The Elysium Commission (4 page)

Then, after a light supper on Mercien evening, I accessed the complete system archives—the ones for which I paid an exorbitant sum every time I used them—rather than just the planetary archives, to see what else I could discover about Maraniss and Eloi. Elysium was a total loss. The word itself meant so many different things to so many people—and had for so many millennia—that even with maximum sort, full analysis, and minimalist definitions, the processing time on the amount of information would have taken months—and the cost would have been far in excess of what Seigniora Reynarda would have paid.

The complete archives didn't produce much more in the way of usable information on either man. About all I learned new was that Judeon Maraniss had first taken a doctorate in some obscure branch of physics. He'd gotten into a disagreement with senior academics at L'Institut Multitechnique before turning his skills to obtaining additional degrees in more humanistic areas. Those records were sealed. That was an indication of system security, and that didn't happen often on the access level I was employing. Maraniss had been a professor at the Father Roger College at the University of Cluny until a decade earlier, when he'd established himself as an independent academic. He had multiple degrees and certifications in almost every branch of population studies and societal and sociological analytics. His studies were netsys-accessed enough that he probably made a decent living off those alone, and that didn't count whatever he might be providing in studies for governmental organizations, institutes, foundations, or corpentities.

The detailed record on Legaar Eloi was broader, shallower, and even more shadowed. He'd been trained as an advocate and actually practiced as a public advocate for a time, a good ten years. Then he'd dropped out of public view for several years. There wasn't any mention of him in any records. The next reference to him was as one of the partners in something called Classic Images. I'd tracked that down as well. Classic Images provided private escorts—men and women—based on classical images. Did the Directeur of Dorchan Delite wish to spend an evening with Helen of Troy or Dian duBlandeis? Did Madame Directeur prefer an evening with Don Juan or Genji le Shinto? Contact Classic Images.

From there, Eloi's tastes declined as his fortune mounted. The one question that came to my mind, right from the beginning, was where he'd gotten the credits to launch Classic Images. He'd needed a few millions for the biosculpting and psyche sets for his living images. And if he'd used clones, he'd have needed far more—either to buy the legal variances from the Civitas Sorores or to pay off the Garda. Or both. The record didn't even have any hints in that direction, and that suggested even more millions from unknown backers to encourage reticence on the part of the Swift Street media types.

Besides a too-sketchy background, I also got sets of pictures, dating farther back in time than the recent vid-clips I'd already studied. They didn't add much.

The scattered images of Maraniss all looked the same over the past fifteen years—black-haired, broad-shouldered, square-chinned with deep blue eyes, and clean-shaven. An image-boy for academics. Funny thing was that he'd looked that way all along.

In his first images, Legaar had started out as a tall and lanky figure, with dark red hair cut short and a narrow face under a broad forehead. His eyes were brown. Over the years, he'd let his hair grow a shade longer, and had a bit of work done on his ears so that they didn't protrude as much, and he'd added just enough weight to shift his image from one of lankiness to one that was imposing.

Those current images were subject to change, based on whim and credits. I didn't think either was the changing type. Not when neither had shifted appearance in years. Physical bodies indicate more about people than they think. If they're unchanged, then they're based on their genetic background. Those who don't alter their bodies significantly, either genetically or cosmetically, when they have the resources to do so, exhibit various kinds of pride and arrogance. Makes them harder to deal with. Both Maraniss and Legaar Eloi looked to be that kind.

I fell somewhere in the middle. I'd opted for casual handsomeness close to my genetic appearance, along with high muscle mass, but optimized for my bone structure, so that I appeared solid, but not overmuscled, with a lot of fast twitch muscles. Black hair, a shade that was really deep dark gray, call it shadow gray, and light green eyes. Totally unremarkable. It fit my persona. I knew I didn't wish to be remembered for being physically striking, one way or the other. If I were remembered, it would be for what I'd done. That was vanity as well, but I knew it. No one is remembered for long after they've vanished. Especially those who work the shadows. Even the greatest leaders and artists are remembered as images molded by culture to depict psychic and political necessities.

There were more than a few background similarities between Legaar Eloi and Maraniss. Both were somatically and base-genetically male. No sex or sex preference changes for either. Each had held to the same self-body-image for years. Both tended to dominate their immediate environment to the degree that there was no mention of partners, spouses, liaisons, or offspring. That also suggested another possibility—that what they did created enemies, and they preferred to minimize collateral damage.

All that didn't prelude the most likely possibility that they used virties for most appearances and shape/face screens in public areas. But I hadn't been hired to find them, just the connections between them and something called Elysium.

The system archives didn't provide much more on Dr. Dyorr, either. I'd definitely need to talk to Myndanori.

A gentle breeze blew past my face as I stood on the balcony outside my office, gazing down on the white granite ramparts of the grand canal that led out to the harbor and encircled the city proper. The bright blue banners of Fall Festival waved in the wind that left ripples on the deep green water. Although I stood in the shadow of the late-afternoon sun, the soft white of the stone facing of the tower provided just the right amount of illumination from the servant sun, the rite of light.

Beside me, Legaar cleared his throat, then spoke. “Did you hear what I said? Zuse has vanished.”

“I heard you. Zuse has vanished. Scores vanish every day throughout Devanta. We are the source of that, and some of them survive to prosper here. We are better off, and Thurene is far better off. For all that, such disappearances happen here in Elysium. They come, and, despite our best efforts, matters are not as they wish. The Hedonics Patrol must deal with them.”

“They wouldn't deal with Zuse. He was on Devanta.”

“True, but he could have fled anywhere. A few have.”

“That might be true of many, Judeon, but not of Zuse.”

I didn't have Legaar's faith in the Kempelen Zuse's stability. Emotional master patterners saw, sensed, and integrated all aspects of economic and social behavior on both the micro and macro level. Anyone who felt and manipulated all that well was always on the brink of instability, and Zuse was certainly one of the most accomplished of master patterners. He had done well in setting up the parameters and population dynamics of Elysium. But no subordinate was indispensable. “That may be, but his staff is capable.”

Legaar raised his thin mahogany eyebrows but said nothing.

“You're afraid that Marcel Maelzel cannot continue the plans for the next phase?”

“Compared to Zuse, Maelzel is no more than a touring buffoon.”

“He may be a bit of a buffoon, but he's learned a great deal from Zuse.” Still, Legaar had a point, if not the one he thought he had. “Do you think Zuse was vanished?”

“It's early to conclude that, but there are rumors that the Fox is about—in Devanta.”

“The Fox died decades ago.”

“That's true enough, but that doesn't mean there wasn't a personality imprint, and with high intelligence and the imprint…”

“But…who? L'Ombre de la Nuit?”

“The shadow knight is not involved. To pay for his lifestyle, he must prevent untoward marriages and chase down incompetent thieves with societal connections. Then he must pay for that in the shadows of Thurene. His illusion is that aiding individuals makes a difference.”

Legaar never could have made that analysis. I wondered from whom he'd commissioned it or for what favor he'd obtained it.

“This is something different. Very different.” Legaar cleared his throat in the self-important manner that was his alone. “I thought that you might be able to come up with an analysis of the attack vectors from Devanta, those centering in Thurene.”

“You're worried about someone interfering with the energy setup? I thought we already had arrangements for the system that would make the separation permanent.”

“That will come. The arrangements are…en route, shall we say.”

“The Frankan Alliance?”

“Now…Judeon, I don't intrude too deeply in your specialties, do I?” Legaar's voice lowered into that warm confidentiality that was more threatening than a snarl.

The breeze intensified, with the hint of a chill, coming off the sea beyond the harbor with the tang of salt. The wind cracked the banners for a moment before it dropped back to a gentler and caressing breeze. “Curiosity isn't intruding. If you feel I shouldn't know something, just inform me.”

“I just did.”

“And I respected it.” I watched as a large yacht swept beneath the balcony, white-green foam curling away from her bow, heading out for a night of pleasure on the deep green sea. I would have liked to be aboard with Magdalena for a week, but such extended pleasures would have to wait.

“And I don't like meeting here.”

“Elysium is the best and most secure place to meet.” I couldn't help but smile. “You were the one who pointed that out. Your experts designed the security and screen systems, and they're the best in the Assembly worlds.”

“It's not the security here; it's the transit.”

Legaar had a point there, but that problem would be resolved shortly. He'd indicated that himself. He just didn't know how much I'd really discovered, and it was better that way.

“You'll take care of analyzing the possibilities and letting me know?”

For all that Legaar had phrased his words as a question, they weren't. “It could take some time, Legaar.”

“I know. That's why I'm here.” He stepped back from the cupridium railing, turning toward the open door back into my office. “I'll expect periodic reports until you have results.” He didn't look back when he left.

I watched the grand canal as the shadows lengthened. I wasn't about to forgo my evening with Magdalena, short as it would be, but, for all that I'd protested, it appeared that I'd have to return to Devanta, whether I wanted to or not.

Even if the sisters had Zuse, no one would believe him. That was just one of the beauties of Elysium.

I didn't sleep all that well and was up before dawn on Jueven. That was unheard of in Thurene. Rather, to admit waking that early was unheard of. Instead of lying there looking at the ceiling or turning on the slumbereze, I got up. The slumbereze was for emergencies. It always gave me a headache the morning after I used it. The villa medcenter said it was mental. It was wrong. I knew that aspect of my physiology far better than it did.

My study was even quieter before dawn, and work was more restful than trying to sleep. I decided to work on the Reynarda commission. That made sense since it was most likely someone involved there was trying to kill me—or warn me off.

The best places to find information about people are in their bedrooms and from their lovers, their real financial accounts, and the tax and regulatory records of the government. Discovering the first source would have meant days, if not weeks, of digging to determine who their lovers were and where those bedrooms were located—and the next steps would have been both illegal and dangerous. Attempting to find their real financial records, especially those involved with Eloi, would have been more dangerous and also illegal. That meant the easiest source of information would be the records of the Civitas Sorores itself, and breaking into those records was far less dangerous and comparatively less illegal. Not that I intended to get caught, but no good thief ever does. Besides, I could claim it was only research. I might even get away with a research claim since I'd never been caught before.

I settled into my chair. Comfortable as it was, it had other functions. Most important were the full-physiological links that allowed complete virtie access to the netsys, along with full-band back access to Max and the analyses he'd run earlier.

Civitas Publica.

With that command, I stood in a soaring foyer. The walls were golden brass and the floor a shimmering black marble. Black stone and gold must be embedded in the human psyche. There were no windows, just four high archways. Set in onyx letters above each brass arch was a sector name—
REVENUE, FINANCIAL REGULATIONS, RECORDS, TAXATION/TARIFFS, HEALTH, ENVIRONMENTAL MANAGEMENT, PUBLIC SAFETY
. There were archways for all of those departments, and more, yet there were only four archways. That's what you can do in a virtual setting. I tried not to think too hard about the implications and walked toward the Records archway.

An androgynous golden-haired clerk sat on a stool behind a raised podium of the golden brass. He/she smiled politely and warmly. “Your inquiry?”

“Corpentity records. Public registrations, entertainment.”

“Through that door.” A solid golden oak door and doorway appeared in the solid brass wall to the clerk's right. On the door was the legend
PUBLIC REGISTRATIONS, ENTERTAINMENT
.

“Thank you.” Politeness never hurt, even to system virties. Especially since the sisters recorded and kept records of virtie access. Most people didn't really understand. Those records could be used in both civil and criminal justicing.

I walked to the door and opened it, then stepped inside, into another foyer. From it radiated another set of archways. Each held an illuminated set of letters stamped into the brass in the area that would have held the keystone, if the arch had been stone. I took the “Pleasure-Related” archway. Beyond it were illuminated displays, each almost like a museum case. Each case was fronted in antique glass, under lights, and the framed space displayed large text on creamy parchment. The corpentity's name was at the top, followed by the registry number, local virtual address, local physical address, and key officials. Beneath that was a description of the business activities.

Eloi Enterprises was fairly far along the virtual corridor. The local virtual address was Gibson Gates. The physical address listed the Eloi Complex, Pier One, Left Bank, Nouvelle Seine, Thurene. I copied those to my own files—through Max and his security system.

Registry numbers all had keys, encrypted keys.

My system was simple enough—try all the combinations that Max had worked out and get around the three-times rule through a little program to bypass and reset the clock back several hundred nanoseconds after each try, thereby erasing the record of each previous attempt. It wouldn't have worked unless someone had the kind of resources I had, and most who did wouldn't have needed to do what I was doing.

That's always the best position to be in—where the defenses are designed against someone else.

Even so, it took almost ten standard minutes. That's a long time for that kind of virtie operation. Then the front of the display case swung open, becoming a glass door. I went into the small chamber. The door didn't close behind me. It re-formed closed, behind me. Slipshod programming. What else could you expect from bureaucratic virtie programmers?

A thick black book sat on a reading stand. I opened the cover.

The first page was more description. There wasn't much there. Eloi Enterprises was wholly owned by the brothers Eloi—surprise. It had six subsidiaries: Classic Escort Services, Classic Entertainment, Classic Properties, Classic Media and Publications, Classic Investment, and Classic Research. I read the following pages, a page for each subsidiary. Each of the first five was exactly as anyone would have expected from its name. The description of Classic Research started out with the usual combination of verbal pabulum and boilerplate and kept going until near the end. I reread the one paragraph closely.

All that sounded perfectly logical, but there was something about the phrasing, especially the term “reality-based.” It could have been badly written, but I didn't think so. The way I read it was that Classic Research was up to something, and they had to at least use broad weasel words so that when it came out they could claim it was in their registration, since ongoing registrations were also considered as updates and modifications to the original charter granted by the city sisters. And the city sisters didn't care so much what the corpentities did, but they cared a great deal about businesses misrepresenting what they did.

I turned the pages to the financials.

Abruptly, the figure of a woman appeared from the page, less than a yard high, yet somehow towering over me, in that fashion possible only in virtual settings. She was one of the Virgines Vestales. Although she was empty-handed, blue-green rays radiated from the extended fingers of her right hand. “Access here is restricted.” Initially, her fingers were too bright to look at directly, even on the sysnet.

I clicked in vision control. That compromise was unsatisfactory. Toning down the glare left everything else too dark to discern. That suggested the glare had another purpose. I tried programming in polarization. Some freqs made the glare worse, but one combination almost eliminated it.

There was a keyhole in the middle of the locket on her right wrist.

Before I did more, I rummaged back through all the old city codes, then asked Max for a pattern—how lock codes tied to entity names. He came up with three.

The second one worked.

Like that, I had the financials up before me. I copied them almost without scanning them. It wouldn't be long before something negative happened. Fast as my systems were, they weren't finished with the copying before a line of fire slammed through the back of my brain. My virtual brain.

SYSTEM ALERT!
A siren screeched. It wasn't a Civitas alarm, but mine.

Home. Full defense!

I didn't leave the chair, not with all the links. I scanned all my systems and defenses.

The villa was isolated. The attackers had boosted energy inputs on all the civic power lines and commlinks. Max, as programmed, had severed the links. For most villas, that would have dropped them into a standby status—or at most onto stored power, solar inputs, or fuel cells. But most didn't have solar panels and fuel cells adequate for full functioning. The taxes on “excessive” independent power were designed to keep all but the very wealthiest from building self-sufficient strongholds—or those of us who had sacrificed luxury for independence. Then, too, I'd found creative ways around the law—such as two inefficient, but powerful Varian generators that weren't listed as an independent power system in the Tax Code. I also had two separate fortified underground entrances/exits not on the plans filed with the Civitas Sorores, a definite violation of the Codex.

Interrogative power status?
I pulsed Max.

Alternative power sufficient to maintain all defenses.

Interrogative attacks?

Null this time. Energy concentrations built on Civitas power feed. Bypass of restrictors on main system in place.

That meant someone had played with the external power feeds. Once my system “thought” the crisis was past and attempted to resume normal operation, the energy surge that followed was designed to overwhelm my secondaries, and that would allow dataworms, viruses, and general mayhem into all my systems. My secondaries were stronger than that, but the surge could cause more unnecessary damage.
Interrogative mobile repair module?

Sensors have detected probable clone operatives with high-explosive delivery systems.

Clones or cydroids with grenade launchers—all three illegal in Thurene or anywhere on Devanta. That almost certainly pointed to Eloi Enterprises. Could I drag in someone else? It was worth the effort.

Call for a special limousine. Promise maximum emergency fees.

Landlines have been severed and an electroshield projected around the villa walls,
replied Max.

Are the operatives inside the shield?

Affirmative.

The operatives were disposable. Illegal clones. That meant Legaar—or their creator—wanted to push me into doing my own dirty work. Or Max. Anything I did would all be recorded and documented, with a civil and possible criminal complaint to follow. There wouldn't be any direct evidence of the electroshield, either.

I ran through the analyses of the attack. It was all AI response.

Did Eloi or Maraniss have sublinks and portals into all of Civitas Sorores? Even if Eloi had trap warnings and AI response just on the official records for Eloi Enterprises, that was a violation of Civic Codex. The only problem was that to reveal that, I'd have to confess to having violated the Codex as well. Legaar and his corpentity advocates had certainly thought that through.

Project mobile repair module image toward initial severance point.

I watched in my mental screens as an image of the mobile repair unit moved out of the utility space.

It was barely clear of the villa when the first grenade came flying across the dead outer defenses of the wall. It exploded satisfactorily, and Max projected external damage to the module—twisted metal over the forward treads and a rear skirt on the same side ripped clear. The holo projection kept moving, if more slowly.

Two more grenades followed. One came from the northwest corner, behind the cherry orchard, my very small orchard, that was homage of sorts to one branch of my family, a reminder that selling orchards led to little good, except perhaps literature or drama. The other grenade came from the northeast, more from the space between my wall and Soror Celestina's. Many villas shared walls, but the previous occupant hadn't cared for the sister, nor she for him. But then, I hadn't cared for him, either.

Both landed close enough to the projection that Max turned the image into little more than scrap metal with treads.

Send another projection. Use evasive tactics.

The attack was AI-directed and clearly a response to my snooping into the registry. I doubted the AI knew what exactly was inside the villa. I wanted the clones occupied while I tried some of my new toys.

One was a nanite-burst englober, with an energy tracker.

I sent one toward the clone operative hidden between my wall and that of Soror Celestina.

He/she/it never knew what happened. The englober projected a high-energy shield around the energy source of the target, then disassembled a very small amount of ultra-ex. Since the field held the energy within the shield—for less than half a second—before the shield and miniature generator failed, everything englobed was reduced to very small fragments. Unfortunately, as I discovered, looking at the large gap in my wall and the section of the sister's behind, the explosion created larger fragments beyond. It also destroyed the electroshield, most probably carried by the operative.

Max took out the other operative, who suddenly stood exposed on the wall beyond the cherry trees. Nothing exotic. Just an instabile bullet fired from an old-fashioned slug thrower. No sense in using the new toys where Civitas surveillance could record them. The electroshield had covered the englober, but once the shield failed, the slug thrower was better.

Leave the mess for the Garda to observe.

Affirmative.

With broadband open again, I fired a report and complaint to the Garda.

They wouldn't be happy. They never were.

They didn't even bother with a virtie response. Instead, a patrol flitter dropped into my front courtyard in less than three minutes. That was most revealing—and disturbing.

The scans revealed a real patroller, if in nanite armor-cloth, with shifting bodyshields. That was very bad.

I decided to walk out and meet him. It was better than allowing him or her inside.

The morning sky was a silvered blue-green. By even midmorning and especially by afternoon any place without climate control would be hot and muggy. I couldn't recall an autumn day as unreasonably hot. Maybe the sun's radiation had peaked, and the atmospheric service was having trouble with the orbital solar screens. I was sweating slightly by the time I walked down the stone steps to where he waited by the one-person flitter. His namestrip read
JAVERR
.