by Tom Clancy
David grinned. “I think I can fit you into my busy schedule. Give me a couple of minutes.”
Soon enough, he appeared in Leif’s workspace. “What dark secrets have you uncovered?”
“It all started when I encountered this picture in a presentation on old-time fencing,” Leif began. From the picture of Louis Rondelle, he went on to explain how he’d identified a number of other members of Gray Piotr’s inner circle. “All this seemed like a surprise-”
“Coming from Prince Charming,” David finished. “Knowing you, I expect you’ve already gotten the low- down on our oh-so-nice friend.”
“I’ve barely scratched the surface,” Leif said, “but already I’ve turned up some stuff I don’t like very much.” He explained about Alan’s accelerated academic career. “You’ve got to read his doctoral thesis to believe it,” he ended.
David looked surprised. “Why isn’t he using the thesis to get a job?”
“I think you’ll be more interested in the content of his paper than Alan’s employment or lack thereof,” Leif said. “It explains a lot about his sim. You should read it.”
“Okay,” David said, his face showing no expression. “Maybe I should.”
Leif sat and fidgeted while David went through the holotext version of the downloaded manuscript. The process took even longer than he’d expected. Where Leif had only skimmed, David was actually wading through large sections of Alan Slaney’s scholarly prose.
It took all of Leif’s patience not to start reading over his friend’s shoulder, pointing out what he considered to be the relevant parts of the thesis.
Finally David turned away from the glittering text display. “Very . .. interesting,” he said.
“Interesting?” Leif echoed. “I think appalling is the more appropriate description. How can you, of all people, be so calm after reading what that-that jerk had to say?”
“Well, he’s not just a racist,” David replied. “I’d say he was more of an equal-opportunity reactionary. He’s not a fascist, either. I expect the proper label would be to call him a classical conservative.”
“What’s the difference?” Leif wanted to know.
“Alan’s kind of conservatism is the nineteenth-century kind-the sort that wanted to keep things as they were back then in the old days. World politics was a sort of ‘rich white guys who picked their parents well’ club.” David’s smile turned wry. “To those guys, today’s so- called conservatives would seem like rabble-rousing radicals-”
“But that’s what they are,” Leif said.
David continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Who are in favor of way too much democracy.”
Leif closed his mouth with a snap.
David gestured back to the displayed text. “Once you get past his sugar-coated view of the Fin de Siecle, Sla- ney actually has a logical argument. He suggests that the turn of the century was the last chance for what he calls ‘the better classes’ to stem the currents that pushed Europe into World War I.”
Leif frowned. “More like ‘keep the lid on,’ I think. Things were happening all over-France, Britain, the Balkans, the Far East, Russia, and Africa.”
David nodded. “The tide had been running against Alan’s heroes for a good fifty years. Art and science and many men of letters were, for the most part, on the enemy side. When you’ve got people as diverse as George Bernard Shaw and Sigmund Freud saying that the status quo was no good, you’ve got problems.”
Leif’s friend spread his hands in an all-inclusive gesture. “That’s why I say Alan’s an equal-opportunity reactionary. He’s not just about people of color keeping in their place, but about everybody staying in their place: working folks, union types, artists, what we’d consider the lower middle class, women, you name it.”
His tone grew a bit more pointed at Leif’s shrug. “For instance, he probably wouldn’t be too wild about someone like your father making a fortune. That, too, would be rocking the traditional boat.”
“The guy’s a nut!” Leif burst out.
“He just has a very different point of view,” David responded. “I might not like it, but I think I can understand it. In the history of the world according to Slaney, the methods used to vent off the steam gathering among the diverse people threatening the traditional systems- national pride, imperialism-that’s what brought on World War I. And what came out of World War I is what has led to the world today.”
“I don’t think we came out so badly,” Leif said.
“But we have lost some things from that earlier world,” David argued. “Today, things like individualism, privacy-they’re in short supply. Personal honor isn’t as widespread or as trustworthy. Causes were considered to be bigger than people then-that later bred political expediency. Mass politics, mass economics-wouldn’t you like to be thought of as something more than a faceless consumer? Even information has become a commodity.”
“You might have a point. But Slaney’s alternative would be to turn the clock back about a hundred and twenty years. Can you imagine what that would mean?”
David gave a curt nod. “Not all that much honor to be found in a cotton field,” he said. “But it would have been nice for all of us to pick up some of those old ideals along the way.”
“In theory,” Leif said.
“In theory,” David agreed with a sigh. “But out in the practical world, the classical conservatives made some pretty bad choices. For instance, in Germany, they backed Adolf Hitler, figuring they could use him to stop the slide.”
“And we all know how that turned out,” Leif said. “So I was right. Slaney is a fascist.”
“He’s a romantic,” David corrected, “holding to a set of beliefs that just don’t fit in the world we live in.”
“Maybe that’s why he came up with Latvinia,” Leif suggested. “He created an environment friendly to his point of view”-he gestured from himself to David- “and unfriendly to others.”
“Makes sense,” David admitted. Then he frowned. “But I think we’re missing something, somewhere.”
“That helps narrow things down,” Leif said sarcastically.
“If I knew what it was that we’re missing, we wouldn’t have to look for it,” David responded. “I propose a division of labor. You’re already deep into Slaney’s background-with one surprising exception.”
Leif blinked. “What?”
“His fencing,” David replied. “Slaney’s teaching at the salle probably takes more effort than his day job. Why don’t you look into that? I’ll take his other big- time investment-Latvinia. We still don’t know why he made up his own country. Maybe we can learn a few things from how he went about building it.”
David synched out from Leif’s stave house and transited to his own virtual workspace. This month, he was trying out a new simulation-the bridge of one of the new deep-space probes.
He opened his eyes to find himself in the captain’s acceleration couch, facing the main control arrays.
Leif’s dubious words still rang in his ears. “You act as though you can retrace Slaney’s course through the Net. Unless you’ve been holding out on old Uncle Leif, I don’t know of any software that can crack Net anonymity-or track what sites someone visited months ago.”
Leif was completely right, of course. But there were other ways to peel that particular onion.
David began issuing orders to his system. When you want to build your own large-scale sim, he thought, all roads lead to the Creators’ Quorum.
After all, he had some experience at shaping veeyar to his own designs. David’s recreations of early spacecraft had a certain reputation among a select group of hobbyists.
And the chat room where he picked up his best simulation hints was the Creators’ Quorum. Some of the biggest names in the business synched in to shoot the virtual breeze. Even Chris Rodrigues-the infamous Rod of Sarxos-turned up occasionally, it was rumored.
But nobody was sure. Lots of the visitors to the Creators’ Quorum did so beh
ind proxies. Would Alan Slaney have done that? Maybe, if he thought he had something to hide.
But as David’s search agents began working their way back through discussions stretching over the past few months, he was looking for certain connections among the questions.
His profile called for intelligence, perseverance, and an interest in getting beyond the store-bought software most people used to craft the virtual realities of their choice.
“Oh, yeah,” David breathed as parts of the holotext transcripts began switching over to highlighted mode. These were possible hits. His search agents also color- coded the selected portions depending on how many of the profile parameters matched.
David scowled. Even when he scanned the sections highlighted in red-the most likely possibilities-there were a lot more than he expected.
Sighing, he began to read. And read. But as he plowed through the vast amount of material, certain patterns began to emerge. The questions were numerous, posed under a variety of Net handles. But David saw a quiet agenda that tied them all together.
One set of questions, spread over a couple of months, really jumped out at him. Supposedly coming from several different participants, they essentially asked for the best methods to erase inactive computer archives to create sufficient cyberspace for a large-scale sim.
And what was Alan Slaney’s daytime line of work? He maintained a building full of corporate computer systems-including tetrabytes of inactive computer archives!
Wellf I’ve probably learned where the Latvinia sim is located-if I wanted to plow through a building’s worth of memory, David thought.
He was about to dive back into that mass of holotext when he suddenly had another thought.
Beyond the other stuff we’ve discovered, what I’ve just learned is that no matter how much of a nice guy he seems to be, Alan Slaney is no angel.
Chapter 16
Megan found herself back in the burning parlor car. She called to P. J. to come and join her, but this time things didn’t turn out so well. As P. J. darted forward, he was surrounded in sudden sheets of flame.
“P. J.!” Megan screamed in horror.
He came staggering out of the flames, his clothes already ablaze. Megan could smell the terrible stench of burning skin.
Megan tried to beat out P. J.‘s flaming clothes, but she was hampered by the way he clung to her. Then dancing flames appeared on her own heavy wool skirt. She wanted to drop and roll, just as she’d been taught in school, she wanted to get out of there, but she couldn’t. P. J.‘s grip had turned into an unbreakable stranglehold. The flames were a roaring inferno now, roasting her alive, and she couldn’t get free-
Megan awoke to find herself struggling against her own pillow. She lay very still for a moment, letting her racing heart calm down a little.
A nightmare, she thought. My stupid brain processing what happened in the sim and editing it into a more scary version!
She took a deep breath, exhaling it as a long sigh. Yesterday’s adventures in Latvinia had really put her through the wringer. Although she hadn’t suffered in real life any of the bruises and scrapes she’d picked up in veeyar, Megan had been dog-tired when she synched out. She hadn’t had anything to eat. Her energy had lasted just long enough for her to get out of her clothes and get into her bed.
One quick look at her alarm clock, and Megan groaned. She was up ridiculously early even for her early-rising household. Stretching, she padded down the hall to the bathroom to take care of some business followed by a shower to get rid of the film of cold sweat left over from her nightmare.
She was still yawning and feeling unpleasantly out of it when she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a terrycloth robe. Maybe some food…
Standing in the kitchen doorway, she scanned the room in dismay. Obviously her brothers had ravaged through here last night, searching for snacks. The package of English muffins she’d hidden in the cupboard behind a row of soup cans lay empty on the kitchen counter. To add insult to injury, the boys had left the cans out for her to tidy up. Even though she loved her brothers dearly, they made her understand why the phrase “Oh, brother” had come to be used as a universal and everyday curse.
Megan went to the stove and began heating a kettle of water. Well, at least Michael, Sean, Paul, and Rory didn’t like tea. She found a scone she’d wrapped in plastic and foil and hidden under the potatoes, put a bag of English Breakfast tea in a cup, and filled it with hot water.
While waiting for the tea to steep, Megan unwrapped her scone, cut it in half and toasted it lightly, got out the butter, and found an untouched jar of imported marmalade. The butter melted on the hot, crumbly scone. She could hardly wait to cover it with orange preserves-manna from heaven.
Now the tea was ready. Megan spooned in some tur- binado sugar, then went to the refrigerator for milk. There was only a single container there, which contained a tiny dribble of liquid, barely enough to change the color of the tea. Brothers!
Wellt I’m a bit more awake now, she thought, able to enjoy my annoyance to the fullest.
Megan sat at the counter, doing her best to enjoy the scone and ignore the not-quite-right taste of the tea. Then she cleaned her dishes, stacked away the soup cans, and added several items to the family shopping list. Finally she headed back to her room.
Might as well warm up the computer, she thought. See what-I missed when I conked out so early yesterday evening.
No sooner did she synch in, however, than she was confronted by a virtmail message, blinking the word urgent at her. A little concerned, she called up the holo- text.
Exciting new discoveries have been made overnight in Latvinia, she read. I hope you’ll be linking in as soon as possible-
Another one of Alan’s not-so-subtle attempts to get the kids to come out and play, she thought.
Megan was in the middle of erasing the text when her system announced an incoming call. At this hour? she thought, quickly moving to intercept the message before the system started waking up the household.
Alan Slaney’s image appeared in the air before her. His hair was slightly mussed, and Megan could detect bags under his eyes.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” she asked.
He glanced away from the pickup-apparently at a clock. “Oh, man, I was just working. Didn’t realize what time it was-sorry for calling at such an hour. When I saw that you were reading your virtmail-”
“You sent virtmail with strings on it?” Megan interrupted. It was technically feasible to send someone a message with a subapplication tacked on so that you’d know when the mail was being read. But it wasn’t considered good Net manners-more the type of thing pushy salespeople and control freaks would do.
“I just thought you ought to know as soon as possible,” Alan said apologetically. “One of Colonel Vojak’s scouts came back. Princess Gwenda has been located.”
“Where?” Megan asked, interested in spite of herself.
“She’s in an old watchtower, converted into a hunting lodge,” Alan replied. “Vojak and von Esbach are holding themselves in readiness. If you and your friend P. J. can link in, you can start making plans-”
Megan shook her head decisively. “Not now, and not for a while,” she said. “If I go through another day like yesterday, I’ll be of no use at fencing class tonight. You’ve seen me like that-I don’t like it.”
“It’s just the planning,” Alan cajoled. “You won’t have to do anything-yet.”
“Alan-,” Megan rolled her eyes in exasperation.
“Not right now. No way am I going to roust P. J. out of bed at this hour for a planning session. Besides, I have things to do.”
She glanced over at the shopping list. Like getting a couple of quarts of milk in the house before my parents get up and then get cranky.
“Maybe later, when you’ve finished?” Alan pressed.
Megan sighed. “Sure,” she finally said.
Splashing water in his face, Leif looked in the bathroom mirror
and grimaced at his bleary-eyed reflection. He stuck his tongue out at the image-
Yuck! It was coated with something!
No wonder his fencing connections-all early-rising, health-conscious types-had been giving him such concerned looks as he called them this morning.
They were all up with the lark, ready to go running, or do some other torturous conditioning exercises.
Leif, on the other hand, had gotten about two hours’ worth of sleep. He’d synched in to the Net early in the evening, trying to talk to some of his less reputable friends up in New York. The result had been a virtual tour of some of the city’s wilder night spots. But that’s what he had to do to chase down some of these party animals. They played hard, ran wild-and simply loved gossip, the weirder the better.
The stories he’d collected from both sets of sources were … interesting, to say the least. They wouldn’t appear in the news databases or police records his Net agents had scoured during his initial search for information.
But one thing was sure-the tales Leif had heard painted a very different picture of Alan Slaney from what he had seen.
Leif still had to verify these reports-he had enough personal experience to know that gossip rarely shrinks in the retelling. But his fencing connections had confirmed some of the stories. Even better, some of those friends had even given him numbers for people in the Association for Historical Fencing.
He took another look in the mirror and groaned. Maybe a shower and some cold compresses would be in order before he started cold-calling complete strangers.
Running a hand through his still-damp hair and clicking his now-clean tongue against his teeth, Leif cued-up his computer and began the calling process.
The first person he got hold of had been a student in the same salle where Alan had first gotten into historical fencing. She was a petite young woman with a slight foreign accent.
“Alain?” she said, giving his name the French pronunciation. “He was … brilliant. To watch him in the salle-he picked up every move as soon as Maitre Duchamps demonstrated it. And he listened, too. When the Maitre suggested a book, Alain went out to get it immediately.”
