Mind Over Ship Read online

  Meewee nodded enthusiastically. “I agree. There’s more to this proposal than simply rounding up more asteroids. What about tenants? Wouldn’t we be robbing from our own pool of potential colonists? Why should anyone spend a thousand years traveling to Ursus Majoris when they can hop to a colony at Leading Mars instead? No, in my opinion, this is an unnecessary diversion of our energies and a bad idea. Our mission is not an easy one, my friends, and this space condo fantasy is just that, a fantasy. It is not GEP’s mission to fill the inner system with your consumers, no matter how profitable. No thank you.”

  When the debate ended and the ballot was counted, the vote fell along predictable lines. With eight for and three opposed, the final decision fell to Andrea Tiekel, as Meewee knew it would. So it was with heart-thudding relief that she killed the amendment.

  Jaspersen seemed disappointed, but not much. His toy head bobbed in Andrea’s direction. “Nice to see where you stand on this, my dear.”

  The young woman laughed. “I’m just getting used to this consortium the way it is, Saul. I don’t think I’m ready to let anyone change it into something else yet.”

  Plan A

  Ellen refused to sit in either Georgine’s or June’s lap. She insisted on sitting by her own real self, propped up in a chair, to receive her realperson guests. “Oliver TUG,” she said merrily to the gargantuan man that Lyra escorted into the Map Room. “A pleasure to see you after all this time. And who is this youngster you’ve brought with you?”

  “I’m no youngster, Myr Starke,” said the smaller TUG. “I’m Veronica TUG. We’ve met on a number of occasions.”

  Ellen did a double take but recovered quickly and quipped, “Well, Veronica, it would appear that both of us have shed a few dress sizes.” That brought appreciative chuckles from the TUGs, who were offered seats and refreshments.

  ANDREA, DEAR, WAKE up, E-P said. We’ll want to watch this.

  Andrea struggled to surface from unrefreshing sleep in her tank. A frame opened in front of her depicting a monstrous baby and equally monstrous guests.

  “TO WHAT DO I owe this visit?” Ellen said. “I must tell you that I’m leaving my production company and may have less need for your, ah, specialized services in the future.”

  Oliver, wiping cookie crumbs from his lips, cleared his throat. “First, we would like to offer our sympathy on behalf of Charter TUG for the loss of your mother.”

  “My mother?” The word “mother” hung in the air like a hazard sign. Ellen’s ungainly head wobbled a little, and Georgine and June, seated on either side of her, held their breath. Georgine patted her pockets for the clicker, but Ellen went on, “Thank you. My mother is dead.”

  “Yes,” Oliver continued, “and you nearly ended up that way yourself.” He said this in a leading way, but Ellen seemed dense to his meaning, so he spoke more plainly. “Wee Hunk hired us to perform a special service in that regard, and we have come today to collect our payment. We are sorry for the loss of your mentar as well as your mother, and we hesitated contacting you sooner.”

  “My Wee Hunk is dead.”

  “We know, and we are sorry,” Oliver said, shaking his head in sympathy. “Perhaps we should postpone this reckoning up until a later time.”

  “No. Not at all,” Ellen said. “Tell me how much it is, and Lyra will make a transfer.”

  “It’s a rather steep amount, myr, because of the danger involved and the costly equipment confiscated or destroyed, not to mention the greasing of many hands.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred fifty thousand UDC.”

  This gave pause even to the lifelong aff, but she said, “You weren’t kidding, Oliver; that is steep. Tell me, what service cost me that much?”

  Oliver seemed uncomfortable and glanced at the ceiling.

  “Don’t worry about eavesdroppers, Oliver. This whole house has the rating of a good quiet room. You can talk freely here.”

  Oliver remained doubtful, but he continued. “We were instrumental in extracting your head from that house in Decatur, the Sitrun house.”

  “I thought the Homeland Command was responsible for that? That’s what my people told me.”

  “The hommers were there too, but they and you would have been cooked without us. With the number of media bees present, it shouldn’t be hard for you to verify this.”

  “I see,” the adult head said, mulling it over. “I’ll have Lyra look into it. I have no doubt it’ll be as you say.”

  “Thank you. We have always appreciated your fairness, Myr Starke.”

  “You’re welcome. Expect to hear from us in a few days.” Ellen spoke with a meeting-closing finality, but the TUGs did not rise to leave. “Was there something else?”

  “Yes, myr,” Veronica said. “We know that a quarter-million yoodies is a lot even for someone of your means, and we might be willing to take payment in trade.”

  “Go on,” Ellen said, a note of caution creeping into her voice.

  “In exchange for a waiver, we’d be willing to apply the full amount toward the purchase of an Oship. Oship 67, to be specific.”

  “But you don’t need me for that. Talk to the GEP; I’m sure they can accommodate you.”

  “We have spoken to them, myr. They insist that the only acceptable payment for shares to an Oship is the title to land. Our membership wants to expand into space, but not at the expense of its holdings on Earth. We’d rather purchase a ship outright, for cash.”

  “But you must understand that land acquisition is the GEP’s sole reason for existing. It doesn’t ‘sell’ ships. It only trades them for land.”

  “Thus the waiver.”

  “I see,” Ellen said. “I don’t know if I can help you. The GEP is a consortium of thirteen partners, and I cannot dictate conditions to the others.” She smiled mischievously and added, “Except that occasionally I do. Maybe we can help each other. I have a counterproposal for you.”

  Oliver said, “We’re listening.”

  “Not here. What I have to propose is too sensitive even for a quiet room. A null room would be best, except that I can’t manage to enter one yet in my current condition. Instead, let’s cast proxies and put them into a secure scape.”

  The TUGs agreed, and Lyra cast proxies of them, and after testing them for faults, Ellen inserted the datapins into a sequestered player. Then, while they waited for their proxies to meet, arbeitors served another round of refreshments.

  Half a continent away, Andrea in her tank asked, What do you make of all that?

  We are unsure, E-P said. Ellen Starke’s personality is still too unstable for us to model. Let us ask you the same question. What do you make of it?

  Andrea let her impressions wash over her like the bubbly green syrup in her tank. Only a few days ago Starke was convinced that her mother was still alive. Now she admits she is dead. Even with the Protatter drug, that’s a swift conversion. She’s used her current guests for extra-legal tasks in the past. She trusts their discretion. It’s obvious she has a dirty deed for them to perform, but what exactly it is, I don’t know.

  TUG PROXIES TENDED to include everything from the waist up and thus they appeared nearly as gargantuan as their originals. Ellen used her adult sim for her proxy, and only its head, shoulders, and one free-floating unattached hand. The proxies faced each other, drifting in an empty space with no up or down.

  What is this service that’s worth a waiver, Myr Starke? Oliver-by-proxy asked.

  Without preamble, Ellen’s proxy said, I want you to find my mother’s murderers. And after you find them, I want you to destroy them.

  The TUG proxies were silent for a long while.

  Do you need time to discuss this between yourselves?

  No, that’s not necessary, Oliver-by-proxy replied. I am authorized to speak for the charter in matters like this. I’m not sure what has given you the impression that we kill for hire, but even if we did, your request is not that simple. Especially for the class of target you’re
talking about. Whoever was responsible for the crash of the Songbird, the murder of Eleanor Starke, and your kidnapping is not likely to be a street thug. You’re talking about a class of bad guy that’s way out of our league. We are not specialists in this area. Then there are the mentars to deal with. Whoever did your mother no doubt has a mentar watching their back. You’d need your own mentar to deal with it, and as you may know, Charter TUG has never sponsored a mentar, so we are lacking in that area as well.

  I see, Ellen said. Perhaps, then, you could point me toward an appropriate specialist.

  Oliver’s proxy shook its head. That alone would make us accomplices. In point of fact, we recommend that you discontinue your planning along this path, for we are already too closely tied to you, for the service at the Sitrun house and services to Burning Daylight, and any investigation of you will bring the HomCom to our door as well. Even our open visit with you today at your home implicates us in whatever you’re planning.

  You don’t seem to understand, Ellen insisted. Someone murdered my mother, and I must make them pay.

  Veronica-by-proxy said, I can appreciate your feelings, Myr Starke, but perhaps you will take some advice from people who know something about exacting payment. Murder at the level of Eleanor Starke will have been ordered for practical purposes: a business decision, a power struggle, an ideological disagreement. Don’t think of the killer as an individual but rather as a team. Your natural impulse is to want to kill the whole team, but you can never get them all, and all you accomplish is starting a death spiral of attacks and counterattacks.

  It’s much better to take a longer view. Find anonymous ways to hurt the entire team. Cripple them in ways that matter to them. There’s lots of ways to play dirty that are less extreme than murder, a lot safer for you, and more effective in the long run. In that area our charter excels, and we may be of service to you.

  But Ellen’s proxy wasn’t convinced. If you do this for me, find my mother’s murderers and kill them, kill as many of them as you can, I won’t sell you an Oship, I’ll give you one.

  IN THE MAP Room, the player chimed. Ellen removed the datapins and held them up to the light in her unsteady hand. The paste bulbs were blackened — nuked. “I guess you didn’t like my proposition,” Ellen said. “Too bad.”

  IN THEIR CAR, Oliver said, “I wonder what that was all about. Something we wouldn’t touch. And how freakish she looks with that head. Worse than you.”

  Veronica let that pass. She was having a hard time getting comfortable in her car seat. She reached around and opened a special flap in the rear of her jumpsuit to let her tail out.

  “Anyway,” Oliver concluded, “so much for Plan A. On to Plan B.”

  Veronica jabbed her elbow in his ribs. How is our little Plan B. coming along? Did it pass the isolation test?

  Yes, forty-eight hours of solitary confinement. Most of the batch survived. We’re interacting with them this week before putting them in for seventy-two.

  You look doubtful.

  Oliver sighed. We’ve never raised a mentar before, and we don’t know what to expect. Even so, there’s something weird about these.

  In what way?

  They’re crazier than any mentar I’ve ever met.

  Bait and Switch

  As the Starke limo pulled into the station adjoining the John P. Walters National Detention Center, Mary put the finishing touches to her costume. She wore a baggy pantsuit of a medicine-pink color that few, if any, evangelines would dream of wearing. But it was exactly what she’d asked Lyra to make for her.

  The limo came to a whispery stop on the brightly lit platform. Clouds of media bees awaited her on the other side of the gull-wing door. She let them get a good look at her through the glass, then put on her medicine-pink hat and lowered its veil to completely cover her face. Leaving the car, she strode purposefully to the NDC entrance tunnel. The flying mechs mobbed her along the way, but they were constrained to halt at the tunnel entrance. Mary continued on through to the scanway and into Wait Here Hall.

  Wait Here Hall was a hushed, cavernous chamber where thousands of visitors languished on hard, plastic benches. This being Mary’s eighteenth (and final!) visit, she headed by habit to the FDO gate, but Lyra said, Mary, you’re going the wrong way. Mary changed course to Central Processing, where NO ENTRY barriers blocked the entrance. She looked around for a vacant seat. On the nearest benches, people watched her with jurylike curiosity. She turned her back to them.

  “How much longer?”

  Patience, Mary. He’s almost finished.

  “Are Cyndee and Larry here yet?”

  They’re a few minutes out.

  Mary paced while she waited. After half an hour or so, a russ walked through the holo barrier, but it wasn’t Fred. The russ wore a guard uniform, and he did a double take when he saw Mary. Despite her veil and baggy pink clothes, he made her for an evangeline, but he continued on without acknowledging her.

  A little while later, Lyra said, Now, Mary, and Mary hurried to the barrier. The russ who emerged wore an olive-drab jumpsuit and carried a duffel bag under his arm. He halted momentarily, as though stunned by the size and noise and dangers of such a public space. Then he noticed Mary standing next to the barrier and he looked even more stunned. When Mary went over to him, he opened his arms, dropping the duffel, and without a word gave her a tentative hug. Then he picked up his bag and set off across the hall.

  Mary hastened to follow. They walked to the exit tunnel, and when they were hidden from view of both the hall and the tube station, Fred halted and drew her to him. He lifted the veil and looked into her startled face.

  “Mary, what is all this?”

  “Hello, Fred. Nice to see you too.”

  “Why are you in this — disguise? Are you ashamed of being with me?”

  “Oh, Fred, you have it so wrong. I’m in costume because it’s really bad out there. I have some help coming. We should wait here for them.”

  Fred pursed his lips and tried to make sense of it. “We’ll be fine,” he said. He took her arm and escorted her down the tunnel. When they rounded a bend, he stopped short. In the tube station beyond the tunnel exit was a living rampart of tiny flying mechs — witness bees, public bees, media bees — several times more than when Mary had arrived. They swirled and churned in competition for cam position, and the drone of their wings surged when Fred came into view.

  Fred’s jaw dropped. Grimly he said, “I’ll go first. Do you know which direction the trains are? I’ll go first, and you follow close.”

  “No, Fred!” Mary said, pulling him back. “Look at me!” He let her pull him back around the bend. “I have everything under control. Will you please let me take the lead for once? Please?”

  Fred looked confused. “What do you want of me, Mary?”

  A proper hello, she thought. A kiss would be nice. But instead she said, “We have a diversion, Fred.”

  “We who?”

  Right on cue, Larry approached them from the Wait Here end of the tunnel, and although he wasn’t wearing a uniform, Fred made him for a guard. “Can I help you, brother?” Fred snapped. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t live here anymore.”

  The russ hesitated, and Mary said, “Fred, this is Larry. He’s a friend. He’s Cyndee’s husband. You remember Cyndee; she was at the clinic with me.”

  Fred nodded curtly to the other man. “Glad to meet you, Londenstane,” Larry said and held out his hand. When Fred didn’t respond in kind, Larry handed him a tote bag. “The plan is for you to put this on.”

  Fred opened the bag and saw what looked like a security uniform. He snapped the bag shut and said, “In case you’re ignorant, brother, it’s a felony to impersonate an officer. I’m not even out of this hellhole yet, and you want me to commit a felony?”

  “Whoa, pard. Take a look.” Larry took the tote bag and pulled the suit out. It wasn’t a guard’s jumpsuit after all, but a security uniform for a private house hold. It resembled an NDC gu
ard’s uniform only in its cut and color.

  Fred looked at it, sighed, and began to unfasten his own jumpsuit, but Larry told him the uniform was roomy enough to pull over the clothes he had on. Fred dressed quickly, and Larry looked him over and said, “Such a deal.”

  The remark set Fred off again. “You obviously don’t want to be doing this, brother. So, what gives? How much is my wife paying you?”

  Larry made a familiar russ grin of forbearance. “You get three strikes, brother, because of the extremity of your situation, and that there was strike two. For your information, I volunteered for this op. I’m as worried about the clone fatigue as the next guy, but I’m also married to a ’leen, and what you and Mary and Georgine and the others did for the whole lot of ’em is nothing short of miraculous. Cyndee is pulling her own weight for the first time since we’ve been married. And that’s done wonders for her, for the both of us. I think you can appreciate what I mean. You could say I owe you, Londenstane, so get over your freaking self.”

  The two russes regarded each other soberly, and Larry said, “Are we good now, Londenstane? There’s a visor cap in your utility pocket.” Larry was already wearing an olive-drab jumpsuit like the one that Fred had been released in and didn’t need to change.

  Fred turned to Mary and said, “What now?” Another woman had joined them, a tall free-ranger. Fred looked from one woman to the other and saw that it wasn’t Mary in the pink outfit anymore, but a strange evangeline, Cyndee presumably.

  The taller woman next to her wore expensive-looking town togs and veiled hat. She modeled her outfit for him and said, “Are we ready, driver?” It was Mary!

  Cyndee, thoroughly pink, lowered her own veil and took Larry’s arm. They’d never fool the nitwork, but they didn’t need to.