"I never did. I even did a DNA-prevent notice to HPlus, warning them that there was no consent to the use of my genetic material."
"I remember that. Nothing came of it."
"They acknowledged it. No more." I'd worried for a while, but there was nothing else I could do beyond what I had done. Besides, what point would there have been to stealing my DNA? I was really no one, if a moderately successful no one, and there weren't any single truly outstanding genetic traits in my background. I had the feeling that some of my DNA was probably being used in someone's clandestine cloning or cydroid development projects, but it was the sort of thing that I'd never discover.
"I still find it amusing. It's such a contrast to you and what you do. I don't know how you do it. Day after day, trying to find out how to get an extra percentage point in the placement of something that's either unnecessary or unnecessarily expensive."
"We all can't rebuild the world," I replied with a laugh.
"What happened to the man who was going to become commandant of the NorAm Marines? The youngest lieutenant colonel in years?"
"It might have been the Liberian police action. Or it could have been the Reconstitution of Guyana."
"That was the one—"
I nodded curtly. I still didn't like talking about Guyana. Flashbacks were enough. "That was when I decided that trying to be an idealist was in great conflict with survival." Not so much physical survival, either.
"That's always the case when politics gets into the picture." He shook his head. "I can't say I like what's happening."
"There's always trouble." That was something I'd been forced to learn. That, and the fact there wasn't a damned thing I could ever do about it, because of politics and the stupidity of the people who elected the politicians. "How is it any worse now?"
"The Martian situation. They're going to declare independence, and the PAMD will do worse than they did to Everett if the earth govs don't agree. The big multis don't want that. They like that protected Martian market, and they don't see that their gouging the Martians is a good part of the push for secession. Then, there's the instability in Afrique. Add to that the growing conflict between the NorAm multis and those in the Sinoplex. This latest cydroid thing is just the tip of the plume."
"Cydroid thing?"
"Two unregistered and unidentified cydroids have been found here in Denv. They had high-level microtronic tapping gear. No DNA matches or other source codes have been found, and the safos—and DomSec—are keeping that part of it very tight."
"That doesn't make sense." It didn't, because anyone that sophisticated wouldn't have the cydroids caught.
"It does ... if you're delivering a warning," Dierk pointed out.
"We've let our cydroids get discovered, and you don't even know where they've been and what they've done?"
"Exactly."
"But who?"
"I'm guessing the Sinoplex multis. They're tired of the heavy-handed NorAm tactics. But it could be a PST ploy or something subterranean from someone in MultiCor, like AVia."
"They don't want to lose their monopoly on somatin—"
"Or any other of their expensive pharmaceuticals. Or Sante doesn't want competing biogen hydrocarbons." Dierk offered a tight smile. "But... we won't solve it in here, and you've given up crusades. Anyway ... Aliora will be here any moment to tell us to get out and mix."
I smothered a laugh as Aliora reappeared.
"Dierk ... I need to introduce Jonat to Narissa."
Dierk winked at me. "She's not his type."
"You just think she's not. You didn't think I was your type, either," Aliora replied.
"You're not," Dierk replied amiably. "That's why I love you."
For a moment, they smiled. I envied them both.
Aliora bounced as she escorted me from the study out onto the rear veranda. Actually, she glided, but she had so much energy I felt as though she bounced. Dierk had mentioned a PST ploy, but I didn't even know what he was talking about, except that it involved the Pan-Social Trust.
"Come on, Jonat." Aliora turned toward the fountain on the terrace overlooking the swan pond. A one end, a stocky man was talking to two women. All had wine goblets in their hands.
"Narissa!"
The willowy blonde turned, exhibiting a dazzling smile. Her hair, green eyes, and perfect figure had clearly been gene back-altered, like most of the prominent physical characteristics of offspring of first generation ascendents. "Aliora..." Her voice was a soft contralto that carried.
"I told you he'd be on time." Aliora straightened into a formal posture, a self-mocking stance, because she was seldom that formal. "Narissa Hareldsen, I'd like you to meet my brother Jonat deVrai. Jonat, this charming lady is Narissa Hareldsen." Aliora offered a deep and dramatic sigh. "Now! That's over. You two are on your own." With a mischievous grin, she turned and hurried back across the veranda.
Narissa laughed.
I said nothing for a long moment. What could I say, after Aliora's introduction? Silence was better than proving my lack of eloquence and charm.
"Ah ... the inscrutable Jonat," offered the man. "I'm Piet Castenada."
"The protection magnate."
"That's as good a description—or identity—as any," he returned. "Short and accurate. Unlike names, which are long or short, and inaccurate."
"Very inaccurate." I granted Castenada the point. Once, in the distant past, names had a link to identity, either through place names, personal characteristics, patronymics, or matranymics. Now ... they were just names, often without any link to identity. Then, what sort of links did a modern soul have to identity—assuming we had souls?
"Don't we become our names, in a way?" asked the other woman.
"Some people do, if they have unique enough names, and names without connotations or denotations," observed Castenada. "Names like Lysalya."
Lysalya flushed. I recognized her. She'd been a principal dancer for the NorAm Ballet.
"You made your name synonymous with dance," I said—lightly, I hoped.
" 'Made' is quite accurate," Lysalya replied dryly. "My dancing days are done."
"Aren't you still a dancer at heart?" asked Narissa.
"At heart... I suppose so, but I don't miss the hours of practice." Lysalya lifted her empty goblet and glanced at her husband. "I need a refill."
The couple slipped past us and back toward the corner of the veranda where a servie in formal servant's blacks presided over an old-fashioned bar. I almost could have passed for a servie, except for the green shirt—and my height.
"Aliora told me that you're an advocate in civil enforcement." I offered a grin. "Does that mean you're one who tracks down administrative offenders?"
"Me?" The advocate's smile was carefully self-deprecating. "In a way. I'm in the office of the Regional Advocate for Commerce. We look into abuses of the commercial code."
"Not communications, I hope?"
Narissa laughed so softly that I could barely hear her. "Communications law is most complex. Especially when you get into the litigation around proprietary rezchords."
"From what I've seen, these days all law is complex."
"It is, but it's not nearly so bad as the old American code, where there was an exception and an extenuation for everything. The Legislature still has the habit of trying to make everything fair, and not realizing that doing that makes everything less just, rather than more. Thank goodness the Justiciary follows the Symon Rule..."
"Keeping it simple? Except it's more complex than that." I laughed. "You must have some specialty."
"Commercial cartage, by any means ... lorry, maglev, heavy rail, air, water ... porter, oxcart..."
"Oxcart?"
"It's still in the statutes, but Afrique and Seasia are the only places where it's used enough to be considered." Her wide green eyes fixed on me. "Aliora refused to tell me anything except that you were a consultant with your own practice. What do you do?"
"Independent consulting. Tra
nsrational secondary regression analysis."
"What's that?"
"We all have filters, right? EmComm blocks. The better a filter's adjusted, the less obnoxious stuff comes through. No info to the producer that way." Even as I began, I wondered why I even bothered to explain. "Between links and entertainment, prodders want to stimulate demand. Some want to know how well they're doing. That's what I do—analyze the impact of comrez and prodplacing..."
"How can you do that?"
"In prelink, prefilter days, entertainment was two-D, and prodplacing interrupted the entertainment. They were called ads or adverts."
"People would actually listen to that?"
"People were lazy. Too much work to tune out—until personal filters came along. Then people screened out the ... adverts. Someone had to pay for the entertainment, and the midders didn't want to, not directly. So prodplacing was developed. Problem is—with all the variables involved— how does the prodder determine which placements work and how effective they are? RFID says who bought what, and the prodders do overalls from sales figures, but there's no track between the prodplacing and the results. Those kind of in-depth and detailed analyses are what I do."
"Oh..."
I could tell I'd almost lost her, and I tried to explain it quickly, about how I used my system to connect the link and entertainment prodplacements to the sales tracking accomplished by the RFID microchips—and why that connection was more important to certain prodders.
After a time, she gave me a quizzical look. "Wouldn't the RFID disablers foul all that up?"
"They bias the stats, that's true, but some ascendents won't disable the RFID microchips, especially if they've bought high-end, because they want the world to know. Most midders don't care, and lowers ... unless they're gangers, they've got other priorities besides buying a disabler."
Narissa nodded. "I don't disable my Zhanar suits. I want everyone to know they're Zhanar. Nor the Chiang outfits. Or a few others. I'm a hopeless climber." The green eyes took me in. "You disable everything, don't you?"
"Do I look like that?" I forced a grin.
"No. The most dangerous people are those who don't look that way."
"I'm not dangerous," I had to protest. "I'm an overworked consultant who's only here because my sister is generous."
"And I'm here because she's generous as well."
That had me in a box, because, much as I loved Aliora, generosity was never her sole motivation in anything, and it was clear Narissa knew that. "So we both owe her generosity?" I looked at her near-empty goblet. "Shall we find you a refill and me a first fill?"
She nodded.
It was going to be a moderately pleasant, but long, evening.
Chapter 8
The young man stepped into the small office. Around his left ankle, out of sight under the trouser leg of the orange coveralls, he wore a Central anklet. His features were regular, the kind the bio-safos would have called good-looking, even without persona amplification. He could not ever have afforded that. His teeth were even and white. With his dark eyes and black hair, he matched most closely the image of Jose Almado— before Almado had been psyched and exiled to the Belt, under the Employment and Trade Agreement.
Central Four's screens displayed a raven-haired woman in the trim safo grays, projected as sitting behind the oblong table. "You can sit down, Marlon."
"You not real. Friggin' virty. Wanna talk to real person. Even real safo." His lips drew in, as if he were about to spit.
"Don't spit. That counts against you."
"Wanna see a real safo."
"They don't have time for you, Marlon. If you want out of custody, sit down and listen!"
Slowly, the young man sat. "What you want? You Central?"
"Central Four. What do you want?"
"Want out. Wanna go home. Hang out."
"You can't do that. Your basic subsistence allowance has been stopped."
"No basic? Why's that?"
"You broke the law. You were convicted of assault and possession of caak."
"Caak ... no different than somatin, 'cept cheaper."
"It's an illegal substance. You were also convicted of aggravated assault."
"We was just showing him who was da boss. Can't let 'em diss you, cause they'll step you down..."
The projected safo said nothing.
"Can't let 'em..." After a silence, the young man swallowed. "That justicer ... he meant it? No basic? Got to get hooded... work? Be a servie? A friggin' servie?"
"You can be a servie for three years. Or you can accept exile and take whatever jobs might be available on Mars or in the Belt."
"Das it? Das all? Breathe vacuum or be servie?"
"Those are your choices. You have an aptitude for fashion, and there is a position that pays more than many servie positions."
"Fashion ... I gotta be ... sell dresses 'n stuff...?"
"Would you rather leave Earth?"
Marlon looked down. "Just... like for showing him who was boss? For that?"
"You broke three ribs and smashed his kneecap. He was twelve years old."
Chapter 9
Thursday night had been as long as I'd thought it would be. Narissa was intelligent enough, if not brilliant. She was attractive, and even if the beauty had been purchased, it was real. I'd found her only moderately interesting. I did make the effort, and so did she, and we parted on friendly terms. And who knew when I might need to know an advocate in civil enforcement?
Friday morning—after my run, workout, and exercises—found me in my office, surrounded by the morning light of a cloudless day, still puzzling over the Centre for Societal Research and the proposal I needed to finish. I'd hardly gotten started when the gatekeeper announced, Miguel Elisar, of Prius.
We'd been trading links all week. He'd never said what he wanted on any of his messages.
Accept.
Elisar's image appeared. If it happened to be accurate, he was blond, trim, and very dapper in advocate's blue pinstripes. "Jonat deVrai?"
"That's me. What can I do for you?"
"I'm the house counsel, the advocate for Prius..."
I hated people who explained what I already knew, especially people who did so condescendingly, when, if they'd thought about it, they would have realized that I had to know that a house counsel was an advocate. I smiled politely and waited.
"... and I understand that you had done several analyses for Prius fourteen months ago."
"That's correct. They were studies on the effectiveness of prodplacing in high-tech science nets." I offered a slight headshake. "I was probably too honest. The studies showed that the placement didn't track through, and that the technique wasn't cost-effective for Prius."
"Ah ... yes. That is what several executives recall. There is, however, a problem. Not with you, not with your work. Hamlin Hartson ... he was the one who asked for the studies, was he not?"
"He was."
"There have been difficulties, and the original copies of your work cannot be found. His subordinates have copies, but Dr. Hartson claims that their copies have been altered. They claim that his have been altered."
That was just wonderful. I'd have to provide copies, and possibly go through veradification in a legal proceeding, if it got to that. "I can provide copies of what I submitted. I assume you'd like them sent to you directly, by secure courier?"
"That should be more than adequate. If you would include your billing for time and expenses, as well, I'll see that you're recompensed." He pulsed the address codes.
"I'll also include my covering messages. They might prove helpful." More helpful than Elisar knew, because I'd summarized some of the problems laid out in detail in the studies.
"Thank you."
After he delinked, I sat there for a moment. There was a first time for everything, and that was the first time I'd been contacted directly by a former client's house advocate. It took an hour to gather and reprint and document everything, and then to put in a req
uest for the courier, and add my billing. So, that much later than I'd planned, I finally got back to the Centre project.
The Centre's published list of donors and institutional supporters suggested that Uy-Smythe and his predecessors had managed a relatively apolitical course. I recognized prominent PDs and equally well-known I.Rs. Most of the major NorAm philanthropic foundations had provided financial support.
The datacube Uy-Smythe had handed over was loaded with references and documentation, including historical sections illustrating political publicity and advertizing tie-ins, some of them going back a century or more. There were two segments at the end of the historical part, one on the ongoing Senate campaign of a Juan Carlisimo, and one on the House campaign of a Helen Kagnar. Carlisimo was running in the West Tejas district, and she was running in a district centered in Fargo in the Dakota subdistrict of the High Plains.
The Centre couldn't have pointed arrows more directly. Someone wanted me to analyze those campaigns and draw conclusions and historical parallels. I had to wonder what Carlisimo was doing, and whom he had offended among all the paragons of virtue represented by the Centre's donors and board.
Before I got into that, I set my linksystem to dig up background on the incumbents the two might be running against, but the database indicated both were open seats, left by retirement. Carlisimo was running as a PD against an ascendent advocate—Edmund "Ed" Clerihew. From what I could dig up, Clerihew's biggest asset was that he was highly educated, but could turn on the folksy charm and make up rhymes using people's names. They were terrible rhymes. One was:
Because he keeps the best wool over our eyes,
In Tejas, we all love Councilor Mize.
It must have worked because Clerihew had defeated Mize in the Laborite Republican primary. So far as I could discover, Clerihew hadn't come up with a rhyme against Carlisimo. Not yet, anyway.
Kagnar was an LR who had been city manager of Fargo, and she was running against former rezrock singer Damon Erle. Before she'd entered politics, Kagnar had been a public relations specialist for Vorhees and Reyes, and Erle was attacking her as a tool of the ascendents. Having worked for Vorhees and Reyes definitely made her a tool, although I wouldn't have said of the ascendents. I'd had to work for some clients who used the firm, and I had been less than impressed with both the ethics and the professionalism. As far as I was concerned, not having met Helen Kagnar, her best decision was to have left Vorhees et al. Even so, the first scans didn't tell me much about that race, and I went back to the Carlisimo links.
Flash Page 4
