The Elysium Commission

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  "Next projection."

  "Did you ever discover who sent the military flitter to do recon on Time's End the other night?"

  "Javerr did some checking. There was no record from ACS of any flitters headed northeast out of Thurene. Our systems had it coming due east. There's a SpecOps base east of Vannes, and it'd be a straight flight from there. The maneuvers were SpecOps, according to the analysis."

  "Special Operations? They're not supposed to be operat­ing planetside."

  "Doesn't matter. They didn't get inside, and the outside scan they did won't tell them anything."

  "No, but they still shouldn't be planetside."

  "You want to tell them, Maraniss?"

  I didn't, but in three weeks it wouldn't matter, not when I would have fostered the golden white light of Elysium and veiled the man-shaped galaxy that had spawned and rejected me.

  23

  Those who do not see money as a tool but as an objective, will soon find themselves its tool.

  It had taken some effort, but by late midafternoon on Lunen, I'd found Tony's groundcar in the restricted parking area for bank officials. I hadn't been able to get that close, but I'd used an airbolt projector to dust it with nanosnoops, placed so that some would sift inside when the doors were open. I was assuming that the vehicle parked in the space marked for the VICE DIRECTOR, E&L, was his. The carpark was beneath the pseudogranite, faux-classical structure that housed the bank. The public section was on a different level, but I just walked down a ramp.

  To any snoops or onlookers, I would have appeared curi­ous. I just pointed at one vehicle, then turned away. The projector was hidden in my sleeve.

  Then I walked briskly up the pedestrian ramps and through the main entrance to Banque de L'Ouest, guarded by two virties and a virtie receptionist. The guard images were symbolic of the nanobarriers that blocked unautho­rized entrance to the Banque's business offices.

  "Blaine Donne to see Antonio diVeau."

  "One moment, ser." The virtie receptionist smiled warmly. Her brown eyes were supposed to show trust. They just looked flat to me.

  As she checked, I looked past her image. The decor was a cross between brass rococo and green marble, with hand-painted replicas of ancient Old Earth French pastoral oils. The walls were paneled in dark pseudocherry. The handful of desks in the open area held young-looking men and women in severe gray suits and pin-striped shirts. The only color was modestly colored scarves for the women and fine-striped ties for the men. I hadn't seen such a living montage of antiquity in years.

  "It will be a few minutes, ser. Would you like a seat in the waiting area?" The virtie gestured to a period love seat against the wall just past her console desk.

  "Thank you." I settled myself in to wait. I let my implants scan the energy flows. I was careful not to attempt to crack them. The temptation was strong because they were as ob­solete as the decor and about as effective.

  None of the pin-striped young bankers looked at me. All appeared fixated on the vid-holos before them. I had no idea what they were doing and less interest in learning. I waited almost fifteen minutes.

  "Seignior Donne, Directeur diVeau will see you now. His office is the second door on the left."

  Directeur? That usage had gone out with the decor. Ex­cept in Banque de L'Ouest, I gathered. "Thank you." I stood and walked to the second door. I opened it, stepped inside, and closed it. The office beyond was small, no more than three and a half meters square.

  Tony diVeau stood after I closed the door. He had an oval and round, friendly face, a short, muscular neck, broad shoulders and a heavy torso emphasized by a gray pin­striped suit jacket that was a shade too small. His smile was the warm and welcoming type perfected by all effective bankers since the creation of banks. His hair was brown, of moderate length, and slightly wavy.

  "Blaine ... I thought I wasn't going to hear from you." Tony gestured to the straight-backed chair across from the unnecessary cherry desk with its equally unnecessary drawers. "I hoped you would. Can I count on you for that cataract trip to Pays du Sud in Novem ..."

  'There are reasons for that." I didn't sit down. I offered a smile meant to be furtive. 'Tony ... I need a moment of your time."

  "You can have all the time you need, Blaine."

  "If you'd just take a walk with me. Just across to the plaza or around the block."

  The barest hint of puzzlement flickered in his eyes. Then they went blank, as he linked to the bank's comm system. I could sense the energy flows. Again, I refrained from at­tempting to eavesdrop on the link. Even so, I caught some of it through the leakage of a sloppy system.

  "... need to take a walk with a client... not more than half a stan ..."

  Tony's smile returned. "If it makes you feel more com­fortable, we can certainly do that." He stepped from behind the desk.

  I let him lead the way out of the office and past the un­seen security barriers. We crossed the lightiy traveled Rue de Paix and began a stroll around the statue of the second Soror Prima. I'd never learned her name. That kind of his­tory didn't appeal to me.

  "What did you want to talk about, Blaine? I can guess it's not about cataract trips." He laughed heartily. "A credit line ... some sort of... special financial arrangement?"

  "You make those sorts of arrangements?" I tried to let just a hint of tentativeness enter my voice.

  "We try to be helpful to everyone." Tony smiled more broadly.

  "I'm not in the entertainment and leisure lines."

  "If it's something I can't handle, Blaine, I'll make sure you get someone who can."

  I nodded. "I'm curious ... about... how this sort of thing is structured. I assume the interest is tied to... risk."

  "That's the usual way."

  "So ... if it's an unusual business, say, like the Classic Escort Service, you look at the risks?" I laughed. "I don't imagine that's all that risky. It's an old line of business."

  There was the slightest pause. "It's a legitimate form of entertainment. We assess it like any other. What did you have in mind?"

  "How well do you know Legaar Eloi?"

  Tony laughed, genially. "No one knows the Elois, not even their bankers."

  "You're in the entertainment sector, and you're vice di­rector. Don't tell me you haven't met them."

  He shrugged his wide, almost beefy shoulders. "I wouldn't say that Directeur Eloi has always been most businesslike."

  "How long have you been dealing with him?"

  Tony stopped and looked sidewise at me. "I don't think I ever said I had been. His manner's always been busi­nesslike, even at receptions."

  "I've heard that." Tony had still confirmed that he knew Legaar on a more-than-casual basis. "Do you know who first bankrolled him?"

  "There are all sorts of rumors." Tony laughed again, but there was a nervous edge to the sound. "I wouldn't believe them. We certainly didn't."

  "There are more than a few. Like the fact that he has peo­ple spy and snoop for him. Or that top people who aren't suc­cessful disappear." I laughed again. "I'd thought about getting into a competing business, but talking to you, Tony, tells me that it's not a good idea I'd just want to disappear people who did those sorts of things, and that just creates problems." I smiled. "It's been good talking to you. I thought you'd be just like you are. And I appreciated the cataract offer, but I'm bet­ter at other things than swimming." I stopped and smiled again. 'Take care, Tony, You've got a good family."

  "Blaine ..." He almost made my name sound like an ex­pletive.

  "Let's leave it at that, Tony. I don't like snoops dumped on me, and you don't want trouble."

  Before he could say more, I turned and walked away. I had my implants on full, but we were in a publicly moni­tored space. Tony wasn't stupid.

  I walked back to my own groundcar. I couldn't help but think how much Tony reminded me of Lawrence Luchesi in The Financiers. The satire-drama had been ridiculous. Yet I could still smile at the idea of bankers with selectively ada
pted vampiritic and shark tissue implants. That idea had been around since the first Clone Conflicts back on Old Earth. It had almost been more satirized than the absurdity of intelligent design.

  Once in my groundcar, I tapped into the snoops I'd planted on and around Tony. Then I started back toward the villa. I was almost there before the first signals came back.

  "... who does he think he is ... just walk in and pressure me ... see how he likes being squeezed ..."

  Those remarks cut off. I was pulling into the garage when the signals resumed.

  "Ser Daglione ... it's a pleasure to hear from you. Yes, I know I linked you. It's about your line of credit... oh, we certainly do want to work with you, but there is a certain risk to the kinds of transactions you specialize in ... we have to take that into account when we set the rate ... I might be able to come down a bit... you've been a good customer... we're limited. There are certain guidelines set by the sisters, and we can't do much about them... Yes, I know ..."

  Tony went on for another ten minutes before he broke the link. I could tell he was doing something, but it was , nonverbal.

  Abruptly, he began to speak, his voice low.

  "Pass it on... Blaine Donne. This guy Donne is onto something. He's fishing, and he knows where I stand. How? I don't know. No... a meeting won't do any good. He might even be watching and tailing me. That's one of the things he does. I said ... just pass it on."

  Another silence followed.

  "... ought to take care of him .. . threaten me ... even veiled..."

  Tony's remarks validated my earlier opinion of him and my suspicions of his links to Legaar Eloi. Again, I had no usable proof, not the kind I could take to the Garda or the justiciary. That didn't make the connection less real.

  24

  Too often, predators forget they are also prey.

  By the time I got to my study on Marten morning, all my snoops on Tony had expired or been swept. His mutterings and the verbal sides of his vidlinks hadn't revealed more than what I'd already suspected. They also hadn't led to anything of a firm and provable nature.

  I hadn't discovered that much more on Sephaniah Dylan-Zimmer, either. I'd found additional publications, citations of her work by other scholars, and more published research, but the professor led a very private life. That was understandable. It wasn't helpful.

  I had a few minutes before I had to leave for Dyorr's presentation to the Devantan Humanitas Foundation. I could only try the direct approach. I used the vidlink.

  This time the talking head was wearing dark green. The color was more becoming. It also showed a sophisticated programming.

  "You've reached my office at the university. As you may know, I'll be on sabbatical until Triem and will be unavail­able until then. Messages will not be forwarded unless they are of an urgent nature, and that requires contact with the university administration."

  After those words, the image froze in place.

  Messages not being forwarded strongly suggested that she was out-system somewhere. Doing research on Old Earth? I linked to the administration vid-codes. After a good minute,

  I got another virtie. This one was synth rather than replica. She was politely clean-looking and blond.

  "I'm looking for someone who can authorize an urgent message to Professor Dylan-Zimmer."

  Almost immediately another face appeared. Unlined, but narrow and severe under hair too dark for her pale skin. "I'm Subprovost Harras. You indicated an urgent message for Professor Dylan-Zimmer."

  "Blaine Donne. I've been trying to reach Professor Dylan-Zimmer, but all I've gotten is a message that she's on sabbatical and won't be back for another three months."

  "I'm sorry, Ser Donne. That's all I can really tell you."

  "When did she leave? That's not a secret, I assume."

  The severe-faced woman did not answer.

  "How long is the minimum standard sabbatical? That can't be confidential."

  "Six months." Even those words came out distastefully.

  "Thank you. Then the woman who met me last week here in Thurene, claiming to be her, was unlikely to have been."

  "That would have been impossible. Do you have a mes­sage?"

  "No. I was just trying to verify an identity. You've been most helpful. Thank you."

  "Is that all?"

  "It is, thank you."

  "Good day, Ser Donne."

  The projected image vanished. I leaned back in my chair. Had Odilia known?

  After a moment, I tried a vidlink to the princesse.

  She actually appeared. She was wearing dark crimson, not maroon, with a wide black belt that emphasized her im­possibly narrow waist.

  "Blaine ... I only have a moment..."

  "I just had a question. How well do you know Sephaniah Dylan-Zimmer?"

  Odilia frowned. "Not that well at all. I only see her at the opera, and that's only once or twice a year. I understand an occasional appearance at the opera is her one luxury. I like

  her work, but we're not really even acquaintances. In per­son, she's very different from professionally. I like the pro­fessional side, not the personal side."

  "I just found out that she's been on sabbatical for more than two months. Out-system."

  "That can't be. We saw her..."

  "We saw someone ... It wasn't her."

  "I'm rather late, Blaine dear. I'll have to think about that." She blew me a kiss, and the image went blank.

  I collapsed my projection.

  How much did Odilia know? I thought she'd looked sur­prised for the faintest instant. Stunned, almost. But had that been at my revelation? Or at the deception of the false Sepha­niah? That also assumed that the "opera" Sephaniah had been false. But why would a professor intimate she was off-planet, then flaunt herself at the opera? That verged on false representation and dishonesty. Professors had lost their po­sitions for far less. Even tenured ones.

  Yet...

  I shook my head. I'd have to let my subconscious rumi­nate on that. In the meantime, I had to get moving.

  I barely made it to the large conference room at Banque du Sud by quarter to eleven.

  There were guards, both with low-porosity nanite shields, and stunners. They looked at me.

  "Blaine Donne. I'm a consultant, here at the request of Seigniora Tozzi."

  "ID confirmation, ser?"

  I flashed the codes, and the small scanner studied me. The skeptical expressions were replaced with ones of boredom.

  "You're cleared, ser. Observers in the last row, please."

  The aide standing beside the guards handed me a booklet and a datafiat. "Here are the briefing materials, Seignior Donne."

  "Thank you."

  The conference room was of moderate size, perhaps twelve meters wide and ten deep, hi the front was a low dais with a podium set on die left Below the dais were rows of chairs.

  I had the last row almost to myself. I sat on the far right end. That way I had some chance of at least catching pro­files of those in the rows closer to the front. There were two others in back with me. One was a muscular woman verg­ing on stockiness and the other a youngish-looking media linker. Neither looked in my direction.

  Dr. Dyorr stood on one side of the dais, beside the podium, talking quietly to a woman I'd never seen. Dr. Marie Tozzi sat in the first row of chairs on the far left-hand side. Her eyes were not on Dyorr, but on a striking brunette. The brunette was obviously an assistant to an older man in a dark suit because he would turn and tell her something be­fore resuming his conversation with another woman.

  I didn't try to read everything in the booklet, but I did skim through it very quickly before turning my attention to the various individuals. Not counting Dr. Tozzi, there were nine people in the center of the first row of seats, with four or five empty chairs on each side. About half of those in the first row had assistants in the second row. No one was in the third row. The fourth row was where I was.

  The distinguished man with the striking assistant
stood. "For those of you who don't know me, I'm Pietr vonGaro-dyn, the chairman of the Humanitas Board. The only busi­ness at this meeting is to hear a presentation by the distinguished Dr. Guillaume Richard Dyorr, the director of consciousness programs at the Medical College of LTnsti-tut Multitechnique. I won't belabor his credentials ..."

  Unfortunately, vonGarodyn then proceeded to state all the professional background on Dyorr. It was all in the handouts, but that didn't seem to matter.

  While he talked, I watched. Just as Dr. Tozzi watched the brunette, a petite blond woman studied Marie Annette, if not so obviously. She was also an observer, at the far end of the row. I hadn't noticed her initially, but she was more than passingly pretty.

  Eventually, Dyorr took the podium. He paused, not rush­ing. Then he spoke. His voice was a pleasant but not striking baritone. "I would like to thank the Board members, and in­deed everyone here, for being kind and gracious enough to afford the Medical College the opportunity to present this proposal." He smiled. "Consciousness has been termed the last great area of medical uncertainty. It most definitely is. It is, or it represents, a combination of physiological and men­tal processes so involved and intricate that it has yet to be understood or replicated outside the construct of a human brain. Yet, after all these centuries and all the planets we have occupied and transformed, we cannot define or repli­cate the very process that has made our history as a species possible. To gain a greater understanding of this physiologi­cal miracle is the goal of the research proposed..."

  The presentation lasted exactly twenty-one minutes, al­most to the second.

  During the entire time, not a single Board member looked away from Dyorr. Tozzi looked mostly at them rather than Dyorr.

  There were no questions.

  Then Pietr vonGarodyn stood again. "At this time, we would like to request that all those who are not sitting mem­bers of the Board leave."

  Marie Annette joined the personal assistants and those of us classed as observers in leaving the room. Dyorr re­mained behind.