Nightmare (36 page)

  "Name?" he asked.

  Willa gave it and handed over her dermospray. The clerk tapped several keys on his computer and the holographic screen flickered.

  "You’ve been practicing quite a lot," he said. "No wonder you need a refill. Hold on a sec."

  He popped the dermospray into a slot and tapped the computer again. A slight hissing sound whispered across the counter and a light on the dermospray winked green. The clerk pulled it free and handed it back to Willa.

  "A dozen doses," he said. "Thumb here and you’re all set."

  Willa pressed her thumb to the plate. Kendi stared at it and something clicked inside his head. His heart jumped.

  "All life!" he gasped. "All life—that’s what it is!"

  Willa looked at him. "What’s what it is?"

  "Do you have the records of all the doses that everyone uses?" Kendi asked the clerk, voice urgent.

  "Well, yeah," the clerk replied, startled. "The microtransmitter alerts the dispensary whenever a student uses a dose so your teacher can keep track of how much independent—"

  "Can you show me the records for another student?" Kendi asked.

  The clerk looked shocked. "Certainly not. That’s confidential information."

  "It’s a matter of life and death," Kendi said, almost jumping up and down. "Please, you have to show me."

  The clerk tapped his computer and the screen vanished. "Not without authorization I don’t. Listen, son, there are people behind you."

  "But—"

  "Next!" the clerk said pointedly.

  Kendi bit his lip in frustration. Several students in the waiting area were eyeing him curiously, but he barely noticed. Abruptly he grabbed Willa’s hand.

  "What’s going on?" she demanded. "Where are we going?"

  He said, "To find Father Ched-Hisak."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sometimes your worst enemy turns out to be someone you know.

—Daniel Vik, husband to Irfan Qasad

  The tiny Guardian ship popped out of slipspace a respectable fifty thousand kilometers from the space station headquarters of Dreamers, Inc. Alarms beeped and Tan’s fingers darted dextrously over the boards, informing the station who they were and that they did indeed have permission to hold their current position. Ara, meanwhile, radioed the docking authority to double-check their authorization. Everything was in order, as were the reservations for their accommodations. Ara relaxed, only then realizing that she had been worried that some bureaucratic snafu would strand them without a place to dock or sleep.

  "Docking in two hours," Tan reported from the pilot’s chair.

  Ara nodded and punched up an external visual on her monitor. It was a relief to see stars and blackness out there instead of the nauseating whirl of slipspace. The Guardian slipship was cramped and tiny—the bridge was barely big enough for two people—and there was little to do on board. Fortunately the little ship was also fast. That and good slipspace conditions had gotten them to the station in just under eighteen hours.

  Ara trained one of the cameras on the station and beefed up the magnification, more for something to do than anything else. The station orbited an ocean-covered planet with a few flyspeck islands and wide swaths of white clouds, and the thing was a real hodgepodge. Giant squares and enormous spheres were stuck together or connected by cylinders like tinkertoys assembled by a madman. The entire station probably massed as much as a small moon. Ships of varying sizes drifted, darted, or lumbered through open spaces. Ara shook her head. She hadn’t visited Dreamers, Inc., in over three years, but the station had rearranged itself in even that short time so that she barely recognized it. Dreamers had more money than even a multi-system corporation could burn, and Ara suspected the corp conducted the almost continual redecoration simply because it could.

  Tan maneuvered the ship closer, and a voice came over the communication system. "You are authorized to use Dock 14-212-C. Please follow the course outlined. For safety reasons, deviation is not allowed and will result in immediate confiscation of your entire ship. Do you understand? By answering affirmatively, you agree to waive all right to liability, damages, or indemnity to your ship, cargo, crew, and passengers."

  "I understand," Tan said.

  A live holographic image of the station appeared over Tan’s board with a bright orange line indicating the course she was to take. It dipped and swooped like a drunken piece of spaghetti, and Ara could only assume it was intended to keep them from colliding with other ships.

  "For a small fee," the voice continued, "you can slave your navigation computer to ours and we will guide your ship in for you."

  "No thank you," Tan said. "We’ll take it from here."

  "As you wish. By proceeding further, you waive all right to—"

  Tan shut the communicator off.

  "Thank you," Ara said.

Tan grunted and turned her concentration to her flying. The station rushed up and down, swooped and turned. Other ships brushed the flight path but never quite came close enough to hit them. Eventually, the ship nosed against a dock and Ara heard the clamps
thunk
into place. She and Tan retrieved their carryalls and, glad to be freed of the cramped ship, hurried through the airlock and into the main station. Ara asked the local computer for directions and discovered that they were quite a distance from the office of Ken Rashid, Chief of Security. The computer offered directions and a map—for a fee. Ara sighed and paid for both after agreeing that the map was for informational purposes only and she would not hold Dreamers, Inc., responsible for any damages incurred as a result of following its directions.

  "I begin to see how this corporation makes its money," Tan said dryly.

  After some searching, they found a transportation center and hired a cab driver to take them where they needed to go.

  "First time on the Station?" asked their driver, a small, weasel-faced man complete with scraggly, whisker-like mustache.

  "No," Tan said, giving him the map. "Here’s where we need to go."

  And that was the end of the conversation. The driver punched buttons, muttered to his on-board computer, and the little electric car shot forward, pressing Ara into the seat.

  The interior of the station was as hodgepodge as the exterior. Tunnels ranged from high, wide spaces to low, cramped rabbit warrens. Decor rambled like a patchwork quilt. Through the cab windows Ara saw crowded streets, Greek architecture, a Chinese palace, lush jungle, and stark white hallway. Some areas were clearly residences of wealthy corp officers. Other areas were so dark and crowded, Ara quietly locked her door. Humans seemed to be the dominant species, but only barely. Everywhere Ara looked she saw a new alien race. They ran, hopped, slithered, glided, stomped, and squished their way up and down the corridors and streets. Some sectors, in fact, seemed completely devoid of anything humanoid. All of them were in some way connected to Dreamers, Inc., Ara knew, though not all of the people were Silent, just as it was back on Bellerophon.

  It took over an hour to arrive at the main security offices. They were a series of blocky, unimaginative-looking buildings with thick columns out front. Tan paid and dismissed the driver, then headed up the high front steps with Ara close behind her. Groups of beings, both human and non-, were scattered up and down the stairs, their voices combining in a strange cacophony of sound. The station ceiling was at least a dozen stories up, so far off it looked to Ara like a smooth, cloudy sky. The air was odorless, dry, and a little chillier than Ara liked, and she was thankful she had brought a jacket.

  The foyer was a big, echoing chamber with polished marble floors. The beings hurrying through it spoke in hushed voices. Ara consulted a directory and found that Chief Rashid’s offices was on the fifth floor and that the elevators were off to his left.

  "He has an entire suite," Tan murmured as they moved toward them.

  "I noticed," Ara said. "You know, Dreamers, Inc., is three or four times bigger than the Children. The post of Chief of Security for them would probably be something like the post of Secretary of Planetary Defense anywhere else."

  "I was thinking the same thing," Tan agreed. "The fact that we talked to him personally in the Dream says something. So does the fact that we’re getting in to see him right away."

  "What does it all say?"

  "No idea."

  The elevator took them straight to the fifth floor. An immensely tall human woman dressed in a pastel blue suit met them as they disembarked.

"Mother Araceil Rymar and Inspector Lewa Tan," she said, and it wasn’t a question. "I am Denisa Ral, Chief Rashid’s executive secretary. He is waiting to see you." She ushered them through a series of offices and corridors, all well-lit, lushly carpeted, and decorated with holographic windows that pretended to offer scenes ranging from mountains to forests to jungles to sandy beaches. Ara wondered how Ral had known who they were and that they were on that particular elevator, then laughed at her own naivete. Rashid had probably been keeping an eye on them since their ship slid out of slipspace.

  Eventually Denisa Ral lead them to an immense set of double doors made of polished oak. They swung wide at her touch, revealing a huge office beyond. One entire wall was a window that looked out on empty space. At the bottom corner lay a portion of the planet, a blue crescent against utter black. The room was furnished like a wealthy person’s living room, with designer furniture, spotlessly shined woodwork tables, and even a fireplace. A hint of wood smoke on the air indicated that it was a real one. Ara was impressed—attaining the wood and disposing of the smoke would be expensive undertakings, not to mention the amount of oxygen a fire sucked up.

  Set against the window was an enormous desk. Ken Rashid, his silvering black hair blending in with the scene behind him, came around it as Ara and Tan entered the office. Denisa Ral closed the doors behind them. Rashid bowed slightly to each of them.

  "It’s nice to meet you in person," he said. "Forgive me not shaking hands, but in my current position I can only allow certain people the ability to locate me when I am in the Dream. If you are hungry or thirsty, refreshments are over there." He gestured to a table littered with an assortment of snacks and beverages. A wet bar stood in the corner. "Perhaps we should begin?"

  "Yes. And since we’re being direct," Tan said, "I have to ask, Chief Rashid—why are you seeing us? Your schedule must be insanely busy. It would be easy enough to assign this to a subordinate."

  Rashid’s expression went rigid for a moment and Ara thought Tan had offended him. Something flashed in his eyes, and Ara remembered the same thing happening when they had spoken in the Dream. Then Rashid passed a tired hand over his face and his expression softened.

  "There were four victims here on Dream Station," he said. "Polly Garvin, Minn Araq, Riann Keller, and Liss Padel. Liss Padel was my wife."

  "I’m sorry," Tan said softly.

  He nodded. "It was a decade ago. I usually think I’m past it, then something happens to remind me of her and I learn I’m not. Usually what I feel is anger. The bastard that killed her is walking around free. I was removed from the case, of course—conflict of interest—but it didn’t matter. No more victims showed up. We never learned who did it. Ten years later, I get a message from an old friend that two monks from Bellerophon are looking for a killer who chops off fingers. I think you now understand how the Chief of Security for Dreamers, Inc., found time to see you." Rashid gave a wan smile. "But I’m being rude. Please come and sit."

  He ushered them to a group of cushioned highback chairs that huddled around the fireplace. The top of the chair was at least two heads higher than Ara’s head once she sat down, and she rather felt like a child sitting in an adult seat. A round end table held a lamp and a box of chocolates. Ara thought about reaching for one, then flashed back to Iris Temm’s house and the single chocolate missing from the box. Her appetite left her and she drew out her computer pad instead. Tan and Rashid took seats as well.

  "Did the murders take place on Dream Station?" Ara asked.

  "All four," Rashid said, and then suddenly bounded to his feet. "God, I need something. Can you excuse me for just a moment?" Without waiting for a reply, he went over to the mantle and opened an intricately-carved wooden box. From it he withdrew a brown cylinder a little thinner than a finger. He waved it, and one end glowed. A curl of smoke trickled upward and Ara smelled it, harsh and acrid. Rashid put the other end to his mouth and inhaled. Ara couldn’t keep from staring. She had heard about this habit but had never seen it in action. Rashid noticed her gaze.

  "An expensive vice," he said, "especially on a station. But someone in my position is allowed a few indulgences. Would you like to try one?"

  "Thank you, no," Ara said.

  "It’s not Thursday," Tan murmured, and Ara shot her a hard look.

  Rashid took his seat again and tapped the ash into a crystal receptacle. Cigarettes, Ara remembered. They were called cigarettes. "Shall I begin or should you?"

  "Let’s start with our end," Tan said. "Then you can tell us what you know and we can examine each other’s files."

  Rashid waved his cigarette, leaving a trail of smoke in assent.

  "A little over two years ago," Tan began, "a Silent Sister named Prinna Meg was found dead. Levels of psytonin in her brain indicated she was in the Dream when she died. Her body was found with bruises and abrasions—indications of psychosomatic trauma. Her left little finger was cut off. Sewn to the stump was the finger of another woman, someone we still haven’t identified. There were no witnesses to Meg’s death in the Dream or in the solid world. A search of her house uncovered no significant clues. We took pictures and holographic images of everything anyway."

  Rashid blew out a cloud of smoke. Ara found the smell dry and cloying but didn’t feel it was proper to say anything. She tried to breathe shallowly.