Archform Beauty

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  For a long moment he was silent… considering. "Shit…” Ranse shook his head. "If you're right…”

  "The timing's perfect for them,” I pointed out.

  "That'd leave all of Earth sucking salt.”

  Especially his district. I didn't say a word. He'd look into it. He wouldn't like Kemal owning MMSystems any better than the Martian Republic.

  He nodded again. "The front people are in your district?"

  "At least one of their subsidiaries.” That was certainly true. CerraCraft was an open Kemal subsidiary. There were probably others I didn't know about. With the amount of cash that Kemal's black enterprises were bringing in, I had no doubts that there were others. If Ranse brought all that out, it just might put a damper on Hansen's "indirect" fund-raising.

  "They're supporting Hansen?"

  "That's a guess.” They weren't yet, according to Gill, but Ranse didn't need to know that. He needed to think that I was worried about the direct aspects of the campaign. I was, but not the obvious aspects. I was also worried about the continent. It's no great treat to be a senator when times are bad, and I couldn't see any good coming out of Hansen, Alredd, and Kemal.

  Ranse laughed. "You'll owe me for this one, Elden.”

  Unlike some senators, who left the debts there, but unspoken, Ranse was the type to make the point. "On the same terms as your favor to me.” I smiled.

  "Fair enough.” He frowned again. "It might take a few days.”

  "I understand.” I just hoped whatever Kemal was into wouldn't blow open before that. Or that Lottler's inquiries wouldn't be what created the explosion. But I'd rather have a political explosion early rather than right before the election when I couldn't recover as easily. Besides, if it got out in the open, it would make it harder for people to target me personally.

  Ransom stood, gracefully, with his accountant's demeanor back in place, and turned off the privacy cone. "I appreciate the news, Elden. Give my best to that lovely wife of yours. I did so enjoy talking to her the other night at the Claytons' affair.” He grinned.

  "The same to Marge,” I answered. "She was most informative about the archaeological excavations in Yucatan. She was talking about the parallels to NorAm. They might be there, you know?"

  He laughed, and his office door opened. "She tells me that all the time.”

  I nodded and turned, heading back to my office. I'd stop there for a moment, before I went to the hearings on Afrique-based credit falsifications and the impact on the NorAm economy.

  Chapter 36

  Kemal

  Sunday and Monday had been hectic. I'd had to work with Paulina and Barbra to set up the memorial service for Stefan and take care of all the loose ends left by his accident. Then I'd had to deal with the delicate situation with MMSystems, and the upcoming annual meeting.

  Tuesday morning, Ashtay Massin was in my office, and O'Bannon would be there shortly, with some information I would find of interest. That was his way of saying that I had troubles. I didn't need any more troubles.

  I concentrated on Ashtay. "You said you were getting pressure?"

  His face was smooth and unworried. "Mr. Kemal, we've had several inquiries and requests for support for members of the existing MMSystems board. I've told them all that KCF Management has been reviewing the performance of MMSystems and will be voting for what it believes to be the best interests of the organization. I've also said that we don't believe that radical change suits anyone.”

  "And?"

  "The price of the stock continues to fall.”

  "That's the way it is.” I made a note for ChrisCo to buy some more. "Too bad we're not speculators. We could suggest that we believe change is necessary. Then, in two days, we could pick up bargain-rate shares.”

  "NASR would frown on that,” Ashtay pointed out. He could have been discussing the weather.

  I laughed. "I have no intention of doing that. Or of having you do that. We're not in this for short-term gains or to have NASR look at us any more closely than they already are.” I frowned. "We're only removing four members whose terms expire. We're supporting retention of three. And there are seven members whose terms don't expire until next year. That certainly isn't radical.”

  "That is true, but they do not know that,” Ashtay pointed out.

  "You can get back to the majors on this. Tell them that KCF will not do anything that will affect the majority composition of the board. That's accurate enough, and it's not something that NASR could claim would fuel speculation.”

  "It's not factually true, Mr. Kemal.”

  It wasn't technically true, but it was factually true. KCF's shares and mine could have restructured the board. If I tried a stunt like that, I'd be worrying about whether I'd find myself driven off a bridge. "It is true in spirit, Ashtay, and we both know it. How would you say it?"

  "We could say that KCF would not engage in either micro-managing a successful company, or in undertaking anything as radical as the news reports suggest.”

  "Just the second half. Forget about micro-managing. You raise that, and it suggests that you can.”

  He nodded. "That makes sense.”

  "Anything else?"

  "No, ser.”

  When Ashtay left, I leaned back in my chair, thinking, looking out at the faint hazy clouds over the Rockies to the west.

  After almost five years, I still couldn't read Ashtay well. He was an excellent funds manager. He was polite, intelligent, respectful, and effective. I couldn't have asked for more. He was also clearly not a Kemal tool, and he'd earned that reputation. I needed that now. But I wondered. Once things were under firmer control, he might be better suited as the number two man in one of the large operating subsidiaries. I didn't want to lose his talent, but I couldn't control him as well as I'd like. And he wasn't family. Now, it had to be the way it was. Later… we'd see.

  Mr. O'Bannon is here, Mr. Kemal.

  Have him come in.

  O'Bannon eased in and sat down. He was wearing a maroon coat and a matching tie, with black trousers.

  I waited.

  "I just got a call early this morning. The caller said that Cannon leaned on Lottler to make inquires about large transactions of a certain nature that might have implications for national security.” O'Bannon laughed. "More directly, a junior bureaucrat at NASR by the name of Jonathan Ramses visited Cannon. Right after that, Cannon went to see Lottler. Lottler told our boy that Cannon had information that control of MMSystems was going to change hands, and that Cannon hinted that the new ownership wouldn't be Earthbound.”

  "He said that? How would anyone at NASR know?"

  "He doesn't know. He's fishing,” O'Bannon said. "No one can know anything except for the securities purchases. He's betting that no one Earthside would advance you credits of that magnitude. Cannon's a pain, but he's sharp.”

  "Sharp enough to back off from a pointed message?"

  O'Bannon thought. "Most people would. I don't know about Cannon.”

  "A pointed message not directed at him?"

  "That might work. If he gets the idea that a lot of bodies will pile up around him, he might figure that no one will want to help him in the future. Power is getting people to do what you want. If people think doing what he wants gets them dead, he loses power. He might get that message.”

  "We'll try that first.” I hoped I wouldn't have to try anything else, but if I did, I did. "Anything else?"

  "Nothing unexpected.”

  "How's Hildeo working out?"

  "She's very grateful. She also learned more than I'd thought from McCall. She should have everything ready for you by next week.”

  "Good.”

  The moment O'Bannon was out of the office, I linked to Paulina. I'll be going up to the northside plant in a few minutes. Please tell Mr. Grayser to expect me.

  Yes, ser. How long should I plan for you to be out?

  No more than two hours. I didn't like to meet with Grayser, but there were times when it was necessary. W
ednesday afternoon was one of those times.

  Fred and Morrie had the dark green electral ready by the door from the ramps to the garage by the time I got down there.

  The drive took thirty minutes, about five minutes longer than usual, because it was raining, and the North-side Parkway system dropped the speeds.

  The plant was like any other formulating plant in northside—a grayish oblong with composite walls. There were armaglass windows in the front for the handful of offices there. It used heavy-duty industrial nanite formulators. What we produced there were the complex sections for guideway control units.

  The gates recognized me. So did Elron, the armed guard just inside the gates.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Kemal.”

  "Afternoon, Elron.”

  "Mr. Grayser's expecting you, ser.”

  Grayser was the plant's chief of security. His office was at the far left end of the corridor. Although the formulators were supposed to be emission free, I always smelled composite and metals at northside.

  Grayser was standing in the doorway to his office. "I got your message.” Grayser was an operative. Like the good ones, nothing about him stood out. He was of average height and weight, with average brown hair, not fine or thick or curly.

  I nodded, but didn't say anything until he'd closed the door and we were within the privacy cone. I didn't bother to sit down. My trousers just would have picked up the manufacturing dust that wasn't supposed to be there.

  "How's Delano settling in?" I asked.

  "He'll always be an Ellay wild young guy- But wygs have their uses. He's effective.”

  "That's good. I need a removal job. Jonathan Ramses. Make it look tike a smash and grab or an accident. Ramses works as a junior bureaucrat at NASR. Lives somewhere in eastside.”

  "That we can handle.”

  "The other is tougher. We need to send Cannon a message. He still doesn't get it. He's got snoops looking everywhere. Now, he's got Lottler in a position where Lottler's going to have to make some inquiries. If the answers get out, that could make matters more difficult than they need to be. The only way to stop that is to get Cannon to forget it.”

  "What about hitting Cannon?"

  "It won't work. You kill him, and the whole thing will blow. Lottler will squeal like a crashed net. The Dewey bit has everyone looking. Another accident or suicide of someone important, and you won't keep Kerras quiet. If there's any evidence at all DPS will get into it.”

  "Kerras doesn't know that much. He guesses a lot,” Grayser pointed out.

  "He guesses well. He also knows more than enough, and he talks to Cannon.”

  "We can handle him like Ramses.” Grayser smiled coldly.

  "Less directly. No one cares about an administrative clerk at NASR. They'll look deeper for a senator, or for a well-known T-head. You can push enough people not to root out evidence, but even Kirchner won't look the other way if the evidence hits him in the face.”

  Grayser tilted his head. He nodded. "Could be. Cannizaro would love to throw her trained dog at this… what's his name? Chiang? That's it. The guy doesn't have much in the way of weak spots. No wife, no lover, no family. Lives for the DPS. Guy's a rough-edged, old-fashioned saint.”

  "So, if Chiang goes down, we have all of DPS and every net in NorAm looking,” I replied. "It has to be something more subtle, something only Cannon will get. Something that shows that the next time will be permanent.”

  "So how do you do that?" Grayser's voice got hard.

  "First, you send Cannon a couple of traditional messages. The girl type and a private note. He doesn't get it, you send a second message. One that leaves someone very dead.”

  "His wife, you mean?"

  "No. He'd probably love that. Give him a license to screw everything in sight. He plays at family being important, but he doesn't really know what family is. No… more subtle. Some woman he's been making eyes at. Check out those soirees he goes to, either in Denv or in St. George. Find out someone he's done something for, someone he can't even acknowledge. Once you find her… that one you can use Brazelton for. Get on it. Needs to be done in the next day or so.”

  "Too subtle.” Grayser shook his head.

  "No, it's not There's no trail. Cannon can't say anything. We can get tougher if we need to, but we won't need to. That way, he calls off Lottler. That sort of thing happens all the time in politics.”

  "And Kerras?"

  "He's been asking for it for a long time. He's due for a heart attack.”

  "We can take care of that.” Grayser smiled. "He's overdue.”

  "Good.” I stood.

  Grayser shut down the privacy screen, and I headed back to the electral.

  There was still one loose end, but Emile had indicated that was about to be resolved. You couldn't have loose ends in business. That was just the way it was.

  Chapter 37

  Cornea

  The weekend had been quiet, leaving me time to practice—and to think.

  The practice had been good, the thinking… Well, it hadn't resolved much of anything. I'd thought great thoughts and little thoughts. I still wondered why things happened the way they did. Or why a good student like Mershelle died and one like Synsil, who almost actively fought learning, didn't. Or why the young filch at the Claytons' soiree had all seemed so bored.

  As always, I asked myself why creating beauty was so hard. All I'd ever really wanted to do was to sing beautiful music, and I got to do that so seldom. Then, I did get to sing for an audience sometimes, and there were a lot of people who never got any of their dreams.

  So few people seemed to understand what beauty was. I kept wondering if it would have been better if I'd been born in an earlier age, before the first Collapse, when music still meant something. None of that solved anything.

  The weekend news didn't help much, either. The Agkhanate was blaming the Russeans even more directly for the orbiter bombing. The Talibanate leadership said that there was no way to rein in terrorists when the Russeans had left technology and hidden stealth-protected bases scattered all over Asia. The Martian Republic was considering a metals embargo against all of the nations involved. The ebol4 epidemic was raging through the Amazon basin and southern Afrique. Deaths there were approaching five million. Over the weekend, another fifteen young adults had died in Denv from the mysterious drug overdoses. At that point, I'd switched off the news and turned to my antique visuals of Carmen.

  On Monday, I'd done what I could. I awakened early and gotten in a good two hours of practice, plus some exercise, and managed to get to the university a good twenty minutes before my lesson with Abdullah. The lesson had been good.

  I'd gone to the library to browse through the closed stacks and try to discover some more older sheet music that had never been scanned into the system—in hopes of finding something unique. I didn't. Back in November, I had found a "lost" song cycle of a twentieth-century composer named Britten, called "On This Island"—very haunting and beautiful. I wasn't that lucky on Monday.

  Tuesday came and went, with the attendant lessons and class. I hurried home to wait for the Brazelton people to repair and upgrade the conapt's nanite systems, and the malfunctioning scanners. They were punctual, and the bill wasn't totally out of line. I did swallow, but only once.

  On Wednesday, I was early in getting to my office, although I didn't have a lesson with Mershelle, because I needed to be there anyway for a series of almost make-work chores for Jorje, like signing hard copies of course descriptions.

  There was a message on the system… waiting. From Mahmed. Did I really want to hear it? After insulting the senator on Thursday night? Finally, I told it to play and stood next to the Stein way, watching and listening.

  Mahmed had a broad smile. Even on the half-size holo projection, that was clear. "You must have made a real impression on Senator Cannon's people, Luara.”

  I wasn't sure I liked that.

  "They asked for you. They want to feature you in a special rezad plu
gging the need for greater arts and music education. It pays triple because you're faced off in it.”

  How could I refuse that? A rezad for music at triple pay? But I wondered. Was it the beginning of a pass of sorts? The senator had left me with that comment about my eyes.

  I just stood there in the office, beside the ancient Stein way for a moment, then finally pushed through the reply. Mahmed was there.

  "Luara! I hoped I'd get you before you started teaching.” He was still wearing that idiotically broad smile spread across his dark face. "You did get my message.”

  "I did.”

  "You look dubious. Why?"

  "I'm surprised, that's all. I met the senator at a soiree where I was the hired help. I didn't think I'd made the best impression.”

  "You always make a good impression. Then you'll do it?"

  "I'll do it.” How could I refuse? Besides, I'd been chased around the piano before, and if that happened to be what the senator had in mind, at least he was moving slowly.

  "It's a little odd. Do you have the music for a song by Moore that you did at that soiree? Or the Schumann song?"

  "I have both.” This was getting stranger and stranger. "But neither is short The Schumann is more than ten minutes.”

  "They want a short section, thirty seconds to a minute, of whatever you think is the most beautiful as a standalone.”

  "Out of context.”

  Mahmed shrugged. "It is at least triple pay, and you get residuals if they run it through more than one cycle. Oh… and can you wear what you have on? That's what you teach in, isn't it?"

  "Sometimes.”

  "Don't forget the music.”

  "I'll bring both.” I wasn't happy about it, but I didn't feel I could turn the job down. How could I fairly excerpt either work? All I could do was look over the music—after I proofed and signed the course descriptions Jorje had left—and come up with something. And apologize silently to whichever composer I chose.

  "Could you make it at noon?"