Voyagers II - The Alien Within (8 page)

“Jesus,” Stoner muttered.

“But the world is safer now,” she said. “The U.S., Russia, all of Europe, even the major cities of China and India are protected by energy domes.”

Stoner poured the wine. They touched glasses with a pure crystal ring and sipped. The wine was cold and dry, with just a hint of muskiness.

“So we’re safe from nuclear war,” Stoner said.

“Vanguard’s making billions, setting up energy domes all over the world.”

“Have you seen Kirill lately?”

“Not for years.”

They sat on the blanket spread over the beach sand, facing each other, sipping wine. Thoughts raced through Stoner’s mind. Richards had been right: there was a lot he would have to adjust to. He watched in silence as Jo took out the tray of iced caviar and warmed brie, then set out a platter of thin crackers between them.

“If the Cold War is ancient history,” he asked, “and we’re safe from nuclear attack, what’s causing the tensions in the world?”

Jo glanced up sharply at him. “Tensions? What do you mean?”

“It’s not a peaceful world, Jo. I can feel it. The way your eyes moved away from me when I asked you about Kirill. The idea of meeting here on the beach. What are you afraid of, Jo? What’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated. For an instant she had been ready to tell him the truth. But something had stopped her, Stoner realized.

“It’s a better world than it was eighteen years ago, Keith,” she said. Her voice was low, barely strong enough to hear over the gentle murmur of the surf.

“You mean that
in some ways
it’s better,” he replied. “But in some ways it’s worse, isn’t it?”

“We’ve almost solved the drug problem.”

He felt a ripple of skepticism. “Don’t tell me the alien’s technology has turned people off drugs.”

“No.” She smiled slightly. “Our own technology. Although the new political alignments in the world have helped.”

“In what way?”

“We’re using sensors on satellites to spot the areas where the raw product is grown. You know, poppies and marijuana and all.”

“You spot them from satellites.”

“Right. And we destroy them. Send in troops and wipe the fields clean.”

“You just invade a nation….”

“No, no. The Peace Enforcers do it. They’re an international entity.”

“And a nation like Turkey or Colombia just allows them to come in and rip up the poppy fields?”

Jo nodded and took another sip of wine. “They finally realized—oh, a half-dozen years ago or more—that the drug trade was destroying their governments. The drug dealers were taking over whole countries, Keith! I think it was to deal with the drug trade that the Peace Enforcers were really created, as much as to deal with stopping wars.”

“Peace Enforcers,” Stoner murmured. “My daughter’s married to somebody who’s a Peace Enforcer, according to what Richards told me. Tell me about them.”

“I will tell you about them,” she said. “But not now. It’s too soon.”

He smiled. “I’m not a child. I want to know about the world, Jo.”

And she smiled back, but it was tinged with sadness. “Keith, in many ways you
are
a child. A newborn. Don’t try to gobble down everything at once. Let us help you to learn about this new world that…”

She stopped herself.

“That I’ve helped to create,” he finished for her.

With a nod, she admitted, “Yes, that you’ve helped to create.”

He realized he had been leaning forward tensely. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed and stretched himself out on the blanket, squinting up at the brilliant sky.

“There must be a lot of people out there who want to thank me,” he said.

Jo leaned over into his view, blocking out the sun. “Yes, there are.”

“And there must be others who hate me.”

He heard her breath catch in her throat. But she managed to recover swiftly and say, “There are plenty of others who would like to get their hands on you. You are a very valuable piece of property.”

“Property?” He laughed.

She stared down at him. “God, Keith, you
have
changed.”

“In what way?”

“Eighteen years ago you would have gone berserk at the idea that we were keeping you under wraps…that we regarded you as our possession.”

He propped himself up on both elbows, his face close enough to Jo’s to kiss her. She edged back away from him slightly.

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Jo,” he said.

“What is it?”

Grinning, “Richards thinks I’m schizzy, doesn’t he?”

She tilted her head slightly. “He’s worried that you might be.”

Stoner’s grin widened. “The secret is this: I
was
a madman—eighteen years ago. I’m sane now. Maybe for the first time in my life, I’m completely sane.”

Jo started to reply, but her words were drowned out by the sudden roar of jet engines. A sleek twin-engined plane flashed low across the beach, turned out over the ocean, and as Stoner and Jo watched, came straight back toward them. Its engine pods swiveled and it hovered in midair, then settled slowly down onto the beach, jets screaming, kicking up a maelstrom of gritty sand.

Jo jumped to her feet and yanked at Stoner’s hand. “Come on!” she yelled over the noise of the shrieking engines.

Surprised, Stoner got to his feet and ran with her to the plane. It was painted all in white, except for a stylized green V on its tail. A hatch near the rear popped open, and a lean, lithe man in olive-green coveralls jumped down onto the beach. Jo ran to him, almost dragging Stoner behind her.

“
Buòn giorno, signora
!” said the man.

Jo nodded at him as she motioned Stoner to climb up into the plane. He did, and she followed him.

The crewman got inside and pulled the hatch shut. The screaming noise of the jet engines suddenly dwindled to a muted whine. Stoner had to bend slightly to stand in the aisle, but the interior of the plane was ultraplush: massive leather chairs, deep carpeting, rich paneling along the curving bulkheads.

Jo gestured Stoner to a seat, then sat alongside him. As they clicked their seat belts, the crewman hurried up forward and through the hatch that opened onto the cockpit. Within a second the plane was lifting straight up. Through the window on his left Stoner saw the beach disappearing below them, the chauffeur gathering up the remains of their unfinished picnic lunch and hurrying back toward his limousine.

He turned to Jo. “Where are we going?”

“Where we won’t be bothered for a while,” she answered without the slightest hint of a smile.

“It was very good of you to see me,” said An Linh Laguerre.

Everett Nillson’s long, high-domed face slowly unfolded into a craggy smile. “I apologize for not having taken the time earlier. As the new director of corporate public relations, you should have ready access to me.”

“Oh, really?” An Linh made herself smile back at him. “I was told that you avoid the media—that you’re a very secretive person.”

Nillson laughed, a surprisingly hearty, booming laughter coming from this pale, lean man. “But that’s your job, don’t you see? You’ve got to keep the media away from me.”

“Ahh,” said An Linh.

“And still keep Vanguard’s image shining brightly,” Nillson added. “Not the easiest task in the world, I know. But if I didn’t think you could do it, you wouldn’t have been offered the position.”

They traded small compliments for several more moments. Nillson’s office was a duplicate of his offices in New York, Berne, and Osaka. Every detail was identical, so that he could reach out a hand and find precisely the same pen or communicator keypad or display screen at precisely the same spot on his desk. It was an imposing room, built large and designed to impress visitors. The walls were paneled in rich dark wood, the floors thickly carpeted. Portraits of placid English ladies by Reynolds and Gainsborough hung in elegant gilt frames, flanking a grotesquely tortured crucifixion scene by an unknown medieval primitive.

To get to Nillson’s desk from the outer office, a visitor had to stride past a long marble table bearing gifts presented to Nillson by the chiefs of sovereign nations: an exquisitely carved sperm whale from Norway, a delicate porcelain floral arrangement from China, a miniature golden madonna from Italy, lacquered bowls from Japan, even a crystal American eagle. And many more. There were duplicates of each in Nillson’s other offices. No one but he knew which were the originals and which the copies.

Even the windows of the office looked out on the same scenes. At the moment they showed holographic views of a Norwegian fjord: massive stone cliffs dropped precipitously down to deep blue water. Like the owner of this office, the water looked deceptively placid. Beneath its calm surface it was treacherously deep and fatally cold.

His desk itself was a massive fortress of ebony inlaid with ivory and fixtures of highly polished stone from Vanguard’s mining operation on the moon. Dressed in a Wall Street cardigan of royal blue, Nillson sat on an elevated platform behind the desk like a general observing approaching visitors from the battlements of his castle. The entire desktop could light up and become a display screen: like a completely modern general, Nillson could survey any battlefield he wished to, at the touch of a finger or the whisper of a command.

An Linh sat in front of the desk, feeling like a wandering beggar at the gates of Nillson’s castle. She had carefully chosen her costume: a worker’s one-piece jumpsuit of burnt orange, tightly fitted along the torso, loose and blousy along the limbs. Both the sleeves and pantlegs were slitted; when An Linh sat quietly they were demurely modest, but when she moved they revealed bare flesh.

She crossed her legs and leaned back in the comfortable leather chair. It seemed to mold itself to her body, almost as if it were alive.

“Actually,” she said to Nillson, “I was going to suggest that you and Mrs. Nillson allow my staff to write an interview of the two of you together—you know, the husband-and-wife team. It’s trite, but the viewers like it.”

Nillson’s face froze for just an instant, then he pursed his thin lips. “That will be impossible.”

“Perhaps later?…”

He shook his head. “No. No interviews with either of us, now or later.”

An Linh made her best smile. “No one will actually have to ask you questions. We have all the information we need in the files.”

He showed his teeth. “No interviews. Not of me. Not of my wife. Ever.”

“Is that a rule?”

“Yes. Corporate PR will have to concentrate on the company, not personalities. I won’t have it any other way.”

She hesitated a moment, then plunged. “I consider it part of my job to explain what works well in public relations and what doesn’t. Personalities sell.”

“I understand. And I appreciate your persistence,” Nillson replied slowly. “But the rule still stands. If you need personalities, concentrate on the division managers’ level.”

“On the other hand,” An Linh said, “some of the work that Vanguard is involved with would be fascinating to viewers.”

Nillson closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. “That’s better. I prefer concentrating on what we do, what this company actually accomplishes. Which lines of our work do you think have the best PR potential?”

An Linh tried to keep her voice calm, to betray no emotion whatever. “Oh, I suppose the one that would be of the highest interest to the general audience,” she said, “would be the subject of life extension.”

Steepling his fingers and resting his chin on their tips, Nillson let her talk. His glacier-blue eyes stayed riveted on her; his face became an immobile, impenetrable mask. As she prattled on, An Linh thought that he might as well be frozen himself, a cold and lifeless slab of ice sculpted into the shape of a man.

Finally she ran out of things to say. She ended with, “And, naturally, we should include some mention of the possibilities of cryonics.”

He made a small sound that might have been a grunt or merely the gift of life returning to his body.

“You mean the frozen astronaut business.”

She almost bit her lip to keep herself from appearing too eager. “I suppose that’s part of the story, yes.”

Without any change of expression or tone of voice, Nillson said, “Your mother’s been frozen for more than five years now.”

Madigan had warned her that Nillson would investigate every aspect of her life before agreeing to promote her.

“Yes. In France,” she replied.

“Cancer is on the increase,” Nillson muttered, almost to himself. “Despite everything we’ve done, it’s becoming more prevalent, not less.”

“Do you think cryonic suspension could become inexpensive enough so that all cancer victims might use it?”

He looked at her for a long moment, peering at her as if he had not really seen her before. A thin smile crept across his lean face.

“May I call you An Linh? I understand that’s what your friends call you.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. And you may call me Everett.”

An Linh knew that only a handful of older men, his former teachers and mentors, were allowed to call him “Ev.” She had done her research, too, and knew that he detested the abbreviation.

“Thank you, Everett,” she said.

Nillson got up from the desk and walked around it, his eyes never leaving An Linh. He stretched out his hand and she rose to her feet and allowed him to clasp her hand in his.

“An Linh, I know why you’re here. I want to help you.”

“Help me?” Alarm tingled through her.

Nillson led her to the wall between two holographic windows. The solid wood paneling glowed and vanished, opening a doorway into a smaller room. They stepped through, Nillson leading her by the hand, and An Linh saw that it was a private dining room, its table set for two. There was a real window, and it looked out onto the beach and the brilliantly sunny afternoon. Somehow that made An Linh feel better: less trapped.

Nillson held a high-backed chair for her, and An Linh sat in it.

“Archie Madigan tells me you’re ambitious,” he said, pulling up the other chair. “I think he’s right, but not in the way he thinks you are. What is it that you really want?”

“To be the best public relations director that you’ve ever had.”

“Really? And what else?”

She said nothing.

“You want help for your mother, don’t you?”

She hesitated just long enough to let him think he was forcing the truth from her. “Is there anything that you can do for her that isn’t being done in France?”

“She’s at the cryonics facility in Avignon, am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“According to my information she is as well off there as she would be here.”

“Is there…” An Linh looked away from him, to the window and the beach beyond it. “Is there any hope of reviving her?”

Nillson smiled thinly. “You mean, now that we’ve revived the frozen astronaut.”

“Yes.”

He replied, “Eventually, I’m sure.”

“But not yet.”

“I’m afraid that’s right. It’s too soon to say whether what we did with the astronaut can be done for everybody.”

An Linh said nothing, kept her eyes focused on the beach and the sun-glittering sea.

“Besides,” Nillson added, his voice slightly tighter, tenser, “there’s no point in reviving cancer victims until we can cure their disease.”

Turning back to face him, An Linh leaned forward slightly. “There are people who believe you
have
developed a cure, but are keeping it a secret.”

Nillson’s face clouded. “Why would we keep it a secret?”

“For power. It would be an enormously powerful tool for Vanguard, to give the cure to those who will help the corporation and refuse it to those who will not.”

“Nonsense,” Nillson muttered. But he dropped his gaze from her face and stared down at the dish set before him.

“There’s something else,” An Linh said.

Nillson looked up at her, his pale brows arched.

“A priest that I know. In Hilo. He has an inoperable brain tumor.”

Nillson leaned back in the comfortable leather-covered chair. Using a dying priest. Clever of her. He eyed her with new respect.

“If you would allow the labs to take his case, we could tape his final days and his freezing,” An Linh went on. “It would make a spectacular documentary.”

He nodded and murmured, “I see.”

“The public relations value to Vanguard Industries would be enormous. I could make an arrangement with an organization like Worldnews to distribute the documentary to its outlets all around the globe.”

Nillson steepled his fingers again and pursed his lips, as though giving her request deep thought.

A human waiter appeared at the far door to the room, pushing a rolling cart bearing dishes covered by silver domes.

Straightening in his chair, Nillson asked, “You do like French cuisine?”

“Oh, yes. Certainly.” The aromas were delicate and delicious. An Linh closed her eyes for an instant and saw herself a little girl again in her mother’s kitchen.

The waiter placed the dishes before them, poured a light Beaujolais into the tulip wineglasses, then left as silently as a wraith.

Nillson held his glass to the light, then said, “You’ll have to spend a lot of your time on such a project, I suppose.”

An Linh tried to clamp down on the rush of eager expectation that flooded through her. “Several weeks, at least.”

“And bring in a camera crew from outside.”

She thought a moment, then answered, “We could use our own company crew, but if you want the absolute best kind of work, a professional documentary team would be best, yes, I agree.”

Of course you agree, Nillson said silently. That’s what you’re after, obviously. An outside camera crew; probably her boyfriend from Worldnews. She’s already told him that the astronaut’s been revived, no doubt of that. It will be like inviting a team of espionage agents into the laboratory. Still, what better way to fend off spies than to invite them into your parlor and let them think they are seeing everything? But I mustn’t appear to give in too easily. She’s clever enough to see through that.

“If I agree to what you want,” he said slowly, picking up a salad fork and toying with it, “what will you do for me?”

“I don’t understand….”

Nillson smiled at her again. “It’s very simple, An Linh. A life for a life.”

She sat in this preciously appointed private dining room, staring at one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, and hoped desperately that he would not say what she knew he was going to say.

Enjoying the uncertainty in her eyes, Nillson said, “I’m not trying to seduce you, although you are a very beautiful young woman. Surely you’re aware of the effect you have on men.”

An Linh made herself smile.

“I…need”—the word twisted Nillson’s face into a pained scowl—“a woman to bear a son for me.”

She felt her mouth gape with shock.

Nillson held up a long, bony-knuckled hand. “It’s not what you think. I want a host mother to carry a fertilized zygote which I will provide.”

An Linh began to breathe again. “A host mother. Mrs. Nillson does not want to be bothered with an unsightly pregnancy.”

“Mrs. Nillson has nothing to do with this, other than providing an ovum.”

Forcing herself to be calm, An Linh asked, “But I thought that Vanguard had developed artificial wombs for cases where…”

His white brows knit again. “I will not trust
my
son to a glorified test tube. I want a human mother to carry him to term.”

“I see.”

“Naturally, I will see to it that you are taken care of extremely well.”

“And if I refuse? What then? Do I get fired?”

“No! Of course not.” He gestured with the hand that held the fork. “I’m rather clumsy about these things. I didn’t mean to suggest that I expect payment in return for helping your priest.”

“Then?…”

“Allow me to take you to dinner now and then. Perhaps we could go sailing together. I’m really a very pleasant fellow, despite what you may have heard.”

“And your wife?”

His lips pulled back in a smile, but his eyes went hard. “My wife has nothing to do with this. She leads her life and I lead mine.”

An Linh heard herself reply, “I’ll have to think about this. I can’t make a decision right away.”

“I understand.”

“I have a very jealous boyfriend,” she blurted.

Who wants to bring a Worldnews camera team into my laboratories, Nillson told himself.

“I’m sure you can explain this to him,” he said.

“Then you’ll accept Father Lemoyne and allow us to tape?”

“How could I refuse such a request?”

“Thank you.” It was all she could think to say.