The Devil's Eye Page 6

  They were responses to our inquiries about Vicki. Most were negative. Didn’t know her. Knew she was here but didn’t get a chance to meet her. Got her to sign a crystal but they were moving us right along. Johansen, the guy who’d enjoyed several cups of imkah with Vicki, told us he hadn’t actually been with her. “She was at her hotel during the interview. I never left the studio. Didn’t actually see her in person.”

  Of the rest, five claimed to have spent time with her. Among them was Austin Gollancz, who represented the local firm that published her on Salud Afar. “I hope,” he added, “she’s okay.”

  He lived in Marinopolis. It was the original name, now restored, for the capital of Komalia, which was the principal state on the world. During the height of the Directorate, it had been Cleev City, named for the family that had for so long held global sway.

  We set up a conference with Gollancz. There was a time delay, but it wasn’t a problem. “She came here the day after she arrived,” he said. He was a small, round, prosperous-looking guy. It was obvious he’d liked Vicki. “We talked business.”

  “Anything else?” Alex asked.

  “Well, she was excited to be here. Talked about visiting some of our spookier places. She expected to have a great time.”

  “Did she have an itinerary of any kind, Austin?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Anybody she planned to travel with?”

  “If so, she didn’t mention it to me. And look, Alex, I know I’m not being much help. But this is such a shock. I want you to know if I can do anything, anything at all, just ask. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks, Alex.”

  SIX

  Over the ages, it is a world whose name has become synonymous with great

  art. Nowhere else can we find music and sculpture and literature on their level.

  Whether one thinks of drama or symphonies or architecture or even botanical

  displays, one always has to confront their contribution. It may be related to their

  separation from the rest of us, or it may simply be something in the water, but

  we always have to make room for them. The power of their contributions, of

  luminous towers, concerts by the sea, brilliant comedy, tragedy on the summer

  stage, enriches us all.

  —Dr. Blanchard, in Midnight and Roses, speaking of the mythical world Marityne

  Salud Afar orbits Moria, a quiet, stable class-G sun. The planetary system at one time is believed to have possessed eight worlds, but the passage of an unknown dense object eleven thousand years ago scattered them. Two worlds, Varesnikov and Naramitsu, were stripped of rings and moons, but left otherwise in place. Sophora had been thrown into a wildly irregular orbit, which brought it careening in and out of the inner system at centuries-long intervals. Fortunately, it made for occasional spectacular views, but posed no threat to the human establishment on Salud Afar. Miranda, a frozen terrestrial far from the sun, had, like Salud Afar, been unaffected by the event. The remaining three had been ejected and were adrift in the void.

  Early accounts suggest it was this wildness in the system that had inspired the first settlement, which had apparently been a scientific colony. (Most historians are more inclined to attribute settlement to the years-long journey back to the Confederacy. Why go through that when you had a virtual paradise at hand?) In any case, by modern times, it was a thriving world not entirely disconnected from the Confederacy but with a history all its own.

  We came in over the nightside, riding above a dark ocean. Illuminated patches were visible on the ground. Cities, glowing along a distant coastline. “There are,” said Belle, “eleven substantial landmasses, ranging from continents to islands with a minimum area of ninety thousand square kilometers.” She went on in that vein, citing temperature gradients and average rainfall and dozens of other details. Meanwhile, the E. Clifford Samuels Space Station turned on its lights and took control of the Belle-Marie. It’s a modest operation by almost anybody’s standards. Only six docking areas.

  “Apparently they don’t have much traffic,” I said.

  Alex was gazing quietly at the empty sky. “Look around,” he said. “Where would you go?”

  Samuels was more like a government station than a commercial operation. Customs and immigration had of course scanned and interviewed us on our approach. We submitted medical histories, completed forms, and answered questions about why we were visiting Salud Afar, how long we intended to stay, and whether we’d be working. We were issued visitors’ visas and warned against performing any kind of remunerative work without getting permission. Later, we heard that they were procedures left over from the days of the Bandahr.

  When we’d finished, we checked in by link with Central Reserve. Because of the time required to communicate between Salud Afar and Rimway, Alex had established a local corporate account for us. We activated it and wandered out into the concourse looking for a place to eat. They had one restaurant, Sandstone’s, a few offices, a lounge, a gift shop, and not much else. We got sandwiches at Sandstone’s.

  We knew Vicki had landed in Marinopolis, but we’d just missed a shuttle into the capital. So we rode down instead to Karmanda, a major commercial city not far away. The weather was rough, so it was a bumpy ride. Some of the passengers, including Alex, didn’t look too good by the time we reached the spaceport. The captain apologized, hoped we were all feeling okay, and came out of the cockpit to smile at his passengers as they stumbled down the ramp. A middle-aged overweight bearded guy stood off to one side, checking faces against a reader. I knew immediately what that was about. He spotted Alex and was waiting for us in the terminal.

  “Mr. Benedict?” He waved a hand as if he were an old friend. “Mr. Benedict? May I have a moment of your time?”

  He wore a drab gray jacket with a lapel button featuring a star and a sphere. He had a wide-brimmed hat, pushed jauntily back on his head. “My name’s Rob Peifer. I’m with Global.” He smiled at me, signaling he had no clue who I was but was glad to see me anyhow. “Welcome to Salud Afar.”

  “Thank you,” said Alex. He looked my way. “Global’s one of the major news agencies.”

  “We’re the best there is, Mr. Benedict. But”—he waved it away as a matter of relative inconsequence—“I was wondering if you could take a moment to tell me what brings you all the way out here? Is there a mysterious artifact involved, maybe? Or a lost world?” He leaned forward, inviting a provocative reply.

  Alex smiled politely. “We’re just here on vacation, Mr. Peifer. Just want to see the sights.”

  “You’re not on the track of anything?”

  “No. We’re just hoping to enjoy ourselves.”

  “Would you tell me if you were? On the track of something?”

  Alex thought about it. “Sure.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re just here on vacation.”

  “You sent some inquiries out about Vicki Greene—?”

  “We’re fans.”

  “She just underwent a personality transplant.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “It wouldn’t have anything to do with your visit?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “All right. I’ll just say you had no comment.”

  “Mr. Peifer, do what you like.” We started to move away, but Peifer stayed with us.

  “You think it happened here, huh?”

  “What happened here?”

  “Whatever sent her over the edge.”

  “I told you we’re here on vacation.”

  “Okay. Stick with your story.” He paused. “You want me to say nothing about your being here?”

  Alex shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to us.” He looked at me and I shrugged. “Mr. Peifer,” he said casually, “did you by any chance meet Vicki Greene when she came here? Were you standing at the terminal for her, too?”

  He nodded. “Sure. She was really something.” He shook his head. �
�I heard what happened to her. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “What can you tell us about her?”

  “Mr. Benedict, I’ll be happy to answer your questions. But only if we can make a deal.”

  “And that would be?”

  “You and Vicki Greene together would make a pretty big story. If you find out anything, you give me an exclusive.”

  Alex blinked a couple of times.

  “You promise? It doesn’t cost you anything.”

  “Sure. I don’t see a problem with that.”

  Peifer gave us his code so we could reach him. Then: “She told me the same story you did. Said she’d come to Salud Afar as a tourist. That she’d always wanted to see how things looked outside the galaxy. She wasn’t at all what I expected.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Horror writer? I thought she’d be dressed in black. That she’d be, you know, depressing.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No. She said she hadn’t made up her mind yet. She was going to visit oddball places.”

  “Oddball?”

  “Her term, not mine.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s an oddball place?”

  “I’m pretty sure she was talking about something with a haunted flavor.”

  “But no specifics?”

  “No. She didn’t want to tell me where she was going because she figured I might start showing up.” He looked puzzled. “She looked too innocent to be the same woman who wrote those books.”

  “You’ve read them, Rob?” I asked.

  “A couple of them. They’re scary.”

  We caught a glide train to the capital. The vegetation was striking. Usually, it is what it is. Lots of chlorophyll trying to get at the sun. But Salud Afar has giant flowers in a wide range of colors, though predominantly purple and yellow. The blossoms are bigger than I am. Gravity’s light, so everything gets taller. In some areas, we could not see the sky for them.

  The towns themselves were quaint. A bit old-fashioned. The architecture might almost have been out of Rimway’s Kalasian era, two centuries ago. It made me feel as if we’d done some time-traveling.

  It was midmorning when we arrived at the capital.

  Marinopolis was a study in dazzling architecture and planning: sunlit towers and broad avenues and sculpted air bridges and wide parks. Water was everywhere: It ran through conduits, spurted from fountains, spilled from flumes. Glowing walkways were crowded. Monuments to the heroes of the revolution were still being put in place. Despite all that, or probably because of it, there was still the flavor of another time.

  We checked into the Blue Gable Hotel. Alex had made appointments to talk with a few of the people who’d responded to our appeal. While he did that, I sat down with the hotel AI and started to search the archives for Vicki Greene. Mostly I was looking for general news. But I also kept an eye open for dead bodies.

  Other than an announcement of her arrival in Marinopolis, there wasn’t much. A few speaking engagements. Some signings. A couple of interviews that told me nothing. Alex was in his room talking over the link with one of the contacts. I decided I was hungry so I left a note and went down to the hotel restaurant for an early lunch. When I got back, he was out of the building, gone to visit a book dealer.

  It was a warm day, and they had a rooftop pool. One of the nice things about pools is that, when you’re trying to make a gravity adjustment, they’re exactly what you need. So I changed into my swimsuit and went topside. But things were a bit more freewheeling in Marinopolis than they were at home. Topless bathing was in vogue. I drew a few disappointed stares, thought about it, and decided what the hell, a little exhibitionism can be good for the soul. I took a deep breath, and, as casually as I could, as if I did this sort of thing every day, I removed my top. Somebody applauded.

  I draped it across the back of a chair and dived into the water. When I came back up, several guys were trying hard not to look directly at me. It was a little bit like hanging out with Mutes.

  I didn’t stay long. Exposure provides a kick, but it wears fast. As soon as I was out of sight of the pool I put my top back on. Then I rode the elevator up and checked the room again. Alex was still gone, so I went for a walk.

  A pedestrian ramp, several kilometers long, skirted the edge of the ocean. This was the Seawalk. It was three blocks from the hotel and something about it rang a bell. When I asked in the hotel lobby, a young female staffer explained: “It’s where Aramy Cleev was assassinated. Right down from here. Go to the Seawalk and turn right. One block. They have a marker.”

  Aramy Cleev had been the last in the line of dictators who’d run the Bandahriate. The assassination had happened in the early spring thirty-three years earlier. “He was shot by his own guards,” she said. Her voice acquired an angry tone. “Pity it didn’t happen sooner.”

  Like most colony worlds, Salud Afar began its calendar with the arrival of the first mission. In this case, it had been the Aquila, with William Corvier in charge. There was a statue of Corvier outside the hotel, although I learned later no one was certain precisely what he had looked like. Furthermore, the exact date of the initial landing was in doubt. The log had disappeared thousands of years before, and the range of estimates varied by as much as six centuries. But Salud Afar had made its best guess, and that became the year 1. It was now 4198.

  The woman in the lobby was too young to have been alive at the time of the assassination, but the animosity was there all the same. That was when I started discovering that feelings about the former dictator still ran high. On both sides. There were some who would have liked to get him back.

  The assassination had been followed by three years of turmoil, of revolution and counterrevolution. The Bandahriate, a worldwide polity, had split first into four states, and eventually, through evolution and a series of upheavals, into nine. Komalia emerged by 4184, a kind of corporate republic. Eventually, the states formed various cooperatives and reunited as the Coalition.

  Komalia’s executive authority, the Administrator, was Tau Kilgore, who also possessed some sort of senior status in the Coalition’s Executive Authority. I listened to a political show while looking out at the ocean. “He’s not the brightest guy in the world,” one panelist was saying.

  “He means well,” said another.

  And a third: “Everybody knows that, but he couldn’t find his way out of a closet.”

  “Doesn’t matter, though,” said the first panelist, a man with a deep voice, “he’s a vast improvement over Betsy.”

  I didn’t know who Betsy was.

  The hotel entrance was on the third level. I was standing outside the front door, high enough off the ground to see the ocean, thinking what a lovely day it was, when I realized I couldn’t hear the sullen roar that oceans always deliver. That struck me as odd until I remembered that Salud Afar had lost its moon.

  People go on about how spooky a thousand-year-old derelict ship might be, or an ancient space station adrift in the middle of nowhere, or a city left behind by a vanished civilization. But nothing ever chilled my heart quite like standing near that beach at Salud Afar looking out at an ocean and hearing only dead silence.

  I spent an hour on the Seawalk. The salt air was invigorating, and mostly I was thinking how good it was to be out in the sunlight again. People were strolling past, and kids charged up and down with balloons.

  A couple of guys made passes at me, and, while I was ordering a sweet bun, a boy who was about eight whispered to his mother that I talked “funny.”

  Alex called and asked whether I’d eaten yet. Well, then, would I care to join him anyhow? So we met at a place called Morey’s on the Seawalk, and I sat and sucked on a plate of red fruit with a lemony taste while he explained how he’d learned nothing from the people he’d talked to. They’d all seen Vicki within days of her arrival. She’d seemed fine, not especially anxious about anything. Nobody knew where she’d gone from here. There was only
one person left to interview, Cirilla Kopaleski, and we’d see her tomorrow.

  He was putting away a plate of bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, and toast. Something was on his mind, but I let him get to it in his own time. We talked about what a beautiful city Marinopolis was. Andiquar, by contrast, looked almost mundane.

  “Dictatorships tend to do that,” he said. “Strongmen always have a taste for architecture.” And finally he came to what had been bothering him: “The Mutes seem to be interested in Salud Afar.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There’ve been a number of incidents out here. Intrusions. Sightings of Mute warships insystem.”

  “That’s odd. What interest could the Mutes possibly have in this place?”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been wondering, Chase.”

  “What kind of intrusions?”

  “No shooting incidents. As far as I can tell, the Mutes have just been tracking fleet vessels.”

  “Why would they do that? It makes no military sense.”

  “Don’t know. I’m not a military tactician.”

  “What kind of fleet does Salud Afar have?”

  He scooped some jelly onto his toast. “I gather it’s pretty small. A dozen or so patrol vessels. And three destroyers.”

  “That’s it?”

  He nodded.

  “Well,” I said, “I don’t think they need to worry. An attack out here would probably provoke retaliation from the Confederacy.”

  He kept eating.

  “The only reason I can imagine is that they’re trying to intimidate the locals.”

  “Could be.”

  I slushed down a piece of my red fruit. “Okay,” I said. “Why do we care?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Then why’s it bothering you?”

  “It’s not bothering me.”

  “It’s on your mind.”

  “The incidents started while Vicki Greene was here. In fact, just shortly before she left.” He looked out at the crowds wandering past on the Seawalk. A dark-haired woman who could have profited from some clothes strolled past and caught his eye. He started pretending nothing unusual was going on.