No Going Back (16 page)

He thought for a few seconds before saying, “I shall make a few inquiries.”

When he came back, he said, “I’ve taken the liberty of booking you a suite here.”

He showed me a holo of the Little York Inn, a plain light blue permacrete building with no name or logo other than a small gold metal plate near the front door. Its motto, “The pinnacle of luxury and security,” spun around the bottom of the holo. He pulled back and showed me its location on a map; it was only a few kilometers farther from the Pimlani estate than my initial choice.

“If it is to your liking, I’ll have them send round a vehicle for you and your purchases.”

“It is,” I said. “Please do.”

Before he could ask, I opened a payment area in my wallet and handed it to him.

He entered the cost. “This should cover your stay, all incidentals, and any necessary transportation tomorrow. They will credit us, and we will then credit you any surplus.”

I approved it. “No need,” I said.

The shuttle that arrived from the Inn did its best to appear inconspicuous, but you simply can’t mask that much armor and luxury. I liked, though, the contrast between the plainly dressed man who had left the landing zone where Lobo waited and the presumably affluent one who climbed quickly into the Inn’s transport.

Once alone and inside the vehicle, I relaxed a bit. As we headed to the Inn, I told myself that all I had to do was meet a woman I’d loved over twelve decades ago, convince her I was as ancient as she was, and escape without incident, all the while hoping one of the most powerful men in this section of the human worlds hadn’t caught up to me.

That was all.

I turned on my comm, which I’d kept off all day. It immediately signaled that Lobo had been trying to reach me.

As soon as I arrived at the Inn and they’d set the lock to recognize me, I stepped outside. Three men wearing nicer suits than anything I owned except what they were carrying began transporting my purchases to my room. I walked a block and a half down the street. When I was sure I was alone, contacted Lobo.

“Where have you been?” he said.

“Getting to know the terrain,” I said, “and doing some shopping so I’m dressed appropriately for tomorrow. You?”

“Working.”

“On what?”

“Gathering data about Pimlani, seeking out data footprints to see if Kang has any trackers on us—you know, what you asked me to do.”

“So we’re both doing what we said we would be.”

“The difference,” Lobo said, “is that I’ve found something important.”

“Which is?” When I left him alone too long and circumstances permitted it, he’d sometimes make me beg for information. I didn’t enjoy the game, but I also didn’t have a lot of alternatives.

“I found a medtech office with weak security and was able to access some of their data,” Lobo said. “They assisted on a call involving Pimlani.”

“Is she dead?” Had I come all this way at her request and arrived too late?

“No,” Lobo said. “Quite the contrary. Though she’s now bedridden and alive only because machines are operating her body, her mind is fine, and she’s in no immediate danger. Their records suggest she could live for years this way.”

I shook my head and smiled. She had always been tough. It figured she still would be.

“So it’s definitely a trap of some sort,” I said.

“That is the most likely deduction,” Lobo said, “though of course there is always the chance that she wants to hire us. Those who do rarely leave clear messages.”

“So it’s almost certainly but not definitely a trap,” I said.

“Yes. What are you going to do?”

I could explain again that I felt I owed her, but there was no point in repeating myself; Lobo already knew that. What I couldn’t tell him without revealing my true age was my increasing concern about why Omani even thought I was still alive. She wouldn’t have planted those messages everywhere if she didn’t believe they might reach me. I needed to find out what she knew about me.

“I’m going to see her tomorrow,” I said. “We’d expected it might be a trap and planned accordingly, so this changes nothing.”

“I disagree,” Lobo said. “Before, we believed it was likely to be dangerous. Now, we know it’s almost certainly risky.”

“We’re quarreling over percentages,” I said. “Let’s not waste the time.”

“I had to try,” Lobo said, “to stop you from taking yet another stupid, potentially fatal risk.”

I ignored the jab. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said, “per the plan, right before I enter her estate. You be ready to come get me if I need it.”

“Of course,” Lobo said.

I disconnected and turned off the comm.

As I walked back to the hotel, I wondered the same thing over and over: Omani, what game are you playing?

122 years ago

York City

Planet Haven

CHAPTER 21

Jon Moore

T
he day I last saw Omani Pimlani, her father was dying.

We were supposed to meet after I finished my shift at my place for a run and then dinner. I’d gone home to shower and found the message from her.

“Call me as soon as you get this.”

No pleasantries, no name, and panic in her voice. She’d left it three hours earlier.

I called her. Her image appeared on the comm a second later. She was walking, her comm’s image-correction software unable to correct for all the disruption.

“Jon,” she said, “where have you been? Why didn’t you call earlier?”

“Work,” I said. “You know I don’t take my comm there. I don’t carry anything I could break.” My latest job was on a construction project with a lot of pre-built pieces. We helped the machines guide them into place, and we finished the joints by hand so no seams were visible. We were constantly getting hit by heavy objects in motion, so we’d all learned not to carry anything breakable in our pockets if we could avoid it. “What’s wrong?”

She stopped walking and held the comm close, so her face filled its display. “It’s my father.”

“Was he hurt?”

“Not exactly. We found out he’s dying. Some virus they don’t know how to kill is consuming his neural sheaths.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I’d had few contacts with him in the more than a year since we’d first met, but those had been cordial, if not warm. He wasn’t a warm man. I had the sense, though, that in at least some ways he respected me, and after that initial meeting, he’d always made me welcome. “How long does he have?”

“That’s tricky,” she said. “They believe his body might last as much as a year. His mind might have far less time. It all depends on what the virus does, and they have little experience with it. Of course, if they can find a cure...”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. I had no idea what else to say.

“I need you here, Jon,” Omani said. “Now. We have to talk.” She paused. “I need you.”

“Your call,” I said. “Do I come now as I am, or do I shower first?” I pulled the comm away from me and scanned it over my dirt- and dust-covered clothing.

She laughed. “Definitely shower first. We have a lot to discuss, and I don’t think I want to sit with you for long if you smell as bad as you look right now.”

I sniffed the air like a dog. “Good choice.”

She laughed again.

“I’ll see you within the hour,” I said.

* * *

When I reached the Pimlani estate, the man who opened the gate sent me straight to Mr. Pimlani’s office on the top floor. My stock must have risen at least somewhat, or they were all incredibly distracted, because no one escorted me. It was the first time I’d been alone in the house. Curiosity tempted me to look around, but Omani had said twice that she needed me, so I almost ran through the house and to the elevator.

She was waiting for me when the elevator doors opened.

I opened my arms for a hug, and she fell against me. I held her tightly for a minute before she pushed away.

“Let’s go inside,” she said.

I followed her into the huge space, down about two-thirds of its length, and off to a small reading area on the left. Three chairs clustered around a small table. They offered a great view of the front of the grounds.

She motioned to the chair on the right.

I sat.

She took the center chair, pushed it close to me, and sat. We were so close that our knees touched. She leaned forward and held out her hands.

I took them in mine.

We sat in silence for a bit. She looked up at me every now and then, and then back at her knees.

“Do you have nothing to say?” she said.

“I figured you would talk when you were ready,” I said. “I don’t know what I can say given how little I know.”

She shook her head and sighed. “I’m sorry. For as long as I’ve known you, I’ve understood that you rarely need to talk. I’m just upset and trying to collect my thoughts.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “I can wait. I’m here.” I really didn’t know what to say, but reassurances seemed appropriate.

She released my hands and sat back in her chair.

I also leaned back.

“I’ve spent most of today with my father,” she said. “I have so much to go over with you that I’m not even sure where to start.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “You don’t have to be organized.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t a healthy laugh. It was high-pitched and nervous, as if the sound might at any moment crack and she might go with it. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong,” she said. “I do, I very much do need to be organized, and I don’t know if I can handle it.”

“Why?” I said. “You said he had months, and the doctors might be able to concoct a cure.”

“To try to slow the virus, they’re going to put him on a lot of medicines. Every day they delay doing that increases his risk of dying. He’s determined to live, so he’s going into their care tomorrow. From tomorrow on, I’m in charge of his holdings.”

“That must be a very big job,” I said, “though I confess I have no sense of what it is that he did. Does.”

If she noticed my slip, she didn’t say anything. “It kept him busy all the time,” she said, “and he knew what he was doing. I have no clue.”

“He must have people who can help you.”

She nodded. “Oh, he does, and they will, but if there’s one thing you learn growing up with money, it’s that everyone wants some of it, and everyone has their own agendas.”

“I don’t,” I said.

She leaned forward and patted my leg. “Except you. Everyone except you. That’s one of the many things I love about you.” She sat upright again. “Which is why I’d like you to quit your job and come help me.”

I couldn’t speak for a few seconds. “I know nothing about any of this,” I said, “as you know, and I was serious when I told your father I didn’t want anything from him. This is yours, not mine.”

“Again,” she said, “I know that, which is one of the reasons I’m asking you. I also know I can trust you to look out for me. And, you’re smart, though for reasons I’ve never understood—but never questioned, you know that—you like to work jobs that don’t use your brain. Most of all, though,” she leaned forward again, “if we’re going to stay together, as I hope we are, this will all be ours eventually anyway. We might as well get started together now.”

The prospect certainly had its appeal, and I had considered the possibility before. Being part of one of the richest families on one of the richest worlds was something most people would jump at. I rarely told her—the words never came easily to me—but I knew in my heart that I loved Omani very much. I could imagine spending a life with her.

Other factors, though, made it far too risky for me to settle here with her. Keeping a low profile while going out with Omani had been difficult, and we never went anywhere the newstainment people frequented. Maintaining privacy would become impossible if we were married. If anyone from Aggro or the government that had sponsored it was still searching for me, I would become very easy to find.

I’d also encountered another problem recently: I’d realized I wasn’t aging. I’d known for some years that the nanomachines in my cells automatically and quickly healed anything that happened to me. Only in the last couple of years, though, had I noticed that nothing about my looks ever changed. I was the same now, at thirty-five, as I’d been at twenty-eight. Whatever let the nanomachines heal me also appeared to stop me from aging. Right now, no one noticed, though Omani had made a few comments. In five more years, though, or ten, or twenty, eventually it would be impossible to ignore.

“Say something, Jon,” she said. “You must have known we’d have this talk one day.”

I nodded. “I did, but I hadn’t expected it to be today.”

“Neither had I,” she said, “obviously, but this is where we are. I’ve always had to take the lead in our relationship, and I don’t mind doing it now, but circumstances neither of us could have foreseen have left us at a decision point.”

I nodded again but had nothing to say—or, more accurately, I thought, nothing I could safely say.

When I stayed silent, she continued. “There’s something else, too, Jon.”

“What?” I said, eager for the diversion. Anything else was bound to be easier.

“What little they know about the virus is that it appears to share some programming with some aspects of aging. They’re doing research now comparing his normal cells, those the virus has attacked, and the cells of some younger people. The hope is that they can learn something they can use to help slow the virus while they figure out a way to kill it. They’ve taken cells from me. They’ve also collected some samples from young children in the hospital—at no cost or risk to them, of course. They’re using only cells from blood and tissue samples they had to take in the course of treating the kids anyway. I’ve also insisted we pay the full cost of treatment of any child that contributed a sample.”

“That makes sense,” I said, though I didn’t mean it. I wondered if anyone had asked the children or their families, or if they’d had any real choice. I also feared what was yet to come. I felt sick in the stomach and hoped she would stop.

“I suggested they take a sample from you,” she said.