"The Thistledown returned to Earth at the precise moment of the Death?" she asked.
"That is in testimony," Ram Seija reminded her.
"Not precisely," Olmy said. "The Thistledown entered the solar system five and a half years before the Death. I have evidence—presented in subtext—that our arrival in fact triggered the Death. It is possible that without the Thistledown's presence in orbit around the Earth and Moon, the earth in this continuum would have escaped the Death."
Gardner raised his hands in horror. "This is an abomination," he said. "Blessed Korzenowski could never have intended this."
"All credit to the Hexamon Nexus," Prescient Oyu continued, "but a question arises as I look over the précis on the agenda. Why has this news not been broadcast through the entire city? I suggest we make an unequivocal report public and convene an emergency full Nexus convention."
Her bands of light changed to amber and she receded a meter. Ram Seija extended both arms and spread his fingers wide to have Nexus attention. "The news is startling and important, but it also could have adverse social consequences. We wish to release the news in the most constructive fashion."
Corprep Enrik Smys, a moderate Geshel with past service to the Hexamon in a capacity similar to Olmy's, objected that the Jarts conference certainly held precedence. The Jarts showed every sign of preparing to advance beyond 2 ex 9. "And even our subject today, compared to that, is trivial."
"Perhaps not, Corprep Smys," said Rosen Gardner. "All these questions may yet be tangled."
"Did you find evidence of deliberate reprogramming of the Thistledown guidance system?" Ram Seija asked.
Olmy rotated to face the center. "I did not," Olmy said. "But the system erased all instructions immediately after arrival. There is no way of knowing."
Gardner formally requested the armillary bands. Ram Seija, with some hesitation, assented.
"It is time once more to ask for a search in City Memory," he said. "There is one who can tell us all we need to know—"
"The Engineer is dead!" Ram Seija objected vehemently.
"We are aware he is inactive," Gardner said with uncharacteristic control. "But Blessed Korzenowski knew of the danger to his patterns when he retired his corpus. We must authorize a search for any parts of his personality not purged by the assassins."
"Overruled," Ram Seija said.
"I request a hearing before the full Nexus," Gardner persisted.
"Disallowed."
"Procedural inquiry," Gardner said coolly. Ram Seija's face rose to the top of the mineral half of his sphere and he glowered at the corprep. Only in extremus was a procedural inquiry called for; he had played right into the corprep's hands by going beyond his jurisdiction.
"Seconded," Senator Oyu said, turning her elegant eyes to the surprised Gardner.
"Procedural inquiry," Ram Seija assented; he had no choice. But his expression—now in the middle of his sphere—made it clear Corprep Gardner's standing in the Nexus would be weakened by any means in his power.
Olmy listened to the discussion without much interest from that point on and, when his release was given, left the sphere with the Frant to return to Axis Nader. He took a rapid lift to the circle and quadrant where the terrestrials were being secluded.
Escorting the Frant into the kitchen lounge area, he credited an open meal for his companion.
"You are gracious, Ser Olmy," the Frant said, eyes narrowing as it surveyed the feast possibilities. "I assume I am to remain here for a time."
"We'll introduce you to the others a little later," Olmy said, his thoughts far away.
"I am content."
Olmy keyed open the entrance to the secluded sector. The Frant squatted at the arena of shelves which was a traditional Frant dining table, then turned to blink at Olmy.
"You did not expect so much trouble, did you?" the Frant said. Olmy smiled at the Frant from the dilated doorway. "You'd be surprised," he said and entered the sector with a wink.
Chapter Fifty-One
The zero elevator to the bore-hole staging areas was seldom used now. Only two people continued their work in the staging areas—Roberta Pickney and Silvia Link. Hoffman considered their work important, however, and made it a point to visit them personally at least once a week.
The broad spaces and comparatively low ceilings of the staging areas reminded her of a parking garage or convention center. With her two marine guards, she took a tracked cart to the communications and control center beneath the prime dock and walked alone into the quiet room.
Silvia Link was asleep in a sling. Roberta Pickney greeted Hoffman quietly and showed her the intercepted transmissions from Earth and the Moon.
"Lunar settlement seems to be doing well," she said. There were heavy bags under her eyes; she looked ten years older than when Hoffman had first met her. "There are still people on Earth, but they're only using low-power transmitters—working off batteries and windmill generators, I'd guess. I think one or two small cities are still transmitting these low-power signals—areas that may have been protected by orbiting platforms. I send out our own signals every now and then, but nobody's called back yet. It's only a matter of time."
"There're people, at least," Hoffman said.
"Yeah. At least. But nobody much cares about us, and why should they?"
"You should get into the fourth chamber for some R and R," Hoffman suggested. "You don't look too well."
"I feel pretty lousy, too. But this is all I have left. I'll make it as long as there're voices down there. You're not going shut us down, are you?"
"No, of course not," Hoffman said. "Don't be silly."
"My privilege to be paranoid," Pickney said, thrusting her lower jaw forward and pulling it back, with an audible grind of molars. "When Heineman gets back, I'll go to work with him refurbishing the shuttle. I'd like to get to the Moon. I have friends there."
"No word on the expedition," Hoffman said. "They're late, but that's not much reason to worry. . . yet. I may get some of Heineman's fellows working on the shuttle soon. Give us all something new to think about."
"What about the missing Russians?" Link asked from her sling, blinking at them sleepily.
"Still unavailable for comment," Hoffman said. She took Pickney's hand and squeezed it. "You're needed," she said. "Both of you. Don't overdo it."
Pickney nodded without much conviction. "All right. Have Janice Polk and Beryl Wallace spell us in a day or so. We'll go get some tubelight and see the sights."
"Fine," Hoffman said. "Now show me where the signals are coming from. . . .”
Chapter Fifty-Two
The rogue reappeared before Patricia as she slept and awoke her by tickling her ear. "Miss Patricia Luisa Vasquez, late of Earth—the late Earth," he said. "I'm here with some answers."
She rolled over and rubbed her eyes. The rogue's appearance had changed; he now seemed to wear baggy pants and a cardigan sweater. His hair was styled in a loose shag, and a watchless fob hung from a belt loop, terminating in a hemline pocket in the sweater. The rogue was in the height of 2005 fashion. She leaned over the bed and examined his shoes. Huaraches and Japanese tabi socks completed his wardrobe.
"They're on to me," he said. "I had to slip in a different way. I'm using the auxiliary pictor; the primary is locked. And I've reprogrammed the apartment privacy unit to edit us both out of any record while we talk. I've found there is a way to get into the city record. Very disappointing; to the Nexus, apparently nothing is sacred."
Patricia blinked and then got out of bed, reaching for her robe. "Do you do this all the time?"
"No," the rogue replied. "Takes a lot of effort to get this far. I'd much rather be playing games in City Memory, but my employers are handing out incredible advantages for the information. Luckily, I sent mine in just before the general release—now everybody knows you're here."
"We've been told that already."
"Right," the rogue said. The lights in the bedroom came up. Patricia ex
amined herself in the lavatory mirror and decided there wasn't much that could be done in a hurry. She looked exhausted and her hair was tangled from restless sleep.
"Anyway, answers," the rogue said, "more answers than questions asked. You're going to testify before the full Nexus in a couple of days—nobody knows that yet but me and those who should. Then you're going to be included in the Last Gate ceremony. That's not its official name, but that's what it amounts to—you'll meet the Prime Gate Opener at the one point three ex nine segment and witness the opening. They may close it just after—Jarts coming down fast."
"What are Jarts?"
"Fleas, the Nexus will tell you—parasites, monstrously aggressive and not in the least cooperative. The Way was in place a thousand years before it was finally connected to the Thistledown—Way time, of course, which wasn't congruent until the linkup. The Jarts entered through a test gate and took up residency before it was opened. They matured in the Way and we had to fight them back. They know how to open gates and they control between two ex nine and, we think, four ex nine. But look, this is all in the Memory and I don't have much time. I have news about Olmy. You know about the orthodox Naderites and the Geshels?"
"Yes," Patricia said.
"Well, they have two contingency plans should the Jarts overpower us, which seems all too likely now. The Geshels want to mobilize the entire Axis City, grab the flaw and ride it at near-light-speed over the Jart territories, and at the same time blow the Thistledown off the end of the Way."
"What? Why?"
"That could seal the Way—cauterize it. And eliminate the danger of the Thistledown's being reoccupied and having the entire Way controlled by Jarts. The other alternative is to guide the Thistledown to a habitable planet and simply abandon the Way—or close it down, eliminate it. The Axis City could escape by passing through the end of the Way, blowing off the Thistledown and going into orbit around the planet. That would take time. . . or would have, until now. The Thistledown is in Earth orbit, an ideal situation for abandoning the Way. Everybody knows that. So the orthodox Naderites—especially the Korzenowski faction—"
"Who are they?" Patricia asked, all her muzziness vanishing at the rogue's mention of the familiar name.
"They're descended from the engineers who once supported the Way's designer, Konrad Korzenowski. The core is a small, conservative group—return-to-Earthers, most of them. Geshels regarded them as candidates for inactive Memory, until now. The Naderites and Korzenowski people are calling for reconsideration."
"They want to blow up the asteroid and take the Axis City into Earth–Moon orbit?"
"That's it. Now—my time's running out fast. I'm going to trigger all sorts of safeguards shortly, and I won't be able to visit you again—this is my last avenue. Olmy isn't what he seems. He's—"
What happened next, happened so fast Patricia could hardly follow it. The rogue's image wobbled violently and something fizzled in the far wall. A jagged beam of red shot from the auxiliary pictor across the room and hit her slate on the nightstand. The rogue vanished. The bedroom lights dimmed.
The furniture and walls were indistinct and gray. "Brighter, please," she said.
"Many regrets," the room voice, now harsh and dissonant, replied. "Pictors in your quarters are malfunctioning. Please be patient. Repairs are in progress."
She sat on the edge of the bed. As her eyes adjusted, she realized that all detail had gone out of the room. She sat on a basic white bed-form, surrounded by basic white furniture-forms. The walls were blank. She picked up her slate to see if it had been damaged by the flash.
On the screen, a crude line drawing of the rogue in his high-fashion togs appeared, followed by a string of numbers and then an end-of-string triangle. Beyond the triangle, in the next register, were three equations and a code equivalency. She integrated the two registers and performed a basic operation with the equations.
Words appeared on the slate, flashing: Olmy knew Korzenowski. Knows him yet. In Thistledown City.
Olmy's quarters were in Axis Nader most of the time; he never kept a residence beyond four months, but he did stay in that section of the Axis City more often than not. He never decorated his quarters, relying on a minimum of elaboration to make the rooms livable. He seemed, in fact, to avoid as many as he could of the services most Axis Citizens regarded as basic.
Yet he was not an ascetic. He simply had no need for such accoutrements; he did not criticize those who did.
He sat in the all-white living room, waiting for his trace to be completed. Olmy had patterned his tracer after the central mental programs of an old terrestrial species of dog known as a short-haired terrier, supplemented with several of his own partial personalities. It was a tough trace to elude, hardy and resourceful. It rarely failed him.
By Axis City law, rogues in City Memory were fair game. Citizens could not wipe the rogues they located, but they could corner them and call down an immediate inactivation.
Olmy was not interested in inactivation. He simply wanted to maintain a steady trace on the rogue—and to keep pressure on him, to heighten the sensation of illicit activity. The rogue was of very high quality; he had outlived dozens of duels, some extending across decades, which meant virtual millennia in City Memory. He kept no name, not even adequate spoor; he had designed his active persona to be efficient, elusive and only as egotistical as necessary to provide motivation for duels.
The tracer had caught the rogue in Patricia's quarters, and Olmy had then commanded it to back off, in such a way that the rogue would be led to believe it had escaped.
Olmy was well-acquainted with the personality of the average rogue. Most had been born during the final stages of City Memory construction—a task that had taken over five hundred years, beginning in Thistledown City before the creation of the Way.
A number of citizens, generally young, had found ways to create loopholes and to circumvent the ultimate penalties being put into effect to deter crime—recycling of the citizen's body and inactivation of the stored personality. The most popular method was making an illegal duplicate personality which would remain inactive in City Memory; if the citizen received the ultimate penalty, the illegal duplicate would be activated, guaranteeing continuity.
These "rogues" had then engaged in all manner of criminal activities, some of them resorting to acts of violence not seen in the Axis City since the expulsion of the orthodox Naderites from Alexandria. Most were caught, tried and sentenced, and the punishment carried out—releasing a virulently destructive group of personalities into City Memory. As time passed, some of the rogues were convinced by Hexamon agents that the best way they could spend their time would be to engage in duels—searching out and eliminating other rogues. That solved much of the problem. Dueling caught on, and within a decade, half of the rogues had been eliminated by their own confreres.
Many had survived, however—the smartest and most inventive, and therefore, ultimately the most dangerous.
In recent decades, one of the Nexus's most pressing problems was to make City Memory completely safe for all citizens. The Nexus had made little progress—a stubborn residue of resistance remained, creating mischief and occasionally disrupting important functions.
Hiring a rogue was always risky, Olmy knew. The patron could not expect complete loyalty—a rogue stayed loyal only so long as advantages and interest remained high.
To that end, Olmy rewarded the rogue richly with access to several private data banks—and made doubly sure that no one would ever discover who had done the hiring, especially the rogue himself.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The dark library brightened slowly, allowing his eyes to acclimate. Pavel Mirsky stood blinking on the far side of the plaza of seats and teardrop globes.
His first impulse was to look for the damage done by Vielgorsky's spray of fire. There was none. All the globes were intact. Mirsky raised his hand to the side of his head, and then to his nose and chin. No scars. In his head, a tiny, unobtrus
ive signal told him he was using part of his brain that did not originally belong to him.
He walked back and forth, noticing a distinctly unpleasant sensation of inexperience behind his eyes. Then he circumnavigated the banks of chairs and approached the black wall, still closed and featureless. Frowning, he called out, "Hello!" Nobody responded. "Hello! Where is everybody?"
Perhaps he had been left alone. The others may have exited the library after shooting him. But there had been the white, curling mist—and he remembered the three officers with their heads jerked back, jaws slack.
"Pogodin!" he called. "Pogodin, where are you?"
Again, no answer. He crossed the dark corner of the library to the little doorway that led to the observation booth. The door was open. He climbed the stairs and entered the booth.
Pogodin stretched on three chairs, breathing steadily, apparently sleeping. Mirsky shook his shoulder gently. "Pogodin," he said. "Time to leave now."
Pogodin's eyes opened and he regarded Mirsky with surprise. "They shot you," he said. "They took half your head away. I saw it."
"I've been dreaming," Mirsky said. "Very odd dreams. Did you see what happened to Vielgorsky—to Belozersky and Yazykov?"
"No," Pogodin said. "Just mist all over me, itching. And now this." His eyes widened and he sat up, lips quivering. "I want to leave," he said.
"Good idea. Let's find out what happened." Mirsky preceded Pogodin down the stairs to the black wall. "Open," he said.
The half-moon doorway irised open silently.
Annenkovsky stood at parade rest with his back toward Mirsky and the door, holding his rifle by the barrel with the stock on the paving.
"Excuse me, Major," Mirsky said. Annenkovsky tensed and swung around on one foot, lifting his rifle and fumbling it. "Careful," Mirsky cautioned.