Nodding, the Grand Patriarch said, “I know that we have little choice in the matter, but I am confident that the cover story and false documentation will hold up under the minimal level of scrutiny it is likely to receive. Neither the Council nor the Assembly will ever hear of it.”
The Grand Patriarch stretched and then said with a small yawn, “I am increasingly optimistic. We have been fortunate indeed to find this man. I could not have asked for a better candidate. And his background only strengthens the logic of the plan’s working framework.”
He yawned again, “I confess that I grow somewhat weary. I am not ashamed to admit that I am beginning to feel my years. Therefore, let us continue this discussion in a more comfortable venue.” Stifling a yawn of his own, the Keeper of the Way nodded his agreement and they made their way to the adjoining negotiation room.
They entered the large room that was used for meetings with dignitaries and governors of the numerous provinces that comprised Golstar’s ruling hierarchy. Polished stone panels, gray with faint marbling of beige and white lined its walls, each intricately carved bas relief depicted a momentous point in Golstar history. The fine, detailed sculptures started with the founding of the first colony on Berralton and ended with the final closing of Golstar’s borders.
They walked across thick carpeting. Their footsteps were muted by the densely woven Rock Sheal wool, colored in hues of tan, red and gold, bordered in black. They sat down in tall comfortable chairs upholstered in rare patterned leather of Grayland Serpent hide, a reptile native to the great desert on Berralton in the southern wastelands of the Gray continent. Lighting was provided by massive chandeliers wrought of native metals crafted with Victorian-like artistry.
They faced each other, sitting at a massive table made of dense dark woods imported from Berralton’s sister planet, Dante. Its surface was broken by ornate patterns created from crystal inlays mined from Berralton quarries. Ignoring their surroundings, they began to discuss the remaining issues each thought important for the success of the plan. As they talked, a concealed device transmitted their words to a listener hidden in a remote and forgotten storeroom.
● ● ●
Fifty floors beneath the Grand Patriarch’s receiving room in the Capital Palace, the listener had heard enough. Her assignment was completed. She would soon send her assessment to the Council. She removed the tiny receiver from her ear, unplugged the hair-thin wires and tucked them behind an old empty storage bin. To the casual eye, the wires were virtually invisible and although primitive, the simple little hardwire device evaded the palace’s more sophisticated sensors.
She separated the three components that made up the receiver and then replaced them in her personal entertainment module. The components were of standard design and used in numerous commercial devices. There was no discernible way to tell if the components were used for anything other than their original purpose. She returned the entertainment module to her clutch case.
She looked around the room once more, checking to see she if had forgotten anything. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, she pulled her nondescript day robes about her and patted her wig to make sure it was still in its proper position. The listener then gently slit-opened the storage room’s manual door and carefully checked for unexpected visitors. She looked out into a dim, empty hallway lit only by the intermittent light globes that remained operational even after so many years of neglect.
As she expected, there was no one in sight. The area that had been chosen for her to conduct the surveillance was deserted and had been sealed off from the main palace long ago. She quietly entered the hallway, carefully keeping to old gray, threadbare floor runners to conceal any footprints, not that she expected anyone else to venture into this long-abandoned area. She wrinkled her nose in reaction to the heavy musk of mildew and dust. Traversing passages unused for decades, the listener cautiously made her way out of the Capital Palace into the cool, clear evening and headed towards her temporary quarters just inside the urban limits of the capital.
CHAPTER 2
Viewed from high above, the city’s surface traffic flowed like the lifeblood of some great beast. Multi-colored corpuscles pushed along branching arteries feeding the buildings that sustained the sprawling metropolis. On closer examination, the corpuscles resolved into brightly-colored transports traveling along the wide polymer-ceramic paved streets.
Though an older model, the dark-blue transport was sleek and fit in well with its fellow vehicles gliding on invisible fields, inches above the damp pavement of the bustling city. Heading for his temporary office for the last time, Owens settled back in the plush, cushioned seat of his Rialto. The transport’s Artificial Intelligence adjunct efficiently piloted the Rialto through the city’s maze of surface streets, avoiding traffic blockages as it headed for its programmed destination.
He looked around the transport’s cabin in appreciation. Although the vehicle was not new, it was still in first-rate condition, showing little sign of wear. The previous owner obviously took excellent care of it.
Prior to the assignment on Genhome, Owens had never seen a need to own a personal surface transport. Public transportation was always plentiful, fast and reliable on his previous assignments. The citizens of Genhome, however, didn’t see the need for such services. With a relatively small population base, they relied almost exclusively on personal vehicles to get around the planet’s only large city and outlying areas. A small number of shuttle taxis were available for limited transportation to and from hotels and the planet’s single spaceport. And so, he’d been forced to procure a vehicle for his transportation needs soon after his arrival on the planet.
Unable to rent a vehicle that would accommodate his size, he had been obliged to purchase the Rialto outright. He was fortunate to find a transport in such a good condition and at a surprisingly reasonable price, two months before. To accommodate his large frame, he was forced to have the transport modified from four to two-passenger seating. The Rialto had the basic amenities and a few of the nicer upgrades. Although it lacked some of the newer innovations incorporated in later models, in its new spacious reconfiguration the Rialto provided everything Owens required.
He had considered selling it before he returned to his home base of operations; however, over the length of time he had spent on his current assignment, he had become used to the unique luxury of ground transport ownership. He knew he would want one when he returned home. When he figured in the cost of a new transport, customized to his needs, he decided he could hang on to this old model for at least a few more years. Transporting it back wouldn’t be a problem because he owned his own starship. In his line of business, having ready access to interstellar transportation was a necessity.
Had he thought about it further, he would have admitted that he had also grown somewhat attached to the Rialto’s crusty AI personality. All the AIs he had encountered before the Rialto’s had possessed the same basic, helpful, solicitous personality interface. All had voices of human timber, but with inflections and emotional responses that could not be mistaken for human. The programmed personality of a typical AI had all the charm of an eighteenth-century English butler. The Rialto’s AI didn’t come remotely close to this classification. The past owner had obviously spent some time tinkering with the Rialto’s AI program. Owens still wasn’t sure what to make of the results.
Interrupting Owens’ thoughts, the AI abruptly announced in a distinctly irritated tone, “The damned traffic is blocking Cell Avenue… again!” The AI’s gravelly baritone and swearing were definitely not in the factory specs. “It looks like I’m going to have to use the levee road access.” The AI continued, “Sorry, this is going to add about ten minutes to your travel time.” The AI paused, and then grumbled, “The loose debris around that route always plays havoc with my impeller fields.”
“I’m not in any hurry,” Owens replied, pointedly ignoring the complaint about the condition of the road. He had learned the lesson early on, not to res
pond to any of the AI’s complaints. Doing so would often open the conversational door to an in-depth dissertation on the sterling qualities of the Rialto and the constant abuse a simple AI had to endure when attempting to perform its duties on “a poor excuse for a civilized planet.” The AI, seeing that no other response would be forthcoming from its owner, lapsed back into a sulky silence.
Owens yawned and turned, looking through the vehicle’s clear-sided canopy. Although it was still early in the morning, crowds of workers were already beginning to clog the entrances to slow-moving inter-building transport ribbons. From a distance, they looked like ants clustering around stacked pieces of candy. As usual, a good number of the commuters nearest the street were facing his direction. They were staring at his physical presence on display through the Rialto’s transparent passenger compartment as it slowly made its way through the traffic.
Sensing that its owner wasn’t comfortable with all the eyes focused in his direction, the AI asked, “You want the panels changed to opaque, Boss?
“No, it’s okay. I prefer an open view.”
He should be used to being the object of stares. At just over two hundred centimeters tall, weighing in at close to a hundred, forty-six kilos (none of it fat,) he was indeed a rare sight. A person of his stature was regarded as an anachronism by the good citizens of Genhome. On Genhome, the site of his current assignment, the standard height of the human population ranged somewhere between ninety and a hundred, twenty centimeters. This had long been considered normal by Genhome’s citizens.
The physical modifications had been brought about as the result of the industry for which the population was principally engaged. For generations, the dominant occupations on Genhome were associated with genetic sciences and included research, product development and production. Over time, based on their contributions and familiarity to that field of science, the population allowed itself to be genetically altered. The average human stature was reduced in order to more efficiently work and comfortably live on the limited land surface of the planet.
At his size, it was easy for him to see that he would attract curious stares from the “normal-sized” onlookers as he traveled through the streets of Pannon City. In fact, he drew the attention of many citizens of other planets, as it had become popular to “optimize” the human populations to reduce the burden on planetary and interstellar transport resources.
His size was easily explained, if not generally accepted. He had been born on Lode, a heavy mineral mining planet located at the outer rim of the Seafarer Nebula. The small population of Lode was principally involved in mining and export of metal ores vital to the space transport industries. Lode was three-quarters of earth-normal in size, but due to its density, its gravity was close to twenty-five percent above earth-standard.
The people of Lode were one of the few pockets of humanity scattered throughout the stars that resisted the current popular trend of rampant genetic manipulation, especially for the sake of convenience or superficial cosmetics. They actively discouraged any enhancements aimed at changing physical appearance for the sake of some preconceived, constantly changing standard of beauty.
Other than some initial tinkering when the planet was first settled, they now only allowed bio-genetic surgery and restrained DNA manipulation to cure or prevent disease and permitted a limited form of pre-natal intervention when physical or mental defects were clearly diagnosed. It was a matter of pride for most Loders that they remained unique and relatively ‘unmodified’ although it could be argued that living on Lode was a form of continuing genetic modification, in and of itself.
Owens was typical of male Loders. He was a product of the initial modifications made by the early settlers and continued honing by the environment through natural evolutionary mutation. His bones were denser to anchor the larger, more developed muscles that were stronger than those of most other branches of humanity. They were essential to sustain living, working and playing on a planet with gravity well above earth normal. His heart, lungs and other organs also were bigger, with increased capacity over those of other humans living in less harsh environments. With his height and build, Owens stood out from most people he encountered outside his home system.
Owens was thankful he wasn’t from one of the “heavy,” higher gravity planets ranging towards a 150% of earth-normal. Humanity had found it could not readily adapt to such environs without more significant genetic modification. The wear and tear on the body was simply too great. Major gene-engineering was required to enable humans to live and work in the high gravity settings.
Genetic engineering and artificially accelerated evolution produced a race with squat, blocky physiques, supported by incredibility thick bones and knotty muscles. With the need for increased oxygenation to power the massive musculature, the ribcage was expanded to accommodate oversized lungs and the nostrils were flared to ancient comic-book proportions. Beings who lived and thrived under high gravity conditions resembled creatures fantastically described in old fairy tales. Being a Loder wasn’t so bad, Owens thought. He still looked human, but just on a larger scale than was currently in vogue.
Ignoring the staring faces, he turned and gazed up through the vehicle’s clear dome. Overhead, blotchy gray cotton clouds stretched across the sky with darker patches in the distance, bordering on black. The sky was heavily overcast as usual. In Pannon, it rained 250 days out of the 295-day solar cycle. Genhome was almost 80% water. The founding fathers, a group of geneticists and their families, chose the planet for this very reason.
Genhome, with its vast ocean, teaming with aquatic life, and the single, lush jungle landmass with a surprising amount of diverse life forms, made a perfect laboratory to advance their science. Over the past two centuries, Genhome became the principal center in this sector for lower animal and plant-related genetic research and their product off-shoots. Although not their primary area of study, Genhome's scientists and engineers contributed to the advancement of human genetic research as well.
He looked down at the blue-glow readouts scrolling environmental data on the main screen of the transport’s console. It was turning out to be a typical day in Genhome’s only major city; temperature 90 degrees; humidity 88 percent with an 85 percent chance of rain in the early afternoon. He sighed, and then remembered it would be for just one more day.
The ten-minute delay stretched out to a half-hour before he finally arrived at the SolGen building. His Rialto smoothly entered the underground parking complex and dutifully found a slot closest to the east tower entrance.
Owens quickly headed to the mag-lift that would take him to his office on the 81st floor. Without noticeable acceleration, the lift noiselessly carried Owens to his destination within a few seconds. He was thankful for the inertia-canceling field surrounding the lift’s car. Without it, he mused, he would reach his floor passed out on the bottom of the lift with a few contusions thrown in for good measure. Someone not of Owens’ heritage would suffer far worse injury. The system had long been perfected and with triple redundant backups, there hadn’t been a reported failure in over fifty years. Operating flawlessly, it silently opened its doors and he stepped out of the lift.
Entering the narrow hallway, he resisted the instinctive urge to crouch. As it was, he was still forced to slouch a little. The ceiling was much lower than to what he was normally accustomed. He ignored the claustrophobic hallway and quickly headed in the direction of his temporary office. It was the only one with a floor-to-ceiling door installed specially by his client to accommodate his height (otherwise he would be forced to crouch low to enter.)
On his way, he encountered a tiny woman exiting an office door into the hallway. At around a hundred and ten centimeters tall, she was nonetheless perfectly proportioned, beautiful by any standard. She looked up at his approach and gave him a dazzling smile. He returned her smile and said, “Good afternoon, Ms. Penman. Calling it a day?”
“Hello, Mr. Owens. As a matter of fact, it’s a little past quitti
ng time. I’m joining some friends to engage in a little fun.” She paused, her smile turning mischievous, “You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like.”
“Thank you for the invitation. I would enjoy a night out, but unfortunately, duty calls,” he said, feigning regret. “I’m sorry, but I have a meeting with your boss that will probably last well into the evening, but thanks for the invitation.”
Her smile faded a bit and she gave a tiny sigh of true regret, “Well, if your plans change, you can find us at the Pedigree Lounge after nine.”
He assured her he would join her if time allowed, then they parted ways.
That was the third invitation this month, he thought as he approached his door. He suspected the glorious Ms. Penman had ulterior motives behind her invitations. He imagined his not insignificant presence would cause quite a stir within her social circle, not that he had ever actually considered accepting her invitations. Still, he thought; a little feminine company would be nice for a change. Shaking his head, he resumed walking and quickly reached his office door.
He palmed the lock plate. It recognized his DNA. The door slid silently aside and he entered. His office was, likewise, modified with a raised ceiling slightly higher than the hallway so that he could finally straighten to his full height. He casually looked around at the over-sized furnishings he was thoughtfully provided by his client. It took him a moment to notice that he already had company. The visitor was dwarfed in one of Owens’ side chairs, looking like a small child in a business suit with feet dangling above the thick carpet. Willens Santee, Senior Vice President of SolGen, Incorporated, his soon-to-be ex-client, looked up and beamed at Owens.
“Janus,” Willens’ booming voice was at variance with his diminutive size, “I’m a happy man. I can’t tell you how pleased we are with the outcome of your investigation.” Owens winced inwardly.
Shadows of Golstar Page 3
