M. Planck - The Kassa Gambit

“Still alive, I see.” A man’s voice. Given that aura of authority, it had to be a doctor, which implied it was Kragen. “If you can hear me, try not to move. If you can’t hear me, then don’t worry about it.” Graveyard humor. Not exactly what Kyle looked for in a doctor.

Something pressed on his chest. A monitor. The readings it would be giving off had to be most unexpected.

The monitor remained for a very brief moment. Then Kragen spoke in his ear.

“A curious chart. It says you’re a badly burned League officer, in danger of dying at any minute. Given my public opposition to the League, one might think that you were sent in here to finish dying in my disinterested hands. The monitor, however, says you’re perfectly healthy, and even a little bit aroused. But my sexual preference is a matter of public record, and in any case it’s not my birthday.”

A sharp edge brushed against Kyle’s upper lip, pressure was removed, and then he could taste fresh air unfiltered through the antiseptic of the foam. Kyle was still catching up to Kragen’s logic. The doctor was a fast thinker.

“My staff, expecting the possibility of my failing my Hippocratic oath, will automatically compensate by looping the vid recording, making it look like I spent five minutes in diagnosis instead of five seconds, thus covering up whatever criminal negligence they expect, or possibly hope, for me to commit. I suggest you keep your explanation terse.”

It made sense. If the League was trying to kill him, why not take him to an anti-League doctor? Kyle was pretty sure it was only part of the League trying to kill him, though, and that meant that the anti-League might still view him as League, since their contacts in the League might still think of him as loyal. Unless those contacts happened to be undercover League anti-League agents. Like Kyle.

Okay, it didn’t make sense.

Unable to meta-game so many layers of deception, Kyle settled for the truth. “I am in danger of dying. The League set my bed on fire.”

“And I should care why?” Kragen was annoyingly direct.

“Because I’m undercover against the League.” Kyle almost laughed. He had revealed his secret just like that, as easy as pie, to a complete stranger. The irony was that the only reason he could do so was because Kragen might believe him. And then he could claim to the League that he was pretending to switch sides, so Kragen would let him in the secret club, so he could bust them to the League. After all, why else would the League have arranged such an inept assassination, if not to get him a chance to infiltrate the opposition? It was such a compelling argument, Kyle almost half-believed it himself.

Kragen was still unimpressed, though. “What, exactly, am I supposed to do about your personal problems?”

“Get me out of here.” Kyle didn’t need much, just a few minutes’ head start on the assassins. He’d calculated that it would take them at least twenty minutes to reach M7 by ground car. Assuming there was active pursuit, of course. But Kyle always assumed the worst.

“For the record, which won’t exist since my staff is not recording this, I don’t believe you. I am assisting you solely because you ordered me to, in your capacity as a League officer. I may hate and despise the League, and everything it stands for, but I am a loyal citizen. I will testify to this statement, should I be required to.”

Kragen’s capacity for double-dealing was awe-inspiring, even to Kyle. A whooshing sound, and then Kyle was covered in a layer of wetness as the foam melted away.

The doctor was hardly older than Baumer’s nephew. Kyle hadn’t realized people that young cared about politics.

“Thank you,” Kyle said.

“I have a patient in another ward with terminal brain cancer. He is in a coma. It would be a simple matter for me to assign him to a different room, intercept his gurney along the way, cover him with foam, and switch charts. Robert Anton Wilson would leave a room, and Kyle Daspar would enter one. It would be days before anyone noticed the switch, and then I would explain I had been ordered to do so by a League officer, in an attempt to uncover a plot against the government.”

“Thank you,” Kyle said again, weakly. It was starting to sound inadequate.

Kragen agreed, and went on to explain just how inadequate it was. “It’s ludicrous that a healer should be involved in such shenanigans. But it’s ludicrous that a professional of my skill should still be assigned to the night shift of an emergency room. Either I have proven myself obedient to the League, in which case it must cease crippling my career, or I have aided an agent who will destroy the League and eventually achieve the same effect.”

But now Kragen had said too much. He clearly wasn’t that naïve. The League wouldn’t stop harassing him just because he did what they asked. They wanted obeisance, not merely obedience. Which meant that he was telling Kyle he really was anti-League. But only if Kyle was wise enough to understand it, which would imply that Kyle really was anti-League.

Kyle nodded in agreement. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make his head hurt.

“Naturally, I can’t be held responsible for the theft of Mr. Wilson’s identity cards from his room. That’s a matter for the police to look into.”

With that, Dr. Kragen threw a sheet over him and spoke a command. “Attendant … take this patient to room 715.” And then the rolling journey again, as Kyle, protected only by cloth this time, waited yet again for someone else to take him somewhere else.

An elevator ride and several turns later, Kyle was left alone. Unable to remain passive any longer, he tore off the sheet.

The room was dark and empty, but he could hear voices coming. He hid behind the bathroom door, leaving it half-open so he could still see.

Two attendants rolled another gurney in, and spent a few minutes transferring a comatose old man to the bed. They puzzled over the second gurney for a moment, but unable to solve the mystery, settled for solving the problem. When they left, they wheeled both gurneys away.

Just as Kyle thought it was safe to come out into the open, Dr. Kragen strolled in.

With businesslike efficiency, he switched charts.

“Sorry about your grandfather, Mr. Wilson.” Kragen spoke to Kyle without looking at him. “He’ll be more comfortable here for the next two days. At most.”

“Thank you,” Kyle said again, but to Kragen’s back as the doctor walked out of the room.

A brief fishing expedition through the hospital bag next to Mr. Wilson’s bed yielded cards and papers. Kyle dropped them into his pillowcase.

Another elevator ride, this time under his own power, and he walked out the front door. It was amusing to think he might have passed some of the same people on the way down as he had on the way up, and they were completely unaware of it. Such were the dubious amusements of secret identities.

Outside, in the cool air, he thought about how Prudence and he had passed each other, buried under their own secrets. Dubious amusements, indeed.

Zanzibar was a very fanciful name for such an unremarkable place. The spaceport was painted in bright colors that clashed, with tassels on overhanging awnings and faux crenellations on the shop fronts. But the colors were faded, the awnings threadbare, and even the stonework had holes and scrapes revealing the stucco underneath.

It was supposed to produce an exotic but personable impression, like an open-air market where travelers from faraway places mingled with friendly locals. A place where rules and regulations took a backseat to fun and adventure, and the import taxes were as lax as security.