Paradigms Lost - eARC

by Ryk E. Spoor

  Something clicked in my head. No picture had ever been printed, but to do what someone had just done to my security system…“The Jammer.”

  His grin grew even wider and he gave an extravagant bow. “In the flesh!”

  I looked across my coffee table at the other man. “Which would make you…the guy who strongarmed the Jammer into not blackmailing me.”

  The weathered face acknowledged that with a hint of a smile. “Mr. Locke was forcibly employed by my organization, and when necessary we rein him in.” He made the gun disappear; I didn’t see where it had gone. “Mr. Wood, as time goes on it appears that you continue to become more involved in things that impinge upon some of my organization’s most sensitive operations. I would try to recruit you, but your operations here actually serve other purposes for us. It has, however, become necessary for us to meet and get to know each other well enough so that we can, when necessary, cooperate and avoid working at cross purposes. The secrecy of my organization at least equals that of our opposition—some of whom you have already encountered.”

  I knew that Virigar had been a thorn in their side, but I felt that this guy was referring to something larger—at least in terms of his organization, anyway—and that didn’t leave me many possibilities. “Whoever sent over Ed Sommer and his pals.”

  He nodded.

  It clicked then. “Winthrope! She’s not NSA or any of the regular organizations, she’s with you!” I’d always had a nagging doubt about Jeri—which is why I’d avoided tagging her real employers with a particular set of letters; she’d seemed too open and flexible over certain things.

  “Told you he already had it down,” the Jammer said.

  The older man shrugged. “If he wasn’t that quick, he would’ve been dead already. Yes, Mr. Wood, Jeri is employed by us.”

  “So you know pretty much everything.”

  “Everything that you’ve told her or that she’s seen,” he said, correcting me. “I am quite certain there’s information you have never told her.”

  “Okay.” I got up. “C’mon downstairs. I need some coffee; I’ve been up all day and was going to go to bed.”

  They followed without comment. The older guy accepted a cup while the Jammer went for a Mountain Dew. I turned to the older man finally. “If we’re going to ‘get to know each other’ well enough, then let’s stop tapdancing. Who are you people?”

  “My name is James Achernar,” he answered after a moment. “My particular task force is codenamed Project Pantheon, and is part of ISIS.”

  “ISIS?” I repeated. “The name’s very, very vaguely familiar…”

  “The International Security Investigation Section,” the Jammer put in.

  Now I remembered. It was an attempt (an abortive one, I had thought) to create a sort of multinational intelligence and espionage network for the United Nations, some years ago. Supposedly, it was going to recruit operatives from different nations to gather information, prevent international disputes, resolve conflicts, and in general be a truth-checking organization with enough teeth to allow the UN to (at least on occasion) be able to tell who was trying to hoodwink them and who wasn’t. There’d been some discussion, preliminary appropriations and so on, but I had been certain that ISIS had gone the way of many a good idea whose time will never come. “Now that’s interesting. I thought ISIS never really happened.”

  Achernar gave a small, cold smile. “We prefer it that way. It nearly didn’t, in point of fact, but a number of countries—at the time, the US and USSR foremost—recognized that despite various competing agendas, we also needed an independent group that would try its best to defuse problems that could be caused by smaller countries, terrorist organizations, and even large corporations. The result was an intelligence organization operating out of a non-profit front sponsored by the UN, whose full scope of powers and operations wasn’t realized by anyone save the people who made it. All participating countries supplied authentic intelligence materials for their contributions—such as genuine IDs and so on—and were given certain controls to prevent their own contributions being used against them.

  “Pantheon is a subdivision of ISIS, established shortly thereafter to deal with the most extreme and unusual intelligence situations.”

  “The X-files,” I said.

  He gave a wry smile. “Not precisely, although of late it has started to seem that way. We do have other problems.”

  I studied him. “All right. Now, you said something to the effect that I was making a habit of getting involved in your affairs. Once obviously isn’t a pattern, and even twice wouldn’t make it certain, but I’m not able to think of more than two possibles in my history. The recent conflict that involved Verne and me against that group from Vietnam is one, and I suppose the episode with Virigar counts as another since, as Gorthaur, he was busily chipping away at everyone in the intelligence agencies, but where’s the ‘habit’ coming from?”

  He gazed at me expressionlessly. Finally, he said, “I will not give you details at this time, but I will say that even from your early dealings with Verne Domingo, you began to enter into our business. And now that you’ve connected Jackie MacLain to his family—”

  “I should’ve known: your people are the ones hanging around Paula MacLain.”

  “Not just us,” the Jammer said. “Them, too. The other side. Once you contacted her and someone performed the paternity test, somehow they were alerted. Up ’til now, the kids had gotten away with it—the baddies had lost track of them. Not anymore.”

  “So who are they, then?”

  Achernar and the Jammer exchanged glances. “At this point, you’re better off not knowing,” Achernar said, with the Jammer giving a reluctant nod. “I know you will find these answers unsatisfactory, but in the main it’s true.”

  I sighed. “Look, if you’re not here to give me info, just what do you want from me? And why all the futzing around instead of just setting up a meeting?”

  He acknowledged my frustration with another faint smile. “To answer your second question, Pantheon doesn’t really exist, so to speak. Currently, as far as any official sources are concerned, I am at a psychological convention attending various seminars, and tomorrow morning I will be presenting a paper of my latest research, no doubt to considerable controversy…though to somewhat less mockery, thanks in part to an increase in open-mindedness as a result of the Morgantown Incident.”

  “Seminars…you’re Dr. J. T. Achernar!”

  His response was the seated equivalent of a bow. “Correct.”

  “Now I start to understand. Your name was one of the more prominent ones I came across when doing paranormal research.”

  “I had good reasons for being willing to be open-minded myself,” he said. “My research has provided few unambiguous results, of course, but as you may now suspect—”

  “—part of that is deliberate.” I finished. “If you made the wrong information public, it could get very dangerous for a lot of people.”

  He nodded. “As for what I wanted to accomplish by coming here…by letting you know who is behind Jeri, you will understand if we start sending hints in your direction. We may ask for your help, through her, or request an interview—perhaps with Dr. Achernar—or in some other manner either request your assistance, or offer some subtle assistance of our own. But we have to avoid being visible. This is a shadow war, Mr. Wood. The world at large does not know of these kinds of things—even after the werewolves. Many forces exist, some of which you would not believe, and many of them are quite willing, in their own way, to trigger a holocaust if they feel that their operations are threatened.”

  I had to hide a smile. I’m sure Achernar meant every word he said, but the truth was that after Verne’s revelations, not only would I be able to believe just about anything, but I probably knew stuff that made everything Pantheon knew put together look like small change. “Well, I’m always willing to help. And I’m already kinda in your debt after the little assist you gave me with the
IDs for Tai Lee Xiang.”

  Achernar nodded. “That was our intent, although as I said, that connected to one of our operations. Let me put it this way: I’d have arranged the same thing for him myself, whether you requested it or not. So don’t feel it was a tremendous favor; you just gave us a chance to do something for the enemy of an old enemy.”

  I studied him narrowly. “And you’re just going to leave him and his kids alone? Not ‘recruit’ them at some later time?”

  “No government, and no agency—not even ISIS and Pantheon—can be trusted with them,” Achernar answered.

  “He’s telling it straight,” the Jammer put in. “Part of my job at Pantheon is to arrange for certain kinds of data to just plain disappear.”

  “I find it extremely hard to believe,” I said, “that even the UN, in its best days, would like the idea that its own agents are taking it upon themselves to decide what data should and shouldn’t be reported up the chain of command.”

  “They wouldn’t,” Achernar said bluntly. “But my immediate superior created Pantheon specifically to be able to make such decisions. No, there isn’t anything like that in the written files, but our meetings always touch on how much of what we learn is going to stay hidden and how much will be reported. Yes, we could all be arrested for treason or something similar if the truth somehow came out. Fortunately, our opposition generally wants the truth hidden even more than we do, so for the most part, the only people who might ever be in a position to blow the whistle on us have a vested interest in not doing so.”

  I shuddered. “Mr. Achernar, no offense, but I can only hope to God that you’ll never get a mole in your organization.”

  “As do we all. We do our best to avoid that possibility. It may happen one day, but at the moment, we have no better alternative; someone must deal with these problems, and thus far, we have proven to be sufficient to the tasks at hand. Of course, your work with the wolves eliminated the one actual threat of such mole infiltration that we’ve ever had.”

  I had to admit that I’d missed that point. Virigar’s poking through intelligence files actually made more sense now; he had, almost certainly, encountered something that indicated Pantheon’s existence and was trying to find out what various governments might know or guess. After his existence had been blown wide open and the CryWolf gadgets put on the market, he and his furry friends had to back out of that business, at least for a while.

  “So, in that sense you owe me at least as much as I owe you,” I said finally.

  “I’d agree with that,” Achernar said. “In any case, I’d like you to memorize this number.” He handed me a card with a phone number on it. I concentrated and committed it to memory by a few mnemonic tricks, then handed it back. “If it ever becomes necessary for you to contact us directly, rather than through Jeri—she’s unavailable, got herself killed, or you’re too far away—that will get in touch with me. But do not use it barring a true emergency.”

  “I won’t. Obviously, you already know how to contact me. Are you planning on trying to reach similar arrangements with Verne?”

  That got a short laugh. “No, I don’t think so. Mr. Domingo has his own game, which he’s been playing for a lot longer than any of us. If he needs our services, he’ll ask for them, and there isn’t anyone on earth that can demand his help.” He looked at me. “Except his friends, of course, and I’m afraid that in my business, you rarely have the time to make friends.”

  There wasn’t much to say to that, so I finished my coffee. “Anything else? No offense, but I’m exhausted.”

  “Not at the moment. Our apologies for disrupting your schedule. With luck, you’ll hear very little from us.”

  I suddenly remembered a problem that I’d been trying to solve for a couple of weeks. “Hold on. There is something I need from you guys—probably mostly the Jammer’s field, actually, but it touches on your interests, too. Consider it payment for breaking into my house and scaring the crap out of me.”

  Achernar waited, eyebrow raised.

  “Two things, actually. First, I want the Jammer to help Verne get top-level security for his house.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Done. And the second?”

  “Now that he’s a patron of the arts, Verne’s getting a lot of invitations to go various places. He has to accept at least a few of them, the ones that are important. One of them’s coming up now, an art show and reception for Sky—”

  “—by Miss Danielle Lumiere, yes. What about it?”

  Fine, show off how informed you are. But that makes it easier. “So I need someone to address the obvious problem.”

  Achernar blinked, then suddenly gave a low laugh. “Ah, indeed. Security people will be most distressed by guests who do not show up on a camera.” He looked over to the Jammer. “What do you think?”

  “Not a problem,” the Jammer said after a moment. “If you’re going to authorize me to do it, hey, I can get in there, intercept the feeds and substitute appropriate imagery. You’ll have to do me a favor and put some RF IMU sensors on him—preferably under his clothing, some on key parts of his clothes, for motion and position capture—but if he’ll go along with that, I can make sure that all the security feeds show him. I can probably do the same with any press vid cameras, too.” He looked at me seriously. “You’re on your own with respect to other people snapping pics, though.”

  “I think Verne can handle that on his own,” I said, “barring the presence of any other vampires or werewolves as guests, and they won’t want to call attention to Verne that way.”

  Achernar nodded. “Very well, I’ll authorize it.” He got up. “Oh, there is one more thing.”

  I glanced up.

  “Congratulations.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “My God, is there anyone who doesn’t know I’m getting married?”

  Chapter 52: Fangs for the Recommendation

  “Jason, Sylvie, please meet Father Jonathan Turner,” Verne said.

  I shook hands with the cheerful-faced priest. He looked to be a mere twenty-five, hair dark and curly, wearing the traditional uniform of his profession. “Pleased to meet you, Father.”

  “It’s a genuine pleasure, Mr. Wood.” Father Turner’s rolling, English voice carried the warm, comforting tones that the very best priests usually have—a kind of voice that makes you willing to believe that God does speak through them sometimes. I’m not religious, but I recognize the dedication a real priest has to have. “And Miss…Sylvia,” he went on, avoiding the name pitfall that most people—including me—fall into when first meeting her. “Verne has told me a great deal about both of you. I understand you are looking for a priest who will be, shall we say, flexible in the ceremony while remaining acceptable to the more traditional elements of the wedding party?”

  Sylvia smiled, obviously taking to him on first glance. “Exactly right. My mom and dad are old-style Catholic and if I don’t have a Catholic wedding of some kind, they’ll worry that I’m heading to Hell one way or another.”

  Father Turner smiled back and shook his head in a resigned way. “Not, I’m afraid, an uncommon state of affairs these days. Now, my dear, you were baptized Catholic, weren’t you?”

  Sylvie nodded. “Not practicing for years though.”

  “No matter. Would you be willing, both of you, to agree to teach any children you have in the Catholic faith?”

  “How do you mean that?” I asked. “I’m basically agnostic—I’ll believe in the Almighty when I see evidence for him—and you seem to understand what Syl is.”

  “Let’s put it cynically,” he said, taking a seat across from us in Verne’s living room. “As a representative of a Cchurch that’s come under hard times, my job is to try to make it look more attractive than previous generations have seen it. Sometimes, you have to deal with people who are using the competitors’ product, so to speak. Well, we don’t win points with such people by insulting their choices; on the other hand, if I’m going to perform a wedding, it’s incu
mbent upon me to try to get a wedge in the door to increase our membership. Yes, I generally get paid for doing the wedding, and that isn’t something to be lightly brushed off, but I take my job seriously. If you’ll agree to make sure that any children you have are exposed to the Catholic faith—taught the beliefs and values—I’m gaining something out of it. I’m willing to bet,” he said, turning to me, “that you had almost no exposure to organized religion in your childhood. Am I right?”

  I nodded. “Some attendance at Sunday school for reasons I can’t remember now, and some time at the Unitarian church when I was much older, but no, not much at all.”

  “And without your making a promise of this sort, your child or children would most likely follow a similar path—or be exposed only to Sylvia’s faith or to that of this decadent old bloodsucker,” he said with a grin, hooking a thumb at Verne, who chuckled.

  Syl and I were both startled by that; clearly Jonathan Turner knew a great deal about Verne!

  “So, at the very least, I gain the potential of children who grow up knowing our system and aren’t inherently hostile to it.”

  I glanced at Syl; she nodded, so I said, “I think we can agree to that. If you’re not requiring us to teach them only in that faith, it’s no problem.”

  “Jolly good; we should be able to get on famously,” he said.

  “Pardon me for asking,” I said, “but just how do you come to know Verne so well?”

  He was very serious all of a sudden; he looked at Verne for advice.

  “It is entirely up to you, old friend,” Verne said. “You know how much I trust them; let your reluctance be only personal. If you wish not to speak of such things, do not, but they are of my family, as though by blood.”

  “Quite, quite,” Father Turner agreed. “It is a long story, and I’m not sure how to tell it without leaving out too much, or sounding as though I might be boasting in some way. Unless you would care to explain the essence of it yourself?”