The Android's Dream

Chapter 8

Through three terms as a UNE representative, a subsequent two terms as UNE senator, and now his appointment as Secretary of Defense, Bob Pope had developed a reputation as being strong on defense and tough on the Nidu. Pope wouldn't argue the first of these—it was a bedrock position that got him elected five times, appointed once, and earned him truly fantastic honoraria whenever he was between political gigs.

But the fact of the matter was he personally couldn't give a shit about the Nidu one way or another as a people. He'd met more than his share of Nidu in his time in Washington, of course, and they were decent enough as intelligent nonhumans go. They all had a pole up their reptilian ass about personal status, but that just made them like everyone else in Washington.

What he didn't like about them, ironically, was their status in the Common Confederation, and by consequence, the status of Earth, its colonies, and humans in general. As Pope saw it, the Nidu, for all their obsession about castes and status and class, were bottom feeders in the grand CC food chain. If the CC were the United Nations, the Nidu would be Burkina Faso, a tiny, shitty little country on a chronically backwards continent with no hope of ever doing anything but pounding dirt the long merry day.

The problem was that the Nidu were Earths closest allies in the Common Confederation. In politics as in high school, who you are is to a large extent defined by who you sit with at lunch, and there was no doubt about it, the Earth was sitting at the loser table. It was not, Bob Pope thought, the true destiny of the Earth in our universe to be counted among the diplomatic equivalent of the acne-ridden and the furtively masturbating.

A necessary step in escaping this fate was to turn Nidu from a nominally friendly ally to a vaguely hostile one. It wouldn't do to have the Nidu as a full-fledged enemy, of course; despite Pope's opinion of the Nidu's station in galactic diplomacy, Nidu was still significantly more powerful than Earth and her tiny colonies. Burkina Faso or not, she could still squash the Earth like a bug. But an edgy relationship made for better defense allocations. Better defense allocations made for better ships, better soldiers, and better weapons. Better weapons made for more diplomatic respect. More diplomatic respect meant a chance to trade up on allies.

Pope was aware there were other ways to get more diplomatic respect than bigger guns, of course. But while other diplomatic maneuvers sometimes worked and sometimes didn't, ultimately a big damn gun always commanded respect. It was a simple diplomatic equation, and Bob Pope was not one for unnecessarily complicating things.

However, if it was necessary to complicate things, Pope could live with that, especially if in doing so he got close to his own goals. But especially if he were complicating things for someone he didn't like. Like, say, that smug bastard Jim Heffer at the State Department.

Which is why, after Phipps had gotten him up to speed on the sheep issue, Pope made an executive decision. "We need to force State's hand," he said.

Phipps raised an eyebrow. "Why do we need to do that? They're already going to come up empty. Relations are already going to be damaged."

"It's not enough," Pope said. "They won't be damaged enough. Heffer can still convince the Nidu they made the good faith effort. We need to poke a stick through that wheel."

"Okay," Phipps said, doubtfully; he wasn't quite sure he followed the allusion. "What do you suggest?"

"The girl is going to be handled," Pope said.

"Right," Phipps said. No more need be said on that issue; from that point forward it was best that Pope didn't know the specifics.

"Then we let the Nidu know she exists," Pope said.

"We can't do that," Phipps said.

"We can't," Pope agreed. "But I'm sure that there are others who would be delighted to share the information."

Phipps brightened. "I know just the man for the job."

Deception, as practically manifested, succeeds because of two things. First, the object of deception is convincingly deceptive in its design; i.e., it looks/feels/acts like the real thing. Second, and equally important, the subject of deception must be predisposed to believing that the object of deception is indeed the real thing. These two criteria work in an inverse relationship with each other; a sufficiently deceptive object can convince a skeptical subject, while a subject who sincerely wants to believe will be able to overlook even gross flaws in the object onto which he or she confers belief.

Ted Soram, Secretary of Trade, desperately wanted to believe.

And why not. He'd had a bad week. Any week in which one of your trade negotiators kills his opposite number at the trade table, in front of witnesses from both sides, was not one destined for the all-time list of classic weeks.

But that's not what was bothering Soram. Well, it was, but few people knew all the details. For as much as controversy was swirling around Soram and his department, Heffer and State had done a grand job of cleaning things up. It was galling to have had State's flunkies crawling through Moeller's office, but on the other hand it was better than having either the US or UNE Federal Bureau of Investigation driving their forensics microscopes up Trade's ass. As bad as Moeller's murder attempt (attempt? Success!) was, it was, quite literally, a State secret.

No, what was really chafing Soram across the ass was how little support he was getting during this particular moment of crisis. He didn't shove a whatever-the-hell-that-was up Moeller's bum and send him off to kill someone. He wasn't the one that made the Nidu get up and walk out on trade negotiations, causing the markets to take a dump and everyone from Ecuadorian banana farmers to Taiwanese video game manufacturers to howl in protest. And yet it was he getting burned on the political shows and in the editorials, and, in at least one report he'd seen, in effigy at some fisherman protest in France.

He couldn't even respond—President Webster's folks had asked (read: told) him to avoid unscripted appearances after he told that joke about the Pakistani, the Indian, the pig, and the cow on a news show early in the administration. He still thought the reaction to that was overblown; he was just trying to make a point about cultural differences and trade. It wasn't worth a week of riots. In his absence from the talk shows, Trade's press secretary Joe McGinnis had been fielding the grilling on the cameras, that goddamned ham. Soram suspected that at least half of Washington's reporters believed McGinnis was the trade secretary. Soram made a note to fire McGinnis after this all cooled down.

Weighed down as he was in scandal and unpopularity, Soram was looking for some way to redeem himself. He just hadn't the slightest idea what that might be.

This was Sorairis curse. The scion of a family whose ancestors invented the individually packaged moist towelette (it took two of them, which precipitated an astounding amount of sibling bitterness that ricocheted through the family to this very day), Theodore Logan Preston Soram VI was very rich, occasionally charming in an Old Main Line Family sort of way, and entirely useless in every sort of way except as a cash machine for charities and politicians. For the better part of three decades he'd been on Philadelphia's "Stations of the Cross"—the stops hopeful senators and presidents made to pick up contributions and unofficial endorsements from the city elite. Soram had wanted to see what it was like on the other side of the table for a change.

So he'd made a deal with Webster He'd deliver Philadelphia, and Webster would deliver a cabinet position. Soram preferred Trade, as he assumed it would be the best fit since he (well, his broker) had done so well with his international and interplanetary investment portfolios, and even Soram realized that asking for Treasury would be overreaching. But everyone knew it was an extraordinarily tight election, and Webster needed Philly if he was going to get Pennsylvania, a battleground state.

The decision was made: Trade was stocked top to bottom with lifelong bureaucrats. Even after they purged the anti-Nidu elements, there were enough competent people to work around Soram. Soram wasn't aware that last bit was part of the equation, of course, although the longer he was at Trade the more he suspected he didn't get listened to as much as he thought he should.

But again, he wasn't quite sure how to go about fixing that. The problem with being fundamentally useless is that it's difficult to shift gears into being useful. But even Soram was aware it was time to get useful, quick.

And so, when the confidential, encrypted message purporting to come from Ben Javna at State popped into Soram's mail queue and presented the trade secretary with a shot at redemption, he took it exactly as it was intended: as a gift, and at face value. Had Soram the complexity of mind a position such as his generally required, or even just the healthy paranoia of a career politician, he might have thought to trace the route of the mail, in which he (or more accurately his technical staff) would find that the message was cleverly, subtly but undeniably faked—deep in its routing history was information that showed it originated not from the State Department but from an anonymous remailer in Norway. It had been sent there by a second anonymous remailer in Qatar, which had received it from Archie McClellan, who created it after his communicator discussion with Phipps.

The message was brief:

Secretary Soram—

Secretary Heffer wished me to convey to you the following information regarding the Nidu situation.

—here followed a short explanation of who Robin Baker was and why she was important to the Nidu—

After consultation with the President and the Chief of staff it was decided that it would be best for you to approach the Nidu Ambassador with this information, so as to ameliorate recent difficulties. I have been informed to tell you that time is of the essence and it would be advisable to initiate contact with the Nidu Ambassador without delay after receiving this information.

Soram was yelling for his secretary to get on the horn to the Nidu embassy before he'd even gotten to that last part.

An hour later Soram found himself escorted into the inner sanctum of Narf-win-Getag, Nidu Ambassador to the UNE, enjoying Nidu sarf tea (generally regarded to taste something like cow urine to most humans, who nevertheless never refused when the Nidu insisted on providing every human visitor with a steaming cup of the stuff nearly as soon as they entered the embassy) and sharing sailing stories with the ambassador, whose own yacht, as it happened, was docked at the same marina as Soram's. Narf-win-Getag was of course delighted to hear about Miss Baker, and assured Soram that upon delivery of the girl for the coronation ceremony, trade negotiations would resume without further delay. Soram invited Narf-win-Getag for a weekend jaunt on his yacht. Narf-win-Getag offered Soram another cup of sarf tea.

On the way back to Trade, Soram had a thought about the press conference he planned to call the next morning, the one in which he declared that the Nidu were coming back to the trade table thanks to his intense lobbying. So he called Jim Heffer's office. Heffer wasn't back from his Asia trip—he was always somewhere else, wasn't he—so he talked to Ben Javna instead.

"Given your help in these discussions with the Nidu, I was wondering if you want anyone from State at the press conference tomorrow," Soram said.

"Mr. Secretary, I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about," Javna said.

"I'm holding a press conference to announce that the Nidu are coming back to the negotiating table," Soram said. "I just got back from talking with the Nidu ambassador. The note you sent me was key in getting them back. I thought you might want to have someone at the conference. I'm scheduling it for nine-fifteen; we'll get on all the noon shows from that. Come on, Ben! It'll be fun."

"Mr. Secretary," Javna said, in an oddly even tone of voice. "I haven't sent you any messages in the last week. I certainly haven't sent any messages to you regarding the Nidu, and if I had, I wouldn't have suggested you share them with the Nidu."

"Oh," Soram said.

"If I may ask, Mr. Secretary, what was in the message?"

"That you'd found the girl they were looking for," Soram said.

"And what did you tell the ambassador?" Javna asked.

"Well, I told him that we'd be happy to provide the girl to them. You've got her, right? Surely she's agreed to help us."

"Well, Mr. Secretary, no and no," Javna said. "As far as I know, we don't have the girl, and so clearly she can't have agreed to help us. You've just guaranteed something we might not be able to deliver to a nation that already has cause for grievance against us."

"Oh," Soram said again. He suddenly felt cold. "Oh, dear."

"Mr. Secretary, if I may make a suggestion," Ben Javna said.

"Yes, of course," Soram said.

"If I were you, I would put off that press conference. I would also send me that note you seem to think I have sent to you. I would also not talk to anyone else about your note, or your visit to the Nidu. Finally, Mr. Secretary, until and unless you hear from me, Secretary Heffer, or President Webster, I'd strongly suggest you not make any long-term plans involving your current office. With all due respect to your position, sir, you've just humped the bunk. If you're lucky, you'll only have to resign."

"What happens if I'm not lucky?" Soram asked.

"If you're not lucky, we'll all be using cigarettes for currency in me prison exercise yard," Javna said. "Of course, mat's assuming that after they conquer Earth, the Nidu let us live."

Javna got off the line with Soram and immediately made the call to Heffer and got Adam Zane, his scheduler, instead. Heffer was just starting his speech lauding the retiring head of the LA office and couldn't be dragged away for anything short of a full-out attack. Javna briefly considered whether Soram's stupidity and incompetence constituted a clear and present danger to the Earth, and then told Zane to have Heffer call him the instant he stopped speechifying.

As he disconnected, Javna's mail queue blinked; Soram's message had arrived. Javna popped it up and grimaced when he read the message. Whoever had put it together knew as much about the girl as he did, and that of course was very bad. Javna pulled up the routing information; he wasn't an expert on mailing protocols but he was reasonably sure the UNE State Department was not routing extremely sensitive mail through an anonymous remailer in Norway. Whoever dropped this into Soram's lap knew that he wasn't the sort of person who would perform due diligence on the provenance of the message before stampeding off to cover himself in glory and save his own ass. It was someone who knew Soram well, or at least well enough.

Javna had his suspicions, of course. Secretary Pope and his sock puppet Dave Phipps were almost certainly behind this; they had the means and motive to pace Creek step for step in his own investigations. Then there was Defense's perennially cozy relationship with Jean Schroeder and the American Institute for Colonization. Creek had dug up the connection between Schroeder and that damned fool Dirk Moeller; it was almost equally certain there was a direct connection between Schroeder and either Pope or Phipps, or both. Officially the AIC was in bad odor across the Webster administration, but unofficially people like Schroeder and groups like the AIC were like barnacles on the ship of state. You couldn't just scrape them off; they had to be blasted off with a fucking water cannon.

Regardless of whom, the question was why. Ideally, Creek would even now be convincing the Baker lady to help out, and State would find some way to have her play her role in the Nidu coronation ceremony so that she walked away from it with no undue trauma. In other words, whoever was playing Soram was only having him deliver a message State would hopefully have delivered a day later at most. If it was sabotage, it didn't make much sense.

Unless, Javna suddenly realized, whoever fed Soram his information knew that the girl couldn't be delivered.

Javna checked his watch. By this time, Harry and the Baker lady would be having their little date at the mall. He reached for his desk communicator to call Creek; as he did so his incoming service light went on and Barbara, his assistant, came over the speaker. "The Nidu ambassador is here to see you, Mr Javna," she said.

Fuck, Javna thought. Just like that, he was out of time.

"Send him in, please," he said, and then grabbed at his keyboard to bang out a note to Creek. Javna had the dread sense that Creek and the mysterious Miss Baker were about to find themselves in serious and possibly fatal danger. In the short run, until Javna could figure out who was stage-managing this interference and for what end, it was better and safer that Creek and the girl go away.

Javna had no doubt Creek could disappear; he just hoped he'd be able to find to him again when he needed him, which he figured would be all too soon.

Javna banged the "send" key just as the office door opened, and cursed inwardly even as he stood to receive Narf-win-Getag. Having Creek and Baker go to ground was just about the least convenient thing he could have them do at this particular moment in time. Its only advantage was that it was better than the both of them being dead.

Good luck, Harry, Javna thought as he plastered a welcoming smile on his face. Stay safe, wherever you are.

"Where the fuck is he?" Rod Acuna jammed himself through the door of the apartment, Takk following close behind, and stood over Archie at his computer. Archie stared agog at Acuna, who looked like he'd just run a gauntlet of large predators. Acuna whacked Archie hard upside the temple with his good hand. "Where the fuck is Creek?" he repeated.

The smack on the temple got Archie back into work mode. "He's on the Metro," Archie said. "I'm tracking him and the girl with the pen. I lose the signal here and there because of the tunnels, but it picks up again when they get near a stop."

"They're going to the State Department," Acuna said.

"I don't think so," Archie said, and punched up a map of the Metro system. "Look, here's the Foggy Bottom/GWU stop," he said, pointing. Then he pointed at the tracking window, which noted longitude and latitude, updated every second. "These coordinates are past that stop and are moving at speed consistent with a Metro train. They're still on the Metro."

"What are they saying to each other?" Acuna asked.

"I'm not picking up anything," Archie said. "She must have the pen in a purse or something." Archie looked around again. "Where's Ed?" he asked.

"Pretty sure he's dead," Acuna said. He pointed at the computer screen. "Don't you lose him, geek. I want to know where that fucker comes out and where he goes next. I'm going to have that son of a bitch dead by sunrise. So don't you lose him. You get me?"

"I get you," Archie said. Acuna grunted and hobbled his way over to the bathroom. Archie watched him go and then turned to Takk. "Is Ed really dead?" he asked. Takk shrugged and turned on a game show. Whatever Ed's professional qualities, it was clear he would not be deeply personally missed by his former colleagues. Archie suspected that if he screwed up finding Creek, he would be even less missed.

Archie turned back to his computer screen, the pen coordinates, and Metro map. Come on, Creek, he thought to himself. Where are you going?

"Where are we going?" Robin asked Creek.

"I have no idea yet," Creek said. "Give me a minute."

"Okay," Robin said. "But I'd really feel more confident if you had a plan."

"So would I," Creek said. "Would you mind if I made a call?" Robin shrugged. "It's your communicator, Harry. Do you want me to stand somewhere else?"

"You don't have to," Creek said. Robin dropped herself into the seat next to Creek. Creek flipped open his communicator and accessed his home network; Brian's voice popped up a second later.

"You're alive," Brian said, without preamble. "You should know most of the Alexandria Police Department is crawling through the mall right now. The police network tells of a shootout and three or four guys dead and another couple wounded. You should also know the Alexandria police have put out an APB for you and your redhead friend. They got your description from a shoe salesman, apparently. You left your signature on something?"

"A rental agreement," Creek said. "For shoes."

"Not the smartest thing you could have done," Brian said.

"We weren't expecting to be attacked by armed men," Creek said.

"You might want to internalize that as a given from now on," Brian said. "Anyway. You and she are wanted on a truly impressive number of charges. Are you okay?"

"We're fine," Creek said. "We're on the Metro right now."

"I'm aware of that," Brian said. "I'm getting your position from the signal. Which by the way I've now spoofed so that if anyone else, say the police, get the bright idea to call you, they won't be able to track your movement."

"Thanks," Creek said.

"It's nothing. Your communicator is on the network. It's like redecorating a spare room."

"Listen," Creek said. "That credit card receipt I had you follow up on. What did you get off of it?"

"It's fraudulent, of course," Brian said. "The money in the account is real enough—it's a debit-style card. But the name on the card is 'Albert Rosenweig,' whose identity is about one document thick. After the card there's nothing."

"So you don't have anything on this guy," Creek said.

"I didn't say that," Brian said. "The man signs his name every time he uses the card—the signature gets sent and stored. I paid a little visit to his card issuer to get more samples of his signature, developed a good handwriting model for our man Albert, and then cross-referenced the handwriting style with the government's database of signatures that go with our National Identity Cards."

"That's good thinking," Creek said.

"Thanks," Brian said. "It's also dreadfully illegal and a true pain in the ass, since there are over 250 million American males at the moment. Fortunately, I'm a computer now. And after combing through DNA, this is a comparative breeze."

"Who is he?" Creek asked.

"I'm ninety-three percent sure it's this guy." Brian sent a picture that popped up on the communicator's small display. "Alberto Roderick Acuna. I say ninety-three percent because the handwriting samples don't have all the information I need—signing on the signature pads for your credit card purchases doesn't capture stuff like the amount of pressure you apply to certain parts of your pen stroke. I had to do some estimating based on general handwriting statistical models. Which didn't previously exist, I should note. I've been keeping busy in your absence."

"Well, good job," Creek said. "That's the guy."

"Congratulations, then, because you've got yourself a real winner," Brian said. "This Acuna character was an Army Ranger—he fought at the Battle of Pajmhi, incidentally—but received an dishonorable discharge. He was suspected in a floater accident that killed his colonel. Court-martialled but acquitted. Apparently the evidence wasn't great. Right after being discharged he spent ninety days in the DC lock-up for assault. He beat the hell out of an aide to then-Congresswoman Burns. In what I'm sure was a total coincidence, Acuna thumped the aide just before a vote on tariffs for Nidu textile imports. Burns was usually pro-trade but went against her voting record on that one. Since he got out he's worked as a private investigator. You'll be interested to know that one of his biggest clients is the American Institute for Colonization and its head, Jean Schroeder. Acuna's also been more or less continually investigated by DC, Maryland, and Virginia police as well as the US and UNE feds. He's a suspect in at least a couple of missing persons cases. Missing people who, in what I'm sure is another total coincidence, had crossed swords with either Schroeder or the AIC."

"I think we were meant to be next on that list," Creek said. "Acuna was waiting for us in the mall."

"Did you kill him?" Brian asked.

"I don't think so, but I don't think he's in very good shape at the moment. Which reminds me—" Creek fished in his pocket and pulled out Agent Dwight's ID card. "Can you look through the FBI database and see if you can find me anything on an agent named Reginald Dwight?"

"UNE FBI or US FBI?" Brian asked.

"US," Creek said.

"Okay. I was looking for information on Acuna earlier so I should be able to patch back in. Give me a second. I'd guess that's a fake name too, though. For one thing, it's the real name of a twentieth-century composer who went by the name Elton John."

"I don't know him," Creek said.

"Sure you do," Brian said. "Remember that kids' tunes collection I had when I was seven? 'Rocket Man.' I love that tune."

"It was longer ago for some of us than others," Creek said.

"Whatever," Brian said. "Okay, I'm wrong. Turns out there was an FBI agent Reginald Dwight. But I doubt it was your guy, since Agent Dwight was killed three years ago. One of those militia whackjobs in Idaho shot him while the FBI was storming his compound. Whoever your guy is, he's not the walking dead."

"He might be now," Creek said.

"Speaking of which, you look like hell," Brian said. "I'm looking at you through the little camera on your communicator. Your cheek is bleeding. You might want to get that wiped off before one of your trainmates decides you're creepy enough to be checked out by the cops."

"Right," Creek said. "Thanks. I'll call you back soon."

"I'll be here," Brian said, and hung up. Creek lightly brushed his cheek and felt blood moisten his fingers. He wiped them on the inside of his jacket and asked Robin if she had any tissues in her purse. Robin looked up, noticed the blood, nodded, and started digging through her purse. "Shit," she said, after a second.

"What"s wrong?" Creek asked.

"You never realize how much crap you have in your purse until you're looking for one specific thing," Robin said, and started taking objects out of her purse to make her search easier: an address book, a makeup compact, a pen, a tampon applicator. Robin looked up at Creek after the last one. "Pretend you didn't see that," she said.

Creek pointed to the pen. "Can I see that pen?" he asked.

"Sure," Robin said, and handed over the pen.

"This is the one from the store, right?" Creek asked. "The one the gecko man left."

Robin nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

Creek turned the pen around in his hands, and then started taking it apart. After a minute he snapped off the clip and turned it over. "Shit," he said.

"What is it?" Robin asked.

"Bug," Creek said. "They've been tracking us since we left the mall." He dropped the clip and stomped on it with his foot, twisting it into the floor of the train. "We need to get away. Far away."

"Fuck!" Archie pounded the table his computer was on.

This attracted Acuna from the next room. "That better not be what I think it is," he said.

"Creek found the pen," Archie said. "It's not my fault."

"I don't care whose fault it was," Acuna said. "You need to find him, now."

Archie glowered at the screen and from the last coordinates of the pen guessed where Creek and the sheep lady would be in the Metro system. The two of them were approaching L'Enfant Plaza; they were on the Blue Line train but L'Enfant Plaza served every line in the city except the Red and Gray lines. If they got off their train there, who knows where they'd end up.

Got off their train.

"I've got it," Archie said. He closed the track window on the pen and opened up a command line.

"Got what?" Acuna asked.

"My dad was an electrical systems engineer for the DC Metro," Archie said. "Five years ago, the entire electrical system got a refit, and my dad hired me freelance to help with the code. Part of the electrical system deals with managing the power to the trains—"

"Skip the technical shit," Acuna said. "Get to the point. Quick."

"The Metro trains are maglev—magnetic levitation," Archie said. "Each train used to get full power for its magnets no matter what, but that got too expensive. The retrofit allowed each train to use only as much power as it needs to run, based on the gross weight of the train. The amount of power allotted to each train adjusts in real time."

"So?" Acuna said.

"So, every time someone gets on a train or off a train, the amount of power sent to the train increases or decreases by an amount that's in a direct relationship to the weight of those people." Archie looked over to Acuna, whose face was a dangerous shade of blank. He decided to make it even simpler. "If we can guess how much the two of them weigh, we might be able to guess if they've gotten off their train and where they might be going."

Acuna's eyebrows shot up; he got it. "You'll need to get into the Metro's system," he said.

Archie had turned back to his computer. "Dad had a back door into the system he let me use while I was freelancing," he said. "I'm guessing after he retired no one bothered to close it."

Fifteen seconds later "Nope, they didn't. We're in," Archie said. "You saw the two of them, right? How much would you guess they weighed?"

"I don't know," Acuna said. "Both of them seemed pretty fit."

"How tall were they?" Archie asked.

"He was about my height," Acuna said. "I'm about five ten. She was a few inches shorter, I'd guess."

"About five six, then, let's say," Archie said. "So let's say he's about 180 and she's 120, so that's 300 pounds, which is about 136 kilos." Archie punched up a calculator on his computer screen and pounded in some numbers, and then pointed at the resulting number. "All right, if the train they got in was empty, that's how much energy would need to be fed to the train to compensate for their additional weight when they got on. So we're looking for something in that neighborhood."

Archie opened up another window. "Okay, here's a list of the Blue Line trains currently in operation. Click this here, and now we have them arranged by when they stopped at the Arlington Mall station. Disregard the trains going out from DC, we have four trains that stopped at the station in the time window we're looking for." Archie selected each of the trains; four new windows opened up. Archie selected the "Power Management" option for each; each window became a spiky chart.

"No," Archie said, closing one chart. "No," he said again a few seconds later, closing the next chart. "Yes!" he said to the third one, and blew up the chart to maximum size. "Look here," Archie said, pointing to the graph. "Power goes down because people are stepping off the train, then you get some noise because people are stepping off and on simultaneously. But here"—Archie pointed to a small uptick—"is a power boost that's right near what we're looking for, for about 136 kilos. That's assuming they stepped on the train together, as opposed to one fatso."

"That's swell," Acuna said, and Archie realized that of the many things Acuna might be, "patient" was never going to be one of them. "Now tell me if they're still on the goddamn train."

Archie pulled up a real-time chart of the train's power management, which showed the train's last five minutes of power usage. "Looks like the train just left L'Enfant," Archie said. "Lots of people getting on and off the train, but none looks like the 136-kilo power spike or drop. I'm guessing they're still on the train."

"You're guessing," Acuna said.

"Mr. Acuna," Archie said. "I'm doing the best I can. I can't help that he busted the tracking pen. But short of the tracking pen or getting a feed from the Metro cameras, this is as good as it gets."

Acuna stared at Archie just long enough for Archie to wonder if he was going to smack him again. Then, by God, Acuna actually smiled. "Fair enough," he said. "Keep your eye on the graph, Archie. don't let them get away. Let me know as soon as you think they've gotten off the train." He clapped his hand on Archie's shoulder as he turned to go. Archie realized Acuna had actually called him by his given name.

"Ben—may I call you Ben?" Narf-win-Getag asked, settling down in his chair.

"By all means, Mr. Ambassador," Ben Javna said. Being of inferior rank to the ambassador, Javna had remained standing and had moved out in front of his desk. Staying behind the desk would have been considered a breach of etiquette.

"Thank you," Narf-win-Getag said. "I know my people have a reputation for being socially standoffish, but in private we can be just as relaxed as any sentient being. I even encourage my secretary to call me 'Narf when we are doing private business."

"And does she, Mr. Ambassador?" Javna asked.

"Oh, of course she doesn't," Narf-win-Getag said. "She wouldn't dare. But it's nice of me to offer, don't you think?"

"And how may I be of service to you this evening, Mr. Ambassador," Javna said.

"Secretary Soram came and visited me just now to deliver the good news that you've found our lost sheep," Narf-win-Getag said.

"Did he, now," Javna said, as neutrally as possible.

"Yes," Narf-win-Getag said. "Although I'm led to understand that our sheep in question isn't a sheep at all but a young human with our sheep DNA encoded in hers. Curious. Ben, may I trouble you for something to drink?"

"Of course, Mr. Ambassador," Javna said.

"Eighteen-year-old Glenlivet, if you have any," Narf-win-Getag said. "I love its bouquet."

"I believe Secretary Heffer may have some in his bar," Javna said, and opened his door to have Barbara get a glass.

"Excellent. Normally, you understand, I would go to Secretary Heffer to chat about this, but seeing as he is out of town at the moment, and given the time constraint we're under, it makes sense to talk to you."

"I appreciate that, Mr. Ambassador," Javna said.

"Good, good," Narf-win-Getag said. "So, anyway, Ben. I'll be happy to take her off your hands now."

"You mean the girl, Mr. Ambassador?" Javna asked. Barbara slipped her hand through the door to deliver the drink; Javna took it.

"Yes, that's right," Narf-win-Getag said.

"I'm afraid we have a problem there, sir," Javna said, and handed Narf-win-Getag his drink. "The young woman in question has not come to the State Department yet."

"Well, certainly you know where she is," Narf-win-Getag said. He grimaced at his glass. "I'd like this on the rocks," he said, handing it back to Javna.

"Of course, Mr. Ambassador," Javna said, and took the glass to his own bar. "I'm sorry to say that in fact we don't know where she is at the moment."

Narf-win-Getag snorted impatiently. "Secretary Soram seemed convinced she was in your possession," he said.

"Secretary Soram was enthusiastic but not in possession of all the facts," Javna said. He dropped ice into the glass with his tongs. "We know the identity of the woman in question and a member of the State Department has gone to speak to her about giving her assistance. That's where it stands at the moment."

"It seems inconceivable that a secretary in your planetary administration would not be in full possession of the facts," Narf-win-Getag said.

Believe it, Javna thought. "There may have been a misunderstanding of terms," he said instead, and walked over to hand the glass back to Narf-win-Getag.

"Humph," the ambassador said, and took his drink. "Very well. Please speak to your man and tell him we are ready for him to bring the woman in to us."

"He's out of contact," Javna said.

"I beg your pardon?" Narf-win-Getag said." 'Out of contact'? Is that even possible on this planet of yours? Even mountain tribesmen of Papua New Guinea have full-spectrum communicator links. If there's one thing that distinguishes the human species, it is a pathological need to stay connected. The fact your people will interrupt sex to answer your communicators is a scandal across the entire Common Confederation. So you'll understand if I am skeptical when you say your man is out of contact."

"I understand entirely, Mr. Ambassador," Javna said. "Nevertheless, there it is."

"Doesn't he have a communicator?" Narf-win-Getag said.

"He does," Javna said. "He's just not answering it."

"What about the woman?" Narf-win-Getag said. "Surely this Miss Baker has a communicator."

"She does," Javna said, noting that the Nidu ambassador knew Baker's name. "However, hers appears not to be a portable, and she is with our man at the moment."

"Well, isn't that interesting," Narf-win-Getag said. "The only two people on the entire North American continent who cannot be reached in an instant." He set his glass of scotch down, un-drunk. "Ben, I'll give you the courtesy of not suggesting that you are, in fact, willfully holding out this woman for whatever purpose you might have. But I will let you know that when she does show up, it is my sincere hope that she be surrendered immediately to us. Time is very short now—less than a day before our agreed-upon deadline is reached."

"No one is more aware of that than I, Mr. Ambassador," Javna said.

"I'm pleased to hear that, Ben," Narf-win-Getag said. He nodded and turned to go.

"But I should warn you that even when she comes in, she may not agree to be turned over to you," Javna said.

Narf-win-Getag stopped mid-stride. "Come again?" he said.

"She may not agree to take part," Javna said. "As an American and UNE citizen, she has rights. We can't compel her. We can strongly suggest to her the importance of taking part in the coronation ceremony. But when push comes to shove, we can't make her do it."

Narf-win-Getag stared at Javna for a time, and then Javna heard the low, gutteral rumbling that he knew was the Nidu analogue to a good, hearty laugh. "You know, Ben," Narf-win-Getag said, after his rumbling had subsided, "humans never fail to amuse and amaze me. You're all so busy tending to your own personal tree that you don't look around to see that the forest is on fire. It's very honorable that you would maintain that this young woman has a choice in this matter. But if you'll allow me to be frank with you, in about a week of your time, our coronation ceremony has to take place. If it does not take place at the appointed time, then any Nidu clan can formally assert its right to the throne, and I can assure you that many are ready. Nidu will be plunged into civil war, and it's entirely likely—indeed, I would suspect highly probable—the Earth and her colonies will not be able to sit on the sidelines and watch the carnage unaffected. If I were Secretary Heffer—or President Webster—or you, rather than worrying about Miss Baker's rights, I'd be worrying about my responsibilities to my planet and its well-being."

"That sounds ominous, Mr. Ambassador," Javna said.

Narf-win-Getag chuckled, human-style. "Nonsense, Ben. I am merely suggesting what I would do. You may of course see things differently. Hopefully, our young female friend will show up soon and all this will be proven to be idle and pointless speculation. In the meantime, however, I would hope you would do us—do me—the courtesy of forwarding all the information you have on Miss Baker. Perhaps my people will find something there that will allow us all a satisfactory resolution to our present troubles."

"Of course, Mr. Ambassador," Javna said. "I'll have that sent over immediately."

"Excellent, Ben. Thank you for your time." Narf-win-Getag nodded toward his glass. "And thank you for the drink." He left.

Javna went over to the glass, picked it up, sniffed it. No lizardy smell. He slugged it back and as he did so felt like the house butler sneaking booze from his master's liquor cabinet. He set the glass down with prejudice.

This whole thing stinks, he thought. Javna knew he was being jerked around. He just didn't know by who and for what reasons. The only power he had—the only power it seemed like the entire government had—was a negative power The power to hide the object of desire. The power to hide Robin Baker.

"They're off the train!" Archie yelled back to Acuna, who was on the communicator with Jean Schroeder.

"Where?" Acuna yelled back.

"Benning Road," Archie said. "Dogstown. Do you have any idea why they'd go there?"

Acuna didn't. Jean Schroeder did.

Fixer was in the back of the shop doing inventory when he heard Chuckie bark. He glanced up at his clock; just past closing time. He knew he should have locked the door before he came back. No help for it now. He set down his tablet and came out onto the shop floor to see Harry Creek and some lady standing there. Both of them looked like total hell.

"Hello, Fixer," Creek said. "I have need of your services."

Fixer grinned in spite of himself. "Of course you do," he said, and laughed. "Well, well," he said. "I was wondering what this would be like. Now I know."

"Now you know what?" Creek asked.

"What it's like when the other shoe drops, Mr. Creek," Fixer said. "Because if I'm not mistaken, it's just come down with a big goddamn thunk."