“Happy birthday, Macefield. I apologize for not attending the party. I’m frankly surprised you went.”
“It proved worth the trouble.” He tapped the chessboard. “This is lovely. Is this what you called about?”
“No. I’ve recently acquired something from an acquaintance in Lunase that I thought you might be interested in. Come.”
Mace stepped around the counter. He paused at the worktable. Precision knives, straightedges and brushes surrounded a sheet of brightly colored stamps. A monitor displayed an expanded image of the fine drawing of a man with thick black hair and florid lips.
“Macefield?”
Mace followed Philip through a narrow doorway into a pleasantly lit space. Four comfortable chairs faced each other across a low, round white table. Philip gestured for him to sit, then went to a bar and fussed with a tray. He set the tea service on the table and poured. Mace waited patiently. Rituals were important to Philip; he collected them as he collected everything.
He offered a smooth, handleless cup, then took his own and sat down. Mace held the cup on the palm of his left hand and with thumb and forefinger turned it, then drank.
“Very good,” he said, and finished the tea. He placed the cup on the tray. “I hate to rush business, Philip, but there’s a small problem. We’ve been contacted by PolyCarb security. Cambel was followed and so was I.”
“Have they a mandate from SA?”
“I’m assuming not. So far it’s only questions. But I was also called by Officer Stat, immigration directory.”
“Regarding...?”
“The SA call, I have no idea yet. The PolyCarb inquiry concerns someone named Glim Toler.”
Philip looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “I don’t know that name. And the PolyCarb agent?”
“Under Koeln.”
“That name is familiar. He’s Lunessa, I think. So are you going to suspend operations?”
“I don’t see why. Koeln found Cambel, I’m expecting another call from him, I’m sure he knows about our business. If he doesn’t, then I don’t see any point, and if he does then it’s a little late to pretend innocence. Of course, it could be a sincere request for assistance in finding someone.”
“Then why annoy you by following you?” Philip mused. “I’ll see what I can find out about Glim Toler, then.” Philip waved a hand then, as if clearing the air of smoke. “I know your interests don’t run to the quaint, but I have, as I said, acquired something unique.”
“I’m always interested in what you find, Philip.”
“You flatter me unnecessarily, but thank you.” He laced his fingers over his chest and pushed out his lower lip. “The interdicts shut us off from more than we imagined—or more than we remembered. Little things, like linen and silk, not so little things, like music and art. Being barred from even communicating directly with Earth has been costly. Now that we’re finally working through some of the difficulties, it appears there won’t be all that much left.”
Mace felt his interest swell. Philip’s Earth watching intrigued him, though never enough to draw him into the company of Aean enthusiasts. Most people professed ambivalence toward Earth, pretending Gaia no longer mattered to them. After all, Earth had shut them out, unwilling to tolerate another independent state off the planet. Mace always thought it was economic—Signatory Space had access to virtually unlimited raw material, and over time they developed the technology to exploit it, creating a genuine threat to the market hegemony of the Earthbound polities—but no one cause could explain the complete rejection the off-Earth communities had suffered by their homeworld. But any news that came directly up drew instant attention, and the same people who claimed disinterest quickly learned every detail. Mace did not understand the fascination with a homeworld that had turned its back on its progeny—he lacked any such attachment to Mars—but he had developed a taste for Gaian artifacts.
“There’ve been rumors,” Mace said.
“I get better data. Where possible, I have confirmation. There are still contacts on the moon that have access to Earth. Not strictly legal, true, but reliable nevertheless. Things are falling apart downwell and it’s not a gentle fall. China is entering the eighteenth year of its civil war. We already knew someone had set off nukes down there.”
“China?”
“They had divided their arsenal according to armies. Several generals always did have direct control over their warheads, and the generalships have been hereditary at least since the Twenties. Of course, they could have come from outside China, but…
“My god.”
“Yours, theirs... it’s all the same to me. It’s the information base that’s the real loss. We haven’t recovered a fraction of that stockpile. By the time we manage to lower the tariffs and get exemptions to the proscriptions, there may be nothing worth having.”
“It’s in the Archive.”
Philip made a derisive sound. “The Archive is worse than a myth. People really believe that there’s a satellite floating somewhere containing the accumulated database of Gaia. What started out as a witty remark is becoming an article of faith. How will they feel when they realize that it doesn’t exist?”
Philip’s vehemence startled Mace. He was used to seeing Philip in control, unflappable.
“It’s not like stuff hasn’t been coming up,” Mace said.
“True, but a black market is viable mainly because of the scarcity of its product. Dealers can’t survive an open exchange primarily because it would undercut their profits. There are terabytes of material still not retrieved. The doors are finally opening, but we may find the room empty. I’ve recently heard—and this is rumor—that strikes are being made against the governments and corporations at the vanguard of reestablishing ties with us. That the strikes are in the form of data destruction. There’ve been reports of entire libraries disappearing. Physically disappearing. Some sort of molecular disassembler seems to be ravaging synthetics.”
Mace stared at him. “You mean like what happened to—?”
“We still don’t know what happened to Cassidy Or on Mars, at Hellas Planitia. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they were connected events and similar to what I’m hearing about what’s happening on Earth. Some data that comes up ought not.” Philip shook his head, his expression intensely sad. “I can understand destroying people, but…”
Philip slapped his knees. “But we do what we can. Sometimes an unexpected treasure works its way up and I find myself fortunate enough to get hold of it.”
He leaned toward the table and pulled open a drawer beneath it. He took a pair of objects out and set them near the edge, closed the drawer, and turned the tabletop till the objects were in front of Mace.
Less than fifteen centimeters high, the thin figures wore gaudy ancient costumes—knee-length boots, loose pants, short jackets and hats with plumes—and held broad, unfurled flags. The coloring seemed to shimmer—brilliant blues and deep reds, exaggerated flesh tones—and they struck bold poses, proud and arrogant. Mace reached for one, then looked at Philip, who nodded. Mace picked it up. It was perhaps half a centimeter thick, mounted on a flat base. Close up, he saw the fine engraving that went into the texture of the clothes and the facial features.
“What is it?”
Philip smiled. “Interested?”
“I’m—yes, of course. But I thought you said—”
“I don’t entirely trust the security of our comm system, I don’t care what guarantees are in the Charter. I’m known to deal in paper—stamps, currency old documents, things like that. These are new. I prefer not to commit the acquisition to writing of any kind.” He pointed at the model. “An engraved tin figurine. Made by a master miniaturist, Ludwig Frank, in Nuremberg, sometime in the early Twentieth Century. The particulars are uncertain, but not the pedigree.”
“Tin....”
“This, of course, is cast aluminum. The originals are, I’m told, still on Earth in a private collection and they are tin. My source obtai
ned the digitized template and from that I made the molds. Very time-consuming, but fascinating work. This is what I mean about losing so much. I had no idea this sort of thing even existed until my source stumbled onto it and passed the information to me. Cast-tin miniatures like this were at one time enormously popular throughout Europe and America.”
Mace set the piece down. “You can get more?”
“Possibly. Probably. It depends on whether it will be worth my while.”
“What would make it worth your while?”
“Oh... two hundred a piece, with a promise to take more.”
Mace considered. He preferred flat art and music—though he had never developed the taste in ancient postage stamps Philip had—but these were sort of flat. And exquisite. He could not imagine the motives of the craftsman to imagine and create such things.
Besides, he wanted something else from Philip.
“These,” Mace said slowly, “look like they belong to a set.”
“As a matter of fact...”
“Do you know how many there are in the set?”
“Fifteen pieces.”
“Tell you what. Get me the complete set and I’ll give you twenty-five hundred.”
Philip barely reacted—a slight twitch in his face. “That might take some time.”
“As long as I’m not senile before I get them.”
Philip smiled. “As you wish. Do you mind if I keep these? I would want to make sure the coloring matches.”
“Of course.”
Philip rotated the table back and replaced the figurines in the drawer.
“I enjoy dealing with you, Macefield. You have taste.”
“I’ve never been disappointed coming here.”
Philip poured another round of tea and they repeated the small ritual. When the cups were empty, Philip carried the service back to the bar.
“Is there anything else I can do for you today, Macefield? After all, I owe you a birthday present.”
“That would be a breach of custom, to know the benefactor of a present.”
“Customs are not laws. What good are they if occasionally they aren’t broken?”
“Then... yes, there is something else you can do for me. What do you know about cyberlinks?”
“Phenylketonuria,” Philip pronounced carefully. He set his chopsticks down, his noodles half-eaten. “A perfectly treatable disease, but one must know how.” He scowled. “Another example of lost knowledge. A gene turns off, an enzyme that should be made, isn’t. Suddenly you have an infant that can’t metabolize phenylalanine, which proceeds to warp brain development. It can be fixed. We didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Fifty years is a long time, Macefield. Out in the Belt there were communities that had been out of touch not only with Earth but with the established orbitals and Lunase. We grew up, went to work shipping rock back in-system, just as our parents and grandparents had done, and the only time any communications happened was when the banks talked to each other or an order changed. PKU was one of the rarer problems, but not so rare that it didn’t cause us grief before we found out just how important old data can be.”
“Was it common to give them augments?”
“Not at all. It was common to expose them.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. A lot of that went on. Resources were limited, defectives had to go.” He raised his arms. “Some of us were lucky to be adults before problems manifested and we shipped them in-system.”
“All of them?”
“No, not in the end. There was a clearing house set up to send them back here. Many were turned over to Lunase. They were starting their population push then. New bodies—even defective ones—were welcome. They have the doctors, after all. Your friend is probably one of those who ended up with augments, leasing brain space. I can make inquiries if you like.”
“Not yet. I’m curious about the augment itself. I don’t understand why one would have to be compartmentalized the way this one is. Specialized augments for specific functions, sure, but there could easily be memory overlap without the need of a separate collator, couldn’t there?”
“Unless the user doesn’t want it. Some companies that use brain-share insist on the added security of memorative isolation. Patents and copyrights. One of those compartments, I guarantee, contains a subroutine that allows for an external memory cache that bypasses the built-in cache. The cyberlink hooks in, gets work done, and at the end of the day remembers nothing, even with the use of a personal collator. It wouldn’t be there to collate. If you don’t want the people working for you to know what it is they’re doing on your behalf, it’s ideal.”
“That’s perverse.”
“It is, isn’t it? It gets stranger, though, when you understand that when the implants are initially installed, the system is arranged so even emotions can be controlled—isolating responses, programming in the ability to feel and recognize certain things you and I take for granted. Loyalty can be controlled and enhanced or distractions reduced or eliminated. But they were refugees, technically wards of the state. Lunase likes to talk about its political heritage as a republic and a free state, but much of that got left back on Earth, too.” He shrugged. “They aren’t slaves, though. After a certain period of time their contracts are fulfilled and they’re free to go. Of course, most of them elect to stay there and continue working at the same job.”
“So it’s a security arrangement, the way she’s constructed.”
“Basically.”
“Would there be a way to correct that, so she’d have full overlap?”
“Perhaps. Probably You’re a programmer, don’t you know?”
“Only as part of my job, Philip. A security programmer. This is a hardware problem—hardware and wetware. I can do code, even some hard systems, but I’m not at all knowledgeable about brains and the actual physical interface.”
“The sad thing is, the people who gave her that augment probably couldn’t answer your question, either. They’re technicians. Pop the top, insert the wiring, close it up, test the feed, put them to work. Agh! I’m becoming morose. I’ll think about the problem, Macefield, and let you know what I come up with.”
Mace stood. “Thanks, Philip. I appreciate your help.”
“Not at all. Whatever I can do for one of my better clients on his birthday.”
Mace returned to the main shop. He paused to gaze at the chess set on the counter.
“You do excellent work, Philip.”
“Thank you. Do you know, those are all real ships?”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. The pawns are Mercurys on Atlas boosters. The castles are Geminis, the bishops are early shuttles, the knights are Kamirov-Foster Ares transports, and queens are Earthcorps Deep System Explorers, and the kings are—”
“Pegasus Interstellars.”
“Yes....”
“I wonder if they ever made it.”
Philip remained silent. Finally, Mace straightened, slightly embarrassed.
“Thanks, Philip.”
The tall man nodded and Mace walked out of the shop.
It was past midcycle and the plaza was, as he had expected, crowded. Mace ignored the throngs. They were only masses on trajectories that he had to miss on his way back to the tube station.
He could not find his shadow.
Eight – AEA, 2118
NEMILY FELT MILDLY GUILTY not attending the Last Day party, but she did not know the man for whom it was given very well, and Koeln’s interview had soured her mood. She left work early and stopped at a shopping plaza just across the ring in segment two.
As she wandered the shops she thought absently about buying a new dress for tonight, but Mace had given her no hint about where he intended to take her. Reservations, he had said, which to her always meant expensive. On the other hand, perhaps saving her money would be more sensible, especially if she ended up in trouble with management or Structural Authority She m
ight need it for—
For what? If they expelled her, they would provide transportation elsewhere. She would be starting all over. Extra funds might help, but not very much. What she wanted was to stay on Aea. If she could not do that, what difference did it make how much money she took with her elsewhere? It could never compensate for the loss of her home.
Home. She wondered when Aea had become home in her imagination. It felt comforting and dangerous at the same time, the potential loss greater.
She made herself stop and think it through. She was overreacting, old responses coming to the surface after long dormancy. She had done nothing wrong by Aean law (that she knew), they had no cause to expel her. A past association with a known vacuum dealer did not, in itself, constitute grounds for punishment.
A splash of shimmering blue caught her eye in a shop window and she crossed the pedistry to look closer. The dress was cut in an older style with broad shoulders that came to points and a skirt that folded over the back of the legs like the wings of an elegant insect. The fabric broke light up in small motes of rainbow pinpoints that floated on the dark blue like oil on water.
She entered the shop. The air was crisp with the scent of various fabrics, a kind of lush dryness. Nemily’s fingers brushed over sleeves and skirts and pants; had she been wearing the sensualist augment she would have spent everything she had here.
The dress in the window was more expensive than she was accustomed to, but when she tried it on she knew she would buy it. The swoop of the skirt seemed to make her taller and the color against her skin contrasted appealingly She turned on one foot, flaring the skirt, and laughed at the effect of light cascading down the insect wings. She caught the eye of a man peering through the window. He smiled briefly and looked away.
A reckless extravagance, but Nemily could see no down side to the expense. She left the shop feeling oddly invulnerable to failure—she was an Aean, she had just bought an expensive dress in an Aean shop, she was seeing a well-off Aean this evening. How could anything be wrong?
Remains Page 14
