That was one of her ways of closing a subject. I just poured a quarter of a goblet. The parlor was spare, with a sideboard on the north wall and a settee flanked by wooden armchairs on the south. Between them, over the sarcenan wood floor, lay the amber-and-green woolen rug Krij had inherited from our mother.
"If you'll excuse me for a bit... I need to check in the kitchen."
. "You're doing it natural and yourself?"
"You didn't expect otherwise, did you?"
I laughed. I hadn't been thinking. "Go." I turned and crossed the parlor, stopping just inside the library, far warmer with the wooden shelves and the books that ran from floor to ceiling. The carpet was a Sacrestan, with soft reds and golden browns in circular geometric patterns. I'd given it to Krij because she'd liked it.
The first person I saw was Siendra. She barely glanced at me, engaged as she was in talking to a tall and overmuscled type who had clearly gotten himself biosculpted into young god format. Siendra looked the same as always, wearing a warm tan jacket and cream shirt above darker khaki trousers. As usual, she appeared competent and quiedy feminine.
The other couple I didn't recognize. One was petite and slender. At least, she had a figure. Her companion was another woman, wearing brilliant flowing red that failed to conceal that she was voluptuously endowed. Both turned to me.
Krij reappeared, carrying a small tray. "Blaine, I'd like you to meet Deiphne and Galyanna." She turned to them. "This is my younger brother Blaine."
"Seignior Donne," murmured the petite Deiphne.
Galyanna nodded pleasandy. "It's good to put a face to the name, especially such a respected name."
"Krij has the respected name. If mine's respected, it's only because of her."
Krij raised her eyebrows but extended the tray. "Have a stuffed mushroom. They're fresh hijatis."
I took two, all that I could manage with one hand. Krij carried the tray to Siendra and her escort.
"You're the one who takes on the strange commissions, aren't you?" Galyanna's voice was as ripe as her figure but with a hint of huskiness.
"The strange ones pay the bills," I said, after finishing off the first hijati. The cheese filling was better than the fungal exterior. "What are your interests?"
"We're dynamic re-creators," offered Deiphne. "We specialize in early interstellar."
"Particularly the Saint and Fundie exoduses," added Galyanna. "And their attempt to find or create their own paradises..."
I had to wonder about that. How could any culture create a paradise when the only paradises were those we had lost? I smiled and let them talk about the period and their work in supplying authenticity to Net-REAL. I wasn't sure it was realism.
After a time, I decided Siendra's pseudoyoung god couldn't be any less interesting. I waited until they asked if I want to join mem in refilling their goblets. "I'm still doing fine."
They turned toward the parlor. I eased toward the other couple.
Siendra inclined her head, politely, but neither warmly nor coolly. "Blaine, I'd like you to meet Markus. He teaches at the Lyceum."
"What subjects?" I didn't really care, but thought I should ask.
"Economics. My specialty is postindustrial and early-info-age transactional transformations." Markus beamed broadly, a smile too wide to belong to someone as young as the body he wore signified.
"What would be an example of a transactional transformation?"
'The movement from credit based on present earnings as the basis for repayment to future earnings eventually to credit based on projected changes in personally-linked asset values."
In practical terms, those sounded like merely different methods of assessing ability to repay. "Wouldn't it have been a greater transactional transformation when people moved from using existing assets to purchase capital goods to credit itself?"
"Of course. Of course, but that was merely the first step in a series of transformations basing credit-worthiness assessment more on future reality than upon past reality ..."
I listened. I did wonder how "future reality" could possibly be more reliable than past reality, since the past had happened, and the future hadn't. That was like worshipping gods of a marketplace that hadn't been built who promised beautiful things that hadn't yet been created.
Siendra smiled faintly, and I had the sense she was as bored as I was. I didn't need a lecture upon the shadows of finance and transactions.
Galyanna and Deiphne returned with goblets refreshed and refilled, and Markus turned toward them.
I stepped back, slightiy.
As Markus began to declaim to the other couple, I eased back to the sideboard in the parlor and refilled my goblet. Half-full, this time. I almost didn't notice Siendra's approach. "You're always so quiet, Siendra. I suppose that's part of what makes you so effective."
"That only works if you have a partner like Krij. Quiet by itself can leave you ignored or a target."
"Because people mistake quiet for vulnerability?" I gestured toward the wines.
"Some do. The smarter ones don't." The faintest hint of a smile came and went. "The primitiva grigio, if you would."
I poured her a third of a goblet. Then I asked, "Have you ever heard of something called Elysium, connected to either Judeon Maraniss or Legaar Eloi?"
Siendra's brow furrowed slighdy as she concentrated. "Maraniss ... he's a civic patterner, or he was. I think he gave a lecture some years back, something on designing the ideal city and culture. He radiated arrogance." The frown vanished. "That's all I know about him. Krij may know more than I do about the Elois. The financial and operations sides, anyway." An expression between cynicism and amusement flitted across her lips. "That's not a business that needs our services. We're both grateful we don't have to decline their credits."
"I can imagine."
"Blaine, Siendra." Krij appeared almost beside us. "If you'd head toward the dining room, brunch is ready."
I was hungry, I realized, as I walked beside Siendra toward the dining room that lay behind the study. Markus and the other couple were already seating themselves at the table that could not have held more than eight. Not comfortably.
Warm fall sunlight angled through the skylight. It gave the dining room a lightness that contrasted with the dark wood of the table and chairs.
My place was between Krij and Galyanna.
I knew who I'd be talking to for the duration of the meal, and that was more than all right with me. I wouldn't have minded talking to Siendra either, quiet as she was. Even so, during the meal itself, I enjoyed talking to Krij. We didn't discuss anything particularly important. It was a relief not having to be on guard all the time. Even so, I still couldn't help but fret about what had probably happened to Lemmy.
After the apple tart dessert and coffee and tea, the samer couple left first. Not long after that Markus and Siendra departed. Siendra wished me well, quietly.
I stayed for another stan, then drove back to the villa and went back to work on my commissions.
I tried to contact Lemmy. The system continued to tell me that a link was impossible because of technical impediments.
With some reluctance, I started in on the material about Tony diVeau. There was a great deal that mentioned him in passing, with the emphasis on Banque de L'Ouest. None of that revealed much about Tony. The professional and personal information available in public files was much more limited. He'd gotten an advanced degree in finance from the College of Business at Dartmoor Institute. After graduation, he'd left the southern hemisphere for good and come to Thurene. He started with the First Commerce Bank. Once he'd married Lylette duParc, he'd been offered the position of assistant vice director at Banque de L'Ouest. That wasn't surprising. Her father was the senior managing director. Tony and Lylette had two children, and she was a curator at the Musee Toklas.
Tony deserved a very personal visit—at the bank, and I needed to contact Sephaniah as well, but at the university. I couldn't do either
on an end-day.
I tried a search for what amounted to immediate point-to-point transportation. The only systems were variations on
Hawking wormholes, jumpshift generators, and other interstellar systems. There were no references—even theoretical ones—to such a system that would work in a gravity well.
So I spent the rest of the afternoon working on special indirect search routines. That was because the direct searches hadn't worked in the slightest in obtaining any additional information.
20
Hatred is a form of faith, distilled by passion to remove all rationality.
The north end of Thurene holds the River Crescent, with its mosques and markets. There is brass hammered in the ancient fashion, for those who believe that those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat it. There is also brass nanoformed into intricate lace patterns for those who believe that history is bunk, and for mem the future is always different and now.
The wind always swirled out of the north in the River Crescent, but it was colder and harsher this night. Even the unlit waters of the Nouvelle Seine showed small whitecaps beyond the three piers that held dhows, tied fast to bollards carved with curved and intricate symbols praising the only God. Despite the wind, the perfume of cooking oil and roasting fowl and lamb permeated the streets and alleys. It wasn't unpleasant, merely pervasive.
In my shadow grays, I eased down the stone alley. Beyond the gray-green sandstone walls to the right lay the back wall of the weavers' market. There I had found rugs of all types, including the artisan quality Sacrestan that I had given to my sister. Among the dross one could find great artistry, surprisingly often, because what was popular in the salons of the palacios and villas of Thurene had tittle to do with excellence.
Why was I in the River Crescent, where no sane outsider ventured in the late evening?
I deferred that question, my senses and implants alert. I was seeking someone in trouble, anyone in real difficulty.
From the weavers' market I slipped westward along Falange Way, two blocks back from the river. From there I followed another unnamed alley back toward the Nouvelle Seine, slowing as I sensed someone ahead.
An old man walked slowly along the side of the alley with the narrow sidewalk. In the dimness I could see the thin silver-gray of his hair above the gray-and-black woolen poncho-cape draped over his stooped frame. Old age fell more heavily upon those in the ethnic areas such as the River Crescent and western hill barrios. They lacked the resources to hold age at bay. Some also felt that there was a vague obscenity in seemingly eternal youth, particularly as displayed by the aristos of Thurene. But then, much of what was displayed by the aristos in any society was vaguely obscene, if not more so.
The old man stepped around a cart chained to a faux wrought-iron grill. Ahead of him, a small girl sat huddled on the stone curb where the alley intersected a narrow way. She was bathed in the dim light of an antique streedamp.
"Little girl... are you all right?" His voice didn't sound that old, despite his stooped frame.
She did not respond.
I could sense the youths in the alleyway ahead, and I could hear whispers. The old man should have as well.
"Are you feeling well?" He touched the girl's blanket with his walking stick. The stick went through the holo projection.
At that moment, the seven youths charged from behind a stone stoop just up the narrow way. The old man did not attempt to flee as they encircled him. The image of the small girl vanished.
I waited. I had a feeling that all was not as it appeared.
"You want to help us, don't you, old man?" The leader of the group stood slightiy forward. He wore a pseudo gold-mesh jacket over maroon leather trousers that were form-fitting down to the knee and broadly flared below above matching maroon boots. The others were attired in the same style. Two were muscular girls with hair cut even shorter than that of the young men. All had black hair streaked with luminescent gold.
"The Garda will see what you're doing," suggested the man.
"No, they won't. We're feeding a false holo over a shroud." That rang true enough. It didn't seem to bother the chosen victim.
"What do you want?"
"Just some entertainment, old man. And your creds."
That was another difference in River Crescent. Many of the inhabitants still carried actual credits. They distrusted the banking system. They also didn't want the sisters to know what transactions took place between whom. That's been a universal constant since the first staters or shekels... or whatever... were minted.
"Entertainment?" There was no puzzlement in the man's voice. There should have been.
"You're going to dance for us. You fall down, and we'll use these to help you up." A long wooden wand appeared in the leader's hand. Similar wands appeared in the hands of the others.
The old man straightened. An electrolash flashed in his hand, taking the place of the walking stick. A flare of light appeared, and one of the youths went down. Another charged the man, but the lash struck her in the chest. She screamed, then convulsed.
I forced myself to wait until all seven were down. That took only moments.
The old man began to repeat using the lash, starting with the leader.
The youngsters probably deserved what they were getting, but those on the stone pavement would be dead before long at the intensity their would-be victim had programmed into the lash.
"Enough." My voice carried. "They've had enough." The man turned. Behind the plastiflesh, I could sense the rage. And the fact that he was neither old nor young. That was before the electrolash flew toward me.
I dove forward into a forward roll. Most people make the mistake of trying to escape a lash, but a lash can extend itself far more easily than it can retract into close quarters. I came out of the roll almost chest to chest with him, for the moment it took to knock the weapon out of his hand.
His other hand went for the belt knife, but I kneed him and palmed his chin. Hard. Then I snapped the knife out of the sheath. He went down on top of the gang leader, who was beginning to twitch.
I followed the energy trails to the shroud unit and projector, set at the base of the stoop where the seven had waited. Not exactly the magnificent seven. I crushed the equipment with my boot, then walked back to the pile of bodies and hoisted the pseudo-old man to his feet.
"Come along. You really don't want to be found here when the Garda arrives."
For the first time, he looked at me. Not that he could really see my face, not with the shadows that accompany me.
He shuddered. "Are you ... ?"
"No." I kept him walking until we were on the street that bordered the river. "You're on your own from here on in."
Behind us I could sense the approaching Garda flitter. It would be a remote. They always were in the ethnic areas.
I turned and hurried westward, leaving the man standing there.
Even in the River Crescent, nothing was quite as it seemed. Just like everything else in Thurene.
For me, in the shadows, so much was clearer than in the bright illumination of Thurene. The city's brilliance concealed so much more than it revealed. Was that why I took refuge in doing what I could in the shadows?
21
The distinction between precision in speech and obfuscation can only be made by the listener.
First thing on Lunen morning—after my workout—I made an appointment, under a misleading name and false pretences, to meet with Angelique deGritz early in the afternoon. Then I went back to working on my three commissions. This time I began to access my network of contacts and acquaintances—those I could reach.
I started with Shannon at the Garda.
"Colonel..."
"What are you up to now, Donne?" Flat brown eyes glared at me from under his jutting brow. Why he'd kept the residual ape-brows I had to wonder.
"Just asking around. Trying to locate people. Either a Maureen Gonne or a Terrie Mc
Gerrie. You know either?"
"I'm happy to say that I don't. Why are you asking?"
"Lost relations. One's an heiress. Can you tell me if either's been reported as missing? That's a public record," I reminded him.
"Maureen Gonne or Terrie McGerrie?" Shannon didn't look happy, but after a moment, replied, "Neither one. No record of death, either, or anything on the public record."
"Thank you, Colonel. I appreciate it. Does the name Elysium Project mean anything?"
I doubted that Shannon could have counterfeited the fractionally blank expression of incomprehension before he replied. "Never heard of it. What is it?"
"I don't know, either. I heard it in connection with a civic planner named Maraniss, but no context. So far as I know, there's nothing illegal even rumored about it."
"Maraniss ..." Shannon frowned. "He was on the advisory board for the Civitas Sorores four, five years back. Sort of arrogant. He told the Soror Prima that Thurene could have been an ideal city." He smiled, wryly. "Elysium ... that was the word he used. Said Thurene could have been Elysium if the sisters weren't so obtuse. Should have remembered that."
"Did he say anything else?"
Shannon laughed. "He couldn't. The Soror Prima dismissed him on the spot. Said he was out of line. Had everything he said struck from the record."
So that was why there was nothing in the data systems.
"Nothing to do with the Sorores after that," Shannon went on. "No media, either."
I nodded. "Thanks."
"I'll be in touch when I need something you might know."
Shannon had even less subtlety than I did. "You know where to find me, Colonel."
After Shannon, I began vid-calls to those who owed me— or who might tell me anyway.
J. William Smith preferred to be called William. I usually called him Jay or Bill. That depended on how much I wanted him on edge. He was an advocate on the lower fringe. He had to actually work at providing services for those who could barely pay.
"Jay, how's the advocacy racket?"
The Elysium Commission Page 14
