The Dragon Circle (23 page)

Duggan reached over her shoulder and snitched a chunk of roasted lily. He nodded his head in eager agreement with Loki's words.

A drum and flute began a lively tune.

“Who said we intend to leave?” Loki raised his eyebrows.

“But . . . but you surrendered?”

“Did we? Or did we kidnap you into the local version of Nirvana?”

A busty brunette, dressed only in a short sarong, grabbed Duggan's hand and dragged him toward the festival pylon standing tall at the center of the village. Long streamers of red-leafed vines trailed from the top. Flowers, grains, and tiny squash decorated the pylon as well as the vines. The brunette skipped and hopped in the opening steps of a celebratory dance. Grinning, Duggan copied her movements.

Loki allowed himself to be dragged into the dance with Sanchez.

Other couples joined them. Newcomers, men and women alike, had streamers thrust into their hands. The locals pushed and maneuvered them around and around the pylon until they were all quite dizzy.

All the while, the drum and flute kept up a throbbing and sensual rhythm.

More ale flowed.

Locals changed partners and places. Corporal Sanchez's sturdy hand caressed Loki's as she passed him. A thrill of excitement coursed through his body. Or was it revulsion. She was another strong woman who made her own decisions.

But, unlike Mum, her expressions remained open and honest.

Couples wandered off into the darkness, limbs entwined, mouths locked together.

Loki accepted the invitation in Paola Sanchez's eyes.

The drum pounded in time with the hot blood pulsing in his veins.

M
ARTIN STARED blankly at the holoimage of the HD™ 37000 in the center of his screen. He'd left the image there to distract Melinda when she hacked into his system. No matter how many fire walls he erected, she always had better software. So he left decoys to send her off in wrong directions.

“Marty!” Bruce's image jumped to the top layer of programs running on Martin's screen.

“What? Did you find something?” Martin sent a series of algorithms and wave differential equations to sleep, boosting Bruce's image.

“I think I hit the jackpot,” Bruce almost whispered. He looked over his shoulder as if he suspected adult eavesdroppers. “I found a minority report on the accident that killed your grandparents.”

“A minority report?” Martin had never heard of such a thing connected to anything but judicial opinions.

“Yeah, an IMP detective wasn't convinced it was an accident. He filed a report differing from official record. The guy must have had enough rank and prestige the courts couldn't ignore it, but they didn't agree with his assessment. So they buried the report, pretended it didn't exist without actually destroying it.”

“Does Melinda, my mother, know about this report?”

“Probably not. She didn't have my dad destroy it.” Bruce grinned.

“What does it say?” Martin suddenly felt cold to the core of his being.

“Major Van der Hooten said, and I quote, ‘Weapons residue on the hull surface indicates the vessel exploded from an external blast rather than an internal malfunction. Such residue is consistent with weaponry carried by independent merchants for defense against pirates.”

“An independent merchant? Anything else?”

“Nothing useful. I've got Jane Q backtracking flight plans for the dates one month either side of the accident. That would be a lot easier with a Klip, though.”

“Good work, Bruce. And forget the Klip. We don't want to get caught tapping private data and draining power from bigger systems.” Martin began to shiver. He did not like the implications of the minority report. His mother's corporation owned most of the vessels piloted by “independent merchants” who flew in and out of Aurora. Her parents had been barely out of the Aurora system on their way to the first jump point when the “accident” occurred. A small independent vessel attacking them would have to come from Aurora.

“Any luck on finding your birth certificate?” Bruce asked.

“No. No adoption papers either in any of Aurora's courts. Of course, Melinda could have gone offworld for my birth. Still, you'd think she'd want to stay here with her own doctor and nurses in a private clinic.”

“That's what I think, too. Kurt has a new program for tracking deleted files. He's working on that marriage license. I'll have him download a copy of the software to you so you can check more deeply.”

“Thanks, Bruce. I did find out that Melinda had Konner O'Hara arrested and exiled about a month after the date of the deleted record. Eight Terran months before I was born.”

“Just long enough for her to confirm her pregnancy and be pretty sure she wouldn't miscarry.” Bruce whistled through clenched teeth.

“Evidence is mounting that Mom married Konner, got pregnant, and then got rid of him,” Martin muttered. “But why would she arrange her parents' death and not Konner's?”

“Look at the money trail, Marty. It's always about money.”

“Something about the inheritance, I bet. I should be able to flush out a copy of my grandparents' will.”

“If you can't get it locally, I might be able to find something at Earth Central. An inheritance as big as an entire planet would have to be registered there.”

“Keep in touch, Bruce. This is getting interesting.”

“Sure 'nough. Konner's a good guy. Best counselor at camp. We missed him this summer. Missed you, too.” He signed off.

“Konner—Dad?” Martin tried out the sound of the word on his tongue. It sounded fine, slipped out of his mouth much easier than “Mom” or “Mother” when he thought about Melinda.

“Scaramouch, call up Super Snooper™,” he ordered his computer.

The icon of two fencers clashing blades progressed back and forth across the screen indicating the machine needed time to process the request. Martin watched the chronometer tick off the seconds while he waited. When the fencers stabbed each other and their blood burst forth in a kaleidoscope of unrelated dots and lines, Martin donned his VR gear.

The dots and lines resolved into the three-dimensional image of a slender man with sharp features wearing a tweed Inverness cape and deerstalker cap who strode purposefully into the screen area. He carried a large meerschaum pipe and an old-fashioned magnifying glass.

“The game is afoot, Master Martin,” he said in clipped tones. An edge of excitement tinged his voice.

“I need to know if anyone over at the port has noticed that I moved the ‘no access' order for Martin Konner O'Hara, ship
Sirius
,” Martin said.

“A disguise is in order, Master Martin.” The detective shed his cape and cap to reveal the rough coveralls of a dock worker. He shifted his posture to suggest broader shoulders. His aquiline features spread and flattened.

These changes merely symbolized the signature masking taking place deep within the computer. Every computer on Aurora—except possibly Melinda's—had a registered signature that could be traced by the authorities back to the user. Alteration of that signature carried heavy monetary and criminal penalties. If he got caught.

Martin had no intention of getting caught. All he needed was one quick look at the harbormaster's calendar.

“You will need more memory available to complete this task, Master Martin,” the detective said in a monotone—a clear indication that the huge Super Snooper™ program struggled to work within the constraints of Martin's computer. Melinda's would have been able to handle both the program and the holoimage.

“Scaramouch, cancel HD™ 37000.” He waved his hand across the holo screen. In the wake of his gesture, a telltale afterimage of green fire followed his hand movement. Someone monitored his activity.

Guess who? Melinda. She was the only one in the entire corporate headquarters/mansion who had the hardware and software to beat him at his own game.

“Super Snooper, remove observer.”

“Are you certain, Master Martin, that you wish to alert the observer by forcing them out of the program?” The detective had resumed his costume of Inverness cape and deerstalker cap.

“Alternatives?” Martin asked.

“Diversion.” The detective smiled. Mischief glinted in his holoimage eyes.

“Do it!” Martin agreed. The detective pulled a leathersynth strap about one meter in length from the capacious pocket of his cape. A canine—the likes of which had never been seen on Aurora except in holoimage—sprang from the white background and loped over to the detective. It sat on the man's foot and looked up at him imploringly.

Martin wanted to reach out and pet the creature. He'd always wanted a pet, but Melinda had frowned on the practice of domesticating alien species. Besides, she did not want to live with the dirt she supposed such creatures carried around in their fur. The air filters in the mansion design could easily compensate for any foreign particles, but Melinda still refused Martin permission. She probably did not want to deal with any being she could not control through money or coercion. The emotions of love and loyalty were too foreign to her.

On the holo screen, the detective snapped the end of the strap onto the dog's collar, then he pointed at the remnants of the telltale around the still intact pedcycle. The dog sniffed around the image and then took off howling in a new direction.

The detective let the long strap slide through his fingers and turned back to Martin. “Toby will lead the observer into the marketplace where you presumably are shopping for your birthday present,” he said as he resumed his dock worker disguise. ”Now, Master Martin, we shall proceed on our current mission.

The white screen dissolved to be replaced with the cubicle in the port authority offices where the harbormaster presided. The office was small but just as pretentious in furnishing as Melinda's. A large woodsynth desk filled nearly every square centimeter of open space. One blank wall was dedicated to holo equipment. Another wall looked out on the spaceport through a bioglass panel nearly as large and expensive as the one in Martin's suite. The other two walls were covered in holos of antique vessels designed for atmosphere flight only. Nothing lay upon the shiny surface of the desk; no notes, writing implements, day-planners, calendars, or maps. Since the demise of paper as a communication medium—even before faster-than-light travel—desks had become obsolete. Melinda Fortesque had one in her office that she used as a symbolic barrier between herself and whoever dared approach her. The harbormaster must have adopted the tactic in imitation of his boss.

The harbormaster himself leaned back in his Lazyformer® while he shifted icons around on his holo screen. Vessels and cargoes moved from box to box, indicating times and docks at the orbiting space station above Aurora. Shuttles indicated the ferrying of goods and personnel between the station and the big FTL vessels in orbit and the surface. Dock crews and equipment moved from the shuttles to assigned warehouses. Customs officials scuttled behind the operations every step of the way.

Martin's detective wiggled his way around the desk and stared at the screen from behind the harbormaster's shoulder, examining every aspect of the operation. Martin watched from the viewpoint of the doorway—without ever leaving his Lazy-forme® in his own suite.

A communication icon popped into the habormaster's screen. The port official froze his manipulations to touch the icon with a single fingertip.

Before the caller could appear on the screen, the detective used the interruption to step into the screen behind a warehouse.

Martin sensed his man working his way from one place of concealment to the next while the harbormaster yelled at one of his underlings for having lost a box of freeze-dried artichoke hearts intended for Melinda Fortesque. The Terran delicacy would not grow on Aurora. Melinda loved them and imported them regularly. Only she, on all of Aurora could afford the exotic food.

The calendar in the corner of the harbormaster's screen blinked twice and faded. A replica appeared in the center of Martin's screen, the harbormaster's office disappeared. The entry barring Konner O'Hara and his ship
Sirius
from landing on Aurora or docking at the space station for anything other than emergency repairs and medical service was still circled in red and remained on today's date. No one had moved it back to two weeks from Tuesday.

Martin breathed a sigh of relief. Deftly, he moved the item again to
three
weeks ago and recalled his detective.

He expected the man to walk out of the screen. Instead, a glowing green blob of light appeared at the bottom of the screen. It grew rapidly, expanding with many flashes of red, yellow, and purple flames bursting from its edges. Three seconds later, Melinda Fortesque exploded onto the screen. A lock of her sleek brown hair strayed from her coif and drooped over her brow. Her green suit jacket rode her shoulders slightly askew and a scuff marred her green shoes.

Whatever she had been doing had demanded all of her attention and energy.

“Yes, Melinda?” Martin ripped off his VR gear and faced his mother, trying desperately to school his face into impassivity.

“Martin, you have no business snooping around the docks.” She didn't say he had no business using the Super Snooper™ software.

“But, Melinda, I wanted to know if my birthday present has arrived yet.” Not a total lie.

“Konner O'Hara will not be bringing you anything. That man will never pollute our planet again.” She nearly hissed in her anger. With a snap of her fingers, her red-circled entry moved to today's date with a permanent ban icon beside it.