"

A pillar of flame erupted from the bowl, reaching three meters into the air with a sudden roar, as if spewed forth by a mythological dragon. The heat of it singed Cierto's eyebrows and the hair on the back of his hands even at this distance. This was impressive.

"Ah," Cierto said.

"Si, Patron. If a van carrying a load of such granulated chlorine compound crashes and spills much of it, and if the hydraulic lines of the van which contain more than a dozen liters of the liquid should also rupture . . .