Polaris

by Jack McDevitt

  I hesitated. “I’m not sure I want to socialize with this guy,” I said.

  Alex was on his feet, straightening his jacket. “You don’t have to be nice to him, love,” he said. “He’s not going to be interested in us.”

  Windy stood by the doorway. “I understand how you feel, Chase. I’m sorry. I’d have warned you, but they swore us to secrecy. There are too many people around who’d like to kill him. The Mazha.” Through her windows, I could see a pair of skimmers coming down onto the grounds. “But I’d be grateful if you came. You’ll brighten the place up.” She smiled. “And how often do you get to meet a bona fide dictator?”

  “That’s a point.” I glanced at Alex.

  “It’s all in the interests of diplomacy and science,” he said, pushing me gently before him.

  FOUr

  Everyone should have an opportunity to party with a tyrant. Inevitably, he dances well.

  —Tasker LaVrie

  The artifacts were in the auditorium on the ground floor of Proctor Union, one level down from the director’s suite. Proctor Union is a large, rambling structure, part administrative offices, part museum, part conference center. It was located beyond the western loop of the Long Pool, which was actually an elongated figure eight, the infinity symbol.

  Ordinarily we could have descended from Windy’s office and gone directly through a connecting corridor, under the waterway, but everything was closed off as a security measure. So we bundled up and went out through the front door. Windy led the way. The night was damp and blustery, and the moon was a luminous blur in a churning sky. The people loose on the grounds had their heads bent and were hurrying along. No casual strollers that night.

  We crossed the Long Pool on one of its several bridges. There was no sign of the quocks, which usually flocked there at this time of year.

  Windy pulled her coat tightly around her. “A lot of VIPs will be here,” she said. She began rattling off names and titles. Senators and judges, CEOs, and lawyers. “The movers and shakers of this town.” Meaning, of course, since Andiquar was the world capital, movers and shakers on a very large scale. “When they heard the Mazha was coming, they all wanted to join the party.”

  These were the same people who’d be attacking him and talking about morality on the talk shows the next day. I didn’t say anything. Just kept walking.

  “There won’t be a large crowd, though,” Windy continued. “The invitations went out at the last minute.”

  “Security again?” asked Alex.

  “Yes. His guards don’t like long-range plans.”

  “I guess not.”

  Proctor Union was the administrative center of the complex, designed with a swept-back, ready-to-launch appearance. Rooftops rolled away in several directions, but all were angled to give the impression that the structure was aimed at the far side of the Narakobo. The river itself, visible through a line of trees, was dark and brooding. There was something unsettling about that night, some whisper of approaching catastrophe that was getting mixed up with the elements.

  Two of the Mazha’s security guards were standing silent and watchful outside the front entrance. You couldn’t have mistaken them for anything else. Their clothes weren’t quite right, although they must have been trying to blend in. But a thug is a thug. Their eyes swept across us, and one whispered into a bracelet. Perfunctory smiles appeared as we approached, and somewhere in the strained silence we identified ourselves and received permission to proceed.

  “I don’t guess,” said Alex, keeping his voice low, “they think we’re very dangerous.”

  “You were preapproved,” Windy said. We climbed the twelve marble steps onto the portico.

  Doors opened, and we went into the lobby. We got rid of our wraps, turned into the main corridor, and saw that the event had already spilled out into the passageway. A couple of guests saw us, saw Windy, and came over to say hello. Windy did introductions, and we traded small talk before moving on.

  “I am surprised,” said Alex, “that he’d be here, of all places. Doesn’t a facility dedicated to science compromise his religious position?”

  “I think it’s just a role he plays,” she said, “for the folks back home. He couldn’t be that stupid and hold on to power.”

  A couple of people who I assumed belonged to Windy’s office were recording everything. “But they’ll see all this,” I said.

  “There’ll be a different story in Korrim Mas. The faithful will hear how he came to stand up to the infidels.” She laughed. “Mustn’t take these things too seriously, Chase.”

  Blue-and-gold bunting decorated the walls. “His national colors?” asked Alex.

  “Yes.”

  We turned through a set of double doors into the reception room. There were maybe thirty people inside, glasses in hand, enjoying the evening. I recognized a couple of senators, and the executive science advisor, and several academics. And, of course, Dr. Louis Ponzio.

  He broke away from the group he was with and came over, letting us see how pleased he was that we’d arrived. “Alex,” he said, offering his hand, “good to have you on board for the occasion. Did Windy tell you about our guest?”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him,” said Alex.

  He obviously couldn’t remember who I was, although he pretended to. Windy reminded him as surreptitiously as she could. “His Excellency is especially anxious to meet you both,” he said.

  I didn’t know about Alex, but I was pretty sure I’d feel just as happy if His Excellency had no clue who I was. Or where I could be reached. “Why is that?” Alex asked.

  “He approves of the work you’ve done. You shook the historical establishment to its roots a few years ago. You provided him with ammunition.”

  Alex frowned. “Forgive me, Dr. Ponzio, but I’m lost. Ammunition to do what?”

  “To demonstrate to his countrymen that acquired knowledge is a slippery thing. That one can never be too sure of what the facts really are. It fits in with his position that they are best off if they simply rely on the sacred scriptures. And on him.” He must have seen how Alex was taking all this because he laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s all right, Alex. Had it not been you, it would have been someone else. Eventually the truth would have come out. You can’t hide things forever, you know.” A brunette in green and white raised her hand slightly, caught Ponzio’s eye, and nodded. “He’s here,” the director said. Immediately, the noise in the room subsided, and people moved toward the walls and faced the entrance.

  We heard doors open and close. Then voices filled the corridor. And laughter.

  The Mazha swept into the room like a tidal wave. Three or four aides and a couple of security people accompanied him. The other guests fell back, regrouped, and finally moved tentatively forward. Dr. Ponzio was, as far as I could tell, the only person there who stood his ground. He offered a polite smile and a bow to the dictator. “Your Excellency,” he said, “it’s an honor to meet you. We’re delighted to have you with us this evening.”

  I’d seen his picture, of course. But pictures don’t always prepare you for the real thing. I was expecting him to look like Dracula. But it didn’t turn out that way.

  He was shorter than I’d expected. Not quite average height. Black hair, clean-shaven. He looked a little heavier in person. He wore a white jacket and dark gray slacks. Medals and ribbons clung to the jacket, and a red sash was folded over his right shoulder.

  He returned the director’s bow, said something I couldn’t hear, and offered a hand. Ponzio clasped it with great respect and let go quickly.

  Celebrity gets you forgiven for anything. Here was a guy with blood on his hands, whole tubs of it, and he was being welcomed like somebody who’d just made a major medical contribution.

  His propaganda machine always claimed that his victims were killers and rebels who wanted to destabilize Korrim Mas. Or the Faith. That they were the worst kind of miscreants. That they were extremely dangerous, and that th
ey thought nothing, if given the opportunity, of shedding innocent blood. The Mazha had no choice but to send them, however reluctantly, to the Almighty. It might have been less cruel to use mind-wipe technology, but there was a religious prohibition against that.

  After a while, he advanced on us, turned to me, mentally licked his lips, and took my hand. I could see that he knew precisely what I was thinking and that he didn’t care. He had the gaze of a sixty-volt laser. “Ms. Kolpath,” he said, bowing slightly. “It is always a pleasure to meet one so beautiful. And talented. I understand you are a pilot.” He actually sounded sincere. And damned if the son of a bitch couldn’t make himself likable.

  Already he knew more about me than Dr. Ponzio did. “Yes,” I said, trying not to wilt under the attention, trying not to say it was really nothing, anybody could pilot a superluminal. There was something about this guy that made you want to abase yourself. “I’m responsible for the Belle-Marie, Rainbow’s corporate vessel.”

  He nodded. His next comment was directed at Alex, but he kept me squarely in his sights. “Lost in the sky with one so lovely,” he said. “It takes the breath away.” He considered the sheer rapture of it all. “And I must say,” he continued, “that it is an honor to meet the man who wrung the truth from the stars.” So help me, that’s exactly what he said. “. . . Wrung the truth from the stars.” And if you’re thinking none of this sounds much like Dracula, I’d agree. He wasn’t tall. Wasn’t overbearing. Wasn’t quietly sinister. None of the stuff you normally associate with intimidation. And he wasn’t intimidating. I kept thinking he seemed like the sort of guy you’d want to have over for dinner. “I understand,” he said, with a bare trace of an accent, “that you have recently scored still another coup.” Someone put a glass of wine in his hand.

  “The Shenji outstation,” Alex said. “You are quite well informed.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Would that it were so.” He raised the glass. “To the outstation. And to the man who engineered its recovery.” He barely sipped the wine, held it out without taking his eyes from Alex, and let go of it. An aide was on the spot, made the save, and handed it off to someone else. “We are indebted to you, Mr. Benedict.”

  “Thank you, Excellency.”

  My pulse was up, and I was thinking that being lost in the sky with this guy would not be the way I wanted to spend a weekend. And yet—

  “I would have preferred,” said the Mazha, still looking at Alex, but speaking to me, “that we might have the opportunity to spend some time together. Unfortunately, at the moment I have obligations.”

  “Of course,” said Alex, who saw exactly what was going on and made points with me by not volunteering anything.

  Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit flustered by all the attention. I found myself imagining how it would feel to be in his arms, on a moonlit balcony overlooking the sea. To make the situation complete, Windy looked annoyed. I had the feeling she was staring straight into my head.

  “Perhaps, Alex, you might find your way clear to visit me in the Kaballahs.” The chain of mountains that was home to Korrim Mas. “And when you do I hope you will bring your beautiful associate with you.” His eyes found me again.

  “Yes,” Alex was saying. I suspected he was having a hard time suppressing a smile. But he looked absolutely correct. “I’d like very much to do that when occasion permits.” And, to me: “Wouldn’t we, Chase?”

  I was standing there like a dummy, wondering why I’d been running around with Harry Lattimore. But that’s another story. “Yes,” I said, with more enthusiasm than I’d intended.

  “Good.” The Mazha turned to an aide. “That’s settled then. Moka, get contact information.”

  And he was gone, headed toward a group of politicians, which opened to receive him. Moka, who was a giant, collected Alex’s code, smiled politely, and rejoined the dictator.

  I should mention that, although I can hold my own with other women, nobody’s going to mistake me for a former beauty queen. Nevertheless, during the next few minutes, those eyes rotated back to me several times. Reflexively, despite everything, I returned a smile. Couldn’t help it. Alex watched the byplay and made no effort to conceal his amusement. “Caught your heart, has he?” he asked.

  The Mazha seemed right at home. Whatever else he might have been, he was a consummate politician. He had a broad, warm smile for everyone. If I’d met this guy on the street, my first impression would have been that he was a thoroughgoing charmer, in the best sense of the word. Since that night, I’ve never entirely trusted my judgment.

  Meantime we circulated. There was much shaking of hands and a flood of introductions. Let me present the commissioner of the waterworks. And this is Secretary Hoffmann. And Professor Escalario, who did the dark matter work last year. Jean Warburton, who’s special aide to the chief councillor. Dr. Hoffmann, the official record holder as the person who has traveled farthest from the Confederate worlds.

  Windy took us aside before we went into the exhibition room. “Alex,” she said, “the Mazha will probably be buying some of the artifacts, too.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “You’re kidding? All this political clout walking around, and you’re not letting them in the door?”

  “The media will be at the auction tomorrow.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t think anybody here, other than you and probably the Mazha, really cares about the artifacts themselves. What they want is to get their pictures taken during the bidding, contributing money to a popular cause, then probably giving the item itself to a museum back home. We told them there’ll be lots of press coverage tomorrow. That’s what they want.”

  “That surprises me.”

  “They’re all political critters, Alex. One way or another.”

  The Mazha had an appetite for liquor, and he loved a good laugh. You could hear him throughout the hour or so that we wandered around the reception room and the lobby, chuckling, unrestrained, his eyes illuminated. I began to suspect I’d get an invitation before the evening was over. His security detail strolled about with glasses in their hands, but I don’t think they were drinking anything hard.

  Then, with a bit of fanfare, Windy’s people got everyone’s attention and opened the doors to the exhibition hall. We looked in at a series of long tables supporting hundreds of Polaris items, articles of clothing, pressure suits, cups, glasses, spoons, boots, and an array of electronic devices. There were a chess set, game pieces, playing cards (with the ship’s insignia embossed on their backs), and even a crystal containing musical recordings made by Tom Dunninger. (A data card stated that Dunninger had been an accomplished musician.) Most of the items were sealed inside display cases, each accompanied by an inventory number.

  The walls were hung with banners portraying Maddy English and her passengers. There was Nancy White tromping through a jungle somewhere, and Warren Mendoza bent over a sick child. Martin Klassner sat beside a sketch of a galaxy. Garth Urquhart talked with journalists on the steps of the capitol. Chek Boland was done in silhouette, apparently deep in contemplation. Maddy was in full uniform, gazing serenely out across the room. Finally, Tom Dunninger, in a print of the famous painting by Ormond, standing in a graveyard at night.

  The Mazha, leading the way, paused to take it all in. Then he glanced back at Alex. Obviously, he’d been briefed about who else was enjoying the benefits of the preauction special.

  Once in the room, he turned his attention exclusively to the items on display. Other people, for the most part, laughed and talked in his wake, paying little attention as they filed past the tables. But he walked slowly, absorbing everything that lay around him. Occasionally he spoke to an elderly aide, who nodded and, I thought, recorded his comment. Or perhaps the catalog number.

  Some of the items were imprinted with names. A light gray shirt was marked with the initials M.K., and a carryall wore a metal tag reading WHITE. The ship’s jumpsuits were dark blue, with Polaris shoulder patch
es. Each patch contained the ship’s registry, CSS 117, and its logo, a single star set above an arrowhead. Three of them were available, with the names Warren, Garth, and English stenciled in white letters above the right-hand breast pocket. The captain’s own jumpsuit. “What do you think?” Alex asked me.

  “It’s just the thing,” I said, mentally checking off a client. “Ida would be thrilled.”

  He signaled Windy. She complimented him on his taste, used her card to open the display case, and removed the jumpsuit. She handed it to a young man standing nearby. He placed it in a container, and we moved on.

  The Mazha signaled that he would take Urquhart’s suit. “The ship’s emblem is clever,” he said to no one in particular. When one of the politicians trailing in his wake asked him to explain, he looked surprised. “Polaris was Earth’s north star at the beginning of the age of expansion, Manny,” he said. “Thus the lone star. And, of course, the compass needle started out as a metal bar and gradually morphed into an arrow.”

  So much for religious fervor.

  There was a jacket with a pocket patch reading DUNNINGER, a comm link with Boland’s initials, and a paper notebook with Garth Urquhart’s name on the brown leather cover.

  Several pressure suits had been hung near the wall. One of them read CAPTAIN across the left breast. Madeleine’s gear again. Maddy, as she was known. A certified interstellar captain, single, beautiful, everything to live for. Where had she gone?

  Alex was studying a gold chain bracelet with NANCY engraved on the connecting plate. “How much?” he asked Windy. She consulted her inventory. Enough to buy a good-sized yacht. He turned to me. “For Harold,” he said. “What do you think?”

  Harold was one of Rainbow’s charter clients. He’d become a friend over the years. He was a good guy, but his tastes were limited. He liked things that sparkled, things he could show off, but he had no real sense of historical value. “It’s lovely,” I said. “But I think you could make him happy for a lot less.”