Polaris

by Jack McDevitt

  He looked directly at me, as if it were my responsibility to look after Alex.

  Alex, without hesitation, said, “Absolutely.” Something in his voice implied that, had I not been along, he’d have gone to the police forthwith. He even looked over at me as if suggesting that Fenn knew very well how it had happened.

  “Did you get their number?” the inspector asked.

  “We have the Thunderbolt.”

  “But not the Venture?”

  “It happened too fast.”

  More disapproval. “Okay, let’s see who the Thunderbolt belongs to.”

  When he got back to us, late that afternoon, he was frowning. “It was leased,” he said.

  “By whom?” Alex asked.

  He was looking at a data card. “According to this, by you, Chase.”

  “Me?”

  “That your address?” He showed me the document.

  I don’t have to tell you it was unsettling that these people knew where I lived. That during the entire conversation at Ida’s place, Kiernan had known exactly who I was.

  “We talked to the leasing agency. It was picked up three days ago. The description of the lessee fits your boy Kiernan. But he had identification that said he was Chase Kolpath.” He settled back into a frown.

  “Maybe,” said Alex, “you should switch to a gender-specific name. Lola would be nice.”

  “It’s not funny, champ.”

  “Anyhow, we’re working on it. I’ll let you know when we find him.” He took a notebook out of his pocket and studied it. “It looks as if they used an industrial beamer on you. Took the pods off, and part of the right wing. You’re lucky to be here. One of the other drivers saw it all. She didn’t get the hull number either. But you were right about the woman driver. Young, apparently. Black hair.”

  “You’ll want to check with the leasing agencies,” Alex said.

  “Good idea. I’d never have thought of doing that myself.” Alex mumbled an apology, and Fenn continued. “I don’t think it’ll take long before we get a handle on this.”

  “Good.”

  “You say you got this guy’s DNA on a jumpsuit?”

  “It went down with the skimmer,” I said.

  “Was it bagged? The water’s not that deep at the crash site. We can send the diver back down.”

  Alex shook his head. “We didn’t seal the bag,” he said.

  He was back next morning. “Good news. We got both fingerprints and DNA off the front door at the Patrick estate. Kiernan’s real name, we think, is Joshua Bellingham. Name mean anything to you?”

  Alex glanced at me, and I shook my head no. “We never heard of him,” he said.

  Fenn checked his notebook. “Bellingham was an administrative officer at ABS, Allied BioSolutions, which manufactures medical supplies. People there say he’s a hard worker, good at his job, never in trouble. Nobody knows much about his social life, and he doesn’t seem to have a family.

  “He’s lived in the area for just under five years. Has no criminal record, at least not as Joshua Bellingham.”

  “You say you think that’s his real name?”

  “Well, it’s an odd business. Prior to the time he arrived at ABS, Bellingham doesn’t seem to have existed. There’s no record of his birth. No ID number. We checked the employment application he filled out for the job. The work history is fabricated. They never heard of him at the places he claimed were former employers.”

  “So ABS never checked them?”

  “No. Employers usually don’t bother. Most companies do a personality scan. Tells them if you’re really reliable. If you know what you’re talking about. They don’t need much more than that.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?”

  “We’d like very much to talk to him. So far, we don’t know that he’s broken any laws. But, for the moment, he’s missing. Hasn’t reported for work since the day you saw him. Hasn’t called in.”

  “He’s not at home, either?”

  “He lives on a small yacht. The yacht’s gone.”

  “So who is he really?” That should have been an easy question to answer. Everyone was in the data banks.

  “Don’t know, Alex. He might be from Upper Pisspot or some such place. There are a few countries that don’t subscribe to the registry. Or he might be an off-worlder. But we’ve got his picture on the hot board, so as soon as he walks in front of one of the bots, or gets spotted by a patrol, or by an alert citizen, we’ll be in business.” Which I suspect translated to as soon as he walked into police central and gave himself up.

  Despite his casual manner with Fenn, Alex had been visibly shaken by the incident. I guess I was, too. When somebody tries to kill you, you tend to take it personally, and it changes your perspective on a lot of things. He returned to his old work habits, which is to say he was out enjoying the night life with the clientele when he wasn’t wandering around in the greenhouse. But he was quieter than usual, more subdued, almost somber. We didn’t talk about it much, probably because neither of us wanted to reveal the degree to which we were bothered by the experience and by the probability that there was still a threat out there. He spent a lot of time looking out windows. Fenn installed something he called an early-warning system at both my apartment and at the country house. It was just a black box with its own power unit that he tied into the AI’s. It would monitor all visitors, block doors, disable intruders, notify police, shriek, and generally raise hell if anybody tried anything. It was probably the end of privacy. But I was willing to make the trade to sleep peacefully.

  The day after the black boxes were installed, Fenn called again to report that they’d tried to locate Gina Flambeau, the woman who’d visited Diane Gold to present her with her award, apparently for the sole purpose of inspecting Maddy’s etui. “There’s no such person,” he said. “At least, not one who fits the description.”

  “Did you try for a DNA sample?” Alex asked. “She handled the etui.”

  “You mean the little jewel box?”

  “Yes.”

  “Half the people in the village have handled it.”

  Every time I thought about Marcus Kiernan, I got an echo from the convention.

  The people who belong to the Polaris Society refer to themselves as Polarites. That’s not an entirely serious appellation, of course. But it fits the mood of things. The head Polarite was a woman from Lark City whom I couldn’t reach. Out of town. Doesn’t take a link with her. Doesn’t care to be disturbed, thank you very much.

  The number two Polarite was an electrical engineer from Ridley, which is about ninety kilometers down the coast. I called him and watched his image gradually take shape along with a burst of starlight. I’m always a bit suspicious of people who use special effects in their communications. You talk to somebody, it should be a conversation, not showbiz. He had narrow eyes, wore a black beach jacket, looked generally bored. Better things to do than talk with you, lady. “What can I do for you, Ms. Kolpath?” he asked. He was seated in a courtyard in one of those nondescript polished tan chairs that show up on front decks everywhere these days. A steaming drink stood on a table beside him.

  I explained that I’d been to the convention, that I’d enjoyed it, and that I was doing research for a book on the Society and its contribution to keeping the Polaris story alive. “I wonder,” I said, “if an archive of this year’s meeting is available?”

  His demeanor softened. “Have you actually published anything?”

  “I’ve done several,” I said. “My last was a study of the Mazha.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said.

  “The title is The Sword of Faith.”

  “I’ve seen it,” he said solemnly.

  “It’s been well received,” I said. “Now, I was wondering whether you have an archive I could look at?”

  “We always put one together for the board.” He had a raspy, high-pitched voice. The kind you associate with somebody who yells at kids a lot. “It helps with planning next year’
s event. Did you just want to see the one from this year? We have them going back to the beginning of the century.”

  “At the moment, I only need the current one.”

  “Okay. I can take care of it.” Delivered with a sip of his brew.

  A few minutes later I was fast-forwarding my way through the convention. I skipped the stuff I hadn’t seen during my original visit. I dropped in on the alien wind panel again. Saw myself. Moved on to the Toxicon kidnap plot. Watched the man who’d been on board the Polaris after it became the Sheila Clermo. And there he was! Kiernan was sitting six rows to my rear on the left. Almost directly behind me. But I couldn’t recall having noticed him back there. I associated him strongly with the convention, but there was a different version of him at the back of my mind.

  Alex asked me to get Tab Everson on the circuit. Everson was the man who’d reduced the artifacts to ashes and put them in solar orbit. “What do we want to talk to him about?”

  “The Polaris,” he said. “I think he’ll be receptive.”

  He was right. Everson’s AI at Morton College put me through to a private secretary, a gray-haired, efficient-looking woman. I identified myself and explained why I’d called. She smiled politely and asked me to wait. Moments later she was back. “Mr. Everson is busy at the moment. May I have him return your call?”

  “Of course.”

  Alex told me that when the call came, he wanted me to sit in, using an offstage chair. Everson would not know I was there. An hour later he was on the circuit.

  Tab Everson was president of a food distribution firm, although his primary interest seemed to be Morton College. The data banks put his age at thirty-three, but he looked ten years younger. He was casually dressed, white shirt, blue slacks, and a checkered neckerchief. A windbreaker embossed with the name of the college hung on the back of a door. His office was filled with mementoes from the school—awards, certificates, pictures of students playing chess and participating in seminars and standing behind lecterns. He was a bit more than average height, with black hair and piercing gray eyes. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Benedict,” he said. He was seated in an armchair framed by a picture window. Outside, I could see a hilltop and some trees. “It’s a pleasure.”

  Alex had taken the call in the living room, as was his custom when representing the corporation. He returned the greeting. “You may know I’m an antiquities dealer,” he said.

  Everson knew. “Oh, I think you’re a great deal more than an antiquities dealer, Mr. Benedict. Your reputation as an historian precedes you.” Well, that was a bit much. But Alex accepted the compliment gracefully, and Everson crossed one leg over the other. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  There was a maturity about this guy that belied his age. He leaned forward slightly, conveying the impression he would be intrigued with whatever Alex was about to say. Yet he managed to signal that time was a factor and that a long interview was not in the cards. Say what you have to say, Benedict, and stop taking my time. I had the feeling he knew why we were there. Which put him a step ahead of me.

  “I was struck by your disposition of the Polaris artifacts,” said Alex.

  “Thank you, but it was the least I could do.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a compliment. It must have occurred to you that, even in their condition after the explosion, they might have retained some value to historians. Or investigators.”

  Everson let us see he had no sympathy with that view. “I really can’t imagine what an historian might have hoped to find among them. And the debris would not have engaged any collector’s interest. Not in the condition it was in. Did you by any chance see what was left of the artifacts? After the bombing?”

  “No. I did not.”

  “If you had, Mr. Benedict, you’d not need to raise the issue. By the way, I understand you were there that night.”

  “Yes. It wasn’t a pleasant evening.”

  “I would think not. I hope you weren’t injured.”

  “No. I came away fine, thank you.”

  “Excellent. These madmen.” He shook his head. “But they did eventually get the thugs, didn’t they? Or did they?” He allowed himself to look momentarily puzzled. “I don’t know what’s happening to the world.” He got up from the chair. Well, terribly sorry. Have to get back to work. “Was there anything else?”

  Alex refused to be hurried. “You obviously have had some experience with antiquities.”

  “Well, in my own small way, perhaps.”

  “Anyone who deals with them learns quickly the value of anything that links us to the past.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you explain, then, why you—?”

  “—Why I reduced everything to ashes before releasing it into orbit? In fact, you’re asking the same question again, Mr. Benedict, and I will answer it the same way. It was out of respect. I’m sorry, but that will have to suffice. It is the only reason I have.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, perhaps I may ask you a question?”

  “By all means.”

  “What is it you really want to know?”

  Alex’s face hardened. “I think the bombs at Survey were aimed at the exhibition, not the Mazha.”

  “Oh, surely that can’t be—”

  “A few nights ago, there was an attempt to kill me and an associate.”

  He nodded. “I’m truly sorry to hear it. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  Whatever else he might have been, he wasn’t a good actor. He was hiding something. At the very least, prior knowledge of the attempt on our lives.

  “I think there’s something in the exhibition that somebody finds threatening.”

  “Sufficiently threatening to kill for?”

  “Apparently.”

  He looked shocked. Then insulted. “And you think—”

  “—I think you know what it is.”

  He laughed. “Mr. Benedict, I’m sorry you feel that way. But I have no idea what you mean. None whatever.” He cleared his throat. Departure imminent. “I wish I could help. But unfortunately I can’t. Meantime, if you really believe I’d do something like that, I suggest you go to the authorities. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to work.”

  “Why did we do that?” I asked.

  “This guy is part of it, Chase. I wanted him to know we understand that. It lets him know that if anything happens to us, somebody will be around to ask more questions.”

  “Oh, well, that’s good. It could go the other way, too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They dumped us in the sea to stop us from following Kiernan home. But if you’re right, you may have persuaded Everson that we’re getting too close to whatever it is they’re hiding and that they have no choice but to get rid of us. And do it right this time.”

  That possibility seemed not to have occurred to him. “He wouldn’t be that foolish, Chase.”

  “I hope not. But the next time we decide to do something that puts both our lives on the line, let’s talk about it first.”

  “Okay.” He looked sheepish. “You’re right.”

  “You really have no doubt about it, do you? That Everson’s involved?”

  “None.” He headed for the coffee. “I’ve been in touch with Soon, with Harold, with Vlad. Nobody’s been to visit them. No one’s interested in the stuff they have.”

  “The plaque, the Bible, and the bracelet.”

  He gave me his victory smile. “Am I right?”

  “None of them have places where you could hide anything.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Except maybe the Bible.”

  “You can stash a piece of paper in the Bible. Other than that, it doesn’t work very well.”

  “So it’s not a note. Not a message.”

  “Not a note, anyhow.”

  “Whatever it was, it probably got blown up,” I said. “Ninety-nine percent of the artifacts got taken out by the blast.”

  We wandered
out onto the deck, which was heated and enclosed. The wind blew steadily against the glass. “Not necessarily,” he said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They would have searched the debris before they burned it. They didn’t find what they were looking for.”

  “If that’s the case, why did they burn everything?”

  “Call it an abundance of caution. But I think we can assume that, whatever it is, it’s still out there.”

  Maddy’s jacket and the ship’s glass remained in the office. I got up and walked over to them. The Polaris seal, the star and the arrowhead, seemed almost prophetic, somehow to predict the destruction of Delta Karpis by the superdense projectile that had lanced into its heart, that had shattered it and charged on.

  Next day, we heard from Fenn again. He looked tired. I remembered his telling me once that police officers were like doctors: They shouldn’t work on cases in which they had a personal interest. “I need to speak with Alex,” he said.

  I hadn’t seen him all morning, but I knew he was in the house. The Polaris business was beginning to weigh on him. I was pretty sure he was sitting up half the night trying to construct a workable explanation.

  The problem was that he was letting the company slide. He was doing the social stuff okay, but he also was responsible to scan the markets to see what was available, what might be coming on-line, what was worth our time. I couldn’t do that. I didn’t have the background. Or his instincts. My job was communicating with the clients on administrative details and keeping them happy. But without Alex bringing stuff on board our bottom line was beginning to look vulnerable.

  Jacob told me he was out back. “Tell him Fenn’s on the line.”

  Minutes later he wandered into the office. “You look exhausted,” the inspector told him.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You look pretty sharp yourself.”

  “I mean it. Chase, you need to take better care of him.”

  “What can I do for you, Fenn?”

  “We know who was driving the Venture.”

  Alex came to life. “Good man. Who is the bitch?”

  “Gina Flambeau.”