The Harrison Chapters
Chapter 3
Jim Vassilakos
copyright (c) 1990
Mike leaned over the mottled piece of metal which had fused itself beyond recognition. The analysis specialist scanned his expression.
"There's no way we can trace manufacture; it's just too far gone," she explained.
"Have you found anymore?"
"Nearly a dozen," Charles Linden broke in, somewhat heatedly. Mike could almost see his boss's anger steaming off the heavy overcoat he wore to protect himself from the lab's sub-zero temperature.
"I don't understand it at all," he continued. "Why would Clay go to all the trouble? And what's so important about this dead John Doe?"
Mike glanced at the specialist who seemed to be examining the editor with an unconcerned stare. He hoped she wasn't the type to blab.
"Look Chuck, there are warmer places to discuss this."
Linden was keen on the idea of getting out of the lab, not so much because of the third party with ears and a mouth as due to the chill. He and Mike took the lift down to the subways leaving the company security personnel to the unhappy clean-up their own incompetence had prompted.
The subway train to Greenflower was nearly empty, and the trip uneventful. Linden was, for once, totally unconcerned about what was happening on the floor. The scores of staff writers would just be sending him more meaningless trash which he would later strip to the bare facts and send back due to lack of content. It was always the same old story at the middle of the week.
Mike promised something far more interesting for the readers, and for the editor as well. Linden had suddenly taken a personal interest in the story, a big no-no in his business. But it was worth bending a few rules, and it felt right. It was even worth a trip to the pit of ashes.
The late morning air warmed Linden as sunshine broke through the white fluffy clouds and streamed down in long silver threads from the heavens. He hiked alongside Mike etching a trail through the dew-sodden expanse of grass. Birds were darting about in the brisk morning air. Their songs were like a child's laughter, almost mocking yet innocent.
The pit suddenly lay before them, its sides sinking into the earth without warning. A variety of religious symbols decorated the inner surfaces informing wayward souls to beware the footsteps of the dead as the familiar sweet scent of ash and apple resin hung heavy in the air. Linden sat down on the red brick lifting his chin and squinting at Mike through the bright beams of sunlight.
"Not what you expected," Mike cautiously broke the silence.
"No," Linden admitted. "It's too..." He couldn't pull off the words.
"Antique?"
"Old fashioned. It's too dated."
"I thought you were into that, Chuck," Mike prodded smiling.
"I am, but there's a limit. This is so undignified. It's a mass burial."
"Just another screwed up religion." Mike stretched out his arm pointing down the pit approvingly, "But you have to admit, they did a great job."
"What? I don't follow."
"The Imps. They kill Fork, and get rid of his body so perfectly that there's no way I can get a confirmation on the time of death."
"Sure, but why the mass burial? Why not just cremate him and leave it at that?"
Mike kicked a stone into the pit, "Because he isn't dead."
"You just said they killed him," Linden countered.
Mike shrugged, "I lied. If they just wanted him dead and gone, they'd have done what you said."
Linden stood up. He glared at Mike in spontaneous disbelief but knew the reporter well enough to realize that doubting was useless and quite possibly counter-productive.
"Explain," Linden finally insisted.
"The Imps want to stage a fake death. They snatch Fork and put some poor fool in his place, kill the guy and send the body to the incinerators. But that still isn't good enough. They now have to get rid of the remains in a legal manner, but in such a way that these remains cannot be later analyzed to prove the guy who got burned wasn't Fork. Even ashes can be analyzed. Admittedly, it isn't something we often do, but it can be done. People don't often share identical body chemistry. A mere difference of as little as a gram in solid weight would be enough to..."
"Enough," Linden interrupted, "I've got the idea. The only legal way to dispose of the ashes in a manner in which they cannot be later analyzed is to mix them with other ashes. Thus, the ash pit."
"Exactly."
Linden laughed, "It's a really neat theory Mike. Now prove it."
Mike looked at the wet grass in front of his feet, "If I try, I lose Niki."
"What makes you so sure you haven't already?"
Mike considered the editor's question with antipathy.
"I know what you're thinking, Harrison."
"Do you?"
"I've already sent for company personnel, off planet. They should be here in a few days."
"Chuck, if we had a few days, we wouldn't be talking."
"Regardless of all other considerations, I won't use our current security staff to deal with this... situation."
Mike shot his boss a rueful grin, "You don't trust them."
"After what happened... would you?"
"We can always go to Tizar police. Even though she's unregistered, they've been supportive in such matters before."
Linden shook his head in flat refusal, "You know as well as I that the paper cannot risk this getting out."
"She's a friend, Chuck."
"She's also a psyche. And Clay is a damn boardmember. There's no win here; we have no choice but to wait and let company people handle it."
"If we wait, it may be to late."
"She's already lost, buddy. If you think you'll ever see her again..." Linden cut himself off mid-sentence. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. You're probably right."
"So what are you going to do?" The editor carefully enunciated each syllable with the utmost patience.
"What d'you think I should do?"
"If they're hiding, we must chase. I'll get one of the paper's private starships to take you to Calanna. I know you didn't have much fun last time you were there, but like they say, duty calls."
"Fine, but don't stick me in some ice box."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Linden pledged. He knew well Mike's distaste for low passage.
"And what about Niki? If there's any chance..."
Linden gazed back into the pit for some inspiration, but the same anger kept welling within him. Mike studied his boss as the sunlight shined off Linden's black boots and whisked the corners of his eyes.
"Whatever you do between now and the time you leave is your own business," he insisted. "You understand?"
Mike and Chuck took the escalator down to the floor from p872. As they entered the ten acre room all they could hear was the clicking of fingers on keyboards and the dull chatter of hundreds of gatherers. Linden's press office lay at dead center, and a small group of grouchy staff writers wandered about outside the entrance.
"Why the committee?" Mike wondered allowed.
Linden explained, "There's been talk of a strike. Haven't you been reading the paper?"
"Must have missed it. Serious?"
"They just like making waves." It was one of Chuck's pet phrases. Staff writers and clericals were both labeled as replaceable by management. If they decided to strike, there would be no problem finding new recruits. For this reason, their union demands were generally ignored. But even so, they still liked to stomp around and threaten the editor every other year or so. Mike was glad he wasn't following it.
"I guess you read the news once and you've read it a thousand times," Mike quoted.
"Watch that kiddo."
They went their separate ways, and Mike felt the better of it. He didn't envy Linden's job in the least.
"Hey, Harrison. Haven't seen you here in a while."
"Hi, Mike."
"Hey buddy, where've you been?"
"Walker. Kim. Chris, I've been sick."
"I see the boss is catching it too. I hope you guys've been having safe sex."
"Chris, you're an asshole."
"Happy birthday to you too, buddy."
Come to think of it, Mike didn't envy his own job either. Not that he didn't like gathering. He just didn't like many gatherers.
There also came those moments which he genuinely regretted. These he called mistakes. Being seen walking in late with the editor was but one example. He hoped he didn't just call too much attention to himself. Having a trail of story-starved gatherers tagging along could seriously jeopardize his chances of sneaking up on Clay.
Mike sat down at his desk and switched on his terminal scanning the latest breaking headlines.
"Staffwriters Prepare For Strike"
"Youth Locked In Freezer Eats Own Foot"
"Upcoming Press Banquet..."
"So what's up?" It was Bill Walker. He was another crack investigative gatherer. Not very successful, but crack all the same. His youth was his greatest advantage and his biggest stumbling block. Mike could remember what it was like.
"Not much. How 'bout you?"
"Nothin'. Did you see the one about the banquet? You're gonna be speaking." Bill knew how much Mike hated to read the paper and thus usually never got word about these things until it was too late to make reservations for an interstellar cruise.
"The one before it looked more interesting. You write it?" Mike accused in his most inquiring tone.
"Wish I did." It was something Bill would write. He had a flare for the gory.
"Where'd you get cut?" Mike just noticed Bill had a nasty slash under his left ear taking the whole length of cheek down to his dark sunburnt chin.
"Mama did it," he laid out. There was a glint of amusement in his grey-blue eyes. Otherwise he seemed deadly serious.
"Walker, you've got a sweet mama."
"She is."
"But you're a sick bastard."
"Do you really mean it?"
Mike turned back to his headlines pretending he had serious work to do.
"I really got into a fight with my neighbor's cat."
"That's really fascinating." Mike mimicked Walker's distinctive "really" without effort. It was a common part of their interaction on the rare occasion that both were on the floor.
Mike didn't mind the wasted time. He knew it would pay for itself eventually. Walker was young and often useful when he wanted to be. He and Mike worked together occasionally on the difficult parts of each other's assignments. Mike sometimes thought of himself as a kind of mentor teaching a newcomer the tricks of the trade.
But as much as he liked working with Bill Walker, he knew the young man was also dangerous to be around. He took too many unwarranted risks as far as Mike was concerned. He got himself into scrapes that he'd have to fight himself out of. But as the boss would often testify, it was all part of the job.
"So what's really going on?" Bill asked an hour later as he finished picking the seeds out of his xisimo core. His elbows rested on the clear surface of the table as he tossed slivers of the fruit cut by his laser knife high into the air and caught them smoking between his teeth. This was one reason the cafeteria staff insisted they sit in the corner, Mike thought.
"You're about to catch your tongue on fire."
"Only if I miss. C'mon Mike. I need a story. The well is dry, buddy. I'm dying of thirst."
"So you want to steal mine?"
"I've shared with you," Bill acted hurt.
"Yeah, shared crap."
"C'mon Mike. Admit it. You need me."
"Like I need my penis to fall off," Mike agreed thoughtfully.
Bill ignored the comment, "Remember that time on Telmar? Who saved who? Huh?" He pointed the blade of his weapon at Mike, "You owe me one."
Mike gulped down the last of his beer and hoped nobody was listening.
"Hell, you owe me two. Remember..."
"I wasn't aware we were counting. But now that we are, how many do you think you owe me?"
Bill estimated a number in his head. Then finally gave in with a sheepish look, "Okay, I'll drop it."
Mike spent most of the afternoon on the computer running searches on Clay and beginning a journal for the story complete with facts, photos, and tapes of conversations. Everyone else was minding their own business which was nice for a change, though they didn't seem to have very much to do. Private reports kept coming in, forwarded from Linden, on new melted pieces of metal being found in Chuck's private residence and on his clothes. There was even one under the seat he sat in during lunch. Such is the life of an editor, Mike smiled.
He kept smiling until his searches started coming up negative. Clay seemed to have disappeared over the past two days except for one use of his corporate credit card at a shop in Aquapolis just that morning. He bought an expensive tie.
Otherwise, zip. He hadn't signed any business or legal documents. He wasn't at his office. He wasn't at his flat in Silver Tri. He hadn't been using the subway. He hadn't so much as peed in an executive toilet. Dead end, pure and simple. The only good thing Mike could tell was that he certainly hadn't left the planet. That would have made things a little too complicated.
"I can tell you where Clay is." Mike turned with alarming speed, almost giving himself the second near-whiplash of the week.
"You've got to break that habit, Mike. Seriously." It was Bill again.
"What the hell do you want, Walker?"
"I can tell you where Clay is." This time it registered. Mike opened his eyes wide, then looked around to be sure nobody was listening.
"Where?"
"Snow Country. He's staying in a friend's cabin. Some sort of ski vacation."
"What friend?" Mike nearly growled it.
"Some sort of business associate with the paper. I don't remember the name, but I can find out."
"How do you know this?"
Bill shrugged, "If I told you... maybe it would rain for me." A smug grin crossed his lips, but his eyes remained laser sharp, like the knife he carried for "occupational emergencies".
"You want in on this one?" Mike hated to offer, but he had little choice.
"You don't have to let me in if you don't want to."
"In or out? I'm not saying please."
Bill considered it for all of two seconds, "Okay, I'm in."
The infrared goggles penetrated the icy pitch darkness, making the chimney top of the well-insulated Solomon mansion seem like a beacon of light on an otherwise frozen landscape. Mike bit his upper lip as he lay prone in the snow, considering the fair possibility that Billy's grapevine might be wrong.
"Thank mama there's no wind," Bill whispered. Mike smiled at the phrase. Clay would have thanked the lord; Mike might have thanked the night, but Bill would thank his mama.
"Thank mama they've got a fire going," Mike countered. Bill quietly agreed. The house might have been doubly invisible without it.
"So get goin'," Bill prodded.
Mike dropped the goggles and crawled over the hard slippery ice away from his flycycle. He hoped the vehicle would carry three on the off chance they'd find Niki inside.
As Mike quickly reviewed the plan in his head, he began to wonder if the computer's information was up to date. It showed three entrances to the house; a front, a garage, and a servant's entrance. In fact, it gave him the entire floor plans including electrical access, water, and sewage piping which he and Bill studied most of the evening. Being a reporter on Tizar accorded some amazing privileges.
Mike reached the garage. The door had a hard polymer bolt fashioned to undermine the courage of any would-be thieves. He couldn't see it, but he knew a fancy security alarm would be hidden behind. All the locks would be like this one if the computer told the truth. All would be difficult to saw. At least here he wouldn't be heard.
The borrowed laser knife switched on silently. The little bit of light that it shed was enough for Mike to see what he was doing, though he didn't need the luxury. He knew exactly where to make the initial incision killing the alarm as it were. The rest was grunt work as laser grinded against polymer. Now, it was only a question of time.
Mr. John Clay relaxed in a cushioned rocking chair as he warmed his feet by the fireplace. It was quaint but effective, he mused as he slowly rocked back and forth, like fire itself. He glanced at the wooden chessboard where he had defeated his host, Mr. Solomon; the two kings now stood alone face to face at center board. Not very happy was he, Clay almost giggled. The corporation did not encourage good losers. In that, he was somewhat of an outcast.
He knew he had failed, but at least he was finished. Now, he would soon leave Tizar and return to the home of his childhood. He smiled faintly at the thought.
Suddenly a noise thrust him to full consciousness. Someone was yelling and slamming his fist against the front door.
"Who could it possibly be at such an ungodly hour?" Clay got to his feet, hoping the sound hadn't awakened his host.
"I'll get it, sir." Marley, the night guard took only few seconds to appear from the kitchen area. He seemed stiff and angry.
"Open up! Please hurry! Someone... Oh, thank goodness. You've got to help. There's been a terrible accident. Do you have a videophone?!"
"Who are you?" The guard's face was stern as he looked over the young man. His long stringy black hair was wet from the snowfall, and he held a heavy steel flashlight in his right hand which he kept shining in the guard's eyes.
"Oh please! Let me in. It's a matter of life and death! I've got to use your videophone. There's been a terrible accident..." The young man was panting from exhaustion.
"Where?!"
"Out there," the young man, exasperated, waved his arm back into the darkness.
Mike quickly cut through the lock at the back of the garage leading into the storage hall. Hearing the commotion up front, he slipped into the hall and ran to the kitchen area. The polymer bolt had taken more time than he anticipated. He had to hurry. He reached the security office just a minute behind schedule.
The office was full of little television screens, and there was a desk with a control station. An eight-pack of fun-punch was set on the floor next to the largest screen where the highlights of a tourist hunting safari were being broadcast in via satellite from the far side of the planet by channel #117 sports. Mike scanned the other monitors and saw the recording light on one. He grinned when he saw Bill's face, desperate, nearly frantic. Bill was always good at diversions.
Mike took out the current disk being recorded and slipped it into his pocket. He grabbed a blank from the desk and melted it down with the knife in one swift stroke. Then, by flipping a few red switches, he disconnected the batteries and shut off power to the entire mansion.
The guard turned around in surprise when the stairwell suddenly darkened. He didn't have time to feel the blow to the back of his skull. He was already unconscious.
Mike raced into the room. The fire and the knife blade were the only sources of light in the entire house. Clay stood motionless, hoping he wouldn't be noticed.
"Morning, Mr. Clay."
"Good morning, Michael. You wanted to see me?"
"Well, yes, sir. I was hoping to talk to you about how irresponsible the press has been acting lately. It's a damn disgrace."
Bill walked in, now competing for stage presence. "To think a few reporters could spoil a whole code of ethics through some gross dereliction of duty." He was shaking his head sadly, and he homed in on Clay.
Mike continued, "Overzealous is perhaps more the word. Derelict implies neglect. What do you think, Mr. Boardmember?" Mike held the blade to Clay's throat, igniting the bare traces of aftershave near his chin.
"What do you want?"
"Niki. You. Robin. Not necessarily in that order."
"Your research assistant is upstairs in the south guest room. You can go get her." Clay's breath was heavy with fear.
"Lend me the flashlight, Billy."
"It broke."
Mike pivoted his glance, "You hit with the back."
"I know. I forgot."
Clay strained a smile, "If you two professionals don't mind being interrupted, I happened to notice that the guard was carrying..."
"Sit down and shut-up."
"Merely trying to be helpful." He sat back down in the rocking chair.
Mike stripped the flashlight off the guard's belt and picked up an automatic pistol and a pair of handcuffs to boot. He gave the knife to Bill and wrapped Clay's arms around the back of the chair, securing them with the handcuffs before he headed upstairs. Slowly, carefully, he measured each step as he neared the top of the plush stairwell searching for the barest reason to shoot someone. The south guest room was just down the hall. He found the door unlocked. Niki was inside, on the bed, heavily sedated. Mike picked her up gently, very much relieved to find her unharmed. Content with his prize, he climbed back down the stairs.
"Okay sport, where's Robin." Mike set Niki's limp body on the floor by the guard.
"Asleep, upstairs."
Bill rocked the chair roughly at the answer. "I wasn't aware androids slept."
"She likes to pretend."
"So she's heard everything."
Clay offered a smile, "No, she shuts her senses down, except for touch."
Suddenly, the stairwell light came back on. Mike whirled around to face the kitchen. He lifted the gun half expecting to see Robin running in to save her master. Clay had, of course, lied. Mike inwardly debated blowing the old man away right there. He could almost see the image of blood cascading through the air as the chair would rock backward plunging its occupant into the fireplace. Mike nearly smiled at the thought.
"Mike..."
"I know. Get Niki and get out of here." He tossed Bill the flashlight.
"What about you?!"
"I'll think of something. Go!"
Bill didn't argue. He dragged Niki out the front door as fast as his feet would carry him, leaving Mike with Clay to wonder how many bullets it would take shatter the circuits of a pissed off android.
"She's very cunning, Mr. Harrison. You'd best be careful." Clay seemed amused. He's trying to distract me, Mike thought.
Ignoring Clay, Mike slinked quietly toward the kitchen entrance, wondering with each ill-fated step how good the android's hearing was. Exceptional, he supposed. The designers could make her as well as they wanted. He tried to make his breathing silent, but he only succeeded in noticing every small sound he made whether it was a footstep, a breath, or even a heartbeat.
Suddenly, the door swung open. Miraculously, he squeezed off a shot in time. Her head snapped back from the impact, but it didn't stop her. She struck him with phenomenal force, and Mike felt as if his entire chest were caving in. In another moment, her hand darted up. That was all he remembered.
It was a little like watching the stars fall. The cold coastal breeze gripping and then letting go, the tan sands which seemed rather darker than tan, and that distant disoriented feeling would combine on rare occasion when the stars fell from the sky.
Mike saw the stars falling clearly enough. He could feel the chill. But it was the disorientation that stole the show. He made numerous attempts at standing, but he never quite managed it. The ground seemed to rock like a see-saw back and forth as he lay down, and whenever he tried to get on his feet, he'd upset the balance and the entire room would turn upside-down and send him crashing to the ceiling and after a moment back to the floor again.
He heard voices far away almost shouting. They seemed to be very angry voices, but he couldn't understand the words. Suddenly he knew the language was foreign. Then he heard a girl giggling, but he couldn't place the laugh. It was a sweet innocent laughter which reminded him of the birds singing at Greenflower. But it was very near. Mike thought he could touch it if he reached out his arm just far enough, but suddenly it ceased. He knew she was close. His hand searched for her, but she wouldn't be found. He crawled toward her for a few feet, and then slumped down in despair.
He was too tired and she was too far away. Instead, he listened carefully for her laughter. But she was gone.
The nose of the kayak climbed quickly over the tall wave, slicing the crest in half before plunging back down to meet the next. Its occupant paddled furiously against the wind, straining frantically to beat the next rise before the sea engulfed her vessel. Her long slender arms gleamed in the morning sunlight, their dark, Draconian tones accented by a rich, brazen glow. A sudden gust of air almost capsized the boat spraying a salty white foam against her long, black windswept hair. She breathed deeply in exhilaration and struggled to keep the kayak upright. Out in the open sea, several kilometers from any land, she was beginning to lose her personal battle of wills against the elements.
She noticed the brilliant silver frame of the hydrofoil from the corner of her eye as it approached. The craft sped over the water in front of her, only its three skinny legs touching the water. They barely seemed to connect at all. Agyris poked his dark smiling face out the window as the pilot crossed her path.
"Had enough yet?!!" he shouted.
She turned her watch transmitter back on, knowing her weak voice wouldn't carry as far as his.
"Almost, give me another cent."
Her aide's voice broke over the transmitter, "Old Johnny's on the Coral. It looks like a situation has developed. It's urgent."
She cursed under her breath. "Okay. Bring the Coral in to get me." The next wave nearly rolled her over, and she turned the kayak around so that she wouldn't have to fight the wind or tide.
Agyris' hand flapped out the window as the hydrofoil sped away. She heard his voice over the transmitter, "Ambassador Uhambra is ready now. Coral steer fifteen degrees starboard and proceed at fifty knots. Pick-up at six-hundred and forty approximate. Over."
She leaned back letting the kayak drift with the tide while avoiding the brunt of the cold wind at her back. The sky was a pale blue without a cloud anywhere in sight. On the eastern horizon, Tizar's brilliant tangerine sun seemed to shimmer through the wide expanse of atmosphere. She saw purple-brown dots when she blinked and decided to refocus elsewhere.
"Ahoy there!" The first mate was waving from the deck. He wore a striped blue and white shirt with a sunny face. He tossed a hook, and smiled down at her as if expecting some reward. She hooked her kayak and climbed aboard, as he manually wheeled in the small craft.
"Where's mister problem?" she absentmindedly inquired, reaching for a towel. The first mate smiled through the pained and exhausted look he liked so much to wear in the company of superiors. She guessed it was his idea of looking busy.
"O'er there, ambassador." He nodded his head toward the cabin as he wrestled with the wheel.
"Don't strain yourself." She wrapped the white towel around her tall slender frame. It was a sharp contrast to her black swimsuit and dark, suntanned skin.
John Clay opened the cabin door and walked out onto the deck. Bags drooped under his usually alert, crystal-blue eyes. He wore a white business suit. She remembered he had a number of them along with a collection of expensive ties. It was considered ancient custom with the corporation; but on Tizar, it was contemporary fashion.
She stared at him silently with her dark brown eyes. She would let him confess incompetence and beg for another chance before patting him unforgivingly on the head and sending him home. As usual, he waited for the first mate to leave the deck before beginning his report.
"Ambassador, it is good to see you vibrant and alive and as young as ever." She sensed the vague tone of disrespect, the way he said young. Was he envious?
"I'm older than you, Johnny."
"Yes, the miracle of anagathics. It never ceases to amaze me. So lucky it was for you that you became a diplomat and not a sleeper."
She bit her lip in aggravation. "Not luck. What brings you here this time?"
"I have bad news to report."
"Again?"
"The Solomon residence was broken into early this morning by that reporter. We captured him, but his accomplice escaped with the Siri. Together, they have enough evidence to support..."
"Let me guess... a police investigation."
"Or worse still, a full divisional security review. And that's far more likely." Clay's hands were wrung together, his knuckles white from lack of circulation.
He continued, "This could all have been avoided if we had simply killed Harrison and his Psyche as I advised..."
"How did they learn of your whereabouts?" She ignored Clay's complaint. They both knew it had holes.
"We're checking into that now."
"Did you redirect all your people to new controls?"
He nodded, "Yes, but..."
"Well, that's all that really matters then. After you leave, they can investigate all they want, it won't do them a bit of good. Do you have a list of your redirections?" He handed her the envelope.
"What was you're method of communication?"
"Non-electronic, of course."
"That leaves quite a lot of room."
"Sealed paper envelope. Like this one but with coded orders."
"In person?"
He hesitated, "Yes. It was safer and fairly quick. And I used private transport."
"Where?"
"Where what?"
She bit her lip again, "Where was contact made?"
"A few at their residences. They spread the word, and the rest came to receive orders at Solomon's..."
"Right in the middle of Snow Country?"
"It's fairly out of the way."
"What about the security disk for that day?"
"It was destroyed by Harrison. He had to protect his accomplice."
"You're sure? We can't have that thing floating around."
"Would you like to see its remains?"
"Not particularly." She wondered if he was trying to be funny. "When you leave tonight, take Solomon with you."
"Of course."
She smiled for the first time since seeing him. "Is that all then?"
"Not quite. I'd like to know what we're supposed to do with Harrison."
"Have you interrogated him?"
"Not yet."
"Wake him and do it. Report back if he has anything interesting on his mind."
"If not, can I kill him?"
She laughed, "Would it give you great pleasure?"
"On the contrary. I'd like to keep him alive for torture. He's only ruined everything."
"All right. You can do with him whatever your little heart desires. I emphasize little heart, because I know you very well. That's if and only if he refuses to cooperate. However, if he has something interesting to offer, see if there's a way to avoid murder. He's quite possibly the top gatherer on Tizar, maybe even in the entire sector. There will be a storm in the press if he just disappears. See if there isn't a way we can use him to our advantage. He must have some sort of connections. And find out how much he knows. It'll give us a good idea where we stand."
Clay nodded, trying consciously to make a mental note of every order. He knew he wouldn't try hard to make Harrison talk. It would be fun getting rid of him.
Mike awakened slowly, his body stretched like a slab of meat along a tightly strewn grav-field, its invisible coils suspending him horizontally, tugging his arms and legs in separate directions. He glanced about the large, dimly lit room, its sharp, jutting contours and lack of furnishing serving a dull reminder of his helpless position. A large window along the far wall overlooked a blue-green seascape, gaeyave and shallowfish swimming slowly past the plastic brace, while another creature with long clear tentacles attached itself to the smooth surface. Mike peered between its suctioning arms wondering if he was dreaming. He could barely make out the blurry lights of Aquapolis in the far distance.
Robin leaned with her back against the glass and watched Mike while the drugs slowly lost their grip. As his eyes focused on her dark outline they seemed to close on the neat puncture wound in the center of her forehead. His legs began kicking in a pathetic sort of dance as he tried to physically squirm out of the gravity cell.
"We had to put you in there. You kept on hurting yourself." She approached him cautiously.
"You didn't have to dope me up. How long has it been?"
"Not long."
Mike stopped fighting the field. He tried to relax and think of a way out, but he was out of ideas.
He looked her over. Robin wore a pair of blue coveralls. A headband hung limply from her front pocket.
"Sorry about shooting you." He tried to make it sound genuine.
"Quite all right, Mr. Harrison. I understand your motives."
He wondered how much an android could understand.
"Besides," she continued, "it was about the best place you could have aimed."
"No brains, huh."
She patted her chest.
"Well, it doesn't look good."
She seemed to laugh inwardly as Mr. Clay glibly strolled in, "No, but it will heal." He looked very self-assured, even a little cocky. "Robin is very hard-headed, Michael. May I call you Michael? The bullet you fired simply bounced off. The skin which was torn is constructed with a biochemical agent not unlike that found in mendwear. Bed off."
The grav-field slowly rotated Mike into a standing position. He looked at Robin. She smiled as if on display.
"Why are you telling me this?" Mike tried not to sound too irritated.
Clay pondered the question for a moment, his thin, white brows furrowed in self-restraint. "Because I like you..." he managed with a sarcastic twist to his voice.
Mike let a smile creep across him face before plunging, arms outstretched. He felt his body sheathed in fire, burning alive even as he brushed by the old man and hit the floor, his inflamed arms crackling and spitting like dry driftwood over an open barbecue.
"What you are now experiencing, Michael... is our cooperation inducing system. It consists of a series of electrical implants in your brain... which are capable of constructing a wide array of phantom sensations... when properly instructed." His booming voice slowly slipped to its usual volume as the flaring pain evaporated.
Mike felt his head, naked flesh and electrodes.
"You bastard."
Clay smiled at the remark.
"Why the hell are you doing this?"
"I'd like to get to know you... get to know your work?"
"Why should I tell you jack-sh..." Mike hit the floor as the electricity scathed through his mind, his head throbbing in illusory explosion.
"I believe you will find our methods quite convincing."
Mike tried to talk, but the pain forced his mouth shut, his neck curling backward in agony. Gasping for breath, he refocused his eyes. Robin stood over him, her foot resting softly on his chest.
"I don't know... you want..."
"Now we're getting somewhere aren't we..."
Robin blurred into the ceiling, its dark surface pressing on him, pushing him deeper into the floor.
"We want to know... how we can help... do we?"
"Ye..."
"What's that, Michael?"
"Yes..."
The pain faded slowly, the pressure falling away like storm clouds over the coast, raining then leaving in gentle succession. Clay regarded the young man with antipathy, the body tangled in grotesque torment, and without a single scratch. He much preferred real torture, the sort that you could see and have respect for; but that could wait for later.
Robin picked Mike's head off the floor and let it drop. "He's unconscious. Automatic depressants registering in the forward cranium."
"That's no fun... let us wake him."
"Are you sure?"
"Do it."
Dark brown eyes burst open as the chemicals neutralized in wave after wave of mind splitting torment. Clay's smiling face loomed above like a bobbing floater.
"Tizar to Michael... are you still with us? I hope that was as good for you as it was for me, Michael. Because, to be absolutely honest, it doesn't get much better; but we will try, won't we." He winked toward the silhouette sitting quietly against the window.
"Go ahead..."
"What's that, Michael? Are you actually cognizant? Have you a thought to share?"
Mike felt Clay's glaring eyes upon his face even as he closed his own.
"...before it dies of loneliness? Go ahead... what?"
"Kill me..."
A long silence passed before Mike opened his eyes. Clay looked astonished and insulted.
"Kill you??? Why in heaven's name should I do a nasty thing like that? I want to be your friend. We are friends... aren't we, Michael?"
"What the hell do you want from me?"
"You mustn't be difficult, Michael... it's a naughty thing."
Burning sensations tore through Mike's body for a fraction of a second as he turned to look again at Robin.
"She controls it, Michael... she could kill you on a whim... except, of course, for the obvious fact that androids don't have whims. Lucky for you... isn't it?"
Mike griped bare floor as the pain coursed through his veins. He twisted about, vulnerably, clawing toward her with floundering motions.
"But since you've been such a good sport, we're going to keep you company for a while longer. Are you feeling cooperative yet?"
"Tell me what you want."
Clay acquiesced, "Very well, let us start at the common ground, just to see what we both know. Tell me who killed our esteemed friend, Mr. John Doe number seventeen."
Mike stopped and thought as the pain released its hold.
"Who... Fork? You want to know who killed Fork?"
"I believe I have made myself abundantly lucid, Michael. You were aware of them. We know you visited the pit."
Clay first heard a chuckle, then a snort, then a laugh, then a sound he couldn't place in any interrogation he had ever participated in or heard of. He looked down at the billowing figure in amazement and then back toward Robin.
"What are you doing?"
She nodded her head, nothing.
"Michael, either we've pushed you completely over the edge, or..."
"Fork isn't dead." Mike tumbled himself into a sitting position, holding his side with one hand and wiping away tears with the other.
"You are insane."
Mike beamed up, the laughter leaving him as the memory of pain crept back into his mind.
"You don't believe me, Clay... flush me out the torpedo tubes."
The old man smiled at the suggestion.
Clay wasn't convinced, "If he's alive, then where is he?"
Mike rubbed the metal connections on his head.
"Where is he!?!"
The dim flicker of pain approached his senses and veered away as he steadied his gaze on the dark outline against the wall.
"I'll do it, Michael."
The moment hung open like a sputtering ocean swell refusing to die.
"In transit to Calanna."
"And how do you know this to be true?"
"A little birdie told me. Look, Mr. Clay, I'm a gatherer. I've got ways of finding things out."
"Connections?" Clay seemed intrigued; whether out of playfulness of genuine belief, Mike couldn't tell.
"That, investigation, and sometimes just a little intuitive reasoning."
"What did your little break-in this morning constitute. Investigation or intuitive reasoning?"
Robin told the truth; he hadn't been out very long. Mike wondered how far it was to the surface.
"Mr. Harrison," Clay skipped to the surname as if he were beginning a long lecture, "It seems as if we have fallen into a double-checkmate. Do you play chess?"
"On occasion."
"Double-checkmate is the game's one fault; it is shall we say, the impossible outcome. Yet, in reality, it is all too common. Rarely, instead of there being a winner and a loser, both parties lose."
"There's always stalemate..." Mike involuntarily slid backward an inch as Clay glared at the interruption.
"Not the same, Mr. Harrison. One is more a tie than the other."
"I see."
"We have forced each other into unacceptable losses, and foolishly. We are not enemies. If anything, we both want to see this Mr. Fork as you call him returned to Tizar, alive and well."
"Then why did you kidnap Niki?"
"You were interfering with my work. You were investigating me. And furthermore, you were drawing attention to Mr. Fork. I am convinced that if he were not the subject of your obtuse scrutinies, Imperial attentions would never have been attracted."
"ISIS."
Clay smiled and folded his hands over his belt.
"What part in this do you play, Mr. Clay?"
The old man's skin tightened involuntarily, "Again you probe me, Michael."
Mike looked at Robin. Her outline seemed to shimmer against the dim, blue light of the seascape.
"Fine. I'll forget you. I'll forget I ever met you. But just what are you proposing?"
"That you go to Calanna in search of this Mr. Fork. I would like you to find him and bring him back here to Tizar."
"And what will you do? Linden already knows that you planted those bugs."
"What I will do is unimportant."
Mike smiled in disbelief, "I know Chuck. He doesn't take security lightly. I really doubt that he'd just put this to rest."
"He has no choice. You have no choice. Or would you rather be fed to the fish?"
"Look, I'm just saying..."
"Mr. Harrison, you are not in a position to debate me. Will you do as I bid? A simple yes or no will suffice."
Mike considered it, even though he knew Clay was right. He had no choice. They had no choice. That was the beauty of double-checkmate, or mutual assured destruction as most folks called it. It was a lesson history had invariably taught every culture. And in each culture it had a different name.
"Okay. I guess you've got me. I'll convince Chuck to stay cool, and I'll go to Calanna." He didn't mention that the latter was already decided.
"And you'll take Robin."
"And I'll... now hold it just a minute." Mike raised his hands in protest.
"And you'll take Robin." Clay held all the cards, and he knew it. Mike realized it was pointless to debate.
"Fine. I'll take her."
Jim is a full-time MBA student at UC Riverside. He recently founded the UCR Gamers' Guild and co-edited the first issue of its quarterly journal, _The_Guildsman_. These chapters are the first of several he began during the middle 80's as a prose exercise in description of his Traveller (SF-RPG) setting. He says he writes exactly the same way he gamemasters: without any semblance of plan or preconception.
What has been published here as `Chapter Three' is actually chapters four and five as written originally by Jim. `The Harrison Chapters' will be continued next issue.
jimv@ucrmath.ucr.edu