Ebol4 cases were increasing, but they remained scattered. The DPS was urging people to take extreme care. They also asked everyone to report anyone with the warning symptoms, but not to touch them. I certainly hadn't gotten that close to the unknown man on the shuttle platform, even if I'd had no choice. I still wondered if he'd survived. Most with the bloody sweating faces hadn't from what I heard on the netnews.
Nothing else had happened so far with the Russe orbiter. Drug overdoses from some unknown cause were up slightly in Denv, but no one had any ideas why. The PDF announced that they would be able to contain the debris from the mishandled asteroid mining by the Mars Belters. So there was nothing to do but go on with life. Such as it happened to be.
Except for music, life wasn't much at that moment. It wasn't the first time music had been the only good thing in life. After Michael, there had been Gordon. Gordon had drifted away. Maybe I'd given him a push, once he'd discovered I wasn't a singing doll, but actually had opinions about things. I hadn't met anyone else who seemed to care about music, or any kind of artistic beauty. But then, I had met very few men—or women—who did.
So Monday found me at the university. There I swallowed my pride once more, and signed my agreement to teach rez-prep both for the summer interterm and for the fall term. After that, I taught my single Monday lesson to Abdullah, the only man I was currently teaching. He was a quick study, and always learned his music. He also made no secret that he was taking lessons from me because he wanted to become a rezpopper. Even so, teaching him was a joy, and I looked forward to that part of Mondays.
More than once he'd told me, "Professor Cornett… I watch you. You can sing anything. I even hear your voice on the rezads sometimes. If I can sing anything, then, even if I do not become rich and famous, I will make a living from singing.”
He worked hard, and he had a good voice. Most of the time, those two weren't enough, but I wasn't about to put it that bluntly. I just suggested that success in the arts depended partly on luck, as well as on talent, skill, and determination.
When I said that, he always gave me a broad smile. And the next lesson he was even more prepared. I wished more were like him and like Amina, who I taught on Thursdays.
After teaching Abdullah, and after working in another half hour of practice for the Clayton soiree—mainly "Frauen liebe and Leben"—I caught a shuttle north from the University station. I wasn't sure I should, but I knew I'd regret it if I didn't go to Michael's memorial service. After that, I'd have to hurry back south, to Crescent, for another recording session with Mahmed.
There were only about half as many people on the shuttle as usual. Once again, everyone stayed separated. No one said much. My destination was outer northside, the fourth stop. From there I had to walk to the Community Center. The grass was as green in the park that flanked the walkway as it was in eastside, but the trees seemed lower, almost stunted. The buildings to the north of the park were set in plain greenery, with little landscaping. The grass looked like a carpet that had been painted green and rolled out around the buildings. Most were fabricating formulation centers, from their window-less appearance.
At the north end of the park was the Community Center where they were holding the memorial. In the synthstone-floored lobby was a simple sign on a pedestal: Michael morris memorial service, main conference room. I followed the arrow. Footsteps followed me as others drifted into the Center.
The conference room was just a long hall with antique block walls. There were no decorations, paintings, or hangings. The walls were coated with the white synth-plaster used in every permie dwelling in NorAm. I looked over the hundred or so chairs. About half were filled. I sat down in the back. I wasn't sure I should have come, but Michael had been a part of my life for ten years. As much as I hoped for a sense of closure, I knew I wouldn't get it. But I'd still had to come.
It was to be a memorial service—with no ashes or remains in any form. The Department of Public Safety had insisted on immediate and total cremation of all ebol4 victims, but a holo projection of Michael filled the space to the right of the old-fashioned oak podium. The figure was almost of a stranger. He didn't look familiar. When we'd been married, he'd worn a beard, short and square-trimmed, but the man beside the podium was younger-looking, clean-shaven, wearing a maroon tunic over white trousers and shimmering white boots. He was the image of youthful idealism. That wasn't surprising, since poor Michael had never grown up.
I sat there numbly, watching as more people filed into the room. His brother and his mother came in, and a man in a black singlesuit seated them in the front row. A thin brunette sat next to them. I didn't know her. That wasn't surprising. Our parting had been bitter.
Another man in a black singlesuit appeared and stood at the podium. He just began to speak. There was no introduction, no preamble.
"Michael Morris was the director of the Community Center for fifteen years. He never turned away from a problem or someone in need…”
That had been the difficulty. For Michael, all problems were equally important. I'd never been an admirer of the filch and still wasn't, but they weren't the cause of society's miseries. They were the symptom. When credits are all that count, everything except the pursuit of those credits is debased. Poor Michael, the professional server of the pennies and the servies, could never quite grasp that. He might have given it lip service, but he was always convinced that if he could just get more credits from the government, the filch, and the foundations, he could rebuild society.
"… when he came to northside, the Community Center was two rooms in the back of General Formulating. Today, we have an employment and counseling program that served five thousand people last year alone. We have a full youth program, and a complete youth athletic center…”
I smiled, if sadly. In his own way, Michael had done a lot, and people would remember.
"… all this because of the energy and dedication of one man. Michael Morris was not a saint. We all know how angry he could get, but he channeled that anger…”
Michael's anger wasn't something I wanted to remember. It hadn't been channeled in any constructive way with me. He'd wanted me to go into business where my abilities and presumably my credits would help him with fund-raising and political activity that would change society, or at least Denv. He'd helped the poorest servies and the pennies of northside. I hadn't seen any change beyond that. He'd never listened to my thoughts on it. Or why I thought music and beauty were every bit as important as jobs and credits. I thought that they were more important, but I'd never dared to say that. In the end, there had been too much I'd never dared to say.
"… northside will never see another Michael Morris…”
By then, I was having trouble reconciling the image of the man they all knew and loved with that of the man I had once loved. I sat through the rest of the memorial, and then slipped out right after it was over.
As I walked back to the shuttle station, I thought. I felt sorry for Michael, and for his family, and for the woman who had loved him—she'd sobbed silently through the entire memorial. I was sorry, too, that Michael hadn't lived to finish what he started. Yet I had to wonder. Nothing had ever been enough for Michael. Would another twenty years have meant more? Another fifty or a hundred? Or would he have become ever more bitter? Or had he mellowed? I didn't know. I never would, not really.
All that was certain was that we'd had very different views on what mattered in improving people's lives. Michael had felt that the answer was in the material, and I'd had to question that. As a whole, our society was richer than any before it, and yet there were still bio-weapons and terrorism across the entire globe, and tensions between Earth and Mars despite more and more material affluence. There were still students glassy-eyed on soop, murders despite ever more restrictive surveillance and improved nanite shields, and a quiet dissatisfaction that verged on desperation.
Or was that dissatisfaction merely my own projection?
I didn't know that, eith
er.
I made the OldTech station with time to spare, and could take a leisurely walk to the building housing Mahmed's small production company. The old and slow entry system checked my codes, in the same plodding routine, and finally cleared me. I went down the ramps.
Mahmed was waiting, as usual, just inside the door that bore the golden crescent moon, and the words "Crescent Productions.”
"You may not want to do this one, Luara.” Mahmed looked embarrassed. "It's political.”
"If I can sell furniture, why not politicians?"
"Even for Senator Cannon?"
I knew Cannon was a senator, and I'd heard his name on the news. When the political news came on, I usually turned somewhere else or just tuned it out. What had the politicians ever done for beauty and the arts? Not much since the Emperor Joseph, I suspected. "Let's see it.”
"Here's the music and text.” Mahmed extended the music, crisp, and obviously freshly printed.
In the space outside the recording area, I looked over the words, and then the music. The words were more obscure than usual, at least for a rezad, where the punch was usually direct and short.
* * * *
And he cast his vote, strong, for you, for me, over the filch, standing there where he should be…
* * * *
After humming the melody, I realized I knew it, or a version of it. But from where? I couldn't place it, but I knew it from somewhere. That would probably make singing it harder, but not impossible.
"What do you think?" asked Mahmed, anxiously.
"I can do it. It's no worse than upscale furnishings.” No better, but no worse.
"I'll need more takes for this,” Mahmed pointed out.
"That's fine.” I couldn't complain. He paid well and on time. Besides, I wasn't all that eager to head back to my conapt and think about the day.
We went into the studio and did run-throughs, eight in all.
Only when I came out of the studio did I realize what I'd sung. It was an adapted version of a song by Ralph Vaughn Williams—"The New Ghost.”
* * * *
And he cast it down, down, on the green grass, Over the young crocuses, where the dew was…
* * * *
I had to wonder why Senator Cannon was setting political ads to English art song, but I knew nothing about campaign ads, except that I detested them.
"You up for another?" asked Mahmed. "Standard rate.”
Of course I was. Thanks to the rezads, I actually looked to have more creds than pending expenses. I also wanted to stay in Mahmed's good graces, because what I saw coming at the university wasn't promising.
The second ad was another one for Cannon, with a more florid text. The music, when I hummed it, was only vaguely familiar. After a moment, I realized that it reminded me of a song I'd done by Granados. That probably meant that the original song or music had been done by Granados, or at least by someone of the same school.
That only involved four takes. After we finished, I turned to Mahmed. "What are you doing with this?" I had to ask.
Mahmed looked embarrassed. "It's for his campaign. They pay well… you understand that.”
I did, indeed.
"I've been trying to get into the new rezad business, but you have to pay Talemen Associates. All of the additional equipment is mine, but I have to pay them a royalty. It's the new twist on rezads, and it's technically better. They sent over a set of parameters. Had to add another board. Looks a lot like the custom work my brother did for some rezpopper.”
"What rezpopper?" I didn't care, but it was almost as if he wanted me to ask.
"Cold Ice.” Mahmed laughed. "Said he got the idea from a competitor. Stole it, that's more like it. But the setup's legal, so long as you pay Talemen.”
Rezads that were technically better? Better at what? Persuading people? I shivered.
"Are you all right?" Mahmed was immediately solicitous.
"I'm fine.”
"Are you sure?"
"Yes.”
"Good.” Mahmed smiled.
"Another?" I asked.
"If you're up for it.”
"If you're paying,” I countered.
"Senator Cannon is paying, but with you, we're giving him a real bargain.”
Mahmed wasn't being hurt by it, either, I knew. All in all, I did four separate rezads for the good—or not-so-good—senator. I might even have banked enough credits to pay for the overdue repairs to the conapt.
Chapter 22
Kemal
I left the house a little after eight-fifteen on Monday morning. That was because the club was in southside. Stefan lived there as well. He had been the first of the family to move there from the northwest. His place was about two miles from where Marissa and I were building the new house. For me, the move made sense. The new house would be less than ten minutes from the KC headquarters. For Stefan, the move was strictly for the address. He had no job, just his trust income. His place was a good half mile east of the Southside Parkway, almost in the southern part of eastside. It was an imitation Renaissance villa, and small. Around five hundred square meters, with three garage bays. He had no children. His girlfriends came and went. He didn't think much about family.
As I entered the oval drive, I could see Stefan waiting under the small portico. He was wearing a beige single-suit. I slowed and linked to Emile. Beige—the second shade on the chart.
Beige, second shade. I have it.
Good. See you later. If Emile hadn't had the proper shade, then I would have had Stefan put on the one in the backseat, but the less I asked of Stefan the better.
"You're early, Uncle Chris.” Stefan slipped into the front seat.
I pulled out of the drive and turned south, toward the club.
I didn't say anything.
"If I could ask,” Stefan finally said, "what do you have in mind?"
"You need more credits. I need a favor. It's that simple.”
"Uncle Chris… I don't know about that kind of favor.”
I laughed. "It's not that kind of favor. You know who Emile Brazelton is, don't you? He was in the office when you were there a couple of weeks ago.”
"Yes…”
Stefan was definitely wary.
"You know he had problems, and we bailed him out. He's excellent at managing and developing technology. He just didn't have the capital. Or the contacts. He's also a good man at heart, but he had personal problems. They got in the way. Well… his first wife is vindictive. He's not allowed to see his son, but his son wants to see him. There's a Justiciary order out. That means they can use the footage from the recsats.”
Stefan looked puzzled. That was good.
"You can help him see the boy for a couple of hours. There are two singlesuits in the back. You put on the maintenance suit over your own. I'll drop you off under the trees at the club, just inside the gates. You walk to the shelter at number three carrying the tool kit that's on the floor. You wait there. When we get there, you peel off the maintenance suit and put on Emile's sweater.
It's loud and striped. You play fourteen holes with me, and then on seventeen we meet Emile, and you switch at the rain shelter there.”
"That's it? How do I get back?"
"That's it. As for getting back, you walk back to the trees where I let you off and you take off the suit under the trees when no one's looking, fold it up so the logo doesn't show, and put it under your arm. Then you walk to the club and ask me for a ride. Don't explain. Just say that you saw me and thought you could save yourself some time.”
He nodded.
"This will allow Emile to see his son. That means he'll be feeling better. He'll be thinking about the job, and not about the unfairness of not seeing his boy. You've done him a favor, and you've done me a favor. You know that I always pay off favors.”
Stefan looked doubtful, but not that doubtful.
"If it were your mother… and some judge had ruled she couldn't see you, wouldn't you want to see her every so often?
" I laughed. "It's in the middle of the morning.”
"That's it?"
"That… and you don't tell anyone, because it could get Emile in trouble.”
I could see Stefan figuring that he could leverage that into more credits. But he'd wait to try that. By then, it wouldn't matter.
"You do this right, and we'll take care of your loan—the way it should have been handled.”
"How is that?" Stefan was more curious than snotty.
"I buy the note. It becomes a note to me, and I immediately forgive half of it, and give you the first year interest-free. Then, we'll see how you're doing.”
He wanted more than that, but he also wouldn't have believed it if I'd given more. This way, he had the credits, and a year to spend them before trying to get more out of me. He'd take that.
"I appreciate that, Uncle Chris.”
I laughed. "You need to get into that suit.” I pulled the electral over to the side of the road, under some overhanging elms, already leafing out, so that he could climb in back. Once he was in the back, I pulled out again.
"You could have had Armand do this,” Stefan ventured as he struggled into the maintenance suit. "Why me?"
"He's a permie. What would happen if he ran into someone? Or if someone asked him what he was doing?"
"That's true.”
"Family's always the best,” I pointed out. "I want to help you, but I don't want you to think I don't want at least a gesture in return.”
Stefan said nothing for the few minutes it took to reach the club. The scanners checked the pass, and the gates opened.
I drove another fifty yards before pulling over and letting Stefan out under the ancient elms.
Stefan walked away through the trees, and then out along the side of the empty tennis courts. I could see the club logo on his back.
The club was empty—or close to it—on Mondays in early April. That was the way I'd planned it. I changed into my golf shoes in the locker room.
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