Flash

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  So I stood in the September sunlight, waiting on the platform for the maglev. An older woman, older because her features were too fine and her clothes too tasteful for her to be young, stood five meters or so to the south of me. That there were only two of us waiting was to be expected in the middle of the day. At twenty before two, a flash of silver from the north preceded the local maglev, and in less than a minute, I was seated inside the shuttle, still thinking about the PowerSwift study results. There hadn't been that much variation in effectiveness in three years, almost as if Sokolof/Hays—they were the media advisers for P/S—had reached peak efficiency. I didn't know of any other prodplacing with greater effectiveness, but I was glad that it was their problem and not mine.

  The trip south was quiet and quick, and the woman who had gotten on with me got off at the Old Capitol station. More passengers—just a few—got on at every station on the outbound legs south to Castlepine. My stop was well short of that, and about a third of those in my car got off with me. The station gates flicked open as I stepped toward them, following a handful of young tech-types. The Centre was only about three long blocks west of the NorthTech station. Above the low roofs of the complex, as always, Mount Evans stood out, in the middle of the horizon, with but a few traces of early snow.

  The structure that held the Centre had to be over a century old, because the brick was the darkish red that marked the period, darkened further by time. Outside was a simple sign, loss than a meter in length and no more than a third in height, white bronze lettering standing out from the solid blackened bronze background. All it gave were four names—the Centre for Societal Research was at the bottom.

  I walked up the replica cobblestones, an anachronism that I wasn't about to call to Uy-Smythe's attention, and stepped inside the entry foyer. The guard inside was a virty. In his crisp uniform that would never need cleaning or pressing, he smiled warmly. "Might I ask your destination, sir?"

  "Director Tan Uy-Smythe at the Centre for Societal Research. I'm Jonat deVrai, and I have a two-thirty appointment."

  "Yes, sir. Let me check."

  After a moment, he said. "He's expecting you, Dr. deVrai. His office is on the upper level on the north end." With that, the stainless steel gate to his right—a gate that would have stopped a maglev at full acceleration— opened.

  "Thank you." Simulation or not, I still believed in manners. I also was impressed by the salutation. I didn't use "doctor," nor was it listed on my casual professional communications, but Uy-Smythe or his staff had tracked that down.

  The inside of the building had been modernized—with ramps and indirect high-impact, low-energy lighting—and I made my way up to the northwest corner. The outer office was paneled in white oak, a formulated reproduction, I was certain, but Uy-Smythe had a real receptionist, at least my age. Her smile was pleasant, her eyes wary.

  "Jonat deVrai." I offered my professional smile.

  "Dr. Uy-Smythe is expecting you, sir."

  Following her eyes and gesture I stepped into the corner office, also paneled, with a south wall comprised entirely of bookshelves, shelves that were filled with bound volumes. I'd wondered whether the holo background when Uy-Smythe had linked me had been projected or real. Now, I knew.

  "Dr. deVrai." He stood beside the conference table, and his voice was deeper in person, but he was smaller than I'd thought. I was a good head and a half taller, but I'm bigger than most people. That helps, as people have always known, but more than you'd think in a profession like mine.

  "Dr. Uy-Smythe." I inclined my head slightly. "You have a good location."

  "It suffices. We have half of the second level, and all of the below-ground levels. As in what we will be discussing with you, we contract out most of our studies. That way, we can get the best scholars and exports. It also keeps our fixed overhead much lower," He gestured to the form on the table. "We might as well get started. Why don't you read through it to see if it's acceptable." On one side of the table was a portable GIL verifier.

  I settled into the seat before the form, and he took the seat across the circular white oak table from me. I took my time reading the confidentiality agreement. I'd run across a few with real drop zones, but the wording was exactly what Uy-Smythe had promised. Any illegality, or any action in violation of any law, required either immediate redress or my release with 50 percent of the agreed-upon retainer. The straightforwardness of the agreement nagged at me, but business hadn't been what it could have been—it never was—and I authenticated it, GIL verification and all.

  Tan Uy-Smythe nodded and handed me my copy.

  "Now, what's the project?" I smiled.

  Uy-Smythe did not return the smile. He placed a datacube on the table. "The cube has the full scope of the project. In shorter terms, it's a study of political references in popular media entertainment, including news segments, and their relevance to current political issues before the Legislature, and an analysis of whether such references have a quantifiable effect."

  "No wonder you want a confidentiality agreement." I almost whistled. "Some politicians would claim you're investigating possible circumvention of the NorAm Political Practices Act."

  "You can see why this has to be handled most circumspectly. It is a most valid societal research issue," Uy-Smythe went on. "To what degree does popular entertainment affect politics? Can that effect be quantified? What ties exist between political campaigns and popular media? Are there quantifiable carryover effects? Could a candidate for public office employ those effects? Are any doing so? How effectively? We'd like you to study the scoping document, and then give us a proposal and budget. We'd like the proposal by the first of the week. We'll pay up to ten hours for the preparation of your proposal. And please put in your codes for fund-transfer."

  The timing and proposal funding told me even more than the description. I managed to keep smiling. "That's pushing it, but you'll have it on Monday. I won't say when on Monday."

  Uy-Smythe did smile at that. Then he stood. "If you have any questions, I'll be here every day except Friday. I'm doing a presentation in Lanta, but I'll be checking in with the office and gatekeeper."

  I pocketed the cube as I stood and bowed once more. "I'll be in touch."

  The maglev was far more crowded on the way back north, crowded enough that I was grateful to walk out of the Greenbelt South station into the open air to make my way back home.

  Once back in my home and office, I decided against checking the gatekeeper and slipped the datacube into the prescreener, first, just to make sure it contained no nasty surprises. The prescreener flashed green. With that, it was safe to let the system have the cube. The precis was exactly what Uy-Smythe had said. The details followed the same pattern— all aboveboard and valid societal concerns. For all that, the more I read, the more my stomach got tighter and tighter.

  Although every word, every phrase, and every suggested entertainment source and program was precise and carefully neutral, the bottom lines were clear enough: see if the prodplacings in the nets have political overtones. See if political candidates are circumventing the restrictions on such use. Neither was said anywhere. The closest was in several lines of the overview: "Political neutrality in all media and separation from commercial influences are the two keystones of the NorAm Political Practices Act, but whether either is observed in fact has never been satisfactorily proved or disproved."

  How exactly was I going to write a proposal, let alone conduct the study?

  I decided I needed a cup of Grey tea before going on—and before checking the gatekeeper to find out who had inlinked while I'd been out.

  While the electrokettle heated, I had to consider another aspect of Uy-Smythe's project. Before making a proposal, even one the client was paying for, it was a good idea to determine whether the client really wanted what he said he did or whether he wanted something to cover his rear—and his tracks—or whether he was hiring a demolition expert. I was betting on the second, but I definitely wanted to kno
w against whom whatever I discovered would be used. I wasn't about to go hunting multilateral dreadnoughts with the equivalent of a personal stunner.

  So, with a steaming mug of Grey tea in hand, I headed back to the office. There I sot up a series of search routines.

  While they were running, I called up the gatekeeper. Unlike some, I never put it on remote. The last thing I wanted to do was deal with one client on remote while I was working with another. Aliora had linked, doubtless to remind me once more about Thursday night, but had left no message. The same had been true of Reya. The last message had been from Miguel Elisar, the house counsel for Prius. What did he want? I hadn't done anything for his outfit for over a year, and I hadn't dealt with him at all.

  As I'd suspected, Methroy had inlinked twice. The man always seemed to pick the times when I wasn't there.

  I took a deep breath, then a sip of the Grey, before pushing the return link for Methroy. Best to get through with the worst first.

  Chapter 6

  Three men and two women sat around a teak table that was far older than their combined ages and associated with none of their direct cultural nor ethnic heritages. The indirect light that came from nowhere and everywhere revealed their faces with preternatural clarity. All had flawless complexions, unlined visages, but the fineness of features that came with medically well-preserved middle age.

  "Analysis shows that the use of the Carlisimo techniques will destabilize NorAm politics within a decade, and the effect will spill into Seasia and United Europe within twenty years. We'll be back into the same sort of unsettled politics that led to the Collapse, except it will happen faster." The dark-haired woman's voice was measured.

  "Are we sure?"

  "Nothing is absolutely certain, but it's not something we should gamble on."

  "When should we take a public stand on this?" The speaker was the youngest male, blond, blue-eyed, with an elfin chin.

  "The Pan-Social Trust never takes a stand until a public consensus develops and is clearly established. That ensures that everyone recognizes that we stand firmly on the side of the public." The momentary hint of a smile touched the second man's lips and vanished, but his dark eyes changed not at all, nor did the faintest hint of expression mar his smooth golden-brown skin.

  "How far do we let Carlisimo go?" The redheaded woman glanced to her left.

  "Farther than you'd like," replied the other woman. "We need proof of the dangers to come. It has to be proof that even the dullest nethead can see. Or the emptiest flash. Or the densest senator."

  "You can't prove abuse if there isn't any impact on the system. We'll have to let him run out the campaign and document it. That's why we've brought in the Centre."

  "What if he wins?" asked the youngest man.

  "We'll still hold the Senate. Let him posture. We'll have every problem with the Martians, PAMD, and the PD blamed on him and the PDs who don't understand the coming crisis. He won't be able to refute much. He'll be the prodplacement boy for campaign reform, just a political flash, and the Centre will ensure that the other thinkjars fall into line in opposing the techniques he's using."

  "Nice and clean."

  "And it has to stay that way," concluded the redhead.

  "On this level," added the blue-eyed man.

  The older golden-skinned man, and the man with steel-gray hair, who had spoken not at all, exchanged the most indirect of glances.

  The two women favored the blue-eyed and youngest male with level gazes. He dropped his eyes to the polished teak.

  Chapter 7

  Six o'clock on Thursday evening found me behind the stick of my classic 2210 Altimus—a totally impractical two-seater, with a speed capacity well over that allowed on the guideways of Denv, or in most of NorAm. Add in the transportation surtax, and the impracticality was monumental, but it was my only real luxury besides the house itself. The shimmer-silver finish held the concealed solar receptors that augmented the fuel cells, and I could have driven it halfway to either coast without refueling. Why anyone would want to visit a coast, especially the east coast, with the ocean rise damage still far from remediation, was another question.

  It took me almost forty minutes to drive to southeast Denv, mainly because I only took the guideway to get past westside. I liked the view from my house better, but my neighborhood was what people had taken to calling sariman, while Aliora and Dierk lived in the always fashionable Southhills. Once it had been called Cherry Hills, but the cherry trees had vanished centuries before. The wealth hadn't, and between them, Dierk and Aliora had more than enough. Their supposedly modest dwelling was five times the size of mine, and that didn't include the grounds.

  At quarter to seven, I pulled off Old Carriage Lane and onto the winding drive. I left the Altimus in the tree-screened carpark east of the swan pond and walked through the outdoor arboretum and up the shaded stone outdoor staircase to the outside rotunda where various chauffeured vehicles were delivering passengers. Another of Aliora's small dinners— twenty, I guessed, and a third of them would eventually be approached for a contribution to or a favor for the Health Policy Centre. Her official title was something like "Director of Outreach and Development." While she was very good at it, the family ties hadn't hurt, either.

  Aliora met me in the foyer just inside the double doors, doors with avant-modern stained-glass windows. The design was supposedly based on two nebulae visible only from the latest L-5 space telescope, but given the liberties taken by the artist, who could tell?

  "You still don't care for the nebula windows, do you?" She was wearing deep green, to match her eyes, almost the same shade as my shirt, but she avoided black, which I favored.

  I shrugged. "I'm old-fashioned. I like things to look like what they look like."

  "What's the fun in that?" asked Aliora.

  At the faintest sound of steps on the outside stone steps, I whirled, inadvertently. Sometimes, the Marine enhancements I wasn't supposed to still have betrayed me.

  Aliora turned as well, if far more slowly, and the frozen look on her face told me that she wouldn't remember that I'd heard, again, what unenhanced people couldn't. Her frozen expression vanished so quickly that no one else would have seen it.

  A couple had stepped into the foyer, both distinguished looking. I recognized them immediately—Everett Forster and his third wife, Bianca. What I also recognized through my enhancements, and what had stunned Aliora, was that Everett had not come in person, but as a cydroid. Most people couldn't tell the difference, except sometimes up close, but with the Marine and personal enhancements, it was obvious to me, even though I'd not seen that many cydroids. Aliora had an instinct for reading people—or cydroids—even without enhancements.

  Cydroiding was close to an insult at a private function. Cydroids were for public functions, where there was possible physical danger, or in cases where someone was physically incapacitated. Obviously, given the astronomical costs involved, cydroids were few indeed, although Denv, as the continental capital, certainly had a higher proportion than did most metroplexes.

  Aliora stepped forward, smile firmly in place. "Everett, Bianca ... how good of you to make the effort..."

  "Our apologies," offered Everett. "Deep apologies, but it was either come this way, or not at all."

  "Everett's being obscure," added Bianca. "Someone fired an old-fashioned missile at his limo Tuesday. He's fortunate even to be here by proxy."

  Bianca's word choice was interesting, because she hadn't mentioned PAMD. As the Director General of Unite, Everett had more than a few enemies. They just began with the hidden paramilitary Patriots. I could sense Aliora's internal ice melting. I eased out of the foyer, leaving her with the cydroid Forsters, as I caught sight of Dierk in the small library off the entry hall.

  He smiled as I stepped into the library.

  "Aliora said you'd been in Bozem."

  Dierk nodded. "Another tech-rec deal. District coordinator wants a cleanup of some old mining wastes, buried just be
fore the Collapse. They'd just injected beefed-up plastics. They've begun to fail, and all sorts of toxics are spreading into the water table."

  "Big contract?" That was a stupid question because Dierk's operation never dealt with little reclamation projects.

  "Moderate. I had to talk them out of a pilot project. Our methodology works. Over a hundred projects in the past ten years, and not a single failure. Pilots just waste time and credits. They'll try anything to hamper our profitability." He shook his head. "What are you working on?"

  "The same ... tracking and correlating the impacts of prodplacing for those clients who care. Mostly, household stuff or personal improvement and care prods. Discretionary spending."

  "Speaking of discretionary..." Dierk grinned. "I see that scar on your neck has finally vanished. Did you ever find out who she was?"

  It had vanished a year ago, if not longer. "You won't ever let me forget, will you? Almost two years, and you still remind me."

  "Jonat... what else can I needle you about? You have no vices, not that anyone's ever been able to find out, and you're almost always polite to everyone. Even Shioban didn't have an unkind word to say, except that it wouldn't have worked out. So when a linkplus beauty appears from nowhere at the opera intermission, throws her arms around you, then dumps champagne on your formal wear, and leaves a three inch gouge on your neck ... it is rather memorable." Dierk chuckled. "With all your analytical skills, you never found her?"