Archform Beauty

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

I didn't bother with a link on the next. Just rushed out past Sarao.

  "On my way to tech. Probably to the captain's office after that.” I took the ramps fast. Not a run, but a stiff walk all the way to the tech side.

  Duty tech sergeant was Sorgio, not Darcy. Would be a little easier.

  "Is Tech Specialist Moorty available for a rush job, Sergeant?"

  She frowned, but her face blanked, checking the link. "He's just coming up from the garage, Lieutenant.”

  "Good. I'll be needing him.”

  "He's scheduled to—"

  "Unless it's the Smythers case, this is priority. You can check with the captain if you want.”

  "That won't be necessary, ser. We're not that tight now. Will he need a partner?"

  "Yes. I'd prefer Alfonso, if you can spare him.”

  Sorgio smiled. "They're together anyway.”

  Moorty saw me as he walked in. He grinned. "More of the same, Lieutenant?"

  Alfonso frowned.

  "Could be,” I answered. "There was a fire of suspicious origin this morning. Except it wasn't caught as suspicious until a few minutes ago. Smythers. It's on the system.”

  Moorty's face blanked as he linked. Then he refocused on me. "Yes, ser. Same drill?"

  Alfonso came off the link a few seconds after Moorty, but he didn't say anything.

  Waited until they both were looking at me. "I want every aspect of that system checked, even the subnodes.

  I'd bet that most of the main controls are so much slag or melted rubbish. Lieutenant Kirchner is also sending a team.”

  Sorgio's eyes flashed between Moorty and me.

  "You want everything!" Moorty asked.

  "Everything that will show whether there was something strange about the systems. Need to know if they were straight or if they were gimmicked. Anything that would show who built the systems, if they were changed, and who changed them. If you can.”

  Moorty looked at Alfonso. "Seems clear enough. Better get a new kit.” He looked at me.

  "Trendside will pay,” I conceded.

  Both techs and Sorgio smiled.

  After Alfonso and Moorty left, I went back upstairs. The captain had left while I was sending out Moorty, and she wasn't expected back that afternoon.

  Left a link message. Captain, Lieutenant Chiang here. We may have more developments on the McCall case. Won't know until tomorrow morning, when the lab and tech analyses are done. I'll let you know.

  Then I went down to my office. Sat and looked at the Park for a few minutes. Then linked Sarao. Can you see if CDC has anything on that rez stuff we sent them?

  I already checked. They've got something.

  They do?

  Sarao's laugh came across both the net and through the door. They aren't saying anything. They're looking into it. I asked them when they started, and they said they've been working on it for a while. They'll let us know.

  Thanks.

  I could figure out most of the murders. Couldn't prove it. Couldn't figure out why, either. Key was what McCall had known. Kemal was into securities manipulation, but CerraCraft was too small, and he owned it already. He didn't need to manipulate all the stuff KC controlled, like CerraCraft or Brazelton. It looked legit, as legitimate as anything Kemal was into. Why the securities manipulation, whatever it was? Kemal had more than enough credits to ease into most businesses. So it had to be bigger. A lot bigger. The question was still why. And what. Somehow the Cewrigh angle fit, too. Just didn't know how.

  Spent the next hours reviewing everything. Didn't learn anything new.

  It was sixteen-ten when Sarao linked in. Lieutenant, Moorty says you hit it. They're on their way back. Estimate they'll be below in ten minutes.

  I'm heading down.

  Kirchner came down the ramp right behind me. We both stopped in the garage foyer.

  Looked at him.

  "You were right. How did you know?"

  "It had to be. McCall was always talking to Smythers, but I didn't find that out until this afternoon.”

  Moorty and Alfonso were the first in. Moorty grinned at me, then shook his head. I understood. I'd been right. Smythers wasn't an unfortunate death. Another murder.

  The two homicide types followed them. For a moment, everyone just stood there.

  So I spoke. "Let's go to the level-one conference room.”

  We all walked up. Techs carried their kits.

  Room wasn't that big, not with the two techs and the two from homicide and Kirchner and me. Six of us at a round table for four. Kits against the wall. Had to pull in two chairs from against the wall. Techs smelled of fire. All of them had charcoal and smudges on their singlesuits.

  "Why don't you start?" I looked at the pair from homicide—Petty and Weems. Petty was a tall and square blonde woman. Weems was new, dark-haired, sallow, shy. Didn't look directly at either Kirchner or me.

  Petty glanced at Weems, cleared her throat. "It didn't look like arson to begin with, more like a malfunctioning fuel cell. The fire started around the fuel cell and spread from there. Weems caught it. He found a section of the casing, and it was melted between the inner and outer casings.”

  "Someone had filled the casings with something?"

  Weems nodded, then spoke. Voice was so low I had to jack up my nanite enhancers. "The laboratory should be able to tell us what it was. Something tailor-made to look like insulation, I would guess, ser, and probably corrosive. I'd guess it was designed to eat through inner jacket, and then react.”

  "The other cells were tailored, too, but more to react to heat,” Petty added. "At least, that's what the combustion patterns looked like.”

  "They'd explode only when the one caught fire?"

  Both Kirchner's techs nodded.

  Looked to Moorty. "What did you find?"

  "The nanite systems were gimmicked, ser. The main box was destroyed, but the last command was frozen in the subsidiary nodes. The defense screens were at full.”

  "Smythers couldn't get out?"

  "The emergency overrides were disabled. You couldn't have gotten through those screens with an orbiter—until the cells powering the screens went. By then, temperature was close to five hundred, even in the coolest places.”

  "So his house was designed with a separate system for the defense screens?"

  Moorty shook his head. "An auxiliary system. A lot of filch places have it. Main system goes down, then a hidden backup system takes over. Usually only lasts for an hour or so. That's to prevent someone from gimmicking the main power system and looting the place.”

  "Anything else?"

  "It was very professional. No hack and splice job.”

  I nodded slowly. "I'll need a report. First thing in the morning. Trendside will pay the overtime. I want to know everything you found out about the systems. Who built and installed them, if possible, and when they were last serviced, and by whom. That's in addition to the normal arson requirements.” Turned to Kirchner. "Can your people do the same sort of thing?"

  He grinned. "With you footing the overtime, you'll have it. More data than you ever wanted.”

  He might have been right about that. Just hoped we could get something solid out of all the lab reports. One other thing bothered me. Someone had gone to extremes to avoid the appearance of murder. Almost as if they expected each one would be hushed up so long as it didn't happen to be an obvious killing.

  Kirchner didn't say a word until we were walking up the ramp. "This could get tough, Chiang.”

  "It could.”

  We both knew it might get worse than that. There were too many bodies and too much technology involved for it to be simple.

  Chapter 40

  Cornett

  On Thursday morning, as I cleaned up after doing my exercises and practicing, I was still wondering about the rezad interview I'd done for Senator Cannon the afternoon before. Why me? Was he just using what I'd said as a campaign issue? Would I feel like I'd been taken off guard once more—and used?

&
nbsp; That prompted me to link and check my account. I had to swallow. Mahmed had deposited what he'd promised. The amount was more than significant. That did answer one of the questions. The senator was serious, but now I had to wonder exactly what he was serious about. He'd never contacted me, but did senators do things differently when they chased singers around the piano? Or had I misread him? Was he actually serious about doing something for music? Or serious only to the point of recognizing a good campaign issue?

  Whatever it might be, I pushed it aside and finished dressing. I'd decided on a pale green suit with a cream blouse. Except when I was working on sets or something like that, I avoided singlesuits.

  I had to hurry to make the shuttle. It was sunny and breezy, and my hair flew everywhere. The walks were still almost empty. The shuttle was still only half as full as it usually was, and everyone stayed away from other people, except those who were already in couples.

  Even the campus inside the screens seemed half empty, and the roses were drooping in the area along the walkway as I walked toward the Fine Arts building. It was quarter to eleven as I came down the corridor past the lecture hall and to my office. I only saw two students. I didn't know either.

  The office looked as it always did, small and verging on dingy. The single window just didn't provide the light I liked. Even the Stein way seemed ancient, rather than just old, and the nicks on the black finish stood out.

  Surprisingly, there weren't any messages on the office system.

  I glanced through Amina's file, to check what she should have ready for me. As I recalled it was the Schumann. Just before eleven, there was a knock on the door. It was Jorje. I put the file down.

  "Come in.”

  "I was talking to the dean yesterday,” he began, even before the door closed behind him. "He'd asked me to come over to discuss the scheduling for next year.”

  From his first words, I could sense Jorje was up to something.

  "He said he'd been talking to one of the Tazzis. The dean emphasized that the family was one of the strongest supporters of the university, and that Roberto Tazzi was one of the more distinguished alumni. That was just how he put it, and you know how important influential alumni are to the dean.”

  I just kept listening.

  "There was a rumor that you were at a function a week ago where you had a, shall we say, heated discussion with Senator Cannon…”

  I laughed. "Call it a passionate discussion, Jorje. We were discussing the arts.”

  "You can be rather… strident, Luara, and with funding as tight as it is… the dean was most concerned.”

  I had to shake my head. "Jorje… don't worry about it.”

  "The dean was very concerned, and so am I.”

  I took a deep breath. "The senator was not unhappy. Whatever I did, it certainly didn't hurt. After that discussion, "the senator's campaign hired me to do some singing for his campaign rezads, and then asked me to do a short feature rezad on education.” I smiled. "They paid me very nicely. Now… do you think that the senator would be doing that if I had upset him?"

  For the first time in months, if not longer, Jorje was silent, apparently speechless. Finally, he said, "You're doing rezads for the senator, against education?"

  "No. For education.” With the looming expenses I'd faced a month before, I probably would have done almost any rezad, but I hadn't been faced with that problem.

  "You're certain?"

  "Jorje. I know what I sang, and I know what I said. I don't know if they will run the ads, but either way, they wouldn't have hired me if the senator had been displeased.”

  Jorje looked almost disappointed.

  I would have liked to strangle him, the little snake, but I just smiled. "You can assure the dean that he doesn't have to worry. Is there anything else?"

  There was another knock on the door—a timid one. I looked over Jorje's shoulder and toward the door, then let the system project my voice out into the corridor. "I'll be just a moment, Amina.” I looked back at Jorje. "Was there anything else?"

  "The dean and I may have to reconsider your position, Luara. We can only be sure of funding through the fall semester.”

  I nodded seriously, before replying, thankful that I'd thought about the possibility so many times before. "I understand. Funding is always a problem.” I paused for a second. "I'll be adding at least one more private student, according to the early registration numbers. Now, if your private student numbers drop off, I can see where that might pose a problem.” I shouldn't have said that, but he was the one with the diminishing class sizes. He had all the inspiration of a badly formulated meal.

  "The dean will be the one deciding, Luara. It all depends on the funding.”

  I nodded once more. "I understand perfectly, Jorje.” I certainly did. Neither Jorje nor the dean wanted any surprises. They also didn't want adjunct faculty thinking for themselves, or suggesting that either Jorje or the dean was wrong.

  "I'm glad you do, and I'll be telling the dean that there won't be any problems from the senator.” With a smile, he bowed sightly, and left.

  If there were any problems, I'd definitely hear about them, and I'd probably be on the street for unprofessional behavior. Unprofessional would be defined as conduct that harmed the university. That was a judgment call. There wasn't any effective way to appeal that, not unless I'd brought in a huge grant or had a student winning some international award. Neither was very likely at that moment.

  Probably I should have been more conciliatory, but I was getting tired of being conciliatory.

  I pulsed the door to keep it open after Jorje left. After a moment, Amina entered.

  "Is anything wrong, Professor Cornett? Professor Ibanez… he looked upset.”

  "Nothing beyond the normal. He's worried about the music section's budget for next year.” I smiled. "Are you warmed up?"

  She nodded.

  "Then start with the Schumann.” I settled at the keyboard.

  Amina stood facing the Stein way as I played.

  After the first phrase, I could see that her jaw was tensing up.

  "Stop!"

  She looked puzzled. Amina had a wonderful voice—most of the time. With her height, her fair skin, her jet-black hair, and a presence that lit up the stage when she appeared, she could go far—even in our artistically challenged times. Sometimes, though, she tried too hard.

  "Feel your jaw. You're locking up. That keeps your mouth too closed.”

  She nodded. She understood.

  "Let's try it again.” I began playing the Schumann.

  The same thing happened again, and I stopped playing. Every so often she backslid. I couldn't figure out exactly why, but it usually happened if she'd missed a lesson or if she'd gotten too tired. Or upset.

  "What's the matter, Amina?"

  She just looked down. "My brother. He's with the ERC in the Amazon. We can't reach him on his link, and no one can reach his team. He was supposed to report back to the base on Tuesday for updated nanomeds…” She burst into tears.

  That was the end of the singing part of the lesson. After that, I let her talk. With the amount of tension in her body, a lesson wouldn't do any good for either of us. She'd keep tensing up, and reinforcing a bad tendency. I'd end up tense as well. The problem was simple. Almost every emotional and physical problem can affect the voice, one way or another. I could certainly understand her tenseness. Her brother was missing right in the middle of that part of the world where the ebol4 epidemic was the most virulent.

  She kept talking. When she left, she seemed less wound up, but she had every right to be worried, and there wasn't anything I could do about that.

  We hadn't taken a full hour. So I didn't have to rush to music appreciation.

  While I went into the class less hurried than on many days, after an hour and a half of trying to explain the importance of the Romantic Period and to get the class to show some understanding of the differences between the outlook and structure of the Classic and R
omantic Periods, I was exhausted.

  I even managed to ignore the whispered comment: "What difference does it make? They're all dead.”

  I just reflected that the young snot who made it would also be dead, in time. There wouldn't even be music by which he'd be remembered. Even if the beauty of the classical works were remembered only by a handful of artists and musicians, that was enough.

  I held to that thought. I'd been fortunate enough to understand the beauty of pure classic acoustic music, and I'd even had the privilege and pleasure of performing it. Perhaps it was a small candle in the darkness, but it was my candle, and my light.

  That thought was harder to hold through my two o'clock lesson with Rachelle. She was a blonde beauty with a great natural voice and a doting filch family ready to pay anything to make their daughter happy. Unhappily, for reasons unable to be remedied by either education or nanites, in learning voice, Rachelle had the attention span of a flea. Yet she excelled in pure scholastic efforts.

  "Open your mouth…” I don't know how many times I said that in the fifty minutes of that hour, but it felt as though I had every two minutes.

  After Rachelle left, I just sat in my office chair for a good fifteen minutes. I was too tired to do anything else. I didn't feel like braving the old stacks of the library, either, seeking out forgotten music. I just gathered myself together and walked to the shuttle.

  It was about two-thirds full, instead of being cramped. I actually got a seat.

  When I got home, the system announced immediately, You have two messages.

  From whom?

  The first is from Brazelton Services. The subject is: About Your System. The second is from Mahmed Solymon at Crescent Productions. There is no subject.

  I frowned. Brazelton Services. They had repaired the scanners and done the maintenance on the conapt's nanite systems just on Tuesday. What else? Accept Brazelton.

  The image was a generated one—a handsome man in a repair uniform.

  * * * *

  "Please give us a call. We recently upgraded your system, and we have been informed that several of the components have been reported to us as substandard. These could result in potentially dangerous problems. There will be no charge to you. Please call us—"