“The corpse.” I wanted to say, hey, it wasn’t my idea, it was Alex, you know how he is. But I didn’t want her going after my employer and saying how I’d pointed the finger at him.
“Chase,” she said, “you didn’t.”
“Sorry.”
“Hell of a time for you two to get a conscience.”
The windows began to darken. Storm coming. It seemed like a good time to change the subject. “Alex thinks there are a dozen more of them out there.”
“Corpses?”
“Outstations.”
“As far as we can tell, the Shenji built a lot of them.” People had started establishing outstations almost as soon as they’d left the home world. “Listen, Chase: If he finds another one, how about letting us take a look first? Before you guys charge in.”
“This one took him the better part of two years.”
She sighed at the injustice of it all. “We’ve had people devote whole lifetimes and come away empty.”
“Alex is pretty good at what he does, Windy.”
She got up, walked over to the window, turned her back to it, and half sat against the sill. “You want nothing in return?” she asked.
“No. It’s free and clear.” I handed her a chip. “This is the location. And the transfer of all rights.”
“Thank you. We’ll see that you get full credit.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you find it useful.”
She opened a drawer in her desk and put the chip inside. “I’ll have the director get back to Alex. Express his appreciation.”
“That would be nice,” I said. “And by the way I have something for you.” I’d brought a couple of samples with me, pieces from the life-support system, a section of tubing, a filter, and a tiny motor. I took them out of my carrying case and held them out to her. Now this is not going to seem like much to the casual reader, but I knew Windy, and I watched the tension drain away and saw her eyes light up. She reached out tentatively for them, and I put them in her hands.
She held them, letting the centuries flow through her, then she put them on the desk and hugged me. “I appreciate it, Chase,” she said. “You’re okay.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“But I still think you two are grave robbers.”
Ten minutes later she was walking me into the office of the director. His name was Louis Ponzio. A man of boundless importance. Ramrod straight. Used to giving directions. Took himself very seriously.
He was a little guy, narrow eyes, narrow nose, lots of energy. Always ready to shake your hand and take you into his confidence. You and I know how things are, he seemed to say. We can trust each other. You always knew when he was in the room. And you knew he was accustomed to getting his way. He was Dr. Ponzio. Nobody would ever have called him Louie.
Windy explained about the Shenji platform, and Ponzio smiled and tried to look overwhelmed by it all. I didn’t know him that well, but he was a mathematician and a political appointment. That was a double whammy. Political appointments were inevitably people who were getting paid off. And I’d had several bad experiences with mathematicians over the years. Never knew one who could get passionate about anything other than sex and numbers. And not necessarily in that order.
We shook hands all around. Filled the glasses for everyone. He’d always admired Rainbow’s efforts. If there was anything he could do, please don’t hesitate.
I always say that when you do the right thing, you get rewarded. Windy did some research and was able to date the outstation a little more precisely than we had, to the end of the Imperium years.
A couple of days later she called me at home in a state of suppressed excitement. “I think I know who the victim was.”
I’d slept late, and was just getting out of the shower. Since I wasn’t appropriately dressed, we stayed on audio. “Who?”
“Lyra Kimonity.”
“Is she someone I should know?”
“Probably not. She was the first wife of Khalifa Torn.”
Ah. Torn I knew. Attila. Bogandiehl. Torn. Three of a kind. He had finished off the Imperium, seized power for himself, and ruled four years, murdering millions, before his own guards took him out. He had seen no need for the outstations, which were simply a drain on the treasury, so he shut them down.
“Torn liked to sleep with the wives of his staff and officers. Lyra made a fuss.”
“Ah.”
“She disappeared.”
“What makes you think it was her at the outstation?”
“Most historians think he exiled her. His stooges might have misunderstood his intention, because later he changed his mind. Tried to get her back. Or maybe he just forgot his original instructions. Anyhow, the person he’d given her to couldn’t produce her. When he found out the details of what had happened—the archives don’t specify what that was—he executed the people responsible. One of them was”—she paused to look at her notes—“Abgadi Diroush. And there was a second one whom he personally drowned. Berendi Lakato. Lakato was responsible for shutting down the outstations. And Diroush headed up the team that actually did the work. In any case, Lyra was never seen again.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s good news.”
That startled her. “How do you mean?”
“Makes the artifacts more valuable. Everybody loves a monster. You don’t think he ever visited the station personally, do you?”
She let me see that she was shocked. “No,” she said, “I don’t think so. He didn’t like to travel. Afraid somebody might seize power while he was gone.”
“That’s a pity.”
“I sent you a picture of her.”
I put it on-screen. Lyra had been a red-haired beauty. Big almond eyes. A fetching smile. I wondered how she’d gotten involved with Khalifa. And it occurred to me it’s not always an advantage to look good.
“Look at the wrist,” she said.
I knew what I was going to find: the jade bracelet. And there it was. I could even make out the sprig of ivy.
“Is it the same as the one you found?”
“Yes.”
“That confirms it, then.”
“Yeah.” Lyra was maybe twenty-two when the picture was taken. “How old would she have been?”
“We can’t get it exactly, but she was still young. Twenty-seven, maybe.”
I thought about her, marooned on the station. I wondered whether they’d at least left the lights on for her.
“Something else,” Windy said. “You brought back a boatload of artifacts, right? From the Night Angel.”
“We salvaged a few items, yes.”
“I was thinking that we might provide you with some publicity. Help you sell the merchandise.”
“What did you have in mind, Windy?”
“Why not put the artifacts temporarily in our hands? We could create an exhibition at the museum. Put everything on display for, say, a month. I suspect that sort of event would enhance their value considerably.”
“We might consider making some of them available,” I told her. “What do we get in return?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You get a Shenji exhibition. What do we get?”
“Chase, you’re going to get a ton of museum exposure.”
“I think Survey comes out way ahead on that arrangement.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you what. Let us have the artifacts, and I’ll let your boss in on something.”
“Nothing up this sleeve,” I said.
“Hear me out.”
“What’s the something?”
“We’re approaching the sixtieth anniversary of the loss of the Polaris.”
I tossed the towel into a hamper and pulled on a robe. “You alone, Windy?”
“Yes.”
I went out to the living room and switched over to visual. She was sitting behind her desk.
“Must be nice to be able to keep those kinds of hours,” she said.
“I’m paid for what I
know.”
“Of course. I’ve always thought that.”
“What’s the something you’re prepared to offer?”
“Next week, to mark the anniversary, several books are being released. A major studio production has been put together, and one of the networks even has a psychic who’s going around explaining what happened.”
“Aboard the Polaris?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he say? The psychic?”
“Ghosts got ’em.”
“Why am I not surprised to hear that?”
“I’m not kidding. Ghosts. More or less. Some sort of supernatural fog. Goes right through the hull.”
“Okay.”
“The guy’s good. He’s got a track record.”
“I’m sure.”
“The point is that there’ll be a lot going on about the Polaris over the next couple of weeks. We’re doing a banquet, inviting some VIPs, and we’ve been holding off on the dedication so we could do everything at once.”
“The dedication?”
“A new wing. For the Polaris.”
“You’re just getting around to it now?”
She laughed. “You’ll have to ask somebody else about that, Chase. I’ve only been here a few years. But, off the record, I suspect it was always a bit too spooky for Survey. Seven people vanish off a ship? It was a downbeat story for a long time. I don’t think they wanted to remind anybody. Now it’s mostly legend. You know what I mean? Anyhow, we’re going to make it into a two-week-long extravaganza. Now what I think you’ll be interested in is that we’re going to sell off some Polaris artifacts. At auction.”
“Artifacts?” That was a surprise. “I didn’t know you had any.”
“They were stored at the time of the event. They’re personal items mostly, slates, pressure suits, pens, mugs, you name it. And some gear, but not much.”
“Why? I mean, why’d they go into storage?”
“There were a lot of investigations. When the big one was done, the Trendel Commission, they sold the ship and probably forgot about the stuff. Or maybe somebody thought it’d be worth hanging on to.”
Artifacts from the Polaris. They’d be worth a fortune.
“Anyway, we’ll be issuing invitations to the banquet for you and Alex.”
I couldn’t help a wide smile. “You get access to the Night Angel artifacts, and we get an invitation to dinner.”
She actually managed to look hurt. “It’s not just a dinner. Some of our most important supporters will be there. It’ll be very exclusive. It’s going to get coverage.”
“Windy,” I said, “I tell you what I’ll do. We’ll let you have selected artifacts on loan for a month. In return, we get the dinner invitations—”
“—And?”
“—We get fifteen of the Polaris artifacts at no cost prior to the auction. We’ll take a look and let you know what we want.”
“You know damned well I can’t do that, Chase. I don’t have that kind of authority.”
“Talk to Ponzio.”
“He won’t agree. He’d think I’ve lost my mind. So would I.”
“Windy, do I need to remind you that Survey is getting an outstation from us?”
“That was a gift. No strings, remember? You can’t start trying to deal for it now.”
“Okay. That’s fair enough. Not very appreciative, but fair.”
“Look, Chase, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you first crack at the artifacts. A preauction sale. You can take a look at the stuff, and if we can agree on a price, you’re in business.”
“A reasonable price,” I said.
“Yes. Of course. We wouldn’t try to take advantage of Rainbow.”
“Windy, you know as well as I do there’ll be an initial explosion in prices, then they’ll settle down.”
“I’m sure we’ll have no problem on that score. But I won’t be able to see my way clear to make fifteen available.”
“How many did you have in mind?”
“Two.”
Bargaining room. I looked appropriately shocked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Two. Two artifacts. That’s the absolute best I can do.”
We went back and forth and finally settled on six.
After she was off the circuit, I brought up the Memorial Wall in the Rock Garden, which is located behind Survey’s administrative center. It’s a tranquil place, a glade, with a loud brook, a few stones left over from the last ice age, a wide range of flowering plants, and the wall itself. It’s separated from the rest of the grounds by a line of galopé bushes, so that you get a sense of being in a forest. This is the memorial set aside for those working under Survey’s auspices who have given their lives “in the service of science and humanity.” There are more than a hundred names, covering almost two centuries, carved into the wall, which is really a series of shaped rocks.
The Polaris passengers and their captain are there, of course. Whenever more than one person is lost in a single incident, the names are grouped and placed alphabetically, with the date. That put Chek Boland at the head. Maddy was listed third. There’d been a twelve-year delay before they were officially added to the roll call of lost heroes. The ceremony had been, at long last, an official recognition of their deaths. A concession.
Windy had called me on my day off. Afterward, I arranged to meet Alex for lunch. I wanted to tell him that we had an inside track for some of the Polaris artifacts, but I saw right away that he was distracted. “You okay?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”
He listened while I explained what the deal was, and he nodded and looked pleased. “When do we get to see them?”
“She’s making an inventory available. Visuals. So we can look at them at our leisure.”
“Good,” he said. “I have something else.”
“I thought you might.”
We were in Babco’s, on the Mall. Out back, in the courtyard, overlooking the Crystal Fountain. It was supposed to be a mystical place. If you’d lost your one true love, you tossed in a few coins, concentrated, and he would come back into your life. Assuming you wanted him to.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that Rainbow could expand into a new field. Something no one’s ever done before.”
“And what might that be?”
“Radioarcheology.”
“What’s radioarcheology?” I asked.
“We deal in antiquities. We collect, trade, and sell all kinds of dishware, pottery, electronic equipment. You name it.”
“Right,” I said.
He looked at me, and his eyes glowed. “Chase, what is an antiquity?”
“Okay. I’ll play your game. It’s an object that has an identifiable history. From a remote period.”
“Isn’t that redundant?”
“Well, maybe. What else did you want to know?”
“You said object. Are you implying that an antiquity has to be physical, in the sense of something you can hold in your hands?”
“Only the ones that lend themselves to selling.” Traditions, stories, customs were all antiquities of a sort.
“Has to be physical for us to sell it?” he said.
“Of course.”
“I’m not so sure. I think we’ve been missing something.”
“How do you mean?”
Sandwiches and drinks showed up.
“What about transmissions?” I must have looked baffled. He smiled. “We already use radio broadcasts to locate things. That’s the way we found the Halvorsen.”
The Halvorsen was a corporate yacht whose captain and passengers had died back at the turn of the century when the ship was fried by a gamma ray burst. We’d found and tracked their Code White. It was a quarter century old by the time we ran it down. It was the last transmission, but it gave us a vector. It wasn’t much, but it turned out to be enough. We tracked it back, calculated for drift, and there was the Halvorsen. Okay, it wasn’t quite that easy, but it worked.
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“I’m not talking about using transmissions to find things,” he continued. “I mean collecting them for their own value.”
I took a bite from my sandwich. It was cheese and tomato. “Explain,” I said.
He was delighted to oblige. Nothing made Alex happier than enlightening the slow-witted. “Six hundred years ago, when the Brok terrorists were trying to bring down Kormindel, and it looked as if the entire population was on the edge of panic, Charles Delacort broadcast his famous appeal for courage. ‘More than our lives are at stake, my friends. It is our future through which these lunatics wish to drive a stake. We must hold fast, for ourselves, for our children, and for everyone who follows after. Generations unborn will remember that we took a stand.’ Remember?”
“Well, I don’t exactly remember, but I know about it, sure.” At the critical moment, Delacort rallied the nation. Today, every schoolkid is familiar with the appeal. “I’m still not following.”
“It’s lost, Chase. The appeal. We don’t have it anymore. We know what he said, but we don’t have the actual broadcast. But it’s out there somewhere. We know approximately when it happened, so we know where it can be found. What stops us from going out, tracking it down, recording it, and bringing it back? Intact. All we have to do is get in front of it, and we can recapture one of our great moments. What do you think such a recording would be worth?”
A couple of quegs flapped past, landed in a tree, and turned their attention to the fountain. Someone had thrown bread into it. Quegs are not shy. They sat for a minute or so, then launched themselves, flew over our heads, splashed down, and began feeding.
“It’s a nice idea, Alex, but a broadcast doesn’t last that long. Not nearly. There’s nothing out there to recover except a few stray electrons.”
“I’ve done some research,” he said.
“And?”
“The Delacort Address was forwarded to several off-world sites. That means directed transmissions. Not broadcasts. Add the kind of power they used during that era, and the transmissions might still be recoverable.”
“Is there a way to pin down the transmission vectors?” Worlds and bases move around a good bit.
“We have the logs,” he said. “We know exactly when the transmissions were made. So yes, it should be possible to work out the direction.”
Polaris Page 5
