Hal Colebatch - Man-Kzin Wars – XIV

“Time he’d have to spend later, if breeders knew he was alive, and had traps set for him when he came to make alterations. Ready to go rob some graves with me, Igor?”

“If you can turn invisible, what do you need me for?”

“I don’t want the stuff to just disappear, it’ll upset too many people. I prefer to make it look like the appearance of these generals is the result of breeder activities.”

“And you trust me to keep quiet?”

“A paranoid certainly grasps the concept of self-interest. You’re a breeder, but you’re an awfully smart one.”

He wasn’t sure whether he felt flattered or patronized. He decided he could do both. “Okay, got your shovel?”

She patted a pocket by her left knee. “All set.” While he was trying to decide whether she might really have a shovel in there-it could be a foil-covered balloon, and stasis fields were easier to make than the ARM ever wanted anyone to know-she handed him an earplug and said, “This will let you hear me. If I have a question, I’ll stick to yes or no, just nod or shake your head.” A bubble helmet deployed over her own head, and she disappeared again.

He put it in and said, “What if I have a question?”

“Oh, like you’d trust my answer,” came her voice, soft but clear. “That’ll evaporate in a couple of hours. If you decide there’s something you’d believe, get out your phone and write it unless you think it’s an emergency. Then I’ll stun people and erase memories afterward.”

He nodded, then went out the door.

On the long walk down the hall to the elevator-he’d had an apartment near an elevator back when he was (good God!) in his twenties; never again-he said in a low voice, “Just what’s the plan?”

“Shipping the materials to a secret lab offworld, where a crazed doctor has a plan.”

“So we’re sticking to the truth.”

“Hm! Right.”

“I surmise you have most of the arrangements in the system already,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Enthusiasm is no substitute for experience,” he said, and every part of the corridor was swept with sonic cannon except where he was. He dove for the hatch that opened up in the wall, went five stories down a slide that he’d swear hadn’t been that steep in the drill, came out into another hallway, and rolled against a transfer booth, whose door popped open. He wasn’t even tempted, he knew she could trace him if he used it. His phone was obviously bugged, so he came to his feet and ran to the emergency phone. Hand on the scanner, he said, “Marshall Buford Early crisis priority to Osiris Chen.”

The screen lit up.

It said COLD.

A bag of rocks wrapped around the back of his neck, and a rubber ball fitted neatly into his gaping mouth. Ursula’s head appeared next to his.

“Huh, yeah, what, Buford?” said the Chief of Internal Security.

Buford Early heard his own voice come out of Ursula’s mouth. “Ozzie,” she slurred, “I jus’ wanna tell you, you’re a rilly beau’ful person.”

“Where’s the picture?”

“Oh, off, ’m naked.”

There was a pause. “And you had to call me up at 3:18 to tell me.”

“Din wanna forget again. You deserve to know, an’ you can tell everyone I said so.”

“Oh, I will,” said Chen, who assuredly would.

“You gessum sleep now,” Ursula said, and the phone shut off.

The ball came out of his mouth, and he looked at her and said, “You unbelievably horrible bitch.”

“What? He sounded glad to hear it.”

It was boasted, in White Medical’s advertising, that nobody who used one of their ’docs every day had ever died of any of a number of ailments. The list included apoplexy. This turned out to be true.

When he had calmed down somewhat, largely due to lack of breath, Ursula said, “Do you know why ARM HQ security has never been breached? It was designed by Jack Brennan. The cheats are conspicuous, to me. And you really hoped you could catch a Protector.”

“Hope is a virtue,” he muttered.

“Hope is a narcotic, and it kills more people than wireheading. As witness the planet Pleasance. Marshall, you are free to waste your own time, but wasting mine is an act of sabotage in wartime. Do it again and I’ll dose you with something that’ll make you compulsively truthful for about five hundred hours, then turn you loose at the Belt Embassy. The next three weeks will be historic.”

He’d been doubting the existence of such a substance until she used that last word. Given some of the things he knew about what the ARM had done over the centuries to minimize Belter trade advantages, the term was precisely accurate.

“And by the bye,” she said as her helmet formed again, “no amount of practice will create talent.”

“What?”

“My reply to your trigger code. I found it an unusually foolish statement.”

“My father used to say it, back when I was starting to date.” It suddenly occurred to him that his father used to get divorced every ten years or so.

“You might want to listen to someone smarter than you for a change. As in, ‘Protectors don’t stun.’ The sleep center is under voluntary control and can’t be triggered by an external signal, and the tissue is too tough for a shockwave to shut off circulation, those being the two ways a stunner can work.” Her head vanished again.

The trip down to the Freezer Bank was without further incident.

Doctor Massoglia was IN, according to the little card on the door. It always said that. He’d checked once, and the other side of the card did indeed say OUT, but he’d never seen that side in use. He seemed to live here.

What the tanj, lots of people had apartments in the building; why not one in your office?

He’d always have ice at parties.

He shook that thought off and entered his ID in the reception screen. A few moments later, an astonished-looking woman he didn’t know came out of another room and said, “Good morning, Marshall, I’m Jane Rancourt.”

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.”

“Jane.”

“Buford. Is Martin up? It’s about the new project.”

In his ear, Ursula’s voice said, “Penzance.”

He got the reference instantly, clenched his teeth, and said, “Penzance. You get a memo?” The damn tune would be running through his head for years, he just knew it.

“Just today. Well, yesterday. I wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour, though.”

“It’s the only time I’m not doing something else. And the appeasers are less likely to get wind of it if it’s done quietly.”

“I’ll call him.” Jane went back into her office.

“Penzance?” he muttered.

“It’s at least as good a codename as ‘Overlord’ or ‘Desert Storm,’” Ursula said. “And much better security than ‘Cherubim.’”

“I wanted to call that ‘Pumpkin,’” he said.

“The kzin are highly literate and fond of alien fables. They’d have understood it was a reference to transformation.”

Early was shocked. He hadn’t thought of that himself. He’d been thinking of sweet potatoes, which he loathed in pie. He liked pumpkin pie, that’s all. “What codename would you have given it?”

“Supposing I was silly enough to do it, you mean? Mighty Mouse. Complete irrelevance. Of course, there’d be some minor risk of them stocking up on limburger, but the Protectors would be in pressure suits most of the time anyway. Dummy up.” Massoglia was coming out.

“Hey, Buford.”

“Marty. Sorry about the hour.”

“Nah, makes sense. And you are always Early.” The only enjoyment he got from that tired old joke was hearing Ursula’s beak grind at the pun. “You want the full tour at last?”

“Not hardly, but I’m taking it. How much did the memo tell you?”