PAPA DON'T 'LOW

Part 4 of 4

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright 1992

 

An acrid reek seared through Alice's head, and she snapped awake, coughing.  When the racking subsided, she became aware of an enormous pain filling her whole head, but pulsing outward from a spot on the back.

"So sorry to jolt you from your slumbers with so bitter a smell."

She looked up, startled, and the pain pulsed harder.  She blinked away tears and saw, through a film of moisture, the chairman standing before her, immaculate in a gray pinstriped suit, fingers caressing a fob on the end of his vest chain.  She sat in a pool of light, just barely able to see beyond the chairman's form.  She could make out plain stone blocks and nothing more.

"However, the matter is rather urgent," the chairman went on.  "I really could not wait for you to awaken naturally."

Alice mustered her courage and tried to stand, but jolted against bindings.  Looking down, she was astonished to see that she was tied into a chair.

"Quite necessary, I'm afraid," he said, "because you're apt to try to move about rather violently when we commence."

She stared up at him, the first feelings of terror blooming inside.

The chairman stepped up, caught her hand, twisted it over, and slammed it down on the metal arm.  Alice cried out.

"Go ahead," he urged her.  "We're quite alone—and quite far underground, beneath my office.  Private elevator, don't you see."

He pressed the fob against her wrist and she felt a coolness.  It wasn't a fob—it was a hypodermic jet.

She stared at her wrist, numb, then began to feel very light-headed.

"There's no point in trying to hold anything back," he told her.  "The drug is very effective.  All I have to do is mention a topic and you'll tell me everything you know about it.  More than I want to know, probably.  Now—Colonel Pepe Stuart."

"I met Pepe at a friend's house.  He walked me home, and I told him how I was worried about the bubbles in the pig iron..."

On she went, and on and on—but inside, she was horrified to hear herself telling every detail about herself and Pepe, every detail.  For once, she was grateful to him for not giving her anything terribly carnal to talk about.

But she babbled everything she'd told him.

"Me," the chairman suggested, and she was off again, gibbering, babbling.  She talked and talked, until it was all told.

Then, as she sat panting, the chairman's eyes narrowed, and his face paled.  He drew a short metallic stick out of a pocket and swung it at her temple.

 

* * * * *

 

Consciousness nudged her, and she thrust it away.  But pain bored in, and she had to face the fact that she was once more aware.  She was about to force her eyes open when she realized the chairman was talking.

"Those were not the terms of our agreement.  You contracted to provide transportation away from Arista whenever I chose!"

A warbling falsetto answered him—Hothri speech.  Over the trill came the vocodered words of a translator.  "It is no longer expedient to arrange your escape."

Carefully, Alice opened her eyes the tiniest bit, peeking through her lashes, and could just barely make out his shadow in front of a glowing screen—a screen that showed the image of a Hothri.

"Such an attempt would be detected," the alien explained, "and it is quite possible that the ship would be eliminated.  It could result in the deaths of several Hothri."

"Then you must risk it!"  The chairman's face was red with anger.  "You made a binding commitment!"

Even through the throbbing pain in her head, she felt panic at the thought that she was missing this.  Summoning the tiny remnants of her will, she pulled with all her strength.  The artificial arm tensed, strained—and the rope that bound it snapped apart.

The chairman didn't notice.  "You contracted for sabotage and information!  In return for information regarding weapons research, your agent would deposit bullion in an anonymous account on Aries!"

"Such has been done," the translator answered over Hothri piping.

Trembling, Alice brought her artificial wrist near her real fingers, and pressed the patch that started the camera.  Then she pointed her index finger at the chairman and lowered the arm, resting it on her real one.  She hoped he was in the field of view.

"What good are millions on Aries, if I cannot go there to draw them?" the chairman snapped.  "In return for my assuring the production of defective weapons, you contracted to provide for my escape!"

"For your escape, when the Hothri conquered Arista," the alien reminded him.  "That event has not yet transpired.  When it does, we will happily provide you transportation to Aries."

"Yes, so that I can provide further services for you there!  But do you not realize that I will not be able to do so if you do not remove me from Arista at once?  The Navy is alerted to my activities; they will find some manner of proof!  No trail can be covered completely!  My transmissions to you must have been noted and logged, scrambled or not!"

"Come now, dear Chairman."  The Hothri was enjoying itself.  "If you have been discreet, nothing can be proved."

"Proof is not needed—only grounds for suspicion!  They will remove me from office, at the least!  I will no longer be able to aid you, in retirement!"

"That is regrettable," the Hothri admitted.  "But if so, it is not in our interest to aid you in any way."

"I have adhered to our agreement!"  The chairman began to sound frantic.  "I have produced as many defective weapons as I could manage!  I have sent you word of every bit of weapons research undertaken!"

"You have indeed," the Hothri confirmed, "but by your own admission, your usefulness is ended.  You can no longer assure defective weapons, or provide information, on Arista—and surely, your disappearance here would confirm suspicion and negate your usefulness on Aries."

"I will assume another identify on Aries!  I will invest heavily in their defense industries; I will rise in their ranks until I am once more privy to secret information!"

"You will not," the Hothri contradicted.  "Your record will not bear scrutiny.  No, dear Chairman, I am afraid you can be of no further use to us.  Farewell."

The screen filled with multi-colored snow.  The chairman spun away from the screen with a curse.

And saw Alice's arm pointing at him.

The gun was in his hand before she knew it; the flat, sharp crack filled the room before she could cry out.  The tearing pain seared through her chest; but, as consciousness dimmed for good, she saw a rectangle of fire behind the chairman, saw him whirl as the door fell to ashes, and saw a familiar form filling the doorway with flame jolting from his hand.

 

* * * * *

 

The chairman recognized Pepe, and his teeth writhed back in a snarl.  The pistol in his hand cracked again, and Papa rocked as the bullet slapped into his armor—but he fired a moment later, and the chairman slammed back against the wall.

Men began firing behind Pepe, and bullet after bullet slapped into the chairman, jolting the body—but Papa was no longer there to see.  He had spun aside to kneel by Alice's chair, knife slitting her bonds.  His heart turned over at the sight of the bruise next to her ear, then turned to ice as he saw the red stain around the hole in her chest.  He grappled her out of the chair and touched her neck, feeling for the jugular for a pulse...

"He's very dead."  The Intelligence man came up behind Papa.  "Must have known we were onto him.  But he didn't guess how quickly we'd picked up his transmission, or recognized it as Hothri encoding."

Papa didn't answer.

"Sorry we doubted."  The other Intelligence man came up behind the first.  "You were right to make us keep a radio watch on this..."

Then he saw Alice, and stopped.

The first Intelligence man reached down to touch Alice's arm.  "She has a camera in there, you know.  It's still on."

"You can turn it off now," Papa said.

The Intelligence man reached down to press the switchpoint.  "He wasn't ready for us.  He couldn't guess that we could trace his transmission and find him so fast."

"Not fast enough," Papa said.

The Intelligence man frowned at something in Papa's voice, and looked more closely.  When he saw the tears in Papa's eyes, he shut up.  Finally.

 

* * * * *

 

"Ms. Biedermann was buried with full military honors."

The screen showed Alice's coffin, draped with a flag, framed by the honor guard firing their salute.

The midday patrons shut up, staring at the screen in mute respect.

"Her heroism in recording the final proof of the chairman's guilt cannot be overstated."  The picture dissolved into the chairman's profile, seen from the back, lit by the screen in front of him with its image of the Hothri operator.  "Here, again, is the evidence for which she gave her life, evidence of the treachery that cost so many lives."

The sound came up, and once again Papa heard the damning words, already burned into his brain, but all of which told him, again and again, that he had come too late.

The bartender took one look at his face and lowered the volume.  A patron or two looked up to protest, caught the bartender's tight shake of the head, and turned back to watch the screen, sobered.

The door wheezed open, clicked shut, and the general stepped up to Papa's table.  He stood, staring down at the bulky man hunched over his glass with a half-full bottle by his elbow.  Finally, the general said, "Can I sit?"

Papa lifted his head slowly, frowning, then waved toward a chair.  "Sure.  Why not?  It's a public place."

The general sat slowly, laying his hat on the table.  He waited until Papa looked up at him again, then said, "The Senate met right after the broadcast last night.  They talked nonstop till dawn."

Papa's mouth quirked into a bitter line.  "Talk!"

"They decided not to nationalize the defense industries," the general said.  "It was close, though."

"I don't really care," Papa told him.

"They did decide that all industry would have to be run by tight government controls," the general said.  "Very tight.  They voted to establish a Board of Industry to oversee everything about them, Colonel Stuart.  Everything."

"A little late, don't you think?"

"They want you to resign your commission," the general said.

Papa looked up, his mouth a hard, bitter line.

"They want you to head the Industry Board," the general explained.

For a long, long minute, Papa just sat there, staring.  Then, slowly, he relaxed, hunching over the glass again.

"That's great," he muttered.  "Just great."

And he took another drink.

 

THE END