Queen of Angels (3 page)

Please pass, oh pass when night is on your middle ground This flower from hand to hand Tell each night Its had Its chance We need day to spread our arms.

That one might seem rather obvious, no? But we are warned by Doctor Atkins that these are not deeply symbolic poems and do not express AXISs desires for any particular circumstance, such as a warm, close star. Now for the second poem.

This Is not what we had To say In different words That wise day Wisdom played Its shatter game Cut Its track and called For what had fled,

Perhaps not great poetry, but not bad for something not even human, and tucked into a vehicle the size of an oceangoing yacht. Viewers may hazard a guess as to which poem Is machine, which Is biologicaL by calling the number below my finger. Well tally the total rights and wrongs over the next hour and report them... direct to you.

EXAMINER: We are still far from the end of this list. Our cases are backed up for centuries...I am not familiar with the crimes of these three. CLERK: One is Hyram Sapirstein, one is Klaus Schiller, one is Martin Bormann. EXAMINER: I remember Mr. Bormann. Youve been before this court before, have you not? BORMANN: Yes. EXAMINER: For outrages against your own kind. BOR MANN: Yes. EXAMINER: What crime is he accused of this time? CLERK: "Outraging Hell, sire. EXAMINER: But these other two... are they contemporary? CLERK: Human, sire, twenty-first century. EXAMINER: Humans were made to learn quickly, not to take ages, like angels and demons. Havent they Learned their Lessons yet? (No reply.) EXAMINER: Im afraid weve run out of tortures appropriate for crimes of these sort. Not to mention space. Send them back. Ci.eRx: Sire? EXAMINER: Send them back to their own kind. Let the living find the best ways to punish their miscreants. Open the gates of Hell, and push the damned through them, one by one!

5 Madame de Roche was tired by noon and the faithful removed themselves from the house, all but Fettle whom she requested to stay behind. By twelve thirty the old stonecool house was quiet. Madame de Roche ordered her arbeiter to bring glasses of iced tea for them both. The sleek black machine walked on four spider legs through the dining hail into the kitchen. Have you published yet, Richard? she asked him as they sat on the veranda looking across a dusty green and gray canyon at the rear of the house. No, Madame. I do not write for publication. Of course not. + Teasing me. Shes in a smooth. Your story made quite an impression. We were all fond of Emanuel Goldsmith. I knew him quite well when we were younger, when he was writing plays. Did you know him then? No, Madame. I was a lobe sod. I met him thirteen years ago. Madame de Roche nodded then shook her head, frowning. Please. We both remember a time when language was civilized. Your pardon. Was the pd certain Goldsmith was the murderer? They seemed to be, Richard said. She put on a contemplative air, arms limp on the wicker rests of her peacock chair. That would be a most interesting thing, Emanuel a killer. He always had it in him, I thought, but it was a crazy thought. I never voiced it... until now. You were an acolyte, were you not? You admired some of his women? I was a sycophant, Madame. I admired his work. Then youre sad about this. Surprised. But not sad? she asked, curious. If he did it. then Im furious with him. Its a betrayal of all the untherapied. He was one of our greats. Well be hounded till our deaths, our styles will be degraded, our works shunned. That bad. Richard nodded almost hopefully as if anticipating the ordeal. This transform pd you met... She was not negroid, you say, but she was black. Oriental in some features, Madame. Black nemesis. Id like to meet this woman sometime ... Elegant, composed, I presume? Very. One of the therapied? I would think so. She had the air of the combs. There was once a time when police, public defenders, were underpaid, lower class. I remember, Madame. They probably enjoy coming into the shade. Emanuel lived on the third foot of East Comb One, Madame. She nodded, remembering. I wouldnt worry if he is caught and convicted, she said, voice light as down. He was never really one of us. Untherapied, yes, but a natural needs no such thing. We are none of us naturals, my dear. We are merely untherapied. Our badge of mock protest. Oh, no. Emanuel will dishonor a much higher category than ours. Madame de Roche dismissed him and his spirits fell immediately he was outside the door. + More and more I am nothing without someone. To be alone is to be in bad company. Richard paced one yard this way one yard that on the root heaved concrete. Five minutes after a signal from his beeper another little rounded white autobus hummed into the eucalyptus screen and opened its wide doors. Destination, the bus asked him, voice pleasantly androgynous. + People. A place that brings an end to a rough. Richard gave an address in Glendale on Pacific, an avenue leading to and in shade of East Comb Three. A literary lounge where home brew could be had and most important of all where he would not be alone. Perhaps there he could tell the tale again maximum effect maximum purgation. + Black nemesis. Work on that. One hour, the bus told him. So long? Many calls. Please come aboard. Richard boarded and took a strap.

Moses came down from Horeb, hair on fire with God, Gods soot around his lips where he had eaten the pwasy leaves of the burning bush, his humanity blasted from him, leaving him like carbon steel touch him he might ring, and contemplated his future. A leader of men. And women. He sat near his dear wife Zipporah in the dark and cursed his misfortune. Men didnt know what they wanted, or how to go about getting it They did whatever came into their minds first. They hated at the drop of a hat and spurned love because they feared being taken advantage of. They leaped into violence before an angel could blink, and then called their murder and destruction valorous, and boasted of it and wept while drunk. And women! Did not carbon steel deserve something more? Give me a glorious task, Lord, away from this rabble. And that was when God descended and was sore vexed with him, making the land outside their tent quiver. Zipporak daughter of Jethro said, Moses, Moses, what have you done now? I have thought unworthy thoughts/ Moses said, hoping that was enough to mollify God, but the landscape turned bloodred and the sky filled with bloody clouds. Moses, even carbon steel, was afraid. Zipporah came upon the clever expedient of lopping off their poor sons foreskin, touching Moses with the blood, and then the door frame. Stay away from my husband! she cried. Hes a good man. Take my son, but not my husband! Moses hid behind the daughter of Jethro and understood clearly the weakness of his people.

6

Mary Cboy came back to the frozen apartment at thirteen, having been off six hours, barely time for catnap vinegar bath and paperwork. She had requested full time for this case and was certain she would get it. Some of the victims still entombed had been identified and they were goki and platinum names, students, sons and daughters of the well known and influential. She put on a thermal suit in the cubide erected outside the hall door, ordered the seal breached and stepped into the blue cold. A radio assayer hung from the track mounted in the apartment ceiling, having replaced the sniffer. Dustmice pushed through the cold stiff tendrils of once live carpet searching for skin flakes and other debris trapped in the carpets custom digestion. They had already found traces of all victims and Emanuel Goldsmith; there were traces barely thirty six hours old of four other visitors. Mary surveyed the solid spattered sadness of young bodies one by one saying her professional farewells. The names, in order of death: Augustin Rettig Neona White Betty-Ann Albigoni Ernly Jeeger Thomas Finch and three unidentified. Rettigs mother was general manager of North Comb One. Whites father owned Workers Inc the Pacific Rims biggest temp employment agency representing some twenty three million therapied and natural lobe sodsthe cream of the crop. Workers Inc had approached Mary in her pretransform youth. She had turned them down. West Rim pds worked through Human Expedition Ltd and even in her raw youth she had known where she was going. Betty-Ann Albigoni was the daughter of a publisherbooks the file said, more lit than vids; Goldsmiths major English language publisher. Thomas Finchs uncle was counsel to High Reach, general chandlers for suborbitals. Ernly Jeeger was Emanuel Goldsmiths godson a promising poet on his own also known for an eloi sympathizer and borderlaw activity in whole-life vids. A dim red light mounted on her shoulder pointed wherever she turned her eyes. Livid cold. The assayer tracked quietly overhead like a legless insect and passed into another room. Finch the last killed lay on his back like a broken cross, face slashed throat cut jagged sideways from jaw to opposite clavicle open eyes rimed white. It was spatch that pd didnt sympathy a crime. Mary knew in brain and crawl of skin each frozen peeled back wound frightened dead glare of white eyes and cropped corpse grimace. This was her motivation for excellence. She would know the murderer and organize for a full-therapy conviction, restructuring if called forand the pd would call for it. If Goldsmith was the murderer as seemed most likely now so be it; the LitVids would have her and the pd all over the world. But she would smooth those waters when they rippled. What she had officially come back for was a context search, a look at Goldsmiths files. The room where Goldsmith kept his office had no bodies in it and had already been assayed. She could enter and make her search. Pd, metro and federal warrants allowed her to investigate most aspects of Goldsmiths life as per the Raphkind amendments not yet removed by President Yales year old block appointed court. She did not personally agree with the Raphkind amendments but she was not in the least reluctant to take advantage of them. What could not be found here might be found in Citizen Oversighta journey she hoped she would not have to make. Goldsmith was not a tidy man. She inclined her head in the inflated tube helmet and surveyed his desk. Reasonable models of slate and keyboardno gold plating or wood box. Cold crackers and half glass of frozen wine. Crumbs. Pens fiber-tip and what did they call them fountain. She wondered where he got them. A sweep of some hand or arm had fanned a short stack of printoutsnot erasable cyclers old fashioned in themselves but actual papers written on by handacross the black marble top. Cubes marched to the edge of the desk in tandem and lay below on the floor. Minds eye she saw a hand palm them two by two from a boxan empty cubefile lay nearbyand click them in pairs on the desk then pass aimless over the edge, dropping four. The gesture of a dramatically distracted man. She bent to pick them up. Each cube projected a tiny label in cold green into her eyes. The Progress of Moses, The Way of the New, Debit/Asset, the cubes informed her artlessly not concerned with who she might be. Doubtless Goldsmiths works in solid state. Not a man to crypto his data his work. One work per cube was surprising for pure word; perhaps they were LitVid adaTh tations for the half literate. LitVid sales would explain Goldsmiths place high on the third foot. She had heard of Emanuel Goldsmith before this case. An occasional guest on the allnight cable talkers celebrated more for his youthful output. Not currently productive. Mary Choy planned to remain productive well past a century but she allowed as her plans might be young and naive. A pd could not rest on laurels. Salary not royalties. There were real books on his shelves. She did not pull them down but with an uninformed eye guessed their age at eighty to a hundred years. Expensive, a luxury both in money and space for this information dense age. The World Reserve Library could be stacked in space held by Goldsmiths fifty or sixty paper volumes. What she specked was unorganized uncontemporary inefficient, what one might presume of a poet; but the scatter of cubes on desktop and floor pointed to a greater disorganization, a careless personal moonstrike. A closure. She held up her slate to read the inprog. Sloughed cell and fiber analysis and assay of the office area showed no entry but for Goldsmith. Whatever socials he had conducted, none had entered this sanctum. Goldsmiths frame of mind had been disturbed before the murders, she posited. He had not entered his office after the murders. Another possibility as yet not eliminated by the total radio assay: that Goldsmith did not occupy the apartment during the murders. Unlikely. Reaching out she shifted a skewed half inch pile of paper and saw an airline confirmation billet and a document of different color beneath. She picked out the billet. A roundtrip to Hispaniola dated two days beforethe day after the murder. Had the ticket been used? She marked a memo on her slate to check the airline: NordAmericAir. The other document was a letter real paper again beige stock gold stamping; stationery of the rich and eccentric as atavistic as real books. Marys eyes widened reading the engraved head and the signature. Colonel Sir John Yardley. Authentic? The inprog reported nothing. The papers had been disturbed only for chemical and bio clues; it was her task to make a context beyond that. She lifted the letter, three gloved fingers on each hand vising perpendicular the opposite edges of the stiff thick sheet. She read it up close. Typed on an oldfashioned electric impact printer perhaps even a typewriter. Dated and stamped Hispaniola, Yardleys name for his conquest, formerly Dominican Republic and Haiti. Dear Goldsmith, 28 November 2047 Whatever the circumntanoes, we will be most pleased to receive you. Ermiono charmed. Its rare to meet unbypoorittcaa agreement now. I particularly enjoyed our letters In book form and Moses and appreciate your signature dedicatory. I can only hope what we do here helps this old world lift itself by its bootstraps into sanity. Yours, as ever, Colonel Sir John Yardley Hispaniola Mary replaced the letter carefully as if it were a snake.

I do not aspire. I be.

7

Martin hadnt eaten so well in six weeks, when he had seen the end of his savings. He refused to go on shade dole; his application for Municipal Assistance had not been processed perhaps because of official disfavor or ineptitude; civil service was the last well-paid refuge for the untherapied. Now in a cool dark booth with crushed velvet upholstery, holding a reservation card in one hand and a whiskey sour in the other, he felt less disdainful of civilization, closer to the human race. A note on the back of the card said, Go ahead and eat. Well be half an hour late. Regrets. Lascal. They were precisely half an hour late. Martin had no doubt he was seeing his benefactors when a taB heavy shouldered man with wavy gray hair and a short hawk nosed fellow with a restrained pompadour stepped into the lounge. They knew him either by the table or on sight. Mr. Albigoni, this is Martin Burke, hawk nosed Lascal introduced. They exchanged handshakes and nothing comments on the decor and weather. Albigonis heart and mind were clearly elsewhere. He seemed stricken. Lascal was either genuinely cheefful or able to mask his feelings. Ive just had a fine lunch, Martin said. Now Im worried I may not be able to help you. No fear, Lascal said. Albigoni looked at him squarely but said nothing, his long gray mustache a negative hyperbola over firm pale lips. Lascal handed their menus to a waiter and ordered for both of them. He then spread out his hands for Martins benefit: concealing nothing. Do you know Emanuel Goldsmith? he asked Martin. I know of him, Martin said. If were talking about the same man. We are. The poet. He murdered Mr. Albigonis daughter three nights ago. Martin nodded as if he had just been informed of a minor peculation in book publishing. Albigoni continued to stare at but not see him. Hes a fugitive, a very sick man, mentally, Lascal continued. Would you be willing to help him? How? Martin avoided taking a sip from his drink though he fingered the glass. Mr. Albigoni wasis-Mr. Goldsmiths publisher and friend. He bears him no ill will. Lascals voice did not skim so easily over this prepared statement. Martin subdued the raising of an eyebrow. Lunch was becoming quite surreal. Now that Goldsmith is mentally very disturbed, perhaps insane, wed like you to help him. Wed like to find the roots of his illness. Martin shook his head at the archaisms. I told you, Im no longer connected with IPR. I have been told Albigonis stare suddenly came alive. He saw Martin. Lascal glanced at his boss then turned head and shoulders to Martin as if making a wall to protect Albigoni from outside forces. We can arrange for your return, and for the facilities to be reopened. I dont want to work there again. I was kicked out for doing work I knew was entirely reasonable and valuable. But you didnt go about it in a reasonable fashion, Albigoni said. I do not know what is reasonable when politics mixes with science. Do you? Albigoni shook his head slowly bemused again barely listening. Goldsmith needs to be probed, Lascal said. He isnt in custody I take it. No. Hesitance. Not yet. We need to know what turned him into a murderer. He needs legal therapy not a probe. His problem goes beyond therapy, Albigoni said jaw clamping on the downbite between words. A therapist would fix him or change him but that isnt what I want. I need to know. Here a flash of angry fire. He killed eight people. Friends. Of his. Including my daughter. And his own godson. They did him no harm. They were no threat to him. It was an act of deliberate and calculated evil. Its only been a couple of days Martin said. In theory, could you probe Goldsmith and tell us what caused him to murder his young friends? Lascal asked. A silver plated arbeiter and a human waiter delivered their food, the arbeiter carrying the tray on its flat back. The waiter asked if Martin wished to have another drink. He declined. Im not being told everything, Martin said with a sigh. Gentlemen, I appreciate your hospitality, but We cant explain it all until were sure youre very interested, and will agree, Lascal said. Tough situation, Martin said. Youre our best chance, Albigoni said. We are not above pleading with you. You would be richly rewarded, Lascal said. I think you want me to help you break into the IPR, put Goldsmith in a probe triplex and find out what makes him tick. But the IPR has been closed down. Thats clearly impossible. It is not. Lascal picked at his farmshrimp salad. Martin lifted his eyebrow dubiously. First you would have to find Goldsmith, then persuade the state and federal government to reopen IPR. We can and will reopen IPR, Albigoni said. lascal glanced between them uneasily. Paul, I dont care whether I live or die right now, and the possibility that Mr. Burke will go to the federals means little to me. What does Carol Neuman have to Please listen to me, Albigoni said. After he murdered my daughter and the seven others, Emanuel Goldsmith came to my penthouse at Airport Tower Two in Manhattan Beach. He confessed to his crimes and then he sat on my living room sofa and asked for a drink. My wife is on an anthropological retreat in Borneo and doesnt know. Nor will she know until.., the probe is completed and I can explain why he did it to her. If you conduct the probe I guarantee that IPR will be reopened, that you will return as its director and that you will have sufficient grant money to keep you fully employed in research for the rest of your life, however long that might be. If I dont end up therapied and confined for violating federal psychological rights, Martin said. I cant do my work, cant do what Ive spent my life trying to do. Thats punishment enough. I dont need criminal disgrace as well. I think Id better leave flow. He started to get up. Lascal held his arm. Mr. Albigoni was not exaggerating. Hes willing to put his entire personal fortune at your disposal. Just to learn what makes Goldsmith tick? Just that. We then turn him over to the LAPD unharmed for trial. You dont want me to therapy himjust probe? Martins hand shook. He could not believe such a Faust was being pulled on him. just probe. If there are answers to be found, find them. If you fail to get answers, the honest attempt is sufficient Mr. Albigoni will still fund you. The IPR will be legally reopened. What is Carol going to dohow is she involved, besides being therapist to your daughter? Albigoni stared at the table in silence for a moment, then reached into his pocket and produced a card engraved with J N M. When youve made your decision, use this card in your phone. Tell whomever answers a simple yes or no. Well contact you and arrange details if your answer is yes. Lascal slid out of the booth and Albigoni followed. Wait, please, Martin said hand still trembling. He reached for the card. What sort of guarantees do I have? How do I know youd fund me? I am not a thug, Albigoni said softly. Thank you for your time, Mr. Burke, Lascal said. They left. Martin slapped the card on the tablecloth near a glass of water and watched a bead of light dance over the three letters. Then be picked it up and pocketed it.