The Octagonal Raven (17 page)

Raven: Helnya, 459 N.E.

After all the sysnet and data searches I’d run, the second round results were generally pretty dismal, not all that much better than the first. I was beginning to have greater appreciation for the news staffs on any of the networks. Data and names meant nothing out of context. I knew that with environmental specs, or quantity/quality program comparison, or all the other methodizer work I’d done—but the client had provided the context. In my own case, I had no context.

Fine…there was an organization or group called StakeHold. Actually, of the hundred I’d found the first time, the second search had dropped the numbers to a few more than a dozen in various parts of Earth, and even on Luna and in the Belt. Only one fit, and there was nothing on it, not directly, except a netsite and a charter, and the charter was as vague as vague could be: “…dedicated to the proposition that good organizational management shall reflect maximization of productive assets, the active support and promotion of excellence in services provided, products, and organizational policies, and impartial adherence to justice…”

From the short description, it seemed to be a loose federation of interests and individuals designed primarily to pool voting interests and clout to put greater pressure on managements of public-held outfits—mainly to force management improvements. At least, that was the avowed goal.

Buried through about a dozen links, and more than a few stories in obscure journals, I managed to track down at least some of the members—the PST Trust—another name I’d never heard of—NetVest, Private Citizen, and a double handful of individuals, presumably wealthy from the public information available on each. The only names I recognized were Cari Seldyn, Grant Escher, and Mutumbe Dymke, not that I knew any of them personally. So I set up more routines and let them loose.

The other result was a single piece of financial analysis, and it seemed to confirm what I’d gathered in my freelance-work-and-personal-information search—that several major sysnets were revamping everything from their financial structures to their operations and program contents—and that UniComm was not. The anonymous analyst suggested that the senior directors had decided that a shakeout was inevitable, and that the loser(s) would be relegated to being niche players, much like NetStrait and NetSpin. While that made sense of sorts, what I knew didn’t track much to me, except to support the rationale for Myrto’s decision not to contract with me. So I kept searching, intermittently, and not finding, and exercising, and working on and completing the small projects for Ngaio and Jerdyn—and waiting for Klevyl’s package.

As spare time built up, despite more than a few hours spent on the glider, and as my free credit balance slowly dwindled, I also kept searching for signs of Elysa…and finding none.

So, it was inevitable that I’d have to go back to Helnya.

This time, I didn’t VR ahead and announce my intention, and I turned off my belt repeater totally—reducing another signal that might be traced. I also wore a nanite body screen, almost invisible, except for the blurring effect it created, and hotter than I would have liked, even in March, but the silversmith, or whatever he was, happened to be the only link—and that bothered me. He was clearly a trap, yet one I had to pass through to get anywhere.

The glider carried me only so far as the induction tube station in Vallura, and then I took the tube train to Helyna and a glidertaxi to the shop. We did pass the cemetery, and the wall had been repaired so well that it appeared nothing had happened there. If I hadn’t felt the impact so strongly, I might have even doubted it had occurred.

The stonesmith’s place of business was a long and rambling adobe structure, more like dwellings connected by covered porticos. The name on the sign outside the west end—the one overlooking the harbor—was simple. RennZee, Stone-and-Silversmith.

I walked in, nanite screen heating me up and personal scanners searching everything, and finding less than normal background energy systems. The front display room was simple, just two armaglass cases set on polished hardwood cabinets. The walls were rough plaster, painted white, as was the ceiling. There were no chairs, just a stool behind the left-hand case.

“Hello, ser.” A young man stood and greeted me, the same dark-haired one I’d VRed months before, but he didn’t seem to recognize me, not surprisingly, since he’d seen a small holo image for all of three minutes.

I ignored the greeting, letting my systems check over the place before I nodded in return. “Are you Renn?”

“Oh, no, ser. I’m Achille. He’s my uncle—really my mother’s uncle.”

“I hope he’s around.”

The young man lifted his eyebrows.

“I’m Daryn Alwyn. I was caught in an accident on my way here several months ago. I just recently was discharged from the medcenter.”

He frowned.

“As I told you when I called—those Alwyns.”

His face cleared. “Ah…I see.”

“Is Renn around?”

“Ah…”

“If he doesn’t want to see me, that’s fine. But at least ask him. Oh…and tell him I wanted to ask about some pieces he did before.”

“Yes, ser…if you would excuse me?”

I waited there for five minutes, sweating behind the body screen field, walking back and forth, scanning, checking, hoping I wasn’t being set up once more.

Then, the rear door irised opened, and Achille returned, followed by another figure. Despite his obvious age and being a norm, RennZee was trim, muscular, and weathered, with a face like smooth old leather, and pale gray eyes that seemed to miss nothing as he studied me. “You don’t look like that kind.”

“I’m not. I’m a freelance methodizer and edartist, and I retired after a career as a Federal Service interstellar pilot.”

“The eyes…” He nodded. “Good. You know, I once refused to do a ring for your grandfather, it was, I think. He wanted me to duplicate someone else’s bad work.”

I laughed, softly. “That sounds like Grandfather.”

“What do you want?”

“Right now, I want your expertise as a jeweler and craftsman, and I’ll pay for it at whatever rate you think is fair. I think…I know you’re the only one, possibly in the world, or perhaps the whole Federal Union, who can help.”

RennZee laughed, a generous belly laugh. Then he glanced sideways at the young man. “With a compliment like that, Achille, best you trust the man or run like hell.”

“I hope you’ll trust me.”

“With you wearing a body screen?” The jeweler’s eyes ran over me. “I recognize the energy fields.”

“The last time I tried to get here, someone dropped a wall on me.” Might as well be direct, I figured.

“And you want a jeweler, and not a bodyguard?”

I lifted the mini and projected the close-up of one of the combs. “This looks like your work. If it’s not, I hope you can tell me whose work it is.”

The older man smiled. “You have a good eye. I did that. There were two. Part of a set. Right after I set up my studio here. Say…fifty years ago.”

“Fifty years ago?”

He nodded.

Achille’s eyes darted between me and his uncle.

“Could someone have copied those?”

“Anything’s possible…” Renn laughed.

“But…it’s obviously unlikely for reasons I don’t understand.” I offered a helpless smile, which wasn’t too far from the way I felt.

“Look at the stone.”

“It looks like jade to me.”

“It is…except it’s not earth jade. It’s a jadeite, but cleaner in color and harder on the Mohs scale…something to do with the alignment of the inosilicate chains…fellow who brought it to me didn’t know what he had. To him the value was because it was from outsystem…said he got it from a core drill somewhere. Wouldn’t tell me where.” Renn looked at me. “You might know.”

“I was a pilot, not an off-planet geologist.”

He waited.

“You did earclips, combs, and a jade choker?”

The stonesmith nodded.

“I’m trying to locate someone who wore them. I thought you might be able to help.”

He shook his head. “Don’t bother keeping records that far back, but it wouldn’t do much good, would it…not after fifty years?”

“The woman who wore them is probably a daughter or granddaughter,” I suggested.

“He took them back to Hezira with him. Even sent me a space-gram—arrived three years later. Said his wife really liked them.”

“Do you recall his name?” I had to ask, although I certainly couldn’t go to Hezira.

“Amad something. Didn’t look like an Amad…tall fellow, pale-skinned, black-haired. I still remember. Never got another jadeite like that.”

“He didn’t mention her name, did he?” After fifty years, I was casting in the dark, and then some.

Renn laughed. “Really are interested, aren’t you, young ser?”

I couldn’t imagine being considered young, but in comparison to the older jeweler, I suppose I was. “More puzzled than anything.”

“Matter of fact, I do remember her name.”

Behind him, his great-nephew raised his eyebrows.

“Strange name, that’s why. Elysa. Pronounced it sort of like Elliss-ya.”

I managed not to swallow. “Strange enough that you remembered it for fifty years.”

“Strange name and a strange jadeite—what else would it take for a good stonesmith?”

I nodded. “You wouldn’t recall anything else, would you?”

RennZee shook his head. “I was happy with the work.”

“I can see why.”

“Did you see them?”

“Yes. A woman wore them to a reception my cousin held. I was very interested. She—and the jewelry—vanished.”

“I would buy them back,” he said.

“If I ever find them,” I smiled, “I don’t know that I’d let you. They’re exquisite.”

He shrugged, but his eyes twinkled.

“I said I’d pay for your time,” I offered.

He shook his head. “Commission a piece for Achille, here, to do.”

The young man suddenly became far more attentive, bending forward ever so slightly.

I thought for a moment. “A pin, suitable for me, of a raven. Simple, but tasteful. Not too large.”

“That’s it?” asked Achille.

“That’s it,” I replied. “You two are the jewelers and stonesmiths.”

RennZee laughed. “That’s the best way. Achille will understand…if not now, later.”

“I’ll leave a deposit.”

“No need,” replied the older stonesmith.

I nodded. We both understood. A good piece would always sell, and RennZee wouldn’t let the young man offer something that wasn’t good.

“Thank you very much.” I bowed. “I do appreciate the information.”

“I do also,” the weathered stonesmith replied. “It’s good to know that work remains valued.”

After another bow, I turned and stepped out into the breeze. The wind helped some in cooling me, although some of the effect was blocked by the body screen. I thought about turning it off, but decided against it. After glancing around, and seeing only a couple strolling toward the point overlooking the ocean, I began to walk the two klicks toward the center of town and the tube station. That was one more netlocator I might not alert.

Although forcing myself to scan in all directions, I nonetheless enjoyed the walk, and the stretching of legs and other muscles, and before long I was nearing the center of Helnya, and the older dwellings and the ancient blue oaks that surrounded them. I walked a trace slower, studying not only the path, but the dwelling on my left, a hacienda-like structure. Ahead, the oak limbs arched over the path, creating a shade welcome to me. The area beneath was clear, with only low beds of nasturtiums that were still recovering from the mild Calfya winter.

My head jerked forward at the sound of feet crushing the nasturtiums, and I froze, if but for a moment, as a vacant-faced man in a dull brown singlesuit lunged at me, a shimmering blade in his right hand.

Even as my ingrained defense modules reacted, the vacant expression on the man’s face bothered me.

He seemed to move so slowly, as I slid left, letting his lunge carry him past my body. Then one hand took his wrist, and a snap-kick staggered him. My strength wasn’t what it should have been, and he spun toward me, trying to free the hand with the shimmering filament knife, against which the body shield was useless.

I managed to hold the knife arm long enough—just long enough—that a knee-elbow combination—and a last kick—left him on his back in the nasturtiums, convulsing.

I looked at him, as if I were again frozen, before my sensors told me his body heat was rising. The vacant face registered fully, and I turned, and sprinted away, as fast as my legs could carry me.

The explosion was enough to give me a shove, but not much more, and I slowed to a rapid walk, ignoring the doors that opened a block behind me.

The attack and explosion had occurred under a heavy oak cover, for very good reasons, but enough energy had been released that the CAs would be there shortly, and I didn’t want to be around when they were.

I was starting down the steps to the tube station when the CA gliders whined toward the oaks and the hacienda. Ignoring them, I kept moving.

I’d seen enough. My attacker had been a monoclone, programmed to seek me, to kill me, one way or another. The nanite suit barred something like a laser or a hand-held projectile weapon, but not a filament knife—or a large explosion close to me.

Someone was still trying to eliminate me—in ways that couldn’t be traced. How could anyone track a clone that self-destructed, probably leaving little but a standard cellular pattern, and probably the most common one—the one used for the monoclones dealing with radioactive waste?

Sweat was dripping from every pore when I swung onto the train, and I wanted to turn off the protective fields of the bodysuit. I didn’t dare. Instead, I sweated all the way back to my own villa.

Once home, I checked on all the systems, then purged everything, all the oddities, snoops, and dumps. Only then did I shower and clean up…and think.

Cup after cup of Grey tea helped, in a way.

Whoever was after me not only had resources, but access to clone production and full genetic mod facilities.

That started me on another search, and the results were quick—a list with nineteen names on it. Most of them I didn’t know, except for Eldyn Nyhal, but several had become familiar, like Cari Seldyn, Grant Escher, Imayl Deng, Darwyn TanUy, and Mutumbe Dymke. All that they had in common was wealth, and connections to universities, research institutions, or hospitals with full genetics facilities.