The Elysium Commission

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Across the Rue du Plaisir from Pier Two was Pier One. Pier One was larger than Pier Two—another twenty me­ters higher and a third again as broad. It had a trapezoidal front facing the Nouvelle Seine, covered in pink granite with wide intelligent glass windows. The combination of sun-darkened glass and pink called to mind an aging cour­tesan of the past painted for the evening. That was certainly appropriate for die ostensible headquarters of Eloi Enter­prises.

  I crossed the river on the Pont de L'Ouest and walked the

  South Bank back east. I had to go another quarter klick to use the east bridge. I've always hated retracing my way.

  The carpark was almost full. The groundcar was un­touched and untampered with. During my entire walk, Lemmy's detector had never let out a blip or a peep. Or any­thing. I hadn't expected that it would.

  If you survive for long in SpecOps, you develop a certain sense about things. I'd survived there longer than most I'd just pushed my luck too far too often.

  I drove back to the villa, checking the systems and nets. Everything was quiet.

  Even before I parked the vehicle in the underground se­curity area, Max pulsed me.

  Rapide Courier delivered a package for you, Max re­ported. It scans clean. It's on your desk in the study. Dr. Ruckless returned your vid

  Thank you.

  I took the ramps up to the villa's main levels at a quick walk, then made my way to the study. The package con­tained a datafiat and a short note. I read the note.

  Dear Seignior Donne:

  I apologize for the game-playing upon your namesake, but it is one of the few pleasures left to me. The commis­sion I offer is this. Locate the lady whose information is in the dataflat and assure yourself that she is safe and looks to remain so.

  In departing, she requested that I never attempt to lo­cate her. I will honor that request, but for my own selfish peace of mind, I would like the assurance that she is safe and—hopefully—happy. Your word is known to be good, and I will accept your assurance that she is safe.

  If she is not, we need to discuss the matter to see if there is anything you can do to alleviate the situation, but under no circumstances are you to reveal information that would allow me to locate her.

  If you wish to take the commission, flash the return code, and a retainer of Cr5,000 will be immediately sent.

  I read it twice. Then I had Max do a data search on D'Azouza.

  While he was searching and collating, I checked the vid-messages. The sole one of interest was from a woman—her talking head, properly—of indeterminate age. But then, weren't we all of indeterminate age, except for the handful of unfortunates like Greyspan?

  "Seignior Donne, I have a simple commission for you. I'd like you to facilitate a transfer of assets ... in a fashion that cannot be traced back to me. It must be done in a way that is absolutely legal and in accord with the Codex. If you wish to handle mis, here is my return code."

  That sounded like an inheritance to a child who had bro­ken with parents or to a former disgruntled lover. Still... so long as it was legal and paid...

  I activated the return code.

  The image that appeared was that of a titian-haired young woman, clad in a blouse and cardigan sweater in a style that first dated from well before the Terran Diaspora. It was renewed periodically, as were most fashions. "Greetings, Seignior Donne. I'm glad my inquiry drew your attention. You may call me Nancy. I'm not exactly a secretive wooden lady, but I'd prefer to remain mysterious for now."

  That might not bother me. It depended on what com­mission she had in mind. "You still haven't given me any details."

  "The heiress in question is rather elusive. She used to have the identity of Stella Strong. She took another name later, but was most recently known as Maureen Gonne. I would like a bequest of ten million credits, approximately, in a portfolio held by the First Commerce Bank trust sec­tion, settled upon her."

  "The Bank can do that. I can't."

  "They will indeed, after you find her, verify her identity, and inform the contact at the Bank. The contact is An­gelique deGritz. Here is the contact code."

  The code flashed, and the system held it for me.

  "Did Stella, or Maureen, refuse to marry William?" I asked.

  "After a fashion. She is, or was, a samer." Willa, then, I thought. "Do you have an image?"

  "It's several years old. I'll send it, if you agree to take the commission."

  "I'm not inexpensive, Nancy."

  "If you take the commission, you'll receive five thousand credits as a retainer immediately."

  "Who else wants her found? Or doesn't want her found?"

  'The bequest will go to Vola Paulsky and her sibling, Relian Cru. I can't say if they know about the bequest."

  "Who set up the bequest?"

  "Their father."

  I felt as though I were extracting deep-core samples with a syringe. "Who was he?"

  "Clinton Jefferson Wayles."

  The name was familiar to me, but I couldn't pin it down. Quick search Clinton Jefferson Wayles. "Why didn't he just tell them?"

  "No one knows. His spouse didn't know about the chil­dren, and they were never told about the bequest."

  Clinton Jefferson Wayles, Max replied, deceased 1337 CD. Former Director, BCD, LLC... founded as Bretagne Consolidation and Development... Former Regional Gov­ernor, Bretagne 1306-1321. One son, Rodham Lee Wayles. Separated from spouse, Marthyl Owen Aheirne, never divorced...

  "What about his son, Rodham? How does he fit in? Does the bequest go to him if the others aren't located?"

  "Rodham may know about the bequest, but it doesn't af­fect him one way or the other. If none of the three children is located within a specific time period, the bequest goes to the L'Institut Multitechnique in Thurene."

  "How critical is time? You mentioned a time period."

  Nancy laughed, politely. "It terminates a half century af­ter the death of the last child or three hundred and one years from now, whichever is later."

  If she spoke the truth, old Wayles hadn't wanted there to be much incentive for anyone to kill off all three. "Assuming you're correct in the terms of the bequest, is there any ad­vantage to the latter siblings vanishing those earlier in line?"

  "Obviously." The titian-haired talking head smiled. "Their situation is not unlike that of many in past history and fiction. That is why I do not wish to be informed of whether you are successful or not until after the bequest has been set­tled. Nor will you be able to contact me, except as a single-time return to a code, as you have now. I will contact you, periodically."

  "You are convinced that if you know, the two others will find out?"

  "That is a possibility I wish to foreclose totally. Will you take the commission?"

  I didn't like it, but I'd done missing identities before. I ei­ther got horrendously overpaid or underpaid. No one was ever satisfied. But, given the way the year was going, I could see mat I'd need the credits. "Yes."

  'The funds are on their way, Seignior Donne. Good day."

  Her holo projection vanished. The analysis suggested "Nancy" had been entirely virtie.

  Before I contacted anyone, I put Max to work on a search of Stella Strong, Maureen Gonne, and possible connections to the late Clinton Jefferson Wayles. Then I checked the in­comings. As "Nancy" had promised, I had received five thousand credits and an image that was more than a few years old. Stella—or Maureen—had been a student when the image had been caught. She'd been dark-haired, green-eyed, and somehow both petite and slighdy stocky. I doubted that she looked anything like that now.

  I also had information on both D'Azouza and Wayles.

  I began with what Max had uncovered and routed to me about D'Azouza. Despite his appearance, Donacyr D'Azouza had to be pushing his third century. That was pressing his genetic heritage, the limits of medicine, and anti-gathic therapies. Not to mention luck. According to his bio, he'd had a number of careers, including being an entrepre­neur in live thea
tre in Bresthavre, a furnishings designer with his own small corpentity, and a stipend stint in the Assembly IS, as a logistics officer. There were also large blocs of time unaccounted for. One problem was that I couldn't indepen-dendy verify most of the material in his accessible bio, only the theatre and furnishings stints, which were the most recent. That bothered me. Anyone who blotted out parts of his past that thoroughly on the public and media records had some­thing to hide. Or they hadn't ever been there. That almost cer­tainly meant that D'Azouza was an alter ego.

  The datafiat D'Azouza had sent was extensive. It in­cluded a good thirty images of a quiedy beautiful woman. In the pictures, her hair ranged from a tight-curled honey blond to a short and straight light brown. Her eyes were hazel in all of them, and her build was athletically feminine. In some, her chin was almost elfin, but in what I took to be later images, it was just enough wider to remove the faerie impression.

  The only name was Theresa McGerrie.

  There was also a short bio.

  I ran a check on it. The only item from the bio that matched with the records was a residence listing in South Bank from seven years ago, a single reference to a Terry McGerrie as an up-and-coming vid dramaturge—and credits for five full-length vidramas, die last in 1343. The name was a pseudo­nym ... but D'Azouza must have known that. Or had he?

  I could try. Besides ... there was something in those images...

  I sent the return code and decided to let what I'd learned stew in my subconscious while I reviewed the information on the other commission.

  Material on the late seignior Wayles was anything but scarce. Most of it was less than illuminating. He'd lived most of his life in the Bretegne region, although he had graduated from L'Institut Multitechnique. He had an engineering back­ground, but had clearly possessed great charm and significant powers of persuasion. His spouse had succeeded him, after a gap of some twenty years, as the regional governor. In fact, she still was. The two of them had succeeded in creating an economic and engineering climate that was lifting Vannes almost to the size and prestige of Thurene and past that of Avignes.

  The quick search revealed almost nothing on Vola Paulsky, except mat she had once created elaborate wish-fulfillment scenarios for an entertainment combine outside of Vannes before returning to the university for graduate studies in law. Relian Cru was listed as registered in Bresthavre, but with a privacy seal and no link codes.

  There was no information on Stella Strong, but a Mau­reen Gonne had been a resident of Thurene until two years ago. She had been a senior information expediter for the Thurenean Fashion Alliance. There were no images of her under her name and no other revealing information.

  I decided to start there.

  I vidlinked to TFA and got a talking head. Dark brunette with tight curls framing a narrow face. Not my type, even in a virtie. "Thurenean Fashion Alliance."

  "Maureen Gonne, please. This is Blaine Donne." I pulsed the short ID bloc through.

  There was the briefest pause before the virtie replied. "There's no one here by that name."

  "There used to be. Could I talk to whoever used to be her superior?"

  "One moment, Seignior Donne."

  The next image was that of an even-narrower-faced woman. Her hair was black, short, and plastered to her skull like paint. Black eyes and black brows against a pale face made me wonder if I wanted to see the next year's fashions. "Seignior Donne? How might I help you?"

  "I'm trying to locate a Maureen Gonne."

  "Maureen no longer works here."

  That meant she had. "She was an information expediter, wasn't she? What do those duties entail?" I couldn't ask directly where she'd gone, because they couldn't legally answer. They could volunteer information.

  "The position is the interface between the fashion media links and the Alliance. The best expediters understand what the linkers need before they ask."

  "I take it she was good, and that you'd have liked to have kept her."

  The woman frowned, slightly. "She was on her way to being very good. If she'd stayed, she could have gone up the in-house media ramp. She made a good impression. She was quiedy stylish."

  I called up the image I had. "This is what she looked like several years before she came to work at TEA. Did she look anything like that?"

  The woman laughed. "The eyes were the same, and she wasn't any taller." Another frown followed. After a moment, she nodded. "I can send you the image we have, because it was released in our annual report, and that's public."

  I caught the sense of the incoming, but concentrated on the woman. "How long was she with TEA?"

  "Not quite four years. I got the impression that was as much to boost her LS base as anything."

  "That doesn't sound as though she intended to make fashion a career." Not if her reasons were just to boost her lifetime stipend.

  "She was ambitious, but she was ..."

  "... trying to combine security and speed in getting where she wanted to go? Did she ever say what she might want to do before she left?"

  "No. She was more private than most. She gave the min­imum notice necessary to avoid maroonlight."

  "She didn't want anyone to know where she was going or call attention to it."

  "I couldn't help you there if I wanted to, Seignior Donne. All she left was a one-way coram drop, and it was an Assembly-wide access code that had a one-year expiration— just enough to meet the minimums."

  "Did she ever talk about family?"

  "All she said—that I know of—was that her father was dead and that her mother lived in a small town outside Vannes, Degaulle, I think ..."

  Max... search Vannes and the area around Degaullefor possible matches to Stella Strong, the Fort or Forte sur­name, possibly...

  Only possible match is Charlyse Forte... deceased 1349 C.D., noted mysticist and scholar. No known spouse, daugh­ter Astrid. .. born 1315 C.D.

  That might be a lead. I couldn't help but wonder if Charl-yse's death a year or so earlier had something to do with everything. "Did she ever mention her mother's name?"

  My question brought another frown.

  I waited.

  "I don't think she did. She did say once that her mother believed in the unbelievable." She gave me the polite clos­ing smile. "I'm sorry I can't help you further. Good day."

  After she broke the vidlink, I studied the TFA image. In it, Maureen was more slender. Her hair was a coppery blond that brought out the vivid green of her eyes. Her skin held a hint of bronze, and her nose was slighdy smaller. Except for the eyes, the impression was far different. Then I noted the caption—Maureen M. Gonne, senior information expediter, with Gregory Coole, Media Director. The date was 1349, probably just before she left TFA.

  Max... search for variations of Maureen Maud Gonne... and link to information specialties. Do the same for Astrid Forte...

  That might get me more.

  Next came Angelique deGritz—the purported contact at the bank. No one could make up a name like that. Not for a trust officer.

  I didn't use Nancy's contact link. Rather, I made a direct inquiry to the First Commerce Bank's trust section. "An­gelique deGritz."

  The switch to the talking head was instantaneous—a stat­uesque redhead with flashing green eyes. Her figure was any­thing but sylphlike. "Greetings. Please state your interest plainly and clearly so that I can look into it and get back to you. Thank you." The voice was melodic but in the way a muted trumpet was.

  Somehow, I didn't connect the ancient images of angels with this Angelique.

  I broke the vidlink and searched for Angelique deGritz. All the systems confirmed that there was an Angelique deGritz employed by the First Commerce Bank. There were more than enough of the trivial details to confirm that identity

  I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. Then I tried a return link for Dr. Ruckless. I actually got him.

  He had a narrow oval face and deep-set eyes under dark brown hair, straight and cut moderately short. "I be
lieve you contacted me, Seignior Donne. What can I do for you?"

  "I'm looking for information, and unbiased opinions, Doctor. I'm going to have to evaluate a presentation on con­sciousness research next week."

  "That's not my expertise." His voice was mild.

  "Not directly, but you're considered an expert trauma surgeon. According to the numbers I've run, close to twenty percent of all severe trauma cases have some impact on consciousness."

  Ruckless blinked. Then he offered a slow smile. "I'll give you points for reading at least some of my work. Exactly why do you want my views?"

  "As I said, I'm being asked to evaluate a proposal on con­sciousness research. The proposal requests significant re­search funds. Or so I've been led to believe. Every credit that goes to one form of research doesn't go to another. I have to recommend whether this is a good proposal. Any considered medical expertise is always useful."

  "I think I know about the proposal you're mentioning. That's all I know."

  "I see. What is your considered view about this kind of research?"

  Ruckless shrugged. "All well-designed medical research is useful. If the proposal is by the leading consciousness ex­pert, it will feature a well-designed program of research. Until the research is conducted, evaluated, and the proto­cols, procedures, and results are peer-reviewed, the value cannot be determined."

  "What about the comparative value of this field as com­pared to others?"

  "That has been a matter of controversy for centuries. The exact nature of consciousness still eludes medical science. There are a number of theories, but none have been conclu­sively proved or disproved."

  "You seem to be suggesting that such research remains... highly theoretical."

  "I'm suggesting nothing. I've given you the facts."

  "Do you think that what research gets greater funding is as much a function of the fund-raising ability of the re­searcher as the validity of the research itself?"

  Ruckless laughed. There was the slightest edge to his laughter. "That's always been true. There's no reason to suggest that will change." He shrugged again. "Sometimes, those with that gift are also great scientists. Certainly, some solid work has been done here on consciousness studies." He smiled. "I'm afraid that's really all I can say. As I men­tioned earlier, it's not my field."