Drakon (22 page)

"They are
all
in perfect health," Chalmers said.

"Doctor, you seem disappointed," Gwen said. "I'd have thought you'd be pleased—the Bahamas are so particular about tropical diseases."

If the dirty savages were sick, I could deport them,
Chalmers thought/subvocalized.
How did
she get so
many
permits?
A human would have seen only a glare.

"I'm sure your government realized the potential of IngolfTech," she said. Quite true; genuine productive enterprise was rare in this banking-smuggling-tourism enclave nation. "And I have high standards for my . . . employees. You've seen our clinic, and we spare no expense."

Also quite true. Even in the Old Domination, her human ancestors had been strict about conditions for their plantation hands; she could remember her mother's pride in that. There was no satisfaction in owning inferior stock.

Chalmers gave a curt nod and strode away, back toward the vehicle park.

Tom was sensitive enough to guess something of her moods by now. She heard him clear his throat.

"Is it wise to bait him like that?" he said. "I know he's only a minor bureaucrat, but this is a small country."

"Indulge me," she said dryly. Tom bowed his head. "No, that's not a criticism; keep telling me when you think I'm making a mistake. We're not infallible."

She cocked her head, focusing on his gestalt. "Yes, I
do
take the whole matter seriously, Tom," she said to his unspoken question. "But remember, I'm designed to actively enjoy conflict and its risks. Speaking of which," she went on, "have the weapons arrived?"

Tom nodded, unhappily. "Young Lowe brought them in on the last flight," he said. "I've had them unpacked and taken to the armory. Vulk says the Haitians he picked are learning quickly—enthusiastic, according to him."

Disgusting thug,
he added unconsciously. Tom did not like the man who called himself Vulk Dragovic, but the Serbian was useful.

Gwen made no comment on Tom's subvocalization; it was fair enough, by the American's standards.

"Is it really necessary?"

"It never pays to neglect basics," she said. "We've accumulated substantial wealth and power here, by local standards—industrial espionage can be crude as well as subtle. Besides, it's . . . interesting to have human guards. Reminds me of my childhood."

The Old Domination had used janissaries, slave-soldiers, back before the Last War. There was no need for them in the Final Society, but there was a fascination to recapitulating the technique, even if only on this miniature scale. It was profoundly satisfying to have human slaves not only willing to obey but to fight and die for her.

"Speaking of basics," she went on, "I want another meeting of the inner circle tonight to go over protocols for the American financial group. It would be . . ."

Tom and Alice paled a little at her expression.

". . .
extremely inconvenient
if they were to stumble on anything they shouldn't. Killing them would put a
severe
crimp in the Project."

***

Jennifer Feinberg looked out the window of the floatplane. The west coast of the Abacos glittered in the afternoon sun, pinkish-white beaches and palms, tidal marsh, a scrubby olive-green landscape with patches of pine trees standing up from the low bush. Roads were black strings through the countryside, and an occasional tin rooftop showed through. Soon, she told herself. She felt jet-lagged, sandy-eyed and weary after the brief stopover in Nassau.

At least I get a trip to the tropics,
she thought. New York had been crazier than usual, this November of 1998. And an excuse to stop worrying whether she'd pass the CFA 2&3 or get shelved for the rest of her life. Henry had been properly envious.

Why am I sitting back here with the secretaries?
she wondered again.
I should be up there
with the rest of the team.

There were three of them, Vice-President Coleman, Managing Director Klein, and her, one Series 7 Investment Analyst.
Was he just making tasteless jokes, or was that a pass?
she thought, glowering at the back of the VP's balding head. There were times when she wished she'd stayed in premed instead of switching to economics, but . . . oh, the hell with it: there were assholes in any line of work. Besides, after her father died the money was too short. You had to wait too long in medicine.

She looked out the window again. The clouds on the western horizon were turning crimson and gold, casting a path of light down the waves. Jennifer could see a cluster of people waiting by the long white pier jutting out into the water, and the pools and roofs of a settlement not far away. Several of the buildings looked new.

"Boss, boss, de plane, de plane!" she murmured to herself.

"What's that?" the secretary said, bewildered.

"Never mind," Jennifer replied That made her feel ancient for a second.
Thirty-four's not old.
The secretary was from Minnesota or somewhere, with those blue eyes that made you think of deep wells.

Empty wells. No
room for brains with all those hair roots.
"Classical reference."

"Ladies an' gentlemen," the pilot's voice said, in his lilting Island accent. "Fasten seat belts an'

prepare for
lan
din'."

The hull touched the surface with a skip . . . skip . . . skip motion that was unlike anything Jennifer had ever felt before.

The gullwing hatch of the pilot's compartment opened and the plane was hauled alongside the pier.

Fresh warm air gusted in; she held grimly onto her attache case as a swarm of very black men in white shirts and shorts descended on the Americans' luggage. Others handed them out onto the dock, where the IngolfTech greeters waited.

That's the CEO?
Jennifer asked herself incredulously. Far too young and blond.

"I'm Alice Wayne, Ms. Ingolfsson's chief executive assistant," the woman said, with an Australian accent. "Please, this way. Everything's waiting for you, and I'm sure you'd like to freshen up before dinner."

***

Plenty of boat operators here in Martinique,
Ken thought.

The problem was getting one who was . . . flexible . . . enough to do what he wanted but smart enough not to try and rob him and drop the body over the side out beyond the territorial limit.

"You wan' to talk wit me,
blanc?
"

Ken rose and extended his hand over the table. The black man in the sailor's cap looked at it a moment before extending his own. His eyes widened a little when Lafarge matched the crushing grip pressure for pressure. The local was taller than the Samothracian's six-two, and heavier; a bit of a gut bulging the stained T-shirt, but most of it in heavy ropy muscle over his shoulders and arms, hands like callused hams. Many of the other patrons in the little bar had their hair shaved in symbolic patterns, but this man kept his in a plain close crop, with a wisp of beard along acne-scarred, eggplant-colored cheeks.

"You got balls, comin' here."

The voice was soft, accented—the Creole French of the islands that turned "r" into "w," spicing English learned here in the Caribbean.

They sat. There was a slight relaxation among the onlookers, like a pack of junkyard dogs returning to their fleas but keeping the corners of their eyes on a possible meal. Games of dominos and low-voiced conversation resumed; men moved to the bar and back, drank beer and straight rum, listened to the thudding beat of reggae-rap from the machine in the corner. Occasionally someone would walk into the glaring white heat of the afternoon outside, broken only by a sad-looking palm whose fronds rustled dryly, a sound like bones. Despite the warmth many of them were wearing jackets of one sort or another. Sonic and microray scan showed a
lot
of metal: guns, mostly, and ratchet knives. The AI drew a schematic over the room for an instant, outlining the weapons. There were a fair number of cellular phones, too. The air smelled of sweat and sickly-sweet rum, faintly of ganja and mildew.

"I've got business here," Ken said expressionlessly. "I need a boat."

The black leaned back and stuck a toothpick in one corner of his mouth. "You want to fish, maybe?

Marlin? I know someone who got a good deep-sea boat."

"I'm not a tourist."

"Funny,
blanc,
you look like one."

Lafarge was wearing a loose colorful shirt, duck trousers and sandals. The shirt was useful in a number of ways, not least for what it let him wear next to his skin.

"I need," he said, "a charter. Wooden boat, doesn't have to be fast. A couple of runs past Andros, in the Bahamas; then a night drop-off inshore, the boat waits for a couple of hours, and back to Miami. No papers, no problems with the police."

Smoky brown eyes regarded him expressionlessly. "You wouldn't be a police-mon, tryin' to
entrap
a businessman, maybe?"

Lafarge grinned mirthlessly; the other man's chair creaked as instinctive reaction tensed his body.

"Fort-de-France police?" he asked. "Would they send me?"

The black relaxed suddenly, with a mirthless chuckle. "
Vwaimen
"
that not too likely." Nordic types were wildly conspicuous in this section of town—in most of the island apart from the tourist areas, for that matter. "Maybe you want to step on toes, be cuttin' on other mon's turf, get me killed that way."

Lafarge shook his head. "No boat in to shore, no cargo in or out," he said. "One time, all cash, you walk away."

"Plenty seen me with you now."

Teeth showed between the Samothracian's lips. "I need a man with balls," he said. "Ten thousand on deposit with a bagman; you get it when I get back. I pay your costs upfront."

antoine lavasseur,
the AI supplied. A list of criminal convictions followed: mostly in Martinique.

A wonder that he was still walking the streets.

false identity,
the machine supplied hopefully.

"Andres," Lavasseur said thoughtfully. "Pretty long way, three days,
peut-être.
Staniard town?

Kemp's Bay?'

Ken shook his head. "Off the west coast, about halfway between Pine Cay and Williams Island."

The sailor chewed on his toothpick. Suddenly he called out, without moving his basilisk stare from the Samothracian's face:

"Ti' punch!"

The bartender's assistant hurried over; only the best for
this
customer. A bottle of Pere Labat rum went down on the table, chunks of cut lime on a plate, a pitcher of water, a bowl of brown sugar and two reasonably clean glasses. The local occupied himself with the ritual for a moment and then rolled the thick scratched glass of the tumbler between pink palms.

"Those bank waters, bad sailin',
beaucou'
shoal, reef, spiderhead, coral," he said. "Can' get nobody close, there."

"A mile or two will do fine," Ken said. "I'll be going in alone, swimming."

The toothpick stopped in its migrations. "Either you got balls like brass nuts,
blanc,
our you got
malheuw d'tete,
" he said.

"My head's not sad enough to take money on board," Ken said.

This was almost enjoyable, like a historical epic. Better than a neural-link simulacrum, because it not only felt real, it
was.
The hard wooden chair under him, the scarred surface of the table with its stains and chipped paint, the smell of stale tobacco and beer from the man across the table—none of them would dissolve if he told the compweb to end the scenario.

Of course if he got killed, that would be permanent too. Far worse:
defeat
would be real here as well,

Lavasseur took off his cap and threw it on the table. "Bon. We talk about the money."

***

Gwen swiveled slightly in her chair, looking at the images in the monitors, picked up from the guest rooms. The three Primary Belway Securities executives, of course. Interesting. Two males in late middle age, and a female, younger—the analyst. It was going to be a challenge, making this all look like legitimate business. Alice was changing for dinner in her room; she looked up and winked at the spyeye.

Gwen smiled. The challenge made her feel good, loose and hungry and alert. That was the problem; the Race had been designed for conquest, and then they'd won so thoroughly that they had to devise artificial stimulants to keep from terminal boredom. This was far more exciting than hunting grizzly bears with spears, combat on levels far beyond the physical. One
drakensis
against six billion humans, with a whole planet for prize . . .

She turned away from the monitors and looked out the tall windows, out over the planet.

"I'm
hungry,
" she whispered.

A gluttonous feeling, like an infinite banquet; the promise at last of satisfaction to match the power of her appetites. Appetites for which food and rut were simply symbols.

Closing her eyes, she ran through the dossiers on the three Primary Belway Securities executives.

Money, fear, personal glamour—there would be a key to each of them. Probably money; it was the counter in the game they played. She stroked the information, looking for weaknesses and strengths; neurosis, obsession, trauma. At the same time she set herself for the proper pheromonal clues; nothing too heavy, of course. Not at first. A tang of apprehension; fear would produce respect. A muted undercurrent of sexual attraction. And dominance; humans would perceive that as personal magnetism. There.

She concentrated for a minute or two, then took a deep open-mouthed breath to test the scent.

Perfect.

***

Jennifer looked at the head of IngolfTech out of the corner of her eyes. It was indecent. Women that good-looking were supposed to be in the profession of being good-looking; it must take hours a day just to keep that figure, especially if she was the early-thirties the records indicated. The surprisingly incomplete records. You could be
born
rich and look like that, or marry the money, but unless you were an actress or model you couldn't
earn
yourself rich and look like that. There wasn't the