The Elysium Commission

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Next in the message queue was Lemel Jerome. He was an inventor who fancied that his ideas were always being stolen by others—usually by others who claimed prece­dents established centuries before.

  "My idea for quark-electron regression holo recording and display. I registered that ten years ago, and now the Classic group is looking into that approach. They won't an­swer any of my inquiries. I'd like you to look into that..."

  Lemmy always wanted me to look into things. He paid, but slow, stingily, and late. I wouldn't have time to talk to him at the moment. I'd return the vid later. I still could use more credits. I started to call up Myndanori's message when Max interrupted me.

  Krij and Siendra are here.

  I stood, then watched as they stepped into the study. Krij turned and shut the door. Siendra stepped to one side to let Krij continue to take the lead.

  "Good morning, Blaine." Krij smiled brightly. She was striking in an understated way—with wide-set green eyes, a patrician nose, shoulder-length jet-black hair, and flawless pale skin that had just enough color to let her eyes and features dominate her countenance. She was slender in a mus­cular way, but obviously well curved. When she was being professional, as she was at the moment, she suppressed her pheromones to a simple restrained declaration of feminin­ity. So did Siendra, but whether that was because of her in­clination or Krij's direction I didn't know. I wasn't about to ask.

  I'd never gone in for pheromone manipulation, and I hadn't had to. Mine were in the acceptable range, and the readings said they made me mildly attractive to women.

  In a sense, Siendra was Krij's opposite. Nothing stood out. Her brown hair was smooth and cut into a bob. Her eyes were somewhere between light brown and hazel. Her nose was nei­ther pug, nor small, nor large, not crooked, but not markedly noticeable. She had a feminine figure that was neither angu­lar nor outrageously curved. Her voice was pleasant

  "Good morning." I nodded to them both, then gestured to the conference table.

  "This won't take long," Krij replied, although she settled herself into one of the chairs. "It's good to get off my feet."

  I hadn't seen Siendra sit down, but she had taken the chair to Krij's left and my right.

  "We finished the audit, Blaine."

  "And? Am I out of compliance in something else? Be­sides the supplementary schedules for independent subcon­tractors?"

  "We fixed that. More a technicality than actual noncom­pliance. But they would have fined you. As for the others ... Out of compliance, no. Likely to encourage a sisterly formal audit by the Civitas Sorores, possibly."

  Much as I might joke about the sisters and audits, that was the last thing I wanted. Not when they administered all De­vanta, even though they styled themselves merely the Civitas Sorores of Thurene. "With what?"

  "Your equipment expenditures. You spend more on equipment than do some corpentities ten times your size."

  Siendra nodded, barely perceptibly. "Your equipment descriptions are on the general side."

  I had the feeling that Siendra had studied me when I wasn't looking at her. "They have to be. First, most of it's custom. Second, I'd rather not give a full description."

  "Don't" Siendra laughed. It was a warm expression, the first thing about her that had stood out in the five years she'd worked with Krij. "Just give it an official-sounding label. If you have Moore-Jobi build you a special nanite diffuser, call it the MJ Diffuser, Model BD-1 or 2 or 3, whatever number it happens to be. The bureaucrats will accept that more hap­pily than a detailed description."

  "Others build diffusers, and they don't cost nearly so much," I pointed out.

  "Then add that it has a Special Adapter, Mode 3."

  That would probably work. I wished I'd thought of it, but that was why I'd asked Krij to audit my reports—and why I'd pay her the going rate—or almost Since she was my sister, she'd give me a thirty percent discount. "Anything else?"

  "Get married."

  "What?"

  "Men who are married have half the audit rates of those who aren't." Krij grinned. "They also live longer." As usual, she'd given her opinion in her own inimitable way.

  "I wouldn't have to worry about being audited at all. To stay married, I'd have to give up most of what makes credits for me. I wouldn't be able to afford the villa, or your services, elder sister."

  "I have to give you some advice you won't take, Blaine. Otherwise, you think I've wasted your time and credits."

  She was right about that. She was usually right. I'd learned that years before. Back then, it had irritated me, particularly when she'd told me that I'd be accepted for Special Opera­tions, but rejected for IS pilot training. I still remembered what she'd said.

  "The best pilots are at home with boredom. They don't want excitement. They'll train and prepare for years to avoid excitement. You can't live without it."

  I'd protested and taken the tests and exams. When I got the responses, SpecOps had accepted me, and the space ser­vice had rejected me. But it wasn't that I couldn't live with­out it. It was more that I wanted to tame it and couldn't live without that effort. Krij would have called that my own power trip. She would have been right there, too. But I had gotten into piloting through the back door of Special Operations. Small spacecraft and flitters only.

  "You won't waste my credits. That wouldn't fit your professional self-interest, elder sister."

  That got smiles from both Krij and Siendra.

  Then Krij stood. "I'd better not waste your time, either." She tilted her head in the quizzical expression that was hers alone. "Brunch on Senen? Eleven hour?"

  "At your place?"

  "Where else?"

  "I'll be there."

  I didn't see Siendra stand, but she had. I accompanied them all the way out of the study and through the entry foyer and down the steps to their limousine—small standard gray corpentity transport. Solar-electrofuel-cell, like most models.

  Before Siendra turned to follow Krij into the limousine, she smiled politely. Her eyes met mine, but I had the feeling that there was some sort of barrier there. It wasn't dislike, and it wasn't fear, but more like the feeling of distance. Maybe it was because she and Krij minimized danger, while I wanted to master it.

  I watched the limousine glide out through the gates and the gates close. Then I walked back up the stone steps and across the foyer to the study. When the door closed behind me, the villa felt emptier after they left than before they had arrived. I knew why, but explaining to myself would only have made it worse.

  Besides, I had the rest of Marten to dig further into the Reynarda and Tozzi jobs—and to make the changes in the descriptions of my equipment, as well as a cryptic reminder to myself about using model and make numbers for what I purchased.

  Then, too, I needed to go through the rest of the messages.

  My boredom threshold has always been low. The more mysterious work was always more appealing. That looked to be the Reynarda commission. I set Max to work on two mathematical analyses of possible civic registry keys. The first was based on all the numbers and phrases likely to be common to the Eloi brothers. The second was an improba­bility analysis, designed to develop uncommon keys, or rather, keys the Elois would think were uncommon. I had Max's backup cull all public video that could be found of either Eloi and of Judeon Maraniss.

  Then I had him do the same for the Tozzi heiress and the doctoral fortune seeker.

  After that, I went down below, where I went through a full real-body physical workout. Two solid stans. After that, I cooled down, cleaned up, then returned to the villa's lower levels, where I put myself through the armed deep-space scout refresher—version three. That was using an actual cockpit interior, with enough virtie assist to make it more real.

  After a quiet and very late luncheon or early dinner by myself on the verandah, I girded myself up to study all the vid-shots of my targets and see what associations I could draw from them and the backgrounds. That's never as simple as it sounds. That and ca
tching up on various odds and ends took the rest of the early evening.

  5

  The ancient peoples believed in deities that could be evil and uncertain; few modern societies do. The ancients, for all their lack of technological knowledge, were far wiser. Assuming there are deities, exactly why should they be benevolent?

  The shadows are deeper around and within Deo Patre. I couldn't say why, only that they always are. Just as it seems that the light of Voltaire never falls directly on the front en­trance, although that of Bergerac does, contrary as that may seem. Not many people visit the old cathedral anymore, even to look at the exhibits in the day. Never at night. Espe­cially not on a Marten eve, not after the exploits of the Fox—Reynard de la Nuit. That had been a century ago. But in our Post-Deist Age, superstitions die hard. There's no god to remove them.

  Why was I standing in the shadows inside Deo Patre?

  When I'm not involved personally, I have a good sense for trouble. When I am, I don't. Rather, that sense is less accurate. Tonight, someone was going to need me. If not, it was a quiet night for a stroll and a visit to the past. At times, my visits to the past are untroubled. Those are few, though.

  I heard footsteps on the permastone of the walkway that led up to the main doors on the west end of the cathedral. The doors opened, and three figures stepped inside—two taller ones and a slighter figure.

  "Just take a look. You won't believe it. It's a real cathedral."

  "It's the only one in all Thurene, maybe in all Devanta."

  I watched from the shadows behind a column that was the last of the line of those separating the nave from the north aisle.

  "I don't like this." The slight figure was a girl—a real girl, not a nymph.

  The two muscular youths turned and grabbed her simul­taneously. One slapped a gag across her mouth, while the other used a restrainer. She sagged, but still attempted to struggle. Between the restrainer field and the strength of the young men, she could do nothing. After a moment, there was a dull thump as the antique entrance bar dropped into place, locking the main doors.

  "You're sure about the scanners?"

  "I'm the maintenance tech. They aren't linked to the Garda net anyway."

  The slightly less muscular youth carried the squirming woman down the nave. I paralleled them, carrying my own darkness from column to column of the north aisle.

  "On the altar. It's no good if you don't do it on the altar."

  I didn't see or sense weapons—such as sacrificial daggers. That suggested either straight rape for thrills or a twisted cer­emonial deflowering. But you can never tell. I slipped from the end of the aisle up through the side entrance to the transept. The less-massive youth looked around, then bent down and ripped off the girl's trousers and undergarments.

  That was intent enough. I stepped out into the chancel, coming from the left side of the altar, facing it, that is. I've al­ways favored the left, in this case, the left hand of darkness.

  "Look! The shadows!" The one stripping the restrained girl looked up.

  I stepped forward, holding my darkness.

  "Not that impressive. It must be some sort of projection." The heavier youth stepped toward me. His face was a near replica of the statue of Ares in the Palatinium in Zeopolis. I sensed the plastiflesh.

  It was almost a shame to immobilize him with two blows he never saw coming. Almost.

  The would-be rapist bolted to his feet. He got no farther before I took him down.

  Then I took the commlink from the girl's belt. Her eyes widened, in even greater fear. But I just pressed the Garda distress stud and set it beside her. Then I released the re-strainer field and reset it to cover both the would-be as­sailants. Then I turned, gathering darkness around me.

  Behind me, she half screamed, but she'd recover. I could sense her grabbing for her garments.

  I went out through the chapter house exit because the shadows were heavier there.

  The two had obviously planned their escapade for some time. Plastiflesh faces and synth DNA and pheromones, and no obvious clues to their identification once they used the girl. They'd meant to dose her with mem-ex or something similar. Without any memory from the girl and no traces to them, they might have gotten away with it. They might not have, but the damage would have been done to her. The eons-old problem with law has always been that it cannot prevent what might happen without destroying all freedom. I'd had to wait long enough for their intent to be clear. That had been cruel, but necessary.

  Once out in the shadows, I walked past the open gate to the graveyard and glanced sideways at the statue of the sor­rowing angel. Beyond the angel stretched the headstones. Not quite midnight in the garden of good and evil. That had been before the bodies beneath the stones had been re­moved. The stones and their inscriptions had been left for il­lustrative purposes. Meaningless illustrative purposes for an age in which death was infrequent and treated as if it were an avoidable accident that had been the deceased's personal fault Death was often no longer the greatest of calamities. Life was.

  From the grounds of Deo Patre, I walked through the shadows of the past and the present toward an unknown des­tination.

  6

  While there is doubtless great relief in surrendering one's destiny to a deity, it's the coward's way out.

  A purplish gray line of amorphousness oozed over my fin­gers and across the back of my knuckles. I tried to yank my left arm away. It would not move. Somehow I was restrained. My other hand and arm would not move, either. Neither would my toes nor feet. Overhead was a greenish white mist. It could have been centimeters or meters away from me. I couldn't tell. I was neither hot nor cold.

  "Just relax. You'll be all right." The voice reverberated in my ears and jolted my skull. The voice was meant to be reassuring.

  It wasn't.

  The purplish gray mass engulfed my hand and wrist. White-hot needles burned all the way up my arm. Every mus­cle in my body convulsed, yet nothing moved. My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  "Just take it easy. You'll be all right."

  It didn't feel that way. What was happening? Where was I?

  I tried to remember. How had I gotten here, wherever "here" was?

  I'd been scouting a possible Frankan installation on Pournelle U, a hot near-airless planet that was mostly nickel iron. It might have been the core of a gas giant once. Whatever else had been above the core had been stripped away when the star it circled had gone nova. Now all that was left was a dwarf star with a few clinkers orbiting it

  But the Pournelle system was less than two light-years from the fringe of the Gallian subsector and made a good advance base. At least, Assembly IS had thought there might be Frankans there. So SpecOps had sent me and Brooke in with stealth needleships. He'd always protested that he was a great lover, and fighting came second. If fight­ing came second, I'd never have wanted to be in love with any woman he'd desired.

  For all that, his ship-shields had failed, and I'd gone after him. After some considerable difficulties, we'd finally been headed out-system. Clear of the Frankans, I'd thought.

  After that... I couldn't remember.

  More of the purple-gray oozed over my right hand and up the arm. As it did, another set of blazing needles seared me.

  An involuntary moan started in my throat. It never got any farther.

  "You'll be all right..."

  How could I be all right when I was unable to move and being swallowed alive by some sort of nanetic gray goo?

  I kept trying to twist free, to break away from whatever held me. I could feel sweat popping out all over me, but my body wouldn't move. I had to get free. I just had to.

  Abrupdy, I was free.

  I was also sitting up in my own bed—alone. I'd ripped a section of the high-count sateen sheet apart and clutched it in my left hand. My sleeping shorts were soaked, and so were the remnants of the sheets.

  Interrogative time?

  Zero four thirteen, sir.

&nbs
p; Thank you. Not that Max needed thanks. I just needed to thank him.

  Slowly, I swung my feet out of the bed and onto the floor. The thick Arasian wool carpet felt good to my feet. I stood and walked to the window. From there, I looked into the garden courtyard. The view didn't help. The hazaleans looked gray-ghosdy under the silvery light. Voltaire was only half-full, and the stonework was morgue white.

  I turned and took in the bed, the night table, and the long and low chest that held clothes. They were all clean-lined gray ironwood. Shadow furniture to match ... what? A shadow knight? Except I'd never called myself that. Others had. They didn't really know me.

  I was Blaine Donne, wasn't I? That was my name. Or it had been.

  But was I still? If not, who was I?

  There was no point in going back over that.

  I took a deep breath and walked slowly back to the chest to take out a dry pair of sleeping shorts. I'd have to change the sheets as well. Unlike many, I still preferred natural cot­ton. That said something about who I was. Didn't it?

  7

  Seek questions, not answers.

  Although I'd gone to bed late and had another nightmare, I still woke up early, right after dawn. I took my time getting to breakfast, then managed my morning workout. When I'd cooled down and cleaned up, I went back to work on setting up more investigative searches on my targets.

  I'd tried to reach Myndanori and a few other sources, but all I'd gotten were talking heads. All that took the rest of the morning on Miercen.