She was damned if she would put on a second layer of skin when the weather did not require it.
Now Carl sparred with a hulk of a Peaceforcer who had to outmass him two to one. Shana and Lorette were practicing speaking in English, rather than the French they had learned as children. Though most of the staff spoke understandable, hideously accented French, most of the thirty or so genies with whom the de Nostri shared the buildings did not. It was a failing shared, in greater measure, by New York City's residents.
"I cannot see that it matters," said Lorette primly, running her claws gently through the brown and white striped fur that covered Shana's back and shoulders. "Talk to the telepath if you must, your boyfriend--"
Shana's muscles tensed, and she growled so quietly that no human and most genies who were not de Nostri would have heard it. Lorette's ears pricked slightly, and without pausing she continued, "--or only your friend, if you will have it that way. But--"
She broke off again; the Peaceforcer sparring with Carl had picked the boy up and thrown him a full five meters. Shana sucked in her breath, and her claws unsheathed of their own accord. The boy struck the mat rolling and came to his feet running backward. The Peaceforcer was right there, a long kick whistling through the space the boy's body had occupied an instant before.
For a moment the two stood facing each other, motionless, before engaging again, and Lorette continued speaking as though she had never been interrupted. "But the people in the city," she said, lips drawn back from her teeth in a reflex that had nothing to do with a human's smile, "animals. They stare so." She stopped scratching Shana. "How is that?"
"I still itch in all places."
Lorette sighed, switched to French. "What did they inject you with?"
The snarl in Shana's voice would have been audible even to a human. "They did not tell me, except it is supposed to make me strong. If I was a human, even a genie, they would have said."
Lorette chuckled without amusement. "If you were a human citizen they could not even have injected you without permission."
Shana was silent, watching as a somewhat smaller Peaceforcer took over from the very large one. The boy had no time to catch his breath; within seconds the two were fighting, each wielding a meter-long rod of wood with a rounded, metal cap at each end.
"Really?"
Lorette sighed, and returned to English. "It is what Albert says."
"Albert says things just to say them," said Shana sullenly.
"True." Lorette was struck by something amusing, and she leaned forward to whisper in Shana's ear. "Albert told me that he has watched Carl spar and that he is better."
"Scratch my shoulders, please," said Shana. Lorette's claws moved up after the new itch, and Shana sighed with pleasure when they caught it. "Albert is a fool. He is four years older than Carl, and he is jealous because he is not as important. He is one of many de Nostri, and Carl is the only telepath." She thought about the subject for a moment. "Perhaps it is true, that he is better than Carl, with an advantage of six years study. Carl began learning only after they found he was a telepath and realized it might be necessary to use him in the field. But I will tell you this much, Albert may best Carl on the mat. If they ever truly fight, Carl will win." Shana had to catch her breath after speaking; she was slightly winded.
"I have talked to Carl once," said Lorette thoughtfully. "He says when they take him on assignment he is well protected."
Shana nodded. "Yes. He is their only telepath, unless the little dark haired girl is one also, and they will not know that until, what is it," and she took a long, deep breath, to bring the air into her lungs, and said, "comment dit-on en anglais mènarche?"
"Puberty," said Lorette, "but it means for boys and girls both. They do not have a word for mènarche."
"They will not know until Jany reaches puberty, then." Shana coughed, a deep, guttural sound, and said, "It makes him special."
Lorette brightened. "Look, the fourth match is finished. One more and we can go to lunch."
Shana shook her head slowly. Her ears were twitching. "I think perhaps I should go to the infirmary."
"Shana?"
"I...I do not feel well."
Carl did not look away from his match as they left.
The field wavered slightly. Suzanne Montignet's image waited for nearly three seconds after Malko had finished speaking; round-trip signal time from the PKF Elite SpaceBase One, at L-5. "You've got to be kidding."
Malko shook his head no. "They weren't sure at first what was happening. It took nearly a day before the transform virus killed her. I had Carson on the line after it happened. He denied--"
"Of course the virus killed her," Suzanne exploded after the strange delay that Malko found himself unable to become used to. "What did the bloody fools expect? She was a de Nostri, for God's sake! Those are not human muscle cells!"
Malko waited until there was silence before he continued. "Ellie Samuels did the work, and she says she received her orders directly from Councilor Carson. You weren't available for her to check with, which is clearly intentional."
Suzanne was nodding tensely. "Of course it was. Carson's wanted to try seeding one of the de Nostri with the enhanced-strength transform virus for the last year. They're so strong to begin with, the damn fool figures this should make them even stronger. I told him the odds were terrible." She looked broodingly into the holocam, eyes slightly unfocused; she was not looking at the screen that held Malko's image. "It's been fascinating, seeing the work the Peaceforcers have been doing in transform viruses, but it still didn't make sense, how insistent they were that I make the trip to L-5, until now. Carson wanted me up here so that I couldn't interfere down there. Have you heard from Amnier?"
"No. The Prosecutor General's office won't return my calls. I think they're going to let Carson get away with it."
"Has Shana been autopsied yet?"
"No."
"How's Carl?"
"...angry."
"That bad?"
"I've never seen it worse."
She seemed to reach a decision. "Very well. Don't let her be autopsied until I get back. I want to be there. Ellie might not have known what she was doing when she got her orders...." She was looking off screen at something. "Ship leaves at 23:00 hours. I can be in Manhattan by this time tomorrow. Have Carl confined."
"I'll try." The holofield went silver, then flattened, and Suzanne's figure.
If, thought Malko, I can find him.
The receptionist sat at the wide front desk, in the inner lobby of the offices of the Unification Council, at the United Nations Building in New York City. Sunlight struck a warm, late afternoon glow through the bay windows that surrounded the lobby on three sides, washed in and overrode the clean white glowpaint. The receptionist thought she saw movement outside, through the window, and dismissed it as a figment of her imagination.
The doors slid aside, and by reflex she touched the pressure point at the side of her desk, marked Security, the instant the young man walked in. By appearance he was perhaps fifteen or sixteen years of age; young, but old enough to be dangerous.
And she should have received some warning before he had reached the inner lobby.
"Can I help you?"
His voice was odd. She had to strain to hear him, and--surely his lips had moved?
I have come to see Councilor Carson.
His eyes were green, some portion of her mind noted uneasily, and large. And familiar--
"I'm sorry," and she stumbled over the words, "but the Councilors do not--see people--without an appointment."
He moved closer to her, head cocked slightly to one side. An intangible, electric shock of danger ran through her. There was rage in him, a vast anger. Tell him I'm here.
She did know him, she was certain of it. Thought came slowly, as though from a great distance. She could not take her gaze away from the brilliant, luminescent green of his eyes. She activated her inskin data link without knowing she did so, and
paged the Councilor to the reception area.
Another Councilor, with two of his staff, came through the lobby as they waited, and eyed the boy with a touch of curiosity. The boy stood silently, motionless, and did not look at them. He kept his gaze locked to the receptionist. They found it, and him, somewhat odd, but of course he would not have been there if he had not belonged there, and so they continued on their way, and forgot the boy with a speed Jerril Carson would have found instructive.
The lift doors, at the far end of the lobby, slid aside, and Jerril Carson stood framed between the sliding doors, with a Peaceforcer at his side.
A weight lifted itself from the receptionist's mind and the dark-haired boy's features moved into focus. The blood had drained from his face at Jerril Carson's appearance, leaving it shockingly white beneath the straight black hair, but she recognized him nonetheless. "Of course," she said aloud. "Why--"
Carson said with mild surprise, "Carl?"
The voice echoed, as though something else spoke through the boy, used him as an instrument. "You killed Shana."
He said nothing else, and Carson was still looking at him when the windows exploded outward. A great invisible hand slammed the Peaceforcer down to the floor, dragged him out of the lift and across the pale blue carpeting. The Unification Councilor stumbled back into the lift, mouth open and working as though he would say something.
But no words came, and Carl, rage stamped upon his features, went in after him.
The doors slid shut before the screams began.
There can be good mistakes; and otherwise.
Jany McConnell underwent puberty early in the year 2047. The Peaceforcers were waiting.
She too had the Gift.
For the predominantly French Peaceforcers, struggling to keep order in a world that hated and distrusted them, it was confirmation enough of the information gathering godsend. Castanaveras had already proven that he could retrieve information reliably when physically near his target; but one, or even ten such telepaths, were only mist in the desert of their need.
* * *
2048, the year Jerril Carson became the chairman of the Peace Keeping Force Oversight Committee in the Unification Council, was, not coincidentally, also the year Suzanne Montignet was removed from control of what was popularly called "Project Superman." In that year, 43 telepathic children were brought to term. All were given the surname Castanaveras; the technicians had tired of inventing individual surnames.
In 2049, 73 such telepaths were born.
In the year 2050, 86 telepaths were brought to term in Bureau of Biotech host mothers.
In 2051, the year Trent Castanaveras was born, only twenty-four telepathic children were brought into the world. The Peaceforcers were beginning to learn enough to wonder if they should be afraid of the power they had helped create. Many of them were afraid of Carl Castanaveras. With help from Castanaveras the program to produce telepaths for the Peaceforcers was terminated by the middle of the year.
In 2052, Darryl Amnier became Secretary General of the United Nations.
In 2053, twins were born to Carl Castanaveras and Jane McConnell; twins named David and, yes, the Denice who became Denice Ripper, from whom our line descends.
Those are the facts. There have been many histories written concerning those twenty years when telepaths first walked the Earth; but historians are primarily concerned with truth, and a concern for truth can make one leery of those cold facts that might conflict with a precious, closely held "truth."
It is better to be a Storyteller.
Emerald Eyes
* * *
2062 Gregorian
* * *
3.
On Thursday, March 9, 2062, Carl Castanaveras rose early. He left Suzanne Montignet's home and walked three blocks through the icy dark, to the Massapequa Park Station of the Long Island Tubeway. It was only 4 a.m.; the streets of exurban Massapequa Park were largely bare of traffic. The stars shone clearly overhead and the moon had already dropped below the horizon. There were no other pedestrians about and except for the rare car and the rumble of the huge twelve-fans rolling down Sunland Boulevard all was quiet.
The cold did not affect Carl. He barely noticed it except to keep his hands inside his coat pockets. He walked briskly, impatiently.
At the Tube station the doors slid aside and admitted him to a warm, well lit waiting room. Carl sorted and cataloged by reflex. Three women and five men, none of them visibly armed, waiting for the 4:15 Tube shuttle to Grand Central Station.
At the InfoNet Aid station Carl bought a one-way ticket to the city, and leased a news viewer. The clerk behind the counter was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Lease of the news viewer came to half a Credit Unit more than the ticket itself; the viewers were stolen regularly. He paid with SpaceFarer hard CU; the clerk blinked in curiosity at the sight of the rare silver coins, but took the CU:1.25 without word.
He stood quietly for several minutes, waiting for the Bullet to arrive. At 4:12 the Bullet came up out of the ground, and coasted down the superconductor maglev monorail to a slow gliding stop; a single structure made of nearly a hundred meters of supertwisted sheet monocrystal. The Bullet could not be painted and did not need to be washed; filth slid off. It could not be scratched or dented.
Under sufficient impact, it would shatter.
At 4:15 the Bullet pulled out of the Massapequa Park station and was fed slowly back into the interlock. In the lock the atmosphere was evacuated, and the Bullet was injected back into the Tube with a smooth, steady acceleration.
Once, almost a decade ago, ideologs who were never identified--Johnny Reb, perhaps, or Erisian Claw--left a bowling ball in the Tube. The Bullet struck it at full speed. There was an average clearance of five centimeters around the circumference of the Bullet; when it struck the bowling ball the Bullet turned the bowling ball into vaporized dust.
In the process, the Bullet itself touched the side of the Tube. The resultant earthquake destroyed eighteen kilometers of the Tube; the shock wave was felt nearly sixty kilometers from the place where the Bullet shattered itself against a bowling ball.
Carl sat in the seat nearest the exit, to save time getting off when the Bullet stopped. He stowed his briefcase in the rack under the seat and purchased a large cup of coffee from the waitbot as it rolled down the long center aisle. Service that morning was good; before the crush hours started it usually was.
The first thing he saw when he turned on the news viewer made him wince. He'd gone to greater than usual trouble that morning to insure that his activities remained unnoticed; logging on to the InfoNet, he'd picked the default user profile rather than identify himself by his thumbprint and download his profile. Had he been using his own profile the screen that greeted him would not have surprised him much, but he was logged on anonymously and despite that his face was all over the front screen of the morning edition of the Electronic Times news Board. The headline the tablet showed--Carl did not have his ear phone turned on--was "UNIFICATION COUNCIL PASSES GENIE BILL."
The texts of the several stories were lacking. Bare bones of the Amendment--it was not, as the front screen headline implied, a bill, but the Eighth Amendment to the Statement of Principles--and a brief sketch of its ramifications for both the telepaths and the feline de Nostri, with another sketch of the principals involved in the bill on both sides. Predictably, Malko's involvement with the Eighth Amendment, and the limited but real opposition the Amendment had received from Secretary General Amnier's office, were the primary subjects for most of the newsdancers. It was a romantic lead; two war heroes, on opposite sides during the war, and still so four and a half decades later.
Carl found he could reliably judge any particular newsdancer's sympathies in the matter from the style in which the newsdancer wrote the Secretary General's title. Those who used the currently popular "Ministre Gènèral," rather than the historically correct English title, had little good to say about either the telepaths or their supporters.
Only one story in the first section was not about the passage of the Eighth Amendment; a SpaceFarer smuggler had been apprehended with a cargo hold full of GoodBeer from St. Peter's CityState, in the Belt. Any other day it would have been a front screen story, perhaps the headline. Of the remaining stories, most concerned the conflict between Amnier and Kalharri.
Unfortunately, one of the newsdancers had not been content with the obvious story; that newsdancer had taken Carl Castanaveras for a ride down the boulevard with the spotlights turned on. The style was familiar; Carl paged down the article until he came to the sign off.
Gerold McKann; special to the Electronic Times.
Carl shook his head. The pictures of him were good; a man of average height, a swimmer's build, in conservative attire. He sipped his coffee while auditing. The tablet showed several holos, most of them apparently taken from his testimony before the Unification Council earlier that year. The color reproduction was good; the brilliant green eyes leapt out from beneath a shock of black hair as they did in real life, and with nearly as much impact.
The text was devastating. It focused on the circumstances that had led to the telepaths' petition, and the role Carl had played in freeing the telepaths from the control of the PKF. The tone was highly approving.
Carl smiled. Gerry, my friend, I'm going to nail your ass to the wall.
Across the aisle, a woman was staring at him. She looked down at her news viewer, and then back up again. Her features froze into an unpleasant mixture of hatred and embarrassment.
Carl stared directly at her until she turned away.
A Flicker on the Net.
United Nations Peace Keeping Staff Sergeant Emile Garon looked around his cubicle. He was near the end of his second year in this cubicle now; two years spent monitoring the Network, two years plugged into a bank of Fairchild gallium arsenide transputers, two years with the superconductor RAM hardwired into his skull. The cubicle's walls were off-white, and he was forbidden to decorate them.
Emerald Eyes Page 3
