robert Charrette - Arthur 02 - A King Beneath the Mountain (21 page)

Kurita dropped his head in acceptance. "There is the matter of your recent unescorted departures from the secure perimeter."

"Which you find troubling." Quetzal found it troubling that he had been detected.

"The
kansayaku
has tasked me with your protection. I cannot protect you if you leave my agents behind."

"Their company is unwelcome."

"With all respect, Kendall-sama, such ventures are unhealthy."

"I find them most refreshing."

"To be blunt, Kendall-sama, your actions threaten the security of this operation."

That would not be Nakaguchi's chief concern; he would be worried by Quetzal's increased independence. "And have you informed Nakaguchi of this threat to the operation's security?"

Kurita took a moment before answering. "The reports are prepared."

But not sent.

A fortuitous moment. One to be seized. Quetzal took a step closer to Kurita. The security chief tensed, then moved with serpent quickness to block the hand Quetzal raised toward his face. Quetzal was impressed by Kurita's reaction speed, but it mattered little. Quetzal simply curled his fingers down to touch Kurita's hand. The flesh-to-flesh contact was all he needed to complete his intention.

He reached into Kurita's mind, seeking to encompass it. Kurita opposed him, actually fighting him. That was surprising; there was no sense of the adept about Kurita. But Quetzal had tasted his measure in the first moment: the security man's strength would be insufficient to resist; Kurita had strength, but his skill in the contest of wills was so small as to be nonexistent. The outcome was inevitable. Quetzal bore in. Kurita's body collapsed to its knees, still fighting. A strong will, indeed, but not strong enough. He closed his grip over the man's mind, feeling it squirm helplessly under his secure control. Satisfied, he released his physical grip. Kurita huddled in on himself.

The effort had been tiring, but it would repay.

"Tell Nakaguchi that I am content with your precautions," he ordered. "Tell him also that I shall rely on his bounty in the matter of my needs."

There would be no tiresome tattling to Nakaguchi. Kurita was his now; the security chief could conceal Quetzal's comings and goings from Nakaguchi while tracking the company man's own doings. Another step forward on what was going to be a long road to control.

For the moment, it was prudent that he travel that road in secrecy. Let Nakaguchi believe that he had a basis for his feelings of superiority. The man's impudence would reap its reward in time. For the moment, Quetzal was content to appear to be the ignorant visitor from an earlier time. When he was ready to expose his intentions, things would be different.

The worm would emerge from the darkness to take its place in the light.

Rearden's report held less useful data than Pamela had hoped. Far less. Nakaguchi's databank had locks within locks, and so far the most promising files remained beyond Rearden's skill to open.

But the files Rearden
had
been able to access were intriguing. They offered insight into what Nakaguchi had prepared for the Quetzal creature. She recognized some of the programs from Cytronics's intensive education program; some of the simpler ones were to be among the Keiretsu's offerings at the spring electronics exposition. The datafiles serving the education program were mostly what one would expect for updating a man from another century—save for those dealing with the occult. Only those who knew what was happening to the world would include such information; only they would know that it was important.

Nakaguchi knew.

He was part of what was making it happen.

If only there were
something
in his databank that she could use to take him down, to disrupt his plans.

There was, of course, but the same information could damage her as well. Some of it could hurt the Keiretsu—and, by extension, her as well. There had to be
something!

She sent Rearden an order to continue the search and busied herself studying what she had. She might have missed something.

"Hey, Gordon, you asleep, dead, or just off duty?" "Dead," Charley replied without stirring.

"And here I was afraid you were off shift."

Johnston knew Charley was on; as desk sergeant, it was his job to know who was on and off, in and out. It wasn't his job to poke his nose into Charley's cubicle, but the fat old man was an officious bastard.

"You don't
look
like you're on shift," Johnston complained.

"I told you, I'm dead."

"You will be soon enough, and the captain'll be the one to do it to you. I'm getting a signal from Central that your buffer dump is full again. Your 'puter's started putting out refuse messages. And get your feet off the desk."

"Got it." Charley left his feet where they were.

"Do something about it."

"On it."

"Now!"

Reluctantly Charley pulled his feet down and set them on the floor. Damned stupid software. The secretary programs were supposed to be a blessing; the optimal throughput monitor was supposed to signal when a cop got overloaded, to let his supervisor know he needed help. Typical union blessing where something that was supposed to be a harmless aid turned into a career-torpedoing rat. Anybody who ever did any work in the Department knew a cop
always
carried more than his official caseload and that sometimes it took a while to get around to things.
Optimal throughput my ass!
If the programmers had ever put in any allowance for priorities, they hadn't protected it well enough. The way things worked a departmental memo about cleaning up the coffee area ended up as important as a "notify officer" request and the secretary programs dumped them all in your box and squalled when they couldn't cram any more in. The monitors gave people like Johnston something to use on people like Charley in trouble with people like the captain. Only thing to do now was to empty the buffer and avoid a reprimand, assuming one hadn't already been logged electronically.

"Computer, scan incoming. Sort, now. Send messages to subscreen 3, now. Subscreen 3, size up, now. Again."

That made the listing readable. He did his own scan of the incoming messages. If he had a good idea what they were about, he dumped them in a save file. The others, he read, saving the anonymous transmitter stack for last. Mostly junk as usual, but one caught his attention. Caspar again.

>>21.10
,12 * 23.11.38.79 * xxxxx.xxx

log #1012.67

TO:
G
ordgn
C@NECPOLMET*OOO4.13.O0*874334

FROM:« UNKNOWN>

RE: Modus 112.

MESSAGE: The answer. Settawego Building lobby.

18.13.13.59. Pers. Atten.

Modus 112? Charley didn't remember what the reference number referred to. Whatever. Caspar was telling him that whoever was behind the case would be at the Settawego Building today, just before 1400.

What time was it? "Computer, time check, now."

"1322.58," the machine replied in its piecemeal voice. More than twenty-five years of voice-response tech and still the things sounded patched together. Maybe it was deliberate. Monkeyboy programmers again.

But programmers weren't the problem. Time was. It was less than an hour to Caspar's predicted revelation.

Where the hell was the Settawego Building? "Computer reference: location of Settawego Building, now."

"Define search parameters."

"Global."

After a pause, the machine came back with, "Denied. If you wish to pursue this search, please select more limited parameters."

Too expensive for the department's budget, probably. Available with proper authorization though, which he didn't have. Maybe he didn't need a global search. Wouldn't Caspar have said something if the dump was somewhere other than

nearby?

"Computer, access file: Modus 1-1-2 and transfer all geographical references to subfile, now. Name subfile: Settawego, now."

"Complete."

"Good." That had been quick, the load must be light. Nice to have something fall his way. "Reference: location Settawego Building, now."

"Define search parameters."

"Reference subfile Settawego and search all sprawl districts listed therein. Send result to new subscreen, flasher, now."

"Acknowledged."

The code word for "sit there, sucker, and wait." Charley called up Modus 112 to refresh his memory.

Right.

A string of dead streeters. Caspar saw a pattern, which was more than Charley could. Dead streeters turned up all the time. What made these special? More important, what made Caspar think they were Charley's business?

The screen started flashing the address of the Settawego Building, and he put the questions aside. He just had time to make it, if the traffic wasn't too bad.

William Jeffries was an aged man with sparse hair as pale as his skin, a rattling collection of bone and worn-out sinew clothed in a baggy alabaster bodysuit. With his ankle-length white coat and trailing muffler of angora wool, he looked the part of a ghost, but Quetzal could sense the energy in him and knew at once from its taste how that energy was stoked. When Jeffries held his hand out in the greeting common to this place and age, Quetzal refused it. The man's decrepitude was repulsive.

Without intending to, Quetzal had scored a point in the interplay of status. Jeffries seemed to take his refusal to shake hands as an insistence on precedence. The man mumbled an apology for presumption.

Quetzal had expected an adept of greater magnitude. Was this man an imposter? No. He could not be. Jeffries followed .ill the forms of greeting, demonstrating that he knew the signs and words proper to an initiate of the inner circle of followers. Yet Quetzal sensed no real power surrounding Jeffries. A man of disturbing contradictions, an unfit cog for Quetzal's machine.

"I am most honored to meet you, Venerated One," Jefferies proclaimed fulsomely. "I have seen the signs and dreamed the dreams, but until this moment, 1 had not quite believed that the time had come."

An unfit cog, for truth. If Jeffries had not believed, why had he sent his acolyte to rouse Quetzal? Didn't the man know what a false awakening would cost Quetzal?

Quetzal listened to further pointless enthusing with growing impatience. He had assumed there was a point to the meeting other than to gratify an old man's desire for praise. There was a time and place for such things; praise was best given in a forum where others would be inspired by the accolades granted to those who served faithfully and energetically. If Jeffries needed such reinforcement, so be it. But not here and now; Quetzal wanted to make the best use of it. Besides, he needed to improve his contacts with the followers; he did not plan to remain coddled under the arm of the unknown and uninitiated Hiroto Mitsutomo for long.

"Arrange to gather your circle," he ordered.

"Tell us when you wish to grace them, Venerated One, and they shall be there," Jeffries said.

"As soon as may be."

"As you wish."

Nakaguchi gave Jeffries a sideways glance. "Venerated One, some of the circle will not be able to arrive quickly. They are scattered around the world, attending to your business."

"My business? I gave no orders." Yet.

"They work to prepare the way according to the ancient mandates."

"Yes," Jeffries said. "And they are zealous. Our understanding of the mysteries may be limited, but we know what must be done before the great hour. Lacking access to the higher arts, your followers use the lesser arts to sway men to the Path. We have been diligent. We use all means to hand to make the physical changes. Surely you've read the files. You have seen how far we have come in turning the world upon itself. It is pleasing, is it not?"

"I have read the files." But he would not believe that the reported desertification, pollution, and general environmental destruction were as widespread as those files claimed until he had seen for himself. If the followers had, for truth, been responsible for such things, they had taken great strides in preparing for the great change. "All appears to be in proper order."

Jeffries beamed satisfaction. "Then you know we have served well."

He
knew
nothing of the sort; he had only their word for what they had done. Perhaps they
had
been faithful; but perhaps they took credit for the unaided turning of the world. For one so little advanced in personal accomplishment, Jeffries pridefully claimed much credit. Almost certainly too much. "Much has been accomplished, but all is not yet in readiness. There is more to be done."

Jeffries was undaunted. "Command us, Venerated One. Set us on the Glittering Path. We have called you from the great dreamless sleep to lead us. Say the word and it shall be done, for we are eager to please. We have kept the faith, as you will see. Great shall be the rewards of the faithful."

"And justice come at last to the wronged," Nakaguchi said, completing the ritual phrase.