The Elysium Commission (6 page)

Beyond the high windows, the muted lights of the Left Bank outlined the river, yet the tower sitting room was cramped, or so it seemed, after the airy lightness of Elysium and the open expansiveness of Gaiea beyond my white city of the golden light. Coming back to Thurene, or anywhere on Devanta, was always hard, for there were too many narrow-minded aristos whose idea of greatness was anticipating the next fashion trend and sculpting themselves into it.

Even the brilliant ones like Eleyna had succumbed in the end, and her daughter, who could have done so much, had become a mere doyenne of display, a manipulator of men, and a sycophant of the Sorores. The Institute had become ever more rigid and doctrinaire, so much so that even its brightest graduates were little more than semi-independent cydroids, good for little more than suggesting minor improvements and writing enormous studies with involuted equations proving the ultimate anthropic principle—that we all lived in the best of all possible universes. Even as they toiled over such trash, they believed that they were being candid and not just providing a gloss upon the forbidden fruit of knowledge, which they had plated so heavily with words and studies that it was neither edible nor understandable.

I could offer back the garden, and yet no one could see beyond the Writ of Wrightsen, the almost-but-not-quite perfect Theory of Everything. No one wanted to admit that the Sage of Sangloria had stubbed his toe on the hidden branes of the multiverse.

The single sheet lay on the side table. I didn't need to read the hard-copy lines again. Those who needed such repetition were mentally and morally deficient, not to mention intellectually indolent.

Closer to matters? More like under Legaar's ever-constant scrutiny. Yet the offer was tempting, if only for the privacy and the greater ease of departing for Gaiea once what the Elois thought was a crisis had passed. What mattered if a broken and regened special operative might be investigating? There was nothing to find, not anywhere that he could penetrate. That was just one of the beauties of it all. Even Legaar didn't understand, and he wouldn't, not until it was far, far, too late, and then the Frankans and the Assembly bureaucrats could blame each other. It might even be interesting to see whether hostilities got to the point where the Alliance and the Assembly discharged their energies in more than verbal virtuosity and insidious intrigue. Or if the Assembly forced a reformulation upon the Civitas Sorores.

Time's End—at least the view would be better, and my position would be best there, especially since Legaar would suspect less, having made the suggestion himself.

To purchase the temporal space I needed might require a slight bending of the mirror of Chronos to locate and neutralize the so-called shadow, not that he would cast such for long. That would not be difficult, and would be far easier from Time's End, since I could draw on the estate's power grid.

More than two “woulds” diverged from the path I traveled, and the one that I'd not taken could not but make the difference, and the shadow would not know. How could he?

I finished up the emendations to my personal civic business registration early on Vieren and sent it off to the Civitas Sorores registry, along with the requisite fee. After my obligatory workout, of course. And after a thorough physical and virtie check to assure myself that Max and all systems were back in full operating order. I also checked my emergency bolt-holes. Then I made the round of returning messages. I always started with those from individuals with whom I did not particularly desire to talk. That way, I missed talking to some of them personally, and I dispensed early with the unpleasantness of those who did take my vids.

I started with Antonio diVeau. He wasn't personally available.

His talking head was. “Hello, there, Blaine.” Following the words came a warm smile, the kind I associated with sales types and persuaders. “I hope you got my message about a cataract ride in Pays du Sud in Novem…”

“I certainly did, Tony, and I appreciate your thinking of me, but I'm deep in several commissions that may last until the first of the year…”

Next came a reply to Garda Officer Javerr. Unfortunately, he was in.

“Oh, Seignior Donne. I was hoping you'd get back to me.” His smile was as warm as the ice that fed the cataracts that Tony wanted to ride. “We never could reclaim the images from the satellite feeds the other day.” He paused. “We did get the results from Independent Forensics. They're not the preferred form of evidence, Seignior Donne.”

I nodded politely, waiting.

“In the absence of other evidence, however, Captain Shannon has decided that they will suffice to prove that you did not use ultra-ex and acted in self-defense.”

Javerr had made it clear. Shannon had overruled him, but Javerr was still after me on any legality he could find. He wanted me to know that. “Thank you very much for letting me know, Officer Javerr. I appreciate it.”

“We do our very best to let people know where they stand, Seignior Donne.”

“That I appreciate. After all, at times, it's best to let the tiger turn tail.”

“Only in the name of the Empress of Time, Seignior.”

We nodded to each other, and he broke the link. He was definitely not a better man than I, water boy for the Elois that he was.

Next came a return of a message to Selenthat Schweitzer, who had shamelessly wanted to sell me a series of antique bound books by various unknown authors, such as Jordan Roberts and Hart Davidwell. I'd never heard of either, although Schweitzer assured me that they were both amusing, if dated. I would have bought a D. D. Fratz, if only for personal pleasure in seeing the illogic and lack of understanding of social and technical interaction as influenced by technology. He didn't have one, and I demurred on buying anything else.

I'd just finished regretting my inability to attend the Ars Lyrica Musica benefit for musically dyslexic children when Max pulsed me.

Captain Shannon, incoming.

The projected image that hung in the air across the table desk from me was unembellished. Piercing blue eyes fixed on me. They dominated a square face with thick black eyebrows and a strong, jutting jaw.

“Colonel…”

“What are you up to, now, Donne?” Shannon had been SpecOps, except he'd stayed in long enough for a stipend and left as a colonel. He saw the Garda as a far less dangerous way of keeping his hand in, even with the nominally lower rank.

“I wish I knew, Colonel. I took a simple contract for some research, and I've taken one virtie and two physical assaults in three days.”

He snorted. “Word is that you're poking around where you shouldn't. It's not a good time for that. Vanishments and disappearances are up.”

I'd heard that on the news. The numbers were not that large and of the type of individuals society did not usually miss. The sisters didn't like even those types vanishing without a trace. That was the sort of thing that the Assembly of Worlds frowned upon. If there were too many, reformulation often followed. No one in their right mind wanted that. Restructuring planetary governments was messy. “There's always someone who's not doing what they should and doesn't want it known.”

His expression softened—from adamantine to merely sandstone. “That's true enough, but it doesn't matter if you don't live to get the word out.”

In short, I translated, you're mostly on your own. Shannon would try to keep the Garda impartial, but his success in even that would be questionable. “I'm just looking, Colonel.”

He shook his head. “Wasn't that what you were doing when the Frankans nailed you on Pournelle II?”

He was right, but who would have thought that they'd have mounted a full particle beam array on a planet that was mostly a chunk of hot, hard rock? Or that they'd use it on a needleship when it revealed their position and resulted in their destruction. It verged on technological pornography—mounting and applying that much technology because they had it and could, not because it was appropriate—or even tactically necessary. That had been a lesson in human and military nature. I'd been bushwhacked and paid dearly for assuming the fundamentalist Frankans were rational in their use of force.

“I see your point, Colonel.”

He nodded brusquely. “Have to go, Donne.”

The projected image vanished, and I was looking across the study at the east windows. They were tinted at the moment to block the still-low morning sun.

I needed to follow up with the junior doctors. I also had get back to Lemel Jerome about the Classic group's possible infringing on his patent, although I couldn't imagine what any subsidiary of Eloi Enterprises would need with something like quark regression, whatever that exactly entailed. Maybe Lemmy knew something about Legaar Eloi.

I triggered the vid codes and waited.

A talking head appeared. It wasn't a version of Lemmy, but that of a mature and attractive woman. “Might I announce you and the reason for your inquiry?”

“Blaine Donne for Lemel Jerome. I'm returning his vid.”

The woman's image faded. It was slowly replaced by that of a thin-faced man, with lank black hair half-falling across a slightly bulging domed forehead. His eyes were brown and intense.

“You took your time, Blaine.”

“You take yours when it comes to paying for services, Lemmy.”

“Let's not argue, Blaine.”

Who was arguing? He stated a fact. It was true. I stated a fact. It was also true. “What do you want me to do? I'm not a patent infringement advocate.”

“I know that. You know I know that. I need proof that they're infringing before I can act, but I don't need an advocate. Besides being an inventor, I'm also an advocate, you might recall.”

How could I have forgotten? I waited.

“I need proof,” Lemel repeated. “I'll pay your exorbitant rates to get it.”

“What kind of proof? Which Classic subsidiary do you think is infringing on your patent?”

“Classic Research, of course.”

“The whole Eloi Enterprise group is into entertainment, Lemmy. Your patent deals with hard science and technology. What does entertainment have to do with that?”

“I don't know. What I do know is that they've ordered all the components to duplicate my patent. They aren't paying royalties or seeking a license, either.”

“Was this quark-electron regression holo recording and display business?”

“No. They agreed to that. I just misplaced the information on that. No…this is something different, and I have better indications on it.”

How he discovered things like that I'd never known, but he'd always been right before. If after a few false starts. “All right. What does your device do?”

“What I designed it to do.”

I was the one to sigh. “I'm a consultant in finding and discovering and resolving things. It helps to know what they do.”

“There's no simple answer. It's an oversimplification, but it measures the deformation of space in certain circumstances which allows greater precision for jumpship transit choices.”

“Is that all it does?”

Lemmy shrugged. “It might do more, and there might be other applications, but that was what L'Etoile Transport needed. It reduced energy costs by almost twenty percent. I don't invent what's not commercial. But that's not the point. Even if they're using it for something else, they still need to pay for it. It's still infringement.”

Great. He had a device used on jumpships that was possibly being used for something else by Classic Research, and I was supposed to come up with some sort of proof.

“Blaine?”

“I was just thinking. How exactly can I even determine something like this?”

“If you'll take the assignment, I'll send you a small detector. If they're actually using my system, it will record and authenticate the use.”

“You don't need me, then.”

“There are reasons I do. First, how impartial am I? Second, you're better at running down locations than I am. Third, I can't invent if I'm spending all my time tracking down infringements.”

“And fourth,” I pointed out, “you make more credits inventing than chasing those infringements. Or this one, anyway.”

“Precisely. Don't go over ten hours without reporting to me.”

“I won't. Now…what do you know about Legaar Eloi?”

Lemmy frowned. “I don't know anything. I've never even met him.”

His response rang true…unfortunately. “You don't know anyone in the Classic group?”

He shook his head.

“I just wondered.”

“I need to go.”

After he broke the link, I leaned back, but I didn't have much time to think about the implications.

Incoming from Civitas,
Max informed me.
Undercode unknown.

Full defenses.
I couldn't afford not to answer a valid Civitas inquiry or communication, but after all the inquiries and research, an unknown undercode suggested yet another branch of Civitas or an attacker using a Civitas cover. Neither possibility was good.

I triggered the acceptance.

The first image was that of Soror Prima, serene-faced, her gray eyes seemingly fixed on me. Then the image swirled into a spray of color.

I closed my eyes—but a moment too late. I could see nothing, and knives of fire lanced through my skull. I could sense energy flaring everywhere before Max and the secondaries shut down everything.

Max, interrogative status?

Full power on backups. No penetration, and all systems are clean. Forty-three percent of the cutouts will need to be replaced. External channels limited.

Not only was I close to retinal burns, with hypersonic shock, but more of my equipment was shot. Someone was making it very costly for me, and all I'd done was accept two recon jobs dealing with Eloi Enterprises and sneak a peak at the corpentity's pseudofinancials. Before long, I was going to get more than a little redded-off.

Interrogative physical security?
Even that inquiry gave me a headache.

Physical security has been maintained, sir.

Keep it that way.

Max would, in any case. The headache, the watering eyes, and the high-pitched whining in my ears had frayed my normally good disposition.

In less than ten minutes, Max had some comm back up. He was good. He should have been. He'd cost me a lot.

Eight minutes later, Myndanori was in-linking.

“Blaine…how did your visit with Jaelysana go?”

My eyesight was intermittently blurry, but I could make her out. She smiled when she saw my image, but only for a moment. “Blaine…you've looked better, dear man.”

“I think I have. It's been an interesting morning. Oh…Jaelysana. She was helpful, but only in telling me what I didn't want to hear but probably needed to know.”

“He seems clean down to the nanetic level. I've done a few inquiries of my own. The good doctor has made quite a name for himself. He's working behind the scenes to create a Center for the Study of Consciousness at the Institute. He
seems
very ethical.”

“I notice a slight emphasis there.”

Myndanori smiled. “I can't find a thing. That's what bothers me. There are no former lady friends, or men friends. There are no rumors. I even have to ask where you heard the rumor about the kept man.”

I shrugged. “Jaelysana said the same thing. All Dyorr does is work at the Medical College. He's always where he should be, and when he's not, he's doing a good deed of some sort.”

“He even waited until his fiancée had her degree before professing interest. You'll have to be very indirect here.”

“I'm getting that impression. Oh, do you know anything about two other doctors? William Ruckless and Theodore Elsen?”

“Never heard of Ruckless. Elsen is an endocrinology resident. He's a samer. They say he's brilliant, but has an adiamante pump instead of a heart. Other than that…nothing.”

“Jaelysana hinted that he was jealous of Dyorr.”

Myndanori sniffed. “Most other physicians would be. Dyorr can charm people. All Ted Elsen can do is freeze them. If he hadn't discovered the glandular override cycle, he'd be in private practice in a west coast fishing village.”

Myndanori had known more than she'd admitted. “He's hard on lovers, too?”

“I doubt he's had any recently.”

Myndanori didn't have that much more to say.

Once she delinked, I studied the information the system had dredged up on doctors Ruckless and Elsen. Ruckless had been a fair-haired type in medical school at Vannes, and had some pubs to his credit, but there wasn't much there. From the record, it looked like he was the type to perform quietly, speak in vague generalities, emphasize professional ethics, and try to keep the waters calm. Elsen had a short stack of pubs—an impressive number for a junior doc on the faculty of the Medical College. Other than that, there was nothing.