The Elysium Commission (14 page)

“What would be an example of a transactional transformation?”

“The movement from credit based on present earnings as the basis for repayment to future earnings eventually to credit based on projected changes in personally-linked asset values.”

In practical terms, those sounded like merely different methods of assessing ability to repay. “Wouldn't it have been a greater transactional transformation when people moved from using existing assets to purchase capital goods to credit itself?”

“Of course. Of course, but that was merely the first step in a series of transformations basing credit-worthiness assessment more on future reality than upon past reality…”

I listened. I did wonder how “future reality” could possibly be more reliable than past reality, since the past had happened, and the future hadn't. That was like worshipping gods of a marketplace that hadn't been built who promised beautiful things that hadn't yet been created.

Siendra smiled faintly, and I had the sense she was as bored as I was. I didn't need a lecture upon the shadows of finance and transactions.

Galyanna and Deiphne returned with goblets refreshed and refilled, and Markus turned toward them.

I stepped back, slightly.

As Markus began to declaim to the other couple, I eased back to the sideboard in the parlor and refilled my goblet. Half-full, this time. I almost didn't notice Siendra's approach. “You're always so quiet, Siendra. I suppose that's part of what makes you so effective.”

“That only works if you have a partner like Krij. Quiet by itself can leave you ignored or a target.”

“Because people mistake quiet for vulnerability?” I gestured toward the wines.

“Some do. The smarter ones don't.” The faintest hint of a smile came and went. “The primitiva grigio, if you would.”

I poured her a third of a goblet. Then I asked, “Have you ever heard of something called Elysium, connected to either Judeon Maraniss or Legaar Eloi?”

Siendra's brow furrowed slightly as she concentrated. “Maraniss…he's a civic patterner, or he was. I think he gave a lecture some years back, something on designing the ideal city and culture. He radiated arrogance.” The frown vanished. “That's all I know about him. Krij may know more than I do about the Elois. The financial and operations sides, anyway.” An expression between cynicism and amusement flitted across her lips. “That's not a business that needs our services. We're both grateful we don't have to decline their credits.”

“I can imagine.”

“Blaine, Siendra.” Krij appeared almost beside us. “If you'd head toward the dining room, brunch is ready.”

I was hungry, I realized, as I walked beside Siendra toward the dining room that lay behind the study. Markus and the other couple were already seating themselves at the table that could not have held more than eight. Not comfortably.

Warm fall sunlight angled through the skylight. It gave the dining room a lightness that contrasted with the dark wood of the table and chairs.

My place was between Krij and Galyanna.

I knew who I'd be talking to for the duration of the meal, and that was more than all right with me. I wouldn't have minded talking to Siendra either, quiet as she was. Even so, during the meal itself, I enjoyed talking to Krij. We didn't discuss anything particularly important. It was a relief not having to be on guard all the time. Even so, I still couldn't help but fret about what had probably happened to Lemmy.

After the apple tart dessert and coffee and tea, the samer couple left first. Not long after that Markus and Siendra departed. Siendra wished me well, quietly.

I stayed for another stan, then drove back to the villa and went back to work on my commissions.

I tried to contact Lemmy. The system continued to tell me that a link was impossible because of technical impediments.

With some reluctance, I started in on the material about Tony diVeau. There was a great deal that mentioned him in passing, with the emphasis on Banque de L'Ouest. None of that revealed much about Tony. The professional and personal information available in public files was much more limited. He'd gotten an advanced degree in finance from the College of Business at Dartmoor Institute. After graduation, he'd left the southern hemisphere for good and come to Thurene. He started with the First Commerce Bank. Once he'd married Lylette duParc, he'd been offered the position of assistant vice director at Banque de L'Ouest. That wasn't surprising. Her father was the senior managing director. Tony and Lylette had two children, and she was a curator at the Musée Toklas.

Tony deserved a very personal visit—at the bank, and I needed to contact Sephaniah as well, but at the university. I couldn't do either on an end-day.

I tried a search for what amounted to immediate point-to-point transportation. The only systems were variations on Hawking wormholes, jumpshift generators, and other interstellar systems. There were no references—even theoretical ones—to such a system that would work in a gravity well.

So I spent the rest of the afternoon working on special indirect search routines. That was because the direct searches hadn't worked in the slightest in obtaining any additional information.

The north end of Thurene holds the River Crescent, with its mosques and markets. There is brass hammered in the ancient fashion, for those who believe that those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat it. There is also brass nanoformed into intricate lace patterns for those who believe that history is bunk, and for them the future is always different and now.

The wind always swirled out of the north in the River Crescent, but it was colder and harsher this night. Even the unlit waters of the Nouvelle Seine showed small whitecaps beyond the three piers that held dhows, tied fast to bollards carved with curved and intricate symbols praising the only God. Despite the wind, the perfume of cooking oil and roasting fowl and lamb permeated the streets and alleys. It wasn't unpleasant, merely pervasive.

In my shadow grays, I eased down the stone alley. Beyond the gray-green sandstone walls to the right lay the back wall of the weavers' market. There I had found rugs of all types, including the artisan quality Sacrestan that I had given to my sister. Among the dross one could find great artistry, surprisingly often, because what was popular in the salons of the palacios and villas of Thurene had little to do with excellence.

Why was I in the River Crescent, where no sane outsider ventured in the late evening?

I deferred that question, my senses and implants alert. I was seeking someone in trouble, anyone in real difficulty.

From the weavers' market I slipped westward along Falange Way, two blocks back from the river. From there I followed another unnamed alley back toward the Nouvelle Seine, slowing as I sensed someone ahead.

An old man walked slowly along the side of the alley with the narrow sidewalk. In the dimness I could see the thin silver-gray of his hair above the gray-and-black woolen poncho-cape draped over his stooped frame. Old age fell more heavily upon those in the ethnic areas such as the River Crescent and western hill barrios. They lacked the resources to hold age at bay. Some also felt that there was a vague obscenity in seemingly eternal youth, particularly as displayed by the aristos of Thurene. But then, much of what was displayed by the aristos in any society was vaguely obscene, if not more so.

The old man stepped around a cart chained to a faux wrought-iron grill. Ahead of him, a small girl sat huddled on the stone curb where the alley intersected a narrow way. She was bathed in the dim light of an antique streetlamp.

“Little girl…are you all right?” His voice didn't sound that old, despite his stooped frame.

She did not respond.

I could sense the youths in the alleyway ahead, and I could hear whispers. The old man should have as well.

“Are you feeling well?” He touched the girl's blanket with his walking stick. The stick went through the holo projection.

At that moment, the seven youths charged from behind a stone stoop just up the narrow way. The old man did not attempt to flee as they encircled him. The image of the small girl vanished.

I waited. I had a feeling that all was not as it appeared.

“You want to help us, don't you, old man?” The leader of the group stood slightly forward. He wore a pseudo gold-mesh jacket over maroon leather trousers that were form-fitting down to the knee and broadly flared below above matching maroon boots. The others were attired in the same style. Two were muscular girls with hair cut even shorter than that of the young men. All had black hair streaked with luminescent gold.

“The Garda will see what you're doing,” suggested the man.

“No, they won't. We're feeding a false holo over a shroud.”

That rang true enough. It didn't seem to bother the chosen victim.

“What do you want?”

“Just some entertainment, old man. And your creds.”

That was another difference in River Crescent. Many of the inhabitants still carried actual credits. They distrusted the banking system. They also didn't want the sisters to know what transactions took place between whom. That's been a universal constant since the first staters or shekels…or whatever…were minted.

“Entertainment?” There was no puzzlement in the man's voice. There should have been.

“You're going to dance for us. You fall down, and we'll use these to help you up.” A long wooden wand appeared in the leader's hand. Similar wands appeared in the hands of the others.

The old man straightened. An electrolash flashed in his hand, taking the place of the walking stick. A flare of light appeared, and one of the youths went down. Another charged the man, but the lash struck her in the chest. She screamed, then convulsed.

I forced myself to wait until all seven were down. That took only moments.

The old man began to repeat using the lash, starting with the leader.

The youngsters probably deserved what they were getting, but those on the stone pavement would be dead before long at the intensity their would-be victim had programmed into the lash.

“Enough.” My voice carried. “They've had enough.”

The man turned. Behind the plastiflesh, I could sense the rage. And the fact that he was neither old nor young. That was before the electrolash flew toward me.

I dove forward into a forward roll. Most people make the mistake of trying to escape a lash, but a lash can extend itself far more easily than it can retract into close quarters. I came out of the roll almost chest to chest with him, for the moment it took to knock the weapon out of his hand.

His other hand went for the belt knife, but I kneed him and palmed his chin. Hard. Then I snapped the knife out of the sheath. He went down on top of the gang leader, who was beginning to twitch.

I followed the energy trails to the shroud unit and projector, set at the base of the stoop where the seven had waited. Not exactly the magnificent seven. I crushed the equipment with my boot, then walked back to the pile of bodies and hoisted the pseudo-old man to his feet.

“Come along. You really don't want to be found here when the Garda arrives.”

For the first time, he looked at me. Not that he could really see my face, not with the shadows that accompany me.

He shuddered. “Are you…?”

“No.” I kept him walking until we were on the street that bordered the river. “You're on your own from here on in.”

Behind us I could sense the approaching Garda flitter. It would be a remote. They always were in the ethnic areas.

I turned and hurried westward, leaving the man standing there.

Even in the River Crescent, nothing was quite as it seemed. Just like everything else in Thurene.

For me, in the shadows, so much was clearer than in the bright illumination of Thurene. The city's brilliance concealed so much more than it revealed. Was that why I took refuge in doing what I could in the shadows?

First thing on Lunen morning—after my workout—I made an appointment, under a misleading name and false pretenses, to meet with Angelique deGritz early in the afternoon. Then I went back to working on my three commissions. This time I began to access my network of contacts and acquaintances—those I could reach.

I started with Shannon at the Garda.

“Colonel…”

“What are you up to now, Donne?” Flat brown eyes glared at me from under his jutting brow. Why he'd kept the residual ape-brows I had to wonder.

“Just asking around. Trying to locate people. Either a Maureen Gonne or a Terrie McGerrie. You know either?”

“I'm happy to say that I don't. Why are you asking?”

“Lost relations. One's an heiress. Can you tell me if either's been reported as missing? That's a public record,” I reminded him.

“Maureen Gonne or Terrie McGerrie?” Shannon didn't look happy, but after a moment, replied, “Neither one. No record of death, either, or anything on the public record.”

“Thank you, Colonel. I appreciate it. Does the name Elysium Project mean anything?”

I doubted that Shannon could have counterfeited the fractionally blank expression of incomprehension before he replied. “Never heard of it. What is it?”

“I don't know, either. I heard it in connection with a civic planner named Maraniss, but no context. So far as I know, there's nothing illegal even rumored about it.”

“Maraniss…” Shannon frowned. “He was on the advisory board for the Civitas Sorores four, five years back. Sort of arrogant. He told the Soror Prima that Thurene could have been an ideal city.” He smiled, wryly. “Elysium…that was the word he used. Said Thurene could have been Elysium if the sisters weren't so obtuse. Should have remembered that.”

“Did he say anything else?”

Shannon laughed. “He couldn't. The Soror Prima dismissed him on the spot. Said he was out of line. Had everything he said struck from the record.”

So that was why there was nothing in the data systems.

“Nothing to do with the Sorores after that,” Shannon went on. “No media, either.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“I'll be in touch when I need something you might know.”

Shannon had even less subtlety than I did. “You know where to find me, Colonel.”

After Shannon, I began vid-calls to those who owed me—or who might tell me anyway.

J. William Smith preferred to be called William. I usually called him Jay or Bill. That depended on how much I wanted him on edge. He was an advocate on the lower fringe. He had to actually work at providing services for those who could barely pay.

“Jay, how's the advocacy racket?”

“Blaine, how you can use such crude language with antecedents such as yours is a matter that even the ancient gods with their all-too-human foibles would scarcely have tolerated.” His appearance was Old Earth courtly, with gray sideburns. That was an affectation. So was his language.

“How are you faring in the conduct of your most ancient and plutocratic profession?”

“Scoffer.”

He was right about that. “I admit it. I need some information. I'll add to your coffers if you can tell me. As always, if it involves a client of yours, it's off-limits.”

“Remuneration would be acceptable.” He beamed from behind the wide mahogany desk that was a virtie superimposition.

“Have you ever heard of something called the Elysium Project?”

“Alas, I must confess that there are many, all rather sordid, although the only one with which I have had any contact was an establishment in the nether reaches of Thurene. That would have been the Elysian Pleasure Fields, but it was renamed three years ago after it suffered some damage from unexplained causes.”

“Competition for the Classic enterprises of the Elois?”

“Far too sordid, I fear, to even approximate competition, Seignior Donne.”

“So it wasn't owned by the Elois?”

“No. The proprietress was originally from Nantes. I assisted her in pursuing recompense. Once she received it, she divested herself of the enterprise to another individual.”

“Not Eloi?”

“No…I now believe it is operated as an institution professing to deal with less intimate bodily functions—mere massage and the like.”

“Anything else about Elysium?”

“I have disclosed all that I can recollect.”

“What about a Judeon Maraniss?”

“A most obnoxious and arrogant example of an individual whose intellectual capabilities have convinced him all others are so far beneath him that they merit less than condescension.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not in the slightest. I have encountered him upon a handful of occasions, all of them passing, and none of them pleasant.”

“If you hardly know him, why do you dislike him so much?”

Jay spread his hands. “I admit to a totally visceral and intellectually unfounded immediate detestation.”

“Another case. A Dr. Richard Dyorr.”

Jay snorted. “An expert. A pain-in-the-ass expert. Solid and friendly.”

“I take it he was an expert against one of your clients?”

“He was. We lost. Nothing more to say.”

With his tone, I wasn't about to pursue Dyorr. Besides, he'd told me the important stuff.

“Different case. Stella Strong and Maureen Gonne. Same person, different names.”

“My knowledge of either appellation or the personage behind either is nonexistent.”

“Astrid Forte or Charlyse Forte?”

“Likewise…” Jay shook his head. “No…Charlyse Forte was a mysticist, I think. I met her at a friend's party near Vannes years ago. Heard she died a while back. Only encountered her in passing. Attractive woman, though. I know nothing more and have never since encountered her or her appellation.”

“Terrie McGerrie, or variations on the name?”

“Ah…I do have some minimal knowledge. That is the pseudonym of a professional who has authored a number of dramas. She is and has always been female, and is currently creating—albeit it at a less prolific rate—under the pseudonym of Carey Douglass.”

“Do you know her personally?”

“I have never met the lady, even in a virtual sense. The information came to me through my accounting compliance auditor.”

“Who might that be?”

“Corey Richarde.”

Once I finished with Jay, I tried a vidlink to the accounting compliance auditor.

All I could say about Corey Richarde was that her virtie appearance was best described as glittering in a shifting silver jacket and trousers, yet imperially slim.

“Blaine Donne, for Corey Richarde.”

The holo flickered, and a slightly different image appeared. This time, the jacket and trousers were glittering gold. “Seignior Donne. You must be pursuing information. With your sister handling your compliance affairs, you scarcely would need my services.”

“I am. I'm trying to find the personage behind the names of Terrie McGerrie and Carey Douglass.”

She nodded. The virtie shifted slightly. The gold was a superimposition. “I can only tell you that the personage is alive and doing well. Other than that…”

“Client confidential?”

She laughed. “To admit or deny that would provide you with more information than I should.”

“I understand. What about the names Stella Strong and Maureen Gonne?”

She shook her head.

“The Elysium Project?”

“That sounds less than savory, but I've never heard of it.”

“Judeon Maraniss?”

“He's a civic planner of some sort. I met him briefly at a Civitas Sorores hearing a number of years ago. Briefly was too long.”

That was all I got from Corey Richarde.

I made three more vidlinks before Max flashed me.

Incoming from Theodore Elsen.

Accept.

Elsen was angular and spare, with short disheveled brown hair. He didn't look all that big either. He didn't even offer a greeting. “What are you chasing down, Seignior Donne?”

“Medical research. I've been asked to evaluate a research proposal.”

“And you're looking for dirt and inside expertise. You always do. You think you know how things work, but you've got a lot to learn.”

“What do you think about the state of consciousness research?”

“It's still fortune-telling based on the alchemy of quantum biological effects that may not have any impact on brain function at all.”

“Why does it get funded, then?”

“Why does anything get funded? It isn't enough to be a good scientist and outstanding medical researcher. You've also got to be personable, friendly, persuasive, and well-connected.”

“By planned marriage?” That was a gamble, but I thought he might react.

“By whatever works. Medical centers want docs to produce. We either do high-credit and high-visibility medical procedures or glamorous research. Some have found that glamorous research doesn't have to be all that rigorous scientifically.”

“Like consciousness research?”

“Draw your own conclusions, Donne. I drew mine a long time ago. Even the best scientist in the field can always use more friends, family, and credits.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“Your report won't change a thing.”

“Then why did you return my link?”

“I just wanted to see what a knight looked like in person. You're better in the shadows.”

With that he was gone.

For personal charm, Theodore Elsen was right up there with Legaar Eloi and Judeon Maraniss. But he had told me a few things in passing. While he didn't like Dyorr, he gave him grudging respect. He also had implied that Dyorr wasn't just fortune hunting.

So why did Seldara Tozzi think so?

I went back to trying to contact people.

I made seventeen more vidlinks and got nothing I didn't know already. I got less than nothing because I'd used up goodwill and access to no good end.

After that, I used my system links to do a virtie search of the city records for building and construction permit requests, but there was nothing there about either Elysium or Maraniss, and the Eloi and Classic permits over the past ten years were for minor alterations or additions—all but one. That was the Classic Research center at Time's End. Construction had begun on that slightly over three years before.

In the end, Maraniss's words suggested a linkage between him and Elysium. The timing of the building of the new research center suggested a link between Maraniss and Legaar Eloi, but I still had nothing that remotely resembled proof.

By then it was time to drive to my appointment with Angelique deGritz. Traffic was light. It always was, what with the taxes and usage fees.

The First Commerce Bank was located on the east end of the Left Bank, three long blocks from the river. The building was a brownstone with a design far more appropriate for a city in the Columbian sector of the Assembly. The receptionist was not a virtie, but real. She could have once been a special operative or an IS commando. I'd have bet commando.

“Kinnal Galwaie. I have an appointment with Angelique deGritz.” I proffered the perfectly legitimate alternate identity card.

She scanned it, then pulsed the commnet. My implant systems could detect the energies but not decrypt the protocols.

“Take the ramp to your left. Her office is the second door on the left on the lower level.”

“Thank you.”

The ramp was only fifteen meters long. The doorways beyond were close together. The second door slid open as I approached. I stepped through.

Angelique deGritz looked up from a small console in an office not much larger than my desk. Her hair was a luminous mahogany flame, but her eyes were emerald-metal hard. They bored through me. “You're not Kinnal Galwaie. You're Blaine Donne. You're not here to set up a trust. If you can't explain quickly why whatever you want is both legal and in the Bank's interest, I suggest that you leave—immediately.”

Her words were sharp enough to draw blood. Whether she'd actually recognized me or whether she had a comparator system that had identified me didn't matter.

“I've been retained to locate a woman. I've been told that she may be the heir to a bequest that is administered by the Bank, and I was given your name as the contact, once I located her, but I frankly don't want to spend time chasing down someone under false pretenses.”

“That's rather general. It sounds legal, but we cannot offer any names.” The sharpness diffused into boredom. I didn't believe it.

“I'm told that the bequest is from a Clinton Jefferson Wayles to children he had with women who were not his wife. I've been commissioned to find a Stella Strong. She supposedly also went by the name of Maureen Gonne.”

Angelique nodded politely. I could sense the links.

“I can only confirm there is a bequest from the estate of one Clinton Jefferson Wayles. The terms of the bequest cannot be made public, nor can the identities of the beneficiaries.”

I had to frown at that. “I thought bequests, once registered, were public documents.”

“They are, Seignior Donne. They cannot be officially registered until the identity of the beneficiary is known, confirmed, and certified. Was that not why you were retained?”

“Why couldn't the beneficiary just appear before you and certify her identity?”

“Such an individual certainly could. It would be far easier for everyone.”

“If there is more than one beneficiary, and only one appears and is certified,” I asked cautiously, “are the terms of the bequest made public at that time?”

“No. We have to make public that such a bequest exists, but in the case of multiple or contingent beneficiaries, none of the beneficiaries' names are made public until all primary beneficiaries are certified or otherwise accounted for.”