DAW 30th Anniversary Science Fiction Part 33

The Sentinel let out a screech of horror and dismay, leaping at him and his outstretched hand. Brennan sidestepped, snapped a wrist dagger into his palm and aimed for the center of the thing's forehead.

The carapace and the dagger cracked as they hit. The impact drove shocking pain throughout his arm, into the elbow, and even the shoulder. Brennan let go and staggered back.

The Sentinel flailed, then fell over onto his back, arms and legs hammering for a moment. The knife vibrated inexorably, eating into its target until its charge evaporated.By then the Sentinel had stilled, melted dagger sunk into its skull.

Brennan slid the baton back into his sleeve, null cloth still wrapped around it, shuttering its emissions. Whatever they were He needed the cloth to deal with Mannoc's man, but the thing seemed to be in better use where it was. He had no wish to attract another Sentinel.

Soon, he was hanging off the rain gutter of the roof closest to the street and dropping down lightly. Brennan trotted around the square till he reached the side road he wanted, and took it.

A coach sat motionless in the street. The restive horses tossed their heads as he approached, and got in, the carriage rocking under his added weight.

"You got the items," the Jaahtcar said, and Brennan was faintly disappointed as he noted his contact was not Mannoc. "And more." The envoy frowned slightly. "This was not part of the deal."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know exactly what I mean."

Brennan grinned in spite of himself, on the edge of his resources. "I was hired to do a job, exchange items, and make a delivery."

"You have a blood debt to fulfill. Hiring is scarcely the word to use."

The envoy leaned over, the plush carriage seat squeaking slightly with his movement, and tugged off Brennan's beard. He tossed the stringy goatee out the window, grimacing. "Filthy thing. Do you think us so simple we could not see through it? You have needs and we have needs. All this . . ." and he waved a winter-gloved hand about lightly, "was to persuade you to work with us."

Brennan made an impatient movement. "Get to it."

Reaching under the seat, Mannoc's envoy drew out a wooden crate. "This is the payment, then."

"Inspection?"

"Take it or leave it. Hand over the pouch. I wish to be through the city gates before the nyrll are loosed." The very pale Jaahtcar watched him. Unlike Mannoc, he had light gray eyes, and they watched Brennan carelessly.

Fingering the pouch tied at his waist, Brennan seized the rope handle on the crate, throwing the lid open. Lying on its side, illuminated by the carriage lamps guttering low on oil, was the object he had nearly died for. Would die without. He dipped a hand inside the crate, confirming. The wreckage of the thing, that is ... His heart sank. The weariness that would flood his body had already begun, weakening him, washing like a dark tide over his senses.

Once it had been a homing beacon, made to withstand weather and time and the vagaries of the wilderness of an alien world. Not made to withstand deliberate deconstruction. Lying on the straw bed next to the metal and gla.s.s shards was a stiff, bloodied glove.

"The glove," the Jaahtcar said, with satisfaction, "is a bonus."

The glove had belonged to his father. No doubt the blood did as well. They knew they handed him his prize, deliberately wrecked, and they knew they handed him a last remnant of his father. Brennan looked up, smiling, and the smile disconcerted the envoy. He realized now, they knew him far better than he knew them. He would not make that mistake again.

The matching glove, no doubt, could be found with Lyleen's remains, and the bloodhounds of Lunavar, the nyrll, would ID him as the killer, absorbing his own DNA markers along with those of his father. Mannoc had never had any intention of freeing him from that trap. TheJaahtcar would use him as long as they could, as long as he gave them a leash to do so.

He snapped his left arm and his last remaining dagger slipped into his palm, and he drove it into the Jaahtcar's chin from below, and jammed it higher, twisting, when it met resistance, sc.r.a.ping against bone. Blood spurted.

The man fell over, gurgling.

"No deal."

Brennan gathered up the crate. He might be accused of burning bridges with that, but satisfaction rolled through him in a warm wave. The trap had been sprung by the anj' of the anj'

of Risala-van, but it had been meant for the mage thief all along, so they knew just who he was.

Perhaps even knew what the beacon had been.

He took a deep breath. Brennan stepped out of the carriage, waving up at the driver. "We're finished here. He wants to be through the gates at dawn's first light."

The driver nodded, as if he had been given his orders earlier. He gathered up his reins.

Brennan tucked the crate under his elbow, found shadows to slip into, and disappeared into the backways of a world where the word for war was the same in all languages, realizing as he did so that it was the Jaahtcar who'd brought that word to Lunavar. He did not know why. But he would find out, for within that question's answer, he would find a way home.

Cheryl J. Franklin.

I can remember being at a sales conference, running from meeting to meeting, and then going back to my room to curl up with a ma.n.u.script by an unknown author.

Despite the hectic circ.u.mstances under which I read this "slush" submission, it was a story which really caught my attention. The author was Cheryl Franklin and the novel was Fire Get, the first of a group of novels she has written for DAW, most of which have been linked to the universe in which Fire Get is set.

Cheryl is extremely modest about her accomplishments, and when I asked her if she wanted to send us some information about herself, she provided an extremely short paragraph: "After twenty-four years as a communications systems engineer in the defense industry, Ms. Franklin has reformed. She now dedicates her life to making her cats happy. She enjoys chocolate, good tea, operettas, and video games [adventure and RPG). She is the author of seven novels, all published by DAW Books."

Among the many things she doesn't mention is that she is a descendant of Benjamin Franklin. And obviously she has inherited both a bent for science and for writing from this famous ancestor.

As you will see when you read "Words," Cheryl isn't kidding about devoting her life to making her cats happy.

-SG.

WORDS.

Cheryl J. Franklin.

HOMES of the recently dead all looked alike to Anya Marlow. She was thefirst to admit the unfairness of her jaded perspective. She had visited too many death sites throughout her long career as a specialist in sensor system forensics.

Over the course of thirty years, she had gradually stopped caring about the human element. Her narrow focus made her exceptionally efficient at her job, which meant that her services continued to be valued despite her cultivated lack of social skills.

Virtually every scene of death, natural or unnatural, lay within the range of one of the ubiquitous sensor systems that regulated building environments, provided security, monitored the status of basic home or business supplies, scheduled mandatory types of building maintenance, and supported a variety of other human needs and wants according to personal programming. It was Anya's job both to extract the system data and to ensure that the data were valid. The sensor systems had become much more reliable throughout the years of her career, and tampering had become increasingly rare, but the formality of forensic certification still held considerable legal weight. At times, Anya regretted that her tools had become so sophisticated, her job so routine. These days, her impressive credentials mattered more in the courtroom than in the lab.

The body had been removed before she entered the apartment, and much of the physical forensic work was already complete. At a nod from one of the young detectives-Anya chose not to recall his name, though she had worked with him on several cases-she headed for the sensor panel at the side of a ma.s.sive oak bookcase. Relieved, she saw that the panel was physically intact, sparing her the need to work together with another specialist for extraction. She connected her a.n.a.lysis station and began to a.s.sess the system's data integrity.

She made no effort to extract data content at this point, but some facts forced themselves upon her while she examined the disjointed phrases that ran across her scanner. The dead man, Seth Katani, had lived alone with a single "feline companion." Anya suppressed a moment's shiver, imagining her own dry epitaph if her cat, Dusty, had outlived her. Hurriedly, she forced aside memories that could not be indulged before witnesses. She had excused previous tears with a story of allergies, but that had only elicited a stern recommendation to seek treatment, lest she contaminate a crime scene unnecessarily. She had no intention of sharing her grief. She valued her reputation of cold professionalism.

To regain control, she forced herself to read the words that slipped past her on the display, and she tried to build some sense from the fragments. It was wasted exercise, since a later a.n.a.lysis phase would sort the data into a more readable format, but she needed to occupy her mind. A tax form listed Katani as a retired research consultant, but she saw no reference to the type of research.

A peculiar list of five names without identified purpose or order flitted by repeatedly: Rita, Nigel, James, Noreen, Tarn. Curiously, Katani's files contained no reference to the word "cat," even in the standing order to maintain food supplies. Dusty's needs had so dominated Anya's home system that she had yet to clean out all "cat" references, even six months after Dusty's death.Apparently, Katani had deactivated all but the most basic sensor functions.

The data files were unusually meager. Other than the odd set of names, which was probably meaningless, the detectives would be disappointed. To her surprise, Anya shared a little of that emotion, though in a twisted form. She wondered if it was her identification with Katani's terse profile that troubled her, or if the data actually justified concern. She experienced a perverse surge of hope for the possible challenge of an interesting case.

She examined the numbers and frowned at the nonzero statistic for tampering. The probability of tampering was low enough to fall within the range of statistical error according to regulations, but the reading was higher than usual-high enough to allow Anya's tiny flare of hope to linger. She chided herself inwardly for allowing even that small emotion to intrude, especially when the hope was so likely to be dashed. Anya had not encountered a case of deliberate data tampering in years, not since the model 3000 introduced sophisticated protective mechanisms and a ma.s.sive write-once memory core.

Physical destruction of the storage unit was a much faster and simpler method of corrupting the data, and it generally sufficed for legal purposes. A decent lawyer could cast doubts on even the best data recovery methods by the favorite tactic of showing a jury the twisted wreckage of a sensor unit. It created a far more persuasive argument than a discussion of the subtleties and probabilistic nature of the electromagnetic data reconstruction process.

The download into Anya's a.n.a.lysis station was complete. She would take her unit back to her home lab for the more detailed a.s.sessments. The preliminary data did not seem to warrant physical removal of Katani's system, but Anya applied the obnoxious yellow instruction sticker, nonetheless. She saw the young detective frown at her action, and she girded herself for the inevitable questions.

"Is removal really necessary?" he asked her. "This looks like a simple heart attack. Katani had a known heart condition."

"There are some possible anomalies that need to be checked," answered Anya coolly. She refrained from pointing out the excessive attention already being given to the case if it was a simple heart attack. Katani must have been important to someone.

The detective frowned. He was obviously not pleased by her request, which would require summoning another specialist, delaying case resolution. Of course, he was never pleased to interact with Anya, and she made no effort to counter his blatant dislike of her. She returned the sentiment. He was much too smart, much too conventionally attractive, and much too sure of his own ability to succeed. Anya didn't much care for such c.o.c.ky young detectives-too young even to comprehend the cynicism that pervaded her.

The detective nodded brusquely, knowing that he could not refute her professional opinion. He had started to turn away, when Anya surprised herself by stopping him. "You have found the man's cat, I a.s.sume."The detective turned slowly back to her. He had donned a peculiar smile, which made Anya regret her momentary impulse of helpfulness. Did he know about her weakness? Did he dislike her enough to use Dusty's death against her?

Stop being paranoid, she chided herself, stifling panic.

"You mean the 'feline companion'? Yes, we found it, and we need someone to watch it until we complete the investigation. Thanks for volunteering." He waved toward the apartment's bedroom. "In there. You'll find a carrier, as well."

Conflicted emotions threatened to penetrate Anya's stoic surface. She focused on her irritation with the detective. Stunned by his gall, Anya struggled to keep her voice calm. "I am not the animal services department."

"That's why you're the perfect choice," replied the detective smugly, but something about Anya's frozen posture made him relent. His smile faded. While Anya loathed the thought of him actually perceiving her discomfort and taking pity on her, her opinion of his professional abilities did rise marginally. No mockery remained in his voice as he continued, "The animal services department refuses to accept jurisdiction in this case. We really do need a volunteer."

Anya accepted the truce grudgingly. "How can animal services refuse jurisdiction?"

The detective's hesitation gave Anya a moment to wonder what crucial fact she was missing. She was about to rescind her tentative patience with the man, when he answered, "Katani's 'companion' is the result of a genetic research project that Katani led a few years ago. We're not entirely sure what genetic enhancements were done, but the animal services folks don't want to attract controversy."

"Genetic enhancements always inspire controversy," acknowledged Anya.

She did not want to give the detective the satisfaction of seeing how deeply he had rattled her, as she realized that his "request" was sincere. She told herself that she should walk away now and leave the detective to deal with his controversial case. She was sure that the detective had asked her to "volunteer"

simply to retaliate against her request for the system removal. She doubted that he actually expected her to acquiesce, which made her feel perversely cooperative. "I'll take the 'companion for now, since I'm headed home anyway. I expect you to make other arrangements for the long term." Anya derived pleasure from the detective's startled reaction, but she did not like the pensive way he stared at her as she headed toward the bedroom.

Gusts from an open window made the bedroom cold. The room was monastic in its simplicity: one twin bed beneath a white coverlet, one small end table, one faded print of vaguely Egyptian artistry, one large wicker basket containing a ma.s.s of long gray fur, breathing softly. Other than a head that seemed somewhat larger than usual, the "companion" appeared to be an ordinary cat. The cat was curled in typical feline fashion and appeared to be asleep.Dusty had been predominantly gray, although Dusty's short fur had been speckled with white. Dusty had also been smaller than this . . . companion.

Anya gulped down another threat of tears, regretting her petty impulse to surprise the detective with her cooperative att.i.tude. Dusty's death continued to be a constant source of hurt. Anya did not need any more reminders.

However, she was too proud to tell the detective that she had changed her mind. a.s.suming that the basket was what the detective meant by a "carrier,"

Anya decided that she had been given implicit permission to take the basket as well as the cat. She lifted the basket carefully, hoping that the wicker handle was strong enough to support the load. She expected the cat to rouse despite her efforts at gentle motion, but the cat slept as deeply as if drugged. The heavy basket created an awkward imbalance with the lightweight a.n.a.lyzer under her other arm. Anya struggled to make the load seem easy as she walked past the detective, but she could imagine the man's superior smirk.

Anya jarred the basket as she loaded it into the pa.s.senger seat of her car.

The cat continued to sleep, and Anya wondered if genetic enhancement had reduced normal sensitivities. Surely, the detective would have told her if the cat had actually been drugged. He might enjoy annoying Anya, but he was professional about his work.

At least, the cat gave Anya an acceptable excuse to go directly home. She had always preferred to use her own well-equipped lab, but a nominal appearance at the police facility made certain key officials feel more comfortable. No one wanted to acknowledge that her private setup was far more advanced than the public establishment. When she first compared the pathetic official lab with its published cost, she had concluded immediately that major graft had occurred, but she was experienced enough to keep silent about a matter outside of her control. For once, she could avoid the pretense of needing that expensive display of obsolescence.

Anya lived in a small frame house that had belonged to her family for four generations. The neighborhood had changed from lower middle cla.s.s to trendy upscale, but Anya refused to sell or rebuild. Inside, she had modernized extensively, converting most of the house into lab s.p.a.ce, but the exterior remained virtually untouched. The same lopsided pine tree-victim of a bad pruning long ago-still shaded the corner of the ragged lawn, and the flower beds still held rangy geraniums and old roses that had all seen better days.

Anya's neighbors considered her property an eyesore.

Anya sat the basket in the corner of the combined kitchen and dining area.

The cat's lethargy troubled her a little, but Anya decided to try a watch-and-wait approach, at least until she had transferred Katani's data from the portable unit to her lab network. She wasn't sure what she would do if she decided the cat did have a medical problem, other than haranguing the animal services people who had refused to accept responsibility.

Anya spent a little more than an hour distributing data, initiating various a.n.a.lysis routines, and doc.u.menting the details of every step in accordance withthe proper legal procedures. Her own home sensor system served as the certified legal witness, which Anya had always considered ironic. If anyone knew how to tamper undetected with a sensor system, it was a specialist such as herself. When she submitted the original application for home certification, she had expected to be denied. Apparently, the legal community valued her expertise enough to humor her. Or perhaps they just considered her too cold and rigid to be untrustworthy.

Returning to the kitchen to start a pot of tea, she sneezed and grabbed a tissue from a box that she seldom used. She realized belatedly that she had aggravated the problem by adding cat fur to her face. Dusty had enjoyed rubbing his chin on the tissue box, and gray fur still clung in spots. How unfair it was that Dusty's fur should remain so long after Dusty was gone. Anya felt the tears start again. She had cried so much in the weeks after Dusty died that she had feared that the allergy story would wear thin.

"You miss him," squeaked a strange voice: strange both in the sense of unfamiliarity and in an oddity of timbre and tone. The source of the voice gazed at Anya placidly from clear green eyes, peering over the edge of Katani's basket.

It's a genetically enhanced feline companion, Anya reminded herself, suppressing her shock. She could not stifle the sense of loss that tightened her throat. What would Dusty have said, if some genetic researcher like Katani had equipped him with vocal cords?

Anya realized that she was returning the cat's unblinking stare, when she should be grasping at an opportunity to question a possible witness. She wished that Katani's cat did not remind her so much of Dusty. The eyes had the same green-blue clarity. "Yes, I miss him." She had not discussed Dusty's death with anyone except the veterinarian who had eased Dusty's pain in the last days.

Anya had not expected to voice her own pain to anyone, least of all to another cat, but the sense of a surreal link to Dusty made her speak. "We were together for nearly thirty years. I can hardly remember a time before Dusty." How much could Katani's feline companion understand? Vocal abilities did not necessarily require intelligence, as humanity had demonstrated for millennia.

"I miss Seth, too," replied the cat quietly. The name emerged with a purr of strong emotion. "I don't want to believe he's gone."

This is a potential witness, Anya reminded herself, but it was nearly impossible to summon the necessary professional detachment. Anya could not set aside the giddy sensation that she was talking to Dusty again, as she had so often, though Dusty's replies had never been more than meows, purrs, and body language. "How long were you with him?"

"All my life so far-seven years." The purr of emotion grew louder. Dusty had purred that way as he died. "Thank you for bringing me here. I did not want to stay home without Seth."

"Of course," answered Anya with a twinge of guilt. Apart from the initialprotective impulse that had caused her to question the detective, she had not even considered the cat's feelings of loss. She had always dreaded the thought of Dusty being left alone if something had happened to her. It was odd, but the phrase "genetic enhanced feline companion" had made Katani's cat seem less real-more of a science experiment than a living being. An ordinary cat would have elicited Anya's sympathy from the start. "Are you comfortable?" The basket had only a thin cushion. Dusty's bed still occupied a corner of the closet, but it looked a little small for Katani's cat.

"Yes."

"Hungry?"

"No." After a pause, the cat hissed softly, "He didn't die here, did he?"

"Who?" Confusion turned to pain, recalling Dusty in the sterile cage with the tubes and IVs piercing skin shaved of its glorious silky fur. "Dusty? No. Not here."

"Good," sighed the cat. "I didn't think so. It doesn't smell of death. Not like my home."

This is a potential witness, Anya reminded herself yet again, a little more successfully this time. As gently as she could manage, Anya asked, "Did you see Katani-Seth-die?"

The cat did not reply, and Anya feared that her social inept.i.tude extended to genetically enhanced felines. If the detective had realized what the genetic enhancements included, he would surely not have chosen Anya to conduct the interview. "I'm sorry," said Anya, honestly contrite. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I wasn't there," answered the cat slowly. "I had squeezed out through the bedroom window. Seth always hated it when I did that. He worried about me. I just wanted to stretch in the park for a while. I was bored. Seth hadn't had much time for me lately. He'd been busy traveling, presenting papers, arguing with his detractors. If I hadn't left, everything might have been different." The cat's odd voice trailed into a very feline mewl.

"You couldn't have prevented his death."

"Probably not, but I might have been able to call for help."

Anya could not think of a truthful, comforting reply, and she would not insult anyone with false consolation. She dragged one of the kitchen chairs near the basket and sat, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. She restrained an impulse to reach out and stroke the cat's fur, unsure of the appropriateness of such an intimate gesture. "I'm Anya. You didn't tell me your name."