Dante's Equation Part 31

"I can't help you."

"No,listen . There's this whole thing I have to tell you about a weapon. Your ma.n.u.script. I . . . Parts of it have fallen into the wrong hands. That's why I'm . . ."

He was going to say that's why he was here, but it wasn't, and at this point he wasn't sure he would have come willingly to such a place even if he'dknown he'd find Kobinski. The man was watching him, his face registering something other than disdain for the first time. He looked alarmed. He turned his face away.

"-listen to what I'm saying!"Aharon pressed, trying to raise himself up. "They're going to make a weapon, a terrible weapon. It's in the Torah code. You must return; you musthelp , somehow, to prevent a tragedy!"

Kobinski remained with his face turned from Aharon. He was utterly still. At last, Aharon thought, at last he had gotten through to the man!

But when Kobinski turned back to look at Aharon, his face was set hard as a stone. "I knew this would happen if the ma.n.u.script was found."

"So? We mustdo something!"

Kobinski shook his head. "The dead cannot go back," he said with flat finality, "and we are the dead."

G.o.d has framed you differently. Some of you have the power of command, and in the composition of these he has mingled gold, wherefore also they have the greatest honour; others he has made of silver, to be auxiliaries; others again who are to be husbandmen and craftsmen he has composed of bra.s.s and iron . . . And G.o.d proclaims as a first principle to the rulers, and above all else, that there is nothing which should so anxiously guard as of the purity of the race.

-Plato,The Republic,fourth centuryB .C.E., translation by Benjamin Jowett, 1871 The condition of man . . . is a condition of war of everyone against everyone.

-Thomas Hobbes,Leviathan, 1651

15.1. Forty-Sixty

Calder Farris

Pol 137 and his partner, Gyde 332, pulled up beside the armored riot vans. There was no riot in progress. There hadn't been a riot in this city for a hundred years. But there was clearly some state crisis, as witnessed by the gathering of manpower and the presence of a Gold official. As the two detectives got out of the sedan, Pol 137 saw the cause of the commotion. On the marble walls of the Hall of Justice someone had painted graffiti three feet high: THERE ARE ALIENS AMONG US.Below the words was a simple signature rendered in broad swipes: an open circle with a bar across the top. The wind was subzero this morning, chilling Pol through his thick wool uniform. Even so, it was reading the graffiti that made him shiver. His eyes shifted to Gyde, wondering if he had the same reaction. But what he saw on Gyde's face was patriotic outrage, the appropriate response to effrontery to the state. The Gold turned his eyes on them, his lips pinched white. "Chancellor Henk," Gyde addressed him. He snapped his right arm forward, fist clenched, then brought the fist to his left shoulder in a salute. Pol mimicked the gesture. The chancellor sent a grazing glance over their identification badges. He made them hold the salute longer than was customary, to indicate his displeasure, then nodded at them to relax. "You're the detectives a.s.signed to this case?""Yes, Chancellor. I am Gyde 332 and this is Pol 137. He's new to the department, but he has an outstanding battle record."

"The Department of Communications wants an end to this."

"Yes, Chancellor," Gyde replied.

"This kind of thing cannot be tolerated. This is the third defacing. Did you know that?"

"We were briefed."

"And the Department of Monitors has still not caught this terrorist."

"No, Chancellor. But I have the case now. My cla.s.smate and I will find him, and we will destroy him."

Gyde, with his straight back, lifted chin, scarred features, and hard eyes, was the embodiment of Silver determination. He knew how to make his superiors feel secure. Chancellor Henk's anger visibly diminished.

Pol watched this shift, studying Gyde's proficiency. He was also fascinated by the Gold. His grooming was immaculate, his yellow hair polished straight back like a helmet. The blue at his temples reflected a soft light, even in the perpetual cloud cover, and his smooth, handsome face was toned and oiled. Pol had never been this close to a Gold in the flesh. He'd only seen them on posters or on the evening telecast. He stored the details mechanically.

Chancellor Henk was used to being stared at and ignored Pol's unnerving blue-white eyes. "Gyde 332, I will accept that as a commitment."

"Chancellor, you have my pledge."

"Good. I'm elevating this degenerate to a state terrorist. You'll receive a memo today. In the meantime, my adjunct has all the information. Good luck. The state rewards service."

"Long live the state!" Gyde saluted again.

The Gold signaled for his driver and pulled away in his long black car. The adjunct stood waiting for Gyde. He was a young Silver, and his face was haughty with the privilege of his position. While Gyde went over the case with him, he sent Pol to survey the site.

Pol went carefully over the broad marble steps leading up to the portico, but they were smooth and clean. In front of the steps was the pedestrian zone, also unremarkable. On the portico itself there were no footprints, no paper or wrappers or smoke b.u.t.ts. Pol took out a small knife and envelope and sc.r.a.ped a sample of black paint from the wall. Up close, the letters were so tall he couldn't read the message, and it helped his concentration not to think about what it said.

He shared a smoke with the monitor commander and questioned him. The Hall of Justice, the state's grandest courthouse, was just off Victory Plaza at the heart of the capital. Monitors walked the district at night, but their route and timetables meant that most buildings, the courthouse included, were left unwatched for ten minutes at a time. The commander believed the message had been left between 0100 and 0140 hours. They had seen no one on the streets, not even someone with a legal curfew pa.s.s.

So whoever the terrorist was, Pol wrote in his notebook, he was clever enough to study the monitors' routes and to time his defacement accordingly. There hadn't been an air raid last night, so the streetlights had been on, harsh and glaring, yet he had done his business without being seen. Pol had to wonder who would be so stupid as to risk so much for so little. What could possibly be the motivation? A malcontent. A madman.

The commander's eyes lingered on Pol's face as they talked. The look was only a brief second too long, but Pol felt a stab of concern. Gyde was still talking to the adjunct, so Pol went inside the Hall of Justice and found a service room. It was at the back of the grand foyer. The sign said it was for Golds and Silvers only.

The interior was impressive-high ceilings, marble floors, elegant but cold. Marble columns divided the s.p.a.ces. Polished metal receptacles reflected nary a thumbprint. An Iron attendant was waiting to a.s.sist Pol and to clean up after he had gone. He motioned the slave back and turned to the fountain. He put the tips of his fingers in the flowing water, using the moment to examine his reflection in the mirror. The blue at his temples was intact. His eye color helped to focus attention away from it in any case. His brow was clear and smooth. The small scars hidden inside his hairline just above both ears were not visible. There was a hint of darkness on his cheek, but only if you were looking for it. It would hold until they got back to the office. The commander had been staring at . . . what? Nothing. Often eyes lingered on him, and he never understood how much people could or could not see. He could drive himself mad worrying about it.

The Iron waited with a towel. Pol dried his hands. He was about to leave, but he decided he might as well relieve himself while he was here. There was no one, only the Iron, who was busy wiping down the metal he had splashed at the fountain. The bathrooms back at the Department of Monitors were usually occupied; Pol avoided them.

He turned to the metal receptacles, his back to the room.

He was releasing a stream of urine when he heard the heavy hall door swing open. He hurried to finish and tie up his pants. He thought he not been obvious about his haste, but as he turned, Gyde stepped up to the receptacle beside him, smiling.

"You make me laugh, Pol. Shy as a girl, as if you weren't raised with a few hundred men."

Gyde released his own uncirc.u.mcised, slightly hooked p.e.n.i.s with exaggerated boldness-or was it pride? A sardonic smile dimpled his aging face.

"I'll be outside," Pol said.

Back at the Department of Monitors, Pol sat at his desk eyeballing the photographs in front of him. Black paint on a white marble wall:THERE ARE ALIENS AMONG US .

Gyde stood up at his desk. "Lunch?"

"I'll be down in a minute."

Gyde's departure opened the floodgates. The ma.s.sive old room, with its towering cracked ceilings and clanging radiators, held the desks of six other Silver-cla.s.s detectives. Their occupants followed Gyde to the dining hall as instinctively as they had once followed him into battle.

Pol was relieved to be alone. He opened the case file from the adjunct. The terrorist had left two other messages in graffiti prior to last night's defacement.

THEY ARE HERE.THEY ARE US , said the most recent message.

And the first:WHAT ISN 'T THE STATE TELLING US?

That one was stupid. Whatwas the state telling them? But the other message struck that mental funny bone just as the alien message had.THEY ARE HERE .THEY ARE US . Pol felt the darkness in his mind quiver responsively, as though disturbed by a neurological aftershock. He did not know what it meant, only that it meant something.

When he reached the dining hall and sat down, Gyde put a finger to his lips to hush his greeting. He motioned his head toward the next table, where a group of Bronze monitors, their rust-colored uniforms tight and foreboding, were having a conversation. An Iron female came to determine his choice of the two menu options today. Pol gave her a quick response, hardly knowing what he'd ordered. He was listening to the Bronzies.

"Where was this?" one of them asked, voice low.

"Saradena. I was stationed there until last week."

"How do you know the corpse was a Silver? You said the head and hands were missing."

"You wouldn't know a Silver when you saw one? He had an old sparring scar on his left thigh, his skin was white, prominent blue veins at his privates, like a statue, and his physique was perfect, a cla.s.sic warrior. By the blood, he was a Silver."

Pol felt a rush of fear-based adrenaline, but no one was watching him; no one was looking at him at all. Gyde's head was tilted, his eyes half-lidded, listening to the dialogue.

"I'dknow a Silver," another Bronze agreed, "even with more than that missing! But who would do such a thing? In one of our own cities? Not even in battle!"

"Maybe he did something wrong," a quiet voice said. Pol hazarded a glance. The speaker was a tall Bronze he'd seen before-hulking, mean-looking. His voice was dull with import.

The table went silent. "Doing something wrong" could easily be fatal. It was, in fact, not a very smart thing to even talk about it. The Bronze from Saradena looked around apprehensively. He saw Gyde and Pol watching him and paled. He began carving his steak.

"Not decapitated," Gyde said calmly but loudly. "Not by the state."

Gyde turned back in his chair and lifted the bare ridge above his eyes at Pol, as if to say,Look how I'm playing these children .

"That's right," someone at the next table ventured, emboldened now. "If he'd done something wrong he would have disappeared, not been found carved up like that. It must have been a private citizen who did it-a murderer, a lunatic."

Pol slammed his hand down on the table with a painful bang. "Be silent!"

The Bronzies at the next table fell into a mute attentiveness to their food and, after a show of eating, rapidly dispersed back to their cubbyholes.

Pol's plate came. Gyde leaned forward thoughtfully, chin on his hand. He was studying Pol with that d.a.m.ned inscrutable expression. His eyes were a soft sea green at the moment, but if you looked closer you could see the steel in them, the glint of a spear, even when he was relaxed.

Pol had the urge to say something, to justify what he'd just done, something like "they shouldn't talk that way about the state" or "I don't like that kind of talk while I'm eating." But wisely, he said nothing.

"You ever heard about that case?" Gyde asked slowly. "A decapitated Silver? You were in Saradena, weren't you? Before you were a.s.signed here?"

"Briefly. On leave. And no, I never heard of it." The knife was heavy as Pol picked it up to cut his meat.

"You'd get a lot of merits solving a case like that."

Pol shifted his eyes to his partner in a cold, lazy stare. He brought the dripping meat to his mouth. "It's inSaradena ."

"I know. Don't they have the luck of the G.o.ds."

"Should be some decent merits on our new case."

"Yes," Gyde said, brightening. "He's been elevated to a full-blown state terrorist, our man. I want to solve this one quickly. Let's put a few days on it starting now, drop everything else. After lunch we'll sit down and make a list of all the angles."

After lunch. There was still a long afternoon stretching ahead. Pol felt as though his mind were cracking in two. He really ought to sit through it, but he honestly didn't think he could, and there was that darkening cheek to administer to.

"I thought I'd do some research after lunch. For an hour or two. We should make sure we have all the facts before we lay down a strategy."

Gyde's weathered, hairless forehead pursed into lines like those the tide leaves in sand. "Research?"

"At the Archives."

The lines deepened. Pol felt Gyde's eyes bearing into him, but his partner didn't comment.

Pol managed to catch one of the Silver buses, its thick leather and cranked-up heat a welcome respite from the cold. It dropped him off at the gymnasium on the Silver grounds, the pool and spa visible and empty through the large gla.s.s panes. Inside, only a few recuperating wounded, their bare flesh pink from steam, were using the facilities. Outside, a unit of young Silvers, perhaps ten or eleven years old, was practicing hand-to-hand wrestling. Their Iron caretakers waited patiently to one side while Silver instructors gave the lesson. The children wore the woolen one-piece garments that fit them like a second skin. Similar garments were worn under the uniforms of Silvers in battle. Pol had one under his own black detective's uniform. It was one of the many small details that distinguished a Silver from the other cla.s.ses. Even warmth was a privilege of rank. Not that anyone was ever truly warm in Centalia.

The wrestling lesson was a small knot of activity on the endless gray parade grounds of the Silver compound. The dormitories were on either side, ma.s.sive and silent in the dim afternoon light. There were few Silvers in residence this month. A big offensive push was going on over at the border with Mesatona, and most of the soldiers were in the field. Only the children and the older ones, like Gyde, rea.s.signed to state jobs, still haunted the grounds. The old Silvers moved up the steps and across the frosty soil like shadows when it got this quiet, their eyes on distant blood-soaked battles they could no longer join.

And then there was Pol.

It began to hail in great icy lumps. He quickened his pace. He had two rooms on the third floor of building fourteen. The rooms were tall and elegant, the furnishings spartan, and there was no lock on the door. He had found a way around that. He went into his bathroom, taking along a small chair, and propped it against the handle. Alone at last.

His craggy face was bleak in the light that came in from the small window. He turned on the overhead. It made him look bloodless. He leaned forward, hands on the sink, staring into the mirror.

He'd been sweating, and he must have touched himself unconsciously. The blue at his temples was smeared.

He turned on the tap, waited for it to run hot. He took a few of the dark paper sheaves stored by the commode and wiped his temples. The light blue makeup, almost the same shade as his eyes, came off, staining black against the rough paper. He wiped again, wetting the paper, making sure he got it all. Then he flushed the paper down the commode. He splashed water on his face and poured it over his short blond hair (there was just a trace of black at the roots; he'd have to dye it again tomorrow night). He stuck his head fully under the spigot, wishing he could disappear in the flow.

Pol 137 was the name of the dead Silver in Saradena whose head and hands were never found.

He soaked a cloth with hot water and wrapped it around his entire face, holding it tight. He sat down on the commode and leaned back, waiting for the heat to soften his skin. With all this shaving, he was getting noticeably raw.

Silvers did not have facial hair or eyebrows.

There are aliens among us.

If only he could remember.

The darkness of the impostor of Pol 137 was more than skin deep, ran deeper than the hair on his face that he shaved or the hair on his head that he dyed. There was a black chasm in his mind, a schism that was torment to try to breach. He probed at that place now, the way a tongue probes at a painful tooth, only because he must, because he was in danger. That place was like a hole in reality. He could, with effort, take himself to the far side of that hole, that schism. And what he glimpsed there had a logic that he wouldn't expect madness to have. And yet the logic of "back there"-that far side of the chasm-was not consistent with the logic of "here," this side. And so it broke down; it all broke down. His memories fractured and fell apart. If he tried too hard and for too long he tottered on the brink of falling permanently into that hole and never coming out.

It was much more functional to not go there. And functional was what mattered. He had to have his wits about him at all times. But still, he knew that schism for what it was: a wound. He'd had a head injury in battle; that was the superficial cause. He had once believed that was all there was to it. Now he wasn't so sure.

The first thing he remembered with certainty was wandering around in the gray blasted plains of a battlefield in utter confusion and terror. That was how Marcus had found him-greedy, s...o...b..ry Marcus. The merchant had been driving across the war zone during a ceasefire, his truck full of black-market goods.

Marcus had scooped him up, clamped him with servant's bracelets, and given him an ident.i.ty: Iron cla.s.s, Kalim N2. Marcus had thought him a sh.e.l.l-shocked enemy soldier, a free-and-clear profit on the hoof. The greedy b.a.s.t.a.r.d had hoped to turn him around quickly-sell him off before he could get back his memory, rebel, make trouble. But first Marcus had to patch him up-or, rather, have his servants patch him up, sew up his wounds, teach him the rudiments of the language, get him over the deep wracking chills and vomiting, the look of utter panic in his eyes.

He remembered Marcus's drab, Bronze cla.s.s 2 household. Its very meanness, its coa.r.s.eness, had been a comfort at first. It had offered a routine that calmed the whirlwind in his brain, as if having someone tell him what to do at every moment took the burden off himself. Gradually, the schism in his mind had separated and solidified, and the current reality began to gel. There was a weight on him that felt oppressive, made him weary all the time, but every day he felt his feet settle more and more naturally on the floor, as though he were touching down, like an angel.

But he had reached the point of functionality and then pa.s.sed it. After a while, the menial labor began to grate. Being given orders lost its comfort factor. He sensed, thenknew , that he was not born a servant. He saw the uniforms in the street, the beautiful men and women flashing like military diamonds, the posters everywhere of the triumphant, handsome, perfect Silvers-muscular, haughty, glorious, the pride of the state. The more he looked at them, the more he knew what he was, what he must have once been. He'd been a Silver in some foreign state; he'd had wealth, privilege, power over others. Especially that. Especially power. Somehow he'd been wounded in battle and captured by his enemy, but he was still a warrior.

He'd been sure of that in Saradena. Did he still believe it?

The cloth was cooling. He went back to the mirror and unwrapped his face. He examined his skull minutely for the hundredth time, fingertips tripping over the surface to feel the scars. There were the smaller scars hidden in his hairline where he himself had done a little surgery, nipping and tucking his skin back so that his eyes would have that subtle slant of the Centalian Silvers. And at the back of his skull was the scar from his battle injury, so small and insignificant-a crooked line no longer than a single joint of his finger. Underneath it was a bony knot. He probed, as if his fingers could unlock its secrets. He understood how the injury might have torn, shredded, his memories. But what he didn't understand was how it could have caused what hedid remember to be so completely mad.