Resolution (16 page)

Ro stood on the Manhattan shoreline, by a small jetty reaching out across the choppy waves, wondering where her contact was.

There.

Senses she could not have named registered the presence seconds before the white conning-tower broke through grey waves with a rush of foam. Water poured from the submarine’s upper hull, as a protuberance grew from the smartceramic shell.

Within two minutes, the slender extrusion reached to form a gangplank from sub to jetty. Then a hatch sighed open on the hull, and a slender grey-haired man climbed into sight.

He noticed Ro and nodded, then turned his attention to crossing the narrow walkway without falling into the cold waters. When he reached the jetty’s worn planks - they were almost silver with age - a relieved smile twisted his narrow face.

They watched as the sub retracted its walkway and sank beneath the waves.

Then they shook hands.

‘How do you do, Monsignor Grayling.’

‘You can call me Father’ - still holding her hand - ‘if you really must. But I’d rather you called me Ed.’

‘All right.’ Ro released her grip. ‘But I thought your name was Edwin.’

‘Only Ma called me that. And Mike, when he wanted to wind me up.’

‘Yeah. Gramps had a wicked sense of humour.’

‘And the best
ikkyo
I’ve ever seen, besides your mother’s. Have you followed the tradition?’

‘Kind of Ro shrugged. ‘There’s more to fighting than twisting wrists.’

The monsignor looked as though he was going to protest, then reconsidered.

Just as well.

Jesuits were not known as God’s Soldiers because of fighting ability, though some were warriors. This one, if he had trained in aikido, no longer had the look of one who practised daily.

Still, he was a friend of the family.

‘Come on.’ Ro tapped her infostrand to summon a taxi. ‘I’ll buy you dinner.’

Soft rain began to slide downwards.

‘There’s a storm coming.’

‘Yes, there is.’ Ro gave a tiny smile.

A real one.

She knew the double meaning was intentional.

And I intend my young Pilots to survive it.

The aircab never came. Shrugging, they decided to walk instead of hunting through EveryWare for another service.

‘This used to be a go-ahead place,’ said Grayling. ‘Full of impatience and energy.’

‘Really? It reminds me a lot of Rome. Kind of friendly and sleepy, you know? Incompetent, but not malicious.’

‘Cities change. So do nations.’

By now they were in a long dark street where steam rose from gratings as it had for four centuries: more from tradition than necessity.

‘Very atmospheric,’ said Ro.

‘Special effects.’ Grayling winked at her. ‘For the tourists.’

They passed a row of brownstone houses, then came to a restaurant set below ground level whose entranceway shone with inviting holos. A giant disembodied hand pointed a commanding finger down the steps.

Enticing aromas of pizza reminded Ro more than ever of the Italian Confederation.

‘What do you think, Ed?’

‘Suits me. I’m vegetarian, but this place should be fine.’

As they descended, Ro caught sight of a tiny smartbat high overhead, recalled to its eyrie in the face of the gathering storm.

Scanning us?

Farther down the street, slow-morphing bioarchitecture buildings were smoothing out their curves and reinforcing their buttresses, ready for the gales and heavier rain to hit.

‘Buonasera.’
An obsequious waiter smiled as they passed through the door. ‘A table for-a two, is it, lady and gentleman?’

‘Ciao.’
Ro raised an eyebrow at the waiter’s laboured accent. ‘
Mio
amico è vegetariano.
’ And, pointing at the holo menu nearby:
‘Scusi, cosa ci sarebbe per lui?’

The man froze, his smile becoming a rictus of embarrassment.

‘I’m-a sorry,’ he said. ‘It is my wife who eez Italian. I just pick up-a the accent, see?’

Grayling sighed.

‘The food smells wonderful. I’d love to eat here.’

The waiter almost fell over in a relieved bow.

‘Yes, sir. This way, please.’

Ro followed along, murmuring, ‘Very smooth, padre.’

She hoped his compassion extended to some two thousand children with obsidian eyes who, according to some fundamentalists whose EveryWare forums were such a colourful delight, held Satan’s hot fire where human beings kept their souls.

Three hours later, Ro was alone in her small hotel room, remembering the final sentences of her conversation with Monsignor Edwin Grayling, SJ, Ph.D.

‘There are superiors I must consult within the order. I will do anything I can.’

‘And the matter compilers?’

‘Livermore security is tight, but I have my privileges.’

‘But no promises.’

‘Exactly right. You do have my blessing.’

Ro closed her eyes. She was putting her trust and hope in an ordained member of a faith in which she did not believe, all for the children’s sake.

‘So you think mu-space-born have souls, at least.’

‘Everyone’s a child of God, or we ‘re all in trouble.’

Rousing herself, Ro tapped the infostrand wrapped bracelet-wise around her wrist, placed a realtime call to Sister Francis Xavier. It was 5 a.m. in Switzerland, but if the nun was not already up and about, Ro would be surprised.

Nothing.

There was no reply, not even a netAgent proxy to take a message.

‘Shit.’

She tapped the strand again, told it to access the convent house AI. A pale orange holo of two hands spread, palms up, appeared above her strand. No go. The AI was blocked: offline from EveryWare, or crashed.

Dirk and Kian would be asleep. No point in calling them.

Shaking her head, she rose to her feet, took a turn around the small hotel room, then grabbed her coat and left.

The holosign was a green-white-gold extravaganza denoting an ironic lack of originality:
Paddy’s Bar.
At least Ro hoped it was irony.

Inside, the regulars were on stools at the counter, staring at the mag-hockey game in the HV above them. Ro took a table in a rear booth and used her infostrand to order coffee.

‘Be right with ya,’ called the barman.

Ro raised a hand and nodded.

Most of the booths were empty. The one Ro could see from her seat contained a middle-aged couple with expensive clothes and coiffed hair and bodies that looked slender but soft: style over substance.

‘Here y’are, doll.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Shall I leave ya a menu?’ He had a hardcopy folder in his hand.

‘I’m not hungry, but I’ll take a look.’

There was a half-hearted cheer from the barstools. In the HV display, the arena’s crowd barriers were lowering and spectators were streaming onto the polished metal court.

With a shiver, the image changed to a newsNet channel. There was a menu, with directional choice so that anyone who wanted could request a separate image with holo audio beamed at them.

Ro took the International News section, then Central Europe, wondering how often those choices were made in Paddy’s Bar.

‘Hey!’ One of the beer drinkers waved a glass.

‘What’s that?’ said another.

‘Awright, boys. Just a glitch.’ The barman called to Ro: ‘Miss? The HV’s on the blink. There’s no private view-vectors. If you change channels, everybody sees the same ...’

His voice trailed off as Ro launched to her feet.

‘Miss? Is everything—?’

In the image, crowds were demonstrating on the Bahnhofstrasse, in peaceful Zurich where Christmas choirs had sung. Then the viewpoint shifted to a hospital ward, and the battered face of a bandaged boy maybe twelve years old lying half-conscious on a pillow.

One of his eyes was partly open. Beneath the bruised lid, the eye glittered black.

Jean-Pierre!

His name was Jean-Pierre Delahante and he was one of the two hundred or so children at Dirk’s and Kian’s school. Ro blinked slowly, momentarily aware of the contact lenses she wore so casually.