Flash

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  "How am I being misquoted?" Dierk smiled broadly as he moved toward us from the short hallway that led to the great room.

  "Children never misquote," I said. "They remember word for word. And they quote you when you least want to hear your own words." I looked down at Charis. "You're far more discreet than I ever was. Your mother can tell you that."

  "She won't," Dierk said dryly. "What can I get you to drink?"

  "Do you have that good pinot grigio?"

  "Yes. I thought you might want some." Dierk looked at his daughter. "Would you like the white or the red sparkling grape juice?"

  "I would like the white, Father. Thank you." Charis looked at me.

  I took her arm and escorted her down the hallway, across the polished pale green marble flooring and then down the three wide marble steps into the great room. It was a great room—an arched ceiling a good ten meters overhead, with a fountain in the center of the octagonal space roughly fifteen meters across. The floor was the same green marble, as were the columns that marked the end of each section of wall. The walls were wainscoted with walnut to the chair rail, and then there was warm cream plaster above that. Most of the floor was covered in oriental rugs, with designs in cream, blue, and green. I couldn't have begun to describe all the furniture, except it was dark walnut with a pale green silk fabric.

  Aliora was sitting on the love seat with Alan, all of five years old.

  "It's Charis's birthday ... that's why."

  The door chimed, and Dierk headed back toward the foyer. "That's Deidre and Rousel."

  They were his sister and her husband, and they would probably bring the twins. The dreadful duo, except I'd never said that out loud. I doubted that they'd bring the baby.

  Aliora grinned at me. "Charis said you'd wear one of the darker green shirts."

  "That's because she has good taste."

  Charis had enough discretion, even at nine, to say nothing.

  "You will spoil her, one way or another."

  "That's what uncles are for. You have to maintain discipline."

  "If you get married and have children," Charis said, "then can Mother spoil them?"

  Aliora and I both laughed.

  "Jonat!" called Rousel from the top of the steps. "You're the closest thing we have to a military expert. What do you think about it?"

  "Think about what? The Serenium mess?"

  "Haven't you heard? The NAR lofted a full-spread solar reflector and military laser into geosynch orbit directly over the ruins of Jerusalem. From there they can fry Mecca, Medina, and Karbala."

  "The new god of Jerusalem," I managed. A century before, who ever would have thought that Afrique would have turned into a continent of Christian fundamentalists, especially when religion in NorAm had become more and more an affect of the lower midders and servies? Of course, the Shiite Republics had earned the NAR's eternal enmity when they slagged most of Israel right after the Collapse of the Commonocracy.

  "They're saying that any effort to bring down the reflector or the laser will result in their turning it on the aggressor," Rousel continued. "Or that they'll use old-style nukes."

  "They won't call you back, will they?" asked Aliora.

  "Not a chance," I retorted. "I was released permanently six years ago, and, even if I hadn't been, there's not a general in NorAm who'd want me."

  "Jonat made himself most popular." Dierk slipped a goblet of the pinot grigio into my hand. "It happens when you're honest."

  I took a sip. It was as good as I'd remembered.

  "What will people do?" asked Deidre, a truly natural blonde like Dierk, except her eyes were brilliant blue, and Dierk's were gray. "Euro Corn and the Russe Republic, I mean?"

  "I'd worry more about the Shiite Republics," Dierk observed.

  "What do you think?" Aliora looked at me.

  I shrugged. "It doesn't matter what I think." I looked at Charis, seated properly in a chair to the left of the love seat that held Aliora and Alan. The birthday girl held a goblet of sparkling white grape juice. "We can't do anything, and it's this young lady's birthday."

  Rousel opened his mouth to protest.

  "Either World Space Command orders the reflector folded or blows them out of the sky, or they fry most of the Shiite sacred cities. Space-Corn will dither. Parts of cities will get torched, but not a lot, and everyone will wring their hands. And we still can't do anything." I lifted my goblet. "And as soon as everyone has something to drink, I'm going to propose a toast to the birthday girl."

  The faintest smile appeared at the corners of Charis's mouth.

  I couldn't do anything about the religious fanatics of the world. But I could see that they didn't dominate my niece's birthday.

  Chapter 14

  I straightened my tunic before I stepped into the general's office. I'd never worn the full dress blacks that much, not as a Marine commando with most of my time spent in the field.

  General Bankson was standing behind the dark ceremonial desk. "You requested an appointment, Colonel deVrai?"

  "Yes, sir. I appreciate your seeing me." I stepped forward, stiffened to attention, and then extended the envelope. "I have greatly appreciated my time in the Corps, and I wished to tell you that personally."

  General Bankson did not take the envelope. He looked at me, but I couldn't read the expression in his eyes.

  "In ten years, Colonel, you could be on the general staff. If you didn't wish that, in five, you could retire as a full colonel. Your record is impeccable, and your ability to inspire others is matched by very few officers. As an ascendent former colonel, you could name your ticket in multi security. Or in any other field. You'd still be a young man in this day and age."

  "Yes, sir. I understand that, sir."

  "You never said anything about the Reconstitution of Guyana, Colonel. Your tact and diplomacy were noted."

  "Thank you, sir. I tried to follow the code of the Corps."

  "You did indeed, Colonel." Bankson waited for me to withdraw the envelope.

  I did not.

  In time, he took it. "I wish you well, Colonel, in whatever you choose to do. I truly do."

  I could sense he meant those words, and it helped. Not enough, but it did take off some of the bitter edge.

  Through my enhancements, I could hear his murmured words as I left the office."... mistake ... thinks it's different in business ... waste of another good officer ... how many..."

  Maybe it was a mistake, but staying in the Corps after Liberia, after the SEAR mess, and after Guyana, that would have been a mistake as well. I kept walking down the long halls of the Annex, toward the security gate, steps echoing on the cold marble.

  Click ... click ... click...

  This time, it was the absolute stillness of the bedroom that woke me.

  In darkness and silence I sat up, covered in sweat.

  Had it all been a mistake? Should I have stayed in the Marines, tried to do what I could from within? Tried to fight the political and multi pressures on the Corps?

  Or would I have been sent on more and more difficult missions, all aimed at ensuring the continued economic worldwide domination of the NorAm multis? How many Marines would have died? How many messages would I have sent to families, to spouses, praising dead Marines for their dedication to the Corps? Hard as those messages were, they would have been easier than accepting the purposes to which the Corps had been turned.

  I hadn't been able to see how I could have changed things then ... and I still couldn't.

  Wide awake, I checked the time. Three-forty in the morning. I eased out of bed and to my feet, then stripped off the short pajamas. Even in winter, they were short. The damp ones went into the hamper in the closet, and I pulled on a dry pair.

  Then I walked from my room down the dark hallway to the kitchen. I poured myself a tall glass of ice water and began to sip it. I padded into the breakfast room and stood in front of the bay window, looking into the darkness, sipping the cold water, and feeling myself cool down
.

  I had the flashbacks to Liberia and Guyana the most often, but it had been months, if not almost a year, since I'd had the dream—or flashback— about submitting my resignation.

  Maybe the general had been right. I wasn't sure I'd ever know. But I still had trouble reconciling the fact that somatin was legal, and poured billions of credits into PHC's and AVia's coffers, while caak, which accomplished the same pharmacokinetic effects with fewer and less severe side effects, but was organic and couldn't be synthesized, was illegal in NorAm. And I didn't see why Guyanan growers couldn't produce soyl to compete with Senda's and Sante's synthoil. Or why the Marines had to kill already starving Guyanan farmers for the benefit of NorAm multis.

  Yet... what was I doing?

  Taking the multis' credits for economic analyses of products most midders didn't need, or of products that were grossly overpriced and valued. All I could claim was that I wasn't killing people ... and I wasn't sure that was really enough.

  No wonder I still had flashbacks.

  I took another long swallow of water and kept looking out the bay window into the darkness, thinking about the world in which I lived.

  According to All-News, a team of CorPak commandos had seized the NAR reflector and turned its focus on Algiers. Within hours, the so-called president of NAR had been toppled by another of the innumerable coups, and the new president was promising an era of better relations with the Middle East.

  What no one mentioned was exactly how commandos working for MultiCor, under ISS's CorPak banner, had reached the reflector and power concentrators in orbit without being detected. Did MultiCor have that kind of military presence? I doubted it, and that meant that either the NorAm Navy—or the Marines—had provided transport and suppression.

  From what I could see, matters had gotten worse since I'd resigned.

  I kept looking into the darkness, sipping water, and after a time, I was cool enough to head back to bed. To sleep, if I could. To try not to think too much about decisions that had made little difference, if I couldn't find the temporary amnesia of sleep.

  Chapter 15

  Monday I was scrambling to finish up everything that couldn't wait. During the morning, I ran through another draft of the SCFA presentation, and then left it. By letting it sit for a few days, I'd have a better perspective when I returned on Saturday. Then I got another mug of tea and settled in for more work on the Centre study.

  Lynia Palmero, RezLine, the gatekeeper announced.

  Accept.

  Lynia was about my age, blonde and thin of face, but at that moment she looked ten years older, and there was a darkness behind her eyes.

  "Lynia ... are you all right?" I didn't mean to blurt out the words.

  She offered a short bark of a laugh. "I've been better."

  "I'm sorry..."

  "Don't be. I'm calling about the study ... and a few other things."

  "Go ahead..."

  "There's no way to be gentle. Sanson said he wouldn't accept any study by you, and it didn't matter that we had a contract or what anyone else in RezLine said."

  "And?"

  "And what?" Lynia looked tired, beaten-down.

  "You wouldn't look like hell over that. You'd he sorry and apologetic. You'd tell me I'd done a good job, or if I hadn't, that it was clear I'd worked hard. The study didn't get you in trouble, did it?"

  "We got into a ... conflicted position ... It was more like a fight. Sanson's head is always where he can't see. I tried to point out that what he and Vorhees wanted to do would just waste credits. He disputed that. I called on your study, and even the opinion of our own comptroller. Sanson told me that I was in over my head, I understood nothing, and that from now on I'd be reporting to Alvan."

  "Wait... Alvan's your assistant. You hired him only a year ago, right out of Southern."

  "I'm leaving. Even if I fought and kept my position, and my advocate says I'd probably win, there's no way I could work with that ass. He'll bankrupt the company, or at least our division, with unnecessary fees and promos fed to Vorhees, but no one's listening. I can't keep fighting this battle."

  "I'm sorry ... I didn't mean..."

  "You offered an honest analysis about something we shouldn't do. It has to be honest, because you'd get years of work if you'd said that we should go for prodplacing. Any consultant who recommends against something that would funnel credits to him is offering his best judgment, and that's another point lost on Sanson."

  "Do you know why?"

  She smiled wearily. "We both know why. Vorhees. But that's all I can say. Remember, the Privacy Acts apply to multi communications, and I am on the RezLine link."

  I nodded.

  "I put through an authorization for half the fee. I can do that under the contract, but that's all that I can do."

  "I'm sorry." I realized I'd said that for the third time, but I didn't know what else to say.

  "It wasn't your fault, Jonat. Sooner or later, it would have come to this."

  Lynia was probably right. It often did when Vorhees was involved.

  "Do you want me to link anyone ... about positions, I mean?"

  "I haven't thought about it, not yet. I appreciate the offer, and I'll let you know."

  "Is there anything else I can do?"

  "I'll have to let you know about that, too." The tired smile reappeared. "That's all, Jonat. I'll talk to you later."

  After she delinked, I'd thought that I'd have time to get back to the prep-work for the Carlisimo trip, but the gatekeeper flashed Bruce Fuller, H F Associates.

  Accept. Bruce was the genial head of a regional NorAm multi that handled more limited prodplacing for close to twenty producers. I wondered what he had in mind.

  "Jonat... How's my favorite consultant?" Bruce had a round face and the friendly smile of a beloved cousin. His hair was white-blond, and he always seemed to be standing where the light turned it into a halo.

  "Consulting." I grinned. "What do you need?"

  "I've got a problem, and I think you could help."

  "What sort of problem?" I managed to keep smiling.

  "We have a small multi that wants to do prodplacing in a high-profile show. I'll send you all the particulars. Even I can tell that this won't work, but they don't believe me. Can you gin up a study that shows what sort of penetration it takes for prodplacement to be cost-effective?"

  "You want a study that says they shouldn't use your services?"

  "We already handle their accounting and other infrastructure requirements. If they do this, they'll go under, and we'll have nothing. Call it enlightened self-interest."

  Enlightened self-interest I could understand. "How good a study? How intensive?"

  "We were looking at a once-over, say twenty hours?"

  "I could probably keep it close to that, but I'll have to see the data before I could commit."

  "That's fine. You'll look at it and send a confirmation of twenty or an estimate of what it would take? If it's twenty or less, go ahead."

  "I'll look at it."

  "Transmitting now." Bruce gave me another friendly smile. "Be talking to you."

  Before I could respond, he was gone, and the data was coming in.

  My tea was cold, and I headed to the kitchen to get another mug—hot.

  When I got back, I'd gotten everything Bruce had sent. I set up another client file and began to study the information. In a way, the situation was both ironic and predictably coincidental. Until the RezLine account, I hadn't dealt with any of what I called preventive analyses in over a year, and suddenly, within weeks of each other, I had two, and from two different clients.

  Putting aside the coincidence, I got to work on sketching out a framework for the analysis Bruce wanted, so that I could figure out what it would cost. I'd barely gotten started when the gatekeeper announced, Chelsa Glynn, AKRA.

  I'd never heard of her, although I vaguely recalled that AKRA was primarily into nanobiologics, linked to education. Accept.

  C
helsa Glynn was a tall woman with incredibly curly russet hair, a strong nose that stopped just short of being aquiline, and cheerful brown eyes. "Dr. Jonat deVrai?"

  "Yes? I'm Jonat."

  "I'm Chelsa, and I'm the director of Peer Communications for AKRA..."

  Peer Communications? What was that?

  "That means I get together experts whose knowledge might seem peripheral to what we do, but is not."

  I nodded, wondering how what I did could even be peripheral to a nanobiologicals multi.

  "I understand that your work consists of a mathematical approach to measuring feedback from rez-effects applied on worldlink and net presentations."

  "That's basically true," I admitted, "although that's a slight oversimplification."

  "AKRA will be hosting a symposium on subthreshold perceptual education here in Denv in mid-January, and we would like to invite you to be a member of one of the panels. The honorarium is modest, but you'd also have the opportunity to have a technical article printed or reprinted, as you choose, in the proceedings of the symposium..."

  It sounded like Peer Communications might be legalized insights and idea theft, but it wouldn't hurt to agree in principle. "It sounds interesting, but I'd have to know a little more..."

  "Of course. I'll send you the entire package, but I do hope you can join us. Oh ... and, we'll need a bio from you, and a brief background on your business and position."

  In short, I'd also get exposure among people who might want my services. "I do hope it will work out, but I'll have to look at the information you send." I offered an encouraging smile.

  "It's on the way, Dr. deVrai, and I do appreciate your time." With another smile, she broke the link.

  Chelsa Glynn was as good as her word. Almost before I'd settled back in the ergochair, the information was in my system. The honorarium wasn't too modest—a thousand credits—and a forum for getting out the background information on my work couldn't hurt my future earnings.

  All in all, it figured. Just as I was getting ready to leave Denv for West Tejas, new work and possibilities appeared, and no consultant I knew could afford not to act on them. So it looked like a late night ahead. That was better than an early evening with poor earnings prospects, but somehow there never seemed to be much balance. I was either scrambling to find work, or swamped.