Gods and Pawns (40 page)

I had the Hush Field Unit activated before I came anywhere near him, and it was a good thing. There was still a light on in his bedroom. I tiptoed in warily all the same, hoping Marion wasn’t there.

She wasn’t. She slept soundly in her own room on the other end of the suite. I still froze when I entered Hearst’s room, though, because Marion gazed serenely down at me from her life-sized nude portrait on the wall. I looked around. She kept pretty strange company: portraits of Hearst’s mother and father hung there too, as well as several priceless paintings of the Madonna and Child. I wondered briefly what the pictures might have to say to one another, if they could talk.

Hearst was slumped unconscious in the big armchair next to his telephone. Thank God he hadn’t been using it when the Hush Field had gone on, or there’d be a phone off the hook and a hysterical night operator sending out an alarm now. He’d only been working late, composing an editorial by the look of it, in a strong confident scrawl on a lined pad. His dachshund was curled up at his feet, snoring. I set it aside gently and, like an ant picking up a dead beetle, lifted Hearst onto his canopied bed. Then I turned on both lamps, stripped off Hearst’s shirt, and took out the medical kit.

The seal hissed as I broke it, and I peeled back the film to reveal…

The wrong medical kit.

I stared into it, horrified. What was all this stuff? This wasn’t what I needed to do routine heart repair on a mortal! This was one of our own kits, the kind the Base HQ repair facilities stocked. I staggered backward and collapsed into Hearst’s comfy chair. Boy, oh boy, did I want some Pep-O-Mints right then.

I sat there a minute, hearing my own heart pounding in that big quiet house.

All right, I told myself, talented improvisation is your forte, isn’t it? You’ve done emergency surgery with less, haven’t you? Sure you have. Hell, you’ve used flint knives and bronze mirrors and leeches and…there’s bound to be something in that kit you can use.

I got on my feet and poked through it. O.K., here were some sterile Scrubbie Towelettes. I cleansed the area where I’d be making my incision. And here were some sterile gloves, great; I pulled those on. A scalpel. So far, so good. And a hemostim, and a skin plasterer, yeah, I could do this! And here was a bone laser. This was going to work out after all.

I gave Hearst a shot of metabolic depressant, opened him up, and set to work, telling myself that somebody was going to be in big trouble when I made my report to Dr. Zeus…

Hearst’s ribs looked funny.

There was a thickening of bone where I was having to use the laser, in just the places I needed to make my cuts. Old trauma? Damned old. Funny-looking.

His heart looked funny, too. Of course, I expected that. Hearst had a heart defect, after all. Still, I didn’t expect the microscopic wired chip attached to one chamber’s wall.

I could actually taste those Pep-O-Mints now. My body was simulating the sensation to comfort me, a defense against the really amazing stress I was experiencing.

I glanced over casually at the medical kit and observed that there was an almost exact duplicate of the chip, but bigger, waiting for me in a shaped compartment. So were a bunch of other little implants.

Repairs and upgrade. This was the right kit after all.

I set down my scalpel, peeled off my gloves, took out my chronophase, and opened its back. I removed a small component. Turning to Hearst’s phone, I clamped the component to its wire and picked up the receiver. I heard weird noises and then a smooth voice informing me I had reached Hollywood HQ.

“This is Facilitator Joseph and
what the hell is going on here?
” I demanded.

“Downloading file,” the voice replied sweetly.

I went rigid as the encoded signal came tootling through the line to me. Behind my eyes flashed the bright images: I was getting a mission report, filed in 1862, by a Facilitator Jabesh…assigned to monitor a young lady who was a passenger on a steamer bound from New York to the Isthmus of Panama, and from there to San Francisco. She was a recent bride, traveling with her much older husband. She was two months pregnant. I saw the pretty girl in pink, I saw the rolling seas, I saw the ladies in their bustles and the top-hatted guys with muttonchop whiskers.

The girl was very ill. Ordinary morning sickness made worse by
mal de mer
? Jabesh—there, man in black, tipping his stovepipe hat to her—posing as a kindly doctor, attended her daily. One morning she fainted in her cabin and her husband pulled Jabesh in off the deck to examine her. Jabesh sent him for a walk around the ship and prepared to perform a standard obstetric examination on the unconscious girl.

Jabesh’s horrified face: almost into his hands she miscarried a severely damaged embryo. It was not viable. His frantic communication, next, on the credenza concealed in his doctor’s bag. The response:
PRIORITY GOLD
, with an authorization backed up by Executive Facilitator General Aegeus. The child was to live, at all costs. He was to make it viable. Why? Was the Company making certain that history happened
as written
again? But how could he save this child? With what? Where did he even start?

He downloaded family records. Here was an account of the husband having had a brother “rendered helpless” by an unspecified disease and dying young. Some lethal recessive? Nobody could make this poor little lump of flesh live! But the Company had issued a Priority Gold.

I saw the primitive stateroom, the basin of bloody water, Jabesh’s shirt-sleeves rolled up, his desperation. The Priority Gold blinking away at him from his credenza screen.

We’re not bound by the laws of mortals, but we do have our own laws. Rules that are never broken under any circumstances, regulations that carry terrible penalties if they’re not adhered to. We can be punished with memory effacement, or worse.

Unless we’re obeying a Priority Gold. Or so rumor has it.

Jabesh repaired the thing, got its heart-bud beating again. It wasn’t enough. Panicked, he pulled out a few special items from his bag (I had just seen one of them) and did something flagrantly illegal: he did a limited augmentation on the embryo. Still not enough.

So that was when he rolled the dice, took the chance. He did something even more flagrantly illegal.

He mended what was broken on that twisted helix of genetic material. He did it with an old standard issue chromosome patcher, the kind found in any operative’s field repair kit. They were never intended to be used on mortals, let alone two-month-old embryos, but Jabesh didn’t know what else to do. He set it on automatic and by the time he realized what it was doing, he was too late to stop the process.

It redesigned the baby’s genotype. It surveyed the damage, analyzed what was lacking, and filled in the gaps with material from its own pre-loaded DNA arsenal. It plugged healthy chromosome sequences into the mess like deluxe Tinkertoy units until it had an organism with optimal chances for survival. That was what it was programmed to do, after all. But it had never had to replace so much in a subject, never had to dig so deeply into its arsenal for material, and some of the DNA in there was very old and very strange indeed. Those kits were first designed a hundred thousand years ago, after all, when
Homo sapiens
hadn’t quite homogenized.

By the time the patcher had finished its work, the embryo had been transformed into a healthy hybrid of a kind that hadn’t been born in fifty millennia, with utterly unknown potential.

I could see Jabesh managing to reimplant the thing and get the girl all tidy by the time her gruff husband came back. He was telling the husband she needed to stay off her feet and rest, he was telling him that nothing in life is certain, and tipping his tall hat, good day, sir, and staggering off to sit shaking in his cabin, drinking bourbon whiskey straight out of a case bottle without the least effect.

He knew what he’d done. But Jabesh had obeyed the Priority Gold.

I saw him waiting, afraid of what might happen. Nothing did, except that the weeks passed, and the girl lost her pallor and became well. I could see her crossing at Panama—there was the green jungle, there was the now visibly pregnant mother sidesaddle on a mule—and here she was disembarking at San Francisco.

It was months before Jabesh could summon the courage to pay a call on her. Here he was being shown into the parlor, hat in hand. Nothing to see but a young mother dandling her adored boy. Madonna and child, to the life. One laughing baby looks just like another, right? So who’d ever know what Jabesh had done? And here was Jabesh taking his leave, smiling, and turning to slink away into some dark corner of history.

The funny thing was, what Jabesh had done wasn’t even against the mortals’ law. Yet. It wouldn’t become illegal until the year 2093, because mortals wouldn’t understand the consequences of genetic engineering until then.

But I understood. And now I knew why I’d wanted to turn tail and run the moment I’d laid eyes on William Randolph Hearst, just as certain dogs cowered at the sight of me.

The last images flitted before my eyes, the baby growing into the tall youth with something now subtly different about him, that unearthly voice, that indefinable quality of endlessly prolonged childhood that would worry his parents. Then! Downloaded directly into my skull before I could even flinch, the flashing letters:
PRIORITY GOLD
.
REPAIR AND UPGRADE
. Authorized by Executive Facilitator General Aegeus, that same big shot who’d set up Jabesh.

I was trapped. I had been given the order.

So what could I do? I hung up the phone, took back my adapter component, pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, and took up my scalpel again.

How bad could it be, after all? I was coming in at the end of the story, anyway. Eighteen more years weren’t so much, even if Hearst never should have existed in the first place. Any weird genetic stuff he might have passed on to his sons seemed to have switched off in them. And, looking at the big picture, had he really done any harm? He was even a decent guy, in his way. Too much money, enthusiasm, appetite for life, an iron will, and unshakable self-assurance…and a mind able to think in more dimensions than a human mind should. O.K., so it was a formula for disaster.

I knew, because I remembered certain men with just that kind of zeal and ability. They had been useful to the Company, back in the old days before history began, until they had begun to argue with Company policy. Then the Company had had a problem on its hands, because the big guys were immortals. Then the Company had had to fight dirty, and take steps to see there would never be dissension in its ranks again.

But that had been a long time ago, and right now I had a Priority Gold to deal with, so I told myself Hearst was human enough. He was born of woman, wasn’t he? There was her picture on the wall, right across from Marion’s. And he had but a little time to live.

I replaced the old tired implants with the fresh new ones and did a repair job on his heart that ought to last the required time. Then I closed him up and did the cosmetic work, and got his shirt back on his old body.

I set him back in his chair, returned the editorial he had been writing to his lap, set the dog at his feet again, gathered up my stuff, turned off the opposite lamp, and looked around to see if I’d forgotten anything. Nope. In an hour or so his heart would begin beating again and he’d be just fine, at least for a few more years.

“Live forever, oh king,” I told him sardonically, and then I fled, switching off the hush field as I went.

But my words echoed a little too loudly as I ran through his palace gardens, under the horrified stars.

Hearst watched, intrigued, as Lewis slid the Valentino script behind the panel in the antique cabinet. With expert fingers Lewis worked the panel back into its grooves, rocking and sliding it gently, until there was a click and it settled into the place it would occupy for the next four centuries.

“And to think, the next man to see that thing won’t even be born for years and years,” Hearst said in awe. He closed the front of the cabinet and locked it. As he dropped the key in his waistcoat pocket, he looked at Lewis speculatively.

“I suppose you’re an immortal, too, Mr. Kensington?” he inquired.

“Well—yes, sir, I am,” Lewis admitted.

“Holy Moses. And how old are you?”

“Not quite eighteen hundred and thirty, sir.”

“Not quite! Why, you’re no more than a baby, compared to Mr. Denham here, are you?” Hearst chuckled in an avuncular sort of way. “And have
you
known many famous people?”

“Er—I knew Saint Patrick,” Lewis offered. “And a lot of obscure English novelists.”

“Well, isn’t that nice?” Mr. Hearst smiled down at him and patted him on the shoulder. “And now you can tell people you’ve known Greta Garbo, too.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lewis, and then his mouth fell open, but Hearst had already turned to me, rustling the slip of paper I had given him.

“And you say my kitchen staff can mix this stuff up, Mr. Denham?”

“Yeah. If you have any trouble finding all the ingredients, I’ve included the name of a guy in Chinatown who can send you seeds and plants mail-order,” I told him.