Starblood Part 3

"Selective a.s.sa.s.sination Module," Creel said. "You didn't buy it, then?"

"No, George."

"It didn't get sent to you, did it?" he asked, his dark face growing even darker.

"Yes."

"That's bad," Creel said. "My, that is is bad." bad."

They said goodnight and broke the connection almost simultaneously.

Walter Lambertson was a huge, heavily muscled man with a lumbering walk and a face flushed by too many years of drinking. He carried a large toolbox and met Timothy by the patio doors after laboriously climbing out of the grav-car which seemed half again too small for him. "That's where it got in, eh?" he asked, his voice a gruff rumble. He did not even bother with introductions but proceeded right to business. Timothy decided the world could not be totally insane if heroically proportioned men like Lambertson still strode the earth.

Timothy took him into the library, where the big man expressed surprise at the size of the killer. "You've got one of the biggest I've ever seen," he said. "Must have one h.e.l.l of a lot of guts to it." He listened to Timothy's story while he unpacked his tools. There were dozens of pieces of equipment in the box, most of them no larger than a man's hand with working ends so minute that the purpose of them was un-fathomable. I'm afraid you'll have to leave," Lambertson said when he had everything arranged on squares of white felt. "It's d.a.m.n hard work, and it can't bear distractions. Sorry."

Ti nodded; he waited until Lambertson grasped the SAM, and then left the room with his servos trailing behind. He shut the door and continued into the living room, where he made himself a stiff drink and sat down to wait.

He realized, halfway through the drink, that the hatred which had dissipated in him had begun to flower again. It was not a hatred for the men of the Brethren so much as hatred for their att.i.tudes, their outlooks and visions. Why couldn't men just leave each other alone? Why was it necessary to. fight and kill and always resort to violence before thought?

When he finished the drink, hatred alive and well now, another grav-car came in over the trees and settled onto the patio beside Lambertson's vehicle. For a moment he tensed, wondering if this were the Brethren follow-up team checking on the success of the SAM. Then he saw Creel's face as the man walked into the patio lights, and he relaxed.

"I tried to get to sleep," Creel said as Ti met him at the door. "But I couldn't manage it, knowing what was happening over here. Where is he?"

Ti motioned toward the library and explained that Lambertson required privacy for the operation. Briefly he recounted the events of the night to Creel. As he was finishing, Lambertson opened the library door and called to them. He had cracked the nut and dissected the meat of the machine in a little under two hours.

In the library, the floor was littered with parts of machinery, all quite small and intricately formed. Lambertson had laid things out in rows,, each row representing a weapons system. "What was in it?" Ti asked. was in it?" Ti asked.

"This was the dart system," Lambertson said, pointing to a line of parts. "I was very careful not to touch the tips of the pins. They were discolored an odd green-blue-tipped with something worse than narcotics. This," he continued, pointing to a second conglomeration of pieces, "was a flame gun complete with a bulb of napalm. It would never last very long; only good for short bursts. But that's all that is necessary with something as nasty as that."

"This?" Timothy asked.

"Laser," Lambertson said. "A cell containing energy enough for approximately five three-second blasts."

"And this?"

"Projectile weapon. Shoots twenty-two-caliber slugs with explosive tips. Fourteen rounds contained in this barrel mechanism which revolved to spit each slug into the firing nozzle." Even Lambertson's rugged features were creased with distaste as he catalogued the killing devices.

"And here," he went on, now professionally enthusiastic over what he had found, "we have a gas grenade launcher with two grenades: these. Each no larger than a grape, but enough gas, poisonous or not, to blanket a room in seconds."

"So they built five weapons systems, all to get me," Timothy said.

"Six," Lambertson corrected. He picked up a blocky part with a number of wires issuing from it. "This is a pack of highly compressed black powder. All it needed was an electric shock. If you hadn't shut down the SAM when you did, it might very well have used this last resort and destroyed the house." Lambertson waited for the news to sink in. Then: "Who do you know who would go to this expense and trouble to get you?" He c.o.c.ked his head like a huge, quizzical Saint Bernard.

"I don't know," Ti said. "I had thought the Brethren. But I can't come up with a believable, sensible motive."

"I know a motive," Creel said. "It was something I was going to tell you tomorrow and didn't get to tell you on the comscreen earlier. Just found out about it today. The Brethren did this-I'll guarantee it. The motive was revenge. The spot you made available in the Brethren hierarchy by killing Klaus Margle was filled by his brother, Jon."

"I see," Timothy said, looking at the dismantled SAM again. "I see what you mean."

CHAPTER 6.

In the foyer of the apartment complex, Timothy found her name, POLLY LONDON, embossed in heavy gold lettering against a black velvet nameplate. He pressed the call b.u.t.ton beneath her comscreen and drifted back a foot or two to give the person who answered a full view of him and not just a picture of his nose. The screen lighted with an abstract black and moss-green pattern that shifted and changed in a hundred ways to delight the eyes, sensuous and rhythmic as the colors kept time to soft semicla.s.sical music in the background. Over all of this came a well-modulated voice which had the sound of exceedingly fine breeding; of course, it was nothing more than a computer structuring sentences from a tape storage unit-Polly London was wealthy enough to be able to dispense with human servants. The voice asked, "Who is calling, please?"

"Timothy," he said. "Of Enterstat Enterstat," he added in belated clarification. "I have an appointment for two o'clock."

There was a pause as the computer checked out that a.s.sertion. Crimson and yellow explosions burst across the screen. Then the computer said, "Would you please touch your fingers to the identification plate below the comscreen so that your prints may be checked with your records in the city computer?"

"I have no hands," Ti said, amused by the machine's lack of data. "Can't you make visual confirmation against my description in central files?"

"Highly unusual," the computer said.

"But I have no hands."

The colors vanished from the screen, were replaced with humming whiteness as the computer used its own visual scanners to examine him. The colors returned in a minute. "You may have admittance."

"Thank you."

To his left, a blue and silver abstract mural slid away, revealing an elevator entrance. Inside, he was not required to push a b.u.t.ton or pull a lever for her floor. Her private computer secretary and odd-jobber now controlled the rising cage. Indeed, it was likely that no one but Polly London and the building superintendent knew which floor was hers. With individualized computer butlers like this, all anyone living here would need as an address was Cochran Towers West. The ultimate in privacy...

From the elevator, the computer directed him, in soft tones issuing from wall speakers along the way, down a corridor carpeted in brown-black carpet much like fur. The walls were richly paneled in teak and indented every forty feet where an apartment door lead off the common hall. The doors were not uniform in design, though each managed to fit tastefully with the decor of the hall-if one considered ornateness tasteful. Polly London's door was nordic in design, a heavy slab of wood that seemed ancient, though the weathering had probably all been done by hand in a week. The border was a fresco of Viking faces, helmets, ships, costumes, and words. In the center of the door was a heavy iron knocker. The fingerprint lock identification circle was concealed in the design of a fighting ship under full sail. There was, of course, no handle; if the door refused to open to your prints, then you were not authorized entrance anyway.

The door began to roll open under the power of a rollamite device that could handle its two or three hundred pounds with ease. "This way," the nether-world voice of the computer said. "To your right."

He went down a long hallway, turned to his right through an arch, and floated into a plushly furnished room whose walls were a mixture of natural rock and teak wood, blending in and out so smoothly and repeatedly that he felt certain his eyes must be deceiving him. To his left, a waterfall meandered down a section of the wall that was stone and had been thrust into the chamber in descending steps. The water splashed into a pool where live flowers floated over multicolored stones that radiated upward through the pool as if they were precious gems. The floor was as thickly carpeted as the hall. The furniture-great, marshmallow-like beige pieces that looked enormously comfortable and resembled mushrooms growing lazily out of the floor-was broken by stone end tables and storage units. Sitting in one of these beige mushrooms, next to a stone table, was the most beautiful woman Timothy had ever seen...

She was tall, but that only meant her legs were marvelously long and sensual Her figure, in all areas, was perfect, with a narrow waist and full, upthrust b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her face was angelic, but not so perfect as to be sterile. Her nose was almost too pert, small and upturned. Her eyes eyes were wide-set but lovely, a startling shade of green that reminded him of seawater or lime candy. Her b.u.t.tery yellow hair framed her face, ended teasingly at the points of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s where they pushed against the fabric of her dress. were wide-set but lovely, a startling shade of green that reminded him of seawater or lime candy. Her b.u.t.tery yellow hair framed her face, ended teasingly at the points of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s where they pushed against the fabric of her dress.

None of the hundreds of pictures he had seen of her had done her justice. She had a childlike grace and beauty combined with the sensuality of a grown woman, a quality photographs could never convey. He was glad that his withered organs were indicative of a withered interest. He had never been aroused by a woman; that was fortunate, for he could not have borne normal desires trapped as he was in this hideous sh.e.l.l of his. Still, though there was no desire there was-at times, rare and easily forgotten-a deep-seated yearning for something he could not name, a yearning that made him feel cold and hollow. He had that feeling now. He only got it around especially sensual women, exceptionally stunning in all aspects. He felt hollow and unfulfilled. His skin grew clammy, and his throat was so dry that it ached.

She motioned him to the chair across from her. "This is an honor. I usually get interviewed by your reporters." She was charming, with a light and airy quality that did not give evidence of the uneasiness she felt, of the slight disgust that his appearance had aroused in her.

As he settled into a mushroom chair and turned off his grav-plates, he a.s.sured her it was his pleasure, not hers. She showed him how to order a drink from the console beside the chair, and in a minute he had a screwdriver. He sipped his drink and was thankful for the taste of vodka and orange juice.

"I'm more than a little curious," she said, leaning toward him. She spoke almost musically. "I can't understand what sort of special article you want to do that would require your own partic.i.p.ation."

"I lied to you," he said quite bluntly. He knew he must speak faster and more directly than he had planned, for he would find himself liking her too much too soon. There was that childlike directness that transcended s.e.xuality, and she could use that alone to wrap men around her long, well-manicured fingers.

"Lied?" she asked, not comprehending, as if no one had ever done such a thing with her before. And perhaps this was so. Lying to this woman would require the same sort of bully villainism that motivated a selfish teenager to tell a younger brother that Santa Claus was a hoax.

"I'm not here to do an article for the paper," he said. "It was the only excuse that would get me in here to see you."

She frowned, still not able to grasp the purpose of sneaking in to her house under false pretenses.

"I don't wish you harm. I need a favor of you."

She started to rise, but he motioned her down. She looked a bit agitated, and her reaction was almost childish-though he felt that she was incapable of anything more than childlike anger. It was not that she was mentally immature-just that she had never experienced the nastiness of the world as he had, had never needed to build up a thick skin and a nastiness of her own. "This is my house," she said. "Are you trying to tell me what I can and can't do in my own house?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "But if you rise, I'll have to turn on my grav-plates and rise as well to be sure you don't try to call for help-which would be foolish since I don't wish to harm you. And since I would merely tell the police I was here for an interview and show them the notes I've made. I'd pretend you were a headline hunter."

"Notes? But-"

"I made them beforehand. Just for such an eventuality as this."

She smiled again. "You are clever, aren't you?"

"I like to think so, yes."

"Well, what is this favor?" She leaned back, sipped her own drink, her anger totally abated.

He hoped she would never meet someone who would be too sharp and cold to be won over by her charm and innocence. The proper sort of s.a.d.i.s.t could bring her world down in a day, could break and ruin her without half trying. It might have been nice to have been raised in a world where evil had not existed-but it could also be deadly never to have formed the proper methods to cope with enemies.

"You dated the late Klaus Margle, didn't you?" he asked.

He thought he saw her eyes eyes get a little gla.s.sy, as if she were holding back tears. When she spoke, there was a tremble in her voice. This amazed him when he considered the Klaus Margle he knew, a man without scruples or morals, willing to kill when the need arose. He supposed that it was possible that there was a totally different side to the man, though such a realization surprised him. He was relieved that the papers had not reported how Margle had died, and that the actual shootout was implied to be the doing of the police. "I did," she said. "I went with him for a good while. He was like a little boy around me. Very gentlemanly. I just don't believe all these things in the papers." get a little gla.s.sy, as if she were holding back tears. When she spoke, there was a tremble in her voice. This amazed him when he considered the Klaus Margle he knew, a man without scruples or morals, willing to kill when the need arose. He supposed that it was possible that there was a totally different side to the man, though such a realization surprised him. He was relieved that the papers had not reported how Margle had died, and that the actual shootout was implied to be the doing of the police. "I did," she said. "I went with him for a good while. He was like a little boy around me. Very gentlemanly. I just don't believe all these things in the papers."

"They're true," he said as gently as he could.

"So you say."

It was impossible to get angry at her, but he could feel anger at her almost cultured blindness to reality. He held his reaction in check and said, "His brother is trying to kill me."

Surprisingly, her response to this was not as naive as her comment about Klaus. "I don't like Jon," she said. "Klaus you could always have fun with. He enjoyed life. I never saw Jon smile. I think he would have liked to take me away from Klaus. But he frightened me a little."

"I want to get Jon Margle before he gets me," he said.

Her face went sickeningly pale, and she took a long sip of her drink.

He realized what had terrified her, and he attempted to explain what he meant. "I don't mean kill him. I just want to get him, for the police. If they want to execute him, they can. Or put him away for life. But I have to find some way to get something on him, or I won't have peace of mind."

She ordered another drink, took the plastic bulb out of the receival tray, broke it and poured the contents into her gla.s.s. "I don't understand what you want of me," she said, her hands trembling.

"You must know other people in the Brethren."

"No," she said, clearly meaning it.

Her answer unsettled him for a moment, and then he realized how ignorant she might have been of Klaus Margle's other self. "You know some of his close friends?"

"Yes, but they aren't-"

"Let me decide what they are and aren't," he said. "I want you to think very carefully about Klaus's friends. Was there any one of them who disliked his brother?"

"Many," she said.

"Good. But think about them and come up with the one who liked Jon the least. Maybe someone who was terrified of him. Or contemptuous. Someone who would not like working under him."

"I don't have to do any of this," she said, genuine anguish in her voice. "Why should I even sit here and listen to you tell me Klaus and his friends were gangsters?"

"Because they were," he said. "And if you don't cooperate on this little thing I want, I'll use the voice of Enterstat Enterstat to discredit you, to ruin your career." to discredit you, to ruin your career."

"Impossible!" she said, looking up, defiant. She was a good actress, and she knew it.

"Not if I lie," he said. "We'll fake evidence and write atrocious lies. And sure, you'll take us to court. But by then you'll be ruined. And even if you get a million or so in settlement, it can be absorbed by Enterstat Enterstat-not easily, I admit, but without ruining me. And I think you much prefer the art of acting to the money it makes for you. You are primarily an actress, not a moneymaker. Being blackballed from senso-films would hurt emotionally, not financially." He saw that she believed him, but that she could hardly accept that anyone would be this cruel to her-or to anyone, for that matter. He had cracked her naivete, and he was not exactly pleased with himself. "It's my life," he said in a way of explanation and justification for his crudity.

"I think I know the man you need," she said.

"When can I get in touch with him?" He was not happy with the way she slumped now, with the way he had broken her spirit.

"I can't just go phone him, if Jon is as deadly as people say. It will have to be-discreet."

"Tomorrow," he said. "Make an excuse to see him if you must. But I can't wait longer than tomorrow. I might be dead if you don't help me soon." He laid a card with his comscreen number on it on the coffee table. "Call me as soon as it's arranged."

"Tomorrow," she said dismally.

He felt terrible. The yearning and the hollowness in him had been augmented now by a feeling of brutishness, of insensitivity. But, d.a.m.n, it, this was the only way to reach the girl, and through her was the only way to reach someone within the Brethren structure who might be willing, for the proper consideration, to turn over information that would send Jon Margle up the river. "Tell him the money is unlimited. Almost any price he names within reason."

He found his own way out. It seemed like several thousand miles miles ... ...

Almost twenty-four hours later to the minute, in the middle of Wednesday afternoon, she called him. Her face, larger than life on the comscreen, was painfully beautiful, though in no way as fascinating as it had been in person. She avoided his eye, staring at points beyond him in the room, staring down at her own hands which-he thought-twitched and intertwined in her lap. She spoke softly, almost inaudibly, like a small, embarra.s.sed child. He could not understand this. Had she been frightened, he could have reasoned why. But embarra.s.sment? "In an hour," she said. "My place again."

"I'm afraid not," he countered, wishing that she would look him in the eyes just once so that he could see that marvelous, shimmering sea-green once again. "That could be too easy a trap. It has to be someplace public."

She seemed confused, but then she flipped her long yellow hair out of her face and said, "Huzzah Amus.e.m.e.nt Park," as if the informer was sitting beside her, giving her instructions out of camera range. "Around the-around the fountain. Where they throw coins and make wishes. An hour."

"I'll be there," he a.s.sured her.

She rang off, blanking the screen, though he stared at it for some minutes longer, retaining a vision of b.u.t.tery hair, tan skin, and a quick flash of green...

Timothy was oblivious to the stares he elicited as he entered the amus.e.m.e.nt park. He had long ago learned to live with the attention he drew, ignore it and rise above it. The sign of an ignorant and tasteless man, Taguster had once told him, was the tendency to stare at someone else who was different, whether they were abnormal in form or only in the clothing they chose to wear.

A number of people stood at the mammoth pool into which the fountain emptied its water and drew more to spout. They tossed coins into the blue water, trailed hands in the coolness of it. Then he caught sight of Polly London. She was wearing a relatively expensive pants suit and a large and floppy hat with great, round sungla.s.ses. Her hair was black-she was wearing a wig-but even that change in coloration could not camouflage her beauty. She seemed, in fact, even more stunning than before.

"He's around the fountain," she said. "It's not so public on the other side."

"Let's go," he said.

The pool had a diameter of two hundred feet, and to walk around its circ.u.mference required a good deal of nudging, jostling and-in Polly's case-trampled feet. In a few minutes, they broke out of the worst of the crowd, through scattered tourists, to the far back of the pool where the bench that rimmed it looked out onto woods and was screened from the other side by the rock tower of the fountain and the huge spray of water. Here there was only one couple, arms around each other, watching the rise of the water, and a small, thin, intense man in a dark suit. He rose as they approached, then sat down when Polly did. Ti hovered before them, very close so that whatever was said could be kept from the ears of the young lovers.

Introductions were made, and Ti discovered the man was Mr. Kealy; he thought it likely this name was a cover ident.i.ty. The thin man was nervous, looking about as if he expected someone to jump from one of the trees. "I doubt your friends would be here," Ti said, trying to rea.s.sure the man. "It's hardly their form of entertainment."

Kealy nodded, looked at Polly; their eyes locked a short moment She seemed to wince, and Timothy wondered what the two of them had just exchanged without benefit of words. "Timothy," Polly said, drawing his attention to her lovely face. "Mr. Kealy wants to talk money first. He-" She abruptly stopped talking, raising a tightly clenched fist from her lap toward her mouth, and the look on her face gave Timothy almost enough warning.

He whirled as Kealy slipped the hypodermic syringe into his hip, just above the silver cap of his mobility system. Had it been a narcodart, he might still have had time to deflect it.