Angelmass

by Timothy Zahn

  Not that anyone else watching would know that. Her ankle must not have been all that bad; even when he concentrated on it he could hardly detect her slight limp. Anyone else would just assume they were being very, very friendly.

  And yet, even as he fought against both the awkwardness and the guilty pleasure of her body pressing against his, he became aware that there was something poking insistently at the back of his mind. Wispy and unidentifiable, but at the same time triggering the skin on the back of his neck.

  A breeze ruffled his hair, jerking him out of his concentration. To his mild surprise he found they were outside, with one of the glass doors turning just behind his back. Distracted by too many other things, he’d completely missed their obviously uneventful exit.

  “Thank you again,” the girl said, deftly disengaging from his arm and giving his hand a quick squeeze. “I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” Kosta said again, stumbling over his tongue a little. “Can I—do you need help getting anywhere?”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “My ankle’s fine now. Anyway, don’t you have to go back in and get the rest of your luggage?”

  He blinked. “Oh. Right. I guess I do.”

  She smiled, somehow managing to look both shy and impish at the same time. “Thank you again.” She turned to look out over the rows of line cars parked along the curb, the breeze brushing her hair up against Kosta’s face as she did so.

  And abruptly, it clicked. Her hair—that perfume—

  She was already walking away from him. Dropping his travel bag, he took a half dozen quick steps and caught up. She started to turn at the sound of his footsteps; grabbing her arm, he spun her the rest of the way around and took his first real look at her face.

  She was the escaped stowaway.

  For a handful of heartbeats he just stood there and stared, his hand frozen to her arm, his head spinning with the unreality of the transformation that had taken place.

  It wasn’t just her hair, though that showed no trace of the fancy braidings he’d invariably seen her wearing aboard ship. It wasn’t even her dress, though how and where she’d managed to find a replacement for that blue and silver thing she’d been wearing he couldn’t even begin to guess.

  It was her; she, herself, had changed. Changed from a serene, confident, pampered upper-class young woman to a slightly helpless, very vulnerable teenage girl. Her posture, her expression, the way she moved her hands, even the texture and lines of her face—all of them were totally different.

  “I don’t suppose,” she murmured into the brittle silence, “there’s much point in asking what the hell you think you’re doing.”

  And as her dark eyes gazed into his, the helpless, vulnerable teenager was gone, too. In her place …

  Kosta shook his head. “No. No, I …”

  “So what now?”

  That was a good question. “Why are they after you?” he asked.

  She shrugged, her eyes never leaving his face. “I overstayed my welcome.”

  “Stowed away, you mean.”

  She shrugged again.

  I could do it, Kosta told himself. I could march her straight back inside and hand her over to those police at the doors. It would be the right thing to do—after all, her little joytrip had cost the spaceline a lot of money. And it would serve her right for using him to walk her out straight under security’s nose.

  But turning her in would mean drawing official attention to himself.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, he let go of her arm. “Get out of here,” he muttered. “Just … go.”

  She stood there for another moment, and he thought he could see some surprise in that expressionless face. Then, without a word, she turned and disappeared into the flow of people heading toward the row of line cars.

  Kosta shook his head, a grudging admiration beginning to seep in through the resentment as he made his way back to where he’d dropped his travel bag. Yes, she’d used him, all right. She’d used him neatly and blatantly and probably without a single scrap of shame to any of it.

  But talk about brazening it out …

  CHAPTER 7

  “Welcome, sir,” the gentle female voice of the line car said as Kosta got in and collapsed into the soft contour seat. “Where would you like to go?”

  “The Angelmass Studies Institute in Shikari City,” he growled, pulling the door closed with a muttered curse. “I suppose you’ll need an address.”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir,” the line car said, pulling smoothly away from the curb. “Angelmass Studies Institute; One Hundred U San Avenue, Shikari City. Estimated time to arrival, forty-six minutes.”

  “Fine,” Kosta grunted. “Let’s get moving.”

  He glared out the window as the car maneuvered its way through the traffic, splitting his attention between the dull fatigue ache in his arms and his slow seethe at that fiasco the locals euphemistically called a spaceport baggage collection center. It had been possibly the worst example of inept design he’d ever seen—overcrowded, slow, with luggage carts nowhere to be seen. All of it far below the level of standards he was used to. He’d wound up having to manhandle all three of his cases out to the line cars on his own.

  And the worst thing is they probably think they’re doing just fine, he grumbled to himself. Well, just wait—when the Pax gets here, we’ll show you how to build a proper spaceport.

  Not to mention how a city should be maintained. The area he was passing through …

  “Where are we?” he called, reaching into his inner coat pocket for the packet of maps the Pax had left for him at the Lorelei drop.

  “Moving north on Kori Street, in the city of Magasca,” the line car answered. “Approaching the intersection of Kori Street and Enamm Street.”

  Kosta nodded, locating it. From the layout of the two cities and their surrounding communities he’d already come to the conclusion that Magasca and Shikari City had been built at different times; from the view out his window, it was apparent that Magasca, at least, had been here for a considerable number of years.

  Vaguely, he wondered how long a city had to be in existence before it created slums like this.

  The aging streets and buildings of Magasca gave way— rather abruptly, it seemed—to the cleaner and fresher cityscape of Shikari City. And exactly forty-six minutes after leaving the spaceport they were there.

  It was, Kosta had to admit, an impressive sight. Rising up out of the landscaped lawn surrounding it, the Angelmass Studies Institute looked for all the world like some modern architect’s vision of a squat, towerless castle. Only four stories high, but spread out enough to qualify as rambling, it was all glass and brick and that marble-like stone he’d seen so much of at the spaceport.

  The line car took him up a curving, tree-lined drive and stopped at what was obviously the main entrance. “How much?” Kosta asked, stuffing his maps back into his coat pocket and opening the door.

  “Fourteen ruya twenty. Do you wish me to call a luggage cart?”

  The question was a surprise; Kosta hadn’t realized the Empyreals had the capability for that kind of double-linear communication linkage. “No,” he told the car as he fed the appropriate bills into the cash slot and accepted his change in return. Going around back, he popped the cargo hatch and pulled his cases out onto the pavement. And wondered with a flush if he’d lugged them all around the spaceport for nothing.

  The Institute’s entrance lobby was fully as impressive as the building’s exterior: an archway two stories high, done up with a lot more of the marble-like stone. In the center, seated behind a circular reception desk of the same material, was a dark young woman who watched him approach with a slightly quizzical look on her face.

  “May I help you, sir?” she asked as Kosta set his cases down with a multiple thump in front of the desk.

  “I hope so,” Kosta said. “My name’s Jereko Kosta, here on a temporary study program from Clarkston University, Cairngorm, on Balmoral. My crede
ntials should have been sent a week ago.”

  “Let me check,” she nodded, tapping keys on her desk. “Mr. Kosta … yes, it looks like you’re all set. Will you still be wanting a room here at the Institute?”

  “If there’s one available, yes.”

  “We’re holding one for you,” she said, looking back up at him. “You’ll be in room 433, on the top floor. If you’ll put your luggage on the cart, I’ll have it sent up.”

  Kosta looked down in surprise; he hadn’t heard the luggage cart arrive. “Thank you,” he said, reaching down for the first two cases. “These things don’t take long to get heavy.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” the receptionist agreed. “There’s a note here, too, that you’re to check in with Director Podolak as soon as possible.”

  “Sure,” Kosta said, forcing his voice to remain casual as he laid his travel bag carefully on top of the others. No need to panic; if the director had seen through his forged credentials they’d never have let him get this far. “I can go now, unless there’s some reason I need to stop by my room first.”

  “No, the cart can get there fine on its own.” She touched a button and a set of guidelights came on, leading up a wide stairway that led off the lobby to the right. “The director’s office is right at the top of the stairs on the second floor, I’ll let her know you’re on your way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope you find your stay here productive.” She half rose from her seat to look down at the luggage cart. “Cart: room 433.”

  Obediently, it rolled around the desk and trundled off toward a bank of elevators just visible off to the left. Kosta watched it go; then, taking a careful breath, he turned the opposite way and started up the stairway.

  The ID on the door was a surprise. From the decor downstairs and the obvious prestige involved with the place, he would have expected its director to have been given something fancy and eye-catching. A holo at the very least; more likely a projection or aureol or something they didn’t even have in the Pax. Instead, he found a simple brass nameplate with the words Dr. Laurn Podolak, Director engraved on it.

  The door itself wasn’t any better: simple wood, with a knob and hinges instead of a sliding mechanism. Wondering uneasily if this was some kind of joke played on newcomers, he knocked tentatively on the panel.

  “Come in,” a voice said almost in his ear. At least they had an external speaker system. Twisting the knob, he pushed the door open.

  Given the simplicity of the door, he should have been prepared for the woman smiling at him from behind the large wooden desk. He wasn’t. Young middle-aged, perhaps, she was dressed in a neat but simple dress, her shortish hair completely unadorned by the sort of clips and frostsprays virtually all the upper-class women on the Xirrus had worn. Even her necklace, her one visible concession to style, would have looked distinctly shabby next to the ones he’d seen aboard ship.

  Abruptly, he realized that he was staring … and that she was watching him do so with a slightly amused expression on her face. “I’m Jereko Kosta,” he managed.

  “Yes, Rose said you were on your way up,” the woman said, rising and holding out her hand, palm upward. “I’m Laurn Podolak.”

  “I’m honored to meet you,” Kosta said, stepping forward to lightly touch her palm with his bunched fingertips. He’d had nightmares during training about this particular honorific, terrified that he would forget himself and go instead into a normal Pax-style handshake. It had been a great relief to discover that the initiator’s posture made such a slip almost impossible.

  “It’s a privilege to have you here,” Podolak said, lowering her hand and gesturing to the chair facing her desk. “Your credentials were most impressive,” she added as they both sat down.

  “Thank you,” Kosta said, wondering with a twinge of uneasiness exactly how glowing the Pax background on him had been. “It’s a privilege to be allowed to study here.”

  She arched an eyebrow, that amused expression back on her face. “Even if the director isn’t exactly what you were expecting?”

  His initial impulse was to deny it. But there was a distinctly knowing look in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I just thought—I mean, it’s just that you’re not—” He waved a hand helplessly.

  “As upper-class as someone in my position ought to be?” she suggested mildly.

  He winced. “Something like that, yes,” he admitted.

  The amused expression vanished. “There’s still so much we don’t know about the angels, Mr. Kosta,” she said, her tone suddenly very serious. “So much we need to know if we’re going to use them properly.” She leaned forward and gestured to her left, to a full-wall status board Kosta hadn’t noticed before. “That is where our money goes. To research, and study, and analysis. To people like you, on the cutting edge of the work. Not people like me, who merely organize it.”

  Kosta looked at her, a cold shiver running up his back. It was the same highly committed, grimly earnest expression he’d seen so often on the men who’d trained him for this mission. Men who’d spoken over and over again of the need to free the people of the Empyrean from their alien domination.

  Their domination by the same angels Director Podolak was determined to flood the Empyrean with. “I understand,” he heard himself say.

  “Good.” Podolak straightened up again, that almost religious intensity disappearing into a wry smile as she did so. “Sorry if I sounded a little high-flown there, but after you’ve gone through the same explanation roughly twice a week it starts to sound like any other speech. However, as long as we’re on the subject of money—” She glanced down at the display on her desk. “Your last communication said you’d be bringing a total of twenty thousand ruya with you and setting up a local draw line. Is that still correct?”

  “Yes,” Kosta said cautiously. “Is that unacceptable?”

  “Oh, it’s acceptable enough,” Podolak said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a thin packet. “It’s just not going to get you very far. Ergo, this.” She handed the packet across the desk.

  Frowning, Kosta took it Application for Empyreal Government Fund Assistance, the cover said. “Fund assistance?” he asked stupidly.

  “Of course,” Podolak said. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how expensive this kind of research can get. If Clarkston can’t afford to give you more than twenty thousand, you’re going to need to scare up more money from somewhere. Let me know if you have any trouble with either the forms or the High Senate funding rep in Magasca.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Kosta slipped the application into his coat pocket, a faint haze of unreality fogging his vision. Not only were they welcoming a Pax spy into their midst with open arms, they were offering to get him government funding for his mission on top of it. Telthorst and the other Adjutors were going to be ecstatic.

  “It’s why I’m here.” Podolak glanced at her watch and stood up. “I was about to head down to the visiting researcher wing. If you’d like, I can show you to your new office.”

  It had taken Kosta six years, at three different universities, to earn his tridoctorum degree. Six years in which he’d met and dealt with a fair sampling of department heads, administrators, and other academic bureaucrats. Most, in his admittedly biased opinion, had run the foreshortened gamut from totally oblivious of student work to vaguely aware of it. A few—a very few—had managed to be moderately interested in it.

  Dr. Laurn Podolak left every last one of them in the dust.

  He’d expected her to simply walk him down the hallway to his office, nodding to or perhaps chatting a moment with those they happened to pass. Instead, she proceeded to take him on a complete and methodical tour of every single office and lab on his floor.

  She knew everyone’s name. She knew enough about everyone’s project or study to make comments, offer suggestions, ask worthwhile questions, and give encouragement. Introducing Kosta around, she rattled off home cities
and family details as if these were all longtime personal friends instead of the temporary academic visitors they actually were.

  Somewhere far in the back of his mind Kosta had wondered how Podolak, without any of the visible trappings of authority, could possibly maintain the proper tone of the respect and discipline among her subordinates. By the time they reached the end of the hallway, he realized she’d found a far more effective motivator than mere respect.

  “That’s just about it,” Podolak commented, pausing beside the last door—this one, unlike the others, a heavy-looking sliding type. “What do you think?”

  “I’m impressed,” Kosta answered, and meant it. “Not just by the facilities, either.” He nodded back down the hallway. “These people are more like an incoming batch of grad students than any visiting scientists I’ve ever known.”

  “There’s a wonderful camaraderie here,” Podolak agreed. “Part of that is the people themselves, of course. Not surprisingly, angel research tends to attract the highly idealistic. And of course, there’s the angel effect itself.”

  “Of course,” Kosta repeated, his lips suddenly gone stiff. The angel effect. A dangerous, alien influence … and here he was, as near the dead-crack-center of that influence as he could possibly be.

  They’d talked a great deal, back on Scintara, of how the angels were sapping the will and altering the minds of the Empyrean’s leaders. Somehow, no one had ever gotten around to answering the question of how Kosta was supposed to avoid that influence himself.

  Podolak had turned to the door, pressing her right palm against the red-rimmed touch plate set into its center. “You’ll need to go downstairs later and get your print entered into the computer,” she told him. The touch plate rim changed to green, and with a puff of released air pressure the door slid open. “Until then, you’ll have to get your officemate or someone else to let you in.”

  “What’s in here?” Kosta asked, though the tightness in his stomach told him he probably already knew.