by Eric Brown
“Why do I feel stunned?” he said. “I knew what the outcome would be before we got here. Christ, don’t these people have any humanity?”
“They don’t think like that, Matt. This isn’t about your daughter, or your feelings. All they care about is profit.”
“Fifteen million. How the hell do we raise that? I don’t want to wait another five years, or longer. I want to watch Sam grow up while I’m young enough to enjoy it. Hell, I’ll be fifty in five years.”
“We’ll sort something out before then, believe me.”
The restaurant comprised six concentric tiers rising on the inside wall of the dome; they sat at a table near the apex, next to the rail, and had a vertiginous view down to the concourse and the lower tiers. Diners came and went, the elite of European society, ambassadors and politicians, holostars and artists, and even the occasional alien guest. Hendrick watched a perilously tall, blue-skinned Denebian walk carefully across the concourse with a group of human politicians, the alien obviously struggling under gravity greater than that of its homeworld.
“So where are we meeting the politicos?”
“I arranged a private booth down there.” She pointed to the third tier, where a succession of segregated booths looked out over the Seine.
Mercury had dispensed with her trademark tricorne and wore her hair piled in a sophisticated coif. Gone too was the one-piece in favour of a startling scarlet dress, combining elegance and simplicity. Hendrick felt scruffy in his faded chinos and frayed shirt.
“Just what do you hope to get from these people?”
“Information,” she said. “Maybe even help.”
“Help?”
“As I said last night, it costs to get to Beltran. We’d be talking about half a million for the two of us. Terra has no legal jurisdiction on the planet, so there’s no way we could start legal proceedings in the hope of gaining custody of Samantha. The only hope is if we go there and get her ourselves.”
“And you think The Hague might pay?”
She shrugged. “You never know.” She looked at the chronometer on her wrist-com. “Almost two. They should be turning up any time now. We’ll wait till they show, and then join them.”
“You’re reading?”
“Not at the moment, but I will be as soon as they arrive.” She pointed to a booth on the third tier, diametrically opposite where they were seated. “Keep a lookout.”
Five minutes later the politicians’ bodyguards arrived, scanned the booth, then stationed themselves on either side of the entrance.
Mercury nudged him and pointed. A man and a woman in business suits crossed the tier and entered the booth.
Hendrick looked expectantly at Mercury. She frowned, then shook her head. “They’re wearing the latest shields. As I told you way back, no shields are one hundred per cent effective, but politicians are equipped with up-to-the-minute baffles. I could get through—given an hour or two, and if I wanted to suffer one hell of a migraine. Come on, let’s not keep them waiting.”
They left their table and took the downchute to the third tier. “You’ve met these people before?” he asked.
“Not this pair. I’ve had dealings with the woman I suspect is their boss. These people are just messengers, not that they can’t get us what we want. Here we go.”
They crossed the tier and presented their wrist-coms for clearance. The guards nodded them through and a diaphanous door swished open; Hendrick followed Mercury inside.
The woman stood, introduced herself as Ola Nordqvist, and her deputy as Nigel Caruthers. Mercury returned the compliment. They sat around a table and Nordqvist spoke into a grille, ordering drinks.
The politicos were in their fifties, their bland faces tuned to the neutral expressions of people whose careers were based on giving nothing away.
“Ms Velasquez apprised us of the situation,” Nordqvist said in French with a cut-glass Nordic intonation. “And we took the liberty of doing a little research on you, Mr Hendrick. Your ex-wife has certainly led you quite a dance; you have our sympathies.”
“I want my daughter back,” he began impulsively.
The Scandinavian reached forward and in a quite unexpected gesture touched the back of his hand. “I too have a daughter, Mr Hendrick. She is now fifteen. My ex-husband has custody, so I see her only once a month. I am in no way claiming that our situations are comparable, but merely reassuring you that I understand.”
Their drinks appeared from a slot in the centre of the table, forestalling Hendrick’s reply. He took his beer and passed Mercury her orange juice.
Mr Caruthers sipped his brandy, then said in English, “We have also done a little research on Maatje van der Muellen and Dr Emanuel Hovarth, concentrating principally on their motive in travelling to Beltran.”
“We presumed,” Mercury said, “that they’re seeking a cure for Samantha’s illness.”
Nordqvist inclined her head. “That cannot be discounted. She has sought before the . . . shall I say bizarre assistance of extraterrestrial agencies.”
“You have done your homework,” Hendrick said.
Caruthers said, “It’s not unfeasible that Hovarth has uncovered information regarding Vhey medical procedures. As you might know, the Vhey are an advanced race, though secretive.”
Mercury said, “How might Hovarth have come by such information?”
Hendrick noticed the glance that passed between Nordqvist and Caruthers. He was sure that the former was counselling the latter to circumspection.
Caruthers said, “That, my friend, is what we would like to know. The Vhey are secretive, to an extraordinary degree, and guard their knowledge possessively. We’ve discounted the possibility that your ex-wife and Hovarth chose to go to Beltran merely to evade you, as they did on Spica II. There are a hundred worlds that are easier, and much cheaper, to travel to, if they desired merely to give you the slip.”
Nordqvist said, “There is another possibility, of course—that they have travelled to Beltran for another reason than seeking a cure.”
“But they have Sam’s suspension pod with them,” Hendrick interrupted.
“They have,” Caruthers said, “but this doesn’t preclude the possibility that a cure is not their motive in travelling to Beltran.”
Hendrick nodded. “Very well.” He looked from Nordqvist to Caruthers, disappointed with the course of the meeting so far.
“The situation is this.” Mercury leaned forward. “Stated bluntly, Maatje and Hovarth have Matt’s daughter, and we wish to Telemass to Beltran in the hope of returning with Sam. We’re in negotiations with Omega-Gen, who have discovered a procedure that will cure Sam. However, that procedure is extortionately expensive. Added to this, the cost of Telemass travel from Earth to Beltran is costly—it would eat into the savings we hoped to retain to pay Omega-Gen.”
She looked from Nordqvist to Caruthers, and Hendrick was aware of his increased pulse.
The politicians exchanged a glance, and Nordqvist nodded minimally.
Caruthers said, “We could see our way to expedite the cost of your travel to Beltran, and your travel and living expenses while there, if you would agree to undertake certain . . . ah . . . tasks for the European Union while on Beltran.”
Mercury’s long lips twitched in a smile. “And what might those tasks be, Mr Caruthers?”
It was Nordqvist who replied. “You would be injected with subcutaneous monitoring equipment—that is, miniature cameras and microphones. You would trace Ms van der Muellen and Dr Hovarth and attempt to ascertain the motive for their journey to Beltran. I cannot guarantee,” she went on, her glance moving between Hendrick and Mercury, “that the undertaking would not be without certain risks. We know that the Vhey do not have telepaths, but we are uncertain as to what they do possess in the way of . . . surveillance capabilities. While diplomatic relations between Earth and Beltran are at present cool, let us say, we must be careful not to exacerbate tensions between our races.”
Caruther
s said, “If you do consent to travel to Beltran, equipped in the manner we have outlined, then you will meet the European chargé d’affaires on the planet, and hopefully he’ll be able to assist you in locating Ms van der Muellen and Dr Hovarth.”
Hendrick sipped his beer. “So we’ll effectively be working for Europe as spies,” he said. “I’d like to know if agents from Earth have ever ventured to Beltran, and what became of them. Did they return? I don’t like the idea of being apprehended by the Vhey.”
Again the politicians traded glances, then Nordqvist said, “To the best of our knowledge, Mr Hendrick, Europe has never sent agents to Beltran.”
Mercury sat back; her expression said: likely story . . .
“And we cannot say with any certainty what the Vhey’s reaction might be to discovering agents in their midst,” Nordqvist finished.
Caruthers said, “We would, of course, give you a few days to consider out offer.”
“I accept,” Hendrick interrupted. “I accept the risks, whatever they might be. I want my daughter back.”
Mercury reached out and touched his hand. “Not so fast, Matt,” she murmured. She turned to the politicians. “You’re asking a lot of us, and in return consent merely to subsidise our travel to Beltran
and expenses while there . . . while we would face unknown dangers.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t seem like a fair exchange, in my opinion.”
Nordqvist smiled. “And what, Ms Velasquez, do you suggest?”
Mercury sat back, sipped her juice, and considered the question. At last she said, “The cost of having Matt’s daughter cured by Omega-Gen is estimated to be in the region of fifteen million euros. We would consent to undertake working for you on Beltran if The Hague would agree to pay this fee.”
Hendrick regarded the politicians nervously.
Nordqvist’s response was rapid, and did not surprise Hendrick. “I am afraid that that is out of the question. I’m sorry, Ms Velasquez, Mr Hendrick. My department could in no way consent to subsidize such a sum.”
Mercury nodded, staring into her glass. She looked up. “Then . . . how much might you agree to pay us?”
Nordqvist said, “One million euros, on top of travel and living expenses.”
Mercury smiled at Hendrick, then said, “Two million, Ms Nord-qvist, and you have yourself a deal.”
The Scandinavian smiled. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms Velasquez. Two million it is. You will report to my department in the morning for a briefing, and later that afternoon undergo the requisite medical procedures.”
They finished their drinks, chatted for a while about the restoration work to Notre Dame, and five minutes later the politicians took their leave.
Hendrick sat back and laughed. “There I was, diving in like a fool.”
Mercury smiled. “I’ve had dealings with people like these. It’s all about leverage.”
“Well, you certainly levered us a decent deal. I must admit, though . . . I don’t know what to think about playing the part of a secret agent.”
“We’ll play it by ear. See what this chargé d’affaires has to say.” She smiled. “I think the occasion calls for a little celebration, no? How about another drink?”
She ordered two beers and they sat side by side and admired the view across the river to the ancient cathedral.
THREE
THE FOLLOWING DAY, AFTER RECEIVING INJECTIONS to install the sub-dermal cameras and audio recording nanoware, Hendrick and Mercury took the monorail from Charles de Gaulle Station to Berlin. Telemass transit for Beltran was scheduled for eight that evening; shortly after their arrival at the orbital, a shuttle would transfer them to the planet’s surface.
They were among a party of six to make the journey to Bellatrix I: a couple in their fifties who introduced themselves as artists, a zoologist who gave her name and occupation and nothing more, and a Rigellan ee-tee, resembling a giant sloth, who said nothing but blinked at the five with its vast cyclopean eye.
As they took their places on the Telemass translation pad, Hendrick scratched his forehead where the medics back in Paris had inserted the nanoware. He was as conscious of carrying the surveillance devices as he would have been if shouldering a holocam.
Mercury reached out and took his hand as the countdown in German began over the tannoy. She knew he hated the transition, and often suffered translation nausea.
My body is about to be shredded, he thought, broken down to its constituent molecules and fired on a tachyon vector two hundred and fifty light years through space . . . and I don’t believe it. He closed his eyes.
“Drei . . . zwei . . . eins . . . Übergang.”
It was as he’d been punched in the solar plexus by an invisible fist; white light exploded in his head and he staggered, taking a few steps forward. Mercury gripped his hand. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re there . . .”
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, gasping. The others—the artists, the zoologist, and the alien—were walking from the pad to a reception lounge as if they had merely stepped through a door from one room to the next.
“You okay?” Mercury said, staring at him with concern.
He took a deep breath. “I’m fine. No, really . . . I’ve experienced far worse. I just need to sit down for a minute and I’ll be okay.”
She took his arm and led him from the pad to a lounge dotted with foam-forms. Two women in the red uniforms of the Telemass Organisation moved among the new arrivals. One approached Hendrick and said, “We have a recuperation lounge available, sir, if you would care to come this way.”
“No, really—I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down.”
“Would you like tea, coffee?”
“Coffee would be great. White.”
He smiled at Mercury. “I hate being treated like a kid every time I make a translation. You’d think by now . . .”
She punched his shoulder. “You know, it’s one of the many things I love about you, Matt Hendrick. Your vulnerabilities. You’re man enough to admit having them.”
The woman returned with his coffee and Mercury led him over to a vast curving screen. They sat on a foam-form and admired the view.
Further along the screen, the woman artist said, “You know something? However many times I see this, it never fails to get me right here.” She touched her chest.
Hendrick stared at the small planet turning slowly far below. It was a sight rendered rare now, thanks to Telemass travel, but one which fifty and more years ago would have been commonplace for those who travelled aboard conventional starships.
Beltran showed green through minimal cloud cover, its daylight face dotted with a thousand lakes. Hendrick had read about the place back in Paris: its habitable zone was a great band of land around the equator, subtropical and mountainous, with the lakes for which the planet was famous.
The woman was staring at Mercury’s connected-mind’s symbol tattooed on her cheekbone. “Hey, you’re a telehead.”
“That’s right,” Mercury said. “But I assure you that I’m not reading at the moment.”
The woman waved. “That’s fine. I’m great with it. Nothing to hide . . .” She introduced herself: Sylvie Cartwright and her husband, Ralph.
Mercury asked the woman, “How often have you been here?”
“We live on Beltran, at the artists’ commune north of the equator.”
“An artists’ commune, on Beltran?” Hendrick sounded surprised.
Ralph said, “It’s part of a cultural deal. We get to depict the beauty of the planet, and the Vhey get to study us.”
Mercury stared at the man. “Study you?”
“That’s right,” Ralph said. “The Vhey don’t have artists, and they find the process of artistic creation, the subjective interpretation of objective phenomenon, fascinating.”
“But . . . if you don’t mind me asking . . . how exactly do they study you?” Mercury asked.
Sylvie shrugged and looked at her husband. Ralph said, “They simply wat
ch us, move amongst us, stare at us and what we create, for hours.”
Hendrick shook his head. “And you don’t find their attention off-putting?”
“I did at first,” Sylvie said. “But you get accustomed to it. After a while you don’t even notice the little fellows.”
“Do they question you?” Mercury asked.
The artist shook her head. “That’s another strange thing. They rarely speak. In all my time on Beltran—about two years, in all—I’ve never heard a Vhey utter a single word.”
“And I’ve heard them only once,” Ralph said.
“What are the Vhey like physically?” Hendrick asked.
Ralph laughed. “Sylvie calls them tree frogs, magenta tree frogs. They’re about so high”—he held his hand about a metre from the floor—”and slight. And they move oddly, obeying no . . . how would I describe it? . . . obeying no conventional code of movement or social decorum. I’m sorry, I can’t describe it any better than that. You’ll understand what I mean when you see them.”
Sylvie asked, “And why have you come to Beltran?”
“Simply a fact-finding mission for the European government,” Mercury replied, and rapidly changed the subject. “I understand the Vhey were once a starfaring race?”
Ralph said, “That’s right, quite a few thousand years ago. They had FTL ships and explored this sector of the galactic arms a hundred light years in every direction.”
“So what happened?” Hendrick asked. “They don’t leave their world now, do they?”
Ralph frowned. “I’ve read that they felt they’d learned all they wanted, and retreated, became isolationist. They have their own philosophies, and are happy with them. They’re a post-technological race—that is, technology as we understand it. They manipulate genetic material in ways that we can’t even dream of matching, but they don’t bother to build or create physical forms, as we understand it. They don’t live in cities, but divide their time between the jungle in winter and underground caverns during their summers.”
“They sound . . . fascinating,” Hendrick said.
Sylvie smiled. “I wish you luck in your . . . fact-finding mission,” she said.
