"So, what is it?" Coln asked as they stepped out onto the silver telanium street. The street, as always, was dimly lit—though hundreds of lights shone from windows and signs. Evensong was dark, but it did not sleep.
"What is what?" Write asked as an aircab—obviously chartered—pulled up in front of the hotel.
"What is your purpose here, Write?" Coln asked, climbing into the back of the car beside the operative. "I assume you knew something about the ambassador's death?"
"You assume wrong," Write said as the aircab began to move. "The ambassador's murder was a coincidence."
Coln raised an eyebrow in skepticism.
"Believe me or not, I don't really care."
"Then why are you here?" Coln asked.
Write sighed. "Tell him."
"It happened just under two months ago, kid," Lanna said. "A scientist named Denise Carlson disappeared from Evensong's PC research facility."
Coln frowned at the comment, searching through his memory. He paid attention to anything the Bureau learned about the PC. He recalled something about the scientist's disappearance, but it hadn't seemed very important.
"But," Coln said, "our reports said she was nothing more than a lab assistant. The PC home office barely paid any mind to her disappearance—it said that she had been the victim of a common street mugging."
"Well, at least someone pays attention to current events," Lanna said.
Write snorted. "He might pay attention, but he should have realized that any story we downplay is far more important than it seems."
Coln blushed. "So, you came to find this Denise Carlson?"
"Wrong," Lanna said. "That's why he left, but that's not the goal anymore. While Jason was in transit, we located Miss Carlson. Just under two weeks ago a woman fitting her description was picked up by authorities. She was diagnosed with severe mental problems, and was checked into a local treatment ward."
"So . . ." Coln said.
"So I'm here to retrieve her," Write said. "Nothing more. We're going to bring her back to Jupiter Fourteen so that she can receive proper treatment. My role is that of a simple courier." Write smiled slightly, turning his black glasses toward Coln. "That is why I am willing to let you come with me. You sacrificed your career so you could watch me escort a mental patient."
* * *
Jason strode into the hospital, the depressed Coln tagging along behind. The kid kept asking questions, convinced that Jason's actions had some greater purpose in the PC's "master plans." Jason was beginning to regret bringing him along—the last thing he needed was another person jabbering at him.
The nurse at the front desk looked up with surprise when he entered, her eyes flickering toward his silver lapel pin.
"Mr. Flippenday?" she asked.
He paused only briefly at the horrid name. "I am. Show me to the patient."
The nurse nodded, leaving the desk to another attendant and waving Jason to follow. She wore white—a roaring, blatant color. To others, White was neutral, but to Jason it was by far the most garish choice. Better the subtle hum of gray. The walls were white as well, and the hallways smelled of cleaning fluids.
Why do they do that? Jason wondered, shaking his head slightly. Do they think that it will make their patients feel at home? Lifeless sterility and monochrome white? Perhaps all these people need to regain their sanity is a little bit of color.
The nurse led them to a simple room with a locked door—ostensibly for the patient's safety.
"I'm glad you finally decided to come," the nurse said, a slightly chiding tone in her voice. "We contacted the PC weeks ago, and the woman's just been waiting here all this time. With no relatives on the platform, one would think that you people . . ."
She trailed off as Jason turned toward her. After losing his eyesight, he had eventually learned that a look of discontent could be accomplished as much with one's bearing as with one's eyes. As he stared sightlessly at the nurse, her resolve weakened, and the punitive tone left her voice.
"That is enough," Jason said simply.
"Yes, sir," the nurse mumbled, shooting him a spiteful look as she unlocked the door.
Jason walked into the small, unadorned room. Denise sat beside a desk—the room's only furniture beside a bed and a dresser. She regarded Jason with wide eyes. She looked much as in his holovid—she was thin, her short dark hair in curls, and she wore a simple skirt and blouse.
Jason had met her several times before—Denise had shown an affinity for Cyto, and had been midway through her training. She had once been a straightforward and calculating woman. Now she looked like a young squirrel that hadn't yet learned to fear predators.
"They said you would come," she whispered, the words awkward in her mouth. "Do you know who I am?"
Jason looked toward the nurse.
"She's amnesiac," the nurse said. "Though we can't determine any physical reason for it. She also has some sort of muscular problem—she has trouble keeping her balance and controlling her limbs."
Denise demonstrated such, rising slowly to her feet. She wobbled slightly as she walked forward, but she managed to remain on her feet.
"She's made amazing progress," the nurse said. "She can walk now if she doesn't move too quickly."
"Denise, you're coming with me," Jason said. "Abrams, help her walk."
The kid looked up with surprise. Jason didn't give him time to complain—instead, Jason turned and strode from the room. Abrams cursed quietly, but did as he ordered, giving the confused Denise a helpful arm as they walked from the hospital.
They were nearly out when Jason noticed something. He never would have seen it without his Sense—the man hid behind a door, barely peeking out. The Sense was far more discerning than normal eyes, however, and Jason recognized the face even through the door's small slit. It was one of the men from the cafe—not the strange man who had sat at the booth, but one of the ordinary workers.
So, they've been watching her, Jason thought as he left the building, the kid and Denise following. Did they expect her to reveal something, or did they know that I would come for her?
* * *
"I do not know what this means," Denise said, staring at the menu with her wide eyes. She looked up, confused.
"You can't read?" Jason asked.
"No," Denise replied.
"Here, let me help," Abrams offered, reading down the list of items.
Jason sat back, allowing himself a slight smile. The kid was showing an almost chivalrous devotion to the amnesiac woman. She was passably attractive, in a sickeningly innocent sort of way. Abrams was just betraying the inherent predisposition of a young human male; he had seen a woman in need and was trying to help her.
Denise raised her hand awkwardly in an odd gesture as Coln read. "I still do not know what it means."
"None of the words sound familiar?" Jason asked, leaning forward with interest.
"No."
"But you can speak," Jason mused. "What do you remember?"
"Nothing," Denise said. "I don't remember anything, Mr. Flippenday."
Jason cringed. "Call me Jason," he mumbled as Abrams asked the girl what kind of food she liked. She, of course, didn't know.
She should have remembered more. Most amnesiacs remembered something—if only fragments. "What do you think?" Jason whispered.
"It's odd," Lanna said. "She's changed, old man. Whatever they did to her, it was pretty thorough."
"Agreed."
Abrams ordered for the girl and himself—choosing, Jason noticed, two of the most expensive items on the menu. He knew that Jason would be paying. At least the kid had style.
As he sat, Jason thought back to the strange man in the cafe. The man couldn't have access to Cyto—in a hundred and fifty years, no one had discovered the ability besides the PC. But what if someone had? What if they had learned about Denise, and had captured her to try and learn what she knew? What had they done to her to get at her knowledge?
His ponderings led him
nowhere. Eventually the food came, and Jason began to eat. He preferred simple meals with little mess, so he had ordered a tossed pasta dish with a very light sauce. He ate quietly, thoughtful as he watched a man a short distance away haggle over his bill with the waiter.
He shouldn't have been worried about the ambassador's death. The police would probably find that the murder had been preformed by some xenophobic activist group. They were prevalent. There were those who hated other species because of assumed superiority, those who hated them because they thought the aliens were too arrogant, and those who hated them simply because they were different. The student-sponsorship program, where human children would be sent to other planets to learn of other species, had been defeated three times in the United Senate.
The ambassador's death probably wasn't related to Denise. Jason should leave—there were too many things that demanded his attention for him to waste time chasing false leads. This trip had taken far too long already.
Jason paused. Denise had turned and was staring at the man who was arguing about his bill. He raised his fist at the waiter, uttering a few epithets, then finally slapped down some money and stalked out of the building.
"Why is he like that?" Denise asked? "How can he be so angry?"
"That's just the way people are sometimes," Coln said uncomfortably. "How is your food?"
Denise turned her eyes down at the steak. She had taken several awkward bites, though Coln had been forced to cut it for her. "It's very . . ."
"Very what?" Jason prompted.
"I do not know," Denise confessed, blushing. "It tastes too . . . strong. One of the flavors is very odd."
Jason frowned. "What flavor?"
"I do not know. It was very strong in the hospital's food too, though I didn't say anything. I didn't want to offend them."
"Describe the taste to me," Jason said. Something was tickling at the back of his mind—a connection he should have made.
"Leave her alone, old man," Abrams said. "She's been through a lot."
Jason raised his eyebrows at the use of 'old man.' He heard Lanna chuckling through the FTL link. Jason ignored Abrams, turning his head toward Denise. "Describe the taste to me."
"I can't," Denise finally said. "You must understand—I don't know what it is."
Jason reached for the saltshaker, then sprinkled some salt on his hand. "Taste this," he ordered.
She did as asked, then nodded. "That's it. I do not like it very much."
Abrams rolled his eyes. "You've figured out that she doesn't know the word for salty. So? She doesn't know what any of these foods are, or even what her name is."
Jason sat back, ignoring the kid. Then he turned to his food and continued to eat in silence.
* * *
"I've arranged your return trip to Jupiter," Lanna said. "You'll be leaving on the courier ship Excel at 10:30 PM, local time."
Jason nodded to himself. He stood on his balcony, leaning against the railing as he listened to Lanna's voice in his ear.
"The ship is a good one, and always punctual—as you like them," Lanna said. "Your accommodations are for two people."
Jason didn't reply. He Sensed Evensong before him, feeling its massive metallic buildings and numerous walkways. Sometimes, he tried to remember what it had been like to see. He tried to imagine colors as images, rather than as Cytonic vibrations, but he had trouble. It had been so long, and his eyes hadn't been very good in the first place.
Evensong was in motion around him—aircars flew, people moved on the walkways, lights flickered on and off. It was beautiful, in a way. It was beautiful that humankind had expanded this far, that it had found a way to thrive even here, in the middle of space, where the sun was barely more than another star.
"You're not coming back yet, are you?" Lanna asked quietly.
"No."
"So you think the ambassador's death might be related?"
"I'm not certain," Jason said. "Maybe. Something is bothering me, Lanna."
"About the murder?" she asked.
"No. About our scientist. Something about Denise is . . . wrong."
"What?"
Jason paused. "I'm not sure. She learned to walk and talk too quickly, for one thing."
Lanna didn't respond immediately. "I'm not certain what to tell you," she finally said.
Jason sighed, shaking his head. He didn't really understand what he meant either. He stood quietly for a moment, watching the flow of people on a walkway a short distance away. Something was wrong—he couldn't decide what it was, but he knew what he feared. For over a century, the PC had maintained a monopoly on Cyto. He didn't expect psychic ability to remain confined to the PC—in fact, it was his ultimate goal that it not be. The very thing he was working toward was what he feared.
"Jason," Lanna asked, "have you ever worried that what we're doing is wrong?"
"Every day."
"I mean," Lanna continued, "what if they're right? The Tenasi, the Varvax, and the rest—they're all much older than humankind is. They know more than we do. Maybe they're right—maybe humankind will become civilized before it obtains FTL travel. Maybe by holding Cyto back from them, we're keeping ourselves from progressing as we should."
Jason stood quietly beside the balcony, listening to the sound of children running on the walkway below. Children, laughing . . .
"Lanna," he said, "do you know how the Interspecies Monitoring Coalition rates a race's intelligence class?"
"No."
"They look at the race's children," Jason said quietly. "The older ones. Children who have lived just long enough to begin imitating the society they see around them, children who have lost the innocence of youth but haven't yet replaced it with the tact and mores of adulthood. In those children, you can see what a species is really like. From them, the Varvax determine whether a species is civilized or barbaric."
"And we failed that test," Lanna said.
"Miserably."
"That's all right," Lanna said. "Every race fails it during the early part of their growth. We'll get there eventually."
"The Tenasi had barely begun using steam power when they made their first FTL jump," Jason said. "The Varvax weren't far behind them—they still didn't have computers. Both species traveled to other planets before they learned to send a shuttle into space."
Lanna fell quiet.
"We've been in space for nearly three centuries now," Jason continued. "The Varvax say that technology isn't the way—they claim that technological development has boundaries, but that a sentient mind is limitless. But . . . still I worry. I worry that humankind will find a way, somehow. We always have before."
"And so you play watchdog," Lanna said.
Jason stood for a moment. "The few, so cleans'd, to these abodes repair," he finally said in a quiet voice, "And breathe, in ample fields, the soft Elysian air. Then are they happy, when by length of time, The scurf is worn away of each committed crime; No speck is left of their habitual stains, But the pure ether of the soul remains."
"Homer?" Lanna asked.
"Virgil." Above, beyond the buildings, beyond the air, Jason could Sense the specks of starlight in the sky. "Space is Elysium, Lanna. The place where heroes go when they die. The Varvax and the others, they've fought and bled, just like we have. They finally overcame all of that—they paid their price and have earned their peace. I want to make certain their paradise remains such."
"By playing God?"
Jason fell silent. He didn't know how to reply, so he didn't. He simply stood, Sensing the paradise above and Evensong below. Coln rifled through the in-room bar, searching for something to drink. He wasn't normally prone to drinking, but normally he wasn't facing the loss of his job and probable imprisonment. Eventually, he poured himself a small glass of scotch and made his way out onto the balcony.
He paused halfway out the door. Jason Write stood leaning on his own balcony just a short distance away. The man didn't look over, but Coln still felt as if he were being wat
ched.
Don't let him intimidate you, Coln told himself. He turned away from Write indifferently and leaned against his own balcony railing.
Coming after Write had seemed like such a good idea at first. Coln had been frustrated at the Bureau's lack of information. They knew the PC was hiding technology from them, but they had no clue what it was. They knew Write had something integral to do with the PC's operations, but they weren't sure why. They wanted to keep trailing him, but they'd made too many promises. The Bureau had been ready to just leave Write alone.
Coln sighed, taking a sip of his drink. He'd picked the wrong mission. Write planned to leave within the day, taking the unfortunate scientist with him. And then Coln would be left by himself, a fugitive and a fool.
* * *
"That kid is a fool," Lanna said.
"I know," Jason mumbled. "But at least he has passion. And courage."
"Not courage—brashness."
"Call it what you will," Jason said, Sensing the young UIB agent standing a short distance away.
"What's more," Lanna continued, "he may have passion, but that passion is hatred of you. I've been doing some searching. It appears that you were the focus of several of his research projects back when he was an undergraduate. None of his conclusions were flattering, old man. You should read some of these things. . . ."
Lanna continued to speak, but Jason's mind drifted. His thoughts kept coming back to Denise. Who had taken her, and what had they done?
She doesn't understand violence, Jason thought. She didn't understand violence, and she hadn't ever tasted salt. She spoke oddly, in a way that was almost familiar. She couldn't walk or use her muscles. It was almost . . .
Jason took in a sharp, surprised breath.
Almost as if she's accustomed to another body.
"What?" Lanna demanded.
"Denise Carlson is dead," he said.
"What! What happened to her?"
Defending Elysium Page 3
