Polaris (28 page)

Alex shut the program down and picked up a folder. “There's something else that's interesting. I've been looking into Taliaferro's career.”

“What have you got?”

He opened the folder. “In 1366, a year after the
Polaris,
he conceived of, and pushed hard for, the Sunlight Project.”

“Which was what?”

“Accelerated educational opportunities for select graduate students. He made the project work, but in the long term it broke away from Survey and received direct government funding.”

“Why is it significant?”

“It became the Morton College.”

That afternoon, when I had some spare time, I had Jacob post the convention archive again. Alex told me I was consumed by the
Polaris.
He had room to talk.

I looked through it, thinking that if Bellingham/Kiernan had been there, then Teri Barber might have been present as well. That meant I had to look at everything this time, not just the events I'd attended. Barber was a distinctive woman and would have been easy to spot. But there was no sign of her.

Alex joined me, though, and we spent the day at it. He got interested in the convention itself, and we listened to parts of several presentations.

I remembered my impression that the attendees were people trying to escape the routine of life, to add a bit of romance, to reach out and touch a less predictable kind of world. I saw the guy who thought everyone from the
Polaris
was alive and well and hidden in the woods somewhere. And the woman who'd claimed to have seen Chek Boland by the White Pool.

And the avatar of Jess Taliaferro.

I'd seen it at the convention and spoken privately with it later. But I froze the image and looked at it again, at the auburn hair turning prematurely gray. At the awkward middle-aged body. At the slightly puffy features. “Alex,” I said, “who is that?”

Alex chewed his upper lip and jabbed an index finger at the image. “Damn,” he said, “it's Marcus Kiernan.” He tried to remember the alias. “Joshua Bellingham.”

Fenn called.
“Alex, we don't have a DNA record for Teri Barber.”

Alex frowned. “I thought everybody local was on record.”

“Well, all the law-abiding types. We got a sample from her apartment, but there's nothing to match it to. And that's not all. There's nothing on Agnes either.”
Someone caught his attention. He nodded and looked at us.
“Be right back.”

“Well,” said Alex, “now it's beginning to make a little sense.”

“What makes sense? You got this figured out?”

“Not entirely.” He lowered his voice. “But it's a darker business than we thought.”

Fenn reappeared.
“We also ran an archival search on Crisp,”
he said.
“The results are just in.”

“And?”

“Ditto.”

“No record?”

His large heavy features were creased.
“Not a thing. Other than what's known about his life at Walpurgis. It's as if he never existed prior to moving there. Alex, I don't know what's going on, but it looks as if it
goes back a lot of years.”
He looked up again at another distraction.
“I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“Look, I'm not sure what we're into. But I want you two to be careful.”

“We will.”

“I've talked to the people at Walpurgis. We're taking another run at the exhumation order. If we can find out who Crisp was, maybe we'll get an idea why he fell, or was pushed, off the cliff.”

During the next several days I hardly saw Alex. Then, on a cold, frosty morning minutes after I'd arrived, he walked into the office, dragged me away from a conversation with a client, and hustled me into the VR room. “Look at this,” he said.

Another party.

“This is about six weeks before the
Polaris.
” Mendoza was front and center, smiling and talking with a small group of men and women in formal clothing. They all had drinks in their hands, and banners hung from the walls proclaiming
YUSHENKO
. “It's the opening of the Yushenko Laboratory,” Alex said.

I must have looked puzzled.

“You never heard of it?”

“No.”

“No surprise, I guess. It went under seven years later when the financial manager ran off with the funds, and contributions subsequently dried up. But for a while it looked like a researcher's dream.” He pointed over my shoulder. “There's Dunninger.”

We were on our sofa, in the center of the room, while the action swirled around us. Dunninger looked uncomfortable in formal wear. He stood near a long table, loaded with snacks. He also was attended by several people.

The sense of actually being present was undercut by the fact I could not hear what anyone was saying. We got a distant buzz of conversation, and occasionally it was possible to catch a phrase or two, but for the most part we were doing guesswork and trying to read nonverbals.

Mendoza seemed to be watching Dunninger. When Dunninger excused himself and left the room, Mendoza also broke away and arranged to be waiting for him when he came back. He took Dunninger aside and walked him back out into the corridor.

Just before they disappeared, Dunninger shook his head no,
vehemently
no.

They were gone about five minutes. When they returned, Dunninger was leading the way. He looked angry, and the conversation had apparently ended.

They were colleagues. Dunninger had been working almost four years at the Epstein Retreat. Mendoza, at Forest Park, had been the man against whom Dunninger bounced ideas.

Dunninger crossed the room, picked up his drink (which he'd left on a table), and rejoined his group. But he looked furious.

Alex brought us back to the office. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Just a disagreement.”

“You don't think there was more to it than that? I thought it looked pretty serious.”

“I don't know,” I said. “When you can't hear anything, it's hard to tell.”

Alex went through a series of facial contortions, puzzled, annoyed, sad. Then he exhaled. “I think it was the last chance,” he said.

“For what?”

He looked up at the tall-stemmed
Polaris
glass in the bookcase. “Answer that, and everything else might fall into place.”

Alex had dinner with potential suppliers that evening. When he's out entertaining, he always reroutes his link so that any call gets diverted to me. Which is okay, but there's no provision for me to reach him. His theory was that nothing could come up that I wasn't qualified either to handle or defer. I could have had it inscribed in bronze and put in the office. Company motto.

So it happened that, as I was getting ready to pack it in for the day, Jacob informed me that a gentleman was on the circuit asking to speak with Alex.
“Audio only,”
he said.

“Who is it, Jacob?”

“He doesn't seem to want to identify himself, Chase.”

Ordinarily, I'd have told Jacob to refuse the call. Sometimes we get contacted by unscrupulous types who have lifted something from a museum, or made off with it in some other dubious way, and they want to have us take it off their hands. It's a magnificent piece of work, they say. And you can't beat the price. These kinds of people always stay away from the visuals. Usually, though, they will give us a name. It just won't be the right one.

But in the present climate, I thought I should hear what it was about before terminating things. So I told Jacob to put him on.

“Hello?”
The voice was subdued and anxious.

“Go ahead. This is Chase Kolpath.”

“I wanted to speak to Mr. Benedict.”

“I'm sorry. He's not here. Can I help you?”

“Can I reach him? It's important.”

“I'm afraid not. I'd be happy to help if I can.”

“Do you know when he'll be available?”

“What's your name, please?”

I heard a distinct sigh.
“It's me, Chase. Marcus Kiernan.”

That got my attention. “Marcus, I'm sorry, but I really have no way to get to him. You'll have to talk to me.”

He took a deep breath. In the background, I could hear the buzz of conversation. He was in a public place, trying to ensure that we didn't track him.

“Mr. Kiernan, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“If you want to talk to someone, it'll have to be me. What can I do for you?”

“Meet me.”
He said it a bit louder than necessary, as if he'd just taken a difficult decision.

“Why?”

“I've something to tell you.”

“Why not just tell me?”

“I don't want to broadcast it.”
Another pause.
“Come alone.”

“Why? Did you want another shot at me?”

“That wasn't me.”

“It was your girlfriend, Barber. What's the difference?”

“Please,”
he said.

I let him wait while I listened to my heartbeat. “All right,” I said.

“Chase, if anybody's with you, I'll clear out.”

“Where are you going to be?”

He thought for a moment.
“In the lobby of Barkley Manor. In one hour.”

I don't know what kind of impression I make on people, but I don't like to think I look dumb. “No,” I said. “I'll be at the base of the Silver Tower in forty minutes. I'll wait five minutes, then I'm gone.”

“I don't think I can get there in forty minutes.”

“Give it your best.”

Andiquar is the Confederate seat of power, and the Hall of the People constitutes the visible symbol of its presence. It's a magnificent, sprawling, marble structure, four stories high, roughly a half kilometer long. At night, it's bathed in soft blue light. The flags and banners of the Confederate worlds snap along its front in the winds off the ocean, and thousands of visitors arrive every day to gawk and take pictures. At night, the dazzling light display draws even larger crowds.

The Council meets there; the executive offices are located symbolically on the lower floors; and the Court convenes in the eastern wing. A series of fountains feed the White Pool, which runs the length of the building.

The Archive, which houses the Constitution, the Compact, and the other founding documents, is adjacent the Court. At the opposite end of the White Pool stands the Silver Tower of the Confederacy. In the daytime, visitors can go inside the Tower and take the elevator to the top, where a balcony circles the building. There are substantial crowds at almost any hour. Which was why I'd chosen the location.

I called Fenn. He was out of the office. At home. I had the code for his place, but he'd not be able to reach the Tower in time. So I left a message for Alex, grabbed my scrambler and put it in my jacket, jumped into my
skimmer—it was now the only one we had left—and took off. Then I started to call Fenn again. But I hesitated. He'd send somebody from the station and maybe scare Kiernan away.

In a crowd, on the ground, I should be reasonably safe. If it was a setup, I thought I'd taken the initiative away from him.

It was starting to snow as I lifted away from the country house. But traffic was light going downtown, and I made good time, dropping onto one of the capitol landing pads with ten minutes yet to get to the Tower.

I patted my jacket, reassured by the bulge. I wished I had something lethal, but you can't really get your hands on a serious weapon without going through a lot of red tape. If it came to it, though, the scrambler would put his lights out, and that would be sufficient.

In case you're wondering, I was qualified to use the weapon. I wasn't exactly an expert, but in my full-time piloting days there'd been places I'd gone that you didn't want to visit unarmed.

The snow had all but stopped. There hadn't been enough to get any accumulation, but it felt as if more was coming.

The landing pads are on the roof of the Archives. You ride down in an elevator and come out one of the ramps into Confederate Square, close to the statue of Tarien Sim. The usual sight-seers were thinning out, most headed for dinner, some just getting out of the weather. I hurried along the perimeter of the White Pool toward the Tower.

It was closed for the evening when I got there, but there were still people gathered around its entrance, looking up toward the illuminated balcony. It was an obelisk, not really all that high. Only a few stories, actually. But it was a brilliant piece of craftsmanship—reflective, seamless, polished. It had been erected more than two centuries ago as a tribute to the men and women who had come to the aid of the Dellacondans and their allies in the long war against the Mutes. That was the action that had led directly to the formation of the Confederacy, which marked the first time in its long history that the human family had stood united. Well, almost united. There were always places like Korrim Mas.