Queen of Angels

by Greg Bear

  “It often happens, Mademoiselle. Our citizen army maneuvers at one airport in the evening, and another airport must be chosen and flights arrive later. But he did not say why. Is there anything else?”

  Mary shook her head and Roselle resumed knitting.

  In the bedroom, lying under the gauzy canopy, she was far too out of place to feel out of place. She looked at her hands, more like the hands of a mannequin than the vitally black hands of Roselle. Mary’s palms were black, smooth and silken, tough as leather yet supple and flexible, super-sensitive on command; excellent high biotech skin. Then why did she feel vaguely ashamed to wear that skin here? Neither Jean-Claude nor Roselle seemed to think it a mockery; but theirs was a professional politeness and what they really thought might never be revealed.

  The inhabitants of Hispaniola had earned their blackness across centuries of misery. Mary’s losses—friends, family and large parts of her past—were minor sacrifices. She picked up Colonel Sir’s book again and began a long article on the history of Haiti and the former Dominican Republic.

  The advent of nano therapy—the use of tiny surgical prochines to alter neuronal pathways and perform literal brain restructuring—gave us the opportunity to fully explore the Country of the Mind.

  I could not find any method of knowing the state of individual neurons in the hypothalamic complex without invasive methods such as probes ending in a microelectrode, or radioactively tagged binding agents—none of which would work for the hours necessary to explore the Country. But tiny prochines capable of sitting within an axon or neuron, or sitting nearby and measuring the neurons state, sending a tagged signal through microscopic living” wires to sensitive external receivers…I had my solution. Designing and building them was less of a problem than I expected; the first prochines I used were nano therapy status-reporting units, tiny sensors which monitored the activity of surgical prochines and which did virtually everything I required. They had already existed for five years in therapeutic centers.

  —Martin Burke, The Country of the Mind (2043-2044)

  39

  “Goldsmith had a late lunch,” Lascal told Martin. “He says he’s ready.”

  Martin glanced at Carol and his four assistants seated in the observation room. “We’ll break our group into three teams. One team will not enter the Country and can meet with Goldsmith, interview him, establish a relationship. Erwin, Margery, you’re in that team. You’ll ask questions, take care of him in the theater, keep him calm.” He sighed. “I’m still not happy with the remote diagnostic. I want to do some of my own background work.”

  Margery Underhill was twenty six and heavyset with long blond hair and a square pretty face. Erwin Smith was the same age as Underhill, moderate in stature, strong and slender, with fine mouse brown hair and a perpetual quizzical expression.

  Their colleagues, Karl Anderson and David Wilson, waited patiently for their assignments. Karl was the youngest, twenty five, tall and very thin with a forward cut wave of jet black hair. David was a sleepy looking man of thirty, balding and pudgy-faced.

  Martin looked them over critically but could find no fault other than what he found in himself. What had Albigoni promised them? Now was certainly not the time to ask. “Karl, David, you’ll be in the second team. You’ll keep constant watch on the interfaces and electronics. You’ll replace Carol and me in an emergency—or you’ll enter the Country and extricate us.

  “We’re missing the buffer and we can’t replace it, so there won’t be any actual time delay. We’ll be completely immersed in Goldsmith.”

  Albigoni came into the observation room. He looked exhausted and lost. Martin gestured for him to take a seat beside him. Albigoni nodded gratefully, sat down and pursed his hands in front of him.

  “We’re going to begin interviewing Goldsmith in a few minutes,” Martin said. “Margery and Erwin will ask some questions designed to give us clues about the nature and configuration of Goldsmith’s Country.” Martin handed Albigoni the five-page list. “The exploration team will listen and watch. I call this shell mapping. When that’s done, Carol and I will enter as pure observers, not interacting. We’ll see if we can match the shell map with what we observe. Then, sometime late tomorrow or the day after tomorrow we’ll do a brief interactive entry. If that goes well, we’ll take a break, discuss our plan, relax for a while and then begin the full triplex probe. That shouldn’t take more than two hours. If it does last longer, well…We should finish the probe anyway. Carol, what was the maximum anybody ever spent in Country?”

  “I’ve spent three and a half hours in machine Country in Jill,” Carol said.

  “In humans?” Martin asked, slightly irked. He still didn’t think the comparison was useful.

  “Two hours ten minutes. You and Charles Davis, working with Dr. Creeling.”

  Martin nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  Albigoni lifted his hand like a student in class. “Selectors have been on Goldsmith’s trail since the day after the murders. Sources tell me he’s a prime candidate; they want to get to him before the pd finds him. They don’t know where he is but I don’t trust all the people I’ve had to work with to make these arrangements; Selectors have been flashing around some very impressive funding recently. Within four days they’ll probably know we have him and where he is. We can’t go to the pd for help, obviously. Now, if they have to, our security people can keep Selectors away from here, but I doubt that a siege will make this any easier.”

  “We’ll be done within three days,” Martin said.

  “Good.”

  “You’ll turn him over to the pd then?”

  Albigoni nodded. “We’ll arrange it so that pd intercept him.” His face was tight and bloodless. “Right now they’re searching for him in Hispaniola. We’re not sure why.”

  Martin looked at the others in the room. “We’re as ready as ever. Give us the word, Mr. Albigoni.”

  Albigoni looked puzzled.

  “Tell us to begin. You’re the boss here.”

  Albigoni shook his head then lifted his hand. “Go to it,” he said.

  Lascal suggested he should take a nap. “You’re looking very tired, sir.”

  Albigoni went through the observation room door. Walking down the hall, they heard him say, “I’m coming out of shock, Paul. God help me. It’s starting to hit me now.”

  Martin closed the door, lifted his watch and tapped it. “It’s four o’clock. We can question Goldsmith for an hour, break for supper, resume this evening.”

  Goldsmith was exercising slowly in the patient room. Bend and twist, leg lifts, touch-toes. Lascal knocked on his door. Goldsmith said, “Come in,” and sat on the bed rubbing his hands on his knees. Behind Lascal came Margery and Erwin wearing ageless white lab coats, unfailing stimulators of patient assurance. “We’d like to begin, Mr. Goldsmith,” Margery said.

  Goldsmith nodded to each of them and shook the hands of all but Lascal. “I’m ready,” he said.

  David, Karl, Carol and Martin sat before the screen in the observation room. Martin’s eyes narrowed. Something missing. “Why isn’t he worried?” he murmured.

  “He hasn’t got anything to lose,” David observed. “Either that or he’s ashamed.”

  In the patient room, Margery sat in one of the three chairs. Erwin sat next to her but Lascal remained standing.

  “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, Paul,” Goldsmith said softly. “I believe I’m in good hands.”

  “Mr. Albigoni wants me to watch everything.”

  “That’s fine too,” Goldsmith said.

  Margery began. “First we’re going to ask you a series of questions. Answer as truthfully as you can. If you’re too embarrassed or upset to answer just tell us. We won’t force you to answer anything.”

  “All right.”

  Margery held up her slate. “What was your father’s name?”

  “Terence Reilly Goldsmith.”

  “And your mother’s name?”
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br />   Martin watched the timer in the lower left corner of the screen.

  “Maryland Louise Richaud. Maryland, like in the state. R-I-C-H-A-U-D. Her maiden name. She kept it.”

  “Did you have any brothers and sisters?”

  “Tom knows all this,” Goldsmith observed. “Didn’t he tell you?

  “It’s part of the procedure.”

  “No brothers. I would have had a sister, but she was stillborn when I was fifteen. Medical mistake, I think. I was an only child.”

  “Do you remember being born?”

  Goldsmith shook his head.

  Erwin asked a question now. “Have you ever seen a ghost, Mr. Goldsmith?”

  “All the time, when I was ten. I don’t try to convince anybody else, of course.”

  “Did you recognize the ghost?”

  “No. It was a young boy, younger than me.”

  “Did you miss having a brother or sister?”

  “Yes. I made up friends. I made up an imaginary brother who played with me until Mama told me that was sick and I was acting crazy.”

  Martin made a note: Early access to personality modeling levels through projection.

  “Do you ever have recurring dreams?” Erwin asked.

  “Like, the same dream?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. My dreams are usually different.”

  “How do you mean, usually?”

  “There are places I come back to. They’re not always the same, exactly, but I recognize them.”

  “Can you describe one of these places to me?”

  “One’s a big shopping center, an indoor shopping center like they used to have. I sometimes dream I’m going into all the shops. The shops are always different, and the colors, but…it’s the same.”

  “Any other places that repeat in your dreams?”

  “Several. I dream I’m going back to my street in Brooklyn. I never quite get there. Well, that’s not true. I got there once a long time ago. Mostly I go and never quite reach it. I get lost on the subway or in the streets, or I get chased.”

  Martin itched to break in and ask Goldsmith what he saw when he returned to his old home and what or who chased him but that would break procedure. His fingers fairly danced over the slate keyboard, making notes.

  “Do you have any vision or image that you use to calm yourself when you’re upset?” Margery asked.

  Goldsmith paused. The pause continued for several seconds. Martin noted the time precisely. “Yes. It’s sunset and snow is falling in San Francisco. The snow is golden. The entire sky seems to be a warm gold color and the wind isn’t blowing. The snow is just falling.” He dropped his hand in a slow lazy wobble.

  “Did you ever see that?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s a memory, not something I made up. I was in San Francisco visiting a woman friend. We’d just broken up. Her name was Geraldine. Well, that’s what I called her later. Doesn’t matter. I’d left her building in the old downtown area and stood on the streets. It snowed that year. It seemed so incredibly peaceful to me.” A pause often seconds. Goldsmith’s eyes became unfocused. Finally he said, “I still think of it.”

  “Do you ever dream about people you don’t like, people who’ve treated you badly or people you think of as enemies?”

  Pause. Lips working steadily as if he were chewing something or struggling to say two things at once. “No. I don’t make enemies.”

  “Can you describe your worst nightmare when you were thirteen years old or younger?”

  “Horrible nightmare. I dreamed I had a brother and he was trying to kill me. He was dressed like a monkey and he was trying to strangle me with a long whip. I woke up screaming.”

  “How often do you dream about having sex?” Margery asked.

  Goldsmith chuckled softly. Shook his head. “Not often.”

  “Do you find much inspiration in your dreams? For your poems or other writing I mean,” Margery continued.

  “Not very often.”

  “Have you ever felt isolated from yourself as if you weren’t in control?” Erwin asked.

  Goldsmith lowered his head. A long pause, fifteen seconds. He kept swallowing and pushing his palms together between his knees. “I’m always in control.”

  “Do you have dreams where you aren’t in control, where somebody else is compelling you to do things you don’t want to do?”

  “No.”

  “What do you see when you close your eyes now?” Margery asked.

  “Do you want me to close my eyes?”

  “Please.”

  Eyes shut, Goldsmith leaned his head back. “An empty room,” he said.

  Martin turned away from the screen and said to Karl and David, “I’ve asked for some leadership questions. I think they’re next in the sequence.”

  “We’re going to ask you to pick out your favorite word from some groups of words,” Erwin said in the observation room.

  “This all seems very primitive,” Goldsmith commented.

  “May I give you the groups, and you pick a word you like?”

  “The best word. All right.”

  Erwin read from his slate: “Sparrow. Vulture. Eagle. Hawk. Pigeon.”

  “Sparrow,” Goldsmith said.

  “Next group. Boat, dinghy, yacht, tanker, ship, sailboat.”

  “Sailboat.”

  “Next. Slaveway, freeway, road, path, trail.”

  “Path.”

  “Next. Pencil. Pen. Scribe. Typewriter. Eraser.”

  Goldsmith smiled. “Eraser.”

  “Hammer, screwdriver, wrench, knife, chisel, nail.”

  “Nail,” Goldsmith said.

  “Next. Admiral, captain, corporal, king, jack, lieutenant.”

  Pause, three seconds. “Corporal.”

  “Last group. Lunch, dinner, hunting, farming, breakfast, foraging.”

  “Foraging.”

  Erwin put away his slate. “All right. Who are you, Mr. Goldsmith?”

  “Pardon?”

  Erwin did not repeat himself. They watched Goldsmith patiently. He turned away. “I’m not a farmer,” he said, “and I’m not an admiral.”

  “Are you a writer?” Margery asked.

  Goldsmith twisted around on the bed as if looking for the camera. “What is this?” he asked softly.

  “Are you a writer?”

  “Of course I’m a writer.”

  “Thank you. We’ll take a break for dinner now.”

  “Wait a minute,” Goldsmith said. “Are you accusing me of not being a writer?” A queer smile. No anger; flat.

  “No accusations, Mr. Goldsmith. Just some words and questions.”

  “Of course I’m a writer. I’m not an admiral that’s for sure.”

  “Thank you. If it’s all right with you we’ll come back and ask more questions after dinner.”

  “You’re very polite,” Goldsmith said.

  Martin turned off the screen. Lascal, Margery and Erwin entered the observation room a moment later. Lascal shook his head dubiously. “What’s wrong?” Martin asked.

  “I don’t know what those questions are supposed to mean,” Lascal said. “But he didn’t answer all of them fully.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve read all his books. He didn’t answer the question about pleasant places to think about. Meditate on. He didn’t answer it completely.”

  “What did he leave out?”

  “In a letter to Colonel Sir John Yardley about five years ago he described a place he’d been dreaming about, a place that seemed like paradise to him. I can’t quote exactly but he said he thought about it often when he was upset. He called it Guinée and he said it looked something like Hispaniola and something like Africa, where no white man has ever set foot and blacks live free and innocent.”

  “We can find the reference,” Carol said. “Why wouldn’t he tell us about that?”

  Martin gestured for Margery to hand him her slate. “Next round ask him this series,” he said, typing quickly.


  They ate dinner in the second floor cafeteria using an older model nanofood machine. The input was a bit stale and the result was filling but not tasty. Lascal commented on the lack of comforts but nobody paid attention. The probe was on; quarry was afoot.

  “Definitely flat affect,” Margery said. “It’s like he’s disconnected. He’s pleasant and doesn’t want to make trouble.”

  “Flat affect can be a mask,” Carol observed, content for the past few hours to be quiet and make copious notes. “He could be fully integrated, all agents speaking to each other, but deciding on a humble posture. After all, he’s not psychotic; we know that much.”

  “He’s not obviously psychotic,” Martin said. “He knows he’s done something very wrong. It would be almost impossible for him not to mask. But I agree with Margery. The flat affect seems genuine.”

  “We got several interesting pauses,” Erwin pointed out. “When we asked about pleasant images, a long pause…”

  “That could be connected with Mr. Lascal’s observation,” Carol said.

  “And when we asked who was in control. That could point to a schism of routines. Maybe even separation of subpersonalities.”

  Martin shrugged. “His word choices point to camouflaging. He doesn’t want to be conspicuous. From what we’ve been told, he wasn’t very humble, was he, Mr. Lascal?”

  Lascal shook his head. “I don’t know many writers who are.”

  The cafeteria had been built to hold thirty and seemed empty with just the seven of them clustered under two lamps. Carol sipped coffee and scrolled through her own notes, glancing at Martin occasionally as he twirled his fork in the remains of a pale gluey piece of mock apple pie. Finally she broke the general musing silence. “He doesn’t seem very charismatic, either.”

  Lascal agreed.

  “I don’t see how he could have kept such a group around him,” she continued. “How he could have attracted them.”

  “He was much more dynamic before,” Lascal said. “Witty, sympathetic. Sometimes a real powerhouse, especially when he gave readings.”

  “There’s a piece I’d like him to read out loud,” Thomas Albigoni said, standing in the cafeteria door. “His play about hell. I’d like him to read that.”