"But there is that link." He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, staring out of the window at the snow-bright city. "And one of the theories we believe these guys have is that Vanguard is run by some sort of namby-pamby machine that's developed consciousness and conscience…"
"Or just by some old recluse with philanthropic intentions," Sma agreed.
"So; say this mythical machine or person had existed, but then somebody else got hold of the reins; disabled the machine, killed the philanthropist. And then started spending their ill-gotten gains."
"Hmm," Sma said. "Mmm. Mmm." She coughed again. "Yes… ah. Well, they'd be acting a lot like you've been, I suppose."
"So do I," he said, going to the window; he picked up a pair of dark glasses from a small table, put them on.
Something beeped near the bed. "Hold on." He turned, crossed to the bedside and picked up the same small device he'd scanned the two top floors with when he'd first arrived. He looked at the display, smiled, and left the room. Walking down the corridor, still holding the machine, he said, "Sorry; somebody bouncing a laser off the window in the room I was in, trying to eavesdrop."
He entered a suite facing uphill and sat on the bed. "Anyway; could you make it look like there'd been some sort of… event in the Vanguard Foundation, a few days before I arrived here? Some sort of cataclysmic change but the signs are only appearing now? I don't know what, especially as it all has to be back-dated, but something that the markets, say, only just get hold of now; something buried in the trading figures… would that be possible?"
"I…" Sma said, hesitantly. "I don't know. Ship?"
"Hello?" the Xenophobe said.
"Can we do what Zakalwe just asked?"
"I'll listen to what it was," the ship said. Then, "Yes; best get one of the GCUs to handle it, but it can be done."
"Great," he said, lying back on the bed. "Also, as of now — and again, back-dating where we can interfere with computer records — Vanguard becomes an unethical corporation. Sell the R&D department investigating ultra-strong materials for space habitats and that sort of stuff; have it pick up stock in companies promoting terraforming. Close a few factories; start a few lock-outs; halt all charitable works; skim the pension fund."
"Zakalwe! We're supposed to be the good guys!"
"I know, but if I can get our Governance pals to think I've taken over Vanguard, and I think the way they do…" He paused. "Sma; do I have to spell it out?"
"Ah… ouch. What? Oh… no; you think they might try and get you to convince Beychae that Vanguard's still doing what we want it to do, and so get him to declare for it?"
"Exactly." He clasped his hands under his neck, adjusting his pony-tail. This bed had mirrors on the ceiling above, not a painting. He studied the distant reflection of his nose.
"Long… um, shot, Zakalwe," Sma said.
"I think we have to try it."
"It means wrecking a commercial reputation it's taken decades to establish."
"That more important than stopping the war, Diziet?"
"Of course not, but… ah… of course not, but we can't be certain it'll work."
"Well, I say we do it now. It has a better chance than offering the university those goddamn tablets."
"You've never liked that plan, have you, Zakalwe?" Sma sounded annoyed.
"This one's better, Sma. I can feel it. Get it done now, so they've heard about it by the time I get to the party tonight."
"Okay, but that thing with the tablets…"
"Sma; I've re-arranged the meeting with the Dean for the day after tomorrow, okay? I can mention the goddamn tablets then. But make sure all this Vanguard stuff goes through now, all right?"
"I… oh… ah… yeah, right. I suppose so… so… oh, wow. Look, Zakalwe, something's just come up; was there anything else?"
"No," he said loudly.
"Aww… great. Umm… right, Zakalwe; bye."
The transceiver beeped. He tore it off his ear and threw it across the room.
"Rampant bitch," he breathed. He looked at the ceiling.
He lifted the bedside telephone. "Yeah; can I speak to… Treyvo? Yes please." He waited, dug between two molars with a fingernail. "Yeah; night-clerk Treyvo? My very good friend… listen; I'd like a little company, you know? Indeed… well, there's a largish tip if… that's right… and, Treyvo; if she comes with a Press pass secreted anywhere, you're a dead man."
The suit was vulnerable to a shortish list of comparatively heavy battlefield weaponry, and not much else. He watched the capsule vibrate its way back under the surface of the desert as the suit clasped itself around him. He got back into the car and drove back down to the hotel, just in time to meet the limousine sent by his hosts for that evening.
The cluster's media had been cleared from the hotel courtyard that afternoon, on his instructions, so there was no undignified dive through their lights and mikes and questions. He stood, dark glasses in place, on the steps of the hotel as the great dark car — significantly more impressive than the one he'd almost been killed in that morning, he was somewhat disappointed to note — drew smoothly to a halt. A huge man, grey haired, with a pale, heavily scarred face, unfolded himself from the driver's compartment and held open a rear door, bowing slowly.
"Thank you," he said to the big man as he stepped into the vehicle. The fellow bowed again, and closed the door. He sat back in plushly luxurious upholstery that couldn't make up its mind whether it was a seat or a bed. The car's windows dimmed in response to the lights of the media people as the vehicle exited from the hotel courtyard. He gave what he hoped was a regal wave, all the same.
The evening city lights streamed past; the car thundered quietly. He inspected a package on the seat/bed beside him; it was paper-wrapped, and tied up with colourful ribbons. "MR STABERINDE" said a hand-written note. He brought the suit helmet over, pulled carefully on a ribbon, opening the package. There were clothes inside. He lifted them out and looked at them.
He found a switch on an arm that let him talk to the grey-haired driver. "I take it this is my fancy-dress costume. What is it exactly?"
The driver looked down, took something from a jacket pocket, and manipulated it. "Hello," said an artificial voice. "My name is Mollen. I cannot talk, so I use this machine instead." He glanced up at the road, then down again at whatever machine he was using. "What do you want to ask me?"
He didn't like the way the big guy took his eyes off the road each time he wanted to say something, so he just said, "never mind." He sat back and watched the lights go past, taking the suit helmet off again.
They drew into the courtyard of a large, dark house down near a river in a side-canyon. "Please follow me, Mr Staberinde," Mollen said through his machine.
"Certainly." He lifted the suit helmet and followed the taller man up the steps and into a large foyer. He was carrying the costume he'd found in the car. Animal heads glared from the walls of the tall entrance hall. Mollen closed the doors and led him to an elevator which hummed and rattled its way down for a couple of floors; he heard the noise and could detect the drug-smoke odour of the party even before the doors were opened.
He handed the bundle of clothes to Mollen, keeping only a thin cloak. "Thanks; I won't be needing the rest."
They went out into the party, which was noisy and crowded and full of bizarre costumes. The men and women all looked sleek and well-fed; he breathed in the drug smoke that wreathed the motley figures about him; Mollen led the way through the crowd. People fell silent as they passed, and a babble of conversation started up in his wake. He heard the word «Staberinde» several times.