M. Planck - The Kassa Gambit

Baumer was sitting at the foot of the stairs, laughing his ass off. Dolores called in at least once a day. Sometimes three times a day, if her equally geriatric daughter failed to visit her.

“How do you know it’s not a real emergency?” Kyle appreciated a good joke as much as the next man, but he wanted to learn.

The answer was simple. Whenever Dolores got bored and lonely, she would hold her breath until her medical monitor freaked out. Despite her age, she could hold her breath like a champion—the current record was three minutes and fifteen seconds. The way you knew it wasn’t a real emergency was because of the unique combination of elements: a “not breathing” call, after two in the afternoon, from Dolores’s med unit.

The lesson was that you had to learn your beat. You couldn’t let a machine do it for you.

Kyle started packing a pillowcase with the things he might need. Papers, credit sticks, a change of underwear, that sort of thing. Not his service pistol. It had a GPS tracker in it. The police liked to know where all their people were. That was why he was using a pillowcase, too. All of his luggage had GPS trackers in them. So many ways to foil thieves; so many inconveniences when a man wanted to disappear.

The police were taking an unusually long time to appear. Kyle tossed his pistol into the smoking room—the fire was out now—and retreated to the study. Hiding in the shadows of his own apartment. If they came in with IR goggles, it wouldn’t matter.

Finally the door swung open, unlocked by a police override. As he had hoped, Baumer stepped through it first.

“Kyle?” he called, softly.

Kyle made a softer sound, tapping the door he was half-hidden behind. Baumer flicked his eyes that direction, and then let in two more men.

Firefighters, not medics, which was odd. But they weren’t wearing League armbands, which was a relief.

They closed the door behind them. The firefighters went straight for the ruined bedroom. Baumer let them go and then slipped over to Kyle.

“What on Earth is up, Kyle?” He kept his voice at a whisper.

That was a good question. But Kyle had one of his own. “Can you trust them?”

“Yeah. I told the ambulance team it was a potentially dangerous situation, and made them wait for the fire squad. Heck, it’s even a fire. So I got my nephew in here. He’ll play along, and so will his partner. But any second now those boys are gonna figure out there isn’t a body in there.”

“Sergeant Baumer,” a voice called from the bedroom. “Could you give us a hand?”

Smooth kids. Aware that they might be being recorded, they chose their words with care.

Baumer looked at Kyle expectantly.

“I think the League is trying to kill me.” “Think” wasn’t really the right word, but it didn’t matter. Baumer had never liked the League. He’d made plain his unhappiness over Kyle’s involvement with it. That Kyle couldn’t afford to tell him the truth was another crime for the ledger. “Cover for me, and I’ll slip out behind you.”

Baumer shook his head. “No way. What if they’ve got backup waiting out there? A rifle across the street. Or a car full of gunmen. You need an escort.” He tugged Kyle’s arm and led him into the bedroom.

“Looks like he’s burned bad, boys.” The kids were staring oogly-eyed, but keeping quiet. “Put him on the stretcher and let’s get him to the transporter.”

The short one must be Baumer’s nephew. He had the thick bullfrog look already developing.

“Gotta foam him, Sergeant. Or he won’t survive the trip.” They had the stretcher out by the time the kid finished talking. Kyle lay down on it, and the two young men started spraying him with medical foam.

Wonderful stuff. It came out like shaving cream, but quickly hardened to plastic. Porous enough to breathe through, it was waterproof and antibiotic. Within seconds Kyle was a white, lumpy mummy, covered from head to toe.

“Is it bad?” Baumer was saying. His nephew took the hint.

“Real bad, Sergeant. Hope he was having sweet dreams, ’cause he’s never gonna wake up. A few days in the trauma tank, and then it’s over. Burns like this, it’s a waste to even try.”

Kyle had gotten a glimpse of the bed before they sealed his eyes shut. If he’d really been sleeping in it, he would be a pile of ashes by now.

The sensation of being carried was more unpleasant than sitting on the deck of the Launceston under fusion power. In both cases he had to wait passively while someone else saved or lost his life.

He could feel nothing through the foam, so he didn’t know when they went into the cold, open air. Only the sound of doors slamming told him he had made it to the transporter without catching a bullet. Either there was no backup, or the kids were putting on a great performance. If he was as good as dead, why complicate the inquest?

The transporter was gravitics powered. They had spent a lot of money making it small enough to fit in city streets, and it was still half the size of a bus. But it sailed over traffic and buildings smoothly, and carried medical berths for four patients.

More important, it would be almost impossible for anyone to follow them. Only emergency vehicles were allowed in the air. Once the vehicle landed, Kyle would have a head start over any ground pursuit.

The nephew made it even better. “Hey, Jones, head for M7.”

A voice responded through an intercom. “Navcom says Golden Hill is closer. And they have a great burn ward.” That’s where they would be waiting for him, then.

“Yeah but…” Baumer’s nephew fished around for a reason. “I heard some dog on them, man. Their tank fluid’s being recycled.”

The intercom was disbelieving. “Are you serious? No way!”

“Earth, it’s just what I heard. I dunno. But this guy hasn’t got any skin left. I don’t want him in a tank that somebody else might have to share. He’s gonna die anyway, so what’s the difference?”

A subtle shift in direction. The rumor was mightier than the computer.

The rest of the very short trip was in silence. The inside of the transporter was certainly under continual surveillance. Kyle revised his opinion of Baumer’s nephew again, upward. Without the foam, the ruse would have been exposed immediately. The kid wasn’t just reacting well, he was actively planning ahead.

Descent, followed by a gentle bump. The landing was smoother than being lifted out of the transporter. Kyle was helpless, his awareness of the outside world blocked by a layer of foam. He had to wait until the nephew told him when he could make a break for it.

More bumps—he must be on a gurney. Amazing that they spent so much money on a smooth ambulance ride, and then jostled him like a sack of potatoes for the last ten meters.

“Tell Kragen I’ve got a special for him.” The nephew was speaking loudly—too loudly. Obviously half the message was for Kyle.

“Dr. Kragen is with another patient.” A female voice, officious and bossy. “Take it up to the tank ward.”

“Trust me, Kragen is gonna want to see this guy.”

“Dr. Kragen doesn’t specialize in burns, medic.”

“Yeah, but this guy’s a League member.”

A brief silence.

“I’ll page him.” Then, mumbled, “Poor sap.”

It challenged all of Kyle’s newfound faith in the nephew not to panic at that.

More rolling, and then stillness.

It was only ten minutes. Kyle knew this because he counted his pulse. He didn’t have anything else to do. After fifteen minutes he would assume he was alone, and try to escape. But he forced himself to wait, first. That was the most basic mistake the nefarious always made: not having enough patience.

Not enough prudence, even. The humor of the pun was quickly overwhelmed by the desire to share this warm, soft cocoon with her.