Drakon (30 page)

He wheeled away, working his shoulders, then stopped and looked up at the spire of the Washington Monument.
From the future, from another dimension, and from another fucking
planet,
too,
he thought.
Jesus wept.
Wasn't someone like Arnold S. supposed to handle this sort of thing? Or a big-titted actress with a pair of glasses on to make her look like a scientist? Some morphing from Industrial Light and Magic to wow the kids, popcorn and Diet Coke.
Shit.
He remembered Stephen Fischer's head in the freezer of his refrigerator. That was all too real. So were the lab reports, so was the arm of that God-knew-what.

"Sorry," he said as he rejoined Lafarge.

"I realize this must all be a considerable shock."

"Do you? Do you realize how fucking consoling that is and how much better it makes me feel?"

Henry jammed his hands down into his pockets and walked in silence. "By the way, how do I know you're a good guy yourself? You realize you've got absolutely no proof of anything you've said."

Lafarge shrugged. "If you can match what I'll show you anywhere in 1999," he said, "I'm the greatest liar since Judas Iscariot. As to who's the good guy . . . I'm not the one who left a trail of bodies through your city."

"There is that. There is that. What are we up against?"

"A
drakensis.
The Draka were . . . slavers, degenerates, mass murderers, but they were human.

They didn't
want
to be, that was the problem—and they were very, very good at molecular genetics even then, it's how they won the Final War. A hundred years ahead of where you are now, by our 1970s. They created their own version of the Master Race, and it replaced them. Replaced true humanity entirely, here in the Solar System."

"Nothing left but the supermen?"

"
Homo drakensis
and
homo servus.
"

Henry winced. Servus. Slave. "That mean what I think it means?" Lafarge nodded grimly. "Tell me about the . . . whatever it is we got."

"It was an accident, if that's any consolation to you. We—the snakes and Samothrace—are developing a . . . faster-than-light drive. But if you do it wrong—and they haven't got the control down yet—you end up with temporal instead of spatial displacement. I can't explain it to you, I'm a covert-action operative, not a physicist. And you're at least three paradigm shifts, three equivalents of Newton or Einstein, away. Could you explain a computer to a tribesman from New Guinea?"

"I can't even understand the goddamned manuals for PCs
myself.
Okay, what about our bad lady?

What can she do?"

"It. Never forget that. It's not human. Do?" Lafarge shrugged. "For a start: it's fast, fast and very strong, with hyperacute senses. Very resistant to damage, reinforced bones, redundant organs, high radiation tolerance, tissue regeneration if it is hurt. Strong enough to rip a human limb from limb, hearing and sight and sense of smell like an animal. Utterly ruthless, fearless, and aggressive, with an inbuilt drive to fight and to dominate everything in its environment. A tiger with the mind of a man. Oh, and it's immortal—doesn't age."

Henry nodded to himself. Something in him wanted to add
what about the blue tights and the
cape?
but the scene in the warehouse kept getting in the way. The memory of the heavy stink of blood, and the bodies tossed about like dolls, mangled the way a dog does a rat.

"That's for a start?" he said. "Make me even happier, Lafarge."

"Genius-level intelligence; in your terms, IQ of about 200, 220. Perfect memory. Idiot-savant mental abilities."

"Counting all the spilled matchsticks?" Henry remembered the movie well, although he doubted the killer was anything like Dustin Hoffman.

"Yes. They seem to be a little short on real creativity, but they're extremely smart. And then there's the control mechanisms. For controlling others, that is."

"Wait . . . you mean they can read minds? Hypnotize people?"

"Not quite. It can read body language and sub-vocalizations well enough to make it seem like a mind-reader, though. The control comes from pheromones . . . . You know what they are?"

"What makes the dogs howl when the bitch is in heat?"

Lafarge nodded. "They're more versatile than that. In us, in humans, they're becoming vestigial.

The effects are subliminal. A
drakensis
has pheromones that are overpoweringly strong. Their serf race, the
servus,
are completely vulnerable. But on unprotected, unprepared normal humans, the effects can be devastating too. You wouldn't even notice them consciously; you'd just be bowled over by what feels like overwhelming charisma. Pretty soon you'd
want
to do anything the
drakensis
told you to. You'd stay awake nights thinking up ways to please."

"Shit." Henry stopped and sank down on a bench.
Would all this go away if I just hopped the
plane back to New fork and forgot about it?
Unfortunately, he knew the answer was no. He'd never been good at hiding his head in the sand.

He looked over at Lafarge on the opposite end of the bench. "Why do I get this really shitty feeling about all this? You going to offer us advisors and military aid? Like us and Moscow back in the old days?

And sure, it's true we were telling the truth when we said some Third World schmuck was better off taking our guns. But by the time the elephants are finished their proxy war across his back garden, it's squashed pretty fucking flat."

"It's worse than that. We can't help you directly. The Domination holds the Solar System too firmly.

Moleholes—it's the physics, I can't explain it. If the
drakensis
succeeds in making a beacon, they can open a gateway and flood through. You'll have about as much chance as . . . in your terms, as much chance as Australian Aborigines with stone-tipped spears would against helicopter gunships and tanks. The Domination . . . they'll reduce you to domestic animals, playthings, and they'll gene-engineer you into
liking
it. That's one alternative."

"I hope there are others."

"If the
drakensis
can't establish a lock-on beacon here, it'll try to take over the planet by itself."

"Hell, there's only one of her. It, whatever."

"It's immortal, remember, unless it's killed. And it's a female."

"With no males, and a breeding population of one."

Lafarge shook his head. "They don't reproduce the way we do. They implant their fertilized ova in slave wombs—humans will do as well as
servus.
"

Henry winced.
Jesus.
"Without a man—"

"Cloning. This is a cancer, an infestation, like maggots in your flesh. You have to get it all, no matter how deep you must cut." Lafarge grinned. "That's the bad news."

"You're the good news, right?" Carmaggio said.

"A big part of it. Myself, my equipment. And
it
has weaknesses. They tend to arrogance and over-confidence, and they're parasites, dependent on their slaves. Not really creative at all. And it's under-equipped, with nothing but its equivalent of street clothing."

"Good we've got you to ride to the rescue."

Lafarge let the sarcasm roll off him; Carmaggio suspected he wasn't long on irony, anyway.
Is it
him, or are they all that po-faced where he comes from?

"No, all I can do is
help
you. I'm incongruent with this reference frame . . . . Think of it this way: I stand out. Every time I do something that makes things different from the way they'd be if I weren't here, there's a . . . blip. An event wave. The enemy get a chance of detecting how-where-when we are."

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Carmaggio said.

Well, Chief Wampanoag, the Pilgrim Father said,
he thought,
evil spirits hide in the iron tube.

When you pull the trigger, they push the lead ball out . . . . Great Thanksgiving turkey, have another
cup of mulled cider and now about that little land deal . . . .
He couldn't expect it to make any sense. In a way, that was reassuring. If it
had
made sense in his terms, he'd have doubted it. Four centuries—more, in terms of actual progress. Try explaining electricity to Sir Walter Raleigh.

"What can we do, then?"

"Act on my information. That'll still leave . . . signs . . . but less so. Muffled."

He held up a hand. "I can't direct you. Even
that
would be dangerous."

***

"El-tee," Henry Carmaggio replied.

Actually Saunders was a National Guard major these days, but they went back a ways. Back to the delta. Carmaggio had been a plain garden-variety grunt; Saunders started out as a lieutenant and walked out a captain. To be precise, he'd been invalided out back to the World as a captain, with some exotic Vietnamese rot carried on a punji stake eating his feet. Still a trim little guy, dark—part Indian, from Oklahoma—looking more wrinkled and gray than they all had in '70, but hell, that was a long time ago. A small, smart man with a big nose, blue cracker eyes and a lot of oil money who still wore the uniform sometimes. Probably with as much conviction as he did the inconspicuously well-tailored businessman's suit he had on now.

"What can I do for you?"

Carmaggio looked around the office.
Nice.
At Saunders's level, weekend warriors had to have major pull; which meant their civilian jobs tended to be roughly equivalent to their military rank—and a lot better-paying than regular officers of the same formal status. A secretary came in with coffee in elegant bone-china cups. None of the lingering aroma of old socks and sweat you had down at NYPD

headquarters, that was for sure. Pale carpet, pale pastel colors on the walls.

"El-tee—Christ, Mr. Saunders—"

"Bill, Henry."

"Okay, Bill. The first thing you can do for me is promise not to send for the guys with white coats and butterfly nets."

Saunders leaned back in his swivel chair behind the broad desk.

"Okay," he said. Time and money hadn't smoothed much of the East Texas rasp out of his voice.

"I'm pretty damn sure you're not here to sell me tickets to the policeman's ball or tell me how you found the Lord. Shoot."

Carmaggio ran a hand through his hair.
Christ on a stick, this is embarrassing.

"Right. About three and a half years ago, there was a big killing in a disused warehouse, twenty dead."

Saunders frowned. "Yep, remember that one."

"Here's what really happened—"

Twenty minutes later, he sank back in his chair, exhausted enough to let the thick leather upholstery cradle him in its Old Spice-scented comfort. Saunders looked at him silently; Carmaggio waited, sweat rolling down into the collar of his shirt and making his shoulder holster dig into his skin.

"Henry, that story leaves me one of three alternatives," Saunders said, clipping the end off a cigar.

"Smoke?"

"Gave it up."

"Yep. Either you've started using the junk you confiscate, or you're seriously bullshitting me . . . or you're telling the truth. If you're tellin' the truth, you'd better have something to show me. I owe you one, but nobody's going to convince me the Gumbys of the Gods have landed without hard evidence."

The detective met the cold blue eyes. William Saunders might have ears like an old-fashioned milk jug and political ambitions, but he'd also brought his platoon through a year of bad bush with fewer losses and more done than anyone else in the district. He was listening for old times' sake, nothing more.

"Yeah . . . Bill. I realize hearing all this isn't like going through it yourself." A bleak nod answered him. "As it happens," he went on, taking a black rectangle out of his pocket, "I do have something fairly convincing."

"I don't know how you do it," Jennifer said.

The last traces of red and gold were dying out of the clouds on the western horizon, and a cool wind blew the gauze curtains through the open glass doors. Gwen sat with her head framed against the lingering remnants of sunset; some freak of the perspective seemed to make her eyes glint for a second as the lights came up automatically.

"Do what, Jenny?" Gwen said.

"Stay so
fresh,
" she said. "And never get frazzled or get anything
wrong.
"

In this business, nobody was lazy and most were workaholic. Gwendolyn Ingolfsson was . . .

demonic, there was no other word for it.

"Ah, well, I just don't need much sleep," she said. "Never did, not more than three or four hours a night."

Oh, great,
Jennifer thought.
What a week.
Even by the Street's insane standards, they'd been working like slaves. The other two execs had turned in earlier; she would herself, if she hadn't wimped out and had a nap earlier in the day. But it was about wrapped.

She looked down at some of the documents. There was that seawater thing; another bacteria that fixed nitrogen on the roots of wheat and corn—GeneTech was going
to freak
when someone beat them to that—half a dozen things in thin-film screens, holographic displays, superconductors . . . no doubt about it, IngolfTech really
did
have the assets. Not just blue-sky laboratory stuff, but ready to roll, and three years of profitability from things already out. The biotech would need a lot of regulatory work, but even those were bankable if you knew they were real. The electronics could go tomorrow—some of it already had, commitments from companies that raised eyebrows all around the table.

"Well, you'll be a natural at an IPO circus," she said to the entrepreneur. "It'll be months before anyone sleeps."

"I expect Tom will be doing a good deal of that," Gwen said. "But yes, it'll be strenuous. Worth it, though—we're all very enthusiastic about the job you've been doing."

The initial float ought to bring in around two hundred million for a twenty-five percent offering at fifty a share, she knew. Say three and a half million shares, two and a half primary and a million and a half secondary founders'. Thirty days, and she could do her report. It was straightforward. Maybe
too
straightforward. As if they were being handed things on a platter; no tangled wires, no sloppy documentation, nothing that would scare anyone.