Pawn’s Gambit (33 page)

He stood up as Rey rolled to a stop beside the desk. “You basically need two clear areas to work with,” he said, circling around behind the boy. “The first is the section that operates the legs. No big loss; a programmed wheelchair can let him get around just fine.”

He touched Rey's left cheek. “The other is the lower left side of the face. Smile for Hendrik, Rey.”

The skin around Thorwald's eyes and lips crinkled with revulsion as Rey gave him that broken half-smile of his. “I see,” he said.

“Disgusting, isn't it?” Quillan agreed. “All completely reversible.” It wasn't, of course, and he and all the rest of the Old Boys knew it. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of telling Rey the truth, just to see what the boy's reaction would be.

So far he'd resisted that temptation. Maybe someday when he was particularly bored he'd give it a shot.

“Has he actually performed any reversals?” Thorwald asked.

“At another eight hundred million a shot?” Quillan said pointedly. “Besides, in the fifteen years the Network has been running all the telepaths have worn out well before the ten years they signed on for. Easier and cheaper at that point just to replace them.”

Thorwald sent an almost furtive look at Rey. “Should we be talking this way … ?”

“Not a problem.” Quillan patted Rey's shoulder. “Rey is an excellent telepath. I'm sure he'll go the distance.”

“Besides,” he added, gesturing to the flesh-colored band around Rey's neck as he sat back down again, “standard procedure is to give our telepaths a dose of TabRasa-33 after every session. Memory scrambler; wipes out all short-term memories for the preceding twenty to thirty minutes. I could tell him I'm going to kill him tomorrow and he wouldn't remember a thing about it an hour from now. Well; let's get started.”

Reaching into his desk, Quillan pulled out a stack of photos and a small picture stand. “Pictures of each of the others' terminals,” he explained, showing Thorwald the stack as he set up the stand in front of Rey. “All Rey has to do is visualize the face, and the other telepath will pick up on the signal.”

“And then?” Thorwald asked.

“Then we're in,” Quillan said, selecting the photo of McCade's current telepath and putting it on the stand. “Go ahead, Rey.”

For a moment Rey gazed at the photo, as if trying to memorize it. Then, that familiar but still creepy look settled over his face. His eyes seemed to glaze over, his half-functional mouth went a little slack, and he let out a huffing sigh. “He's in contact,” Quillan murmured. “Now it's just a matter of the other telepath sending for McCade.”

“By phone?”

Quillan shook his head. “Single-tone, single-duration signal button on the wheelchair,” he said. “You never, ever want to have anything near your telepath that can record or transmit.”

“Including other people?” Thorwald asked.

“Especially other people,” Quillan agreed grimly. “Except for his caretakers, no one in this house is allowed to talk to Rey or even get within three meters of him.”

“Why don't you just lock him up?” Thorwald asked.

“Counterproductive,” Quillan said. “You let your telepath get too bored or in too much of a rut and he burns out faster. It's cheaper in the long run to let them roam around a little. You just have to make sure there's no way to pass information back and forth. He's not allowed any writing instruments, obviously.”

Abruptly, Rey seemed to straighten up. “Hello?” he said.

“McCade?” Quillan asked.

There was a brief pause. “Yes,” Rey said. “Quillan, I presume?”

“Correct,” Quillan said. “I have an acquaintance of yours here with me. Would you care to say hello?”

“Hello, Hendrik,” Rey said. “I trust Archer is treating you well?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Thorwald said. His eyes, Quillan noted, had the suspicious look of a small child watching his first magician. “What's new at the ranch?”

“Well, we've got six new lambs,” Rey said. “Looks like we may get another twenty before the season runs its course. Has Archer invited you to drive up Ascraeus Mons yet?”

“He has, and I've turned him down,” Thorwald said. “Barbaric place, this. The next time we meet, I think we'll do it at
my
house.”

“Now, be honest, Hendrik,” Rey said. “Is it Mars you find barbaric, or Archer's lack of a proper wine cellar? When you visit him, Archer, you'll have to talk him out of a bottle of the '67 Bordeaux Sanjai. I understand he bought up the entire year's vintage, except for a few bottles that went to some New York hotel by mistake. Which one was it again, Hendrik?”

“The Ritz-Aberdon,” Thorwald said, shaking his head. “I don't believe this.”

“Neither did I, at first,” Rey said. “But as you see, it does work.”

“So it would appear,” Thorwald said. “So aside from allowing me to safely tell rude jokes about the President, Secretary-General, and Chairman of the Financial Reserve, what exactly is this good for?”

Rey made an odd snorting noise. “Shall we give him the standard example, Archer?” he invited.

“Certainly,” Quillan said, smiling. “At the moment, Hendrik, Mars is nine light-minutes from Earth. That means that information traveling by radio or laser takes nine minutes to get from there to here. Jonathan, what's the Unified European Market doing at the moment?”

“Odd that you should ask,” Rey said. “As it happens, Bavarian General Transport hit a peak price of eighty-nine point three exactly four minutes ago. Two minutes later, the profit-hunters moved in, and it's been on its way down ever since. Eighteen points so far, with no signs of a turnaround. I believe, Hendrik, that you have some minor investments in BGT?”

It was as if someone had touched a match to Thorwald's lower lip. His whole body jerked, his eyes lighting up as the true reality of the situation suddenly caught up with him. “God,” he bit out, twisting his wrist up to look at his watch. “But—”

“Exactly,” Quillan said, reaching to his desk computer and punching up his InstaTrade connection. “The news of that eighty-nine high won't hit the Martian Repeater Lists for another five minutes, and the downturn won't start for seven. Would you care to place a sell order? Effective, say, six minutes from now?”

“God,” Thorwald muttered again, swiveling the computer around and starting to punch in his personal codes. “The possibilities—”

“Are endless,” Quillan agreed. “Stock manipulation, advance warnings of news events that could affect your holdings or your businesses, tips to share back and forth without all those ambitious young Turks listening in. The sky's the limit.”

“Or rather, the sky is no longer the limit,” Rey put in dryly. “You can do conference calls, too, by setting out two or more photos for your telepath.
That
one can have uses all its own. As we all found out in that Estevez matter a few months back.”

“Indeed,” Quillan said. “The Securities Enforcement people got suspicious of Sergei Bondonavich and planted a spy on him. When Mr. Estevez suddenly disappeared—down an abandoned salt mine near Berchtesgaden, I believe—the rest of his group descended on Sergei like middle-management attacking the company Christmas buffet. He spun them a complete frosted sugar cookie, then hot-footed it onto the Network with a conference call and clued the rest of us in on the story he told. By the time their associates came knocking on our own doors ten minutes later, we were able to corroborate every detail.”

“All without a single indication that there'd been any communication between us,” Rey added. “As far as I know, they still haven't even located Estevez's body.”

“All right, I'm convinced,” Thorwald said. “What's the catch?”

“There isn't any,” Rey assured him. “Each of us in the Old-Boy Network has basically arrived. Each of us is powerful enough to be largely immune to attacks from the others, even if one of us was foolish enough to try. No, at this point our main focus is to bite off the heads of the smaller fish nipping at our tail fins.”

“And to deal with the self-appointed guardians of all that is right and good,” Quillan said contemptuously. “The solar system is our private pond now, to borrow Jonathan's fish metaphor. Why not swim together?”

“I presume Archer's already quoted you the price,” Rey said. “The only other requirement is that you share secrets and information with the others in fair value for what you receive. And, of course, that you maintain complete airtight security on the whole operation. If you'd like, we'll give you a week to think about it.”

“No need,” Thorwald said, straightening up from the computer. “I'm in.”

“Excellent,” Rey said. “Then enjoy the rest of your stay, and call me when you get back to Earth. I'll have things set up, and we'll go from there. Oh, and do try to get up Ascraeus Mons at least once. No trip to Mars is complete without it.”

“I'll think about it,” Thorwald said. “Good-bye, Jonathan.”

He looked at Quillan. “Is that right? Do I say good-bye?”

“You can,” Quillan said. “Rey, break contact. How was it?”

He watched as Rey gave the little shudder he always did as he cleared the connection. “Pretty clear,” the boy said, rubbing at his lips. “The other … he didn't seem completely on track today.”

“What does that mean?” Thorwald asked, frowning.

“The contact wasn't as sharp as it should have been,” Quillan explained. “At least, in Rey's estimation.”

“What could cause that?”

“The other telepath might have been distracted.” Quillan looked at the clock. “Or tired—it is only four a.m. at McCade's ranch. Any misfires, Rey?”

“No,” Rey said hesitantly. “I don't think so.”

“Misfires?” Thorwald asked.

“As Rey listens to what I'm saying, the other telepath hears it through his ears and brain,” Quillan explained. “Rather like hearing an echo, I expect. The other telepath then repeats the message back to McCade, and it's Rey's turn to hear the echo as he speaks.”

“That's why there was that pause before the other end answers,” Thorwald said, nodding. “McCade had to get the message relayed, and then answer.”

“Correct,” Quillan said. “Misfires are when the other telepath doesn't repeat the message exactly the way it was sent. Usually it's only a dropped word here or there, and usually it's just carelessness or a case of someone using sentences too long or complicated for the telepath to handle.”

“But if it's not?”

“Then it could be the first sign of a burned-out telepath,” Quillan said bluntly. “At which point, that particular Old Boy is advised that it may soon be time to upgrade his equipment.”

He patted Rey on the shoulder. “Fortunately for McCade's wallet, it sounds like his mouthpiece is holding up just fine.” He shifted his hand, squeezing the collar around Rey's neck in the proper place. “That'll be all, Rey.”

“Yes, sir,” Rey murmured, his eyes starting to glaze over as the TabRasa trickled into his bloodstream.

“Go take a nap,” Quillan added. “Chair: Rey's bedroom.”

The chair turned and rolled across the room. “Trouble?” Thorwald asked as the door opened and passed the chair and its dozing passenger out of the office.

“I don't know,” Quillan said slowly. “It occurs to me that there's another possibility for that sub-par connection just now. That it may not be
McCade's
telepath who's tired or distracted.

Quillan got up from his chair. “Help yourself to my cigars, or anything else you want. I'll be back soon.”

Rey woke abruptly, with the disorientation that always came after a dose of TabRasa. After three years he was used to it, but it was never entirely comfortable.

Still, there were worse things in life. Much worse things. He could certainly put up with it for the remaining seven years of his contract.

And when he had finished, Mr. Quillan would give him back his legs and his face, and he would get the bonus money he'd been promised.

And his parents and siblings would finally be able to get off that dirt-scrabble Central American farm and have the kind of financial security that had never been more than an impossible dream for anyone in his village.

For a minute he let himself enjoy that thought. Then, bidding his family a silent goodbye, he began searching for the edge where memory ended and this most recent gap began.

Yes; the library. The piano. Beethoven.

Susan.

He let her image hover in front of his closed eyes, tracing every line and curve in his memory. Making sure that, no matter how much TabRasa Mr. Quillan gave him, he would never, ever forget that face. That face, or that smile.

That smile that had promised she would be back …

With a start he opened his eyes and looked over at his clock, then grabbed for the arm of his chair. Less than an hour had gone by since the library, which meant she was probably still cleaning somewhere in the house. If he could figure out where, he could at least explain to her that he hadn't just casually run out on her.

He wasn't supposed to talk to anyone except his caretakers, he knew. But surely Mr. Quillan would understand this one time. Surely he would.

“That's her,” Grond said, nodding across the solarium at one of the three maids polishing the brasswork around the flower pots. “Name's Susan Baker; came on about three months ago. A little standoffish, the housekeeper says, but she has no complaints about her work.”

“What about her attention to Rey?”

“Probably the last month or so,” Grond said. “That's when he started acting strange. Making excuses all the time to go downstairs.”

Quillan nodded, studying the girl. About eighteen years old, thin, dark hair, plain mousy face. Not at all attractive, to his way of thinking. “But she's never talked to him?”