The Sons of Heaven (16 page)

“We’ll need to set somebody on that laboratory location,” mused Ashoreth, leaning back in her chair. “It’s got to be somewhere in the Celtic Federation, just like the confectioners’. Wouldn’t you think?”

“Very likely,” said Labienus. “Easy enough to trace what real estate he’s purchased lately.”

“We really might want to consider a preemptive strike—” Ashoreth suggested, just as a muffled groan was transmitted through the surveillance audio. She bit her lip, but Labienus laughed outright.

“That’s it,” he cried. “Enjoy yourself, you poor little hypocrite! Can you imagine what he’d be experiencing right now, if Theobromine affected his nervous system the way it affected ours?”

“I’m not so sure it doesn’t,” giggled Ashoreth, as a raucous panting came through loud and clear.

“No,” said Labienus, increasing the volume. “He’s got a hologame on now. Listen.”

“‘Totter Dan in Microbe Land,’” concluded Ashoreth after a moment. “Why, Mr. Bugleg, you shameless libertine.”

“Oh, why shouldn’t he indulge?” said Labienus. “Eat, drink, and be merry, mortal. After all, you’ve only—” He paused to consult his internal chronometer. “Twenty-one years, nine months, two weeks, six days, five hours, thirty-six minutes, and ten seconds in which to do so.”

Until the last big earthquake, Point Reyes had been merely a peninsula north of San Francisco; now it had the distinction of being an actual island, though only a modest and brackish stretch of seawater connected Tomales and Bolinas Bays. Still, it was now necessary to cross the San Andreas Fault by bridge to get out to Inverness and the other little communities on the eastern shore. It was a cold windswept place, a high tableland in the sea, forested on its leeward side but all bare rolling hills to windward.

A road ran out along the high hills, now and then veering close to the leaning fenceposts of abandoned farms, beyond which collapsed mounds of silvered planks and skeletal wind-bent cypresses kept their ghosts to themselves. Isolation, desolation, driving wind and fog. Cold waves broke with a sound like cannon shot on the long windward beach.

Hearst piloted the agcar westward, fighting the wind. The road was weedy, obscured with drifting sand. He had passed no other vehicle since he had crossed the bridge at Olema.

He’d have spotted any other vehicle, too, because it would be hard to find a more exposed stretch of road than this that trailed out its length between the two inclement shores. If anyone were watching him, whether by satellite or field glasses, they might have tracked his progress for miles without so much as a tree branch blocking the view.

But then, Hearst told himself, Joseph had probably counted on that when he’d specified Drake’s Bay as the place of their rendezvous.

A mortal waiter had stepped up to the table in Alioto’s and presented Hearst with a slip of paper, explaining that he’d been asked to deliver it.

Having fun shopping for antiques? So, you’ve probably had plenty of time to
think about my little present. Want to talk about it now? I promise I’ll pick up where I left off. Drive out to Drake’s Bay any time in the next three days and I’ll see you there. Come alone, please
.

“Is it a threat, mister? You want a Public Health Officer?” the waiter had said, wringing his hands. He had been unable to read the note. In fact, it was the first written communication he had ever seen, strange enough to alarm him.

Hearst grinned at him, tucking the note away. “No, no, don’t worry. It’s a joke. From a friend.”

The waiter had blinked, uncomprehending. Hearst felt a momentary flash of irritation at the general obtuseness and timidity of the present generation of mortals. He ordered another glass of fruit tea and sat looking out on the bay, pondering whether there wasn’t a way to inspire mortals to a little more bravery, a little more zest for life …

He crested a hilltop now, and before him the road went steeply down to the little museum at Drake’s Beach. No other cars and not a living soul in sight.

Hearst was smiling to himself as he put his hands in his coat pockets and strolled across the parking lot. This was sort of fun! Like being in a spy novel. And here he was, where Sir Francis Drake was said to have paused in his career of looting Spanish galleons long enough to repair his ship … well, in one of the places that claimed that distinction. The precise site of Drake’s landing remained a question over which Californians argued with astonishingly uncharacteristic viciousness, even in the present meek age …

The museum was closed. Hearst wandered around on its outer deck, peering through the windows. Nothing to see but the painted backdrops for the natural history dioramas, and they didn’t amount to much with the holoes shut off. Nothing about Drake in evidence at all; not even a plaque. But then, pirates hadn’t been politically correct for years now. Hearst sighed to himself as he walked down to the beach, remembering his boyhood fascination with Captain Kidd.

What was wrong with mortals nowadays? Surely a little bloody-mindedness was natural for children. He’d delighted in toy cannons and wooden swords, himself. Maybe a bit late into life, but he’d learned better eventually, enough so that he could point with pride to the laws he’d had enacted for the improvement of humanity. Mortals had become such spiritless creatures …

Having activated his record function, he began to murmur to himself: “Memo: possible series of adventure holoes for children. Revise history where necessary to make my point but present red-blooded, two-fisted fellows
who weren’t afraid to take action. Ladies, too. Joan of Arc, Susan B. Anthony, Edith Clavell, Sally Ride, Araminta Gonzales, Miriam Meyer … High production values, plenty of costumes, color. All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. Let’s be less passive, kids! Of course, we need a cause for this, something to galvanize them all, some common enemy…”

So absorbed was he in his idea that he very nearly forgot why he had come to that place, and strode down the beach like a juggernaut until he found himself in the middle of a boggy tidal spit, looking across the waters of Drake’s Estero. As he was turning and retracing his steps to dry sand, he heard a throat-clearing noise and looked up.

He couldn’t spot anyone. Scanning, he encountered some kind of scrambler field.

“Well, I’m here,” he announced, and walked in the direction from which he supposed the noise had come. Rocks, sand, seaweed, driftwood, and the dun-colored featureless hills rising beyond. He found a redwood log easily four feet in diameter and leaned against it, sighing.

“Yeah, it’s a little dreary, isn’t it?” said Joseph, popping up from behind the log. “Great place for a private meeting, though, huh?”

Hearst turned to him. Joseph was dressed in complete camping gear: plaid flannel shirt, bellows trousers, hiking boots, and an outdoorsman’s hat with ear flaps.

“I came alone, as you can see,” said Hearst.

“Hey, I knew you would. You’re that kind of guy,” said Joseph cheerily. “So. Hearst News Services had a great three years, huh? Beat the competition to quite a few breaking stories! That must have felt good. Of course, the other stuff I gave you might have got you a little sore at the Company. Those private memos between members of the Board of Directors, for example. Not very nice things they say about us immortals, are they?”

“No,” said Hearst. He’d been outraged when he’d accessed the information, even keeping in mind that it might have been faked to win his support, but he’d managed to bite his tongue and greet Quint as though nothing unusual had happened when Quint returned from his European acquisitions trip. Subsequent quiet investigation strongly suggested that Joseph had faked nothing. “It
is
mostly the mortals, too, isn’t it? They don’t care for you Old Ones at all.”

“Nope,” said Joseph. “And they aren’t crazy about you, either.”

“Oh?” Hearst frowned.

“Nope. Want to see more proof?”

“Darned right! I understand why they’re afraid of the likes of you, even if they created you. But I’m a stockholder, for heaven’s sake,” said Hearst. “And a special case, remember. And, by the way, you were going to explain about that—?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Hearst, and I’ll be glad to do that, just as soon as I’ve convinced you. I’ll show you what Dr. Zeus
plans
for 2355, regardless of what may actually happen. Okay? Excuse me a second, here—” Joseph reached up and set the tip of his finger between Hearst’s eyes. “Download.”

Straight into his consciousness the data flowed, for immediate access, not much information content, really; but after scanning through it Hearst stiffened and turned pale. Joseph stood back, looking sympathetic. “It’s a shock, I know,” he said.

“What does that mean,
Designated: Removal?”
stammered Hearst.

“About what you think it means,” said Joseph. “These are the people who built the Bureau of Punitive Medicine, remember?”

“But why
me?”
Hearst said. “Why am I on that list?”

“It’s a long story, Mr. Hearst,” said Joseph. “Let’s walk.” They set off along the shore of the estero, picking their way through the dune grass, back into the hills.

“The Company would have gotten rid of you sooner, but you’ve been really useful to them,” explained Joseph. “Your money, that big house of yours where they could stash stuff, your ability to manipulate the public’s perception of reality especially!

“And they knew they were going to need you long before you were even born, see? So your parents were watched closely. Dr. Zeus likes to have ironclad guarantees that history will happen the way it’s supposed to.

“An operative was sent to look after your mother when she was expecting you. The operative—guy named Jabesh—thought he’d have a nice easy job. He was wrong. Your mother miscarried in her first trimester.”

Hearst stopped on the path. “What are you saying?”

“You couldn’t have been born the way you were, Mr. Hearst,” said Joseph quietly. “There were genetic problems. Did your father ever talk about his brother who died young? Anyway, Jabesh panicked. It was his job to see that you lived. So … he broke a few rules.”

“What did he do?” Hearst demanded. Joseph started forward again but Hearst did not follow, so Joseph turned back.

“He … uh … remade you. Out of a field repair kit he had. You know what
a
DNA
chain looks like, right, all those little linky things connecting the spiral, each piece containing part of a person’s genetic code? Apparently you were missing a bunch of stuff, and he … patched the missing places with this other, special material from his field repair kit. And it worked! Your mother never knew what had happened. You were born right on schedule.”

“You’re not talking about recombinant DNA!” Hearst looked aghast.

“No! No genetic
engineering,”
Joseph assured him. “Don’t worry. Just a repair, see? But with this other special stuff added, you were sort of naturally augmented. It affected your appearance, and your, uh, personality, and a few other things.

“Samples of Jabesh’s work went into the Company vaults, and that’s why you could be the exception to the no-adults rule when they made you immortal. They didn’t have to work from your worn-out eighty-eight-year-old DNA with its replication errors. They did a perfect restoration from the new-minted stuff Jabesh created,” Joseph said.

Hearst was silent. Joseph edged back a few paces, peering up at him worriedly. “I’m sorry, pal. I know it’s got to be an awful shock—”

“Shock?” said Hearst, and Joseph saw in amazement that he had begun to smile. “Why, this is wonderful! This accounts for a lot. I always knew I was different.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve always had this sense of destiny looming over me.” Hearst began to pace forward again in his excitement, and Joseph scrambled ahead of him, walking backward to stare up into his face. “I never really felt as though I fitted in anywhere but places I made for myself, and now I know why!”

“So you really don’t mind?” said Joseph doubtfully.

“Gosh, how could anyone mind something like this?” cried Hearst. His eyes were shining. “I owe this Jabesh fellow my life! I’d like to shake his hand and thank him.” He paused and looked at Joseph. “Say, do you think I could? Where’s he stationed these days? I could look him up—”

“I’m afraid you couldn’t, Mr. Hearst,” said Joseph. “He’s one of the ones who’s disappeared.”

“What?” Hearst’s grin faded.

“He’s lost.” Joseph held out his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Unaccounted for. The last entry in his personnel file has him being transferred to a numbered site, which probably means the Company doublecrossed him.”

“But why?”

“Because he knew the truth about you, I guess. Only two operatives ever
knew—Jabesh and me—and he’s disappeared and the Company would disappear me, too, if it could catch me. I’ll bet even Quintilius wasn’t told everything.”

“But why go to such trouble to hide the truth?” said Hearst.

“Because what Jabesh did was illegal as hell,” said Joseph. “The Company does things to obtain its objectives that contravene all kinds of laws. Jeez, even making cyborgs like me is prohibited!

“Can you imagine how mortals would react to learning that somebody like
you
existed, especially when you’ve built up a communications empire that controls what they see and hear? For crying out loud, a lot of people said you were a monster when you were mortal! What would they think now?”

Hearst scowled. Joseph gulped for breath and continued: “But if you disappear too, eventually—it’s all taken care of. The Company won’t get into trouble.”

“No,” said Hearst. “The Company
is
in trouble.”

“Hey, that’s the spirit,” said Joseph, grinning, but his voice was just a little uneasy. “We knew you wouldn’t take this lying down. That’s why we approached you in the first place, Mr. Hearst.”

Hearst leaned down to look him in the eye. “You said that when this fellow repaired me, he used special material. What was special about it, Mr. Denham?”

“That’s a good question, and I’m glad you asked,” said Joseph.