Buried Deep Part 18

Eight whole minutes to decide some kind of future, one she didn't entirely understand.

Her right eye was the only one without extra images running across her line of sight. She concentrated on the equipment, the screens on the surfaces showing dozens of trains catapulting toward Wells. Dozens, on tracks not built to hold that many.

How unfortunate that this crisis had started in Sahara Dome, where so many of the train lines originated. Sahara Dome, the stop before Wells.

"Seven minutes," the train station head said. She hadn't been able to think of any of these men by name ever since she arrived here. That was one piece of information too many.

"How long can we keep the trains stopped outside the Dome?" she asked.

"And keep all the pa.s.sengers alive? A few days, maybe," one of the engineers said.

"If they don't jump out," said the other. He claimed Disty who couldn't board the trains in Sahara Dome clung to the trains' exteriors as the trains hurtled out of the city, dying when the trains got outside the Dome.

"A few days," Gennefort repeated.

She was trying to accommodate the Disty inside her city, she really was. But she had no idea what she was facing- what caused the outflow, why the Disty here were so uncommunicative, and what would happen to her if she made the wrong decision.

Oddly, she was less afraid of the Disty than she was of the Alliance. She was a lesser official. She wasn't supposed to make decisions about Disty lives. The Disty ruled here; she didn't.

She could only think of one solution that accommodated the Disty and allowed the trains to continue moving south. "How long to build a track around Wells?"

"A track? You're kidding, right?" the station head said.

"No," she said.

"Even if we had the workers, which we don't-we have to import laborers and robots and supervisors-even if we had them, it would take a month minimum. The terrain out there is difficult. Add the dust storms and the rocks, and the fragility of this dome, and we're probably talking six months, maybe more."

Six months.

Her choices had narrowed. Do nothing and let this unfold as it may. Stop the trains between cities and let someone else handle the problem. Or let the trains through.

"Can these trains go through Wells without stopping?" She knew it hadn't been done in her lifetime. Wells had fought for the position of permanent stop on the bullet train route. Sometimes, she believed, that permanent stop order was the only thing that kept the city alive.

"They can," the station head said, "but it's not done."

"Why?" Gennefort asked.

"If something goes wrong, we'll have a major catastrophe on our hands."

"We already do," she said. "We can't accommodate any more Disty in this Dome. We can barely handle our own population. And once one train stops, they'll all want to. How many Disty are there in Sahara Dome, anyway?"

"None, according to some news reports," one of the engineers said. "At least none that aren't trying to leave."

"A lot more than we have here. Maybe ten times our Disty population," said the other engineer.

"My G.o.d," she said. Why weren't the local Disty handling this? Why had they left it to her?

She sent another urgent message through her links, only to get the same automated reply she'd been getting since the crisis began. The Disty were in a meeting and could not be disturbed.

"You have five minutes," the station head said. "Maybe less."

She gave him a look that she knew was filled with fear. Then she took a deep breath. One decision was better than no decision.

"Let the trains through," she said. "Don't let them stop."

"If they pile up . . ." the station head started.

"We'll have fewer deaths than we would if we strand the trains outside the Dome," Gennefort said.

"I don't see how you figure," the station head said.

"These trains aren't programmed for that kind of backlog. We have no idea how many more are coming, and from what I can tell, the Disty aren't acting rationally. Accidents outside the Dome will automatically kill those involved. They at least have a chance of surviving inside the Dome."

The nearest engineer shook his head.

"Besides," Gennefort said, "the safest action is to let the Disty through. Maybe by the time the trains reach Bakhuysen, the Disty there will have made a decision to stop this crisis, whatever it is."

"I hope so," the station head said. Then he looked at the engineers. "I'll send the messages to the floor, but you open the dome portals. Let the trains through and make sure none of them stop."

"Make sure none of them hit each other," one of the engineers muttered.

"Like that'll happen," another said.

"Give me a better idea," Gennefort snapped. "One that'll save lives."

No one answered her.

She folded her hands together and took a deep breath. "Let's do this thing."

28.

About two hours after ordering his second coffee and sandwich, Flint moved to another table with a different screen and started using a different stolen identification. The law school cafeteria was filling up with students, most of whom seemed very intent on getting their food and finishing whatever project they were working on. A group of humans sat two tables over, arguing about the origins of the Multicultural Tribunals. Flint tried to tune out the argument, but at least two of the students were witty; he found himself smiling more than he thought possible when doing this kind of grunt work.

And grunt work this was. Corporate records, corporate finances, corporate regulations made his eyes cross. He was about to give up and move to a different line of research when he finally found what he was looking for.

A company that subcontracted to one of the subcorporations of Gale Research and Development had a single employee, a woman named Mary Sue Jrgen Meister. On most of the corporate records, she was listed as M. S. J. Meister, but on one he found her full name.

It hadn't shown up in his initial search because the company was so small that it was buried in the records. Still, Mary Sue Jrgen Meister made Gale Research and Development two hundred thousand credits in the s.p.a.ce of a month.

She had acquired water rights for a small tributary in an Outlying Colony. She sold those rights to a subsidiary of Gale Research and Development, who then sold those rights to Gale, who then transferred the rights to BiMela. Who then resold those rights to another corporation (not affiliated) for two hundred thousand more than Gale had originally paid for them.

Flint followed the lead all the way down to the tributary itself, which, it turned out, didn't exist. The tributary had dried up decades before, shortly after that nation in the Outlying Colonies settled a city upriver, but for some reason, mapmakers kept the tributary on the map. The owners of the land didn't mind selling the water rights for cheap, even though there was currently no water. They a.s.sumed that water would come back at some point, ignoring the dams that had been installed farther upstream.

But the hydropower corporation that had bought the rights from BiMela claimed fraud. BiMela claimed ignorance, and went all the way back down the chain, suing the company that M. S. J. Meister had founded. A company that had disbanded in the years it took the hydropower corporation to realize it had bought the rights to a nonexistent stream.

M. S. J. Meister had vanished as well. But Flint had names to work with: Mary Sue and Meister. He found various spellings and more scams, some connected to BiMela, some not.

Mary Sue had her fingerprints all over BiMela's corporate ent.i.ty, but Meister didn't. That name ended with the hydropower case.

But the name began long before that.

A flashing red light caught Flint's attention. This table warned him with an obnoxious flashing sign that his free privileges were about to be suspended. He opened the food menu, ordered more coffee than he needed, and a plate of spaghetti that he probably wouldn't eat.

The law students behind him were still arguing. Another human had joined the Peyti across the room and was worrying about an interdome law exam. A handful of Dhyos pressed their long fingers together at still a third table, obviously arguing as well.

A tray piled with cake floated by. Another followed, this time with an entire pot of coffee, a new mug, and a plate of spaghetti covered with a sauce that was too orange.

Flint took the items, tasted the sauce, winced at its sour flavor, and went back to work.

Before Meister appeared in the corporate records, she had run individual scams all over the Outlying Colonies. Reading her history was like reading the development of a con artist. Flint would find variations of her name all over the news reports and records, mostly after she had left an area. Because the scams were small, the news rarely made it to the various nations inside the Outlying Colonies. Instead, the news was local and vanished as quickly as Meister did.

Over time, her cons got larger and more effective. She seemed to be gaining an understanding of the various legal systems and how much they confused the average human in the Alliance. No one knew, outside their own area, what was legal and what wasn't.

She took advantage of that.

The scheme that backfired on her and brought her to the attention of all the Outlying Colonies was her first large scam. She had targeted a group of families, most of whom had come to the colonies after surviving a hideous ma.s.sacre on Mars.

Meister told the survivors that the Alliance owed them reparations for the illegal (and horrifying) deaths of their family members. She cited some case law that did in fact exist, which referred to compensation owed crime victims.

Unfortunately, that case law only applied to crimes committed on Earth. She had left that part out of her scheme.

Instead, she had told the survivors and their descendents that they were ent.i.tled to a lot of money. If they hired her as their legal counsel (at a significant cost per family), she would shepherd the case through the various courts.

She managed to collect a year's worth of fees from nearly a hundred families before someone looked up the case law for himself. The families confronted her, she made up some kind of fake story about the law being different now and she would get them the information, and then, that night, she fled the Outlying Colonies-with all of the survivors' money.

The news stories ran for nearly another year while the survivors searched for her. Reporters did human-interest stories on the financial burden she had placed on already overtaxed families. Some families lost everything because of her scam. Some family members lost jobs because of the time the members took to work on the case. A few of the older survivors died-a couple of them suicides, the rest because they could no longer afford the very basics of care.

Everyone else vowed revenge on Meister. And some of the younger members of the most devastated families promised they wouldn't quit looking for her until she was dead.

Flint leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers. Mars. Lagrima Jrgen, a.k.a. Mary Sue Jrgen Meister had been found on Mars, the victim of a murder complete with some kind of corpse mutilation. That showed extreme anger.

The kind of anger people who lost everything might display.

He had a hunch he found the incident that eventually got Jrgen Meister killed. But he still wasn't close to finding her family or helping the other contaminated people in Sahara Dome.

He let his hands fall to the tabletop. He wondered if Costard had disappeared yet. She hadn't really wanted to disappear anyway, and he was solving this faster than he expected. All it would take was a bit more work, and he would know if he could provide the humans in Sahara Dome with the names they needed to decontaminate their area.

Flint leaned forward, shut down the tabletop system, and then stood. He would go to Costard first, and if she had already left, then he would contact Sahara Dome himself.

For the first time in days, he felt like he actually had something positive to report.

29.

Hauk Rackam, the incoming leader of the Human Governments of Mars, paced in his large office. Three advisors sat on straight-backed chairs, watching him as if he were some kind of new alien species. He was terrified.

He stopped at the edge of his thousand-year-old Turkish carpet and whirled, his ceremonial robe flaring slightly.

"I don't have any real powers," he said. "I can't legally do anything."

"Sir." Wyome Nakamura stood. She was slight, her dark hair covering her like a gown. "I think we have to worry about legalities later."

She could worry about legalities later. It wasn't her neck on the line. She could always deny involvement: could worry about legalities later. It wasn't her neck on the line. She could always deny involvement: Of course I gave him advice, but we all did. In the end, he was the one who had to take it. Of course I gave him advice, but we all did. In the end, he was the one who had to take it.

"You'll be the head of the Human Government next week," she said. "I don't think it matters much."

"According to the Disty Accords, it does," he snapped. "They'll only work with the actual head of government."

"Who happens to be in Sahara Dome," Nakamura said, "which makes him contaminated and unable to have contact with the Disty."

Of course, there was no second in command because the position really wasn't that important. The head of the Human Governments was mostly ceremonial. Usually the main administrative duty was to inform all of the human mayors of the Domes about decisions the Disty had made or changes in human-Disty relationships. Nothing much. No negotiation. No difficult decisions. Just meals and hand waving and the occasional ceremonial summit.

Rackam had been looking forward to the state dinners and interstellar travel, all representing a not-very-united group of humans on a planet they didn't really control. He had expected two years of ceremonial acts that would only increase his visibility and make him a little more famous.

He liked the actual office itself. He'd used government funds to decorate it, down to the faintly citrus scent running through the environmental controls. He hadn't expected anything like this. "Sir," said Thomas Kim. Kim was a fusty little man, a.n.a.l and precise. "I'm getting reports of hundreds dead."

Rackam had asked his a.s.sistants to monitor the news channels as well as any messages that came for him. He shut off all but a single link-his emergency family node. He needed to be able to think.

"Disty dead, I trust," he said.

Kim nodded. "In Sahara Dome, outside Sahara Dome, and now, they think, in Wells."

"Wells?" Rackam hadn't expected that. The trains had gone through Wells. The crisis was isolated, wasn't it? Half an hour ago, all the human heads of the Domes wanted to know was what to do with any incoming Disty. "Why have Disty died in Wells?"

Kim shook his head. "No one knows, sir." Rackam wasn't a decision maker. That was the real problem. He needed someone who was, someone with the intelligence to handle widespread problems. When he'd gotten enhancements, he had focused on looks and charisma, not intelligence.

"We're still getting no response from the Disty," said Zayna Columbus. She was heavyset, oblivious to appearance and charisma, and the only one on his staff with real brains.

Rackam looked at her, but she didn't look at him. Her gaze was fixed on one of the screens, her mind clearly far away. He wondered how many images she had running across her vision, and decided he didn't want to know.

"All of the Disty or just the High Command?" he asked, trying not to let the panic into his voice.

"I've been trying every organization I can think of," she said, finally turning toward him. Her pupils were a kaleidoscope of colors, reflecting the various chips and implants she'd had installed.

"Even the Death Squads?" Kim asked.

She narrowed those strange eyes at him. "We can't go directly to the Death Squads. We have enough contamination issues as it is."