Foster, Alan Dean - Cyber way

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This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been previously published.

CYBER WAY

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

HUNTING HISTORY

Ace edition / May 1990

Cover art by James Oumey.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-13245-6

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York

10016-

The name "ACE" and the "A" logo are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 987654321

This book is dedicated to the young Dineh 1 have met, in the hope that they may enjoy seeing a

little of their past through the future.

This book is dedicated to the Elder Dineh, With respect.

Prescott, Arizona May, 1989

If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you

doubt, as far as possible, all things.

—Rene Descartes

Principles of Philosophy, 1644

CYBER WOT

CHRPTER

THE POLARIZED BUBBLE glass in the window turned Greater Tampa into a fish bowl. It was a view

which never failed to please Kettrick, and why not? He'd worked hard to earn it.

By rights he shouldn't be where he was. For years engineers had insisted anything over thirty-five

stories high built within a half mile of the beach would eventually begin to sink into the saline

muck that was coastal Florida, The bubble glass that lined his office was on the fiftieth floor.

So much for engineering. There was sufficient solid ground here, just as there were always solid

business opportunities. That had been one of his father's many mottoes. Nobody was better than the

old man when it came to digging up business. The actual construction work he left to his son.

Whenever Kettrick thought of his father it was always with fondness. The old man had fought

bravely against the weak heart which had killed him early, leaving the company to his son.

Kettrick had built on that, just as he'd built this impossible structure on this inadequate land.

From the fiftieth floor you could see far out into the Gulf. Like a sheet of pressed sky, the lazy

blue water stretched westward until it melted into a pale white horizon. Inland

2 fllan Dean Foster

lay the industrial corridor that crawled northeast to Orlando, framed and constrained by the

greenbelts which offered sanctuary to wildlife, recreation to workers, and salve for the

consciences of those who had built the plants. Southward somewhere lay the eternal Glades, still

surviving in spite of the pollution. Nature could be a tough old bitch.

Kettrick had seen pictures of early Florida. Flat two-dimensional images recorded on paper, old

videotapes reconstructed for mollystorage. Cypress and pine, swamp and mud. Funny how the wildlife

had adapted. Blue herons, snowy egrets, gators, and manatees thrived in the city parks as lustily

as in the Glades themselves. The three gators who made their home in the indoor garden of this

very building had never expressed any desire to move on.

Man adapts to the world, and the world adapts to man. The only thing man couldn't seem to adapt to

was himself, which was why Kettrick had pushed the security switch the instant his unannounced

visitor had appeared. He appraised, then relaxed, seeing no weapon, sensing no threat. Security

personnel would arrive momentarily. Had he been truly concerned, he would have thumbed the red

button instead of the orange one disguised as an inlay in his desk. Concealed nozzles would have

buried the intruder in a shell of quick-drying immobilizing foam.

Kettrick knew mere was no need to employ such measures. No need, because he recognized the

intruder. Silently he vowed that this would be the last time he would indulge this particular

individual. Even the traditional Kettrick courtesy had its limits, and these had now been

exceeded.

No need to be nervous. His visitor was not psychotic. Merely obsessed.

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The man gazed at the door through which he'd entered, as if aware his time was limited. Then,

before speaking, he turned to nod at the sweeping panorama visible through the bubble glass behind

the desk.

"I can see that you are an admirer of the natural order.

CYBER UJflY 3

It causes me to wonder anew why you will not sell me the picture."

"My love of beauty is what attracted me to the picture in the first place," Kettrick replied. "Why

would I want to turn it over to you? We've been through this before. I thought I'd made it

perfectly clear that I never sell anything from my collection. I told you that the last time."

"I needed to hear it from you again. There is always a first time. I must have the painting."

Since he had not invited him to come in, Kettrick did not invite him to sit down. He left him

standing, convinced that the man posed no immediate threat- Kettrick chuckled to himself. Now, his

son-in-law, the gargantuan white boy his daughter had married, that was a threatening personality.

Cody had to be, since by profession he played backup nose-guard for the Bucs. This irritation who

had burst into his office was only a little more than average height and of slim build. Hardly an

imposing physicality. Kettrick thought that the man's straight black hair was exceptionally dark

even for an Amerindian. The industrialist found himself wondering if Indians could tan. The

intruder's clothing was simple and utilitarian.

All you really noticed were the obsidian eyes. You noticed mem because they didn't notice you.

They seemed to be focused on something behind Kettrick even though the man was gazing directly at

him. Odd. Nor was his visitor out-grabed. He was much too coherent for that. There was no telltale

clouding of the corneas, no nervous trembling in the fingers. Though come to think of it, this

fellow did hold his hands in a strange fashion, with the fingers curved back and up like hooks. Or

like paws.

He could be wrong, and although he wasn't an expert, Kettrick knew an addict when he saw one.

Friends of his son-in-law were always hinting that it would be nice if he could obtain the latest

designer steroids for them. All be-

M Rlan Dean Foster

cause a small chain of drugstores was included among his diverse holdings.

Of course he refused all such requests, no matter how oblique. Should it come out in the media, a

single such story could harm the business, not to mention his social standing in the community, in

which be took considerable pride. He had no intention of risking any of that simply to do a favor

for some of his son-in-law's buddies or even to improve the team, on whose behalf he annually

expended far too much money for season tickets. Of course the company paid for those, but still...

Strange face it was, and not only because of those eyes. It was sharp of side, like a piece of

dark marble whose rough edges had been hacked off but not yet polished smooth. High cheekbones,

nothing anywhere soft or rounded, the result a perpetually questioning expression. Lines ran from

the base of his nose up into his forehead, which was itself unlined. The crow's-feet at the

corners of the eyes seemed transplanted from someone far older. What might appear to some as

arrogance was in truth only preoccupation. It was as if this stranger were too busy with his

thoughts to pay much attention even to the conversation he had begun.

A single earring of silver and blue, as pure as the Gulf outside the window, called attention to

one ear. He bad yet to smile. Kettrick studied the strange visage and decided it was an expression

foreign to this face. In contrast to the dark hair, his eyebrows were astonishingly light—almost

not there. The few wispy hairs seemed to grow flush with the skin. He stood with a slight slouch,

as though suffering from curvature of the spine. After a while Kettrick realized there was nothing

physically wrong with his visitor. It was simply his natural stance.

And all the while, he kept the fingers of both hands curved up and backward. At any moment

Kettrick half expected

CYBER UJRY 5

him to drop to all fours and approach on his knuckles. Distant he was, yet intense.

Well, if he was wrong about him, there was always the red button in case the visitor made a sudden

move toward his host. Kettrick's fingers tapped on the desk close to the false inlay.

What might he be besides a truly odd duck? A collector like himself? Collectors could be fanatics.

Where the hell was Security, anyway?

"You've gone to a lot of trouble to force your way in here just to hear the same thing I've been

telling you over the phone. So one more time: the picture is not for sale."

"You won't even discuss price with me?"

Kettrick gestured expansively at his surroundings. "I presume that by now you have some idea of

who I am. Whatever you might offer me, I've no need of it, and I must add you don't look like you

could offer much. If it's any consolation to you, the amount wouldn't matter. I don't sell

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anything out of my collection."

For a long moment the visitor did not reply, just stood mere staring at Kettrick with those

obsidian eyes. It made the industrialist uneasy, though he was careful not to show it.

"Suppose that I was the richest man in the world," the visitor said suddenly. "Suppose that I

could offer you anything and everything you ever dreamed of."

Kettrick smiled condescendingly. "But I already have everything I ever wanted. A fine family,

grandchildren, even a moderately famous son-in-law. I live out in the Gulf in a grand house that's

half above and half below crystal clear waters. Business is good, the economic climate for the

next year even better. I head one of the few corporations in Florida that has no tariff war with

the EEC and we're free reciprocals with the West African Economic Union. I even like my work. So

why should I part with something I love just for money?"

6 fflan Dean Foster

Kettrick saw the fingers of his visitor's right hand flexing. So, he could move more than his

mouth and legs.

"I understand. I will bother you no longer about buying the picture. It is clear I cannot persuade

you. I will manage without the painting itself if you will let me have one copy of it. Holo, vid,

still flat color anything wUl do."

Kettrick's patience was running out. He had work to do. "If you're anything of a collector

yourself, you must know I can't allow that. If it was just up to me, I'd say sure, go ahead. But

it would cost me my insurance. Regulations forbid reproductions. Nothing to do with you

personally, but once you let reproductions of items you own out in public, potential thieves have

a way of finding out what you own that's worth stealing. It lets mem steal to order. It's an

annual problem at museums. My collection stays private and out of the public eye." He leaned

forward curiously. "In fact, I'd give a lot to know how you found out about mis particular piece.

"ft does not matter," said the visitor quietly.

"It matters to me."

"If I tell you, will you let me make a copy of the painting?"

Kettrick shook his head. Pity. The fellow seemed intelligent enough. He just had one big blind

spot where the painting was concerned.

He wasn't through. "It belongs with me. It is a part of my heritage, not yours. You don't know

what you have."

"Yes, I do. I have a beautiful, special, and according to you yourself, a most unique piece of

primitive art. It fits in very nicely with the rest of my collection. As for it not being a part

of my particular ethnic heritage, my collection contains primitive art from all over the world. I

have my share of African and early Black American art, yes, but also work from China, Tibet, and

most of the South Pacific. I'm sure there must be hundreds, thousands of reproductions of this

particular type of art widely available in public coir

CYBER UJRY 7

lections for your perusal. Why not content yourself with some of them?"

"There is no other like this one."

"So you say. I've only your word for that. Again, it doesn't matter. The painting stays in my

collection, and my collection stays private until I decide to donate it or tour it some day. At

that time, and only at that time, you can take all the pictures you want—along with everyone

else."

"That is no help to me. I need the image now."

"I can't help what you need."

"I have told you mat it has to do with my religion."

"Again, I've only your word for that. Even so, you're not part of some official delegation seeking

its recovery. You're an individual acting on his own with motives of his own. For all I know,

you're just another collector who wants a copy of my painting for your own personal use. Who do

you think you're dealing with here, friend? This isn't downtown. We're not dealers swapping

formula on the street."

The visitor shifted his weight but not his stare. "This is the fourth time I have made this

request of you. You cannot refuse me a fourth time."

Kettrick couldn't keep from chuckling aloud. "That's one of your customs, not one of mine. I'm not

bound by it. You can make all the requests you want. It won't do you any good. Is four a special

number for you?" It was not necessary for the visitor to reply.

"Well, in this case it's a special number for me too, because this is the last time I'm going to

talk to you."

The three men from Security had entered so silently that Kettrick hardly noticed their arrival. If

the visitor had, he did not acknowledge their presence.

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"Now I happen to be a very busy man," Kettrick explained, "and you'll excuse the cliche', because

in my case it happens to be true. So I'll only say this once more. I've given you rather more of

my time man I intended to. You've used k all up, bom on the phone and in person. It's clear

Rlan Dean Foster

you've come a long way and so I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that

you're a collector or lover of primitive art like myself, and not a thief.

"If you bust in here again like you did a little white ago, I'll have you arrested. The jails here

in the Bay are as modern as you'll find anywhere—but sometimes the air treatment systems do break

down, and even though it's almost spring, I still think you'd rind mat kind of environment

unpleasant. Also, Florida is kind of a seine for the East coast, a net that stretches from St.

Pete to Miami, and we catch all kinds of Caribbean sludge in it. A lot of crazyboys high on

abbreviations that represent chemical combinations you don't want anything to do with. Pupapapas

peddling Brazilian and Peruvian babies. Snuff-film importers. Great guys to share a holding cell

with.

"You take my advice and go back where you came from. Concentrate your energies on a different

piece of art."

"I cannot do that," the visitor said softly. "The enterprise I am engaged in requires precision

and timing. I need mis particular piece, or a copy, and I cannot wait any longer."

"That's too bad." Kettrick gestured slightly and two of the security guards moved forward until

they were flanking the visitor. One of them put a big hand on the man's shoulder. He ignored it.

"Then I suppose I will have to find some way to work around your intransigence."

"That sounds like the sensible thing to do," agreed the industrialist, nodding and smiling.

The security team escorted the stranger out of Kettrick's office. From the rear the visitor looked

like a splinter of black oak embedded in a mass of white flesh. Kettrick felt sorry for the guy.

Under different circumstances the two of them might have spent an enjoyable evening together

discussing early American art. Not that he'd been especially friendly. Distant without actually

being impolite.

No, his attitude would have ruled out dinner. Sarah

CYBER UJflY 9

wouldn't have liked him. She preferred people whose eyes met your own. Kettrick knew she wouldn't

cotton to someone who daydreamed while you were trying to hold a conversation with them.

That business about not being able to refuse a fourth request would probably mean something to an

anthropologist. It meant nothing to Kettrick. That was one of the pleasures of being a wealthy

collector. You could affect an attitude of great knowledge without having to go to the trouble of

actually acquiring it, because all of your friends knew infinitely less about the subject than you

did.

CHflPTER

MOODY DIDNT LIKE leaving his car. In the patrol cruiser be felt safe and protected from an

uncompromisingly hostile world, encased in armored flexan and carbonate, coddled by air

conditioning, lunch, the drink dispenser, and as many other creature comforts as the department

could pry out of the taxpayers by claiming they were vital to ongoing police operations. It was

unfortunate, but every now and then he had to leave his office and get in the car, and less

frequently, abandon the car to work in the real world. There were two real worlds as far as Moody

was concerned: the one he worked in and the one he fled to as often as possible. All they had in

common was that both were located on the same planet.

You had to leave the car to net outgrabed crazyboys, or interview witnesses, or check the backbays

for waterstriders trying to run pharmecuties up from Koobah or Whackara-gua. At least the

waterstriders made life exciting, though things had quieted down some since Haiti had become a

U.S. Territory, providing the DBA with an ideal base from which to monitor flights out of SudAm.

There was a rumor the striders were using trained porpoises to bring the stuff right into the bay.

The bastards never gave up. You could

12 fllan Dean Foster

almost admire then- persistence and ingenuity, until the first time you saw some eleven-year-old

outgrabed on sizzle, standing over his dead six-year-old sister with a bloody kitchen knife in his

hand, the familiar feral glaze in his eyes and that horrid unknowing grin on his face. A couple of

encounters like that would kill any admiration for the stri-ders.

Moody had suffered through more than a couple.

Nobody, including the Interdiction Corps, had actually found a porp running drugs. That didn't

mean they didn't exist. Only that they hadn't been caught. The detective wondered if you could

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hook a porp on pharmacuties. He wouldn't put anything past a damn strider.

It was so very different from Mississippi. In many ways the Sip was much nicer than Flo-ree-dah:

quieter, friendlier, laid-back and relaxed. Less need to flinch when someone approaching you on

the street reached into his coat. It was also a helluva lot duller, he reminded himself. Which was

why after graduating from the Academy he'd moved to the Greater Tampa area with his first wife.

His appraisal of his prospects in West Florida had been borne out by quick advancement. He'd also

lost his wife, married a second time, and lost her as well, along with the physical conditioning

he'd acquired at the Academy.

Every year when the regular examinations came round he always managed to shed just enough poundage

to scrape by, subsequent to which profuse ingestion of beer rapidly returned him to the rotund

form to which his colleagues had become accustomed.

Another reason for his early move to Florida had been a misplaced desire for excitement and

sophistication. What a letdown to discover that in a highly charged urban environment those were

only euphemisms for more degenerate forms of crime. He stayed anyway.

He could have joined a Mississippi department but without ever enjoying the prospect of rapid and

regular pro-

CYBER UJflY

motion, simply because there weren't as many people to police. Nevertheless, he was surprised when

he'd made detective. His background and lack of personality worked against him, not to mention the

fact mat he was no ass-kisser like half the kids in the department.

What he did have was a dogged, pit-bull persistence that insisted no case was unsolvable, no

mystery too convoluted to crack. When others gave up, he persevered. Turn out to be right a few

times in such matters and even disinterested higher-ups take notice. Apparently one or two had

done just that. His was an attitude that would have been a hindrance on a SWAT team but which in a

detective was a positive attribute.

Even after his unexpected promotion they rarely threw any of the glamour jobs his way. That suited

Moody just fine. He didn't like seeing his picture on the vid, because he took a lousy picture. If

someone stuck a vocup in his face he became helplessly inarticulate. When not assigned to the

street he actually enjoyed being stuck at a desk, accessing the mollys with his desk spinner,

doing the tedious, boring, dirty bits of police work that never made the evening news. He abhorred

publicity. If a vid wit showed up at the station asking questions about a case he happened to be

involved with, Moody always managed to find a colleague willing to usurp his place in the

spotlight. No wonder his fellow officers loved him.

An officer who actually enjoyed mollywork was an invaluable component of whatever police

department happened to be fortunate enough to have the use of his services. Moody knew he could

have hooked on with any department in the country. Maybe that was why he'd received the unexpected

promotion. No matter. He was comfortable enough in Greater Tampa, just a good of Southern boy with

maybe ''•} a few more brains than his buddies back home and a few | less man some of the men and

women he worked with daily.

Whatever they thought of him privately, none of them

W Rlan Dean Foster

ever called him out in public. Because if you were caught making fun of Vernon Moody, why then

when you needed his services he might decline to sit down and do the weeks of tedious research

vital to your case. Moody's work had probably been responsible for more promotions than any other

single factor in the department. So if any of his fellow cops laughed at his background or his

girth, they did so well behind his back.

Only the insecure were guilty of that. The majority respected Moody and his abilities. He

socialized readily if quietly, and had made a few casual friends—easygoing types like himself. He

wasn't the only one in the department content to parlay his off-time into a few beers, a ball

game, fishing trips to the Glades, or the company of women not too much younger than himself. In a

department aswarm with ambitious hares, the presence of a happy tortoise or two was more than

welcome.

It helped too that Moody's appearance was not threatening. He looked fat, slow, and stupid.

Striders and ninlocos had discovered to their dismay that in the detective's case, appearances

were more than slightly deceiving.

Despite his usefulness on the street, he much preferred spending his time at his desk, sieving the

departmental molly spheres, researching and preparing reports. You didn't have to be smart to use

a spinner. Just persistent and good at following directions. The ability to follow directions had

extracted him from a din-poor existence in Mississippi, had made him a detective on the largest

police force in Florida. He enjoyed the respect of his peers, the admiration of the folks back

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home, a decent income, and the prospect of a comfortable retirement if some nameless crazyboy

didn't someday expunge his guts on a filthy downtown back street. None of that could help him now.

No vehicles were allowed on Steel Key, not even those representing municipal authorities. The call

which had come in demanded that he

CYBER WRY

leave his office. Now he was forced to abandon his beloved cruiser as well.

Was a time when there 'd been no barrier islands between Honeymoon Key and the Anclote Refuge.

Then the gulf waters had been forced to make way for Steel, Steadman, Briarwood, and Cypress Keys.

Artificial islets all, built of fill dredged from the gulf bottom and fortified with vitamins and

minerals. Not to mention polycrete and titanium. Rich imported soil from the mainland provided

regular employment for a small army of gardeners, and Bahamanian sand fringed each island like

vanilla cream on a wedding cake.

There were no bridges to die artificial keys. Instead they were connected to the mainland and to

one another by a tube which ran from Steel to just south of Tarpon Springs. Though fragile in

appearance, die tube was in fact far more stable and secure than any roadway. Come a hurricane,

Moody would much rather be trapped on artificial Briarwood than organic Caladesi. The latter was

composed solely of natural materials, and no matter what the ecoengineers said, he'd take titanium

over pulverized coral any day.

It was unusually hot and humid for March and Moody was sweating as soon as he stepped out of the

cruiser. One of the pleasures of being a detective was that he was allowed to wear plainclothes on

the job, but the special light fabrics he wore could evaporate only so much of a body's moisture.

Bad enough to be doomed to a physique like the Graf Zeppelin's but why did the Good Lord have to

add to the tribulations of die plump by making them sweat three times as much as everyone else?

He knew he was luckier than some. Beer gut aside, he didn't look obese, just big. He'd been told

that if he gave up beer he could lose the gut. But giving up beer would've meant giving up a large

chunk of whatever it was that comprised Vernon Moody. Shoot, he'd even miss being the butt of

familiar jokes around the station. Besides which, it

Rlan Dean Foster

would mean an end to his fishing. A man could sooner fish without tackle than without beer.

He controlled his irritation while he waited for the tube system's web to process his police ID.

From a security standpoint it was far from perfect—anyone could still land a boat on one of the

perfect, groomed key beaches. But it kept the small-time thieves 'from having easy access to the

respected, wealthy ones.

He stepped up into the air-conditioned tube car gratefully, punched in the address, and settled

back in the padded seat as the maglide accelerated over the intracoastal waterway. As it neared

Steel Key it began to slow, shunting onto an alley lane, to finally deposit him outside one of the

contemporary mansions that faced the sea. Since none of the artificial keys was more than two lots

wide, builders had the choice of facing the Gulf or the mainland. Of course "lot" was a relative

term when speaking of property on the artificial islets.

The rube shunt and a quaint, meandering walkway ran down the cento" of the key. There was also a

paved, lightly banked road for the use of those who might want to bicycle or powerskate. No

motorized vehicles allowed, lest they disturb the tranquillity of those who had paid immense sums

to leave such noises behind on the mainland.

Gonna be a hot summer, he thought to himself as he stepped clear of the maglide car and headed for

the gate opposite, resenting even brief exposure to the climate of Central Florida.

Though cars were absent, there was no dearth of activity. Scavengers from the Coroner's office

were working the vine-scribed walls and flower beds. One was intently scrutinizing the trunk of a

transplanted coconut palm which grew hard by the opaque blue-green glass barrier that surrounded

the Kettrick compound. They were looking for heel marks, or indications of forced entry. Likely

was a forced entry, he mused. Usually was, when murder was involved, though

CYBER UJRY

you could never be certain. Perhaps the killer had arrived by parachute or hanglider, or had

scubaed onto the beach. Or burrowed through the soil like a gopher.

They must be pretty sure it was homicide, though, or they wouldn't have called him in.

The patrolman on duty at the gate recognized him and let him through. He found himself walking

through an immaculately maintained tropical garden, following a crushed coral path toward the

house. An airborne mist-maker drifted past on its appointed rounds, moistening a dense clump of

bright purple orchids and pungent bougainvillea. Moody was unimpressed. Downtown Tampa stank of

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Foster, Alan Dean - Cyber way

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