Even before he fell, I'd fired the second dart—the nonlethal one—at the other man, a somewhat softer-looking and smaller fellow. He just looked at me unbelievingly before toppling forward.
After replacing the slingshot in the racket case, I stepped out of the court and closed the court door behind me, careful to close the shutter so that no one would immediately look inside. Then I walked along the front of the courts, out through the locker room and out to the carpark.
Clubs usually didn't note the cars, not by plates, and I'd have to chance that.
As I drove back southward, I was angry. Not remorseful, not feeling guilty, but angry. I hadn't wanted to kill Alistar. I hadn't wanted to kill anyone. I was having to bend and break the law just in order to survive, and to stay alive, not only for myself, but for Charis and Alan. I'd reported something like three direct attacks on me, and the safos, and even Central Four—now Minerva—hadn't been able to do anything. My DNA had been stolen, altered, and shaped into a weapon used to kill my sister and her husband. MultiCor had been in the process of shipping lethal neuralwhips—allowed under a technicality—to kill Martian protesters, and so far as I could tell, once more, nothing much had happened.
I very much had the feeling that PAMD hadn't killed Everett Forster, but that MultiCor/PST had, although I certainly had no evidence for that, and no plausible motivation. Just my feelings, but they were doing better than hard evidence at the moment.
More than a few people knew what MultiCor and the PST group were doing, and yet nothing ... not one thing had happened.
Yet... if I ever got caught for trying to defend myself in the only way that seemed practical, I had no illusions about what would happen to me. None at all. And it made me angry—not red rage, but ice-cold fury.
I was halfway back to the Southhills house before I calmed down enough to restore the link to Minerva.
Jonat... you cut off the link. Again. You're behaving suspiciously.
I certainly am. That's because I'm a suspicious character. I'm suspicious about everyone. I still have no idea why people want to kill me, but it's clear that they do. I'm not sure what the economic analysis will do, but I'm working on it.
Keep working on it. It might distract people from what you've really been doing.
I didn't pursue that. She either knew or she didn't, and I had to believe that all she had was probabilities, and I'd already learned that those didn't count in the administration of justice or the prosecution of law.
It was just before three when I got back to Southhills. I even had time to remove the hair spray and face coloration without hurrying before I picked up Charis and Alan.
Chapter 78
Mydra, Ghamel, Escher, and Deng sat around a circular conference table in a windowless room on the eighth floor of the ISS headquarters building.
"I assume that everyone has heard," Deng said slowly. "Alistar died of heart failure yesterday. He was playing racquetball."
"That seems ... unusual," ventured Escher.
"He was murdered. His companion suffered nervous prostration. Both collapses were most likely induced."
"Do we bring this to the attention of the safos?" asked Ghamel.
"They are investigating, but preliminary results are inconclusive. Unless someone comes forward with physical evidence, the verdict will be heart failure from an undetermined cause."
"Who managed this?" asked Ghamel. "Do you know?"
"The most likely candidate is deVrai," Mydra replied, "but no one matching his description was anywhere nearby, not according to the Club scanners. There was someone his approximate size, but none of the physical features matched. Not even close. Also, the weapon used is unknown, and probably from a government source. We've verified that deVrai is not associated with any black operations. That leaves any one of a number of people with such contacts who disliked Alistar, and there are more than a few who do."
"That may be," Deng conceded. "Someone knew Alistar's habits. There was a link to the Club from a Dimitri Oskrow. The return code was the main ISS exchange here at headquarters. Oskrow does not exist. The voiceprints were coded as well."
"That indicates a professional approach." Escher nodded.
"Vorhees is dead, and now Alistar," Ghamel said flatly.
"Vorhees was shot by his mistress, and I'd have to say that I'm not surprised she hadn't done it years before," Mydra said, her tone contemptuous. "Alistar ... you know how impatient he was, and how impossible. Maybe it was someone's husband. Or a rival at NEN."
"What about deVrai?" asked Ghamel, looking toward Mydra. "You said something about him weeks back."
"I had worried about deVrai," Mydra observed. "But this was set up, and it appears as though it had been planned, even well in advance. It took special equipment that we haven't seen deVrai use. At the same time, I still think we should just let the deVrai matter drop ... at least for several months. Let Kemal know that if anything happens to deVrai until we give the word, we'll drop on him."
"Why? We might as well just get deVrai out of the way," snapped Ghamel.
"I could ask the same," countered Mydra. "Why now? DeVrai is trying to hang on to his family, to rebuild his consulting business ... and you think he's got time to plan all these ... occurrences, much less carry them out? The safos know that he's been attacked several times, and they can't pin it anywhere. But they're looking. We don't control enough of the Safety Office to make sure they look away from us. Didn't that raid on ISS prove that? Why tempt fate right now?" She paused. "What about Meara?"
"Not long now," answered Escher. "The other sources of ... embarrassment ... have been taken care of."
"Good. We can't get on with the Mars operation until that's taken care of. Garos has vetted the central systems. There's nothing there now. Once Crosslin gets the campaign reform amendments passed, we can start working on the framework for the next elections. Those and the outsystem controls are key. DeVrai can wait until everyone's forgotten. Those can't."
"Mydra has a point there," Escher observed. "DeVrai hasn't contacted the Sinese since his contract with them was completed. He hasn't talked to Uy-Smythe. He hasn't made any more reports to the Safety Office."
"We can wait on deVrai," Deng concluded. "For our part. If Kemal wants to try again, we should not stand in his way."
"That could get nasty," Mydra pointed out.
"That is between Alistar, Kemal, and deVrai." Deng's voice was as hard and as smooth as cold polished iron. "We still need an alternative strategy to give BLN a way to stir up more unrest in Serenium."
"What about cheapening the mix in the formulators?"
"Or increasing the waiting time for routine meds?"
Mydra smiled politely, but did not offer a strategy as she listened.
Chapter 79
Friday was very quiet. Not a word from Reya, Methroy, or anyone else I'd contacted over the past week. I did get a confirmation that the fee from the latest H F project had been paid, and that looked like the last income for a while to come. There wasn't even a mention of Alistar's death in any of the news reports. That was normal, since deaths from natural causes usually weren't reported, except in the case of well-known figures, and Alistar wasn't anywhere near that well-known.
Surprisingly, Jackie Ramset had little to say about Alistar's death.
"... that cendie wanted deVrai dead ... died of a heart attack..."
"See? See what all that high livin' gets you. Just as dead as a dumb northside punk."
"So what do I do now?"
"I already put in a word to the big fellow. Says to lay off for a day or two. Has to think about it. He'll get back to me ... You get on and deal with Ramires ... giving you vapor ... bringing in two-three gees a week..."
"I'll take care of it this afternoon."
"You better."
That meant I had a few days' grace, maybe more, but I'd have to keep a close ear on the westside boys—along with everything else.
In the meantime, I got back t
o work on the MultiCor economic analysis, based on the figures I shouldn't have had. The more I got into it, the more I understood what Minerva had in mind. It was clear that no one had ever been allowed to analyze those figures and report on them. Reading between the lines told me that Mars was being run just one step above a twentieth century Russian penal outpost. The amount of unreported profit was staggering.
Where exactly did these numbers come from? One of the Legislature's committees?
They might have.
So ... let me guess. Your AI compatriot or someone like Carlisimo knows the numbers are wrong, but he's bound by programming or classification not to release them.
Have you finished the analysis?
Something like this can't be done overnight, or even in a few days. If I work hard and everything comes together, I might have a passible product by early next week.
Finishing it might be a good idea.
Before something else happens? What else could happen? As soon as I said those words, I realized they were stupid. All sorts of nasty events could occur.
Captain Garos has completed removing all references and indirect leads to MultiCor and ISS. He has avoided those officers with independent integrity as much as possible. One officer who had been suspended for inappropriate actions was released on personal recognizance and died from a hit-and-run accident under suspicious circumstances.
What you're saying is that the Safety Office is also under attack?
The probabilities are high and rising incrementally every day.
An analysis is going to stop that?
Not by itself, but it is key.
I didn't get any more out of Minerva, and I didn't push too hard. After all, she could have asked me some embarrassing questions as well. So I spent the day working on the economics, and setting things up so that they looked impartial, while making the point that MultiCor was robbing the Legislature blind. There are ways to do that, and I'd used all of them in the past, but I was even more restrained in what I was setting up. That way, the charts and graphs might actually get to the media before someone realized the full import of what I'd done. I doubted that most of the politicians would see through it, although they had some sharp staff members who might, but that was fine, too, because if enough staff saw the charts no one could keep them hidden.
After three, before I headed out to pick up Charis and Alan, I tried to link Paula at my house. Surprise of surprises ... she was there, wearing a gray safo uniform. She smiled.
"Jonat. I just got here. They let us off early today."
"I've been trying to reach you."
"I know."
"Would you like to have lunch with us tomorrow?"
"I ... hadn't thought about it."
"We can drive up there and get you."
"No, Jonat. I couldn't make you do that."
"You can't afford to drive down here, not on a junior safo's pay."
"I'll come, but only if I can take the maglev."
"Then we'll be waiting. Just take the direct line to Cherry Creek. That's quicker. Well all go out to lunch at the Shire Inn. Say, eleven-thirty at Cherry Creek. If you catch the eleven-ten, that should be plenty of time. But we'll wait if we get there first."
"I..." Paula shrugged. "I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything. Just come and enjoy lunch."
"What do I wear? I've never been there."
"For lunch ... anything tasteful. People wear everything from slacks and shorts to coats and cravats or business suits or dresses."
"For your sake, Jonat, I will try to be tasteful."
"Anything you wear will be tasteful."
"That's not likely. Outside of uniforms, servies, and women of dubious character, my experience in clothing is limited."
"You'll be fine." I tried to reassure her even as I took in her words, realizing that there were doubtless areas where her experience was indeed limited, or limited to learned and imparted knowledge.
"I'd better be." She smiled. "If I'm to be ready tomorrow, I need to go."
"We'll see you then." I did want to see her. I knew that. Was it because we'd already shared more of a meaningful nature than I had with anyone else in years—except for Minerva, of course. And I still wasn't sure how much of each was within the other. What were they to each other? Mother and daughter? Sisters? Did I want to know?
I took a moment to make a reservation at the Shire Inn for noon, but I was very punctual and was waiting at the Academy, in line with all the parents and others reclaiming children. I was even near the front of the queue.
Alan got the front seat. He gave me a brief smile. "Dr. Trevalyn says we're going to be animals in the mountains next week. I want to be a big-horned sheep. A big ram."
"Being a bird is more fun," Charis added from the backseat.
"I like the way the rams climb the rocks," Alan said.
"Birds are better."
I could see where that was headed, even before I pulled out of the Academy's long circular drive. "Oh ... Charis, tonight, when you practice, you're going to play both the pieces you're working on for me, and you're going to explain why you're playing them the way you are."
She looked almost horror-stricken. "Uncle Jonat..."
"If you can't do things in front of people, you can't really do them. I have to present my work to all sorts of people. But I won't say anything. That's Madame Castro's job."
Charis looked only slightly relieved.
"After your lesson tomorrow, we're going to pick up Officer Athene at the maglev station and all go out to lunch at the Shire Inn. That's a reward for everyone."
"You do like her." Charis looked at Alan. "I told you so."
"She's a girl," Alan said.
What that had to do with anything I wasn't sure. "She's had a hard week of training, and she doesn't make many credits, and she is taking care of my house."
"Our house is your house, sort of," Charis said.
"No. It's your house. I'm here to take care of you two and it."
"I'm glad you're here, Uncle Jonat," Alan said. "Brendan had to go live with his grandmother, and she's old. She's sixty."
I just hoped that Alan changed his mind about what was old over the next fifteen years or so.
Chapter 80
Marlon walked toward the reporting screen at Antoinette's, his steps slowing as he neared the screen. He held the thin servie unit in his hands. He stopped short of the screen and looked blankly at it, then at the floor. "Can't... can't do this ... not no more..."
"Marlon?"
Marlon did not look at the screen from which the voice came. Instead, out of a gaunt face, his deep-set eyes looked down at the persona projection unit.
"Are you ready to report, Marlon?" inquired the impersonally warm baritone voice of Central Four.
Marlon looked up to the reporting screen, at the concerned male safo who returned Marlon's gaze with one politely sympathetic.
Abruptly, Marlon lifted the persona unit, and then hurled it to the floor. "Can't keep ... can't... won't."
"Marlon, you are good..." began the voice of Central Four.
"No one gonna make me ... not gonna turn my brains inside out... threaten ... not me ... you 'n everyone else ... Do this ... do it this way, otherwise you go Mars ... Do that..." Marlon's voice rose into a near shriek, then dropped away.
"Marlon..."
"No ... don't talk at me..." The young man's right hand darted to his trouser pocket. He pulled out an ancient slimline slug-thrower. The first shot went through the screen. Then he jammed the weapon against his temple and pulled the trigger a second time.
His lifeless body pitched onto the shimmering gray tile floor of the adviser's lounge.
Central Four watched from the hidden receptors, and from behind those links, I also watched, a former Central Four, knowing that better words might have helped.
Learning has a high price at times.
Chapter 81
On Friday night,
I'd worked late on the MultiCor analysis, and I'd gotten up early on Saturday and put in another hour before fixing breakfast for everyone and straightening up the house. Only then did I use the exercise equipment and finally get cleaned up.
After Charis's piano lesson on Saturday morning, before she left, Madame Castro turned to me. "She has practiced. I can tell the difference."
I certainly hoped so. It seemed to me that even a single week of solid practice had helped, but the test, as in anything, would be how matters went in the months and years ahead. "We're working on it."
"He's working on it." Charis's words were so low that I would not have caught them without my enhancements.
Once Madame Castro had departed, I turned to Charis. "I heard that, young woman. And I am working on it. I'm working on it because you are talented, because it's a valuable talent, because you need practice at a disciplined art, and because your mother expected it of you, and so do I."
Charis swallowed, then abruptly turned and ran for the stairs.
I'd probably laid it on too heavy with the reference to Aliora, but what I'd said was true. Aliora had felt that Charis had musical talent, and she had wanted Charis to develop it. I knew enough to know that the next few years were critical. Besides, music developed the brain more thoroughly and evenly. In another two years or so, it would be Alan's turn.
For some reason, the thought flashed through my mind that I couldn't see Deidre and Rousel being firm enough to encourage that talent. Then I laughed quietly. Already, I was into parental self-justification. I turned to Alan, standing in the archway to the great room. "Go get your coat and tell your sister to get hers. We're going out to lunch, remember?"
"Yes, Uncle Jonat." He scurried away.
"... don't want to go to lunch..." Those were the words I heard from the upstairs landing.
"Charis!"
"... not fair..."
"It's time to go," I called up the stairs.
Alan was the first one down. He'd fastened his coat at an angle, and I refastened it. By then, Charis had blotted her eyes, and they were mostly clear by the time she reached the bottom of the steps.
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