Death Wave (21 page)

“What's in Chicago?” asked the other.

“Women,” said the first. “City women with big boobs and easy ways.”

“Hey, we got women here,” the other officer argued.

“Prairie dogs.”

“Not so loud,” the man said, grinning. “The women's lockers are just on the other side of the wall.”

“The wall you drilled a peephole through.”

“Not me!”

“Somebody did.”

“Not that much to see.”

“Yeah, but Chicago's different. Ham's going to be surrounded by adoring women, ain'tcha Ham?”

Hamilton said wistfully, “Could be.”

As he pulled on the trousers of his brand-new suit, he noticed that half a dozen other guys had come up behind the half-naked pair. All of them were wearing nothing but towels, too.

“So, aside from easygoing women, what's in Chicago, Ham?”

“A job. A real job.”

“What, bouncer in a whorehouse?”

Hamilton shook his head and felt his cheeks redden. “Naw. Private security firm.”

“You're gonna be a rent-a-cop?”

“Unicorn Recovery Agency.”

“Unicorn?”

“They screw virgins, don't they?”

Hamilton reached into his locker for the bolo tie his father had given him the day he'd left home for New Mexico. Five years ago. The old man had died a few months later and Ham had to fight the Highway Patrol's brass to get a few days off to go back east for the funeral.

“Well, you look great in your new suit, Ham.”

“Thanks.” He pulled on the jacket and studied himself in the mirror inside his locker door. Not bad, he thought.

But the first of the towel-clad officers knitted his brows and said, “I think your suit's a little dirty, though. Don't you guys agree?”

“Dirty? Whattaya mean, I just took it out of the box.”

Suddenly they made a rush at him. Half a dozen half-naked Highway Patrol officers grabbed him, kicking and thrashing, and carried him into the shower.

Hamilton realized what they were doing and stopped struggling against them. They held him under the shower, soaking him and his new suit.

Hamilton just stood there, grinning at them. They like me, he realized. This is their way of saying good-bye.

He almost wished he wasn't leaving them. Almost.

 

BARCELONA

As soon as she returned from the Moon, Gilda Nordquist went straight to the satellite monitoring center in the underground communications complex. I might as well still be at Selene, she said to herself as she strode through the windowless corridors, stopping only to peer into the scanners that checked her retinal pattern at every security door.

None of the men or women walking along the corridors recognized her. Good, she thought. But once I'm head of the security division they'll get acquainted with my face. Then she thought, Or maybe I should remain anonymous, unknown. Keep everyone guessing.

The same overweight, jowly man was sitting at the center of the insect-eye set of display screens. His shirt looked wrinkled, sweaty, as if he'd slept in it. Does he ever leave this room? Nordquist wondered.

“What have you found about Jordan Kell?” she asked, without any polite preliminaries.

“He's on the reservation, all right,” the unkempt man said. “They're keeping him indoors as much as possible, but I've got a good track on him and his accomplice, Paul Longyear. Whenever they step out into the open, one of our satellites pings me.”

“He's still there, then.”

“They both are.”

“Good. If he moves off the reservation, inform me immediately.”

“You and the Seventh Cavalry.”

“What?”

The man chuckled softly. “Nothing. A little joke, that's all.”

“This isn't funny. It's very important. Top priority.”

“A memo to that effect would help me explain the costs I'm running up for you.”

“You'll get it before the day's over.”

Nordquist left the pudgy little man sitting amidst his display screens and headed for Anita Halleck's office.

*   *   *

Jordan Kell was impressed with the hospitality that Paul Longyear and his people had shown him. They had put him up in a comfortable bedroom in the ranch-style home of Paul's parents, both of them teachers at the local high school.

The bedroom had been Paul's when he was growing up. Now he had a small home of his own, less than a kilometer away, but Jordan recognized the university banner still tacked to the wall over the narrow bed, and the digital reader that lay on the bureau where Paul had left it.

He glanced at his watch. Too early for Aditi to call, he knew. She usually calls well after dinnertime. Still he wondered how she was, what she was doing, what Halleck's minions—especially that oily Castiglione—were doing with her.

“Dinner's ready,” Mrs. Longyear called from the kitchen.

Jordan walked down the short corridor that led to the dining room. Paul's father was already seated at the head of the table. Mrs. Longyear was depositing a steaming platter of roast chicken in front of him.

Quanah Longyear was a good-natured man approaching his fifth retirement opportunity. He had spent his adult life teaching Native American children the history of their ancestors, alongside the history of the nation that surrounded them. His hair was silver, his smile cheery; he had none of the suspicious, uneasy attitude that his son carried around with him.

Mrs. Longyear—Karolyn—was a mixture of Irish and Native American: fair skin, graying hair, warmly gracious.

As he took the chair opposite Mrs. Longyear, Jordan said to them, “It's awfully good of you to take me in like this.”

“It's no imposition,” said Mrs. Longyear. “We're glad to do it. We don't get many visitors from outside the reservation, you know.”

Her husband nodded agreement as he passed the platter of chicken to Jordan. “Paul says you're in some trouble with the World Council.”

“I'm afraid they want to keep me in custody,” Jordan said, putting the platter down and picking a thigh. The food smelled delicious, with a hint of tangy spice.

“Why's that?” Longyear asked.

“They don't want me to talk to the news media.”

“Why's that?”

As he handed the platter to Mrs. Longyear, Jordan answered, “I want the Council to start working now on the problem of the death wave—”

“Death wave?” Mrs. Longyear blurted.

So Jordan spent most of the dinner explaining what he had learned on New Earth, and how the World Council was putting off the decisions it had to make.

“So that's why we've had drones flying over the reservation,” said Longyear.

“I'm afraid it's because of me, yes.”

“And Paul's involved in this?” his wife asked, looking alarmed for the first time.

“Peripherally. It's really me they're after.”

“Tribal council's complained to the federal government about those drones. They've entered our airspace without permission.” Longyear's easy smile had morphed into a troubled frown.

Mrs. Longyear looked anxious, too. “You mean that there are whole civilizations on other worlds that might be wiped out? Extinguished?”

“If we don't help them, yes.”

“And this death wave is heading our way?” Longyear asked.

“It will be here in two thousand years.”

“That's a long time.”

“I know,” Jordan conceded. “But we should start preparing for it now, don't you think?”

Longyear pursed his lips. “No sense waiting until the last minute, I suppose. But two thousand years…”

Mrs. Longyear asked, “Those other people, on their own planets—the death wave will hit them a lot sooner, you say?”

“Yes. We barely have enough time to reach them, even if we start right now.”

“We ought to help them,” she said.

“I agree,” said Jordan.

“So do I,” Longyear said. “But there's not much we can do if the World Council doesn't want to act.”

“There's something I can do,” Jordan said. Then he added, “Perhaps.”

Mrs. Longyear said, “Helping those people would be the right thing to do.”

Longyear nodded agreement, but said, “Well, right now the best thing we can do is dig into our dinner before it gets cold.”

 

DOUGLAS STAVENGER

After Gilda Nordquist's brief, unsettling visit, Stavenger decided that he had to talk with Jordan Kell, but he didn't know how to reach the man.

If he's slipped through Anita's security people, he won't be easy to find, Stavenger realized. Then he remembered that Nordquist claimed Kell had spent a night at Councilman Rudaki's home. So he called Rudaki.

Looking uncomfortable, Rudaki grudgingly admitted that Kell had headed for Chicago. “But he's not there now, I'm sure,” the councilman insisted.

Chicago meant Mitchell Thornberry, the multimillionaire scientist/businessman who had been to New Earth with Kell.

Thornberry seemed uneasy, too. “I shouldn't talk about that. I've got too many World Council security boyos snooping through me offices as it is. And they're listening to me phone calls, you can be sure of that.”

“I understand,” Stavenger said, admiring the man's stubborn loyalty to his friend. “Thanks, anyway.”

“I wish there was some way I could help,” Thornberry said, looking almost embarrassed.

“I understand,” Stavenger repeated.

Less than half an hour later, Stavenger's phone buzzed. “Answer,” he called out. The phone's screen remained blank but a man's voice—Thornberry's, it sounded like—called out a twelve-figure number. Then the call abruptly cut off.

Stavenger ordered his phone to trace the origin of the call: Digby O'Dell's Pub, in Chicago. With a smile, he understood that Thornberry had made the call from a phone that the World Council security agents were unlikely to be monitoring. I hope he had a pint of Guinness while he was there, Stavenger said to himself.

*   *   *

In the Longyear home, Jordan had just slipped into Paul's old bed when his pocketphone rang. Startled, he remembered that it was the phone Mitch had given him. Could Aditi be calling on that number?

He leaned over and picked the phone from the bedside table. The holographic viewer across the room showed a man sitting in an easy chair. Jordan immediately recognized him: Douglas Stavenger.

“Hello, Mr. Kell,” Stavenger said, his face serious, almost stern.

“Mr. Stavenger,” said Jordan. “How did you ever find this number?”

Stavenger explained Thornberry's secretive assistance, ending with, “So the chances of our being overheard by security agents are pretty low.”

“But not zero.”

“No,” Stavenger admitted. “Not zero.”

The three-second lag between their words told Jordan that Stavenger was indeed on the Moon.

“I can make it zero,” said Jordan.

*   *   *

Later that night, when Aditi called him, Jordan asked her to set up a link between him and Stavenger, at Selene.

“Why does he want to speak with you?” she asked, her beautiful face taut with concern.

“I'm not sure, dearest,” Jordan replied, “but I'm certain that Mitch helped him locate me, and he's just as wary of Halleck's eavesdropping as we are.”

“You don't think he's working for Halleck?”

“No, I honestly don't. Everything I've ever heard about Stavenger tells me he's fought to keep Selene free of domination by the World Council.”

Aditi looked doubtful, but she said, “I'll ask Adri to help me set up the link. Give me a few hours.”

*   *   *

It was nearing two
A.M.
when the holographic viewer in the Longyear bedroom chimed, waking Jordan, and lit up to show Douglas Stavenger sitting in a cushioned chair in a windowless room, looking halfway between pleased and puzzled.

“Mr. Kell,” he began.

“Jordan.”

Stavenger smiled tentatively and said, “Fine. I'm Doug.”

“My wife explained the FTL link to you?” Jordan asked.

“Sort of. I'm not sure how it works, but apparently it's eliminated the time lag between here and Earth.”

“And it can't be tapped.”

His smile widening, Stavenger said, “That's a great advantage. We can talk without being overheard.”

“So, now that you've found me, what do you want to talk to me about?”

“I want you to know that the independent nation of Selene would undoubtedly offer you sanctuary, if you could get here. And your wife, too, of course.”

“That's very kind of you, but I don't see how I could avail myself of your offer, at the moment.”

“Not everyone on the World Council approves of the way Anita Halleck is treating you.”

Smiling ruefully, Jordan said, “I just don't understand what she's afraid of. Surely she doesn't believe this alien invasion twaddle.”

“She's afraid of
you,
Mr. Kell. She's afraid you're after her chair.”

“Nonsense.”

“That's not the way she sees it.”

“I'm no threat to her. I'm not interested in politics.”

Stavenger's smile turned skeptical. “I believe it was Pericles who said that the Athenians regarded a man who takes no interest in politics not as a harmless man, but as a useless man.”

Jordan puffed out a breath. “You mean that I'm involved in politics whether I like it or not.”

“You should be.”

“The World Council is very powerful, isn't it?”

Nodding, Stavenger said, “And Anita is making it more powerful every year. She's been gathering all the threads of power into her own hands ever since she became the Council's chairwoman.”

His face tightening into a frown, Jordan asked, “But why? Why is she doing this? How can the Council and the rest of the world's people allow her to?”