Authors: Mike Resnick
Oracle (13 page)
It was a small building, with an even smaller dining room. There were fifteen tables. Nine were empty, and the other six were occupied by a variety of beings, none of them human.
"As I told you, sir,” said Broussard, as they seated themselves at a table near the door, “very few humans leave their hotels to eat."
"No problem,” answered the Injun. “I wanted to see the city."
They turned to the small holographic menu that hovered above the table and ordered it to list its contents in Terran.
"I wouldn't order the meat, sir,” advised Broussard. “It translates as beef, but Hades has no trade agreements with the Democracy, and actually it's their local meat animal. Humans have some difficulty metabolizing it."
"You're not going to tell me that you've all become vegetarians?"
"No. The embassy imports all the food it needs from Port Samarkand—but these restaurants aren't owned by humans, and they don't especially cater to us, so I would consider their meat dishes suspect."
"Well, I appreciate your concern, but I've eaten animals on two dozen worlds, and nothing's ever upset my digestion yet.” He stared at the menu again for a moment, then requested the dish he wanted. As soon as it registered, the menu vanished.
"I think you're making a mistake, sir,” said Broussard with a worried frown.
The Injun shrugged. “I'll never know if I don't try."
"You're being foolish, Jimmy."
The Injun ignored the voice within his head and engaged Broussard in meaningless small talk, mostly about sports, until their meal arrived.
"Looks pretty awful,” said the Injun, staring down at the blue-green piece of meat on his plate.
"We can order something else if you'd like."
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” muttered the Injun. He took a small mouthful and chewed it thoughtfully. “Tastes about the way it looks."
Broussard turned to his own plate—a large salad—and the Injun took a few more small bites of his meat during the next few minutes, then announced that his experiment in alien cuisine was ended and that he would dine at the embassy for the duration of his stay on Hades.
"You can share some of my salad if you're still hungry,” offered Broussard.
"No, thanks. That stuff killed my appetite.” The Injun shrugged. “When all is said and done, that's just what a meal is supposed to do. I suppose I could get thin and healthy if I came here every night for a month."
He waited for Broussard to finish, left his thumbprint and ID number with the tiny computer that had generated the menu, waited another minute until the embassy accepted the bill, and then the two of them left the restaurant.
He began complaining about the meal the instant they were outside, and kept it up until they were within thirty yards of the medical center. Then, suddenly, he clutched his stomach, doubled over as if in agony, and began moaning in pain.
Broussard decided that he was too ill to wait for an embassy car, and helped him into stagger to the medical center.
As he sat, moaning hideously, on the steps outside the building while Broussard raced off to find a doctor, he listened to 32's scathing lecture on the stupidity of eating alien food and managed to fight back a grin of triumph. Then he closed his eyes and collapsed.
He felt them lift him onto a stretcher and carry him to an emergency room, then heard them leave in search of a doctor. He cracked open his right eye, looked around, and saw a very worried Broussard standing near him.
He sat up on the table, and as Broussard was about to say something, motioned him to silence. The young man stared at him curiously as he made writing motions in the air, finally nodded in comprehension, and handed him a pocket computer.
The Injun examined the voice-activated machine, then shook his head and made the same motions again. Broussard pulled a pen out of his pocket, found some paper on a nearby table, and handed both to the Injun.
DON'T SAY A WORD, wrote the Injun. AND LOCK THE DOOR.
Broussard read the message, frowned, and did as he was instructed.
NOW FIND SOME COTTON AND SOME ADHESIVE, AND TAPE MY LEFT EYE SHUT.
Broussard searched through a pair of drawers, came up with what was required, and taped the eye closed.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO SPEAK UNTIL I GIVE YOU PERMISSION. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?
Broussard read the message and nodded, still frowning, then took the paper from the Injun and wrote: WHAT'S GOING ON? WHY CAN'T I SPEAK? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR EYE?
I AM HERE ON A VERY SENSITIVE ASSIGNMENT, responded the Injun. I AM NOT AT LIBERTY TO TELL YOU THE DETAILS, BUT IT CONCERNS THE ORACLE.
A doctor began pounding on the locked door.
TELL HIM TO WAIT, wrote the Injun. MAKE UP ANY STORY THAT WILL WORK.
Broussard nodded, walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the hall. He returned a moment later.
ALL RIGHT, he wrote. NOW SUPPOSE YOU TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON?
The Injun took the pen back. DURING MY ORIENTATION AND BRIEFING PERIOD, WHILE PREPARING FOR THIS ASSIGNMENT, I LOST A DAY SOMEWHERE. I WENT TO BED ONE NIGHT, AND WOKE UP IN MY HOTEL ROOM 32 HOURS LATER. BITS AND PIECES OF INFORMATION THAT I'VE BEEN ABLE TO PIECE TOGETHER LEAD ME TO BELIEVE THAT I HAVE BEEN TAMPERED WITH.
IN WHAT WAY? asked Broussard.
I SUSPECT THAT I HAVE HAD A CAMERA AND AN AUDIO TRANSMITTER IMPLANTED INSIDE MY HEAD.
WHY DIDN'T YOU REPORT THIS TO YOUR SUPERIORS AT THE TIME?
BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHICH OF THEM IS IN THE EMPLOY OF THE ORACLE. IF I TOLD THE WRONG ONE, I WOULD HAVE BEEN TERMINATED INSTANTLY. I MADE UP MY MIND NOT TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT UNTIL I REACHED HADES.
Broussard stared at him for a long moment. WHAT IF YOU'RE WRONG?
IF I'M WRONG, YOU'VE BEEN INCONVENIENCED FOR TEN MINUTES AND I'VE MADE A FOOL OF MYSELF, BUT NO HARM HAS BEEN DONE AND NO FALSE ACCUSATIONS HAVE BEEN MADE. BUT IF I'M RIGHT, THEN OUR COVERT OPERATIONS BRANCH HAS A TRAITOR IN ITS MIDST.
WHY WOULD THEY RIG YOU WITH A CAMERA AND AN AUDIO RECEIVER? asked Broussard.
The Injun shrugged. ANY NUMBER OF REASONS. THE ORACLE COULD BE TESTING HER SECURITY, SHE COULD BE CREATING A FILE ON ALL THE HUMANS ON HADES, SHE COULD MERELY BE HOPING THAT I'LL HAVE ACCESS TO SECRET INFORMATION.
SO WHAT DO WE DO NOW? asked Broussard.
NOW WE GET SOMEONE YOU CAN TRUST—MAYBE YOUR LADY FRIEND WHO WORKS HERE—AND WE REMOVE WHATEVER'S BEEN IMPLANTED WHILE WHOEVER'S AT THE OTHER END STILL THINKS I'M BEING TREATED FOR A BELLYACHE.
Broussard looked thoughtful. SHE'S NOT THE DOCTOR I JUST SPOKE TO, BUT I KNOW SHE'S ON DUTY. He paused. BUT I'D HAVE TO TELL HER WHAT'S GOING ON.
CAN YOU TRUST HER TO KEEP QUIET?
Broussard nodded.
OK—GET HER. AND TELL HER SHE'S GOT TO WORK FAST. IT CAN'T TAKE THAT LONG TO PUMP OUT A STOMACH FULL OF BAD FOOD.
Broussard smiled and took the pen back. I'LL HAVE HER MAKE A COUPLE OF STATEMENTS ABOUT SEDATING YOU. THAT SHOULD BUY US A GOOD EIGHT TO TEN HOURS.
The young man turned to leave, but the Injun grabbed him by the arm.
ONE LAST THING, he wrote. I'M ASSUMING A CAMERA AND A RECEIVER, BUT THERE COULD BE MORE THINGS IN THERE. TELL HER TO REMOVE ANYTHING SHE FINDS.
Broussard nodded again, then walked to the door and left the emergency room. He was back some ten minutes later with a pretty but grim-faced young woman in tow. She immediately took a pen out of her pocket and wrote a message on a notepad.
I AM DOCTOR JILL HUXLEY. DANIEL HAS EXPLAINED YOUR SITUATION TO ME, AND HAS VOUCHED FOR YOUR CREDENTIALS.
THEN LET'S GET ON WITH IT, wrote the Injun.
"You've been a very foolish man, Mr. Two Feathers,” she said aloud. “Daniel warned you against eating alien food."
He managed a groan.
"It's nothing life-threatening,” she continued while writing on her notepad. “And I've got a couple of patients who are in immediate need of my services. I'm going to sedate you now, and I'll get around to emptying your stomach as soon as I get a chance."
She tore off a sheet and handed it to him.
I WILL HAVE TO MOVE YOU TO AN OPERATING THEATER, it read. AND SINCE THIS IS TO BE DONE IN ABSOLUTE SECRECY, I WILL HAVE TO ASK DANIEL TO ASSIST ME.
Broussard read the message over her shoulder and suddenly looked somewhat ill.
HOW LONG WILL IT TAKE? asked the Injun.
IF YOU HAVE BEEN TAMPERED WITH, IT WILL TAKE ME ABOUT AN HOUR TO RUN A SCAN ON YOUR HEAD AND HAVE THE COMPUTER CONSTRUCT A HOLOGRAPHIC ANALOG. THE ACTUAL SURGERY WILL LAST ANYWHERE FROM ONE TO FOUR HOURS, DEPENDING ON HOW DEEPLY IMBEDDED THE DEVICES ARE. IF YOU'RE READY, NOD YOUR HEAD AND I'LL SEND FOR SOME ATTENDANTS TO MOVE YOU.
The Injun nodded, then lay back and waited.
Two husky young men arrived a moment later, transferred him to an operating room, and then departed. Broussard had remained with him, and Jill Huxley arrived almost ten minutes later.
WHAT WAS THE DELAY? asked the Injun.
She held up a pair of treated contact lenses, then placed them in a pocket.
IF YOU'VE GOT A CAMERA IN THERE, IT WON'T STOP FUNCTIONING JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE UNCONSCIOUS. I REALIZE THAT YOUR EYES WILL BE CLOSED INITIALLY, BUT IF I HAVE TO REMOVE THE CAMERA, IT WILL RECORD WHAT IS HAPPENING ONCE I OPEN THE EYE THAT CONTAINS IT. ONCE I DETERMINE THAT A CAMERA INDEED EXISTS, I'LL INSERT THE LENSES IN MY EYES, DARKEN THE ROOM, AND OPERATE IN INFRARED LIGHT ONLY.
GOOD THINKING, wrote the Injun. I NEVER CONSIDERED THAT.
THERE'S NO NEED TO ANESTHESIZE YOU UNTIL WE DETERMINE THAT SURGERY IS INDICATED, she continued. THE SCANNING PROCESS ITSELF IS QUITE PAINLESS.
He nodded his agreement, and a moment later she had wheeled him under a large device that looked like a cross between a punchpress and an oversized camera.
IT IS ESSENTIAL THAT YOU HOLD STILL FOR THE NEXT TWENTY SECONDS, she wrote.
He made no reply, but simply handed the notepad back to her and stared up at the machine. It began whirring softly, and deep within its lens a small reddish light glowed faintly. He felt neither discomfort nor pain, and finally the whirring stopped, the light went out, and Broussard wheeled him away.
Jill Huxley gestured him to join her at a bank of computers along the far wall. One by one each screen came to life, displaying readouts that were totally meaningless to him, but finally one of them produced a three-dimensional rendering of his head, with three blinking yellow dots—one in his left eye, one deep inside his right ear, and one at the base of his skull.
HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT THIS ONE MIGHT BE? she asked, pointing to the third dot.
He shrugged. WHATEVER IT IS, IT DOESN'T BELONG THERE. TAKE IT OUT.
She ignored him for the next half hour, creating cross-sections of his head on her various machines, checking and cross-checking the best routes to reach the artificial implants.
Finally she picked up the notepad and began writing again.
I CAN REMOVE TWO OF THE DEVICES, BUT THERE MAY BE A PROBLEM WITH THE ONE IN YOUR EYE. IT'S TIED INTO THE OPTIC NERVES SO INTRICATELY THAT I MIGHT CAUSE IRREPAIRABLE DAMAGE IF I REMOVED IT.
REMOVE IT AND GIVE ME A PROSTHETIC EYE, he answered.
She shook her head. ONCE THE OPTIC NERVES ARE DAMAGED, IT REQUIRES A SPECIALIST TO IMPLANT A FUNCTIONING PROSTHETIC EYE, AND PROSTHESES ARE NOT MY FIELD. She paused and stared at him, then wrote: YOU HAVE A DECISION TO MAKE, MR. TWO FEATHERS. I CAN LEAVE THE CAMERA IN, OR YOU CAN AWAKEN WITH VISION IN ONLY YOUR RIGHT EYE. THERE'S NO THIRD OPTION.
The Injun lowered his head in thought. He didn't especially give a damn whether 32 could see what he was doing or not; his prime concern was to get rid of the explosive device, and secondarily to find a way to silence the voice within his head. But he had sold these two a story, and his answer would have to comply with it if he wanted to retain his vision.
Finally he bent over the notepad and began writing.
YOU'D BETTER LEAVE IT IN. THERE'S NO WAY I CAN REPLACE THE EYE ON HADES, AND MY MISSION MAY PLACE ME IN HAZARDOUS SITUATIONS WHERE DEPTH PERCEPTION IS ESSENTIAL. WHOEVER IMPLANTED IT HAS ALREADY SEEN DANIEL'S FACE, AND KNOWS WHAT MY QUARTERS LOOK LIKE. IF I MAKE SURE THAT I SPEND A MINIMAL AMOUNT OF TIME AT THE EMBASSY, I PROBABLY WON'T BE REVEALING ANYTHING THAT THE TRAITOR DOESN'T ALREADY KNOW.
BUT YOU WILL STILL BE TRANSMITTING EVERYTHING YOU SEE TO THE ORACLE, wrote Jill. WON'T THAT TOTALLY NEUTRALIZE YOU?
I'LL WEAR AN EYEPATCH, he wrote, smiling as the thought came to him. I'LL REMOVE IT ONLY IF AND WHEN I REQUIRE THE USE OF BOTH EYES.
ALL RIGHT, she replied. PERHAPS IT'S JUST AS WELL; I WAS UNCOMFORTABLE ABOUT OPERATING IN INFRARED LIGHT. I'LL PREPARE THE ANESTHETIC.
ONE MORE THING, he wrote, grabbing the notepad back from her. IT OCCURS TO ME THAT THE DEVICE AT THE BASE OF MY SKULL MAY HAVE BEEN PLACED THERE AS A MEANS OF CONTROLLING OR DESTROYING ME IF I GET TOO CLOSE TO THE ORACLE. HAVE YOU ANYTHING THAT CAN ANALYZE IT?
I DOUBT IT.
THEN TO BE ON THE SAFE SIDE, GET RID OF IT AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.
SHOULD I GET RID OF THE RECEIVER, TOO? she asked.
NO, he replied. IT'S HARMLESS ONCE IT'S BEEN REMOVED, AND IT MIGHT TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT THE NATURE—AND EVEN THE IDENTITY—OF THE ENEMY. SAVE IT FOR ME.
She nodded. REMOVE YOUR TUNIC, AND THEN LAY BACK ON THE TABLE. I'M GOING TO INJECT YOU WITH AN ANESTHETIC, WHICH WILL WORK ALMOST INSTANTANEOUSLY.
ONE LAST THING. THAT ALIEN MEAT REALLY IS MAKING ME SICK. CAN YOU PUMP MY STOMACH OUT WHILE I'M UNCONSCIOUS?
YES, she wrote. THAT'S PRETTY TERRIBLE STUFF. I'M SURPRISED YOU'RE NOT IN EVEN MORE DISCOMFORT.
He removed his tunic, tossed it to Broussard, who was standing around looking both uncomfortable and useless, and then he lay down on the table.
Suddenly he sat up and gestured for the notepad again.
DON'T SPEAK ONCE YOU'VE REMOVED THE AUDIO TRANSMITTER. THERE'S EVERY POSSIBILITY THAT IT WILL STILL BE FUNCTIONAL.
I'M WELL AWARE OF THAT, she replied.
Then, aloud, she said, “Well, as long as he's sedated, there's no sense bringing him out of it. Let's go to work, and when he wakes up with the grandaddy of all stomach aches, maybe it'll encourage him to be a little more intelligent about his choice of food next time he visits an alien restaurant."
