She studied the screens, even though she hated them. Their images were all she had to think about. If they were switched off, her brain would almost surely go null; and she didn’t want that: she desired death, not unconsciousness. If even one of her screens had gone blank, she might have wept in frustration and grief. Every image, every word, every passing implication was a hint that might eventually enable her to believe that her son would be destroyed. Without hints—without the possibility that she would receive hints—all her years of paralyzed, unliving existence would come to nothing.
Her son was the United Mining Companies CEO, unquestionably the richest and beyond doubt the most powerful man alive. From his corporate “home office,” his station orbiting Earth half a million kilometers beyond UMCPHQ, he ruled his vast empire: the largest, arguably the most necessary enterprise in human history. His employees were counted in millions; men and women who lived or died by his decisions and policies, in billions. Disguised by the UMC charter and by the public democracy of Governing Council for Earth and Space, he raised and toppled governments, destroyed or enriched competitors, caused potential futures to take on substance or fray away like mist. Behind his back, people who feared him sometimes referred to him as “the Dragon”—and only people who had no idea who he was didn’t fear him.
Nevertheless Holt Fasner visited his mother whenever an opportunity presented itself. He valued her advice too much to let her die.
Although he was sometimes hard-pressed to interpret it. Her wish for his ruin was so palpable that he had to be extraordinarily careful in how he sifted her insights, what valence he assigned to her pronouncements. As a result, his encounters with her were a challenge that he found profoundly satisfying.
In truth, he could almost certainly have afforded to let her die anytime during the past half-century. He liked talking to his mother; he profited from her advice. But he could have done without it. He kept Norna Fasner alive precisely because she wished him ill with such steady virulence; also because he took pleasure in her utter helplessness; and finally because she kept him on his toes. Otherwise he was inclined to forget that he was mortal.
Men who forgot their mortality made mistakes. Holt Fasner had paid blood—not always his own—for his successes; and now that he had them, he didn’t mean to let them go glimmering in the name of a mistake.
So he visited his mother an hour or two before Trumpet’s departure. Risks were at work: small risks that might metastasize at any moment. In themselves, Angus Thermopyle, Milos Taverner, Nick Succorso, and Morn Hyland were nothing more than three men and a woman, minor victims of Holt’s larger policies, his grander dreams. But stirred together with Billingate and the Amnion, they might conceivably produce something more volatile, with a lasting impact, like a minor thermonuclear pile that went critical and rendered all its environs uninhabitable for centuries.
Ward was in charge, of course. The risk was of his choosing, not Holt’s: the negative consequences, if any, would be his to clean up. But Holt cherished the well-being of the UMCP as he cherished the health of the whole United Mining Companies. If he’d believed the risks were too great, he would have forbidden them.
He hadn’t done that.
Nor did he dismiss the situation from his mind, however. Instead of trying to second-guess Warden Dios—who had, after all, proven his usefulness and reliability a hundred times over—Holt went to talk to Norna.
The room where he kept her immured was hidden in the obscure recesses of the home office, in a part of the station where no one except men and women with extremely specialized authorizations entered. As usual when her several doctors weren’t examining her, the only illumination in her high sterile sickchamber came from the twenty or so video screens that nearly covered the wall in front of her. That was her choice: the little strength left in her fingers was enough to tap buttons that would raise or lower the lights, adjust her posture, summon assistance—or even turn off the screens. Holt allowed her that freedom because he trusted the use she would make of it.
Stark and garish in the phosphor gleam, her face looked like that of a mummy painted to appear ghastly under UV lamps. Incessantly her thin lips and toothless gums chewed food she hadn’t tasted for decades. At intervals she drooled unselfconsciously; a fretwork of wrinkles spread the excess saliva into a sheen across her chin. She didn’t glance at her son as he entered: her eyes flicked restlessly across the screens as if she could absorb and understand them all simultaneously.
From them came a steady mutter of voices and sound tracks, a muted and indistinguishable argument interleaved with at least half a dozen kinds of music—a noise like a rabble, uneasy and irate, but so blurred and distant that it might have been the tectonic grumbling of rocks or the lost complaint of the sea. The sound alone set Holt’s teeth on edge: at times it seemed to muddle his brain. It made him think there was something structurally wrong with the home office itself.
He knew from experience, however, that Norna absorbed and understood the voices as well as the images.
“Hello, Mother,” he greeted her—artificially hearty, in part as a matter of policy, in part because he had to do something to counteract the effects of the noise. “You’re looking well, better than ever. I do believe you’ll be able to get out of bed soon. I can certainly use your help running the company. How are you feeling? What do the doctors say?”
She met his blather with her usual disregard. The way her eyes hunted the screens made him think of a chicken trying to peck seeds out of stony soil.
He scanned the screens himself for a moment. But their images offered him nothing. The typical collection: half a dozen news broadcasts, all trying to reinterpret life for their viewers, all reaching the same conclusions; three or four sports programs showing acts of extreme violence in varying degrees of simulation; four or five comedies and satires which gave the impression that they all repeated the same jokes over and over again; and half a dozen romantic videos—“Mother, really, at your age, aren’t you ashamed?”—reveling in the kind of mindless and supernal lust that had apparently driven Morn Hyland and Nick Succorso together. With such tripe masses of human beings were tranquilized—until those rare occasions when they woke up, saw what was really happening around them, misunderstood it, and did their best to impose the stupidest possible solution on the men who normally led them. The Humanity Riots were a case in point. The rest of the time, the world reflecting from the screens served its purpose efficiently enough. But it had nothing to give Holt himself.
For the umpteenth time he wondered what it gave his mother. Did she see in it something that he missed? Was she simply hoping for news that some disaster had befallen him? Or was she able to snatch a secret knowledge out of the gabble—knowledge that had somehow eluded him despite his vast resources?
The question added piquancy to his visits with her.
What could he have missed? Not much, obviously, since he’d demonstrated his ability to profit—and profit hugely—from those times when the human billions kicked over the traces and demanded irrationality from their leaders. If any man in history could claim to have not missed much, Holt Fasner was the one.
Nevertheless he kept the question—and his mother—alive to help him ensure that he didn’t start missing things now.
At one hundred fifty years of age, he was almost in his prime, still close to his middle years physiologically. But his cheeks were just a shade too ruddy. He had to blink a bit too often to keep his eyes from filming over. At times he couldn’t hold his hands steady; at times his prostate troubled him. His doctors had advised him against any form of strenuous exercise because they didn’t know how long the tissues of his heart could last. Now more than ever it was vital to make no mistakes.
“Mother,” he went on with the same bland heartiness, as if she hadn’t refused to answer his polite inquiries—as if she had, in fact, given him the answer he desired most—“I need your advice. In the past few days I’ve had a couple of troubling conversa
tions with Godsen Frik.
“You remember him, don’t you?” Holt knew perfectly well that his mother never forgot anything. “He’s Ward’s Director of Protocol. For some reason”—Holt showed his teeth in a salesman’s grin—“he thinks he has the right to go over Ward’s head when he doesn’t like Ward’s decisions or policies. Reprehensible conduct in a subordinate, don’t you think? Ward wouldn’t tolerate it if he didn’t know that Godsen is a particular protégé of mine. In time—ten years or so—I think Godsen will be ready to do his duty to all humankind by accepting the Presidency of the GCES. But is it a problem, isn’t it? For Ward as Godsen’s Director. And for me, as Ward’s friend, ally, and mentor. After all, I want Ward”—Holt had a malicious love for phrases like this one—“to be happy in his work. All human space depends on him.”
If Holt hadn’t been listening hard, trying to filter out the insistent mutter of the screens, he wouldn’t have heard Norna’s almost inaudible question, chewed out by her bloodless lips and toothless gums:
“What’s the situation?”
Ah, Mother, you live for me, don’t you. You don’t want to, but you do it anyway.
Holt went on smiling.
“Ward has decided that it’s time to do something about one of the worst of the bootleg shipyards that serve forbidden space by helping illegals—as well as by what they used to call ‘fencing stolen goods.’ The question is how. He would lose his job if he committed an act of open warfare against the Amnion. So he’s planning a covert strike.
“Do you remember that situation on Com-Mine, oh, half a year ago? The one where it looked like Security was in collusion with one pirate to frame another?” Of course she did. “The one that tipped the votes to get the Preempt Act passed? Well, the illegal who got framed is called Angus Thermopyle—one of the slimiest characters you would ever want to meet. Ward reqqed him under the Act. Now he’s been welded and programmed, and he’s being sent against that shipyard. Today, I think.
“It’s a complex issue. Please stop me if I’m boring you, Mother. I had the distinct impression that Ward didn’t want to obey when I told him to set up that frame on Com-Mine. Our Ward is still too much of an idealist. He doesn’t like to get involved in the practical side of politics. I’ve actually heard him make speeches against ‘descending to the level of our enemies.’ But he did it because he could get something he wanted out of it—which was this Angus Thermopyle.” As if to himself—but watching his mother closely—Holt mused, “I wish I knew how hard I would have had to push him to make him follow orders otherwise.”
If Norna said anything, he didn’t hear it.
“The point, however,” Holt resumed, “is that Ward did follow orders. He is following orders. The next few days should produce some interesting developments on the fringes of forbidden space.”
Now Norna muttered something that sounded like “Why does that bother Godsen?”
“Good question!” her son exclaimed jovially. “As usual, Mother, you’ve cut right to the heart of the matter. Why does that bother a dedicated public servant like Godsen Frik?
“Well, of course, we wouldn’t have been able to frame this Angus Thermopyle if we hadn’t had someone working for us inside Com-Mine Security. But it would be”—Holt considered his choice of adjectives—“unfortunate if any local investigation uncovered the truth. We passed the Preempt Act on the assumption that local Security couldn’t be trusted—that Com-Mine had a traitor working for forbidden space. If word got out that the traitor was actually working for us—well, I could probably keep the station votes in line, but the rest of the Council would go absolutely shit-faced.
“To protect against that eventuality, Ward reqqed our traitor at the same time as Angus—a sadistic little bureaucrat named Milos Taverner. All well and good, so far. But here comes the part that upsets Godsen. Angus is a cyborg now, programmed down to his toes. He can’t clean his teeth without permission from his datacore. But he still needs a control—someone who can adjust his programming to meet unforeseen circumstances. In addition, he needs crew. And on top of that, he needs cover. He needs an explanation for why he’s free, how he got out of lockup, where he got his ship.”
Holt paused for effect, then said, “Ward has chosen Milos to go with Angus.”
Norna chewed her silence. Traces of saliva leaked past her lips instead of words. Her eyes flicked rapidly across all her screens, but never toward her son.
“Am I making this clear enough for you, Mother?” Holt asked in a tone of cheerful solicitude. “We know Milos has the soul of a traitor because he betrayed Com-Mine Security for us. Ward says he won’t turn against us because we’ve got him by the short hairs.” That was another phrase Holt Fasner especially enjoyed. “If he reveals anything we don’t want him to reveal—or does anything we don’t want him to do—he’s cooked. But Godsen has a different perspective. A more ‘public’ perspective. If these activities become known, what are ‘the people,’ ‘the great unwashed masses’”—such words rolled almost gleefully off Holt’s tongue—“going to think of sending out a known murderer and rapist under the control of a known traitor? What are the votes on the GCES going to think of Ward’s belief that Milos won’t turn against us? And what are the chances, really, that Milos won’t turn against us? He can probably make a stellar fortune by selling everything he knows about us—not to mention about Angus,” although Milos couldn’t literally sell Angus himself, since the programming that made Angus loyal to the UMCP was unalterable.
“Our Godsen knows his duties. It’s his job to become hysterical and froth at the mouth in situations like this. And it’s his job to come to me.
“I haven’t backed him up, however. I don’t want him to forget his place—I don’t want him to think he has the power to tell me what to do. And I don’t want to undermine Ward.” Not in a case like this, where the potential benefits were large—a dramatic victory against forbidden space and piracy, wonderful for the credibility and authority of the UMCP—and the likely risks were small. After all, if Milos misbehaved Ward could always order Nick Succorso to kill him. “He has a talent for this kind of delicate manipulation. He’s the best UMCP Director I could ask for. And he’s shown his loyalty any number of times.”
A small voice whispered out of Norna’s husk. “But you’re still worried.”
“How right you are, Mother,” Holt agreed. “I’m still worried. No matter how careful Ward is, he’s still taking a risk—and you know I don’t like risks. That’s the reason I suppressed the Intertech immunity drug.” Well, not the only reason, but the only reason he cared to admit at the moment. “It had at least the theoretical potential to shift the balance of power across human space. It might have undercut Ward and the whole UMCP by making them appear less vital, less necessary. That might have weakened my position with the votes.”
He shrugged judiciously. “Or not. Maybe none of those things would have happened. But I didn’t want to take the chance. So I made sure that only Ward and Hashi know the drug actually exists—and that only Hashi can use it. To protect Data Acquisition’s covert operations, don’t you see?
“Now Ward’s taking a risk of his own. Not without consulting me, of course. His reasons for doing it are pretty persuasive,” if only because Angus Thermopyle would have a chance to eliminate the problem of Morn Hyland. She was a UMCP ensign with an unauthorized zone implant and—presumably—knowledge of the immunity drug; and if she ever left forbidden space to tell what she knew, PR and the whole of the UMCP would have a disaster of megaproportions on their hands. “It’s what you might call a surgical strike.” Holt licked his lips. “Extirpate a melanoma before it spreads.
“So he’s taking this particular risk with my blessing. But I’m still worried about it. I think Ward is getting himself in trouble.”
Norna’s words were no more than a low growl against the blurred mutter of the screens, but for some reason Holt heard them as clearly as if her voice were the only sound in the room.
&
nbsp; “I think he’s getting you in trouble.”
Holt chuckled automatically. “Come now, Mother. Don’t be an alarmist. You’ll get yourself all excited for nothing. This is Warden Dios we’re talking about. I made him—he’s my right hand. He can’t crack his own knuckles without doing it to benefit me.”
He might have gone on, but his blather trailed away as he saw Norna pointing a gnarled and tremulous finger at one of the screens.
At first he couldn’t tell which one. A romance? No, one of the news broadcasts. Somewhere in the midst of the intolerable babble male face with an authoritative voice and no mind was saying “—this special bulletin.”
Special bulletin? What special bulletin? Nothing happened—nothing was allowed to happen—in human space unless Holt Fasner knew about it first.
“A highly placed source in the office of the UMCP Director of Protocol on UMCPHQ Station has confirmed that Angus Thermopyle has escaped.”
Without warning, a tingle ran down Holt’s nearly strong spine and tightened around his scrotum.
“Captain Thermopyle,” said the male head as if he knew and understood each word, instead of simply mouthing it like a ventriloquist’s dummy, “is an illegal captured and convicted approximately six months ago on Com-Mine Station and later transferred to UMCPHQ by the orders of Hashi Lebwohl, Director of Data Acquisition. No explanation has ever been released for Data Acquisition’s interest in Captain Thermopyle. However, as this news team reported at the time, he is no ordinary illegal. The circumstances for his arrest and conviction are widely held to be the precipitating factor in the recent passage of the so-called Preempt Act by the Governing Council for Earth and Space. Apparently Captain Thermopyle was assisted in his piracies by a traitor within Com-Mine Station Security. Doubts about the integrity of station security across human space persuaded the members of the GCES of the necessity for the Preempt Act.
The Gap Into Vision: Forbidden Knowledge Page 46
