“Find the Marmora,” he said, “and my life will have counted for something.”
He sounded like Kile Tripley.
Like Emily, now that she thought of it.
Maybe like herself.
10
Men are so slow-witted and give themselves so easily to the desires of the moment that he who will deceive will always find a willing victim.
—NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI, The Prince, II, 1513 C.E.
Kile’s widowed mother, Sara Tripley Baines, lived in Eagle Point now, had lived there at the time of the event. A search turned up several hits and a couple of recent pictures: She liked to dress formally, and was quite striking even by the heightened standards of the age. Her bearing demonstrated that she was fully aware of her charms.
Sara was the president of an architectural club which annually awarded a prize for best executed design for a public building. She was on the board of directors of Tupla University, and she remained an active participant in competitive gymnastics. Kim watched a VR of her appearance at a benefit dinner where she tried to persuade the attendees to back a building project. Her delivery was a trifle stodgy, Kim thought, but dreadfully sincere.
Kim consulted the directory for her number, picked up one of the Institute’s virtual projectors, and went to a public booth to ensure she could not be connected to the call. She selected a model from the projector’s inventory, a tall, redheaded, aristocratic woman, and then punched in Sara’s number, audio only, which was, of course, correct practice when calling a stranger.
The house AI answered.
“Hello,” said Kim. “This is Kay Braddock calling. I’d like to speak with Sara Baines, please?”
“May I ask what your business is with Mrs. Baines?”
Kim hesitated. “I’m working on a book about the Severin Valley,” she said. “I understand she was an eyewitness to the Mount Hope event, and I wondered whether she would be willing to spare a few minutes to provide some details.”
The AI asked her to wait, and Kim squirmed. First bribery, now this. What was going to be next? Burglary?
She recognized Sara’s voice. “Kay Braddock?” she said, with perfect diction. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of you.”
“I’m probably not well known,” said Kim. “Mrs. Baines, I appreciate your talking to me.”
Kim’s visual signal lit up. An image of the aristocratic redhead had just appeared in front of Sara. “Why did you choose me?” Sara asked.
“I watched you speak to the Tupla alumni last year about the expansion project. You seemed to be very observant, and very concerned about the welfare and history of the community.”
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s kind of you.” Sara blinked into view. She was seated in a gray Polynex chair, with a black cat coiled in her lap. She was tall, clear-eyed, no-nonsense, accustomed to being in charge, but pleased at the possibility of appearing in a book. “What kind of book are you writing? It’s hard to see what anyone could add to the material that’s already been assembled about Mount Hope.”
“A woman’s perspective. I’m interested in the long-term effects of the disaster on the families of the victims.”
“Oh,” she said. And there was a catch in her voice, which did nothing to assuage Kim’s rising sense of guilt. “I can tell you about that.” She cautioned Kim that she had not actually been an eyewitness, that she’d flown down immediately after the event, arriving while the fires were still burning. She described those first hours in general terms, the agony she’d witnessed, the bodies, the hysteria, the sheer empty-eyed shock. She avoided describing her own emotions while facing the increasing probability that her son had been lost.
“Yes,” she said, “I knew Kile was back. He called me from the house. In the past, he’d usually spent a few days in Terminal City after completing a flight. He’d get together with people from the Foundation to review the mission. And probably to celebrate a little bit. That’s how he was. He liked people, and he had a lot of friends. Pity he didn’t do it this time; he wouldn’t have been there when the mountain blew up.”
“You went first to your son’s home?” Kim asked.
“Of course.”
“Had it been damaged?”
“There was some water damage. They were wetting everything down. But other than that, no. The villa came through intact.”
“But it was empty?”
“Oh yes.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He was gone. Poor Kile. They never did find him.” Her eyes clouded. “His flyer was gone too. He must have been in the air, somewhere near the explosion. He used to do that, fly up into the mountains to relax.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Baines.” Kim watched her check her blouse, looking for something to adjust. The blouse was green, embroidered with a white design suggesting musical notes. Quite pretty, really.
“It’s all right. It’s been a long time.” She dabbed her eyes.
For the first time in her adult life, Kim saw that she was being cruel. But she pressed ahead. “I wonder if you’d care to tell me what you were thinking, and feeling, when you first went into the villa.”
“I’m sure you can guess, Ms. Braddock.”
“You were frightened.”
“Of course.”
“Did you find anything that suggested where he might have gone?”
“No.”
“Anything unusual at all?”
Sara shot her a suspicious glance. “No,” she said. “Considering what was happening outside, the villa was quite normal. Save that my son was missing.”
“This was how long after the explosion?”
“Two hours, I guess. No more than that. Emergency teams were still arriving.” She paused, shook her head. “These things happen,” she said. “He was a good son. He had a lot to offer.”
“Mrs. Baines, did you notice whether he’d left any notes or records about the mission? Anything that would help—” She stumbled, unsure how to proceed.
Sara’s face hardened. “—I’ve heard all the rumors, Ms. Braddock. I can assure you if anything out of the ordinary had happened out there, I’d have been first to know. There was nothing connected with the flight in the house. At least nothing that I saw. No records. No visuals. Nothing.”
“I see.”
“I’m glad you do.” She had recognized Kim’s ulterior purpose, but she hadn’t really taken offense. “When it was over I tried to sell the villa. But I was asking for too much in the beginning, and the chance to get rid of it passed. After a while I couldn’t give it away. Eventually I donated it to a religious group. I understand they still hold the title. Waiting for the valley to come back, I suppose.”
“You must have salvaged his belongings.”
“His books. A few other things. I gave some of the furniture away. But I left most of it.” She grew pensive. “There was a sculpture of a couple of hawks that I knew Mara would like—”
“Mara?”
“Benton’s mother. And I kept a lamp. I’d given it to Kile for his birthday. And a set of bookends and a model starship for Ben.”
“The Valiant,” Kim said.
“Yes. How did you know?”
Kim smiled as a wild thought struck her. Why would anybody manufacture a model of a starship and forget to include the propulsion tubes? Was it possible that Tripley had taken a set of visuals of a strange spacecraft? Had used the visuals to build a scaled-down replica? It would be a delicious irony if Tripley was sitting there with the big secret propped up on his bookshelf, staring him in the face. “I have a passing acquaintance with Ben,” she said sympathetically. “I know the model meant a lot to him.”
“Yes.” Sara’s eyes were wet. “That’s really all there was. Not much left out of a lifetime.”
Kim wanted to ask flat out whether she’d seen any evidence that Yoshi had been there, any indication of a woman staying at the villa. But she could think of no way to do it without alienating her. Sara would not have admitted to any such thing anyhow.
“Thank you, Mrs. Baines,” she said at last.
“What’s the title going to be?” Sara asked.
“Of what?”
“Of your book?”
“Oh.” She thought it over. “Aftermath.”
“You will be sure to send me a copy, won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Kim. “I’ll be pleased to do that.”
The National Archives was located at Kaydon Center in Salonika, the capital of the Republic, in the lake country 120 kilometers west of Seabright. Salonika was a trophy city, a showplace of skywalks and fountains and marble monuments commemorating the history of Greenway. Here was George Patkin proclaiming the birth of the Republic. And there was Millicent Hodge turning the first batch of salmon loose into what would later be known as Lake Makor. And in Liberty Green, the onetime astronomer Shepard Pappadopoulo, for whom Kim’s household intelligence was named, launches a missile against Henry Hox, the dictator’s son, at the battle of the Twin Rivers.
The Archives was a long, two-story utilitarian structure, fronted by a mall and a reflecting pool. The pool was surrounded by spruce trees. Walkways curved through the manicured grounds, and broad marble steps led up to the main entrance, which was guarded by a statue of Erik Kaydon, the first premier.
Kim sighed and looked once again at the picture of her target. Manville Plymouth, Assistant Commissioner for Transportation Records. Since Plymouth knew Solly, it was up to her to do the dirty work.
She was wearing a silver wig and contact lenses to change her eye color.
At the end of the day, he always comes out through Freedom Hall, Solly had told her. Solly had looked uncomfortable during the preparations, had used the term obsessed several times. Had urged her to think about what she was doing. Had suggested she think of their careers, both of which were being put at risk. Had even threatened to walk away from it all. That would have left her without much chance of success, and he knew that. In the end, when he was convinced that she’d try no matter what, he’d stuck with her.
Freedom Hall was actually the structure’s central rotunda. Here were the great documents of the Republic: the Instrument of Individual Rights, which denied the absolute power of Gregory Hox, the fourth and last in the line of dictators; the Articles of Governance, which established the mechanisms of government and defined the rights and duties of citizens; Joseph Albright’s Statement at Canbury, which, in the darkest days of the revolution, gave new fire to the rebels.
There were numerous other journals, letters, diaries, and artifacts from the 327 year history of the Republic: Stanfield welcoming Brodeur when Earth lifted its century-long embargo; Amahl’s handwritten notes detailing the sacrifices of the doctors at Dubois; the captain’s logs from the Regal, the Republic’s first interstellar vessel.
Kim casually circled the gallery, pretending to study the objects in the illuminated cases.
The Hall, Solly had said, was the only place in the building where they have serious security. Surveillance here was round-the-clock. But the routine nongovernment records were kept in the east wing. They’d never had any kind of problem, so they didn’t worry much about thieves. But you have to get into it. And to do that, a scanner has to identify your DNA and then approve admission.
That was where Manville Plymouth came in.
She waited only a few minutes before the man himself appeared from the east wing and entered the Hall. He closed the door behind him and walked briskly across the rotunda, glancing neither right nor left. She checked her picture again to be sure, and fell in behind him, following him out onto Republic Avenue.
Plymouth was a fitness nut. He went every day, seven days a week, to an athletic center called the Blockhouse.
She followed him through the fading sunlight. The area was filled with public buildings, city hall, the courthouse, the licensing commission, the board of trade, the national legislature, the National Art Gallery. Plymouth moved swiftly, and his long legs gobbled up the ground. Kim had to hurry to keep up. Once she glimpsed Solly standing unobtrusively beside a tree.
But Plymouth wasn’t heading in the right direction. He was walking north, away from the Blockhouse, up one avenue, across a park, past a fountain. Eventually he turned into a clothing store. Moments later he came out with a plastic bag, and stopped again to buy something at an electronics outlet.
Plymouth’s muscles rippled while he walked. He was big, in a world full of big people, with an extraordinarily narrow waist and wide shoulders. Once he glanced back, and she pretended to be gazing into the treetops. Then he was moving again, this time walking south, past the Klackner Museum, where he turned onto a long pathway that led directly through a patch of wood to the Blockhouse. Reassured, she now dropped back and stayed discreetly out of sight.
Despite its name, the structure was flared and curved, three stories high in front, lower in back, with a lot of dark glass. A dozen wide steps led up to a portico. Plymouth took them two at a time and disappeared inside.
She strolled casually in behind him. He was gone, into the men’s locker room. But she was reasonably sure she knew his ultimate destination.
There were probably twenty people in the women’s area, changing clothes and showering. Kim claimed a locker, picked up a towel, switched into a gym suit, and, following Solly’s instructions, went into the Total Workout section. There were a dozen people of both sexes using the machines. Plymouth was not one of them.
She did a few knee-bends to loosen up while she waited. Presently he emerged in shorts and a pullover, with a towel draped around his neck. He glanced at her and she smiled, inviting his approach.
“Hello,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“First time. Thought I’d try it.”
“It’s a good spot.” He offered his hand. “Name’s Mike.” She knew he didn’t like Manville, and never used it.
“Hello, Mike,” she said, taking the hand. “Kay Braddock.”
“You new to the area, Kay?” They picked a couple of the duroflexes and climbed onto the tables.
“Just moved in. From Terminal City.”
“You’ll like Salonika,” he said. “It’s a good cultural city. There’s lots to do here. It’s a little less commercial—” He hesitated, suddenly worried that he might be giving offense, but he’d gone too far to back off. “—Less commercial than most other places.”
She understood he’d intended to say than Terminal City. Not too quick on his feet, this guy. Just as well. She reassured him, set the timer for twenty minutes, and climbed on board. If he was still in the duroflex when the time expired, she’d simply extend it.
The machine adjusted to her dimensions. Coils settled around her wrists and ankles. Pads pressed against thighs and buttocks.
“Do you do this regularly?” he called over to her. It was difficult to carry a conversation while the machine was in operation, but he wasn’t going to be discouraged.
The duroflex began to move, gently at first, tugging at arms and legs, rolling her shoulders, squeezing her knees, massaging her buttocks.
“Yes,” she said. “I like to work out.”
Kim listened to occasional remarks about theaters and museums, how he’d come to Salonika at the end of the war, had found a home, and wouldn’t live anywhere else, and how good the weather was. Eventually he got around to inviting her out to dinner. “There’s a great place on the lakefront—”
He was likable enough for her to overcome her prejudice against bureaucrats, notwithstanding the fact that she was one herself. And he did have a modicum of charm.
“Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.” Yes. Dinner would not be a major sacrifice. That satisfied him and he quieted, surrendering himself to the machine.
So did Kim.
The duroflex gradually picked up the tempo. It stretched whole groups of muscles and ran a series of sit-ups at a reasonably fast pace. It chimed to warn her of a change in routine and then she was touching her toes.
She just
rode with it for the most part, eyes closed, relaxed, feeling the glow that comes with moderate exercise. Kim was not an enthusiast of the machines; she preferred to get her exercise the old-fashioned way, but this system did indeed have its advantages. It was almost possible to sleep while you did push-ups.
It went on until she began to ache. Sensing her discomfort, it slowed somewhat, but not enough. Then she was aware that Plymouth’s machine had stopped. He was climbing down, covered with sweat, wiping his head and neck with his towel. “Meet you in the lobby?” he asked.
The device was putting her through a series of knee-bends. It wasn’t conducive to maintaining her dignity, or even at this point to getting out an intelligible answer. So they both laughed, and he glanced at her timer, which still showed six minutes. She nodded. She’d be there as soon as the system shut down and she’d changed.
“That’s good.” He tossed the towel in a bin, offered her a broad smile, and strode out of the room. As soon as he was gone, she hit the STOP button. The duroflex coasted to a halt and released her.
She would have preferred to lie quietly in the mechanism and wait for her back and shoulders to stop hurting. But there was no time for that. She climbed down and limped over to the bin, trying to look casual. The room had emptied somewhat and none of the three or four people rocking back and forth in the devices seemed to be paying any attention to her. She held her towel over the bin, retrieved Plymouth’s, and dropped hers.
Ten minutes later, she handed a container to Solly in the lobby and then turned back to wait for her date.
By evening’s end she felt uncomfortable about taking advantage of Mike Plymouth.
The restaurant he selected was a quaint little bistro called The Wicket. It had a lovely view of a lake and hills. It was all candlelight and soft music and logs on the fire. The food was good, the wine flowed freely, and Mike exhibited a wistfulness that first surprised her and then captured her imagination.
Born on Pacifica, he’d been in the war.
Infinity Beach Page 15