The Android's Dream, Page 4

  “Just be yourself, Mr. Secretary,” Javna said. Soram smiled wanly and let himself out.

  “Just be yourself,” Heffer said, to Javna. “Nice.”

  “Will all due respect, Mr. Secretary,” Javna said. “The last thing you want at this point is Soram trying to grow a brain. You’ve already got Pope to deal with.”

  “That son of a bitch Heffer,” Pope said, settling into his limo. “He’s got something he’s not telling us.”

  Phipps was reading his mail on his communicator. “There’s nothing new on the State Department comm bugs,” he said. “There’s the one call to Javna right after it happened, but it was from a wireless comm with standard encryption. We’re still working on that. Then there’s Heffer’s office to Soram, telling him to get over to State. After that, nothing.”

  “Have we figured out where Javna went yet?” Pope asked.

  “No,” Phipps said. “His car’s got a locator, but he took the Metro. He used anonymous credit, so we can’t trace him through his card.”

  “You don’t have anything from the security cameras?”

  “Our Metro Police camera guy got fired a week ago.” Pope looked up for this; Phipps put up his hand. “Not because of us. He was doing a little freelance fundraising for the Police Retirement Fund and sending the contributions to his own account. Until we cultivate someone else, we’d have to get a warrant.”

  “Where are those destroyers?” Pope asked.

  “Still docked, one at Dreaden, one at Inspir,” Phipps said. “Both are taking on supplies. It’ll be two or three days at least before either is underway.”

  Pope tapped his armrest and glanced back toward the State Department. “Heffer’s meeting with the Nidu ambassador right now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Phipps said.

  “So where did you put the bug?” Pope asked.

  “You’ll love this,” Phipps said. He opened his folder and handed his boss a copy of one of the intercepts he gave to Heffer.

  Pope looked at the paper, read it. “I know all this already, Phipps.”

  “The paper is the bug, sir,” Phipps said. “It activates when it leaves the folder. The paper picks up sound vibrations through the air and conduction through the desk. It converts the sound into an electrical signal that’s recorded in magnetic molecules in the ink. The data is stored multiple times, so it survives shredding. You just wave a data reader over the paper and the information uploads. All we need to do is read the data before it gets to the incinerator.”

  “And you’ve set that up,” Pope said.

  “The incinerator plant is maintained by Navy, sir. It’s not a problem. The drawback is that the information isn’t live. But State sends a truck to the incinerator every night. We’ll know what they’re talking about soon enough.”

  Pope considered the paper in his hand. “Pretty sneaky shit, Dave.”

  “Your tax dollars at work, sir,” Phipps said.

  “We have a problem,” said Narf-win-Getag, Nidu ambassador to Earth, settling into the chair recently occupied by Ted Soram. As was custom, he did not shake hands upon entering the room. “We think one of your trade representatives intentionally killed one of our trade representatives.”

  Heffer glanced over to Javna, who was handing the Nidu ambassador a cup of tea; both were wearing their best “this is disturbing news” looks. “This is disturbing news,” Heffer said. “We know about the deaths, of course. But we were under the impression that the deaths were coincidental and accidental.”

  “The other members of the trade delegation report that prior to his death, Lars-win-Getag was complaining that he was being insulted through the Devha, which is an ancient Nidu code, transmitted by scent. As you know, we Nidu are extraordinarily sensitive to certain smells. We have reason to believe your representative, this Dirk Moeller, was sending these signals,” Narf-win-Getag said.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Ambassador,” Heffer said. “Our files show your representative had a history of smelling insults when they weren’t there.”

  “You’re suggesting that this was all in his mind, then,” Narf-win-Getag said.

  “Not at all,” Heffer said. “Just that he may have misinterpreted something he smelled as meaning something else.”

  “Possibly,” Narf-win-Getag said. “However, I’ve been instructed by my government to ask for a member of our medical delegation to examine the body of Mr. Moeller. It would clear up the issue of misinterpretation, at the very least.”

  From behind the ambassador, Heffer saw Javna give an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “I wish I could, Mr. Ambassador,” Heffer said. “Unfortunately, Mr. Moeller’s religious practices require a rapid funeral ceremony. I’m afraid the body’s already been sent for cremation.”

  “Unfortunate, indeed,” Narf-win-Getag said. “As this is the case, I’ve been instructed to halt trade negotiations until such time as all present agreements can be reviewed to ensure there have been no other attempts to unduly influence the outcome.”

  “Surely you don’t think the actions of one negotiator—if indeed he acted at all—reflect on the government, and in particular this administration,” Heffer said.

  “As much as we’d like to assume that, I don’t know that we can,” Narf-win-Getag said. “We are of course well aware of the rise in anti-Nidu activity within the government over the years—the small obstructions and objections that add up over time. We had hoped that the Webster administration would root out much of this antipathy and set our two peoples back on the course to friendship. But something like this calls into question the sincerity of your administration’s efforts. The last two administrations were not particularly friendly to my nation, Mr. Secretary, for reasons passing understanding. But at least they didn’t fart one of my diplomats to death.”

  “I’m sure we can work together to resolve this issue, Mr. Ambassador,” Heffer said.

  “I hope so. Indeed, I have a suggestion which will go a long way toward healing this potential rift.” Narf-win-Getag took a sip from his tea.

  “By all means, name it,” Heffer said.

  “As you know, the Nidu are in a time of transition,” Narf-win-Getag said. “Wej-auf-Getag, our Fehen, our leader, died some six of your weeks ago. His son, Hubu-auf-Getag, has been chosen as our next Fehen, and will formally take power in a coronation ceremony about two weeks from now.”

  “Yes, of course. I will be traveling to Nidu for the coronation celebration, as our government’s representative,” Heffer said.

  “How delightful,” Narf-win-Getag said. “As you may not know, when the auf-Getag clan first came to power, it included an element into the coronation ceremony to symbolize the Earth, our great friend and ally.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Heffer admitted. “What was the symbol?”

  “A sheep, Mr. Secretary.”

  Heffer stifled a grin. “A sheep, you say.”

  “Indeed,” Narf-win-Getag said. “At a critical point in the ceremony, a sheep is sacrificed. Usually the sheep is taken from the auf-Getag clan herd. However, within a week of the death of Wej-auf-Getag, the clan herd was wiped out by a genetically modified anthrax bacteria. Obviously, it was sabotage, most likely by rival clans.”

  “Well, we’ve got sheep,” Heffer said. “Hell, in New Zealand the sheep outnumber the people five to one. Why didn’t you let us know sooner?”

  “It would not have been wise to let the enemies of the auf-Getag clan know we were concerned,” Narf-win-Getag said. “We assumed we could easily restock our herd once negotiations were completed. By the original schedule, negotiations would have been completed in the next two or three days, and we could have taken delivery of the sheep with ample time for the ceremony. It was not a crisis situation, or so we thought. But of course, the events of this morning have complicated matters, not in the least because it was at the negotiations between Lars-win-Getag and Dirk Moeller that the sheep quotas would have been determined.”

  “It’s not a pr
oblem,” Heffer said. “You can have as many sheep as you need. With the compliments of the State Department.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mr. Secretary,” Narf-win-Getag said. He learned over and retrieved a display tablet from his briefcase, and placed it on Heffer’s desk. “It can’t be any sheep. It needs to be a sheep of a particular breed, and a particularly rare breed. In fact, it’s a breed that was specially designed for the auf-Getag clan when it came to power; its distinguishing physical characteristic is the color of its wool.”

  Heffer reached over and took the tablet. It was a picture of a sheep, with electric blue wool.

  “The breed is called Android’s Dream,” Narf-win-Getag said.

  “Odd name,” Heffer said, returning the tablet.

  “It has some sort of literary significance,” Narf-win-Getag said, reaching for the tablet, “although I’m not sure how. Be that as it may, the breed design patent was provided to the auf-Getag, in perpetuity, by the designers and the Earth government at the time. Naturally, the auf-Getag clan has been very selective regarding who may work with the breed. Only a very few breeding agreements were allowed, and those were restrictive enough as to make breeding the sheep something of a losing business. So there was not much interest to begin.”

  “You’re saying that no one else breeds Android’s Dream sheep,” Heffer said.

  “We know of one breeder, the original breeder,” Narf-win-Getag said. “On the Brisbane colony. Even though we own the design patent, they were unable to sell their sheep to us directly because of colonial export laws. We planned to ask for an exemption during negotiations.”

  “We can grant that exemption right now,” Heffer said.

  “I am glad to hear it,” Narf-win-Getag said. “But there is another complication to consider. Prior to my arrival here we learned the virus that hit us also hit the breeder on Brisbane. Their entire stock of Android’s Dream sheep is dead or dying.”

  “You suspect that’s not coincidence,” Heffer said.

  “Indeed not,” Narf-win-Getag said. “Whoever spread the virus to Brisbane knows what we know. What we’re hoping is that they might not know what you know. Despite our control of the breed, we do not doubt that somewhere along the way someone got past our limits on the breed. In fact, at this point, that’s what we’re hoping for.”

  “So what do you want us to do?” Heffer asked.

  “We will provide you with the genetic information for the Android’s Dream sheep. We’d like you to find a breeder here on Earth who has one of the breed. A purebreed would be optimal, of course. But so long as there is a certain amount of genetic similarity, that will be acceptable. And we need you to find it within the week. And we’d prefer you do it quietly.”

  Heffer shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m all for the quiet part, it’s the rest of that request that I’m worried about. You presume that we have the DNA of every sheep in the world somewhere in a government file,” he said. “The government has a lot of information, but I don’t think even we have that.”

  “We don’t,” Javna said. “But someone does.”

  Heffer and Narf-win-Getag both shifted their focus to Javna. “Keep going, please,” Narf-win-Getag said.

  “Insurance companies, Mr. Ambassador,” Javna said. “Farmers and ranchers insure their livestock all the time, in case they get hit by a car or struck by lightning or get anthrax or whatever. Most insurers require the farmers put their animals’ DNA on file, so the insurer can confirm the animal actually belonged to the farmer.”

  “So much for trust,” Heffer said.

  “Insurance isn’t about trust, sir,” Javna said. “Anyway, not every sheep in the world is going to have its DNA on file, but enough will that it gives us something to work on.”

  “If we can get the insurers to release their records to us,” Heffer said. “And even then, a week isn’t a lot of time.”

  Narf-win-Getag stood, took his briefcase; Heffer stood up in response. “Time is critical, Mr. Secretary. The coronation must go on according to schedule. You wanted something to improve relations and to make us forget how your negotiator derailed trade talks. This is it. I will have an assistant come by later in the day with the DNA information. Mr. Secretary, you have my faith that you can help resolve this crisis. It would be most unfortunate, for both our peoples, if you could not.” Narf-win-Getag nodded to Heffer and Javna and departed.

  Heffer plopped back into his chair. “Well, no pressure there,” he said. “So how many sheep do you think there are on this planet?”

  “I’m not up to date on my UNEDA estimates, but I’m guessing a couple of billion,” Javna said. “But you only have to look through the ones that are insured. That’ll narrow it down to just several hundred million. Piece of cake.”

  “Glad to see the spirit of optimism is alive and well,” Heffer said.

  “How do you want to do this, Mr. Secretary?” Javna asked.

  “You mean, how do you want to do this, Ben,” Heffer said. “I’m due back in Switzerland in another twelve hours. Then I’m off to Japan and Thailand. I’m a little busy to be counting sheep. You, on the other hand, can stay home and no one will miss you.”

  “Narf-win-Getag said that he wants this to be quiet,” Javna said. “That’s going to be difficult.”

  “How difficult?” Heffer asked.

  “Very difficult. Not impossible, just difficult. We have to be creative about this.” Javna was quiet for a moment. “How much latitude do I have for this, sir?”

  “Are you kidding? Short of strangling babies, do what you need to do. Why? What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that the best way to handle this so that it doesn’t explode into a crisis is to hand it off to someone who doesn’t know it’s a crisis. Someone smart enough to work the problem but low-profile enough to slip under everyone’s radar. And I do mean everyone’s.” Javna nodded at the intercepts lying on Heffer’s desk.

  “You know someone like this?” Heffer said.

  “I do,” Javna said. “The guy I have in mind could do it. And he owes me a favor. I got him a job.”

  “Anyone I’d know about?”

  “No, sir. He’s pretty low-profile. ‘No-profile’ would be more like it, actually.”

  Heffer snorted. “I thought I knew all the smart young kids in this department.”

  “Not everyone’s looking to be Secretary of State by the time they’re thirty, sir.”

  “Good. Because I’m sixty-seven and I like my job, and I want to keep it a little bit longer. So get going with this.” Heffer reached into his desk, hauled out the tube, and slid it over to Javna. “While you or your friend are counting sheep, see if you can figure out where the hell this came from and who made it. Quietly. Whoever put this together can tell us things. Things I think we need to know.”

  “Yes, sir.” Javna took the object and pocketed it.

  Heffer reached over, snatched the intercepts off his desk, and yanked out his trash basket with the shredder on top. “And whatever you do, make it fast. Between the Nidu and Pope, I get the distinct feeling of time ticking. I don’t want either of them knowing more than we know. You think your friend can keep us ahead of them?”

  “I think so, sir,” Javna said.

  “Good,” Heffer said, and fed the intercepts into the shredder.

  It was close to midnight when Dave Phipps got on the blue line train at the Pentagon, with a copy of The Washington Times to keep him company. He switched over to the orange line, riding it to its terminus at the Vienna-Fairfax stop. He got out and found himself alone on the platform except for a middle-aged guy in a ratty Washington Senators cap, sitting on one of the benches.

  “Hey, can I borrow your paper?” the guy asked. “I’ve got a long ride into town.”

  “I will if tell me why you wear that disgusting cap of yours,” Phipps said.

  “Call it an affectation,” the guy said.

  “You know the Senators haven’t been
good for years,” Phipps said.

  “The Senators have never been good,” the guy said. “That’s part of their appeal. They’re the second most pathetic team in the history of baseball and would be first, if it weren’t for the fact that they go out of business every couple of decades and give the Cubs time to lengthen their lead. Now are you going to give me the goddamn paper, or do I have to push you in front of a train and take it from you?”

  Phipps grinned and handed over the paper. “I was Special Forces, Schroeder. You’ve never been anything but soft, Ivy-league lobbyist. It wouldn’t be me underneath the wheels, pal.”

  “Talk, talk, talk,” Jean Schroeder said. “Maybe so, Phipps. Maybe so. And yet, look at which one of us is schlepping his sorry ass to Virginia to give me a newspaper.” Schroeder fished through the paper. “So where the hell did you hide the transcript, anyway?”

  “The comics page,” Phipps said.

  “Oh, very nice,” Schroeder said, changing sections.

  “It’s mostly about sheep,” Phipps said. “Apparently they’re looking for a particular breed.”

  “Android’s Dream,” Schroeder said. “I know. They’re not likely to find it. It’s my understanding that the breed has been wiped out.”

  “You have something to do with that?” Phipps asked.

  “I just know many things,” Schroeder said.

  “They’re looking for it anyway,” Phipps said.

  “So I read,” Schroeder said. “Or more accurately, would read, if someone would shut their yap hole long enough for me to concentrate.” Phipps grinned again and fell silent. Schroeder read.

  “Interesting,” he said when was finished. “Futile, but interesting. Still, it wouldn’t be smart to underestimate Heffer and Javna. Heffer got Webster elected, after all, and that really put a ding in our plans. And Javna counts as half of his brain. You guys have no idea who it is Javna’s talking about?”