Jack Chalker: Priam's Lens

“You always did lust after older women, didn’t you? I’ve got one on the way. Looks like we won’t make it for a complete intercept, but I can keep her on the trace long enough. She’s got her ride. Looks like an ordinary cab but she didn’t flag it or call it, at least not on any public frequency we know.”

“Got it! Stay on her!” He rounded the corner to see her suddenly and spryly entering the cab and the door sliding hut. It was off like a shot, not even waiting for her to belt in, which was another clue that this wasn’t just an ordinary fare.

Almost immediately the tail car pulled up to him, door already open. He jumped in and was thrown back against the seat much as the old lady, if indeed that was what she was, must have been. The cab was out of sight, but the tail car was accelerating rapidly, making it tough for him to turn and press the controls that strapped him in for the ride.

“Okay, driver!” he said needlessly. “Follow that cab!” There wasn’t any driver, and they were already in hot pursuit, but he’d always wanted to say that.

The artificial intelligence that drove and flew and guided all surface and near-surface transport on the planet, including within the Naval District, could pretty much track and, if necessary, even control or halt anything that moved. They were zipping along just a few meters above street level: high enough not to run over any pedestrians, low enough to be almost like a true surface vehicle. The screen in front of him in the dash showed their location and the location of the cab they were following. It wasn’t that far ahead now; he could make it out even in the gray gloom that passed for a nice day in this hole.

“They’re heading for the docks,” he told the duty officer. “What’s parked that looks likely?”

“Not much that’s civilian, if that’s a help. Aluacar Electric company shuttle, commuter shuttle to Kanlun Spaceport, Melcouri Interstellar surface shuttle, that’s about it.”

“What about this Melcouri?”

“Family owned company, one of the rare private ones. Not very big now, once huge. They sold off a lot decades ago after the fall of Helena. It was almost a company planet and they may not have lost all their business, but they lost the family and the will. They still haul freight, but mostly on single contracts.”

“How long has the ship been in?”

“The—let’s see —Odysseus, of all things. Wonder what that means? In on—yeah, just came in late yesterday. No commercial traffic logged in or out.”

“That’s the one. They’re Greek, or at least they’re lovers of Greek, my friend,” the Navy cop told the duty officer. “All out of ancient stories nobody reads or remembers anymore except maybe university professors.”

“That right? You know it, though.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know it. I know a lot of apparently useless crap, but sometimes it rises up and justifies its existence in my mind. Everybody else lets a glorified data-base do their thinking for them.”

“Huh? I—Hold it! You’re on the nose, buddy! Melcouri it is. They’ve already turned on the power in the shuttle, too, and there’s a request for preliminary clearance. You want me to hold them?”

“Yeah, do it. I just want to make sure this is all above board.” He was beginning to doubt his instincts now, in spite of the spryness and effective getaway of the old lady. She said she was going back to check on things, and that’s what she was doing. Why did he still feel that there was something wrong with the setup?

At least it explained the interest. If they had left much of their family and friends on Helena, and this Dutchman claimed to be able to get in and out, then no price would be too much for them just to see who or what might have survived down there. The trouble was, it had been tried by just about everybody. You could get in all right, but never out. It didn’t seem to be the Dutchman’s style, but it was clearly a con game to get a gigantic payment. Hell, if he didn’t bump them off on the way, he could easily send down whoever of the Melcouri family was to go in. Why not? They’d never get back up.

Still, the Dutchman was the kind of guy who would more likely attack and ransack the whole ship up there, not somebody who’d expose himself long enough to pull a scam like this, no matter how good it sounded. “Is she inside?”

“Yeah, just entered. I’m stalling them on clearances and they know it.”

The chief sighed. “Has anyone filed a departure plan for the docked vessel above?” he asked.

“Just checked. No, not a peep. They haven’t even filed a preliminary flight plan for approval, so they’re not in any hurry to leave. Why? You want to go up and check them out? Want me to keep the shuttle here until you can board? You can always use the routine inspection ploy.”

Harker considered it. “No, let them go,” he instructed the duty officer. “There’s more going on here than we know yet, and I’m not sure who’s playing what game. I can always go on up if they file to leave. Until then—well, have the dock workers find something that might take a few days to repair and keep it handy.” He wished he had a list of who was aboard up there, but since they hadn’t come down to the planet, they were still technically in transit and there was no need to provide the list. He had a sudden thought. One of them sure had to have gone through Immigration. “What was the name on the old lady we just chased?”

“Anna Marie Sotoropolis. Blood and prints match. It’s her, for what it’s worth.”

Another Greek name. At least it was consistent. Nine hundred years…

Of course, she hadn’t actually lived nine hundred years, at least subjectively. Still, physically she almost certainly was well over a hundred and fifty, which was plenty years enough. He wondered what kind of memories she had; what kind of life and loves and ancient lifestyle were in those experiences. Days when the mother world was still habitable, when human beings sang opera for the masses…

Sure as hell was a lot more romantic than the Cucaracha and this hole, that was for sure.

“I want round-the-clock monitoring of the ship with notification if anybody enters or leaves, even by the dock or in an e-suit,” he instructed. “And if that shuttle comes back, I want to know immediately, no matter who, what, or where I might be. Understand?”

“It’s in the console and done,” the duty officer assured him .

“Good. Then log me out for now. I need a shower bad.”

Three days passed and nothing more was heard from the ancient diva or the ship, which simply sat up there as if parked for the duration. Gene Harker was even taking some good-natured ribbing from the local police and Naval security people over his suspicions, with tales of a romantic tryst with a nine-hundred-year-old woman finishing in a virtual dead heat with the suspicion that she was actually there picking up secret agent cockroaches.

On the fourth afternoon, though, at about the same time as the old lady had walked into that smelly bar, and with a lot more traffic passing through, another unlikely pilgrim entered the bar and asked the same crazy question.

“Yes, Father?” Max the bartender called to him. “Anything you particularly would like? The synthesizer here is still in pretty good shape in spite of the condition of this joint.”

“Just a little bourbon and water will do it, my lad,” the priest answered cheerfully.

At least, unlike the old lady, he was very much in the open; a ruddy-faced man with a big hawk nose and close-set deep brown eyes, physically probably pushing fifty, in a standard black clerical suit and reversed collar. Only his gold ring on his left finger gave anything else away; it was very expensive for a priest’s ring, and the Maltese cross in gold against a precious polished black opal background was that of the Knights of Malta, an incredibly secretive and not exclusively religious group that was invariably composed of the best and the brightest of each generation. This guy was no dummy, and he was no itinerant missionary on his way to a new post, either. Indeed, the mere fact that he was not at least an archbishop at his age showed that he was probably even more important than he seemed. A Maltese Knight with no high position running great institutions was somebody who was maybe running things that nobody knew about.