THE ANARTEK

By Michael Patrick Aiello

Part Two of Two

Chapter 12

It was nighttime over the western hemisphere. Below me was a metropolitan sprawl in an arch across the Gulf Coast, outlined by the lights of cities against the blackness of the sea. ANNIE angled in on Houston, and a map of the city appeared on the screen in front of me.

The Anartek embassy at Houston was indeed surrounded. Regular BCI forces had the whole area isolated by land, sea and air. Without benefit of ANNIE’s invisibility system, BCI air security would certainly have attempted to force me down; instead, we remained undetected, and I ordered ANNIE to direct the ship into the embassy compound. Because the ship was completely visible at short range, I had ANNIE drop me in the center a clump of trees outside the main estate, and sent her out of the compound to wait for my signal.

I took the passcrambler and walked around the main building until I came to a side entrance. The passcrambler gave me entrance and I walked gingerly into a dimly lit corridor. I guessed that I was in a service area of the embassy; small closets contained bulk foodstuffs and kitchen utensils. I found the kitchen at the end of the corridor— it too was deserted and dimly lit.

From somewhere at some distance from the kitchen I could now hear voices— emotional, harried, sometimes volatile voices emerging from the heart of the embassy. A woman’s voice was shrill and forceful above the rumbling din of two men’s voices.

I walked toward the entrance to the kitchen and quietly through another short corridor and the voices grew more vigorous and near. There was a hall— an entrance foyer— and a flight of stairs. At the top was a landing, and a short distance from it, an open door from which harsh light paraded into the darkened hall. Their shadows gesticulated and their voices violated an otherwise quiet evening.

“The Field can only transport one individual at a time, Raoul, and you know it,” the woman’s voice was tired and irritated. “Since the BCI can trace your transport to this embassy, that means only one of us can get away; the BCI are sure to brainscram the two that are left behind. You really fixed us, you son of a bitch.”

“It was the only way I could get the transporter!” the man insisted. It could only have been Raoul Simonson. I recognized his voice from the hologram. “I had to kill Tanner,” Simonson implored. “He was BCI— I’m sure of it. It was the only thing I could do.”

“That doesn’t explain why you destroyed the AZORE,” the other man said.

“It was an accident— it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re an idiot, Simonson,” said other man spoke again. “We rigged the AZORE to self destruct only if we lost control of the Field Transporter; but since you obviously have the transporter, there’s no explanation other than that you deliberately set it off. And the next question is why; and why did you lead the BCI here with ready-made provocation to invade the embassy. Something stinks here, Simonson.”

“Your job was to get the Aberfeldy Field Transporter back to us,” the woman said, exasperated. “We didn’t ask you to start an international incident.”

“What’s the difference?” said Simonson. “We can still go through with it. I can go in right now. The Financial Security Council should be in session at this very minute— they’re probably figuring out a payment schedule for their war plan. I can go in there with the brainscram and alter every one of them. When they come out of session, they’ll publicly propose an introduction of the Field Transporter into the world economy.”

“We didn’t come here to give the UN our transporter technology, and you know it,” said the man. Then: “Cloudagh, Simonson’s either crazy or a traitor. I say we burn him now, and try and walk out the front door while we still have a chance.”

The explosion shattered the main doors. They splintered inward and shrapnel flared into the hall in all directions. The whole building seemed to rock on its foundations and I fell tumbling back into the corridor off of the kitchen. There was dust everywhere and the lights went entirely out. I groped along the floor until I found my feet beneath me and made my way by feel back from where I’d come.

There were no more explosions, but I heard the clap of many boots on the pavement outside. BCI police troops were pouring onto the embassy grounds.

I signaled ANNIE to pick me up immediately and made my way towards the side door where I’d come in. I could here footsteps crunching on the broken glass behind me as I pushed out the last door and outside.

A soldier shouted “Halt!” and I dropped to the ground, covered my face and spoke to ANNIE.

“There’s a soldier with a gun on me,” I spoke desperately into the transmitter. “Protect me, ANNIE!”

In a moment there was a blinding flash of light. I looked up and behind me and heard only the voices of shouting soldiers and their heavy boots pounding quickly nearby. ANNIE hovered a few meters from me. I gathered my feet and hopped up on her hull and dropped inside and we were aloft before any one else saw us.

“Has the matter-transporter device been used in the last few minutes?” I asked ANNIE, when we reached Earth orbit.

“Affirmative,” she replied. “The trace reveals the starting point to have been Houston. The termination point is a vessel in Earth orbit. Coordinates are available.”

“Very good,” I said. “Follow the trace. Is the vessel moving?”

“Affirmative. The vessel is increasing velocity and, if course and speed follow predictions, its destination will be near Astros.”

“Astros,” I repeated her. Obviously, if what the Anarteks at the embassy had been saying was true, then the matter transporter was only capable of carrying one person with it at any one time. That meant that the remaining two had fallen into the hands of the BCI, if they hadn’t killed themselves first. And if they hadn’t both died in the attack, then the BCI would soon know everything there was to know from them.

I instructed ANNIE to follow the ship along its trajectory; if Simonson was aboard, I wondered how I was going to get the transporter away from him before I killed him.

Chapter 13

According to ANNIE, the trip was going to take about ten Earth days. The ship’s cabin was a bit cramped, but I ordered her to adjust the gravity to near zero, and that alleviated much of the physical discomfort I might otherwise have felt with such restricted movement. There was plenty of food rations and water available, so I knew I wouldn’t starve or die of thirst on the trip.

I amused myself by study of ANNIE’s instrumentation and by following the Satellite Network News coverage of the UN’s response to the AZORE’s destruction.

The destruction of the AZORE by what the news media referred to as ‘an Anartek terrorist’ enabled the UN to find its mandate for retaliation. The world unanimously deplored the AZORE attack and, with the help of the media, placed blame for the incident squarely on the shoulders of the Belt Anarteks.

The BCI had released its data on Sam Tanner, and had identified him as an Anartek agent and a subversive. The pundits speculated wildly that Tanner, acting on instructions from Astros, had destroyed the AZORE as a terrorist act, and later died of wounds inflicted by technicians at the refit dock. No mention was made of the Field Transporter.

The invasion of Anartek embassies around the globe by BCI regular forces was seen as regrettable, but understandable in light of the circumstances. Earth Anarteks were considered as guilty as their allies in the Belt Worlds. The Financial Security Council had drawn up plans for emergency military expenditures and the BCI police forces had assembled and was preparing a large invasion fleet.

When word arrived that the Martian colonies were being ‘liberated’ by Anartek forces in retaliation for the embassy attacks, war became a virtual certainty. Always tenuous Reason burst before the elevated tide of war frenzy, and mankind again became engulfed in preparations for violence.

Two very unpleasant days had passed in my very tight quarters when I noticed something new on the projection screen. The other ship— the ship I was following— had a couple hours’ lead on my vessel, and was increasing its lead marginally. But out behind both ships, a third vessel had begun following our trajectory. It was two days behind me, but dogged in its speed and certain in its trajectory. ANNIE’s camera’s gave me a pretty good picture of a very advanced spacecraft.

By the fourth day, another object appeared on the projection screen. This one was much larger, and I was able to ascertain that it represented a group of ships, beginning from the same point, but all traveling in different directions along the same plane. When I looked at ANNIE’s camera work, I saw clearly that a BCI police armada had been dispatched, probably to destroy Astros and the other Belt worlds, and to take back UN possessions on Mars.

I shook my head vigorously and stared at the screen unbelieving. Given the new circumstances, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to be in the middle of a battle between the Anartek’s military technology and the sheer mass of the UN fleet.

Perhaps it would have been best if I simply withdrew myself and ANNIE till the dust settled, and to decide my course of action later. After all, I was clear of Luna and in sole possession of an advanced Anartek space cruiser with anti-grav drive. What more could I ask for?

Yet Simonson irked me. He seemed singlehandedly to have arranged for the most extensive war ever dreamed of— it was bound to shift the balance of power one way or the other— and millions of people would probably die because of it.

Simonson. I had him under my skin. And what about the transporter? If the BCI managed to destroy the Anarteks, that technology might be lost.

I floated grimly in the master’s cabin and stared into open space. I’d have that transporter and I’d be damned if Raoul Simonson was going to avoid the damage he’d caused by using it to escape again.

I brooded to myself for many hours, staring at the ships in the projection screen. The vessel just behind me was the most intriguing of all. What was it? A BCI scouter? It was moving much faster than the armada ships; in fact, it was moving just a fraction faster than ANNIE was. I wasn’t in any danger of being overtaken before reaching Astros, but the speed of the vessel was curious. I asked ANNIE about it.

“The vessel is of BCI design,” she told me. “The engine is an anti-gravity propulsion system unrelated to Anartek types.”

“Unrelated?” I puzzled. “Did the UN come up with gravity technologies on their own?”

“I have no data on UN engineered propulsion systems.” She said, curtly.

After a moment, my eyes widened. “DeButte,” I said. It had to be. The BCI had invaded the Houston embassy. Gordon DeButte would have had access. He might even have ordered the assault himself. His men might have captured someone, or there may have been documents. When he figured out what was happening, he ordered up the fastest ship the BCI had to offer and set off for Astros before the armada arrived.

I examined the blip judiciously.

“ANNIE,” I said.

“Operational,” said the computer.

“Can you open a communications channel to the ship pursuing us?” I pressed my finger to one of the three blips on the tracking screen. “This one.”

“Affirmative,” she said.

“Then do so,” I said. “Ship-to-ship.”

The receiver hissed for a few seconds, and I left the visual inoperative.

Then, “Receiving you, unnamed vessel,” said a voice. Gordon DeButte’s voice.

“DeButte?” I said, a little glad to here a familiar voice— even his— after four days of deep isolation.

Again the hiss.

“I am Gordon DeButte,” said the voice. “And to whom am I speaking?”

“This is McAuley,” I said. “Good to hear your voice, Gordon. I hope I can call you Gordon. It’s a little lonely out here for formalities.”

The hiss continued a bit longer this time.

“McAuley?” He said. “I’m sorry. Angelo McAuley?”

“Bingo.”

The hiss was shorter this time.

“Turn your ship around, McAuley,” he ordered. “You are in violation of UN maritime space code ninety-one seventeen point nine as well as ninety-one seventeen point one zero, possession of an alien and unregistered space craft. If you do not reverse your course, you will also be in violation of Bureau Penal code—”

I cut him off; it was bureaucratic nonsense. I hadn’t come so far to turn my ship about and limp meekly back to BCI headquarters for a brain scram and a fine.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, DeButte,” I said, with some pith.

The hiss continued for a while.

“McAuley,” DeButte spoke again. “I must advise you that I am now required by law to attempt to slow or stop your vessel, and I will destroy you if I can.” Hiss.

“Nuts to that,” said I.

De Butte continued, calming noticeably: “Well... having informed you of my position, I believe we must now discuss the situation.”

“I agree,” I said. “Shoot.”

“Very well, sir,” he said. “Well spoken.” The hiss again. “You must be aware that the BCI police fleet has already embarked on its mission to engage the Anarteks in Belt space.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Personally, I believe that the dispatch of the fleet was premature and indeed vindictive. I believe that there is evidence to demonstrate that the destruction of the AZORE was the work of one man— Raoul Simonson. In fact, I already have some evidence to demonstrate this. The Bureau has brought the whole matter up before a closed session of the General Assembly, and, I believe we’ve managed to convince them of the truthfulness of our claims. The Assembly, is, however, unwilling to call off the expedition because of one rather important point: the matter transporter device.”

A long hiss followed. I did not respond.

“The General Assembly believes that development of the matter transporter has given the Anarteks an unacceptable technological advantage. The device has an obvious military potential— not mentioning anything else— and so the Honorable Assembly has seen fit to fight the Anarteks now , while we have a provocation, and before they are able to further develop their advantage over us.

“There is only one circumstance under which the General Assembly will consider withdrawing the armada, and that is if the BCI can present to the Assembly accurate design specifications for the construction of the matter transporter. The Honorable Members believe that UN possession of such a device—and the technology to produce it—would mend the balance of power and obviate the need for war.”

There was a long sigh under the din of the hiss on the receiver.

“As I’m sure you can see, the armada is very close behind me,” he continued. “While my vessel is much faster than most BCI police craft, I stand virtually no chance at all of retrieving the design specifications and returning them to Earth before the military engagement which is bound now to occur. Do you follow me, Mr. McAuley?”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You want me to act as a BCI proxy?”

He spoke quickly: “You are a private investigator, are you not, Mr. McAuley? I have the authority to reinstate your licence immediately. I could contract you right now, the BCI could be your client,” there was a kind of desperation in his voice. “Or, I could deputize you. You’d become an employee of the BCI, and you’d be clear of all charges pending against you, retroactively. I might even arrange to get you a permanent position as a BCI field operative, if you’d like— assuming you’re successful. You’ve already demonstrated your resourcefulness...”

I considered. “Look,” I said. “I’ll do what I can. I don’t suppose the Belters can fight a good fight against the war machine you guys invented, so what’s the point? If I can find the matter transporter before the armada arrives in Belt space, then we’ll have something to talk about. I’ll even have Raoul Simonson’s head on a post for you, if you think it will help.”

The hiss was longer this time. “Mr. McAuley,” said DeButte. “I thought you knew—Raoul Simonson was killed four days ago at the Anartek embassy in Houston.”

Chapter 14

I wasn’t about to become a BCI stooge; that would have been suicidal. On the other hand, it looked as though a big war was going to melt down half the solar system if the UN couldn’t get their paws on a very strategic piece of Anartek hardware.

I decided to play DeButte along, in case I needed an ally later on. If Simonson really was dead, and not escaping his dirty laundry in the ship I was pursuing, then I had lost my reason for continuing the case. But the ship in front of me was a loose end I had to tie before I could forgo any obligations I had to my future security.

Besides the search for Simonson, I also considered the idea of maybe stopping or stalling the UN fleet, and I wasn’t sure just how I would approach that problem all alone in my lonely little gunboat.

On the other hand, while BCI authority was a powerful thing in itself, I wasn’t sure what particular advantage it would have in the Belt Worlds, if I decided to play DeButte along with his plan to employ me. I argued with myself, but the thought of working in the interest of the BCI made butterflies do the Saint Vitus dance in my intestines.

Six more uncomfortable days passed, and the Anartek ship fell into Astros space. I stopped the ship dead in space about fifty thousand kilometers from Astros, and ANNIE informed me that the matter transporter device had been activated again.

The matter transporter’s subatomic particle trail led from the ship to a small asteroid in a solar orbit parallel to that of Astros. It was a cigar shaped rock about five kilometers long. As we approached, ANNIE informed me that the rock was largely hollow, and that a fair amount of industrial activity was taking place inside of it.

I had never been to the Belt Worlds before, but I understood that the ‘worlds’ of the asteroid belt were essentially hollowed-out rocks in which people had built whole cities. Astros itself was an enormous hollow ball containing something like a quarter million people. The rocky cylinder I had scanned was, apparently, one of those cities, though this one seemed more industrial than urban. Perhaps it was a military base. If that were true, without the cloaking device we would certainly have been detected, and probably attacked as a hostile vessel.

There was a huge shuttle bay right down the center of the asteroid, but I ordered ANNIE to scan the surface of the rock for entry ports that weren’t so obvious, and found several large enough for cargo ships. At one end of the cylinder there was a small port, not large enough to accommodate ANNIE, but large enough for a man to enter. I speculated that it was some type of maintenance access.

There was spacesuit in the ship’s back compartment. I donned it, and made my way out of the airlock and into open space. The maintenance portal projected from the wall of the rock. It opened easily— it was unlocked— and I moved into the airlock and sealed the portal. Plainly marked panel controls on the inside of the airlock allowed me to flood the compartment with air, and I was able to move from the airlock into the station proper.

I radioed ANNIE and ordered her to stand well off from the asteroid. She had given me a general idea of the spot at which the transporter trail terminated, and, after stripping off my spacesuit, I made my way towards that point.

I followed a hallway into the heart of the asteroid. There was gravity, but just barely; I bounded down the hall in great leaps. Before long, though, gravity acceleration become more intense, and, as I moved further into the belly of the asteroid, I began to feel my weight again.

The Anarteks had obviously made practical use of advances in gravity technology— the cylinder wasn’t spinning to create an artificial gravity on its inside walls, as it was probably originally designed to do. Instead, the mechanical problems associated with the use of a centrifugal gravity was eliminated by artificial gravity— a technology that Luna had made plentiful use of, but which was not available at any price for the people of Earth. It’s what made it possible for manned ships to travel from Earth to the Belt in ten days time without turning its occupants to jam. Outside of the Belt, only the BCI secret police forces had access to such a dynamic applications of the technology.

It was a pleasure walking again, after almost ten days in a cramped space— though perhaps a bit of a strain. In my first few minutes in the heavier gravity, I began to feel my head swim against the new sensation of weight, and I ducked into a small, empty room to regain my senses.

I radioed ANNIE and got my bearings. She was able to advise me on the location of the termination point of the matter transporter beam relative to my position, and, when the blood returned to my head, I continued on.

After some experimentation, I was able to ascertain that there were fewer people in the passages which lead directly through the center of the asteroid, rather than closer to the outside walls. I unavoidably passed several people in the passageway, but maintained my Lunar tubeway etiquette, which called for an aversion of eye contact. I hoped that the social skills developed in the high density, close-quarter living of Luna was a universal human phenomenon in such living environments and not just a Lunar eccentricity. No one blanched when I ignored them, but I purposely tried to walk in less populated areas of the city.

I was fortunate that the beam’s termination point was in an area removed from much activity. ANNIE’s scan allowed me to pinpoint the room the fugitive had materialized into, and I stood outside the door for a moment, listening. No sounds emanated from within; but the doors were such that I probably wouldn’t have heard anything even if there were noises.

I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders and would have kicked myself if I could have found my behind. I had put myself in a very vulnerable situation, and now regrets stampeded across my consciousness. I knocked once, and was relieved when nobody answered. I had taken the passcrambler with me, of course, and now set it to operate on the door in front of me. The locks gave easily, and the door swished open to reveal a darkened room. I glanced nervously down the hallway and walked into the room and the door closed behind me. When I had walked through the threshold, the lights came up automatically and I saw that I was in someone’s apartment.

“That’s an interesting little toy you have there,” said a woman’s voice. “You win the door prize.”

The voice was coming from a voice box on the wall. In a moment, a door opened from another room and a woman, tall and thin and a bit haggard looking, walked out of it holding a stun-gun leveled at my midsection. She was black haired and brown eyed. Bronze skin shone beneath a crumpled black body suit. I guessed she’d been asleep a moment before. Her voice was the voice of the woman in the Houston embassy. It was she who’d escaped the destruction. It was she who’d been my quarry across a hundred million miles. It was she who could stop the war.

“It’s just another Anartek miracle,” I said. “But they still use crowbars on Earth.”

“Why should the Anarteks make it any easier?” she bit.

“Maybe that’s a question you could answer,” I said. “Why not give the new technology to Earth? You’ve always wanted to circumvent the UN. Maybe now’s your chance to do it. You might just bring the UN government down altogether if you did. That’s what everybody here wants, isn’t it?”

She looked at me hard and was very tense. The knuckles of her hand were white on the butt of the gun and there were long lines under eyes that were frozen in grim decision. She waved the gun at me, motioning toward a chair in the room. I walked slowly toward it and sat down, leaving my arms across the arms of the chair, fingers splayed but relaxed.

She moved across the room from me and never let the gun down.

“I take it you’re not a common criminal,” she said.

“I try not to be.”

“Cut the crap,” she lashed. “Just who the hell are you? What do you want?”

“My name is Angelo McAuley,” I said. “I’m a private investigator from Luna. I was following up on a missing person’s report.”

She nodded and almost laughed. “Missing persons,” she said. Her sarcasm shown in gimlet eyes.

“That’s right,” I said. “A Belter named Raoul Simonson was reported missing, and I was contracted to find him.”

She started. Realization dawned in her face and she stood up, alarmed, and waved the gun at me.

“Just how the hell did you get here?” She asked.

“I followed you. Ten days across open space. I followed you from Earth all the way out here.”

“You followed —” she stammered, gripping the gun.

“I was in the embassy when it was attacked,” I said. “I was trailing Simonson. When the explosion hit, I ducked out and picked up the trail of the matter transporter. It lead to a ship in Earth orbit, and I followed that ship out here. To be honest, I figured I was following Simonson. It wasn’t until later that I learned Simonson had been killed in the attack.

“Killed?” She said. “That’s too easy.” She frowned. “The little weasel,” then shook her head as if to separate her prejudices from her reason. “And just how would you know that?”

“Hold on a minute,” I said. “Let me start from the beginning.”

“Oh, please, do,” she said, mocking. She seemed to relax marginally and, still brandishing the weapon, moved to sit in a chair across the room from where I sat. “By all means,” she said, and gestured with the gun.

I sat back in the chair and recounted my story. She calmed slowly in the course of my explanation, but the gun never wavered. At length, she sat back into her seat and ruminated silently, alert to my presence across the room.

“How did you find out about Simonson?” She asked.

“You mean that he’s dead? A BCI guy named DeButte got hold of your records in the embassy. He figured out what had happened and followed both of our ships. He ought to be here in a few days. I talked to him on the radio— he told me about Simonson and offered me clemency in the murder of the girl if I’d bring him a working model of the transporter.”

The woman stiffened at that, and her grip on the gun became taut. “What makes you—” she began.

“He also told me he could stop the armada if he could prove to the UN Security Council that Earth had access to the new technology.”

She considered. “In that case the UN would have military parity with the Anarteks— and eventually even superiority— and the people of Earth would never even know that a matter transporter existed. The Field Transporter would be given only military applications, and the Earth’s economy would remain as backward and as repressive as ever. The BCI are out of their minds. If they ever got hold of the Aberfeldy Field-Transporter, the Anartek movement would end up as disappeared as the humpback whale.”

“I agree,” I said. “But the UN fleet will be here in a few days, and they’ve got enough fire-power to decimate the Belt Worlds. UN political authority might be reinstituted here whether they get the matter transporter or not.”

She pouted for a moment and was silent. Her weapon remained aimed at my mid-section. “And you came here to get the transporter for yourself as a bargaining chip, to get yourself out of hot water. You don’t give a damn what happens to the Anarteks or the UN— you just want to save your hide.”

She stood up and glowered and menaced me with the gun.

“That’s the simple explanation, but it isn’t true,” I protested. “Sure I care about a bum murder rap; but that’s not why I’m here. I’ve tangled with the BCI before. They’ve got resources, but in my experience they’re not that smart. And they’re certainly not honest; I’d be loco to take the BCI up on clemency offers. No way, lady. I’m here to help stop a war, if I can— and you’d better help me do it, because if you don’t, there’ll be a UN fleet here in a few days and they’ll make a point of wrecking everything they find, from here to the Martian colonies. So why don’t you do us both a favor: just drop the Bogart and let’s get down to cases.

Chapter 15

Her name was Cloudagh Vale Aberfeldy. I guess the import of the situation got through to her, because she ended up shelving the gun and carrying on a civilized conversation about our options. Short of putting up a good fight, I couldn’t see a way out that wouldn’t involve the transfer of a dangerous technology into the hands of the UN. Cloudagh, not surprisingly, disagreed.

“In any case,” she said, “the Ceres Group owns the rights to the Aberfeldy Field-Transporter. And since they own the technology, they’re not likely to part with it without some kind of recompense. And they’re one of the few communities in the Belt that could adequately defend themselves against the UN Fleet.”

In the course of our conversation, I got my first civics lessons on the organization of the Anartek Belt Worlds. The Belt communities had organized themselves into a kind of confederation of independent city-states. Each colonized rock in space had its own charter, and its own way of doing things; no other city had a say in the affairs of its neighbors.

Their economy worked on a commodity-trading basis. A group of cities in a proximity would form a sort of business consortium, in which their economic surplus would be devoted toward the research, development, and production of particular goods or services which that consortium would then sell— at a profit— to other cities in the Belt system. Individual citizens of these cities contributed their efforts to the community, and in return they received a vote in the direction of public policy, and a share in profits. In other words, Belt citizens were like stock holders in a city-company; the profit of the community was the profit of the citizen.

The Ceres Group was a region of four neighboring cities. They had made large profits trading agricultural and energy products with the other cities. With this surplus, they had elected to fund an institute to develop a practical matter-transporter system.

The best physicists and engineers were assembled from around the Belt worlds (and indeed from Earth), and put to work on the project. Cloudagh’s father, Winston Aberfeldy, was a Ceres engineer and public administrator who orchestrated the development of his “Field-Transporter.” Perhaps not as great a mind as Cloudagh would have me believe, Aberfeldy certainly was instrumental in assembling the talent needed to construct his vision.

As owners of the Aberfeldy Field Transporter, the Ceres Group were under no obligation to distribute their new technology to the other Belt Worlds, much less the UN. In fact, their technology was supposed to be advanced enough to fend off a UN attack, even if the rest of the Belt fell under UN hegemony.

Later, Cloudagh gave me a first hand explanation of the gum prohibition.“It was Raoul’s idea,” she said. “He was the one who forced the Confederation Council on Astros to pass the gum prohibition.”

“How could the chairman of the Ceres Group force the Confederation Council to prohibit the gum trade in the Belt Worlds?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. “I thought all these cities were supposed to be autonomous.”

Cloudagh grinned with a mixture of shame and pleasure, the way a parent would when acknowledging the naughtiness of an adored child. “The flaw is in our humanity,” she said philosophically, “not in our system.” Then she shifted a little uncomfortably in her chair. “Raoul was the head of the most powerful economic group in the Belt system; the Ceres Group has interests in nearly every community in the Belt. The Confederation Council on Astros, by charter, is supposed to act in the interest of all our communities; our forefathers created it as a meeting place for all the Belt cities. Everyone is represented there, and the Council makes decisions only by unanimous consent. But any city that chose not to go along with the gum prohibition would in all likelihood have suffered boycott by Ceres and her allies. No community in the system was willing to risk being made an example.”

Chapter 16

The approach of the armada of warships from Earth was becoming widely known in the Belt system. A meeting was called on Astros by the Confederation Council; attendees would make their appearance by holographic projection. Cloudagh, as the survivor of Raoul Simonson’s scheme to overthrow the UN government— and a witness to the events that precipitated the crisis at hand— was summoned to speak and answer questions before the Council.

While obviously shaken, she steadied herself with a dose of intuited idealism and its attendant self-assurance. I studied her for a moment as she composed herself— there was something of a messianic quality to her eyes and the defiant pout of her lip— and considered that, while her self-possession must have carried a weight of credibility among the converted, it was nevertheless a condition of faith entirely alien to me; for all the advantages of an open economic system, it was too much of an abstraction to possess much emotional appeal.

The conference was to be held barely an hour after Cloudagh received the summons, and was to be broadcast throughout the Belt system.

“Can your father help us?” I tried.

“He’ll never turn against Ceres policy,” she replied. The elder Aberfeldy was a native of Ceres and, according to Cloudagh, was loyal to the Group’s objectives. He adhered firmly to the constitutional framework of the Belt Confederation in that he believed that the rights of the cities superseded the rights and the jurisdiction of the Confederation Council. Thus, Aberfeldy was expected to defend the interests of the Ceres Group in protecting their matter-transporter technology from the grasping hands of the Confederation Council.

“We believe in absolute freedom,” Cloudagh told me, eyes steady and sharp.

“Even the freedom to be tyrannical?” I said, a little more comfortable with the socialistic and egalitarian degradations of Luna. “Would you preserve the freedom of one group of people to abandon or repress another?”

Her eyes remained steady and the flames in them grew only slightly hotter. “It’s not a perfect system, only the most perfect,” she said epigrammatically. She leaned her head back and shook her hair so the ends of it fell behind her shoulders. I think my lip curled a little, though I fought showing it. “Our system protects the right of every city to develop their society along whatever lines they chose. On the other hand, no minority has the right to infringe on the rights of the majority to live in the kind of city the majority chooses to create. Under our charter, the Ceres Group has the right to structure their communities and shape their values according to their own sensibilities. No one from the outside has the right to dictate how any city governs its affairs.”

“What if some individual in one of these cities has a difference of opinion about the kind of values the rest of the community has?” I said. “What happens to that person?”

“It’s his or her choice to differ with the community’s values.”

“Okay, noted: the responsibility for differing with the majority is with the dissident. Gotcha. But what happens to that person, even assuming they accept that esoteric responsibility? I mean, what does the community do about dissidents?”

I thought I saw her squirm a little, but she answered quickly: “It depends,” she said. “It depends on what they’ve done, and to what degree they’ve violated community standards. In most cases, I suppose, it would simply amount to expulsion.”

“Tell me about it. Luna’s been getting your dissidents for years. I know a few myself. But, okay, tell me this: what if the Ceres Group decides to withhold the Field-Transporter from the UN and let the rest of the Belt get burned. And then suppose somebody in the Group decides to organize an opposition against the policy. What then?”

“We’ve never had that kind of split in our society before.” She said.

I laughed. “Of course you haven’t: you’ve been weeding out your opponents for years; your society’s like a sculptured plant.”

Her eyebrows got a bit closer together, and I thought I saw the first hint of anger. Nevertheless, she tried to answer my question: “If there were a movement like that, in all honesty, I think the organizers would be detained and then expelled. I know it doesn’t sound nice, but it’s the way we keep order in our society; we don’t want to become another Luna, frankly.”

“Touches,” I said. “But on Luna, everybody’s a dissident. And nobody stops you from organizing or promoting a different political view; who would care? But on your worlds the situation is very different— here there is only one correct way of thinking. You talk big about freedom and openness, but it’s all fraud. How is it an exercise of freedom to let your neighbors be injured? This idea of majority freedoms would cut the other way if the Belt had a unitary government— if you had some central power acting in the interests of everyone in the Belt Worlds. Then the interests of the Ceres Group would be subordinate to the interests of the majority, just as the interests of your own local minorities are subordinate to the majorities in the cities.”

“You’re speech making,” she observed.

I made a short laugh. “It’s just that there are contradictions in your ideals of freedom. And one more thing: I don’t think that there’s any such thing as ‘the most perfect system.’ I’ve never heard of a perfect human institution; but the best functioning social system is one in which citizens recognize the imperfections that already exist in society. At least then you have the courage to recognize who and what you are. On the other hand, to live in blindness of your own shortcomings— that’s the real recipe for dictatorship.”

“You are speech making,” this time she laughed outloud and her eyes glowed with pleasure. She reached over to take me by the arm. “Come on, it’s almost time.”

Chapter 17

As the holographic projector was activated, the room became filled with people, some seeming to exist beyond the room’s dimensions. Cloudagh and I sat together on her couch, and on either side of us, and behind us, other individuals sat in a kind of ascending semi-circle, all facing a group of seven people sitting at a long table and facing us.

“Those are the representatives of the Confederation Council on Astros,” she whispered to me. “That’s Natasha Kuo in the middle: she holds the Council Chair this year. The people behind us are delegates from all the cities.”

The old woman sitting at the center of the seven Confederation Council members gathered herself up uneasily, picked up a small wooden mallet off the table and banged the gavel in front of her. “The meeting will come to order,” she said, casting the hammer down distastefully.

She stood small against the long table, while her fingers picked through the pages of the sheaf of papers in front of her. “One of the purposes of this meeting is to put an end to all of the silly rumors I’ve heard circulating the past few hours, and to try and address realities.” Her mouth worked at some imaginary chore before she went on. “And the reality is this: the UN has sent a large fleet of about 600 warships into open space. Many of them are heading for Astros, although about four hundred of that number are heading in different directions along the Belt plane— trajectories indicate that fifteen of our largest cities have been targeted, with the notable exception of Ceres.” She glanced slyly over her right shoulder with an eyebrow raised, but didn’t focus on anyone there. A man behind her shifted uncomfortably in his chair and raised himself up in his seat marginally. “A small group of ships is also headed toward the Martian colony, and in fact should be arriving in Mars space in a few hours. The ships headed here to Astros will arrive in a little over two days.

“The UN has indicated that they hold us responsible for the destruction of one of their freighters in Lunar orbit. We’ve denied involvement, of course, but it appears as though the UN requires a provocation to attack us.” She waved her hand impatiently, as if dismissing the obvious.

“The UN is claiming that the Ceres transporter discovery threatens the balance of power, and that they have no choice but to destroy the threat before the Anarteks turn their advantage in technology into an irresistible military and political force.” The old woman spoke slowly and surely, with no hint of emotion. “In deference to their own stated policy, the UN Security Council has offered us a solution to the problem: they have told us that the war fleet will be called off if the Security Council is immediately given access to the new technology. They want the design plans and a working model of the Field-Transporter. Their argument is that the Field-Transporter represents a threat to their security, but they would be willing to make peace in return for technology sharing.”

The commotion in the crowd became sufficiently distracting to prompt another bang of the gavel. “These are the facts, ladies and gentlemen. Let us address them soberly.”

“Your honor, may I speak?” It was the uncomfortable man who sat behind Natasha Kuo.

She nodded, and Cloudagh whispered to me: “That’s Beale, the Ceresian representative to the Confederation Council.

“Your honor, ladies and gentlemen,” Beale began. “I have been authorized by my government to make public the terms that the Ceres Group will accept for the release of the matter-transporter design plans.”

Everyone was silent. The Natasha Kuo had returned to her seat and had given all of her attention to Beale.

He bowed his head as if to compose himself before he lifted it and began: “As you know, the Ceres Group has trade ties with virtually every city in the Belt system. Our interests also include partial ownership of productive industries in many of our trading-partner’s own cities. In many cases, in fact, it was our start-up funding which made possible the development of those industries.” He bowed his head again and paused, then took a deep breath. “The Ceres Group wishes to submit a plan for the accommodation of our business needs to the Confederation Council. In return for approval of our plan, the Ceres Group promises to share the new transportation technology with the Council, and it will be their’s to share with the UN as they see fit.”

Beale held up a small disc, and presented it to the Chairwoman. Natasha Kuo accepted it, and said, “We will need time to review the documents. A copy of the Ceres offer will be released to all the delegates and to the general public immediately. We will suspend the meeting for two hours, to give everyone a chance to review the documents and prepare comments.” She rose and took the mallet from the table. “We will reconvene in two hours.” And the gavel was struck.

Chapter 18

The Confederation Council made the Ceres documents available to the public via the telecom. Cloudagh called up the information from the telecom in her apartment and printed out a hard copy of the synopsis. The entire document contained over a thousand pages, but an abstract at the beginning provided the essence of it: the Ceres Group were demanding a controlling interest in almost every industry and service corporation in the Belt.

“Not surprising,” was all she said.

I didn’t know what to say. I was astonished that an organization like the Ceres Group could be so bold as to make such an obvious grab for power at a time of national crisis. And worse, I had the feeling that these idealistic, politically responsible people would rather turn their civilization over to an opportunistic corporate group rather than violate the principles of their beloved constitution.

“What do you suppose the Confederation Council will do about this?” I tried.

Cloudagh’s eyes fixed mine with a kind of tired gravity. “What will they do?” She repeated. “They’ll debate, they’ll agonize, they’ll wring their hands, and in the end they’ll give Ceres everything she wants.”

“And the UN gets the transporter for free.”

She winced. I could see that the idea of the Ceres Group taking power Belt-wide evoked no particular emotions in her, but the idea of the UN with the Field Transporter made her face turn pale.

“Look,” I said. “What about your father? Doesn’t he carry any weight with the decision-makers at Ceres?”

“Sure he does. But I’ve already told you he supports Ceres policy; and he’d never go against the Ceres Board of Directors.”

“Why don’t we meet with him, and find out?”

She considered. “He’s on Ceres. It would take two weeks to travel there by spacecraft; history would be over by the time we got there.”

“What about the transporter?”

She shrugged. “It’s been done: we call it ‘hopping’. You transport from city to city until you reach the destination.”

“I get it,” I said. “It would be like jumping on a series of rocks to get across a stream.”

“True enough, I guess— but I’ve never seen a stream. In any case, only one of us could go.”

She agreed that it was better than doing nothing at all, and suggested that I go; she was still committed to appear before the Confederation Council to explain the origins of the crisis, but she had no idea when she would be called.

She instructed me in the use of the Field Transporter, and programmed it to transport me into a series of predetermined landing sites in cites on the road to Ceres. I would be in those cities only long enough to materialize and then move on to the next landing site. Cloudagh estimated that it would take me several hours to make the entire trip. In the end, I would materialize outside of Aberfeldy’s living quarters on Ceres.

In parting, Cloudagh was ice serious. “I wish you luck,” she said. “I have no desire to see the UN with the ability to produce transporter technology— I would as well that Ceres defend us all, if it’s possible.” She turned very cold then. “I want you to know something: I am trusting you with this model of the transporter because our need is great, and because I have come to believe in you.” Her brows came very close together and she stung me with a withering glare. “But, if you have deceived me, I promise I’ll hunt you down for eternity.”

I held her eyes evenly. “You make it sound tempting,” I said. I held her eyes forcefully for a moment longer, then transported away.

Chapter 19

The Field Transporter was a flat, hand-held, rectangular shaped object with a holographic projection screen and a small programming board. Cloudagh had programmed it from a master computer in her apartment in order to get me to Ceres, and had briefed me on it’s manual use. The transporter contained an internal scanner that detected all potential landing sites in its range, which was about three hundred thousand kilometers.

The holographic projector showed a three-dimensional schematic of potential landing sites. The user could either indicate the desired destination by punching exact coordinates into the programming board, or simply point to the destination choice inside the holograph itself.

The transporter also allowed for a random function: if the user had no time to select an exact destination, the transporter could chose one instantly; thus the transporter provided the user with the option of a quick and random escape. Simonson had ordered that the transporter be given this capability for his mission to Luna.

Cloudagh had fed into the transporter a program of prearranged landing sites that took me through a series of rather innocuous rooms and occasional hallways and a plethora of space-black closets in a series of cities and otherwise uninhabited rocks between the departure point near Astros and the destination of Ceres. Besides the many hundreds of inhabited rocks in the Asteroid Belt, I landed in many that were uninhabited: electronic observation stations, automated industrial plants, and many rocks hollowed out for the express purpose of transporting a person across the Belt. The trip was hours long; by the time I had completed the transit, I estimated that I had touched down on well over a thousand landing sites.

In the end, the transporter deposited me in a empty, bending corridor in front of a short door. I shrugged, leaned toward the door and rang the bell. In a moment, a viewscreen appeared on the wall next to the door bell and a rather red and round-faced old man materialized in it.

He starred at me for a few moments, squinting. “Well?” He said, gruffly.

“Winston Aberfeldy?”

He pursed his lips and his chin shot into the folds of fat in his neck. “You know me, but I don’t know you.” He said.

“My name is Angelo McAuley, Mr. Aberfeldy. And this is an invention of yours.” I held up the transporter so he could see it.

His puffy lips formed an “o” and he might have dropped something from his hand, because he suddenly shifted his attention to the floor in front of him, though not for long, as he again looked up at me, straightening his priorities in his confusion.

“You may come in,” he said gravely. “But I warn you: I’m armed.”

And with that the door swished open. I stepped through the threshold and into a bending hall running parallel to the outside corridor and ending in doors to either side. Aberfeldy emerged from the door to my left and the entrance door swished closed.

“Well, come on, then.” He said, scolding me for standing still.

I walked evenly to the the door he had left open and had disappeared behind. I entered the room to find a large office, lushly carpeted and lavishly furnished with centuries-old English furniture. Aberfeldy had seated himself behind a vast desk upon which were strewn papers and books piled to distraction. In an age when almost all human information was held wisps of ether, I found his mountains of books at once extravagant and reassuring.

I moved into the room slowly, aware that the good Doctor had a weapon trained on me from somewhere behind his mounds of rubbish. “There’s no need for that, Dr. Aberfeldy; I’m not armed and I’m not dangerous.”

“So you say,” he replied, eyes glinting slits.

I continued to move slowly, examining the unusual high-ceiling, and the books that ran the length and height of all four walls. Surprising, few of the books I saw were of a scientific nature, and instead pertained to matters of law, and commerce, and political administration.

“And now that you have had an opportunity to examine my library in detail,” he said, with a chilling quality to his voice. “Perhaps you would be so good as to explain to me how you came by that device.” His eyes held an unhealthy mirth in them. His face was fat, and his lips were parted in a kind half-smile, half-grimace. He continued to sit at his desk behind the piles, holding his two arms steady, as if pointing a weapon directly at me. His head and torso were pitched forward, and he looked at me from beneath a pair of ridiculously bushy black eyebrows.

I stood very still with the transporter in my hand. If I had moved too quickly, or attempted to use it, I was sure he’d burn me where I stood.

“May I sit?” I motioned to the chair in a corner of the room.

He nodded affirmatively. “But you will drop the transporter there on the corner of the desk. And very slowly; if you attempt to use it to escape from here, you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

I shrugged again and did as he suggested.

When I had placed myself in the seat, away from the transporter, and in his clear line of vision, he relaxed a little, rose from his chair, walked around to the front of his desk and displayed the blaster he had been holding beneath the table.

“It’s good for you....” he said, but didn’t finish. Instead, he walked to where I had left the transporter and pocketed it. Afterward, he sat upon the edge of the desk, still fondling the blaster, but looking less threatening.

“As I’ve said, Dr. Aberfeldy, I’m unarmed. And I’m getting tired of you and your family members drawing weapons on me.”

He frowned and drew his chin into the folds of fat in his neck again. “What is that supposed to mean?”

I explained what it meant in detail. Aberfeldy listened attentively, nodding occasionally, but otherwise remaining silent as I recounted the circumstances of my arrival. The old man sat upon the edge of his great desk the whole time, cradling his blaster in both hands. At length, as I concluded my explanation, Aberfeldy sat solemnly to himself for a few moments and collected his thoughts.

“I was hoping that Cloudagh would have sent you a message by now, so that we wouldn’t have had to go through this business.” I said from my seat.

He was still in thought when I said it, and my words seemed to register only after a few moments had passed. “What?” He said, still abstracted. “Cloudagh? Well, she couldn’t very well have had time to contact me, since the Council has been in session for at least the past six or seven hours.”

He rose from the edge of his desk, walked methodically to the other side of it, and the blaster disappeared behind it somewhere.

“Well, Mr. McAuley, what would you have me do about this, eh? I mean, you don’t really expect me to turn against my own government? I promise you that you’re wasting your time if you think so. And I promise you another thing: the whole issue will be moot in a short while, because the Confederation Council is sure to vote for acceptance of the Ceres plan for the purchase of the Field Transporter. After all, their options are limited.”

“So you don’t care whether the UN gets the technology for free?”

“Why should we?” He returned. “Ceres is the Belt’s leader in war technology. We have nothing to fear from the UN at this time. Nor do we have any interest— as of right now— in protecting the rest of the Belt from UN attack. It’s true that, if the UN did attack Astros and the other Belt worlds, Ceres would lose much of its market for the goods and services that we produce; but the probabilities indicate that the Council will accept reason and buy the Field Transporter from us at our terms. And in that instance,” he went on, “given that Ceres would have a vested economic interest in the military protection of the entire Belt, you can rest assured that the UN will never threaten this part of the solar system again.”

“I see: Ceres will become the defacto seat of Belt government.”

He was candid: “Mr. McAuley, it is inevitable that the Belt will develop a centralized government. Personally, I do not believe that the political will has ever existed on Astros to confront the issue of Federalism. It’s unfortunate that a crisis of this magnitude was required to force Astros and the rest of the Belt into it; that Ceres will be the beneficiary of centralization is nothing more than an accident of history.”

I was surprised. “An accident, Doctor?” I said. “Is that what you call the destruction of the AZORE?”

“Call it what you like,” he said. Then: “Come now, Mr. McAuley, you don’t think that Simonson destroyed the AZORE in the hopes of forcing a war with the Belt?”

“And of allowing Ceres to assert hegemony over the Belt.”

Aberfeldy scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, McAuley; how could Simonson have predicted the consequences of the destruction of that freighter?”

“Maybe he had help,” I said.

Aberfeldy stopped, and seemed to consider a new possibility. “You mean the BCI,” he said slowly.

“Sure,” I said. “Think about it: Simonson and the BCI might have something in common.”

“The drive for power.” Aberfeldy was remote.

“Why not? If the BCI had access to a matter transporter, they could work a lot of mischief in their own government, couldn’t they? I mean, if the BCI could get to high officials in the UN Security Council— and in other branches of UN government— with the transporter, and then use their brain-scramblers to control UN representatives, they could end up controlling the whole UN government.”

The old man digested it slowly. At length he spoke, holding his eyes steadily upon me, marking my every expression, even my physical movements. “How could any of this profit Simonson, since you said he was dead.”

My instincts made me suddenly cautious. “Yeah, that’s what I said. But whether he’s dead or alive doesn’t amount to anything. If he cut a deal with the BCI— promising the transporter in return for a military crisis in the Belt that would put Ceres at the center of all political and economic power here— he could have made himself king. The destruction of the AZORE could have been all the provocation the BCI needed to stir up war fever in the Security Council.”

Aberfeldy considered. “It’s fantastic, McAuley. But even if it were true, what difference does it make? For my part, I believe centralization will be good for the Belt, as I have said. Beyond that, why should we care how the UN government is organized? In practical terms, the rulers of Earth’s government are irrelevant to us. In fact, I might go so far as to suggest that any change may represent a decided improvement.”

“Look: I’m not comfortable defending the UN, but at least there’s a semblance of democracy there. The full Assembly represents elected officials from all the Regions, and they elect the fifteen-member Security Council. Everybody knows the system is corrupt, but at least there’s a measure of accountability; if things go too badly in politics, the people have been known to depose their representatives and elect new faces.” I paused. “If the BCI ran the show, it would be an outright tyranny. They could hold the population hostage with mass-destruction weapons, and turn it into a police state, a lot worse than it is now. And don’t tell me the Belt will be unaffected by it. You people are paranoid as it is; if the BCI ran Earth, your whole economic system would have to turn on defense issues. You’d be captives to your fear of a BCI invasion, and you know it.”

Aberfeldy was absorbing it all. I could see his mind pivot on the possibilities for the future, and I suspected that my comments touched concerns that he had been nursing some time before.

He ruminated for a while longer, then spoke: “Young man,” he began. “I confess that I found your arrival here with the Field Transporter very puzzling. And make no mistake, if I had determined that you were a liar, I would not have hesitated to burn you.” He stopped for a moment, looking pained. “But the fact that you have the transporter is irrefutable— because here it is.” He pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it thoughtfully.

“And this is unquestionably the model that was secreted aboard the AZORE. I should know, because I designed the specifications for it myself.” He paused again. “And so your story— and indeed your speculations about Simonson— hold together quite well, even in the face of common sense. But in accepting your story that Cloudagh escaped with this model after the attack on the Houston embassy in which Simonson was supposedly killed, I am struck dumb by the fact that Raoul Simonson has just arrived here at Ceres, not a few minutes before you yourself arrived at my door.”

“Simonson here?” I repeated in monotone.

“I received a call from him just a few minutes before you arrived. He has resumed his Chairmanship of the Ceres Group, and he’s called a meeting of the leadership for tomorrow morning. The Board of Directors is to vote on final approval of the sale conditions for the Field Transporter; we should have the Confederation Council’s answer to our offer by then. I suppose Simonson will make his final pitch for Board approval, and arrange for the transfer of technical documents directly to the UN fleet vessels.”

Chapter 20

Aberfeldy was torn. Until I showed up, he was all ready to accept the surprise arrival of Simonson at face value, and— as a member of the Board of Directors— to support the Ceres takeover of the Belt and the transfer of transporter technology to the UN. But my story bothered him. It shinned a little light on Raoul Simonson, and made him mysterious and suspect in Aberfeldy’s mind. Aberfeldy had never considered a BCI connection to Simonson’s operation; he assumed Simonson was acting exclusively in the interests of the Anarteks. The picture I painted of a BCI takeover of the UN, and of a devious Simonson negotiating with the BCI behind everybody’s back, caused a welcome chilling in Aberfeldy’s support for the “grand bargain” now in the works.

Still, Aberfeldy was reluctant to turncoat without more facts. While he had come to agree with me that a BCI acquisition of the Field Transporter was unacceptable to the long-term security of the Belt, he would not act against Simonson without proof of a BCI connection. After a long discussion, Aberfeldy agreed to place an optical bug on his person to allow for the transmission and recording of the meeting of Simonson with the Board of Directors the following morning; if I was going to begin the job of investigating Simonson, this would be the place to start. Aberfeldy would inject the bug directly into his eye, and everything that he could see and hear at that meeting would be transmitted to a receiver in his offices, where I could observe and record it all.

After a welcome night’s sleep, Aberfeldy left for the meeting, and left me to observe his activities through the bug’s eye.

After a short tram-ride, Aberfeldy walked along a series of corridors in the heart of Ceres’ administrative section, greeting colleagues and other familiar faces. At last, he came upon a door which lead into a medium sized room with a large rectangular table in the center and Raoul Simonson at the head of it, standing at a short podium. Around the table, as Aberfeldy scanned it, sat the Board of Directors with their aids at their sides. In a seat to the right of where Simonson stood, Gordon DeButte sat in bright-eyed serenity. I recognized him instantly as Aberfeldy’s eyes came upon him quickly and firmly, and then were averted to give attention to Simonson at his Podium.

The room was hushed, but murmurs could be heard easily in the background as the Directors greeted each other and discussed their concerns in low whispers. In a few minutes, as the remaining members were seated and their aids dismissed, the entrance door was sealed, the gavel was struck, and the meeting began.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began. “Welcome to you all.” Aberfeldy was sitting at about the middle of the table to Simonson’s right hand side, and glanced briefly around the room. All eyes held Simonson, and his unfamiliar guest, in perfect seriousness.

Simonson continued: “As you know, our plan did not progress along the lines we had expected. The destruction of the AZORE was an unfortunate accident that set us off our plan to brain scram the Security Council. If things had gone according to plan, the Ceres Group would be in a particularly good position with respect to dictating UN policy. But things didn’t go our way. Mistakes were made, and now we have to make the best of what we have left.”

Simonson paused and looked around the room with a kind of bad-boy smile he that tried to suppress. “We can’t go back and fix what’s broken,” he repeated. “But we can try to make the best of what we have now.” Simonson looked over at DeButte and motioned toward him with his hand. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have brought here with me a gentleman who I believe may be able to assist us in making the best of an unfortunate situation. His name is Mr. Gordon DeButte, and he is an unofficial representative of the United Nations. I want you all to welcome him, and to hear is words— because I believe that what Mr. DeButte has to offer us, and what he represents, may be nothing less than the future health and prosperity of our society.”

DeButte rose from his seat and walked to the podium, where Simonson moved to accommodate him. The Directors sat in stunned silence. “As Mr. Simonson has told you, my name is Gordon DeButte. I know that I am a surprise to all of you— and, believe me, my being here is surprising even to me. But Mr. Simonson has asked me to speak before you here today in an attempt to begin the long process of fence-mending between our two peoples.” The members remained silent and stunned and fixed upon DeButte. “I think that it is important to let you all know that I am here as a member of a particular faction of the UN Foreign Affairs Council— and not as an official envoy of the UN. The particular group that I represent is small but growing, and it is our position that a positive change should be initiated in the tenor of relations between the UN and the Belt.” DeButte’s voice was firm and resonant. “I have come here, at Mr. Simonson’s request, to make public to you, the Board of Directors for Ceres, an offer on behalf of my government to sign a peace treaty that will open the door to a new era in relations between our two great peoples.

“The offer that I have conveyed to Mr. Simonson, and which I will now reveal to you, is as follows: we are prepared to relinquish all control of the Mars colony (and indeed all claims on Mars) to the control of the Belt— that is, to the control of the Ceres Group. We believe, now that the Ceres Group is about to embark on its historic challenge to consolidate political authority in the Belt Worlds, that it is part of our obligation to assist you in meeting the challenges at hand, just as we, on the Home World, are about to embark upon a challenge of our own— and that is the end of the political corruption that has become pandemic in the UN.

“I hope that you will review our offer of a peace treaty—the details of which will be made known to you shortly—and together let us embark upon a new era of cooperation and contact between our two peace-loving peoples. Thank you.”

As DeButte concluded his remarks, Aberfeldy’s eyes rolled and fell across the other Board members in the room. Almost all held expressions of disbelief mixed with amusement as they glanced at each other for confirmations of their reactions.

Simonson returned to the podium and glanced uneasily around him. “Order,” he said, pounding his gavel. “Please... order.” The members came slowly to return their attention to the podium.

“I know it’s a shock to have a UN representative here among us,” continued Simonson, “but I wanted you all to hear him, and hear his offer of peace and his promise of reform, before you voted. As I have said, we have to make the best of what we have. When I discovered that the UN had declared a state of war with the Belt, and when I learned of the conditions for the cessation of hostilities, I wasn’t happy about it, but I saw in this very serious crisis an opportunity for our people and our system of government to come out of this stronger than ever before; and my negotiations with Mr. DeButte has only sharpened my resolve to strengthen our security! That is why I made the conditions of the Field Transporter’s sale to the Confederation Council so costly for them— not because I want to ruin them, but because I wanted to bring us— all of us, all around the Belt— closer together as people, so that we can better preserve ourselves and our way of life in the future. And I think that all of you can appreciate that, especially in such trying times as we’re in now.”

Simonson looked carefully around the room at the Board members. “Members,” he said slowly, sighing a little. “A few minutes ago, I received word that the Confederation Council has acceded to our sale conditions.” He looked around the room with some gravity. “I know that all of you will agree that this situation is a difficult one, but one that holds the keys to our future as the new leaders of the Belt Worlds. In a few moments, you will have an opportunity to vote on the sale conditions, and I have faith that you will make the right decision and the historic decision.”

Chapter 21

In a few minutes, Simonson got his wish: the Ceres Board of Directors voted 37 to 3 in favor of the sale conditions. Simonson congratulated the members, promised them good things for the future, and adjourned the meeting.

Aberfeldy returned oppressed by what he had seen. “I recognized DeButte’s name from your description,” he said. “And you said yourself that DeButte was BCI.”

“Simonson’s no fool.” I said. “He produced what appeared to be a genuine UN Progressive with an agenda for peace. He gambled that the Directors would be attracted to themes of Belt unity and promises of UN reform, and it looks like his gamble paid dividends.”

Aberfeldy looked forlorn. “It was shocking to see a man introduced as a UN representative at our meeting; but the message was heartening. If I hadn’t heard your story— if I hadn’t known DeButte to be a BCI agent— I would certainly have voted with the majority. Who wouldn’t have? We were just promised— in entirely believable terms— a new era of peace and prosperity.” He shook his head as if trying to clear it of contradiction. “Even now I hear the call. Any sane man would.”

“Look,” I said. “Gordon DeButte is BCI. I know it as sure as I’m standing here. If you let Simonson go through with this thing, you’ll be giving unimaginable power to a fascist agency. I hear your doubts, but you’d better not let yourself be seduced by them.”

Aberfeldy swallowed the truth with regrets. He confessed to never having liked or trusted Simonson, but held fast to the hope that my interpretation of events was wrong. Even so, Aberfeldy played it safe: he had recorded the Board meeting and transmitted it to Cloudagh on Astros. With a least partial proof that Simonson was double dealing with the BCI, Cloudagh would begin the process of informing the Anarteks on Astros; Aberfeldy approved preparations for actions against the Ceres Group.

But Aberfeldy needed solid proof that Gordon DeButte was a BCI agent before he would assist Astros in a move against Ceres. With proof, he said, he would provide Astros with the coordinates necessary to transport teams of guerrillas directly into Ceresian warboats stationed near Ceres and around the Belt; with access to Ceresian military power, Astros could put up a credible fight against the UN fleet. In the meantime, Aberfeldy transmitted the coordinates necessary to put the guerrilla teams within striking distance of the Ceresian fleet. When the go-ahead came with exact coordinates, the teams could attack almost instantly.

This left me the job of pulling the mask off of Raoul Simonson. Aberfeldy returned the transporter to me, and programmed it for entry into Simonson’s private offices and residence. Aberfeldy and I designed to discover Simonson’s connection with the BCI through electronic surveillance; we waited until we sure Simonson’s offices were empty before I transported in to plant the surveillance devices.

Trouble touched me a few moments after I had transported into Simonson’s offices. It worked well, at first; the office was empty, as we knew it would be. I secreted bugs in the inner office, then punched in the codes to transport out and back to Aberfeldy’s apartment. The transporter, though, became suddenly ineffective. The holograph worked well enough, and the component seemed functional, but each time I tried to escape to some destination, nothing happened. I had become marooned in enemy territory.

Chapter 22

The door opened suddenly and without warning. Simonson stepped in, followed by DeButte carrying a flashblaster pointed in my direction.

“Looks like we caught a rat,” said Simonson, grinning, while DeButte flanked to one side, his eyes steady upon me, the blaster held close to his ribs and aimed directly at my midsection.

“McAuley,” DeButte greeted me as he planted himself several paces from where I stood.

Simonson strode quickly towards his desk and sat behind it, a wry smile on his lips. “Angelo McAuley,” said Simonson. “Have a seat, have a seat.” He motioned to a chair in front of the desk while DeButte lingered behind me.

I did as he suggested.

“Can I get you a drink?” He pulled open a cabinet in his desk and pulled out a bottle. “Irish whiskey,” he said. “It’s the real thing, too.” He pulled out three glasses from the same cabinet and raised his eyebrows at me. “How ’bout it?”

“Why not?”

He poured my glass, then his. “Gordon? How about you?”

DeButte had moved now from his corner and had sat in a chair far to my left. “Maybe latter,” he said. There was something ominous in his tone. I drank my drink.

Simonson shrugged and recapped the bottle. “I hope you like yours no-ice; it’s good stuff— not like you get on Luna; ice wouldn’t complement it.”

He took a sip from his glass and leaned back in his chair. “What shall we talk about, Mr. McAuley?”

“You pick,” I suggested.

Simonson laughed. “Okay. How about we start with the transporter. How’d you get it?”

I shrugged.

Simonson shook his head, still wearing an evil little grin on his face. “Come on, ace.” He said. “You’re not going anywhere anymore, but if you don’t want to make it easier on yourself, it’s okay with me.” He stole a look over at DeButte, and then looked back at me, his jaw open and mouth closed, like he just couldn’t contain his happy mood. “I want to tell you something, McAuley: I just want you to know, so maybe you’ll think a little better of me, that the development of the Field Transporter was my idea. No matter what anybody says, that’s the truth of it. Aberfeldy’s just the talent scout.”

Nothing registered on my face, but that didn’t stop Simonson from shadow boxing. “Aberfeldy?” He repeated, arching his eyebrows at me. “What? I told you I sired this project; don’t you think I know when somebody’s using the transporter to break into my own offices?” He waved his hand at the room. “I had a special dampener put in as a security measure. You can transport in, but not out. When I found out somebody had transported in here, I had the transporter direction traced and discovered that the departure point was Aberfeldy’s apartment. I just sent my people out to get him a few minutes ago; it wont be long before he’s arrested.”

“What’s your point?”

“The point is that we don’t need any out-of-work Sherlocks interfering with what we’re doing here.” His tone had gone deadly serious. He dropped his drink to the desk and spilled a lot of it. “Just who the hell do you think you are?” He leaned forward in his seat threateningly, and pointed at me with a stiff index finger. “Don’t answer— I’ll tell you: nobody. That asshole Tanner brought you into it, I know. I was with DeButte when you told him how you were going to wring my neck for me. I’ve been on top you like bugs on scat since you got into this, McAuley. You’re into something bigger than you know, you little fuck.” Simonson’s hands were shaking and his face had gone red. DeButte rose from his seat and walked to the desk. “I’ll have that drink now,” he said, he voice resonant and calm. Simonson retrieved the bottle and poured him his drink, his hands still trembling.

“This is my project,” Simonson continued, still simmering.

“Mr. McAuley,” DeButte cut him off, accepting the drink from Simonson with one hand while the other held the blaster on me. “It’s unfortunate that Mr. Tanner involved you in this situation— it’s not fair to you, sir.” He said it as if he meant it. Then he sipped his drink, set it on the desk, and put that hand in a coat pocket. “But it was your own choice to pursue the matter, and to that extent, what is about to happen to you now is your own responsibility.”

“How existential.”

A second latter I felt my whole body go numb. I didn’t slump in the chair, and I didn’t lose consciousness; I just went numb, and I felt frozen.

“You’re experiencing the effects of specialized brain-scram,” DeButte said. “As I have said, since you chose to involve yourself in this situation, you really have no one to blame but yourself; certainly I did not encourage you. But since you are here, we feel that you may be of service to us, after all. In a few moments, your memory of the events over the past two weeks or so will be cleared from your mind. After the brain scram has wiped your memory, you’ll be reprogrammed to become our agent. Afterwards, we will release you, along with Dr. Aberfeldy— who will also undergo the reeducation— and you will meet with your allies, and you will kill anyone whom you suspect is aware of the relationship between Mr. Simonson and the BCI. After you have completed this task to your satisfaction, you will be instructed to dispose of Dr. Aberfeldy, and then of yourself.”

Simonson had been sitting, seething behind his desk as DeButte spoke. In a moment, he came up from his seat and was around the desk and began to strike me about the head with his fists. I felt nothing, but the world swayed unhealthily around me before DeButte could pull Simonson away, spilling his drink in the process.

“Stop it,” DeButte said. “He can’t even feel anything,”

Simonson was foaming. “Get him out of it— a brain scram’s too good for him! He nearly sunk us, that son of a bitch!”

A moment later I heard the sound of a telecom buzzing.

“Pull yourself together and answer it,” DeButte spoke sternly to Simonson.

Simonson patted back his now disheveled hair with both palms and collected himself. “It’s alright. I’m okay.”

He stepped lightly back around his desk and answered the telecom.

“Simonson here.”

“Mr. Simonson, I’m afraid we’ve had some rather bad news, sir.” A shaky voice spoke from the telecom.

Simonson stared at it hard. “What?”

“Well, we’re getting unconfirmed reports that the Ceres Marine Base has been compromised. Some of our warboats are leaving dock without orders, sir.”

Simonson blubbered. “Compromised? What do mean? How many?”

The voice on the telecom was hesitant.

“How many, damn you!” he shouted.

“Apparently all, sir.”

DeButte had moved away, out beyond my sight. Simonson sat stunned, staring emptily at the telecom. In a moment, realization dawned.

“Aberfeldy,” was all he said.

“It would appear that we’ve been outflanked,” said DeButte from behind me.

Simonson’s eyes came up from the floor in slow apprehension, and fixed upon DeButte behind me.

A look of shocked comprehension flashed across Simonson’s face a moment before the blaster discharged. Simonson was knocked violently backward by the force of it. He cascaded up over the back of his chair as it slid out from under him, and he came to rest on the floor, somewhere out of the line of my vision. A moment later, I smelled the sickening stench of burnt flesh and hair and plastic.

“Damn it all,” DeButte said, walking over behind the desk and into my field of vision. He looked down at Simonson’s body, the blaster dangling from one hand. “Idiot,” he said to Simonson’s corpse. Then, as if suddenly deciding a course of action, he turned to the desk and, with a violent wave of his arm, sent everything on the top of the desk flying down onto the floor. Next he pushed aside the chair that had fallen on top of Simonson, and pulled the body up onto the desk by the armpits, where he laid it out, face up.

Simonson was as dead as they come. The blaster had struck him square in the chest and had burned away a good part of the chest cavity. The shreds of remaining clothing did not conceal the bone and internal organs that had been cauterized from the heat of the blast. The flesh of his face was also partially burned, and the hair as well, but his head was otherwise intact.

DeButte pulled a small, square device about the size of his hand from his coat pocket, and set it on the desk next to Simonson’s head. In another moment, he pulled two small wires out of the device, and then began inserting the points of them firmly into Simonson’s head at either temple.

DeButte was all business; he worked methodically, pressing the needle-like points at the end of each wire into Simonson’s temples, first one and then the other, his fingers white from exertion. After that, he returned to the square device and activated it.

I felt sick inside, but remained immobilized and fixed upon the scene in front of me. I recognized the BCI-designed device: it was a compressor. It would upload a human brain into a database. DeButte would have to work fast.

I had seen the compressor in action only once before, and that on a living victim. The machine first scans the brain and records its particular geography; the compressor notes a cell’s exact location with reference to neural pathways, networks, and to all the other cells in the brain. After mapping the brain, it could begin the task of uploading the electrochemical information in each brain cell. Naturally, the brain cells are completely destroyed in the process. In Simonson’s case it was irrelevant, since he was already dead; but the compressor itself did not distinguish between living or dead people, so long as the cells were viable. For DeButte, the ideal condition would have been the compression of Simonson’s brain while he was still alive— that way there would have been time enough to upload the whole brain before the brain cells were damaged by the lack of blood circulation. Instead, DeButte must have instructed the compressor to concentrate entirely on Simonson’s higher functions— especially memory. That way he’d have everything Simonson knew about the development and design of the Field Transporter. It was a sickening process.

As he finished, DeButte looked at me with bright eyes and a little smile of victory.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s about all we’re going to get out of this poor guy.” He pulled the probes out of Simonson’s skull and wiped them clean of blood, and returned the compressor to his coat pocket. Just as he did, a sound like a peep sounded from somewhere on his person. Then he looked directly at me. “Sorry I can’t keep my promise to scram you, old man.” He winked. “But I’ve got to run.” He reached over gingerly and pulled the transporter out of my pocket where I’d kept it, and quickly punched his own coordinates in. “You’ll be having company in a moment,” he said. “Be seeing you.”

With that, he activated the transporter and was gone.

Chapter 23

A slight whoosh of air filled the vacuum he left behind. At that moment, the oppressive numbing of my body dissipated and was gone. I lifted myself slowly from the chair and allowed the feeling to return to my limbs.

Very quickly the door behind me burst open and a rush of figures thundered into the room. An instant later and from the corners of my eyes I witnessed a group of men materialize about the room bearing flashblasters. Just as I had gained my feet from the chair, I was thrown violently to the floor; but the invaders were too late to catch their prey.

They were rough with me at first, and I sustained a good beating to easily match Simonson’s assault on me, but soon the brash commandos had control of themselves. When Aberfeldy arrived, they argued about transporting a commando directly into DeButte’s ship, but the risk of losing a second transporter to the resourceful DeButte was judged too great.

“With Simonson’s brain in DeButte’s control, and with a working model of the transporter in his possession, the BCI will be able to design their own model before long,” Aberfeldy argued. “We don’t need to give DeButte another working transporter to dissect.”

“But we can’t let DeButte get away it,” I said. “I know the BCI; I can’t see them sharing the transporter technology with the bureaucrats at the UN Security Council if they can help it. When DeButte gets a handle on the transporter design, he and his colleagues will move against the UN and set up their own little kingdom. We can’t let that happen without a contest.”

Aberfeldy agreed in principle, and after long discussion between he and I and the members of the Ceres Board of Directors, it was decided that I would return to Tanner’s ship with a transporter, and pursue DeButte back to Earth.

The best confirmation of DeButte’s intent was the continuation of the UN fleet’s moves on Belt cities: the UN had promised to forego an attack on the Belt if they got access to transporter technology; the attack continued because the UN never received word from DeButte that he had captured a working model of the transporter. Many cities in fact surrendered to UN warboats rather than risk incineration, and the UN basked in its moment of triumph before Ceresian ships—now captained by the Anarteks—began to meet the UN vessels and engage them in combat. Over the following weeks, as I made my way back to home on the trail of Gordon DeButte, the UN fleet had begun to suffer heavy casualties, and were unable to tolerate the loss of so many ships. Before I had even arrived in Earth space, the UN had called off the attack and instructed the survivors to begin the return home, even though they had not apparently accomplished their goal of forcing the Belt to turn over the transporter technology to them.

In the mean time, the use of the Ceresian’s own Field Transporter by the Anarteks to steal the Ceresian’s war fleet right out from under them threw the Belt into a constitutional crisis. The question of national loyalties and local freedoms shattered old political assumptions, and sent them on the road to a constitution revision to empower a new Federal government to act against the interests of individual cities when the interests of the whole Belt community became threatened.

All of this happened in the two weeks I spent in a cramped space vessel pursuing Gordon DeButte across the void.

Chapter 24

DeButte arrived only a few hours before me. The invisibility screen aboard my vessel had, I believed, prevented him from detecting my pursuit; but I could not assume that he wasn’t expecting countermeasures on the part of the Anarteks.

When I arrived in Lunar orbit, I discovered that DeButte had transported himself directly into the BCI facility on the far side of the planet. I didn’t want to alert him by activation of my own transporter, so I instructed the ship to cruise down and park in Mere Trebbellum, a short distance from an access port just outside of Spiderdome. I donned a pressure suit, and hopped in Luna’s natural gravity toward the access port.

The passcrambler unlocked the portal, and, once inside, I pressurized the air chamber, stashed the pressure suit, and made my way to the nearest telecom.

Gusto Sanchez was surprised to see me.

“What the hell?” He said. I’d called his home number and had awakened him from a sound sleep. “McAuley? I thought you were dead. I thought you were in Charming Deatherage’s mainframe! What the hell!”

He seemed genuinely relieved to see me.

“What the christ are you doing, Angelo? Where’ve you been? And what the hell are you calling me for at this hour?”

“I need to come see you. We’ve got things to talk about— no, I can’t explain. I need to see you in person.”

At first he was reluctant to meet with me before he knew anything. I think he suspected that I might have been brain scrammed, because he refused a meeting at his home. Instead, he promised to meet me in his office two hours later; security there was tight, and I suppose if he thought I was going to try anything, he’d have me bagged in a minute. That was the way Gusto Sanchez thought; and it was practical, too.

Spiderdome Admin was active at all hours, and in a few more hours the day shift would arrive and the Admin building would be more active still. When I got into the lobby of the building, I expected at least another hour’s wait before Gusto arrived, but he greeted me unexpectedly in the lobby, and invited me up to his offices.

On the way up, we were escorted by a tough looking Admin dick in the elevator, and when we got into Gusto’s office, there were a couple more waiting. While the guards watched, Gusto invited me to sit in a chair, and then proceeded to scan my brain with a company scrammer, just to see if I’d been altered in any way. I was cooperative and friendly through it all, and when Gusto was satisfied that I was myself, he dismissed the guards and poured me a drink.

I accepted the Scotch and ice— real Scotch from Scotland— with thanks, and told him my story from square one. Gusto sat impassively at first, and slowly, by degrees, began to convey a great interest. When I had finished, he sat back and nursed his drink musingly.

“Well, I can fill in one blank for you, anyway.” He began. “It wasn’t Tanner who killed Lucy.”

I found myself feeling surprised— although I shouldn’t have been. Over the past few weeks I’d gotten used to the idea that Tanner was somehow behind the troubles that nearly got me killed, scrammed, and uploaded, but it was Charming Deatherage all along. Who else could it have been?

Gusto continued. “We put a raid on Deatherage’s mainframe a few weeks ago— it was a few days after you disappeared. The raid was punitive and rescue, because we knew that Deatherage had been uploading our operatives since he found out about the soberide job. I thought he had you for sure— especially after the girl was uploaded. I felt responsible, and I couldn’t let you get shipped out to do automation work on some hothouse like Mercury for the rest of eternity. And anyway, Deatherage had stuck his neck out too far with all the uploading he was doing— I figured we could raid his files and get away with it. So I fixed it up with Spiderdome management, and we fucked him. We got all our people back, and Lucy was in there, and a lot of dirty laundry, too. He didn’t dare complain to Lunar Authority about it, the washrag.”

I found Gusto’s story heartening, so I poured us both another drink and we toasted victory and knocked it down in a few gulps.

“I came back to do something about DeButte,” I said. “If anybody here’s going to get the transporter technology, it better not be BCI.”

Gusto was pensive. “I agree. What do you propose?”

“How about another mainframe raid?”

“On a BCI mainframe?” Gusto was incredulous. “You’re out of your mind; we’re not even connected with the BCI network; they’re all private comlines.”

“What about energy for the BCI facility?”

“They’re self contained—” Gusto started. “Wait a minute. They’re self contained, alright, but Lunar Authority passed a resolution a few years back that compelled the BCI to channel their surplus power to the cities. It was a form of taxation, and a way of telling the Security Council that there was no free ride to anybody on Luna who had extra, not even BCI. BCI didn’t want to comply— they said it would threaten their security— but the UN Security Council made them do it!” Gusto laughed. “They installed a power feed leading from the facility and into New Frisco. Most of the power goes to the Lower Levels, but I’ll bet we can send an impulse back the other way, and overload their system— we could probably shut their power down for a while, and then they’d be on batteries. They’ll be on reduced lights, gravity, and life support. It’s liable to get very cold in there in a short period of time. I know the head of Utilities Division— I think he’ll help us. Christ, Angelo, if we do this and it doesn’t work, we’ll all be driving payloads on Mercury.”

Chapter 25

I contacted my ship and conjured up Tanner again, and explained the situation to him.

“I’ll need you to operate the transporter for me,” I said to him.

“Good: I can at least even your chances of coming out alive. If DeButte’s using the same system— which he probably is— he could identify your location by the transporter trace and then transport in behind you. I can stalemate him by transporting you out faster than he can use a blaster on you.”

“We’ll have to do better than that; if he doesn’t think he can win, he might transport back to his ship. It would be tough to follow him there.”

“He won’t do it if he thinks his ship is vulnerable to attack,” Tanner said. “With no power at the BCI station, I could move in and prevent him from getting out that way. Add to that the fact that the BCI station’s on the Farside; there’s no other place from him to transport, except into the open plain.”

“Then it’s an endurance test.”

“It’ll get cold fast with the power down. I recommend that you wear insulation. If DeButte’s not wearing any— and there’s no reason why he would— then he’ll drop from the cold before you will.”

Gusto supplied me with a blaster, an insulation suit against the expected cold, and infrared goggles so that I could see when the lights failed.

I returned to my ship and waited on the perimeter of the BCI security zone at the Farside. When I received word from Gusto that the BCI station had lost power, I moved the ship into position and transported in to the same coordinates that DeButte had used.

I materialized in an empty office. The room was dim, but the emergency lights were on. A comline glowed white on a desk, and in a moment a message appeared on it. It said, “EMERGENCY: SYSTEM-WIDE POWER FAILURE. SECURITY ALERT.”

Gusto had gained access to the building’s floor plan from a secured data bank at the Lunar Planning Commission, and I had it downloaded into ANNIE’s brain. Tanner therefore knew where I was in the facility at all times, and could keep track of my movements as I searched for DeButte.

I walked to the door and opened it a crack. There was no one in the corridor, though I did hear excited voices from a distance. As I took a step forward, I was suddenly disoriented and was stepping forward in the corridor towards the position I had just been walking away from.

“It’s DeButte,” Tanner said in my ear.

I brought the flashblaster up and fired directly at the door I had just been standing at.

“He’s gone,” said Tanner. “I’ve scanned the room he’s transported to and it’s full of people. I don’t recommend you transport there— too many people might distract your aim, and then he’ll have you. Maybe you should go there on foot.”

I agreed, and Tanner gave me the directions: it was nearby, and I would be there in two minutes.

“When you were able to get away even though your back was to him, he probably realized you had help operating the transporter.” Tanner said. “He won’t make the same mistake twice. I’ll bet odds he’s instructing his computer to do the same thing for him right now. You’d better hurry before he does it.”

I quickened the pace, but it was too late. I was suddenly running forward behind the place that I had just run past, and saw DeButte ahead of me with his back to me, firing his blaster down the corridor. But before I realized what had just happened, and before I could raise my blaster to fix it upon DeButte and fire, he was gone. And then I shifted again, and again appeared behind him, facing his back. And then again, before I could adjust to the new configuration, and well before I could even aim the blaster, he shifted, and then I too found myself in a different position.

It went on like that for quite a while. Eventually I got in the habit of holding the blaster trigger down so that I would re-materialize with the blaster firing, but the transporter cut out the blaster fire until a full second after the transport was completed. That left me just a split second of blaster fire before DeButte could transport, and I could score no hits on him. DeButte was quick to learn the trick, but he too was unsuccessful.

If the blaster fire could not find the targets, it was beginning to cause major damage to the facility, and Tanner informed me that parts of the building had been incinerated.

We dueled this way for what seemed like an hour, and the facility was starting to get cold— just as predicted. DeButte must have noticed it too, because he transported himself back into the room of people and stayed there for a few minutes. Tanner and I discussed how we might approach the task of flushing DeButte out, but his suggestion that I should enter the room with the intent of killing everyone there was unacceptable to me, and so we waited for DeButte to make the next move.

He wasn’t long it making it. Tanner informed me that a group of BCI police boats were closing on his position. He speculated that the area around the BCI facility was covered in some kind of motion sensor, and thus ANNIE was discovered in spite of the ship’s invisibility screen. He could have fought, but he insisted that the end would come quickly for him.

“Sorry I’ll have to leave you now, McAuley.” He said.

“What the hell do you mean? I thought the ship was mine— you said you could only give recommendations. I’m ordering you to stay.”

“It’s true, you’re the boss so long as the ship is well kept. But the designers gave ANNIE a self-preservation instinct. She’s reasoned that if she stays, she’ll be wiped out, and you’ll be killed without her. On the other hand, if she leaves, you’ll be killed, but she can always go back to the Belt for new assignment.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to tell me now, Tanner! But if we’ve failed here, then transport me back to the ship and we’ll both get out of it.”

“Sorry, McAuley. ANNIE says you have about a twenty per cent chance of success even without our help. She says the mission’s too important not to take the chance.”

“Now you tell me she has personality. Tanner! You bastard! Get me out of here!”

“We’re leaving now, old man. Good luck to you— I mean that.”

I looked around desperately. There were a set of double doors along the corridor where I stood. I ran up and pulled them open. It was an auditorium, maybe two hundred seats in an arch facing a marble-looking floor. Inside and in the corridor the battery-powered lights glowed on with dangerous efficiency. I brought the blaster up and began firing at the individual lights in the auditorium until I had destroyed them all and the room was in complete blackness. Next I began to blast the lights in the corridor. When I had silenced every glowing bulb I could from my position in front of the auditorium doors, I donned the infrared goggles, and then took out the transporter and programmed it for a set of predetermined transporter positions in the auditorium and in the corridor. I instructed the transporter to transport me first according to the sequence I had programmed, and then to randomly select a destination from that set. That way, if DeButte caught on to what I was doing, he wouldn’t be able to predict exactly where I would materialize. I programmed one last but separate destination code into the transporter when DeButte came into view from around a corner.

He stopped and squinted into the dark for just a moment before he disappeared. A minute later he was back, infrared goggles strapped to his head. He materialized behind a group of seats and zeroed me a split second after I brought the blaster up to fire. I groped the transporter with my left hand and shifted before my blaster discharged. I came up on the other side of the room with the blaster firing, but DeButte had already shifted away and now stood at the doors peering inward. I shifted again and came out into the corridor facing DeButte at the doors, but he transported immediately away.

As he did, I groped the transporter and again found myself in the auditorium, where now the room glowed through the infrared with blaster burns on the walls and in the seats. DeButte materialized again, and I set the transporter on manual while he fired his blaster at me. His position was nearly dead center on coordinates I was using. I noted the possibilities at once, and acted with adrenalin-charged quickness as I punched up new instructions for the transporter.

I dropped the transporter and stepped away from it. A second latter DeButte shifted again and reappeared at another position in the room. When I did not shift as he must have expected, he stared at me transfixed. In a moment his blaster came up and his mouth opened in the lust of just discovered victory. But before the blaster could discharge, he was gone.

I crouched against a row of seats clutching my blaster in both hands, waiting to discover if the gamble had worked. One second. Two. Three. Four— my eyes were wide, body tense, my breath held still.

Five, six.

Nothing.

Seven seconds.

I scanned the room and saw only the dying glow of the blaster heat.

Eight. Must have worked.

Nine, ten.

I let my breath escape.

He must have been killed instantly. I had programmed my transporter for a delay; he never knew he took it with him on his last shift. I programmed it to transport him outside.

Chapter 26

The room remained eerily silent for some minutes. I left the goggles on in the blackness and watched the walls once hot from blaster fire quickly fade. My own body was now the brightest thing in the room, and the air had taken on a definite chill. When I collected myself, I stood and walked cautiously out of the auditorium and into darkened corridor. As I walked, light shown from around the corners of the corridor and I moved toward it, and removed the goggles.

Without the transporter I was stranded. Fortunately, the facility remained oddly devoid of other human beings during my conflict with DeButte, and this remained true as I walked along the dimly lit corridors, looking for a comline.

Before I found one, I received a signal from Tanner.

“McAuley,” he said.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I’ve been monitoring the Lunar Police comlines. Your buddy Gusto got a search and seizure from the Lunar Judiciary— they’ve brought charges against the BCI division chief on Luna, and they’re putting a raid on the BCI facility right now. There are Police shuttles all over the place out here, and they’ve ordered the BCI warboats to stand down. ANNIE decided it was safe to come in an get you. She knows you got DeButte.”

“That’s fine. Remind me to upload the both of you. Now how do I get out of here?”

“Both transporters are with DeButte’s body— whatever’s left of it— out on the plain. We’ll need you to go and pick them up. I can direct you to an access port in the facility. You ought to find a pressure suit there, and then we’ll pick you up.”

It took about half-an-hour to walk there. I didn’t meet anyone along the way; Tanner told me that everyone in the facility had crowded into life support shelters when the power had first shut down. With no power, the air could not be recirculated and the possibility of frost bite was real. As I walked, the air became progressively more difficult to breathe, and it escaped my lungs in great foggy clouds. The insulated suit I wore kept my body comfortable, but my face and hands were beginning to feel the sting of real cold.

At the access port I donned a pressure suit and manually operated the pressure doors. When I opened the last port to the outside, the remaining air jarred past my body on its rush into the vacuum. I walked a short set of stairs upward and came out onto the Lunar plain, where ANNIE was waiting for me. I hopped up on top of her and didn’t bother getting in; DeButte’s remains were nearby, so I sat gripping the hand holds on ANNIE’s hull and we skimmed the short distance over the plain.

DeButte’s body had basically exploded. He had been wearing an insulated suit, and it managed to contain most of the explosion. The contents of the suit were oddly distorted, though there was no sign of blood— it must have dissipated quickly in the vacuum.

Both transporters lay near his remains. I scooped them both up and instructed one of them to transport me back to Spiderdome. It took several separate jumps, because our destination was on the other side of the planet, but we made it there in few seconds. I materialized in a quiet section of town, shed the pressure suit, and walked back to my cube.

Chapter 27

“You’re doing the right thing, Angelo.” Gusto Sanchez told me as he handed me a drink. I smiled to the sound of ice cubes clanging in the glass, and accepted it without comment.

“There’s no sense giving this kind of technology to the UN,” he continued. “But I don’t see that the Anarteks ought to have this kind of advantage over us— not after what you said about their plan to scram the Security Council.” He shook his head, popped the cork back in the bottle and remained standing with his drink in his hand. “Luna Admin is innocuous enough. And this’ll give us some political clout back in New York. The General Assembly’s already talking about giving Luna a permanent seat on the Security Council. Luna’s first action will be a review of BCI authority and procedures— I heard it from good sources. I wouldn’t be surprised if they restructure the whole BCI organization— make it more accountable to the Regions; that’ll pull their teeth for ’em.”

I sipped my drink and felt an ice cube brush against my lip, but said nothing.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Gusto. “And don’t worry about it. I’ve already spoken to some people I know over at Franchise; you’ll be getting your business license reissued within the week. Once you’re legal, Charming Deatherage will blink— he’ll have no choice: you’ll be untouchable. And we’ll be sure to put it in all the Newslines, so everybody will know it. You don’t have to worry about that, anymore, my friend.”

I looked out the window and starred into the still Lunar plain. Gusto was right: the renewal of my business license made me untouchable. I could move out of the cubes, and into the Spiderdome again. I would rent offices, and make money and pay most of it in taxes like everybody else Topside. I was in from the cold. Untouchable.

I had handed both transporters over to the Lunar Authority after I decided who was the lesser of all the evils in the solar system. The UN certainly couldn’t be trusted— they were too powerful already. To have left the Anarteks all alone with the technology was risky— they were great technologists but questionable statesmen, and it wasn’t hard to picture them using the transporter as a pry to foist their ideologies on the rest of us. Giving it to Luna was a compromise. I figured it would help the balance of power— I had no illusions that Luna was a perfect society, but I thought it would make a good counterpoint to both Earth and the Belt, and maybe an empowered Luna might spice up the Newslines a bit.

Tanner told me earlier that ANNIE had instructions to bring both transporters back to the Belt, if possible. Since I made that impossible when I gave both transporters to the Lunar government, Tanner said that ANNIE would now take commands from me with no back talk in the future. A present from the Anarteks for thwarting the BCI, I guess. Talk about untouchable— now I was legal and mobile.

I smiled to myself as Gusto refilled my drink. The ice cubes had melted a little bit, but they still clanked pleasantly in my glass.

THE END

Ó 2000 by Michael Patrick Aiello

The author lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. He is married, has two children, and works as a developer for web firm DigitalFX.com