The Octagonal Raven

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“You don’t —”

  “I’d like to … and I won’t show up … again … unannounced.”

  “You’re welcome announced or unannounced … but I’m likely to be far more presentable if you warn me.”

  “You’re very presentable.” And she was. I hadn’t even thought about it before my own words had blurted out.

  As I stepped out onto the stone porch to walk to the glider, I was still worried, more worried than ever about the comparative ease of tracking down the woman who had been — or was still — Elysa.

  I frowned as I approached the glider. Elysa had only mentioned the oblique medical reference to me, and without that key … I never would have been able to narrow the search.

  Why would someone who wanted to kill me leave such a clue … unless she wasn’t trying to kill me? But then, if she weren’t, who was? And why?

  * * *

  Chapter 37

  Fledgling: Orbit Station Beta, Epsilon Borealis, 444 N.E.

  * * *

  Four of us sat around the mess table on the midlevel of the orbit station, sitting being a loose term for being half-belted into a chair lockpinned into the plastex floor. I was there because the captain had asked me to spend some time on the station listening. And listening to new voices in the orbit station officers’ mess beat waiting on the Newton while cargoes and passengers were transferred. Also, the orbit station didn’t smell quite so “worn” and “gray” as did the Newton, or maybe it just smelled different.

  “What do you think about this revolt?” Major Tsao asked me. We’d crossed orbits over the years. She’d been a year or two behind me at Kuritim, I understood, although I’d never met her there.

  “The one here on Boreal?”

  “Is there any other?” asked Major Tsao.

  “Not that I know of.” I shrugged. “But we don’t exactly get the latest news.”

  “You’re stalling.” Tsao laughed.

  “I only know what I’ve heard or read, all of it greatly delayed,” I temporized, despite the fact that much of the Newton’s cargo had been specialized nanite manufacturing equipment, designed to build everything from armed flitters to treaded and armored tanks for the FS contingent and the inhabitants of the smaller but older northern continent. “They didn’t like the planetary government that the Federal Union set up. That’s really all I know.”

  “The Ardees are norm throwbacks. They want to turn back time to pre-Collapse days. That’s the guts of it,” suggested Lieutenant Conyr. “Back to when a stronger arm and more weapons determined who ran things.”

  “As opposed to now, when a faster brain and greater integrative intelligence does?” asked Tsao dryly. “You mean you want a system where your particular abilities are the ones rewarded?”

  Conyr flushed slightly.

  “So do I,” said Tsao with a laugh, “but let’s not kid ourselves. Integrative intelligence is merely a superior weapon, and that’s why the Ardees are already losing.”

  I almost shook my head. It wasn’t quite that simple. The Ardees were losing because they didn’t have the resources to fight the entire Federal Union. But even if they’d had equal resources, they probably still would have lost because they’d rejected a social structure that rewarded those most able to handle a modern nanotech society. Since nanotechnology offered the most effective way mankind had discovered to create and deploy everything from production equipment to weapons, they would have lost eventually — except the result would have been more like the Great Collapse.

  Someone in the Ardee leadership had gambled that the Federal Union wouldn’t care if a single continent on a planet barely out of the colony stage wanted a different form of government, especially when it was one of the most distant colonies. They’d gambled — and lost — because the FU wasn’t about to allow that sort of separatist example, not with the dismal human history of separatism. The results of separatism, if looked at historically, almost always followed the same pattern.

  The separatists left or revolted, after claiming persecution at the hands of the majority culture. If they succeeded in establishing their own culture, they invariably ended up persecuting those who didn’t conform to their standards, thereby creating either strict repression and eventually another revolution or another separatist culture somewhere else to repeat the pattern. And if the separatists didn’t succeed in their revolt, the majority crushed them to hold together the existing society. Either way, at every step, people died.

  “You look thoughtful, Subcommander,” said Tsao. “Would you like to share those thoughts?”

  “I was just thinking that, in the end, separatism is a dead end where an awful lot of people die.”

  “Would it be,” asked the other lieutenant — Merdyk, “if Gate and stellar travel were cheaper?”

  “Maybe not,” I replied, “but we’d have a lot more Ardees and even more people dying.”

  “But they could choose their own way of living,” suggested Conyr.

  “The people who ended up in control could,” Merdyk countered.

  “That’s not much different from the Federal Union,” observed Tsao.

  “You’re saying that we’re no different from the Ardees?” asked Conyr.

  “In basic terms, is any system?” asked Tsao. “Someone has to be in control — enough to set the rules, anyway. The only questions are who, how many, and how they obtain and hold power.”

  “There’s a great deal of difference between an empire ruled by an emperor and the Federal Union,” I pointed out, “but they both meet your basic definition. I don’t think I’d want to live in an empire.”

  “Even if you were the emperor?” asked Tsao with a smile.

  “I wouldn’t want to be looking over my shoulder all the time, wondering who wanted to kill me and take over.”

  “That’s true in any position of power” began Merdyk, abruptly breaking off as her eyes went to the mess door, where another major entered.

  “You hear the latest?” asked the newcomer, looking at Tsao.

  Tsao shook her head.

  “The Ardees managed to duplicate the ancient nukes … dropped one from a flitter on the orbital liftway and the other on the FU admin building in Kayport. Sent a message saying that they had more, and demanding that the FU leave Boreal.”

  I winced. We all did.

  “They’re dead meat,” murmured Conyr under his breath.

  None of us disagreed, but no one felt much like talking after that, and I eventually caught one of the cargo shuttles back to the Newton.

  * * *

  Chapter 38

  Raven: Vallura, 459 N.E.

  * * *

  I took my glider home, thinking more on the way. That didn’t help much; so when I got back to my dwelling, I checked all my incomings, except there weren’t any, or rather none that made any sense. There were two that came through blank, as if they had been cut off right at the address protocol. I frowned. It looked like a censorship program — the crude kind used to keep children from sending replies to certain addresses. Then, maybe some youngster had just mistransferred a popular address — or he or she had wanted to send a comment on one of my edart pieces, and edartists weren’t on the family approved list. Then, perhaps someone was blocking, or trying to block communications to me.

  That led me into another systems check, but I couldn’t find anything within my own equipment and routines. That meant the cutoff was at the sender’s level.

  Whatever it had been … there wasn’t much that I could do.

  I was beginning to feel that way about too many matters. There was nothing definite anywhere, except the attempts on me and the strange details about Elysa. Someone had tried to kill me, and the thing was, she could have and hadn’t. There was no record of her existence. She could have killed me on Kharl’s veranda — with a filament knife or something more lethal. I hadn’t been paying attention that way.

  She hadn’t killed me. And the laseflash hadn’t been designed to kill me. But the wall a
nd the monoclone had been. The key was the scent … and Elysa. I’d smelled the same odor twice — with Elysa and just after the laseflash. She’d left the hint of a trail … not much of one, but a hint. And as soon as I picked up on it, someone had tried to kill me.

  Was that it? Or coincidence? Two groups of people trying to hurt or remove me simultaneously? Because of the OneCys-UniComm conflict? I’d looked into that, and found even less than about Elysa — just that a group of wealthy and influential individuals belonged to an organization that wanted management improvements and held stock in OneCys — and that some of them had resources enough to arrange my permanent departure. But none of that was proof, or even added up to motive. All I had was Elysa.

  Did I really want to try again? Did I just want to wait for the next attempt?

  Without a good feeling about either choice, I spent some time on work that would do something besides deplete my credit reserves. I’d actually finished Elen Jerdyn’s project for NetSpin. Her combo slot wasn’t the problem, from what I could tell. The programming was. There’s a difference between catering to popular taste — for whatever niche market — and caricaturing it.

  Explaining why the programming was a caricature was another thing, but I’d managed without being too blunt. Then, I’d gone back to work on the package from Fylin Ngaio and NetStrait. His problem was almost the opposite. The last thing he wanted to do was talk down to an audience that prided itself on being above the masses. The program was a drama, and the dialogue was fine. So were the plots of the five episodes he’d sent. But the backgrounds, the sets, alternated between rococo brothel and sand-dirt cheap. While it wasn’t obvious, the ratings were pretty clean … after one or two viewings, people didn’t come back. There wasn’t much fluctuation during the actual episode, which argued that once people were drawn in, they stayed … but something was operating on them after the fact … and I bet — indeed I was betting that the settings were the problem.

  Klevyl’s specs hadn’t arrived, but that wasn’t surprising, since he was always late in getting material to me.

  The gatekeeper clinged — the double cling that indicated something was on the news in one of the profiles I’d programmed earlier.

  I debated ignoring it, but, then, I was almost finished with the NetStrait piece, and I wasn’t getting anywhere with my thinking.

  The holo image that appeared across the study desk from me was that of a twisted mass of metal and shimmering synthetic … next to a induction tube station platform. The image shifted from a car that was undamaged to a car that was twisted and blistered with extreme heat, to a third car — apparently untouched.

  … here in Mancha, authorities are refusing comment about both the methodology and apparently targeted approach that turned one tube car into an explosive fiery inferno.…

  I swallowed, watching, fearing the worst.

  … early indications are that the Senior Director of NEN, Pieter von Bresleuw, and the Senior Managing Director of NEN, Elora Alwyn, were among those instantly killed in the induction tube incident here in Mancha.… Also aboard were the noted barrister Karamchand Nehru and …

  … called one of the greatest transport disasters in the past century … Federal Union High Transport Commissioner Hyl has already commenced a thorough investigation.…

  I looked away from the image, not that I was seeing it very well. Elora and I hadn’t been that close growing up, but that had been age and distance and Father, not anything else, and I’d enjoyed the infrequent VR talks we’d had … and wished that there had been more. Especially now, I wished there had been more.

  The high commissioner’s investigation was itself an admission that no one was going to be found. And even if anyone were … I suspected selective nanites would have already erased any memories that they had.

  I just stood there for a long time, knowing I should do something. But what was another question. My actions to date hadn’t been exactly the most effective at anything except getting myself into the medcenter.

  Finally, I put through a VR to Father at UniComm, and it wasn’t intercepted by a gatekeeper or anything else.

  “I just found out … about Elora” Those were the only words that came to mind.

  “So did I.” Even his eyes were slightly red. At least, I thought they were.

  “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. After a moment, I asked, “Should I call Mother?”

  “She knows, but she’d like to hear from you.”

  We looked at each other — or our VR images did.

  “If there’s anything …” I said.

  “I’ll let you know, Daryn … and thank you.” His image blanked.

  I dreaded the next VR, but I placed it as well.

  “Hello, Daryn. I thought that might be you.” Mother was not red-eyed, but then, she was even more controlled than Father. There was a darkness in her eyes, though.

  “I just found out about Elora,” I said slowly.

  “Gerrat told me a little while ago.”

  That didn’t surprise me, either. “I’m sorry. I found out on the news.”

  “He was probably talking to me.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not now.” She shook her head. “I do appreciate your calling, but there’s nothing any of us can do right now.”

  No sooner had I stopped talking to Mother than the gatekeeper chimed. I checked the identifier — Grey Anne Bergamo, Solicitor. I didn’t recognize the caller, but something said I should take it.

  The VR of a thin-faced older woman appeared opposite my study desk. “Daryn Alwyn?”

  “That’s me.” I managed not to choke on the words.

  “Pardon me if I ask a few questions first, and they may sound silly, but please bear with me. What was your favorite work of art of those held by your father — or what was it when you left for Federal Service?”

  The question chilled me, but I answered. “The Hui-Lui painting of the woman and the gate.”

  “Who was the Bergdorf?”

  “She was … Elora.…”

  “And what did she send you before you went to The College?”

  “A miniature silver bolt-cutter.”

  A faint smile appeared on the stern face, then faded as she nodded. “I am … was … your sister’s solicitor. She left explicit instructions for me to contact you immediately in the event of her death. I trust I am not the one breaking this to you.…”

  “Close … but no. I just found out.”

  The solicitor nodded. “I am sorry. Most sorry, but Elora told me that I was not to waste time on condolences.” The woman swallowed, then continued. “She was most explicit.”

  “She could be.”

  “She said that it was important you know the disposition of her assets before anyone else. First, all of her shares in UniComm are bound over to you. That includes those she inherited, and also another set of holdings. You have immediate voting power of all those. They amount in total to eighteen percent of the outstanding common stock in UniComm.”

  It was my turn to swallow. With my own shares, according to the annual reports, I was suddenly the largest single shareholder in UniComm. Father held twenty percent, and Gerrat had about nine.

  “Second, there is a coded transmission, the contents of which I do not know, which you will be receiving shortly, if you have not already. Third, your sister asked me to suggest that you be extremely careful.” After another short pause, she added, “The various forms and certifications will arrive in the next day or so, but they should confirm what I have told you.”

  I just stood there.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  “Not that I can think of … not now.”

  “I’ll be around for several hours yet today, if you do, ser.” The image blanked and vanished, and I looked out into the afternoon, at the reddish tinge of the East Mountains, but not for long, because the gatekeeper announced another arrival — the file with the solicitor’s return
on it.

  I called it up immediately, and got the holo image of an ancient chest bound in chains, with a slip of parchment attached to it. The parchment bore a list of question-like phrases.

  Rasmussen’s friend

  The friend I surprised on the veranda

  That radical bleeder …

  I laughed as I read through the short list. For a security code it was pretty good, because some were one word answers, and some were phrases, and no one but Elora and I knew more than one of the phrases.

  I answered them in turn, beginning with the phrase “the white weasel.” When I entered the last one, which was, “in the wrong corner,” an image appeared — Elora’s. She was sitting behind a desk, wearing a blue singlesuit, and a light gray jacket, set off with a crimson and gold scarf. Her gray eyes looked at me, almost through me.

  “I hope this isn’t necessary, and I hope you’ll never see this, Daryn. But if you are, you are or could be in great danger. You’ve already figured out that you’re the largest single shareholder in UniComm. What you probably don’t know is that despite Father’s strong arm, he’s not what he once was, and, as we both know, Gerrat’s self-opinion is far greater than his ability. If you don’t believe me, check UniComm’s profit percentages and market share. But don’t do it now.”

  I laughed softly. That was … had been … Elora.

  “I can’t tell you all of what is happening, but someone is buying up NEN and OneCys stock, and enough has changed hands over the last five years for it to amount to a working majority. By the way, you also get my NEN stock. It’s only five percent, but that won’t hurt you. Father has refused to make changes at UniComm, and Gerrat neither wants to, nor would he know how. Before long, there will probably be a de facto consolidation of NEN and OneCys, and together they’ll control the market. I’ve been talking to Father … and if you get this, it’s a good bet that word has gotten out.

  “Gerrat will sell out, so long as he stays as Senior Director, but I’d retire him, and he knows it. No one knows what you’ll do, and that’s why you have to be careful. You also need to avoid any of those associated with StakeHold and the PST Trust. They’re not all raisined grapes, but a number of them are pre-select elitists in the worst sense of the word.”