Vigiant (31 page)

The kind of disorientation you got from riding a Sperm-tube?

Last point: according to the miners, the lights in the tunnel were green and gold and purple and blue.

The Peacock. There twenty-seven years ago. On the spot when my father died.

Next afternoon Lynn and I were released... after some wrangling with medical authorities, who were royally cranked to have Lynn show up as an uninvited guest. More tests. More olive oil. But none of us
Homo saps
showed a single occurrence of the Pteromic microbe.

Nor did Tic. Nor did Yunupur.

"Pteromic B doesn't affect Ooloms," Yunupur reported. "It refuses to grow or even play passenger in Oolom tissue cultures. As far as anyone can tell, this bug only latches on to Freeps."

All of us, police, proctors, and assorted companions, had gathered in Bonaventure General's VIP suite—a grotty little staff lounge that got commandeered whenever patients needed to hide from the press. That need was great upon us now: a full-fledged media gangbang was scrumming its way through the hospital, looking for broadcast prey.

Reporters didn't know all the details—the police had bottled up word about killer androids, for example—but buckets of facts were already circulating. Like the return of the plague; health authorities had decided the public must be told, to make sure everyone started swigging olive oil. And, of course, our government was obliged to inform the Freep embassy that Kowkow Iranu's body had turned up. Within minutes, each person on the embassy staff was dickering with news agencies, selling the story to the highest bidder.

(When I called home, Winston told me I'd been offered half a million for spilling everything I knew. Then we shared a restrained proctor-lawyer giggle, reciting together the Criminal Code sections governing Vigil members who breached the public trust for personal gain.)

Still and all, we could get past the reporters whenever we needed to—our platoon of ScrambleTacs could spearhead through the journalistic hordes. The question was what happened after that. Where did we go from here?

"I go onto the sidelines," Cheticamp said gloomily. "This business ranks light-years above my authority—it's world federal now. I'll be given a wank-off title like 'Bonaventure Liaison' while the feddies take over the meat of the investigation."

"Ditto me," Yunupur agreed. "The Global Health Agency is in charge now. I'm just a special thanks to in the autopsy report."

"It's the same in the Vigil," Tic said. "Bonaventure is now hip-deep in senior proctors, scrutinizing everything from fire hydrants to tea leaves." He glanced at me. "Sorry to pass on bad news, Smallwood, but you've been reassigned: no more scrutinizing the police. For the next few weeks, you're watching Traffic & Roads. Snow removal. Filling up potholes. Unplugging storm sewers. And since I'm your mentor, I've been ordered to accompany you on these urgent investigations." He gave a weak grin. "For some inscrutable reason, the other proctors don't want a Zenned-out loon
valtking
them."

Silence. Gloom.

"Come on," Lynn said at last. "Is it so bad that other people are involved? No one likes to get shoved aside, but it's witless to go all territorial. These new folks are good, aren't they? I should blessed well hope they're the best Demoth has to offer."

She looked around the room, waiting for anyone to say otherwise. No one spoke. The people who would take over—who'd
already
taken over in the time we were quarantined—would definitely be the best. Our government agencies had buckets of flaws, but they could cut the political dog crap in a genuine emergency. And if they didn't take this situation seriously, the Vigil would wheedle and whinge till they did: till they assigned top-notch personnel with appropriate authority and resources to address the issues properly.

"Yeah sure," Yunupur said at last. "This is a job for experts. After all, what do I know about exotic diseases? Zilch. And I tend to jump to wild conclusions."

"What wild conclusions?" Tic asked immediately. "What's the first idea that popped into your mind?" A great fan of gut feelings, our Tic. "Ahh..." Yunupur sounded embarrassed. "I keep imagining this disease was manufactured artificially. You know—germ warfare."

Prickly silence. Then Festina cleared her throat. "Why do you say that?"

"Just... I can't see how it could have evolved naturally. I mean, this six-month incubation period, when you're contagious but nonsymptoniatic. Doesn't that sound way too convenient? Like someone
wanted
to infect the entire population before doctors noticed anything. Then the disease breaks out and people die in eight to twelve weeks, no exceptions. That's weird too. Natural microorganisms don't get far if they always kill their hosts. That's like setting fire to your own house—especially for a germ that only inhabits one species. Natural microbes do better if they don't kill their hosts at all... or at least if they let the hosts linger, infecting others all the while.

"But the thing that's really got me stumped," Yunupur continued, "is this switch from Ooloms to Freeps. It wouldn't be so odd if Pteromic B infected both races—that's business as usual for germs, expanding their range of targets. But why should it immediately
stop
affecting Ooloms? That's counterproductive evolution-wise."

He frowned for a moment, then let his face ease to a laugh. "See? I'm not cut out for this disease research stuff. An epidemiologist would just say random mutation can have bizarre effects. Microbes don't have deliberate
purpose
in mutating. Changes just happen. Accidents. Flukes. A miniscule shift in DNA can have a huge impact in actual behavior, but there's no conscious plan."

I glanced at Tic. As I expected, he'd gone all pensive. Never tell
him
microbes didn't have a conscious plan.

Getting out of the hospital came off as a fancy song-and-dance number from some cast-of-thousands show.

The cast = police, proctors, Festina, and Lynn, plus a mob of overacting extras who'd be listed in the credits as The Media Wolfpack (Print, Broadcast, VR, and Other).

The dance = a phalanx of ScrambleTacs surrounding the lead characters (including that blushing blond starlet, Faye Smallwood), all pushing forward through a battalion of journalists who jostled each other for room to thrust out their microphones, their cameras, their VR bobbins, their precious pretty faces, their hard, determined chins.

The song = who, what, where, when, why, can you confirm, is it the truth, do you deny, rumors have claimed, no comment, no comment, no comment. "Oh," sings the chorus, "the public's right to know..." While subtitles read across the bottom, "The media's bone-on to win..."

Winning. That was the thing. To score points in some game only reporters care about. To get the quote, sound bite, money shot. To get the
scoop..
as opposed to getting the news, which sure as sweat wasn't happening where we were. Other people were now in charge of the important stuff; those of us at the hospital had been out of the loop for a full day.

Had Maya been found? We didn't know. Were other Freeps infected with the plague? Didn't know that either. Had anyone figured out where the androids came from, how they'd been reprogrammed, or what Iranu was doing in the mine? Good questions all, that someone was surely investigating... but not us.

We were out of it. Me, I was on pothole patrol. So why did people so fiercely want to snag my picture? I was just a chump on the sidelines, a neophyte proctor who rightly got replaced by more experienced folk as soon as the Vigil realized the stakes were serious.

But in all the brouhaha, I could make out a key phrase repeated by almost every reporter. "Henry Smallwood's daughter." The plague was back, and here I was, afloat in the circumstantial stew. I wanted to scream,
It's just coincidence! This has nothing to do with Dads.
I didn't even know who Dads was anymore—too many mysteries had got tangled up around him in the past few days.

The ScrambleTacs shoved forward, sweeping us all into a police van. We drove off, not going anywhere useful, just getting away.

In the back of the van, Festina whispered, "Are you really at loose ends?"

I reached out with my link-seed before I answered. Yes. The Vigil had assigned me, neat-filed and official, to Traffic & Roads. "Depends how you define loose ends," I told her. "I've got road crews to check out... the snowplow-maintenance garage... the vehicle-safety inspection center..."

Festina smiled faintly. "It so happens I know a potentially unsafe vehicle that needs inspection."

"Yes?"

"Oh-God's," Festina whispered. In her hand she held a black-button communicator, the kind visitors from offplanet carry when they don't want to tune their wrist-implants to the frequency of our world-soul. "Our fast-flying friend just called me. Says he wants to talk."

"Chat-talk?" I asked. "Or do you think he has real information about something?"

"Who knows?" Festina muttered. "Oh-God has connections. And he's a Freep. A fellow Freep like Iranu might have hired Oh-God as a driver, for clandestine trips around the Great St. Caspian countryside."

"I would
never
hire Oh-God as a driver."

"He's usually not as bad as the other night. I mean, he always drives like a maniac, but he generally doesn't hit anything. His hands were just cold..."

Her voice trailed off.

"It wasn't so very cold," I said. "Not by Great St. Caspian standards."

"I was just thinking the same thing," Festina replied. "Do you suppose he had... some other problem? If he really did come into contact with Iranu..."

"One Freep could infect another," I said. "And with Pteromic A, little muscles in the hands were the first things to go slack." I looked around at the others in the van. Tic. Cheticamp. "We should report this."

"Not yet," Festina whispered. "Oh-God is one of my people. I don't want to bring the police crashing down on his head unless it's necessary. Certainly not if he's just getting rheumatism or some Freep equivalent." She glanced at her communicator again. "Oh-God's place is only half an hour south of town. You and Tic come with me, see what's up. If we find anything you need to report, do what you have to do."

I nodded and looked across the van at Tic. For all the loud rattle of the van and the bustly conversation of people talking about going home, Tic's ear-lids were both wide-open. His hearing pitched up to maximum.

He nodded at me and mouthed the word
Yes.

The police dropped us off at a hole-in-the-wall precinct station with no reporters in sight. We shook hands, said good-byes. Cheticamp and Yunupur hurried off, pretending they had things to do.

Five minutes later, my Egerton arrived with a skimmer—bright yellow with
E. C. HAULING
painted in rainbow letters on every flat surface.
E. C.
= Egerton Crosbie. Which got me thinking about Sharr again, and how I'd been irritated/irritable with her for nigh-on thirty years, even though she was officially my sister-in-law. Must have been a hard strain on Egerton... so I gave an extra strong squeeze as I hugged him hello. Lynn said, "Faye's heading into trouble again." I hadn't talked to her about going to Oh-God's. "How do you know?" I asked.

"Because half an hour ago you were mope-in-the-mouth depressed, thinking you'd been cut out of the action. Now you're looking all smug and bouncy." She gave me her best long-suffering smile and kissed me on the earlobe. "Incorrigible, our Faye."

"Should we talk about this?" Egerton asked. He was a lovely, serious man—baffled by me most of the time, but blessed loyal and protective. The one time I needed to be bailed out of jail, I called Egerton instead of Winston. Winston would have started plea-bargaining the second he walked into the room; Egerton just kept saying, "I know she didn't do it," till the police put me into his custody.

"We don't need to talk," Lynn told him, smiling. "Faye explained everything last night. She's got a guardian angel. Or a guardian whatsit, anyway."

Egerton furrowed his brow, big-brother anxious.

"Don't worry," I said, "I'm not relying on a guardian whatsit to get me out of trouble. There won't
be
any trouble. We're just going to talk to a friend of Admiral Ramos. So..." I gave him my best golden-girl smile. "Can I borrow the skimmer? Please-please-please?"

Egerton sighed.

Dusk was drawing in as we flew over Oh-God's "hacienda"—a two-dome compound in the middle of boreal forest, bristly cactus-pines crowding thick up to the edge of the cleared space. There were no ground roads anywhere near; the closest that civilization came was the Bullet tracks, some five kilometers away.

Oh-God had put up four dish'n'fan towers for collecting solar power and wind... maybe enough for his needs if he lived pinch-frugally, but I wouldn't bet on it. For one thing, his tarted-up skimmer must take a lot of juice to recharge. Probably more than the dish'n'fans collected. And I'd never met a Freep who truly had a feel for living off the land—not in comparison to Ooloms, who could survive on leaves but never ate too much from any one tree for fear of making the forest look patchy.

I set the E. C. HAULING skimmer down in the only open area of the compound, right between the two domes. Thank God I didn't hit anything—both domes were set to the same brush brown color as the ground, making it chancy in the fading light to distinguish them from clear, parkable dirt. It was quite the high fashion to build in-country homes that looked woodsy, at one with the soil. I doubted Oh-God cared about rusticana, but he'd still have to meet the expectations of his clients... big-city bumpkins looking for a genuine, authentic, nature-conscious hunting guide.

We got out of the skimmer, Tic, Festina and me. The twilight was quiet—no sign of Oh-God, though he must have heard us land. The E. C. HAULING van was definitely not a stealth vehicle.

"Odd," Festina murmured. "Where is he?" She looked around and gave the air a sniff. After yesterday's flirtation with snow, Great St. Caspian had gone back to spring-thaw moist; there might be a touch of fog soon, now that the sun was going down.