“But should I?” she murmured. Even saying it sent a cold shiver along her arms.
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“What if he is right? What if there is a Starflyer, a malicious alien that has been influencing human politicians?”
“Dear me, is that likely? It does sound suspiciously like a conspiracy theory to me.”
“I know. But there are an increasing number of inconsistencies in the case that I’m having difficulty with. Until now it did look like Johansson had very simple motivations, that the Guardians were formed first to help him steal the money from Las Vegas, then to cover up his subsequent lifestyle and allow him to live off the proceeds. But if he’s right, and the Starflyer did somehow push us into the flight to Dyson Alpha, it would explain a lot of things. For one, he has never wavered in projecting his belief in the Starflyer. The only other person I know who could maintain such a constant position after so much time is me.”
“Ah, now I understand why you have come to me. This is a moral question. Should you drop your pursuit of Johansson, even though you know for certain he has committed crimes, and go after the Starflyer, whose existence as yet remains unproven.”
“That’s about it, yes.” She didn’t mention there was no one else she could talk the situation through with. Right now she wasn’t sure who she could trust.
“However flattering your appearance here today, I hardly think I’m qualified to give you a judgment on this. I have no knowledge or understanding of Commonwealth politics. And that’s what this seems to be.”
“No, it’s not. Politicians and their aims are tied into this, very strongly in the case of Columbia, but it’s not their squabbling for power which concerns me. It is the results of that squabble. And even if you doubt the existence of the Starflyer, I suggest you examine the name Nigel Sheldon. He is somehow mixed up in this. Whatever way I look at it, Johansson has been confronting something with political power. In which case he may be operating with another small political grouping. That would certainly explain why he’s been given help from inside the Commonwealth government for so long.”
“Wait a minute; I thought you said Sheldon was the one preventing inspection of the cargo shipped to Far Away.”
“That’s what Thompson Burnelli told me.”
“So how could he be the one Johansson is acting against?”
“I don’t know. Presumably he’s not. That’s if Burnelli was right. If Johansson could convince Nigel Sheldon the Starflyer was a threat, there would be no need for the Guardians or the Great Wormhole Heist. My old Directorate and every other government agency would have been turned over to finding the alien. But he didn’t convince him, although Sheldon blocked the inspections anyway.”
“How reliable was the Senator?”
“In something like this? Completely.”
Leonard sat back, looking bemused. “Then this is not logical.”
“It would appear to be a paradox only because as yet we don’t have all the information.”
“Hence your determination to carry on with the case, yes I see. But which part of it? Humm, a merry dilemma. Can you confront Sheldon?”
“Given my current circumstances, I could probably get one interview with one person of power. As such I would have to choose carefully. If Sheldon is mixed up with this, he will simply deny it, and it may be that I then face the same fate as the Senator.”
“Yes. To be avoided. Of course, if you were to catch Johansson he will be able to supply answers for a great many of your questions.”
“Finding the Starflyer would also end this.”
“How would you do that?”
“Travel to Far Away. If Johansson is right, there will be an abundance of evidence at the Marie Celeste Research Institute.”
“Won’t that be somewhat dangerous?”
“The risk is acceptable. No one will expect me to do such a thing. And it would be quick.”
“I can see the appeal in that. The Starflyer would be the greater crime, which will allow you to pursue it with a clear conscience. If you’re sure that’s not a reaction to the shock of being dismissed from your position.”
“It’s not. I will catch Johansson eventually. However, I have to consider that given the Prime situation I might not have much time left, especially if Johansson is right and it was engineered to our detriment. The whole purpose of exposing the Starflyer to the authorities would be to prevent any kind of conflict.”
“Ignore the time factor, it is an unknown you cannot outguess. You have to go after Johansson. You know how he works, his pattern. And you now have a huge advantage.”
“How so?”
“If you work alone, he will not receive any leaks from your office. He won’t know you’re coming.”
She smiled thinly. “You have more in common with Alexis than I thought.”
“Why thank you. So how will you go about the case now?”
“I will travel to Far Away and contact the Guardians. They will take me to Johansson. As you said, he won’t expect me to come at him from that direction.”
“Oh dear, oh dear. I suppose you know what you’re doing, but please be careful. I’d like to think my great-grandchild will sit here listening to your next quandary.”
She stood up and offered her hand. “Tell him to watch out for me.”
“You really are going to take my advice?”
“It helped me focus on what I have to do, yes.”
He looked out of the French doors at Matilda who was still stretched out on the towel. “Then I really should take your advice.”
A huge black Zil limousine was parked outside the entrance to Paula’s apartment building, almost completely blocking the street. She was surprised the police hadn’t towed it away; at the very least they should have fined the driver. As she drew up level, a gull-wing door in the side lifted up silently. A man whose skin was pure gold put his head out.
“We need to talk,” he told Paula.
TWENTY-THREE
Tulip Mansion was situated just outside of New York, in Rye County. The building itself sat on top of one of the small mountains that made up the majority of the rugged region, where it was surrounded by pine forests that swarmed over the adjacent hills. Mingling in among the tall trees were huge rhododendron bushes that enjoyed the stony soil, producing the most exquisite carpet of color when they were in flower. People who had homes there tended to stay for many lives and centuries. Rye’s proximity to the city made it an excellent area to live for those who could afford the land prices. It wasn’t as chic as the Hamptons—but it was very convenient.
Miles Foran had thought so when he began his estate at the start of the twenty-first century, an Internet billionaire whose share stock had achieved a near-ballistic trajectory upward. With the Tulip Mansion it was his goal to build “the first true American stately home of the new millennium.” Not for him the standard timber-frame mansion clad in brick and stone. Mock was not in the vocabulary when architects were summoned. His ornate stone walls had cores of concrete and steel that would last for centuries. Craftsmen were flown in from all over the world; master carpenters and stone masons chipped and chiseled away, crafting a work of art you could live in. Aristocratic designers were contracted to produce a modern classic interior that would make the palaces of oil potentates seem cheap and tacky by comparison. The grounds were shaped and landscaped into gardens that would rival those of Versailles.
The decade-long project was well under way when Jeff Baker released into the global market his new crystal memory: the pinnacle of electronic data storage, eliminating all other competing systems, obliterating copyright, and revolutionizing the Internet into the datasphere. Gravity suddenly took a very firm grip on Foran’s stock trajectory, which not even filing Chapter Eleven bankruptcy could protect him from.
Several years later the creditor banks were quietly grateful when Gore Burnelli made them a small offer for the estate and its half-completed folly. Work was resumed. The cen
tral stamen tower was completed, topped out with its gold anther crown. The four wings laid out around it were the flower’s petals, stretched-oval shapes that were given curving scarlet and black roofs whose design was stolen directly from the Sydney opera house. Inside were reception rooms, a ballroom, a grand banqueting hall, fifty guest bedrooms, a library, swimming pools, solariums, games rooms, and cavernous underground garages stocked with a range of vehicles that any motor history museum would kill to obtain.
All in all, it was excessive to the point of vulgar; but Justine spent more time at the Tulip Mansion than she did at any other family residence. If anywhere was home for her, it was here. And now she was having to host Murielle’s engagement party in the gardens at a time that was monstrously inappropriate.
But the party had been planned months in advance. The negotiations between lawyer teams representing the Burnellis and the Konstantins had been completed. Their union had to be examined for share block shifts between the two families—not that core blocks would change, this couple’s relatively junior status meant they’d only be awarded secondary shares, a few small companies spun off, a virtual finance house, real estate in phase three space. Though given this was a direct line merger the lawyers had also allowed for the possibility of closer fusion for the children in a couple of centuries. It was an interesting dynamic, which had taken a long time to be cleared.
A tearful Murielle had bravely volunteered to postpone the party; after all, Thompson was her ancestor. Justine had smiled at the bewildered first-life girl and said: Not at all, Thompson would want you to carry on.
So at midday she stood under a rose-covered gazebo receiving guests who rolled up in modern limousines or fabulous antique cars. She paid no attention to the vehicles; her interest in one-upmanship among Society had been exhausted centuries ago—although she had to own up to a certain awareness when it came to who was wearing what. Costumes were supposed to be themed from around the 1950s, and the pavilions set up across the garden’s high lawn reflected that. Waiters in period uniforms served cocktails from the era.
For herself, Justine had chosen a formal sea-green evening dress with a mermaid tail skirt. She drew the line at heels on the grass, though.
A ’56 Oldsmobile pulled up, and Estella slowly got out of the back.
“What on earth happened to you?” Justine asked as her friend limped over to the gazebo. Estella was wearing a scarlet dress with white polka dots, and pink winged sunglasses. Instead of shoes, she was wearing a pair of electromuscle support boots.
Estella gave her a brief kiss on both cheeks. “I’m so sorry to spoil the look of the thing, darling. But I went and sprained both ankles. It was hideously painful, I kid you not.”
“How did you do that?”
“So silly. I was dancing on the coffee table at a party. When I jumped off I landed badly. I don’t understand it, darling, I’ve danced on that table a hundred times, and nothing like this ever happened before.”
Justine didn’t scold, it would have been far too parental. “I never get asked to parties like that anymore.”
“I should think not, Senator, you have a reputation to consider now.”
“Oh, thanks. It’s people like you I need support from.”
“I know, darling.” Estella laid her hand on Justine’s arm. “How’s it going? Is it really awful?”
“Thompson had an excellent staff team. I just vote the way they tell me to. I haven’t started doing deals myself yet. It’s just a temporary appointment, after all, though the senators did give me a unanimous vote to carry on his representation. Even his opponents endorsed me, I think they were all shocked, or running scared. Nobody’s ever killed a senator before; this was supposed to send a message to the killer that you can’t stop politicians like this. So all I’m doing is basically holding the fort till he gets out of the clinic.”
“Be brave.”
“You know me.” She gave a brittle laugh.
“Do they know who did it yet?”
“No. Nor why. It’s all so stupid. Who kills people in this day and age? We’re not in the barbarian era anymore.”
Estella plucked at her dress. “We are this afternoon.”
“Yeah. Are you staying for the play tonight? It’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The Tolthorpe actors are supposed to be very good, and the gardeners have built an open-air stage in front of the lower beech woods.”
“I’m not walking off anywhere, darling. A stiff drink and a decent-looking first-life waiter is what I need.”
“Good, I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”
“Sure thing. Now, is this Murielle?”
“Of course.” Justine introduced her friend to the girl and her fiancé who were waiting on the other side of the gazebo. Murielle was wearing a copy of the white dress Marilyn Monroe had on in The Seven Year Itch. And carried it off well, Justine had to admit. She did have a fabulous figure; and with it such a wondrously sunny disposition that Justine had to acknowledge how old and jaded she truly was nowadays despite wearing a body of young flesh. Young Starral Konstantin was so obviously smitten as he stood at her side, the two of them holding hands the entire time. Simply being around them was wearying to Justine. For ages she’d been swept along by Murielle’s ingenue enthusiasm for her fiancé, and the party, and the marriage, and their future life together, and the many children she wanted to produce (with natural pregnancies—for God’s sake) for her handsome beau. It had been a marvelous distraction helping the girl plan everything; Murielle had been living at the Tulip Mansion for the five months since she finished Yale. Even the Primes and the navy were just parallel subjects.
Then some lunatic had killed Thompson.
Why?
And now she had to be tough and resolute the way everyone expected a senior Burnelli to behave, when all she really wanted to do was put her arms around her little brother and cuddle him like she used to do when she was five years old and he was a baby.
“Are you all right, Grandee?” Murielle asked.
To her horror, Justine realized her eyes were moistening. Not now, goddamnit! “Coping,” she said staunchly. “I just remember him every now and then. That’s all.”
Murielle put her arms around Justine. It was such a childlike gesture, spontaneous and genuine, that Justine was in danger of sobbing out loud. “It’s all right, Grandee,” Murielle said softly. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Justine nodded appreciatively, wanting to escape from Murielle’s big concerned smile. “Sorry, I’m ruining this for you.”
“We’re family, Grandee. That means accepting the rough with the smooth, and standing together through all of it.”
Justine picked at the girl’s shoulder straps, adjusting them. “Better or worse, eh?”
“I’ve got the better part of it right now.” She glanced across at Starral, who gave an understanding smile. “You know he’s very good in bed,” Murielle said in a low confidential voice.
“Yes, dear, you told me.”
“I don’t mind if you want to spend a few nights with him, Grandee. Before we get married.”
Justine started giggling. She couldn’t help it; Murielle was absolutely serious. How wonderful to be that young. “That’s all right, dear. You enjoy him, he really is a great catch, anyone can see that. Take him upstairs every night and simply ruin him for any other girl.”
“I do my best to be bad,” Murielle said demurely.
“Good. Us Burnelli girls have reputations to maintain, you know. I’m depending on you to uphold the family honor. If they can still walk in the morning we’ve not been bad enough.”
Murielle was giggling now. Starral directed a faintly suspicious and worried look at the little female conspiracy meeting.
“Oh, lordy,” Justine murmured. She’d just seen a stretched Skoda pull up. “Look who’s here, and—joy—she’s brought her new whore with her.”
The two Burnellis straightened up and put on their false smiles as Alessandra
Baron walked up to them.
“My dear Senator, I’m so sorry about your brother,” Alessandra said. “Thompson was always such a delight to have on my show. A decent politician I always called him. One of the last.”
Justine gave the celebrity a pretentious exaggerated air kiss. “Why thank you. He thought the same about you.”
“As soon as his new body is conscious, tell him I was asking after him. And I’d love to have him back on my show.”
“I’ll tell him. Thank you.”
“I want to introduce my newest and best affiliate reporter,” Alessandra gushed. “This is Mellanie Rescorai.”
Justine smiled as she shook hands with the young woman. She was a first-lifer, about the same age as Murielle, but that was about the only similarity. This one was a raw street fighter, Justine saw, dangerously ambitious. Strange that Alessandra hadn’t recognized that. But then perhaps she was off guard when looking into a mirror.
“An honor, Senator,” Mellanie said. “You have a lovely home here.”
“Thank you. I’ve accessed your reports several times. You seem to be making quite a name for yourself, especially on Elan.”
“Those people were awful, opposing the navy like that. The Commonwealth should know what they were doing.”
“I’m sure they should.”
“Now, Mellanie, this is a party,” Alessandra chided. “And this has to be the blushing bride.” She took both of Murielle’s hands. “Congratulations on your engagement, my dear. You look wonderful. You’re putting the rest of us to shame in that dress. Quite right, too.”
“Why thank you,” Murielle said sweetly.
“Yes, congratulations,” Mellanie said. “You’re very lucky.” It almost sounded as though she meant it.
Justine waited until the reporters had said hello to Starral and left the gazebo. “Remind me, why did we invite her?”
“It’s a Society wedding, Grandee. There are rules.”
“Oh, yes, I knew there was a good reason.”
The Commonwealth Saga 2-Book Bundle Page 97
