Edward willett, p.4
Edward Willett, page 4
Not for the first time, Richard thought Cheveldeoff looked like an artillery shell. He was bald, broad-shouldered, thick-necked, and surprisingly short when he stood up—which he didn’t, for Richard. Eyes like polished mahogany glinted beneath bushy eyebrows the color and texture of steel wool. “Come in,” Cheveldeoff said. “Sit down.”
Obscurely relieved he hadn’t been told to close the door, despite the emptiness of the antechamber outside, Richard followed Cheveldeoff’s orders, as did everyone with any sense. “I’m going to explain your predicament to you,” Cheveldeoff said, and did, directly, frankly, brutally: Richard, being “the grandson of a traitor and the son of embarrassment,” had advanced as far within the hierarchy as he ever would.
Unless…
“You have two options, as I see it,” Cheveldeoff said. “You can quit the Service of the Body and find an ordinary civilian job. As you are certainly aware, however, we will watch you closely for the rest of your life.
“Or, you can prove that you are to be trusted…that you are not tainted by the evil of your grandfather or the weakness of your father. I’ll even tell you how you can do it.” He leaned forward, hard brown eyes locked on Richard’s. “Find the planet to which your grandfather dragged his misbegotten brood of malformed monstrosities. If they’re out there, we want them. And if we find them, and you helped us, well…then Bob’s your uncle, the sky’s the limit, you’re sitting in the catbird seat, you’re God’s favorite mortal.” He leaned back and smiled, or at least showed his teeth. “Hell, you might even get my job…after I retire, of course.”
And so Richard Hansen had been handed the quest—the completely hopeless quest, he suspected, but he knew well enough that Cheveldeoff’s “two options” had been nothing of the kind—that, should he fulfill it, would redeem him and his family in the eyes of the Body Purified, and by extension, all of unmodified humanity.
He glanced at his watch. And if he didn’t hurry, he’d be late delivering his latest report on that quest.
He increased his pace down the broad boulevard leading from the House of the Body to the headquarters of Body Security, at the heart of the City of God (once known as Kansas City, though no one who had lived there before the Day of Salvation would have recognized any part of it; the original had been largely pulverized, then burned, by the nearby impact of one of the larger chunks of the asteroid, and the remaining ruins had been scraped away and used as feedstock for microfactories).
For two years, Richard had been reporting to Cheveldeoff at monthly meetings. At the very first one, Cheveldeoff had surprised him by bringing out a chessboard. “You play, of course,” Cheveldeoff said. It hadn’t been a question, and Richard could hardly be surprised that the Archdeacon of Body Security knew of his predilection for the game. He hadn’t really been surprised to discover that Cheveldeoff excelled at it, either. Richard, no slouch himself, always put up a good fight, but hadn’t won once.
He sometimes wondered what would happen if he did.
Two years. Hard to believe. When he’d taken on the challenge of finding his grandfather’s pet moddies, he hadn’t realized just how thoroughly Victor Hansen had disappeared. He’d assumed the moddies would have maintained some kind of contact with other colonies settled from Earth, so he had begun his search on New Scotland, recently Purified and brought under the oversight of the Avatar. But though he had scanned and searched and combed through current and archived intercepted communications using every tool at the disposal of the Ministry, he had found nothing to point him to Grandpa’s secret hideout…
…until yesterday.
He looked up at the cloudless sky and grinned. Today, he had a surprise for his chess partner.
Samuel Cheveldeoff finished setting up the ancient hand-carved ebony-and-ivory chess set, and glanced at the loudly ticking image of a clock on one of the vidwalls, currently displaying his favorite wallpaper: the interior of a nineteenth century Italian villa. The images of rich furnishings and Old Master paintings gave his Spartan office warmth it generally lacked. Richard Hansen should arrive within minutes.
Cheveldeoff sat back in his chair and glanced at another vidwall, temporarily switched from displaying the villa to showing the rapidly emptying interior of the House of the Body. The automated defense systems in the House had made short work of the moddie who had attacked the Messenger, but Cheveldeoff still felt unhappy about the incident. If the moddie had gone the other way, into the crowd, there would have been casualties, and it looked bad for the Body to lose worshipers on the holiest day of the year. The Avatar…he grimaced; no, not the Avatar, but the Avatar’s Right Hand…would not be pleased.
“Message from the Holy Office,” the computer suddenly said, as if on cue. “Your presence is required in the Holy Office at 1900. No rescheduling permitted.”
Cheveldeoff clenched his jaw for a moment; then forced himself to relax it. Much as he would have liked to tell the Right Hand what he could do with his meeting, the stakes were too high. The Avatar, felled by a mysterious stroke…and though Cheveldeoff suspected the Right Hand suspected him, he had had nothing to do with it…lay alive but vegetative in his private hospital. The prize Cheveldeoff had been working for all his life was in play—but the Avatar had been struck down too soon. He could not be certain he had enough votes on the Council of the Faithful. His main rival, Ashok Shridhar, Archdeacon of Finance, controlled the purse strings of the Body—and purse strings could easily become puppet strings.
If the Avatar’s illness had been brought on by something other than his own penchant for debauchery, it could mean Shridhar was confident he had enough votes among the Council members.
Well, Cheveldeoff could not outbribe the Archdeacon of Finance, but he suspected he could outblackmail him.
In the meantime, though the Right Hand officially remained above all such maneuverings for succession, and would serve whomever God in Its wisdom appointed through the deliberations of the Council, in this situation the Right Hand essentially was the Avatar, and until the real Avatar died or recovered, Cheveldeoff dared not cross him. The Right Hand could bring his own weight to bear on certain Council members, for he knew everything that had happened in the Avatar’s Dwelling, behind the screen of discreet silence even Cheveldeoff had never been able to pierce. Cheveldeoff had heard rumors of some of the activities certain Councillors had enjoyed in the company of the Avatar, but he had no proof. He suspected the Right Hand had pictures, video, and gene samples.
Enough waffling. “Computer, accept meeting request from the Holy Office.”
“Meeting accepted,” said the computer.
My turn, Cheveldeoff thought. “Computer, request meeting with Grand Deacon Ellers. Topic: the poor performance of the Holy Warriors at today’s Salvation Day service in the Central Meeting Hall. Time: tomorrow, 7 a.m.” He grinned savagely. “No rescheduling permitted.”
“Meeting request sent,” the computer said. A pause. “Meeting accepted.”
Cheveldeoff nodded to himself. An early morning meeting that forced Ellers to clear his schedule for Cheveldeoff’s convenience should powerfully remind the new commander of the Holy Warriors that, since the primary function of the Holy Warriors was to keep the Body secure from enemies both internal and external, the Holy Warriors served Body Security.
Or, to put it another way, they served him. Ellers, whom Cheveldeoff knew from his agents on the Grand Deacon’s staff would prefer that Shridhar be the next Avatar, needed to be very clear on that point, because Cheveldeoff intended to ensure, by any and all means, that the Holy Warriors continued to serve him, in case the coming succession battle moved from the Council chamber into the streets.
The sound of a faraway doorbell rang through the room, and the computer said, “Archdeacon, Richard Hansen to see you. Identity confirmed.”
“Computer, all walls to Villa Two,” Cheveldeoff said, and the image of the interior of the House of the Body disappeared, replaced by ceiling-high windows framing a sun-drenched view of vineyards and olive trees. “Computer, open door.”
A door in the villa apparently opened, and Richard Hansen came in. The ultramodern blood-red vestibule behind him clashed visually with the wood and marble of the wallpaper for a moment, then the door closed.
“Come in, Richard, come in,” Cheveldeoff said. “I believe it’s your turn to play white.”
“Good afternoon, Archdeacon,” Richard Hansen said. He crossed the matte-finish black floor and sat down across from Cheveldeoff. Without another word, he moved, pawn to king four, and the game began.
Cheveldeoff played with half his brain. Though a decent enough player, Hansen couldn’t really challenge Cheveldeoff, who could have been a Grand Master if he had cared to pursue it. Cheveldeoff enjoyed their games, but not because of the chess. The real reason he brought Hansen in week after week was that the man fascinated him.
As well he should. Richard Hansen had been Samuel Cheveldeoff’s pet project for a quarter of a century, ever since Cheveldeoff had taken command of Body Security (at the remarkably young age of thirty) and had first been briefed on the long-term experiments already underway with Victor Hansen’s “son” and “grandson.”
I wonder if he knows just how much he looks like a young Victor Hansen? Cheveldeoff thought, studying Richard as Richard studied the board. Probably not. The Body strictly controlled all information about Victor Hansen, including images. And Peter Hansen, Richard’s “father,” had certainly not been provided with a stock of images of Victor Hansen to keep around the home.
Even if Richard Hansen were to see a photograph of Victor Hansen at the same age, Cheveldeoff doubted he would put two and two together. After all, many grand-sons looked like their grandfathers. Cheveldeoff’s own grandfather had been not that dissimilar from himself.
But Richard Hansen, though he would never know it, was an exact duplicate of Victor Hansen at his age—because Richard Hansen, as only about ten people on the planet knew, was not Victor Hansen’s grandson at all.
He was Victor Hansen’s clone.
Cheveldeoff moved. “Bishop to Knight Five. Check.” Hansen bent to the board, giving Cheveldeoff a few more minutes for reflection.
When that old sinner Victor Hansen had stolen the Rivers of Babylon and fled the solar system, he had left behind undercover operatives to cover his tracks. In the chaos and confusion that had followed the Day of Salvation and the ensuing meteor storms, they had had no difficulty clearing the Stellar Survey databases of any trace of any research Hansen might have conducted into possible destinations—and Cheveldeoff, like every head of Body Security before him, had no doubt Hansen had had a specific destination in mind before he fled.
Hansen’s followers didn’t remain undercover for long. Betrayed for money by someone they had trusted a little too much, interrogated by the Body, they had provided a great deal of information about Hansen and his plans—though not, unfortunately, his ultimate destination.
And one thing they had revealed was that Hansen hadn’t been content to leave behind a few loyal followers. He had also left himself behind, in the form of five frozen cloned embryos, only awaiting implantation.
Victor Hansen had been long-divorced by the time he fled for Luna. Officially, the split had been vicious, and his wife had become a loyal member of the Body…but that, the Hansen loyalists revealed, had all been a ruse. In fact, Hansen’s ex-wife had remained fiercely loyal to him, and he had left the clones in her care.
Physically, the clones were all identical to Victor Hansen. But in their brains…
According to Hansen’s agents, each of the clones carried within them modified genes that somehow (Cheveldeoff didn’t pretend to understand how) would at some unknown point in their lives provide them with unlearned knowledge about Hansen’s plans. Hansen’s followers said Hansen did not believe the Body’s reign would last more than a few years, and he hoped his clones would be able to reconnect his hidden moddie “children” with humanity at some point.
More: just about the last thing Hansen’s loyalists had revealed, before they succumbed to the side effects of their questioning, was that Hansen’s implanted gene-bombs were expected to do more than just rewrite the clones’ memories: they would at least partially rewrite the clones’ personalities as well, making them mental as well as physical copies of Victor Hansen.
The man must have thought he was God Itself, Cheveldeoff thought.
Shortly after the interrogations ended, the Body-controlled media reported that Victor Hansen’s ex-wife had taken her own life, leaving behind a suicide note that explained she could no longer live with the shame of her former relationship with the evil genesculptor extraordinaire.
With her disposed of, the Body had turned its attention to Hansen’s clones. Two had been implanted almost at once in surrogate mothers. One had developed abnormalities in the womb and been aborted. The other, however, throve. Given the name Peter Hansen, raised in a Body orphanage and told his mother had died when he was an infant, he had been guided by Cheveldeoff’s predecessor into a noncritical job in a minor bureaucracy while the Body waited for the Hansen gene-bomb to explode, at which point he would be interrogated to learn the coordinates of the planet Victor Hansen had fled to. A simple plan, but one that had gone badly awry shortly after Cheveldeoff took over Body Security, when Peter Hansen had decided the best way to celebrate the ascension of a new Avatar was by naked base jumping without a parachute.
Victor Hansen’s gene-bomb, it appeared, could have unanticipated side effects.
Cheveldeoff had therefore decided to take a different approach with the third clone, already a teenager, which had been implanted in Peter Hansen’s (carefully selected) wife, who had then tragically “died” in childbirth. (In fact, she had died shortly after childbirth, in a sealed room not far from where Peter Hansen already grieved for her—Cheveldeoff’s predecessor had not liked loose ends any more than he did.) He directed the clone into Body Security itself.
The geneticists (such as they were; in a society that outlawed genetic modification except within strict guidelines closely supervised by the Body Purified, the best and brightest did not choose genetics as a career) had persuaded him they had a gene therapy that would blunt most of the gene-bomb’s personality rewrite. They were almost sure it wouldn’t interfere with the transfer of “memories” about the destination of the Rivers of Babylon.
Cheveldeoff had agreed to the experiment. During an otherwise routine vaccination, Richard Hansen received protection against more than he knew. And then, as Richard approached the age when the gene-bomb should detonate, Cheveldeoff had posed him the very question they hoped the gene-bomb would provide the answer to: “Where did Victor Hansen take his moddies?” And ever since he had kept Richard close at hand and closely watched, waiting to see what would happen.
“So,” said Cheveldeoff, several moves into the game he already knew he would win, “how goes the great moddie hunt?”
Richard frowned at the board. How does he do that? he wondered. I’m already struggling. No matter what I do, he’s a move—or three!—ahead.
But Cheveldeoff’s question made him smile. “It’s going well,” he said, looking up from the game, which patently wasn’t.
Cheveldeoff’s bushy iron-colored eyebrows lifted like caterpillars trying to crawl up onto his shaved skull. “You have news?”
“I do.” Richard’s smile widened to a grin. “I have a vector.”
The Archdeacon sat up straight in his chair, more reaction than Richard had ever seen from him. “Tell me!”
First, Richard moved, advancing a pawn to protect an exposed knight. Cheveldeoff countered without even looking at the board, and Richard suddenly found himself forced to choose between sacrificing a bishop and a rook. Richard studied the board. He didn’t like what he saw. “I’ve concentrated for years on a handful of possible routes the Rivers of Babylon might have taken,” he said, his hand hesitating over first the bishop, then the rook. “All very logical, all based on the fragmentary records we have of the ship’s flight out of the solar system. But last week I decided to take a different tack. I had…a hunch. I took a look at some data I’d never bothered with before, because they’d been recorded a quarter of a way around the orbit of Uranus from the last known position of the Rivers of Babylon.”
Yeah, call it a hunch, Richard thought. Whatever you do, don’t call it what it was—a sudden flood of complete certainty that if he looked at those long-ignored records, he would find something. Because if you call it that, you’ll have to admit you don’t know what the hell is going on inside your own head these days.
He moved the rook. Cheveldeoff took his bishop. Richard studied the board again. The situation had not improved. “The records are stored on the far side of the Moon, but they’re raw data files downloaded from an old automated deep-space station, ironically one of the ones that first saw the Fist of God approaching. They hadn’t been completely ignored—some analyst studied them immediately after Hansen escaped. But the micronuke that destroyed Sterling Heights at the moment of departure fried electronics all over the far side, and for several months after a lot of data that came in from deep space was lost or scrambled while equipment was being repaired or replaced. I doubt the analysts of fifty years ago could retrieve anything.” He needed the rook more than the bishop, he decided, and pulled it back a rank to safety. “But technology has advanced. My algorithms identified a great deal more data from that deep-space station tucked away in odd corners of the database than those old analysts knew existed.” He attempted to threaten Cheveldeoff’s king with the rook he’d saved on his last move.
Cheveldeoff blocked the rook with a pawn-protected knight and with the same move opened up a new line of attack from his bishop on Richard’s remaining rook. “Go on.”
