Deadman Switch (13 page)

I swallowed. “He's not bluffing, sir. He means it.”

Aikman's glance at me glinted with its usual hatred, but he said nothing. “Very well,” Randon said icily. “Seqoya: did you run a DNA comparison between those customs IDs and their owners?”

“Yes, sir,” Seqoya answered cautiously, clearly wondering if he was about to wind up on the receiving end of Randon's frustration. “They matched perfectly.”

“All right, then.” Deliberately, Randon turned his gaze from Aikman onto the two prisoners. “They can go. Give them back their capelets.”

Seqoya hesitated, then moved to comply. “Not the scrubber, of course,” Randon added. “We'll want to let Schock take a look at it.”

“That device is customs property,” the elder man insisted, his courage clearly having come back with his perception that Randon was giving in. “I must insist on having it back.”

Randon gave him a tight smile. “Certainly. Your superior can pick it up in the morning … along with your IDs.”

Both men froze in the act of putting on their capelets. “We need our IDs to do our jobs,” the elder said through a suddenly tight mouth.

“Then you'd better get your superior over here tonight, hadn't you?” Randon told him coldly. “Seqoya: escort them to the edge of the perimeter. Make sure they leave.”

Seqoya nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Behind me, Aikman took a deep breath. Randon heard him, too, and turned around. “You have something to say, counselor?”

Aikman did; and he thought seriously about saying it. But he'd lost, and he knew it … and like Randon, he recognized the futility of simply lashing out in anger. “No, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos,” he sighed at last.

Randon watched him for another moment, just to make sure. Then he turned back, and we all watched Seqoya usher the would-be intruders out of the gatelock. “A-minus for effort,” he murmured, more to himself than to any of us. “Come on, Benedar, let's go see what Schock can tell us about that scrubber. Kutzko, keep the shields alert—they may not be ready to give up yet.”

Behind me, Aikman turned and stalked back into the ship, his sense a silent blaze of anger. “Yes, sir,” Kutzko nodded. “Will you be wanting to head back to the governor's dinner later?”

Randon glanced at his watch, shook his head. “No point to it now.” He threw me a sly look. “Besides, someone there may be sweating at our sudden departure. Let's give him time to do it right.”

“Cute,” Schock muttered, turning the flexible rectangular mesh over in his hand and peering at its other side with his magnifier. “Very cute indeed. Cute
and
nasty.” He waved Randon over. “Look here, sir—this sicet here, the one with the number partly scratched off? Odds are it's a preprogrammed bookbug, designed to get into the ship's data records and rescramble selected portions according to a new code.”

Randon snorted gently. “Pretty primitive,” he growled contemptuously. “Also useless. Even if the main sentinel missed it, there are at least two programs in our library for redecoding data that's gotten fouled up.”

“True, but then this wasn't supposed to be anything more than a distraction,” Schock shook his head. “Something to keep the sentinel—and us—occupied while
these
other two sicets got to work.” He tapped the pair with his probe. “This is the real attack: a highly sophisticated codex mimic, and a miniature phone system switching station. The mimic can—theoretically, anyway—fool a computer into handing control of the phone system over to it, at which point the switching station can set up a link to a phone outside the ship. Without our knowing it, naturally.”

Randon swore, the earlier smugness vanished into black anger. The
Bellwether's
computer could easily defend itself against an autosystem simple enough to fit on a single sicet; defending itself from a human expert with access to a full-range computer was something else entirely. “How hard would it have been for them to hook this into the
Bellwether's
systems?” he asked.

“Simplicity itself,” Schock told him. “There are three induction portals on it, each set to a different voltage and frequency.”

“Meaning … ?”

“Meaning that all they would have had to do was plant it within electronic spitting distance of any of our electronics,” Schock said bluntly. “In a phone, a repeater terminal, even one of the remote locks.”

For a long moment Randon was silent, and I could feel the anger growing steadily within him. “Could they possibly have had the thing just sitting around, ready to go?”

“You mean was it put together specifically for us?” Schock shrugged. “Hard to tell. For all I know, everyone on Solitaire could be backstabbing each other with these all the time.”

Wordlessly, Randon plucked the thing from Schock's fingers and handed it to me.

One look was all I needed. “It was assembled in a rush,” I confirmed. “There are traces of connector fluid on some of the sicets that would normally be cleaned off, and the sealant has ripples in it that imply it was force-dried instead of being allowed to set naturally.” I handed it back to Schock.

“Huh,” he said in a bemused tone, peering at it again himself. “They're there, all right.”

“Which means,” Randon said thoughtfully, “that they
did
throw this together solely for our benefit. Hard to do?”

Schock considered. “Not for someone willing to pay the price.”

Randon pursed his lips. “There must be something very interesting on those HTI cyls.”

“Well, we can find out for sure any time now,” Schock offered. “They're clean enough to put into the system and take a look. Incidentally, they'd loaded a passive tapsnake on the cyl they gave us, designed to root around for anything else in our files with an HTI keymark on it. Nothing fancy; it looked almost like they just threw it in out of habit.”

“Paranoia,” Randon murmured, and I could tell he was remembering the conversation we'd had on the way to the HTI meeting that morning. Remembering the odd tension Calandra and I had sensed overlaying all of Solitaire … “Benedar, you said Governor Rybakov reacted when I had Kutzko pull the fake security matter gambit, right? What was she like when we left?”

I thought back. “Much the same,” I told him. “Only worse. But also strangely … resigned, I think. As if she knew she'd lost a battle or something and was mentally preparing to pull back to a new position.”

He stared off into space a minute. “Sort of like the way Aikman acted when I told him I was keeping his friends' IDs?”

“Similar, but more intense.” I hesitated, sorely tempted to skip over the next point. But omission of truth was just another form of lying. “For the record, though, I don't believe Aikman was actually in on the scheme, at least not beforehand. He was genuinely surprised to find those men trying to break into the ship.”

“Then why did he try to get them off?” Randon demanded.

“Oh, he figured out quickly enough what was going on,” I shrugged. “It was obvious that he was trying to get whoever sent them off the hot seat with as little damage as possible.”

Randon grunted. “The difference between accessory before the fact and afterwards, in other words.”

“More or less.”

Randon made a face, then shrugged. “All right, forget Aikman for the moment. Back to Rybakov. What was this battle she'd lost, and where was she trying to pull back to?”

I had to search my memory to find the part of the conversation he was referring to. “My feeling is that she was involved, somehow, with the attempt to get aboard,” I said slowly, trying to remember every nuance of the governor's sense. “Perhaps only in knowledge—maybe she was just asked to make sure we didn't leave dinner early.”

“Or maybe she was asked to provide someone with a pair of official IDs?” Randon suggested.

I blinked: That thought hadn't even occurred to me. “That's … yes, that's possible,” I agreed carefully.

“Just a second, here,” Schock put in, clearly aghast. “Sir, are you accusing a
planetary governor
of involvement in industrial sabotage?”

“Why not?” Randon countered. “Just because the Patri thought she was qualified to run a minor system doesn't mean she can't be bribed. Or blackmailed or threatened, for that matter.”

“But—” Schock struggled for words.

“Especially if she sees us as a threat to the whole of Solitaire, and not just to HTI,” I put in.

Randon paused in the act of responding to Schock and stared at me.
“Does
she see us that way?” he asked.

I bit at the inside of my lip. The words had just popped out on their own … but now as I reviewed my sense of Rybakov, I could see that my back-brain had again put pieces together ahead of my conscious mind. “Yes,” I told Randon.

“How much of a threat?” Schock asked warily.

“It can't be
that
bad,” Randon put in before I could answer. “Logic, Schock. Our would-be saboteurs must have reported their failure by now; if Rybakov thought we had to be stopped at all costs, Commodore Freitag's men would already have boarded us under some pretext and carted us and the cyls away.” His voice turned thoughtful. “Which means she still hopes we'll be reasonable about whatever we're about to find.”

I watched him weigh the alternatives and come to a decision. “Move aside, Schock,” he ordered, stepping around the desk. A wary look on his face, Schock slid out of the lounge chair. Randon dropped into it, scooping up the other's control stick and waving it at the phone. “Governor's mansion,” he instructed the computer.

“Mr. Kelsey-Ramos—”

“Quiet, Schock. Yes, hello, this is Randon Kelsey-Ramos. I'd like to leave a message for Governor Rybakov—no, don't interrupt her dinner, just give her this message. Tell her that her friends dropped something of hers before they left our ship, and that if she wants the items back she can pick them up here in the morning … Yes, personally—I wouldn't think of entrusting them to anyone but her. Thank you.”

He waved the stick again and got up off the couch. “And that's that,” he said, a note of tension underlying the words. “We'll find out in the morning just how much of a guilty conscience the governor has.”

“We won't be here—we're supposed to leave for Collet in the morning,” Schock reminded him nervously. Clearly, he considered the whole subject perilously close to social apostasy.

“Then we'll just have to postpone our departure a day or two,” Randon told him firmly. “I want to stay here until I know what it is about HTI that has everyone so nervous.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “That's good news for you, of course.”

It took me a second to realize what he meant … and then it came back in a rush. What with all the intrigue of the evening, I'd totally forgotten the death sentence hanging over Calandra's head. “Yes, sir, it is. If Governor Rybakov does come here tomorrow, I'd like to be present.”

Randon's smile was tight, with a trace of bitterness to it. “I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm beginning to see just how potent this Watcher addiction is.”

The words were bantering … but the hard edge beneath it was anything but. Like his father, Randon saw himself as a staunchly independent man, master of his life and the people around him. Unlike Lord Kelsey-Ramos, he hadn't yet learned that both independence and mastery had limits. “Good night, sir,” I said.

“Okay, Schock, to work,” I heard Randon say as the door closed behind me. “Let's get those cyls out and see what in blazing chem-fire is in them.”

K
UTZKO WAS GONE FROM
the gatelock when I returned there. Ifversn, when I asked, directed me to the bridge, a sort of sly amusement about him. Wondering what the joke was, I headed upstairs.

Kutzko was there, all right, sitting beside First Officer Gielincki at the
Bellwether's
sensor station. “Ah—Gilead,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at me before returning his attention to the map spread out in front of him across the control panel.

“Mikha; Officer Gielincki,” I said in greeting as I came up behind them. “Am I intruding?”

“Hardly,” Gielincki said shortly, not bothering to look around at me. Like most of the
Bellwether's
crew, she didn't especially like me; unlike many of the others, however, she had both the honesty to recognize her prejudice for what it was and the empathy to feel sorry for me. It gave her an odd and uniquely mixed sense. “—number two just turned again,” she said to Kutzko. “North on … must be Shupack Avenue.”

“Got it,” Kutzko said, making a mark on the map. “We're monitoring our two intruders,” he added to me, swiveling around in his chair. “Brad slid a couple of trackspurs into their capelets before he gave them back.”

I looked at the display, at the flickering spots and glowing grid there. So that was what had Ifversn so amused. “Rather old-fashioned, isn't that? Not to mention obvious?”

Kutzko shrugged. “Sometimes old methods work just because the other side
doesn't
expect them.” He waved back at the display. “Besides, what's the point of living in a ship instead of a hotel if you don't make use of what the ship can do?”

I studied his face. He was trying far too hard to control it … “Besides which,” I suggested, “you found out you couldn't tap into the local police surveillance system without them knowing about it?”

He grimaced. “Something like that,” he admitted. “Doesn't really matter—the targets know we're watching. They're just wandering around, killing time probably while they wait for someone who can break them out of our track.”

I thought about that. “Then what's the point of doing it?”

“Annoyance value. It bothers them without making any extra work for us.”