Starfire (25 page)

I must pause here and seek to articulate why this chamber had an immediate effect on me. In one sense, nothing was new. I had, after all, seen every item in the great room before, albeit not in space and not combined as they were here. Why, then, did the whole induce a profound change in my overall pattern of thought?

During the twenty-seven years since the supernova event, I had known what every thinking being on the planet must recognize: A great disaster lay in the future, worse than the one in the recent past. A deadly particle storm was on the way from Alpha Centauri. It would arrive, as certainly as tomorrow's sunrise. The space shield was humanity's best answer.

I knew what was coming, and had made preparations accordingly. The tunneled shelters deep under Otranto Castle contained supplies sufficient for several lifetimes. I and my dear ones would survive, come what may. That effort had been completed years ago, before the youngest six had been born again.

I regarded my efforts as necessary, but clearly not sufficient. The prospect of a long stay in the deep shelters held no appeal, and a superior answer to the problem of survival was a shielding of the whole planet. That called for construction of the space shield, and in turn a nerve center and nucleus was needed for that effort: Sky City. The human race embarked on its first—but not, one hoped, its last—worldwide and long-term construction program.

I am, in spite of what my detractors might say, a member of that human race. I am also aware of my own abilities. Why, then, did I not, with survival at the castle ensured, apply my talents to the other and greater issue of species survival?

For three reasons. First, my expertise lies in the field of biological and medical science, which one might argue has little or no value to shield construction work. Second, the thought of flying out to space was like a clammy hand around my heart. Third, and most significant, my fingerprints, retinal prints, and DNA signature are on record. If I ever appear in a situation, anywhere in this world or off it, where a routine ID is called for, my capture and return to long-term judicial sleep are guaranteed.

Given these powerful reasons why I could not involve myself in humanity's salvation, I had pushed everything connected with the space shield to the periphery of my attention. For more than a decade, news items about Sky City were deleted or skipped by my news analyzer, and headlines on shield progress or problems ignored.

One cannot, however, fail to see what lies literally before one's eyes. Faced with the evidence presented by the RV helmet, my own shield of deliberate ignorance vanished. I was out in space, Sky City was real, the shield was real, and our disparate destinies had suddenly coalesced.

Need I add that I did not approve of the change?

Meanwhile, Seth moved slowly but confidently through the maze of the chamber and reached a tunnel on the other side. He advanced maybe forty meters, then suddenly halted. It was not because of word or action on my part. It was also, so far as I could see, not because of the intrinsic information content of the scene ahead. We were descending a long, sharp-angled spiral, an empty twisting stair that led from one level to the next.

"What is it?" I asked. Now I did miss olfactory inputs.

"Not sure." Seth spoke in a whisper. "But I think I'm bein' followed. Hold it."

He must have spun around rapidly, because after a moment of flickering confusion the scene steadied. I had a partial view of the way that we had just come. Seth was standing flattened against a wall, just where the staircase turned.

He seemed to have stopped breathing, and after a couple of seconds I heard the sound of careful footsteps. The light from around the corner cast a looming shadow on the far wall.

I heard a grunt from Seth, saw a blur of movement, and then I could see nothing.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" said an unfamiliar voice.

"I could ask you the same thing." That was Seth. "Move, an' you're gutted. Were you followin' me?"

I could see again. A man's face was right in front of me. He and Seth had their arms locked, and I realized that a moment ago they must have been chest to chest.

"Damn right I was." The man pulled his arm free, and I saw that he was holding a metal bar. He was a huge, square-jawed brute, a foot taller than Seth. "Put that knife away unless you want your head bashed in. My money says I'll do you before you do me. You'd better explain who you are and why you're here."

"Why I'm here is none of your business." Seth was holding something out in front of him-not a knife, but a folder. "Here's my ID and my travel permit. I can go anywhere I like in Sky City."

The man stared at Seth, then at the identification. "This says you just arrived here, but it don't say why. Why you wandering around by yourself?"

"What you said. Wanderin' around the place, findin' out what's what."

It happened to be the truth, but the stranger snorted in disbelief. He had lowered the metal bar, and he no longer had an eye on Seth's knife. "Don't give me that. You were heading for level five, sector fifty-six. Want to deny it?"

"What if I was? What I do's my business. An' what makes you think that's where I'm goin'?"

"Because we've had hundreds of you buggers up here the past few months. You come for a few weeks, make a nuisance of yourselves, learn nothing, and go home. I've seen it over and over. Who's paying you? The DeNorville people, or the Skeltons? I know Tanya's family don't have a pot to piss in."

"Does it matter who's payin' me?"

"I guess it don't at that. Because I'll tell you one more thing—" The man glanced again at Seth's wallet. "—Mr. Parsigian, if that's really your name. Whoever's paying you isn't getting value for money. Not if you come here and prowl around by yourself."

"No reason I shouldn't. I'm a free agent."

"Yeah. A free agent, and a dumb shit. Wasting your time and somebody else's loot. Take my advice; go home now. You'd need a miracle to solve anything when our best people-trained professionals who've lived here for years and know this place inside out—haven't been able to learn who did it."

It was not my intention to involve myself in their argument, but I felt an obligation. Both the man and Seth were skating over a critical question.

"Why did he follow you?" I said softly. "He hasn't told you that. Ask him again."

Seth repeated my question, and the thug snorted. "You kidding me? Just shows how little you know about this place. Since the killings started, any male over the age of ten who's hanging around the axis gets watched every minute of the day or night. I didn't come after you to admire your ass or invite you home for dinner. I followed because I thought you might be the Sky City killer." He swung his metal bar, and looked like a good candidate for a murderer himself. "But you're not. You're just another asshole investigator. So the hell with you."

He turned to head back the way he had come.

"Don't let him go," I said urgently. "Ask him if it's the same all over."

My hurried remark lacked precision, but Seth caught its meaning—and its importance.

"Hey, butt-face," he called. Hardly a mode of address to encourage cooperation, but it served to halt Seth's new friend in his tracks.

He turned around, slowly. "What did you call me?" He headed back toward us, swinging his metal bar.

Seth stood his ground. "I didn't call you nothin'. You must have misheard. But I was wonderin', this business of people followin' other people all over the place. Is it the same near the perimeter as it is round the central axis?"

"You got to be kidding me. You sure you're an investigator?"

"What else could I be?"

"A shit-eating newsie. We had plenty of them, crawling all over Sky City and feeding on the dead."

"I ain't with the media."

"I believe it. No newsie could be so ignorant. What was it you were asking again?"

"Would I be followed around if I was out near the perimeter?"

"A damned sight more than here. Any man, by himself, can't take ten steps in perimeter territory without somebody demanding an ID. People round the axis don't roll in spare money; we're all volunteers when it comes to the murders. Up near the perimeter they got the wealth, and the hired help swarms over everything. But you know what?" He smirked, which did nothing for his appearance. "As many died there as here. Myra Skelton and Lucille DeNorville and April Jarrow, they had families with money pouring out of their asses. But all three of 'em died, as certain as Brenda and Cissy and poor Tanya. You going out to the perimeter?"

"Could be."

"Then if you don't get printed and ID'd and questioned ten times the first hour, come back here and I'll buy you a drink. Ask for Jesse Tarmigan, you'll find me easy enough. But I don't think you'll ever be in a position to collect." The man stood a few moments longer, apparently studying Seth's face and dress. "What's that funny faggy shirt you're wearing?"

"The jacket? It has built-in sensors. Video and audio."

"Like the scandal newsies wear. But you're not one. And you been around. You look like you seen a few wars. So why you on a job like this? Who you working for?"

"Give me volume," I said quietly to Seth. And then, assuming that he had done what I asked, I said, "He works for me."

Tarmigan recoiled a meter. "Hot damn," he said to Seth. "You a ventriloquist, or did you learn to talk through your ass?"

"Neither," I said. "He is an investigator, and I employ him. You don't need to know more than that."

"And who the hell are
you
?"

"You don't need to know that, either."

Tarmigan raised a clenched fist. "I'll decide what I need to know." After a moment he lowered his arm. "Ah, the hell with this game. I punch, I'd just be punching the dummy. Why don't you fuck off back to Earth, voice-man? Or come here where a body can take a swing at you."

"That is not a possibility."

"Sure. That's what all the rich say. Let somebody else do the dirty work." Tarmigan addressed himself to Seth. "I feel sorry for you. At least I get to do my job without some invisible joker pulling my strings and watching me every minute." He paused. "What
did
you call me a minute ago, when I was leaving?"

"Butt-face," Seth said. "Of course, you realize it wasn't
me
what said that. It was
him
."

Him
was, of course, me. Tarmigan snorted with laughter. "You got me there, buster. He said it, eh? And I can't do him, 'cause he's not here." He started back along the tunnel, then turned and added, "Maybe you'll do something useful after all. You don't look like a weed. Good hunting. If you nail the sick bastard doing the killings, I'll hunt you down and personally kiss your ass."

"I can't wait," Seth said. But he did wait, in silence, until Jesse Tarmigan was out of sight. Then he said, "I don't deserve to have my ass kissed. By rights I ought to have that metal bar stuck up it. How could I be that dense?"

"I deserve censure far more than you. You were busy, making preparations for the trip to Sky City. I am the one who is supposedly responsible for thinking. And that I clearly failed to do."

"So think now. What next?"

"We accept the truth of what we were just told. You cannot possibly wander unencumbered and unnoticed. We need help-preferably female help. Unfortunately, such assistance appears beyond our reach."

"Mebbe. Mebbe not." Seth sounded frustrated, but also thoughtful. "The people I work for got resources. I hafta see what I can do. You want to come along?"

"For the moment, no. I wish to pursue a little cerebration." I was also, though I did not choose to mention it, stifling within the heavy RV helmet.

"Then I'm goin' to take off this pansy jacket—why's it hafta be pink and mauve?—and cut the video and audio connection for an hour or two. I got somethin' needs doin' here, but it's sort of confidential. I'll buzz you later. Okay?"

The image swirled in a dizzying flurry of colors before I could essay an answer. Seth was gone.

I removed the RV set and wiped my forehead. I was sweating monstrously, but less, I suspected, from my heated condition than from psychological factors. The period of my telepresence on Sky City had been short, less than one full hour, but that brief exposure had been enough to confirm one earlier suspicion and provide a clue as to the nature of the Sky City murderer.

Of course, I am still in some sense as far away from an answer as ever. In order to catch a murderer, it is necessary to possess two crucial items of information: first, an identity; second, the proof that links murderer to crime.

Suppose, however, that you are closing in on the first but the second element is lacking. Then one must hope to catch the killer red-handed,
in flagrante delicto.
But what if there should be no more killings?

It is far past midnight in Otranto Castle. The girls ought to be—but, in view of past experience, probably are not—asleep. They are, at least, quiet.

Think, Oliver Guest; think. Once you were good at thinking, and you have the whole night ahead of you.

As for that sly shade of a spectral reader who hovers always behind my shoulder as I write, you must do some thinking, too.

Or is that not necessary? Are you, my unseen companion, already far ahead of me, confident of motive, sure of the murderer's identity, certain of a method of capture?

I will never know; but as for me, I am like Gulliver: newly returned from the magical flying island of Laputa, happy to be home, but unsure of what strange voyages may lie in the future.

16

John Hyslop was showing off, but he didn't know it. Even with a knowledge of what he was doing, he would have had trouble explaining why.

He and Maddy Wheatstone stood at the entrance to the shield simulation chamber. The sight alone was enough to make most visitors gasp, even without explanation of the technological marvels hidden within.

The chamber sat far out on the central spindle of Sky City, at the opposite end from the power-generating plant. It was a structure only in the Sky City sense, of material enclosing a volume. It would not have survived for two seconds down on Earth. The wall of the chamber was a micron-thin sheet of fullerenes, held to its spherical shape by an internal pressure of a few micrograms per square meter.