Authors: Mike Resnick
Oracle (2 page)
"I have been looking for her for sixteen years.” She paused. “She was taken from me in the Democracy. The Democracy encompasses more than ten thousand worlds; it took me more than a decade, and most of my late husband's money, to discover that she was no longer there, but was on the Inner Frontier."
"She was on the Inner Frontier fourteen years ago, Mrs. Bailey,” said the Iceman. “She could be anywhere now—the Inner Frontier, the Rim, the Spiral Arm, the Outer Frontier, even back in the Democracy. It wouldn't be difficult for someone with her abilities to hide from anyone who was looking for her."
"She's on the Inner Frontier,” repeated Bettina Bailey adamantly.
He stared at her, unable to totally conceal his interest. “How do you know?"
"When you are willing to be open and frank with me, I will respond in kind,” she replied. “For the moment, you will have to take my word that I know where she is."
He paused for a long moment. “All right,” he said at last. “You know where she is."
She nodded. “And I want her back."
"And you want her back,” he repeated. “Why have you come to me? Why don't you just go to wherever she is and take her home?"
"It's not that simple,” she said. “She may not recognize me—and even if she does, she's been with aliens for most of her life. She may not want to come back with me."
"She's an adult by now,” said the Iceman. “That's her choice to make."
"I'm willing to let her make it,” said Bettina Bailey. “But away from the influence of the aliens."
"There's only one alien that I know about."
She shook her head. “She's on an alien planet."
"Which one?"
"I'll tell you when we have an agreement."
"What kind of agreement?” asked the Iceman.
"I want you to bring her back to me."
"If you don't think she'll go with you, why do you think she'll come with me?"
"I told you—I've studied you. You've had experience dealing with aliens and operating on the Inner Frontier. If you need help, you'll know what kind to get and where to get it."
The Iceman stared at her thoughtfully. “It could be very expensive, Mrs. Bailey."
"How expensive?"
"A million Maria Theresa dollars now, another million when the job is done."
"Maria Theresa dollars?” she repeated, frowning. “I thought they were only in use in the Corvus system. What's wrong with credits?"
"We don't have much faith in the longevity of the Democracy out here, Mrs. Bailey,” answered the Iceman. “We have even less faith in its currency. Credits are unacceptable. If you can't get the Maria Theresa dollars, I'll take double the amount in New Stalin rubles."
"I'll get the dollars,” she replied.
"How soon?"
"I can have them transferred here in three days’ time."
"Then I'll set the wheels in motion three days from now,” said the Iceman.
"What do you mean: set the wheels in motion?"
"I'll select who I want to find your daughter."
"But I thought you would be going."
He shook his head. “She knows me, Mrs. Bailey—and I don't think she'd be too happy to see me again."
"But I chose you precisely because she does know you!"
"That's not necessarily an advantage with your daughter,” he said dryly. “Now, where is she?"
Bettina Bailey was silent for a moment. Then she shrugged. “She's on Alpha Crepello III."
"Never heard of it."
"It's in the Quinellus Cluster."
"And what makes you so sure she's there?"
She leaned forward intently. “We both know that my daughter has a rare talent."
"Go on."
"Word has gotten back to Deluros VIII that there is a human female on Alpha Crepello III. The public isn't supposed to know about her, but I've bribed sources within the government. No one seems to know if this female is in the employ of the aliens who inhabit Alpha Crepello III, or if she is their prisoner, but she is known as the Oracle.” She paused. “If I were to choose a name for Penelope, I couldn't choose a more accurate one than that."
"And that's the sum total of your knowledge?” asked the Iceman. “No description? No communication with her or anyone who's dealt with her?"
"Just that,” answered Bettina Bailey. “The Alpha Crepello system isn't part of the Democracy, and has almost no commerce with it. It took me two years to ascertain that the Oracle was a human, and another two to determine that she was a female."
The Iceman stared at her. “Do you know the odds against this being your daughter, Mrs. Bailey?"
"I've spent sixteen years piecing together these bits of information,” she replied. “I could die of old age before I came up with concrete proof.” She paused. “Do we have a deal?"
For just an instant the interest he had tried so hard to conceal flashed across his face. Then, just as quickly, the impassive mark was back in place.
"We have a deal,” said the Iceman.
The star charts called it Boyson III. Locally it was known as The Frenchman's World.
In the beginning it had been a wild, untamed jungle planet, covered with dense vegetation and a plethora of exotic animals. Then Man had moved in, had killed most of the animals and plowed under the jungle, and had turned it into an agricultural world, supplying food for all the nearby mining planets. But within twenty years alien viruses destroyed the imported meat animals, the imported corn and wheat, and even the hybrid animals and crops. After that the colonists all went elsewhere, and Boyson III slowly reverted back into a jungle world over the next six centuries.
Then the Frenchman had arrived. They said that he'd spent his whole life collecting alien animals for zoos back in the Democracy, and that he had retired to Boyson III to spend his remaining years hunting for sport. He had erected a sprawling white house on the banks of a wide river, had invited some friends to join him, and eventually word of the hunting leaked out and a small safari industry developed.
All that had been more than 200 years ago. The Frenchman's World hadn't changed much in the interim, except that its wildlife had been pretty thoroughly decimated, and only a handful of guides remained, the rest having migrated to newly-opened worlds where their clients could fill their trophy rooms with less effort.
It was estimated that the permanent human population of The Frenchman's World was now less than two hundred. One of them, who was said to be the last man to have been born on the planet, had moved into the Frenchman's old house and created his own private landing strip by the river.
His name was Joshua Jeremiah Chandler. He had been a very successful hunter in his youth, but no one had seen him on the safari trail in almost a decade. He was known, initially on the Frenchman's World and finally all across the Inner Frontier, as the Whistler, from a trick he had of whistling to get an animal's attention just before he shot it. He was a very private, even secretive, man, who kept his business and his thoughts to himself. He was gone from the planet for long periods of time, and he did almost all his banking on other worlds. No mail or radio messages ever came for him, though from time to time a small ship landed at his strip by the river.
The Iceman's ship was the most recent to touch down, and as he walked up the long, winding path to the house, he found himself sweating profusely in the heat and the humidity, and wondering why anyone would choose to live in such surroundings. He slapped a purple-and-gold flying insect that had landed on the side of his neck, barely avoided stepping on a nasty-looking horned reptile that hissed at him and scuttled off into the thick undergrowth, and mopped his face with a handkerchief.
When he emerged from the bush, he climbed a stone staircase and found himself standing on a large deck that extended far out over the river. The water was teeming with life: huge aquatic marsupials, delicate watersnakes, long ugly reptiles, all swam among a plethora of colorful fish that dwelt near the surface. The forest that lined the water had been cleared from the far bank, so that observers on the deck could watch herbivores coming down to the river to drink. Right now there were clouds of butterflies flying low over the water, and a score of avians walked methodically across the clearing, pecking at the ground, while a handful of waterbirds waded in the shallows, searching for small fish.
The Iceman heard a glass door slide into a wall, and a moment later a tall, lean, auburn-haired man in his late thirties walked out onto the deck. He was dressed in a nondescript brown outfit that seemed to have pockets everywhere. A large-brimmed hat shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun.
"I see you made it,” said Chandler by way of greeting.
"You're a hard man to find, Whistler,” replied the Iceman.
"You managed.” Chandler paused. “Care for a drink?"
The Iceman nodded. “Please."
"I really ought to charge you,” said Chandler with an amused smile as he led the Iceman into the interior of the house. “I don't recall you ever giving me a free drink back on Last Chance."
"And you never will,” said the Iceman, returning Chandler's smile. The room in which he found himself was quite large, and the cool stone floor, whitewashed walls, and widespread eaves helped to dissipate the heat. There were a few stuffed chairs, covered with the pelts of native animals, a rug made of the head and fur of a large carnivore, a small book-and-tape case, a subspace radio set, and a clock made of some strange translucent substance that seemed to be forever shimmering and changing colors. The walls were lined with framed wanted posters, each depicting an outlaw that Chandler had killed or captured.
"Interesting trophies,” commented the Iceman, gesturing to the posters.
"People make the best hunting,” answered Chandler. He walked behind a hardwood bar and opened a small refrigerator. “What'll it be?"
"Anything cold."
Chandler mixed two identical drinks and handed one to the Iceman. “This should do it."
The Iceman took a long swallow. “Thanks."
"Anything for a client,” said Chandler. He looked intently at the Iceman. “You are a client, aren't you?"
"Potentially.” The Iceman looked out across the river. “Do you mind if we go back out on the deck? It may be a pain in the ass to get here, but it's really lovely once you arrive."
"Why not?” assented Chandler, leading him back out to the deck.
"It must be very convenient, to be able to stand right here and shoot dinner,” continued the Iceman.
Chandler shrugged. “I wouldn't know."
"Oh?"
"I never hunt within five miles of here. I don't want to frighten the game away.” He paused. “Some animals are for eating, some are for sport, and some are for looking at. These are for looking at."
"You know,” said the Iceman, “now that I think of it, I haven't seen any weapons around here."
"Oh, there are weapons,” Chandler assured him. “But not for the game."
A delicate white avian landed atop one of the aquatic marsupials and began picking insects off its head.
"I miss this place whenever I'm away from it,” said Chandler, standing at the edge of the deck and looking across the river. “If I take this assignment, how long will I be gone?"
"I won't lie to you,” said the Iceman. “This job doesn't figure to be easy or fast."
"What does it entail?” asked Chandler, sipping his drink and staring out at the river.
"I'm not sure yet."
Chandler arched an eyebrow, but made no comment.
"Have you ever heard of Penelope Bailey?” continued the Iceman, after a pause.
"I think everyone must have heard of her, back about ten or fifteen years ago,” answered Chandler. “They were offering one hell of a reward for her."
"That's the one."
"As I recall, everybody wanted her: the Democracy, a couple of alien worlds, even some pirate.” He paused. “I never did hear what happened to her, just that one day a bunch of bounty hunters turned up dead, and after that nobody seemed all that interested in trying to collect the reward.” He turned to the Iceman. “There was a story making the rounds that that you were involved in some way."
"I was."
"What was all the fuss about?” asked Chandler. “Hundreds of people were after her, but no one ever said what made a little girl worth five or six million credits."
"She wasn't exactly your normal, run-of-the-mill little girl,” said the Iceman wryly.
Chandler picked a few pieces of stale bread out of one of his pockets and laid them out on the railing, then watched as a trio of colorful avians descended, picked them up, and flew off with them. “If you want me to find her and bring her back, you're going to have to tell me what made her worth all that money,” he said at last.
"I will,” said the Iceman, taking a sip of his drink. “And you won't have to find her."
"You know where she is?"
"Perhaps."
"Either you do or you don't."
"I know the location of the person I'm sending you after,” replied the Iceman. “I don't know if she's Penelope Bailey."
"Would you know Penelope Bailey if you saw her?” asked Chandler.
"It's been a long time, and she's a grown woman now,” answered the Iceman. “I honestly don't know if I'd recognize her."
"Then how will you know if I bring you the right woman?"
"There are other ways of telling.” The Iceman paused. “Also, if she is Penelope Bailey, there's every likelihood that you won't be able to bring her back."
Chandler looked up at sky, which had suddenly clouded over. “It rains every afternoon about this time,” he said. “Let's go inside and make ourselves comfortable, and you can lay it out for me."
He led the Iceman back inside the house, ordered the glass portals to slide shut, and walked over to a pair of chairs that had been carved out of the native hardwood of the surrounding forest and covered with the pelts of some blue-skinned animals.
"All right,” he said, when both men had seated themselves. “I'm listening."
"Penelope Bailey was eight years old when I met her,” said the Iceman. “The Democracy had taken her away from her parents when she was five or six, and an alien had stolen her from the Democracy. By the time I ran across her, she was in the company of a woman who used to work for me."
