Archform Beauty

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

Canthrop managed to close his mouth. "Are you suggesting…”

  "Bill… rezads have been legal for close to thirty years, or longer. This is an applied and scientific form of rezad. Neither the Senate nor the Supreme Justiciary is going to declare this version illegal, and certainly not before the next election. So we use it first and better or we place second in the election. Second, as you recall, is losing.”

  I waited a moment, then smiled warmly, and began to explain, gently. "You're worried, and I can see why. If an unscrupulous candidate started to use this… well, it wouldn't be good. That's why we have to use it first, and in a positive way, reinforcing all the good things we've done, why we've done them, and why they've been good for the people, especially the everyday people.” I paused, mostly for effect. "I'd bet we could even develop a message that would create a certain skepticism about negative rezads, couldn't we?"

  Canthrop nodded slowly. "I suppose so, but I wouldn't know. We'd have to go through Talemen. Or pay them some sort of royalty.”

  "Whatever it takes. We do want this to be a positive campaign, Bill. I'm sure you can see why it's important to get out front with a very positive effort.”

  "Ah… it's just that I'm a bit surprised, Senator.”

  "You wouldn't want me to wait and then have to fight a negative campaign?" I offered another smile. "I read about one of the old machine politicians, years ago, and I still remember what he said. You have to give people a reason to vote for you. If you do that first, you make it twice as hard for your opponent, because he has to give them reasons why not to vote for you, and then why they should vote for him.”

  "I suppose so.” Canthrop was still puzzled by why I'd decided to act so suddenly, but I could see where this could go, and that was why it was important we got the jump on Hansen. He didn't have the kind of resources we did, and by the time he raised enough he'd have to campaign on our ground—if I understood the implication, and I was pretty sure that I did. That was one of my talents, seeing things early.

  Bill would understand once we got working on it. He was a good man at heart.

  Chapter 7

  Lanta, 2367

  The sleepy-eyed sariman staggers down the hard but warm ceramic tile of the wide hallway. Even the replicated mosaic seems to pulse with the rhythmic beats that vibrate the closed door of the end bedroom. He stops before the door and knocks on it. There is no answer. He knocks a second time, harder.

  Frowning, he overrides the lock through his link, then stands back as the door opens.

  The blond-haired child watches the holo projection, listening… transfixed.

  "For the fun and sun,

  To play all day…

  Stay with NorPlay…

  Stay with NorPlay…”

  The words resonate into the bedroom. The child watches the pair of blond children his own apparent age frolicking across the crisp green grass.

  "What are you watching?" The man rubs his stubbly jaw, letting his eyes and ears track toward the projected image. He pauses, then watches as the commercial finishes to the distorted strains of a Strauss waltz.

  "NorPlay… that's where I'll stay…” The boy's voice unconsciously mimics what he has just heard.

  "Jared?"

  "Yes, Dad?" The towhead looks up at his father.

  "NorPlay's more fun than the others. That's all right, isn't it?"

  The sariman shakes his head, finally looking at his son as the three-dimensioned cartoon figures replace the pair of children and resume their high-pitched antics. "I don't know.” He purses his lips. "I guess so.” His eyes blink momentarily in an echo of the resonances of the modified waltz. "I guess so.”

  Chapter 8

  Kemal

  The morning light poured through the skylight, and I glanced at the ancient wristwatch. It had been my great great great grandfather's when he had come from the old Turkey to NorAm. The time was nine thirty-five. That left almost an hour and a half before the memorial service started.

  "Are you all right?" Marissa looked at me. She was standing in front of the mirror on her side of the bathroom. She blotted away the tears. She'd always liked my father. She said he was cute. He'd always played to the women, even when he could hardly speak at the end. His eyes would twinkle, and he'd grumble something. They loved it.

  "I'll be fine. It wasn't exactly a shock.” I straightened the suit coat and checked the tie in the mirror. It was hand-knotted, in the half Windsor I'd picked up from Damien years ago. The suit was a Bellini, hand-tailored, double-breasted, navy-blue, with the faintest pinstripe. I never wore black.

  "He was your father,” she said.

  "I loved him.” I had loved him. I had respected him more before he turned to drinking. I preferred to remember him as he had been—strong and decisive, a leader among men. "The last years have been hard.”

  She stepped away from the mirror and touched my cheek. "I know.” Her eyes were still bright, and she looked away for a moment.

  I couldn't help a faint smile. Even upset, she was beautiful. She'd always supported me. I'd never understood men who had beauty and grace in the women they married and then went out and played around with lesser women.

  "Thank you.” I put my arms around her and bent down. I kissed her neck gently, careful not to disarrange her hair and jacket.

  We left the bedroom together.

  Alyssa and Roderik were waiting in the open foyer at the top of the staircase. They'd come in the night before. Roderik had come from Southern University in Cedacity. He was getting a masters in finance. Alyssa had flown from her job at TriCon in Portlan, but she planned to spend a few days after the service at the family compound at Aspen. Mother was with them. She was all in black. Roderik wore a deep gray pinstripe. His sister was in a black suit with a white blouse.

  "We're ready, Father,” Roderik announced.

  I looked at him. There was never much sense in saying the obvious. It made you look weak. Or stupid.

  Marissa touched my arm. "Chris,” she said softly.

  "We should go.” I let the others go first Marissa and I followed them down and through the front entry. I could feel the tingle of the defense screens as we stepped out into the cool air.

  Armand stood in the access booth above the portico. He was in charge of maintenance at the house. In fact, he oversaw the systems of more than half the family. Everyone agreed that we needed someone we could trust. I nodded to him.

  He returned the nod stiffly.

  The dark green electral was waiting under the portico. Nathan had the doors open.

  "We should be back in about two hours.”

  "Yes, ser.”

  I checked the electral's defense screens before we pulled out of the lane and through the property gates. The screens were fully powered and in the green. It was less than a klick to the main guideway east. Two minutes later, I turned onto the guideway and locked in the system. I programmed the electral to make the turn when we reached the Southside Parkway.

  "Don't go too fast, Christopher.” Mother leaned forward.

  "The system sets the speed,” I pointed out with a laugh.

  Marissa looked at me again. She was right.

  "I can request a slower speed, if you'd like,” I added.

  "No. That's fine. I didn't want you driving too fast at a time like this. You shouldn't drive fast when you're upset. You have enemies who would use that.”

  She was right about that, and I lowered the programmed speed.

  Even using the bridges and guideways, it was more than a half hour before we pulled into the reserved space in the garage below the KC headquarters in southside. Father had questioned the building when I'd first suggested it. It had become a mark of where we as a family were headed. Even he'd admitted that years ago.

  Fred and Morrie were waiting for us. Fred got the door for Marissa, and Morrie opened the one for Mother.

  "Everything's set, Mr. Kemal,” Fred said. "Just the way you ordered.”

  "Thank you.”
<
br />   Fred led the way to the private inside ramps. That way, we could reach the auditorium quietly.

  I'd picked the auditorium in the KC headquarters for the memorial service. Most companies didn't have auditoriums or real meetings. They did it all VR. It's not the same. People who work for you need to see you. They have to know what you're made of. The other thing is that having people come to meet with you reinforces the feeling that they work for you. You let them use VR presence, and they feel too independent. Those were things I'd learned from my father early.

  That's why the company had an auditorium and a large conference room between the chairman's office and the president's office. I'd already moved from the president's office to the chairman's office the night before. Tomorrow, matters would be clear to those who didn't already understand. In a family-held organization like KC, there couldn't ever be any doubt.

  Morrie escorted Marissa, Mother, Roderik, and Alyssa to their seats in the front row. Fred stayed with me, in the wings offstage.

  The service was scheduled to begin at eleven. While we waited, I used the monitors Fred had arranged to study the audience. More than half of those in the hall were family. The others were KC executives and senior people in the various subsidiaries. Some had brought family, like Josef Domingo, who headed CerraCraft. Most hadn't.

  My nephew Stefan was sitting in the second row. He was wearing a beige singlesuit. It was open at the neck. He wore a gold collar chain, and he'd thrown on a black jacket over everything—for my father's memorial service. Stupid little fop. He was grinning as he talked to the girl beside him. I hadn't seen her before. That wasn't surprising. Stefan spent credits as though they fell on him like sunshine. That was something else I'd have to face more directly now, with the KCF trusts.

  Alyssa turned in her seat and looked at Stefan. His grin disappeared. I smiled. She'd done it without a word.

  Stefan's younger brother Ivan just looked straight ahead.

  I scanned the rest of the audience. There were about four hundred in the hall.

  How many? I sent the question on link to Paulina. She was watching on monitors from my office on the top floor.

  Three hundred sixty-seven. James O'Bannon just arrived below with his wife. Jose Reyes is behind him. Evan McCall came early. He's in the fourth row.

  Thank you, Paulina.

  The solicitors should have been there, after everything, and all the business KC had provided for them. Especially McCall. He was smart about law, but he'd let his wife sway him too much. That was another thing about Marissa. She left business to me.

  Senator and Mrs. Lottler have also just arrived, and so has District Coordinator Dewey.

  Lottler wasn't a surprise, not after all the support the family had given him. Dewey, that I couldn't figure, unless he was honestly paying his respects. He had nerve, though.

  The service began with a march, from one of the ancient operas—Aida. That had been one of Father's requests. He'd always liked to hear it. At the end, I'd had to turn up the volume so high that it shook the walls of his bedroom. But he'd smiled.

  When the last notes died away, Padre Borges stepped from the other wing. It had always seemed strange that my father had been one of the few remaining Catholics. It had been his choice. The Kemals had been Muslims, generations back, and then modernists, but Mother had been a Catholic, and Father had loved her. He'd also become a friend of the Padre.

  So there I was, watching a Catholic priest offer a benediction to an agnostic descendant of Islam. I couldn't deny that Borges had been a comfort to Father. So had the bottle.

  Then, Ricardo Spiropoulos came to the podium. He'd retired as senior vice president of KC a year earlier. He'd been with my fattier for thirty years, and I'd promised to let him stay as long as he wanted. In the end, he'd decided on a handsome retirement, and he'd left happy, which was what both Father and I wanted. That was the way it had to be.

  I wondered what he'd say.

  Ricardo coughed. He cleared his throat. Finally, he started. "I knew Arturo for more than forty years… Arturo had a dream. I wasn't a dreamer. But he said that he'd dream, and I'd help him make it real. But it wasn't just us. There were lots of good people, and there still are… Arturo had a way of making everyone laugh, even at the most serious times. He wanted people to be happy…"

  We both knew there were people who would never be happy. We'd talked about it.

  "… he wanted everyone to feel they contributed and that they were a part of a family…”

  That was true. In what we did, people had to feel that they were a part. They had to share the responsibility, the liabilities, as well as the rewards. That went for solicitors, too.

  "… most people did… He built an organization and a legacy, and not many men can claim that in this day and age. And, most of all, to his last breath, he was my friend. He remembered after I retired. He called. He sent notes. How many business leaders are remembered for that?…” Ricardo choked up on the last words. I couldn't make them out. Some of those in the audience were weeping, too.

  Then it was my turn. I stepped from the wings and walked to the podium in the center of the stage.

  The podium had its own defense screens. There was no sense in being foolish. I tried to keep a low profile, but no multilateral president is without enemies. KC wasn't a large multi, but it wasn't small, and we were definitely growing quickly. Far more quickly than NASR would have liked, if they had known.

  I looked out across the audience. Then I waited. You have to let people become just a little nervous.

  "My father was a family man. He loved his family. He would have given everything to us. But he was a good father, and he knew that giving everything would have left us even poorer in spirit.” I offered a sad smile. "So he was a wise father, as well. Like all children, I didn't understand him until I was a father”

  "He also loved the people of KC because they were family, too. He knew that without that kind of feeling an organization is only an empty bureaucracy…”

  Even though I'd planned it all, and had the words feeding to me through the link, there were times when I had to stop and collect myself. But a man can be upset at his father's memorial service.

  "… We're all sitting in a great building. Some have said that it will be a monument to my father, a testament to his vision. I hope not. I hope that his testament will be in the words he said that others remember. In the small kindnesses he did for others. In the memory of his laughter, and his joy in life…”

  I managed to get out the last words, and then stood there as the closing dirge played.

  I didn't know what it was. Mother and Padre Borges had picked it.

  Fred was waiting for me in the wing. Morrie escorted Marissa, Mother, Alyssa, and Roderik back to the wing. Mother's eyes were even redder than before the service, and Marissa had been blotting away tears.

  Alyssa looked at me and mouthed, "Stefan.” She gave the faintest headshake.

  I nodded, just slightly.

  We walked to the inner ramp and back down to the garage.

  Fred and Morrie made certain we were safely in the electral. They watched as I eased the electral out of the KC garage, past security and through the screens.

  Once we were clear of the screens, Marissa leaned toward me. Her voice was low. "That was touching, dear. He would have been proud of you. He always was.”

  No one said anything until we were on the Parkway headed back north. We needed to get to the house before the rest of the family arrived for the wake. My sister Barbra was particularly punctual. Kryn would take her time.

  Then Mother leaned forward. "Christopher, you must be careful. There are many who choose to believe that you were only acting for your father.” Mother had always worried.

  Then, my father had always been a careful man, except when he drank. After Leon's death, he'd drunk all the time, even after we'd taken care of Gietta in a way that made sure no one would take us lightly. Even so, Father had kept drinking. That had
been for ten years. Except for his public appearances, when he pulled it together, he'd been a silent and quiet drunk, except around Mother, Marissa, and the other women in the family. They'd made him a happy drunk.

  "I'll be careful.” That was an easy promise to keep.

  "The rest of you,” Mother went on, "you must also be careful. You must take care of your health and your families.” She half smiled as she looked at Roderik and Alyssa. "When you have them, that is.”

  Marissa reached out and squeezed my hand. I still marveled at my fortune in her.

  Chapter 9

  Cornea

  The antique Stein way dominated my office, if you could call the space that. Really, it was just a practice room with a tiny corner console and two chairs—nanite synthwood, supposedly mahogany. Oh, yes, there was the single music stand, also synth-mahogany. I'd had to put up the corner shelves over the console, three sets, and they were all overflowing with sheet music and a few of my reference books.

  I guess I was old-fashioned in more ways than one, but you can't learn art song, or any music, from a console. Some of the rezrap and rezpop singers have it linked right into their heads. Most of them sound like they were reading it, rather than singing it. Singing isn't just hitting the notes with the right words. The old composers had styles, and you have to know the style to make the song sound right. And you have to practice. I tried to work in at least an hour a day, but that was sometimes a problem, because practicing is something you have to do before you get too tired or frazzled, or it does more harm than good. That means practicing early in the day. That has always been hard for me because I'm not a morning person, and because my teaching at the university was in the morning and early afternoon.

  Today, the rezrappers and poppers don't practice. They just spew it out. The systems reformulate the sound as they attempt to sing, add in the rhythmitonal resonances based on the audience profile, and everyone thinks it's wonderful.

  Whatever it is, it isn't music, and it isn't artistry. The problem isn't new. There's always been a conflict between excellence and popularity. It's just that the more technology gets into the act, the more likely it is that special effects overshadow excellence, and artistry's lost.