Forge of Heaven (21 page)

“If there’s anything you wish to see while you’re here—” Reaux was determined not to babble, but made one more effort, in case the man was simply overtired. “—of course you’ve only to ask.”

“I’ll let you know.”

In his native tongue, he asked: “How are things in Paris?”

“As usual.” In that language. And nothing more. Dead silence.

No cordiality. No human pleasantry from what might be a compatriot. And it was that aristocratic, academy-educated accent he had suspected.

He truly didn’t like this man, Reaux decided. He hadn’t been sure, but he was rapidly solidifying his opinion that Gide’s presence was not friendly to him. He remotely feared he might be the object of an Earth-originated political sandbagging—in which case, Gide would certainly find fault with minute details, and even try to meet with Lyle Nazrani or God knew what other thorn in his side, second and third generation as they were, and ordinarily not acceptable sources.

But he wasn’t without his defenses. He decided to challenge the threat head-on, foolish or not. He asked, again in his native language: “What actually brings you here, Mr. Ambassador?”

“Classified.”

“If I can possibly be of assistance in your mission, I’ll be happy to put my security personnel at your disposal.”

“I’m sure you will.” Conversation thudded to a stop.

The car, thank God, likewise reached its level and sector, and stopped. As it opened its doors, more security waited for them, in a large corridor, a towering ten-deck vista distinguished by interior landscaping, balconies graced with flowers and vines that spilled luxuriously over the edges. It was an Earther district. It was one of two such residential zones—
not
the one where he had his own apartment. He’d wanted distance between himself and Gide, no hint of personal invitations. Given Kathy’s current state of rebellion, and given the hair, which by Kathy’s attitude, could be green Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 1 3 5

tomorrow, he was very glad to have his teenaged daughter half a kilometer removed from the Earth envoy, no commotions on the doorstep, no teenaged swains below Kathy’s balcony putting on a show for the neighbors.

And he was equally determined now that he wouldn’t bring Gide near Judy, near his belongings, to criticize what he saw, doubtless ever so inferior a circumstance than Mr. Gide was accustomed to.
Damned
if he’d invite this monstrosity into his home.

“Pleasant,” Gide said, however, viewing the architectural, floral marvel of Concord Street. “Pleasant enough.”

“You’ll note recognizable species,” Reaux said, addressing Earthly prejudices, head-on, doggedly pushing the local virtues, and the truths Earth rejected. “All the species genetically pure.

Three hundred years of tests, not only here for aesthetic value, but as an ongoing biological experiment, on the one station of course potentially most exposed to unfortunate elements. The plants remain quite clean. The human population and test ani-mals, likewise.”

“Very impressive display.”

“Thank you.” Finally. A reasonable reaction out of the man.

Maybe Gide had a human heart. Maybe he’d felt stupid, about ending up at Customs. Maybe it was the middle of his sleep cycle.

“This way, Mr. Ambassador, if you will.”

They entered a gardened close, past hundred-year-old trees and blooming shrubs, a tropic paradise. Reaux had particularly hoped this display would soothe and please their visitor.

“And in less clean areas of this station?” Gide asked. “No problems there?”

“No runaways on the entire station, nor in its two predecessors, ever.” Technically answered, but correct. “We’re quite fanatic about our checks and inspections, Mr. Ambassador. We’ve had a few incidents in years past, but nothing has ever gotten past our defenses. And here we are . . .” They’d reached the door of the sole apartment that owned this tropical nook. “A trilevel apartment, sole dwelling in this close. I hope you’ll find it comfortable. Broad doorways throughout. Security you can set to your own codes. It’s a Berger system—I trust you’re familiar . . .”

1 3 6 • C . J . C h e r r y h

“Adequately. Not the best system, but I’m sure adequate against what your local threats can muster.”

Reaux set his jaw and smiled resolutely as security personnel remotely opened the door. Gide could set the lock to his own voice—not that the system was in any way likely to mistake his physical appearance. He fervently hoped the mistaken foray to the Customs Plaza would discourage further adventures.

Gide glided in. Again that curious turn of the sphinx’s head, this way and that.

An upward look, then, to the towering internal balcony of the apartment, with its artificial skylight, the illusion of Earth’s blue sky and cloud, with plants cascading off the upstairs balcony rail.

Little difference between the garden outside and this one inside, in abundance of flowers.

“Unique among stations I’ve visited,” Gide said. “Excellent.”

“I’m very gratified.” He actually was—and despised his own gut reaction. He hoped Gide might quit the games and get down to business now. He glanced at the security agents, shifted his eyes toward the door. They sensibly took their cue and retreated outside.

The door shut.

“Security will be within your call, sir. Should you wish anything, at any hour, they will bring it.”

“I’ve come onto this station to see what’s here. If I only wished to be locked in a room, I could have spared the expense and the trouble of this rolling containment. I shall come and go as I please.”

“Of course. Absolutely as you please.” Stubborn. So bringing station transport to a halt once in a day wasn’t enough. Dortland’s men would follow discreetly, however, if Gide left the apartment.

The sphinx turned 360 degrees, glided forward to examine a precious vase.

Extruded a fuming blue-violet hand and picked it up.

Astonishing. The simulacrum wasn’t just an appearance. It had hands, eyes that, yes, by that look aloft, must actually see. The hands could touch. Could they feel? Had they strength to crush that vase as well as cradle it?

“Local pottery?”

Distinctive zigzag pattern, a fine blue glaze. “Imported. Based on transmission from Aldestra surface.” It only appeared to be Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 1 3 7

native clay, one of the Ruined Worlds, art objects being all the rage these days, traded between Orb, Apex, and Concord. Fero-ciously expensive, part of an estate, like this whole apartment.

One hoped Gide wouldn’t drop it. Or take it for an insult that the thing was here.

A native-world item in Gide’s apartment, however harmlessly a replication. Security setup had had an utter lapse of common sense.

“Interesting.” Gide set it carefully down on the table. His grip had left frosted prints on its surface, condensation of moisture in the air.

That grip . . . could do that. Could burn skin.

“From Aldestra surface,” Gide said mildly, “but a copy?”

“The analytic portion of the technology was soft-landed. No actual material moved from the gravity well. Only the holographic information. It’s completely synthesized, including the clay. And scanned for any biologic inclusion.”

“And locals on Aldestra surface know how to run the apparatus.”

Aldestra wasn’t reputed for civilization. “They don’t need to.

They put in what we image we want. They get something in return.”

“You trade in such things.”

Reaux gathered his courage and took a deliberate chance, plenty to lose, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, he decided. “Aldestra Station has extensive trade in native art. Perfectly clean and proved clean over a long period of time.”

“Curious notion.
Curious
notion. A whole human universe stranded on those planets. Their intellectual invention, largely independent of the cultural stream from Earth, must be very diverse from the norm. Yet the thing has the look of native terrestrial artifacts.”

Scary, dancing down the brink of anathema. “A pot is a pot, I suppose. Made on a wheel, it’s round.”

“Is it?”

“Made on a wheel? So I’m informed. There’s a good deal to recommend their efforts. Their
artistic
diversity.”

“And their genetic diversity?” Pointed question.

“Absolutely never gets off the planet. As nothing gets off Marak’s World, below us.”

“Certainly this art object is a climb up the ladder for Aldestra.

1 3 8 • C . J . C h e r r y h

But genetically, do we think, is this new culture, this new genetic model—a climb up the ladder for the human race?”

“Some say—” This was getting dangerous . . . and Reaux took another small chance, aware of numerous political and religious positions native to Earth, and probing for exactly what intellectual affiliations this Gide might have, “some say that remediation might well involve thorough re-speciation, so we
can’t
affect one another.”

“And is the resultant humanity human?” No answer, only an old, old catechism.

“I leave that to the scientists and the ethicists.”

“Such populations would be suited for their own worlds. But would they be human?”

“Again, that’s for the experts.”

“And the other life on their worlds adapts to this new humankind, and not to us, and therefore becomes harmless to us, if not to them.” Drily, like a recitation. “I’m familiar with the argument, Governor, I assure you, but I also assure you Earth will have a strong word or two about any implementation of contact with a subset of our own species. Did genetic diversity from us protect the
ondat
from disaster?”

“Clearly not.” Signal. Strong warning signal. So Gide did
not
subscribe to that model of remediation, which had enjoyed a certain popularity in his youth, and from time to time over centuries.

A traditionalist. A conservative. One could imagine Gide taking damning notes inside that carapace. “But it was nanomachines that did the harm there. An artificially accelerated system that adapted to what the nanisms found.”

“As they can do harm anywhere.”

“I merely cited a theory, not my belief. I thoroughly agree that continued isolation—”

“Do you subscribe to the theory that outside presence and protection actually retards natural remediation? That by watching over and assisting such populations we save lives that evolution might well cast aside? That we thereby prevent beneficial change and adaptation? Is that your belief, that we should all but
abandon
remediation and let nature simply take its course in all affected biosystems?”

Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 1 3 9

He regretted, now, ever engaging Gide in this train of logic. “As a governor appointed to maintain isolation, sir, I by no means hold that belief.”

“Do you think we
should
permit human evolution to operate un-restrained among Outsiders?”

Another set of traps. “Stations function to moderate and observe Outsider change, precisely
without
creating ourselves any sort of problem. Certainly the Outsiders I’ve talked to locally share the opinion it’s a beneficial restraint, having us as the oversight. I by no means take the notion as far as you suggest . . . or if we do retard the evolutionary process for all of humanity, I certainly consider it beneficial.”

“And if we interfere with natural process by our acts of prevention?”

“We make haste slowly.” Old adage. Safe, he hoped. “Progress happens.”

“While we plan—even hope—to let Concord native life crawl back out of a contaminated sea.”

“Contamination which locals don’t catch. Neither virulence nor runaways. Ample opportunity, but the Refuge on Marak’s World has no outbreaks to speak of.”

“Minor outbreaks.”

“Easily treated.”

“And on the station? Never?”

“You’re surely aware of our record. Nothing uncommon to the rest of the worlds. What the
ondat
experience here is beyond my reach . . . I assume that’s always been true. They haven’t complained.” A pointed reminder to this aggressive visitor that the Treaty on Concord was a constant concern—and should be his. He took another chance. “I hope your mission here doesn’t involve any perceived threat.”

And had it turned bluntly aside, with another attack. “Tell me.

How
do
you get along with Antonio Brazis?”

Double thump of his heart, which he was sure Gide could hear.

Only the truth. Only the truth, when dealing with this rolling laboratory. “Tolerably well.”

“Are you worried about the Outsiders?”

Truthers were certainly at work, analyzing every breath and 1 4 0 • C . J . C h e r r y h

heartbeat, able to pick them up from half a room away. One leading question, and the man could read him. His lenses could likely see the movement of his irises. His amplified ears could hear the fluctuations in his voice. He’d been foolish to keep talking. The man had his pattern and might have picked up numerous touch points. “We govern the station where the Treaty works most clearly.” That was the ages-old mantra. “And we watch the watchers. We have reasonable arrangements with Outsider authority, and the whole system still works.”

“You watch the watchers. Curious you should mention that particular matter.”

Dangerous questions. Incredibly dangerous. Peace or war questions, anything that involved disruption of the taps. Reaux wished he were anywhere else. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“The PO,” Gide said. They’d drifted into their mutual language.

Now Gide switched to the ancient language of Concord. Visitors to Concord didn’t routinely speak it. But Gide clearly did. Gide was here, prepared, and fluent, never having visited here before—not unprecedented, but it argued for a terrifyingly specific preparation for this mission, this place, this population. “Isn’t that what you call it? The PO?”

“The Planetary Office,” Reaux said. “Yes.”

“The head of the Planetary Office is also the local Outsider Chairman.”

“Yes, currently.”

“Besides being a member of the Apex Council.”

“If he’s PO Director, that goes with the job.”