Analog Science Fiction And Fact - June 2014 Read online

  5.

  Danzoni was the Odenga of the shokiku—a title roughly equivalent to Prefect of Police. It wasn't exactly the same because Izmir had no civilian constabulary. The shokiku belonged to a branch of the military, were naval officers whose duties would have been performed by police officers elsewhere. On Izmir, martial law was never undeclared. The Izmirites were acquainted with no other kind of law.

  Danzoni prided himself on his command of Terran Standard, seized every opportunity to speak it and did so with great gusto, but—like so many people striving to master a second language—he doubted himself, was never wholly confident that he was getting his meaning across. Was he hitting the target? Instead of attempting to improve his marksmanship, he resorted to scattergun tactics, firing barrages of synonyms, one of which would hopefully be a bullseye.

  When Baldwin was admitted to his office, Danzoni offered him a chair and said, "Be seated, Mr. Baldwin. Please. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."

  "Thank you."

  "By no means. Not at all. Think nothing of it." Danzoni took his own advice and relaxed into the plush of an overstuffed armchair. "What can I do for you, Mr. Baldwin? How can I be of service?"

  "You are investigating the murder of Escoli."

  Danzoni's cheerful expression vanished as though wiped from his face by a dustcloth. "A great shame. Her death, I mean—not our investigation. A tragedy. Very sad. Most unfortunate."

  "I'm told she was killed by a kojuma dart."

  Danzoni confirmed the truth of this with a dart-casting gesture. "She was. Yes. A poisoned dart. That is correct."

  "Not the sort of weapon you'd expect an ordinary Bukkaran to carry."

  "No. Certainly not. Throwing a kojuma dart is a specialized skill. Throwing it accurately, that is. With precision. On target. Lots of practice is required. Lots of practice. Years."

  Baldwin nodded. "It is, in fact, the weapon of a professional assassin, isn't it?"

  "Just so. Yes. Indeed it is. A professional. An expert."

  Baldwin opened the folder he was carrying and extracted seven photographic prints. "You returned Escoli's camera to us. These were among the pictures that were stored in its memory. They were taken over a period of three days as she and Tumanzu went from place to place."

  "Sightseeing. That is the term, is it not? Taking in the sights?"

  "Yes. 'Sightseeing' is the word, and these were some of the sights they saw." Baldwin spread them out on the surface of Danzoni's desk. He might have been a merchant inviting Danzoni to inspect his wares. "My colleague, David Collins, examined the images that the camera had captured and noticed that these seven have something in common."

  "Usiga."

  Baldwin queried him with upraked eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?"

  Danzoni hadn't bothered to scrutinize the pix. "The same person appears in all seven. Usiga. That is his name. Always in the background. Part of the scenery. Inconspicuous. Unobtrusive. We see him leaning against a tree. Or peeling a karei. Or entering a restaurant. Or hailing a watertaxi. But we recognize him, do we not?" Danzoni made a tent of his fingers. "Usiga. He is a paid killer. A professional assassin. A murderer for hire."

  "Do you have him in custody?"

  "We do not. No. Sad to say. Sorry."

  "Why not?"

  "He escaped. He got away. He eluded us." Danzoni searched his vocabulary, decided that his Terran Standard was inadequate, and lapsed into Menduli. "It was very well planned," he said. "He was gone—no longer on Izmir and no longer in our jurisdiction— before we understood that a crime had been committed." Realizing that this statement required clarification, he amplified: "A kojuma dart is very small, does not usually remain embedded in the flesh of its victim, can be easily overlooked in the confusion. The poison mimics a heart attack. Escoli must have thought she'd been bitten by an insect. She swatted at it. The dart was dislodged and fell to the ground. We didn't find it until much later. Usiga was long gone before we knew we were looking for him. Actually, we didn't know we were looking for him until Escoli's camera showed him to us. Prior to that, we only knew we were looking for someone like him. Even that wasn't immediately obvious. The onlookers assumed that Escoli was ill. We weren't summoned until a physician had examined her."

  "You don't know where Usiga is now, of course."

  Reverting to Terran Standard, Danzoni said: "But I do."

  "You do? " "I do. Yes. No doubt about it. Dokhara. He boarded a ship bound for Dokhara."

  Baldwin wheezed a sigh. "And Izmir has no extradition treaty with Dokhara."

  "Yes."

  "I didn't think you did."

  "We don't. What I meant to say was: Yes— we don't got no extradition treaty with Dokhara."

  Baldwin got to his feet, gathered the photos on Danzoni's desktop with a swipe of his hand, saw that one of them remained and made another attempt to grasp it. Only then did he realize that it was underneath a layer of protective glass. It was a picture of a very pretty Bukkaran female with brown eyes and a charming smile. "A lovely lady," he said. "Your mate?"

  "Yes. Chikitodu. 'Chiki' for short. We have been together for eleven years."

  "Any kids?"

  "Kids?"

  "Kids. Children," said Baldwin, and—in an attempt to avert a possible misunderstanding—he added: " Not goats."

  "I see. Children. Cubs. No. We don't got no kids. I regret to say that Chiki is impregnable. Her doctors have examined her and confirmed it. She is inconceivable. Completely unbearable."

  "You have my sympathy," Baldwin assured him.

  6.

  Baldwin was seated at his desk, playing an invisible piano on the arm of his chair and contemplating the ceiling as though a message of cosmic import were scribbled across its surface. Intense scrutiny had detected none so far.

  A fret was gnawing at his subconscious, teasing him, nagging him, pestering him, rubbing his reporter's intuition the wrong way... Dokhara, he was thinking. According to Danzoni, Usiga had fled to Dokhara. Why? Baldwin asked himself. Why Dokhara? To avoid capture? Yes—but Usiga didn't have to go all the way to Dokhara to do that. He'd have been immune to arrest anywhere outside Izmir's territorial waters.

  "Minerva?"

  "Yes, Greg."

  "Please establish a link with the Mazabashi Inn."

  Minerva's screen momentarily herring-boned and then cleared to disclose the image of a smiling Bukkaran female. "Mazabashi Inn," she announced. "How may I help you?"

  "You have a guest by the name of Tumanzu. Can you ring his room for me?"

  "I'm sorry." To demonstrate that she really was, she stopped smiling. "I can't do that. Tumanzu is no longer staying here."

  This was the response that Baldwin had expected, but he still felt a twinge of disappointment. "When did he leave?"

  "On the afternoon of his cousin's funeral."

  "Four days ago?"

  A brief pause for mental arithmetic. "Yes—I believe that's correct."

  "Did he give a forwarding address?"

  "No—not precisely.

  "How about imprecisely?"

  "Our reservationist booked passage for him on a ship that was homeward bound."

  "To his home? To Dokhara?"

  "To Dokhara. Yes."

  "Thank you. Ochaba tadoi zatuki." This was a ritual phrase that defied literal translation, but the sense of it was: "Your assistance is appreciated."

  The screen blanked. Baldwin wished that his state of mind were equally blank, but no— conjectures were writhing in his brain like cats in a sack, forming a pattern that he couldn't ignore.

  Why had Usiga gone to Dokhara?

  Baldwin didn't know—not for certain—but he had a strong hunch.

  He suspected that Usiga had gone to Dokhara because Escoli hadn't been his target.

  According to Danzoni, a kojuma dart was a difficult weapon to master. Even experts had trouble throwing one accurately, and—in this instance—Usiga had missed. He'd aimed at Tumanzu, had hit Escoli instead. A reg
rettable mistake—not only because an innocent bystander had been killed but because the job Usiga had contracted to do remained undone. He couldn't remain on Izmir. The shokiku were disconcertingly efficient. He had to make his getaway while he still could. And so...? Dokhara. He went to Dokhara—a safe haven beyond the reach of the law and a hunter's lurk where the prey he was stalking would almost certainly return.

  Four days. Tumanzu had embarked for Dokhara four days ago. The time-in-transit for a passenger vessel sailing from Izmir to Dokhara was usually six days. Tumanzu would be walking down a gangplank into a deadfall tomorrow or—at the very latest—the day after tomorrow.

  Raising his voice to make himself heard across the office, Baldwin blurted: "Dave!"

  Collins glanced up from the work he was doing. "Yes?"

  "The diplomatic pouch... how often does it go?"

  "How often does it go where? "

  "From our local embassy to the embassy in Dokhara."

  "Daily."

  "Your mother's in charge of that, isn't she?"

  Collins looked uncomfortable. "She is, yes, but using the diplomatic pouch to send a private message—if that's what you're suggesting—well, that's kind of like using the Holy Grail for a chamberpot. It just ain't done."

  "Relax. That's not what I'm suggesting."

  "Good."

  "The courier goes by shuttle, doesn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "How about letting me tag along?"

  Collins' expression was illegible. "That's what you have in mind?" He shook his head. "You've got to be out of it. Your mind, I mean."

  "Maybe so, but I must be in Dokhara tomorrow."

  "It's that important?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because I owe it to Escoli."

  Collins rose from his chair, crossed the room, and perched on the corner of Baldwin's desk, one haunch on the edge, one foot on the floor. He focused an interrogatory gaze on Baldwin and said: "Suppose you tell me what this is all about."

  7.

  No evidence.

  That was the problem.

  Baldwin had no real evidence.

  What he'd told Luhor was the truth and nothing but. Escoli had been one of the kindest, most compassionate people Baldwin had ever known. Enemies? She'd had no enemies.

  Who would have paid an assassin to kill her?

  The very idea was ludicrous.

  But it wasn't evidence—not unless lack of evidence could be counted as negative evidence of some kind.

  Baldwin couldn't go to Danzoni with a chain of logic forged from links as weak as that. Similar objections prevented him from approaching officials of the Izmirite government or of the Terran embassy. No one was going to risk provoking an international incident because Baldwin—and only Baldwin— believed that Tumanzu was in danger.

  Could he convince someone authorized to take action that taking action was necessary?

  Even if he could, they couldn't.

  The initial Terran expedition to Bukkara had made a splashdown, not a landfall. First contact had been with the islanders of Izmir. Consequently, the largest of the Terran enclaves was on Izmir, the most influential Terran embassy was on Izmir, and Terran technology had infiltrated Izmirite society to a much greater degree than elsewhere. Danzoni had required no assistance to process the images from Escoli's pix-shooter, and he used handhelds to communicate with his shokiku, but he couldn't use them to communicate with the Dokharans because there were no relay satellites orbiting Bukkara. He couldn't contact them by radio either. The religious intolerance that had exterminated Tajok's family was equally intolerant of wireless com units. One attribute of Shizenu—the Mishoman equivalent of the devil—was his ability to make himself heard over vast distances. Any device that conferred similar powers on mere mortals was regarded as diabolical. Dokhara, Zifra, Bodajiz—none of the countries where Mishoma was the dominant faith permitted radio transmitters or receivers. Even the Terrans were reduced to sending dispatches by courier.

  The rules strictly and absolutely forbade the courier to take a sidekick along, but no rule prohibited the embassy from hiring a new courier. Collins requested assistance from his mother, she went to the ambassador with an appeal on Baldwin's behalf, the regular courier learned—much to his surprise—that he was too ill to make the run, the alternate who would have ordinarily substituted for him was inexplicably incommunicado, the routine dispatches awaiting transport were reclassified "Urgent," and—since high-priority documents of this nature couldn't tolerate delay—the embassy was compelled to appoint an alternate to the alternate.

  Bureaucracies can be—and usually are—appallingly inefficient, but efficient bureaucrats can—and usually do—find ways to circumvent the regulations.

  Collins' mother was an efficient bureaucrat.

  The Terran Embassy in Kazunori, the capital of Dokhara, had a rooftop shuttle-pad. Baldwin was standing on it less than fourteen hours after he asked Collins for help.

  Collins' mother was a very efficient bureaucrat.

  8.

  The port of Izmir and the port of Kazunori were both hubs of bustling activity, but the Kazunorian waterfront was also an open-air marketplace. It had a festive, carnival atmosphere that blurred the distinction between work and play, profit and pleasure, business and busyness.

  Ships were docking and undocking. Passengers were embarking and disembarking. Crews were coming and going. Vessels in need of overhaul were being winched out of the water and sailors in need of overhaul were being wenched out of their pay.

  All of that was to be expected. What Baldwin hadn't expected was the motley jumble of kiosks and stalls cluttering the quays. Fresh fruit and vegetables were for sale. So were flowers, pottery, cooking utensils, jewels, tools, weapons, clothes, medicines, amulets, seeds, pets, intoxicants... and so on and so forth. Lack of entertainment was certainly no problem. Acrobats tumbled, dancers capered, poets recited, actors declaimed, storytellers lied, fanatics sermonized, charlatans swindled, singers vocalized, and jugglers played elaborate games of catch with themselves. Ballyhoo spielers made persistent entreaties to passers-by, adding sales pitches to an intermix of overlapping sounds that was already cacophonous.

  It almost had to be the Izanumi. Only one other ship had departed Izmir for Dokhara on the afternoon of Escoli's funeral, and Tumanzu wouldn't have had time to get aboard before it sailed. Inquires had revealed that the Izanumi was approaching the harbor. Baldwin was lingering on the pier like a ghost condemned to haunt it, watching as the Izanumi was gentled into its berth, waiting for the gangplank to be lowered, trying to keep an eye on the crowd and on the debarking passengers who were joining it.

  And there he was.

  Not Tumanzu.

  Usiga.

  With a shock of recognition, Baldwin realized that he was looking at a familiar face. He had seen it exactly seven times before. Usiga was manning a booth where customers were competing for prizes by casting darts at moving targets. Presumably, these darts weren't poisoned, but the disguise Usiga had adopted wasn't really much of a disguise. It was only one step removed from the truth. If Usiga had been one of the contestants, he could have won all the prizes with ease. Maybe he had. Maybe that was how he'd become the proprietor of this kiosk. He was sufficiently skillful to have put the previous owner out of business.

  The ship was still disgorging passengers. Tumanzu had not as yet appeared, but Usiga was well positioned to strike when Tumanzu descended the companionway. Could Baldwin intervene before Usiga got his chance?

  Baldwin made no attempt to force his way through the center of the crowd. Too many people. Too tightly compacted. The best he could do was insinuate himself through the periphery, advancing down the jetty in an awkward succession of detours, deviations, and evasions... Soup on a stovetop. That was the comparison that occurred to Baldwin. The squirm and jostle on the docks reminded him of a boiling cauldron.

  He was simultaneously consumed by a frantic sense of urgency an
d by a cold drench of doubt.

  What if he didn't reach Usiga in time?

  What if he did?

  Usiga was a trained killer. Baldwin wasn't. Baldwin was a middle-aged journalist. His only weapons were words... Was the pen really mightier than the sword? Baldwin was dubious. No one who had tried to parry a scimitar with a stylus was available for comment. The honored dead rarely were.

  Even as Baldwin struggled so desperately to get to Usiga, his hindbrain was spinning, trying to decide what to do when he got there. Baldwin had no illusions about himself. He was no storybook hero. If he were foolish enough to challenge Usiga, he'd be swatted like a bothersome insect. No—a physical confrontation with Usiga was out of the question. What other options did he have?

  Words, he thought.

  If my only weapons are words, maybe I should make use of them.

  "Stop!" he shouted. "Thief!" He pointed nowhere, anywhere, everywhere—a nonspecific gesture of accusation aimed at nobody in particular. "There! Don't let him get away! Stop that thief!"

  Sensation.

  Confusion.

  Milling vortexes of commotion formed within the crowd as attempts were made to apprehend the culprits. Three of them. As Baldwin had guessed, more than one pickpocket had been working the docks. Now they panicked and made frantic attempts to escape. They filtered through the crush like wisps of steam, dodging and weaving and eluding outstretched hands.

  Baldwin selected a Dokharan at random—a ventriloquist who had been entertaining a knot of cubs on the sidelines—grasped his unencumbered wrist, and bellowed: "Here! I've got him! Help!"

  His victim took a quick step toward Baldwin, elbow bent. He freed himself from Baldwin's grip with a sudden jerk of his arm, staggered back, and drew a knife, but the people who had responded to Baldwin's call closed in on him like an incoming tide. His arms were pinned to his sides. Other hands lifted him off his feet. He struggled futilely in their grasp, snarling and cursing fluently.

  Baldwin stood perfectly still, allowing the center of the conflict to flow past him, then began edging toward Usiga's booth. The congestion hadn't been dispersed by the disturbance, but it had been redistributed, creating regions of lesser density and even one or two circles of open space. Baldwin squeezed through the press, shoving and elbowing, pushing and nudging, apologizing for his rude behavior without desisting from it, moving from one impact to the next like a pinball colliding with a succession of bumpers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tumanzu emerge from the innards of the Izanumi and start down the gangway. Usiga extracted a dart from the hundreds of misses that were embedded in the backdrop behind the targets. A good hiding place, Baldwin acknowledged. Very clever. Not a needle concealed in a haystack but a needle concealed in a jumble of needles.