Ron Goulart - Suicide, Inc

He considered the question as he scrutinized her.

“Why do you ask, my child?”

The blonde blushed, looking down at herself. “Am I unzipped, unseamed, unbuttoned or something? You’re staring at my body as though-”

“I was marveling at your believability,” he explained. “Yes, you’re a much better work than those rather forlorn androids aboard the-”

“Oh, hey, heck. I’m not a robot or an andy. I’m Jazz Miller and Mr. Smith sent me down to fetch you and escort you up to him, Mr. Saint,” Jazz said, smiling. “Actually, he would’ve come himself, but I felt that since I’m tagging along on this venture, for reasons of my own that we can go into later if you’re at all interested, I ought to earn my keep.”

Reaching out and catching hold of the young woman’s hand, Saint bowed and kissed it. “It’s a distinct pleasure, my dear, to meet you.”

Blushing again, Jazz slowly withdrew her hand from his. “Mr. Smith mentioned you’d be like this. Courtly and polite.”

“He described me to you, eh?”

“Yes,” she replied, nodding. “If you’ll come along now I’ll take you to where everybody’s waiting.”

“How exactly did he describe my appearance? Did he use such words as dapper, winning, attractive-”

“He just said you were green,” said Jazz.

Smith was pacing the cleared area at the center of the storeroom. “Those assholes,” he said, the pilfered pages Saint had brought fluttering in his hand.

“Be more specific,” requested Cruz, who was sitting in a lamé slingchair with his booted feet up on a neowood packing crate labeled Tapdancing Androids/ One Pair.

“Hell, I don’t know,” Smith said. “Triplan first off. They made up a false damn list for-”

“Not logical, old man,” Saint pointed out. “They’d have to give the Whistler Agency the true list. Otherwise, don’t you know, they wouldn’t be certain of getting hold of you.”

“They could’ve told the Whistler folks to hire me, insisted on it,” said Smith. “Once I brought in the missing alums, they’d pump what I know out of my head and-”

“My feeling would be our bosses know considerably more than they’ve thus far confided,” commented Cruz. “They went to a hell of a lot of effort to recruit you. Granted you’re a splendid operative, but they probably could’ve found a good one right here on Zegundo.”

“Yep, I think the agency knew, too.”

Saint stood up to dust the seat of his slingchair a second time. “One feels deuced awkward asking this, old fellow,” he said. “Yet one feels one must. Why aren’t you considering Jennifer Westerland Arloff’s part in all this?”

“I am.” Halting, Smith sat on a crate. “She lied to me when we had our stroll along the ocean. And she gave me a fake list, too.”

“Look on the bright side,” suggested Cruz.

Smith slapped the handful of papers. “What bright side would that be?”

“She was concerned enough to tell you something of the real purpose of our treasure hunt,” Cruz said. “Further, she warned you it could well be a lot rougher than you’d been led to believe up to that point.”

“You’re too sentimental when it comes to women.” Cruz shook his head. “What I’ve learned in a colorful and fun-filled life, old chum, is most people do the best they can with what they’ve got,” he said. “Jennifer can’t…and I’ve no idea why…do more than she did. Therefore you have to accept what-”

“It’s a little hard to accept her not telling me that I’m carrying part of a secret worth…hell, billions of trubux…around in my skull.”

“She’s married to Arloff and his goals aren’t yours.”

Standing, Smith held the papers out toward Cruz. “Westerland came up with a cheap transmutation process,” he said. “A simple way to turn base metals into valuable metals for a cost of just about nothing. Whoever ends up with the whole secret…Triplan, Syndek or the Trinidad government…they’ll be able, if they go carefully, to become as rich as they want. Because this is something that can be utilized and exploited in different ways all over the universe.”

Saint asked, “What exactly is our position at the moment? Are we still working for the Whistler blokes?”

“What I’m trying to figure out, and that’s why I’ve got Ruiz stashed here, is what comes next,” answered Smith.

“I’d be interested in hearing about that, too, Smitty.” The Whistler terminal had materialized a few feet to his left.

“You don’t have a trusting nature,” said Whistler. “A handicap such as that can seriously-”

“You folks have lied to me from the-”

“Nope, not so,” said the floating terminal. “First off, take a squint of this, Smitty.” It whirred faintly and then a sheet of faxpape came fluttering out of its underside.

Smith caught the sheet before it hit the storeroom floor. “List of five names. Oscar Ruiz, Bryson Winiarsky, Annalee Kitchen, Liz Vertillion and Thomas Yanayir,” he said. “This is the same list you gave me when I signed on to-”

“What you hold in your mitt is a dupe of the very list Triplan gave us,” said the terminal. “Compare it with the typography on that stuff Saint swiped.”

Smith did. “Okay, they match.”

“Furthermore, Triplan never told us anything about a secret process for making gold, silver and what have you,” continued Whistler. “Not being dimwits, however, we realized there was more to this caper than a sentimental urge to get the old gang together again. We told you so at the start, so did Doc Winner.”

Cruz shifted his feet atop the crate. “You contend you didn’t know that Jared and not this Yanayir lad was the one they wanted?”

“We were only told it was important to have Smith work on the case, not that-”

Tippy tap tap! Tap tap tappy!

Saint sat up straight. “Jove! What’s that deucedly odd noise?”

Cruz kicked the crate and the sound ceased. “Must be my tapdancing androids awakening. Continue, Whistler.”

“You galoots are blaming us for the duplicities the client pulled,” the computer terminal told them.

“Even so,” said Smith, “I don’t see how I can keep on working for you.”

“Whyever not, Smitty?”

“Because what I want to do is find the three others on this damn list,” he explained. “Tell them what’s going on, keep them from getting grabbed or killed. Then we can see about making a deal with Triplan.”

“You can cross Annalee Kitchen off the list, by the way.”

“She’s dead, too?”

“No, fit as a fiddle and happy as a snerg,” replied Whistler. “It’s only that the lady walked into Horizon House late yesterday and announced she’d heard they were looking for her.”

Smith said, “Then maybe she’s safe.”

Watching the floating terminal, Cruz inquired, “You won’t bitch if the three of us keep on with the hunt? Doing it Jared’s way?”

“We were paid our fee long since,” Whistler answered. “And we’ve been treated badly by our client. Do what you want to do and we’ll stay on the sidelines and observe. If it looks like you’re doing something too shady, we’ll pop in on you.”

After a few seconds Smith said, “Okay, it’s a deal.”

“Just because some people call us Suicide, Inc.,” said Whistler, “doesn’t mean we can’t be amiable.” He flickered and vanished.

“I’m sorry, but I guess I better tell you this right off, Mr. Cruz,” said Jazz, watching the rainy misty afternoon their skycar was whizzing through. “Since we two will be alone together for a spell.”