“We punish ourselves as well, and this is the unsavory side of our push to maturity. What we still do not understand, we attempt to purge with pain. Our late suicidal President Raphkind and his unconstitutional attempts to bring American politics into a kind of uniformity of expression, his attempt to repress what he called destructive dissent…His drastic failure as a statesman, his traumatic failure to change the shape of our judicial system…”
Durrell: “Yes, but what about the binary millennium?”
Vizhniak: “What can I say about it? It is dumb. Once, binary numbers had enormous significance, for they were the basis of all computational systems. Now binary computation is outmoded; the lowest of computers use neurological multistate and ramping methods…These people heralding the binary millennium are old fashioned, out of date, like so many apocalyptics in ages past. They are lazy about their wonders. They want truth handed to them on a platter of revelation, a gift from God or some benevolent higher force. The binary millennium is yet another numerological sham.”
Durrell: “Do you believe the revelations of AXIS can be tied into this movement? That AXIS might reveal something on the first day of the new year, something so profound, so shaking, that we have to reevaluate all that we have thought and been before now?”
Vizhniak: “My dear young friend, you sound like a millenary yourself. But of course, the next binary millennium will be much longer than a thousand years…”
Durrell: “Another two thousand and forty eight years.”
Vizhniak: “And the revelations of AXIS will influence us for at least that long, whatever AXIS finds. In our young maturity, we will explore the stars, we will visit B-2 in person. It will be a wonderful time. So perhaps in their exasperating way, they are right. Dating from AXIS’s revelations, a new age, one in which the notion of punishment and retribution will pass completely from our minds.”
Switch/LitVid 21/1 B Net:
AXIS (Band 4)> My mobile explorer is beginning geological analysis of a weathered rock outcropping near the 70 N 176 W tower site. One of my ocean going explorers has not made a report in six hours. A second mobile explorer and a third balloon explorer in the circular northern sea are now detecting processed nutrition related substances that do not seem to be made by the sea’s ubiquitous plant life. They may be traces of animal metabolism; they may also be spoor of an unknown form of motile plant life.
Where there are sins there is multitude.
—Origen, In Ezechialem Homiliae
32
Day of the big flight, LA to Hispaniola in two hours. Dawn.
Dytching relentlessly in her living room, waiting for a conference and confirmation call from D Reeve at Joint PD. Concentrating isolating her fear. Her grief over Ernest genuine as if he had died.
As Mary stretched and held dynamic peaceful tension she consulted the city board through her home pd net seeing LA spread out in Perez analysis colorful mosaic each color a community’s state in social space of six dimensions, colors changing every day. Angry red in the jags six months running; unrest from Selector predation.
Mary finished her dytch and stood naked before a full length mirror inside bathroom door, skin shining healthy but still showing the paler crease of buttock. She inspected the blanch, performing a classic Betty Grable and frowned. Least of her worries. Stepped into civvies required whenever pd worked outside the city. Trim dark cranberry and rose longsuit sleeves cut elbow-length, white gloves, static design of flowers in breeze across midline belt, elegant but within duty standards. Had a moment of dizziness not recognizing herself, knowing this was the young girl looking out of her eyes, frightened, so many levels within her frightened for so many reasons none of them rational. What could happen to her in Hispaniola? Millions went there each year to try to spin their way to the platinum life; polite gambling, well paid and socially respectable men and women dark and light of financially amenable virtue.
But Mary Choy would have the weight of US federal. High visibility in times of change. That worried her.
She sat bent over a cup of coffee on the couch in the living room watching the pale dawn across the eastern hills on the comb monitor channel, paging through view after view from the cameras mounted around the comb exterior with a soft laconic bark of aspect numbers. Knowing she was as prepared mentally and physically as she could hope to be this day. Waiting.
Feeling sorry for Ernest. Blanking that.
Little girl amazed at how far she had come living in the comb foot pd investigator body matched to long desire, all things different. What would Mother think, sister, brother Lee. Sadness over the years of silence between them all; her transformation the ultimate insult added to earlier injury. No longer a daughter or a sister. Theo. I am who I am because I have been given a choice. I have chosen and damn you all. Inward seeing her self—still short, round-faced.
Her eye caught the blinking green light of the silenced private number. She watched it signal a message coming through; not D Reeve, who would be using the pd line; wondered if she should answer if it would be Ernest. She needed time to sort through those difficulties. The message ended and the light switched to amber ready.
She cut off the screen and opened the blinds to the real view—a wedge of the second foot and then open city and sky beyond looking north to other combs belted by clouds. Rain falling on the city here and there smudge curtains below the bluepocked ceiling. Looked back to the amber light, shook her head slowly—never could leave a message for long. “Playback private line message,” she said. The amber light winked to blue playback.
“Hello, M Choy? This is Sandra Auchouch. We met in the Joint PD Central two days ago.” The display indicated accompanying picture. Mary switched on the screen and looked over the bichemical orbital transform’s image lovely cream skin wide deer eyes patch of fur on right cheek shaved to reveal orbit guild and agency symbols. “I thought I’d give you a call and let you know when I’m free. As I said, it’s not often I find kindred company during a fall. I’ll be working through this week but I’ll be free New Year’s Eve and Day. Shall we party into the binary millennium? Here’s my remote code. Don’t be shy. Goodbye.”
Mary felt a twinge and told the phone to turn off. She hadn’t had many contacts or friends beyond Ernest and the pd for months. Now she was being pursued and she rather enjoyed the thought of talking and sharing the New Year with somebody new and sympathetic.
“Send text message to Auchouch remote number,” she said. “Sandra: Off on travel for a few days. Let you know when I’m back. Thanks for calling. Terminate and send.”
The pd line chimed fairy carillon.
“Answer. Hello, this is Mary Choy.”
“M Choy, D Reeve. We have everything prepared for your flight. I’ve confirmed two of our top interstate and international investigators to assist you. They’re canny about Hispaniola—they’ve had to deal with Colonel Sir’s less tasty shadows for years now. I believe you know their names: Thomas Cramer from State/City International, Xavier Duschesnes from Interstate. I have them both on conference now, T Cramer, Washington, DC.”
Cramer appeared, late twenties early thirties dark haired round faced wearing what pds thought of as federal camouflage—gray longsuit puffed collar shirt draped cuffs. Cramer was LA extended pd, his job to interface with federal for international problems that affected LA and southern California. Mary knew his work; he tracked hellcrowns and other illegal imports. Cameo beside Cramer appeared another: Mary did not recognize him.
“X Duschesnes, Interstate,” Reeve introduced. “Xavier is in New Orleans. Both will be joining you in Hispaniola later in the evening, a few hours after your arrival. I thought you’d like to talk before departure, brief each other on last minute details.”
Mary nodded cordially. Duschesnes and Cramer returned her greetings. They both seemed tired. “We’re going into Colonel Sir’s boudoir, looking for a murderer,” Cramer said. “I hope LA has exhausted all other possibilities.”
“We f
ound a reservation for a flight to Hispaniola in his name,” Mary said. “And an invitation from Yardley himself. Our sources haven’t found him in the city, and Oversight told us he has done nothing outside the city for several days.”
Cramer whistled. “You got more than zip from Oversight? In the silky,” he said.
“Caribbean Suborbital NordAmericAir confirms that his ticket to Hispaniola was used, but cannot confirm he used it. We inquired through federal, and federal passed our concern on to Hispaniola. Federal tells us it has received a formal diplomatic international clearance for investigation from Yardley himself. They deny that Goldsmith has entered, but we’re cleared to search Hispaniola and use all of their police facilities.”
“I suspect federal put considerable pressure on the Hispaniola government,” Duschesnes said. “There’s a lot of hot and sandy here between federal and Hispaniola. We’ve just closed down two continental clearing houses for hellcrowns. Federal is really cleaning house, and that could make things touchy in Hispaniola.”
“How soon until the real chew starts?” Reeve asked.
“Not for two or three weeks. But hey, federal doesn’t tell us everything. Why not send some of their agents to check this out?”
“I asked. They’re too busy for something this low.” Reeve shook his head dubiously. “Xavier speaks French and Creole. Thomas is well versed in Caribbean affairs. Listen to what they say, Mary.”
“Of course,” she said quietly.
“And all of you, watch your step,” Reeve suggested. “I’m sparked by anything having to do with Yardley and federal now. Step carefully.” The caring tone in his voice was genuine.
“Yes, sir,” Cramer said wearily.
“Gentlemen, thank you for your time.”
“See you in Hispaniola,” Mary said.
“Glad to be of help,” Cramer said.
Duschesnes smiled grimly and nodded. “Later,” he said.
Their cameos faded. Reeve remained on. “You’re not allowed any weapons in transit, of course, and you can’t bring anything into Hispaniola. But there’s a new wrinkle. I’ll have a plain man meet you at LAX oceanport. He’ll have something that might prove useful; slip it into your suitcase before you check it. Instructions will be clear. It’s not exactly legal, but it’s so new, nobody’s bothered to make it illegal yet, either. I hope you don’t have to use it.”
She knew better than to ask questions. Reeve faded without a farewell. Mary took a deep breath and switched off the screen.
That done, the job defined, Mary Choy banished her qualms into a quiet corner and ordered a pd car to the foot entrance second priority.
She gathered her case, made a quick check around the apartment, set the two arbeiters for maintenance and vigilance, told the home manager, “Be good.”
Shut the door behind her.
The psyche can neither be taught nor led astray by the self-criticism of the conscious mind.
—Ernest Neumann, The Origins of Consciousness
33
Emanuel Goldsmith had spent Christmas Eve and Day in rigorous diagnostic. Martin Burke ate breakfast in the back of Albigoni’s limousine and scrolled through Goldsmith’s physical and psych evaluations, delivered fresh this morning.
He finished his egg sandwich and became absorbed in the reports, losing all sense of time. Paul Lascal sat across from him staring out of the window, fingers loosely knotted in his lap.
The car slowed briefly in a tangle of private car traffic, some mathematical peculiarity of crowding that had temporarily baffled the intercity computers. Martin looked up only for a second to see this, blinked as might a blind man and returned to the slate, eyes narrowing.
Here was the deep map of the physical man and a shallow map of the mental, upper layers minus the underpinning geology, which would be Martin’s terra to explore.
Goldsmith’s body structure and chemistry type were laid out in thirty pages of complex analysis. Racial characteristics reflected eighty percent negro, twenty percent mixed Caucasian-oriental, negro origins probably central west Africa ca. 18th century, genetic structure reflecting normal variations for such origins. Cell specific gene replacement therapy recommended for various autoimmune diseases likely to occur within ten years; low risk of code block and code altered cancers, low risk of drug related diseases; not likely to become chemically dependent or to suffer other obsessive autoconditioning episodes. Basic health sound. Physically strong and vigorous and not likely to be adversely affected by a triplex probe even of long duration.
Goldsmith’s brain chemistry profile might have been that of an untherapied executive after two or three months of rough corporate weather. All glial and neural functions intact; no lesions or gross discontinuities. He was given a rating of 86-22-43 on the Roche scale, that is, normal in all basic functions but under severe internal/external stress.
High normal glial cells insured a carefully balanced K + Na environment and resistance to code altered axon degeneration. The architecture and efficiency ratings of his mind function activity loci dictated that he would be a generally sociable individual, with emphasis on individual; extreme development of deep imaging and modeling skills pointed to a very active mental life from infancy, and that would presuppose an inner-directed personality, someone who would find as much or more satisfaction looking inward as outward.
This led the analysts to conclude that Goldsmith would perform admirably in careers involving mental as opposed to physical activity; he might show a particular aptitude for mathematics involving spacial problems. No mention was made of linguistic skills; such fine analysis of brain architecture usually required several weeks. Linguistic and mathematical faculties were almost invariably strongly linked genetically.
Multiple murderers were often clearly damaged in certain brain loci, trauma caused by severe mental and physical abuse in childhood, resulting in rerouting and reconstruction of social modeling adaptations. Self and other referential modeling capabilities suffered from these changes, leading to radical separation of self regard and empathy; but Goldsmith’s evaluation showed no clear signs of extreme physical trauma. The therapists performing the diagnostic could not in their limited time find signs of deep mental trauma. Goldsmith admitted to no negative conditions or physical abuse in childhood.
Better and better. Goldsmith was probably one of those four or five percent of all murderers who could not be successfully therapied by physical brain restructuring. That meant that Goldsmith might somehow have chosen in a clear state of mind to murder. The possibility remained, however, that Goldsmith had suffered a major personality break not reflected in his physical condition.
If Goldsmith was physically healthy and mentally integral, that would place him in that rarest of all categories, the intellectual psychopath, the truly evil individual. But Martin’s research through the psych stats cube in his slate told him that fewer than five or six individuals in the past fifty years had met such precise criteria. The chances of his encountering another in Goldsmith were surpassingly slender.
If Goldsmith had suffered a hidden pathogenic break, then Martin was sure that signs of such a condition would be found in the Country. He looked up at Lascal. “I’d still like to see your interviews with Goldsmith.”
“The first talks weren’t recorded,” Lascal said. “We didn’t want any evidence in case we had to release him. If you hadn’t agreed.”
Martin nodded. “And after I agreed?”
“No formal interviews. Nobody spoke with him in detail. When he wasn’t being diagnosed, he stayed alone in his room, reading.”
“Can you tell me where he’s being kept?”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter now. He was staying in a room in Mr. Albigoni’s house. Private wing. He’s being moved now by another car to the IPR.”
Martin considered having been so near to Goldsmith and not knowing. He suppressed a shudder. “Nobody spoke with him? Besides the diagnosticians.”
“He was diagnosed throu
gh medical arbeiter remotes. No doctor met him personally. But I spoke to him,” Lascal said. “I met with him once or twice yesterday. He seemed quiet and contented. Peaceful.”
Martin knew that diagnosis through remotes was hardly ideal; this put the evaluations in a new light. “Did he say anything significant to you?”
Lascal thought about that for a moment, putting his hands on his knees and swallowing. “He said he was glad we were going to put Humpty Dumpty together again. He referred to Mr. Albigoni as a king, and he said I must be one of the king’s men.”
Martin smirked and shook his head. Shattered egg. Shattered personality. “That might not mean anything. He knows he’s a miscreant.”
“What’s that?” Lascal asked.
“A transgressor. An evildoer.”
“Ah. An old fashioned word. I’ve never heard it pronounced.”
“A transgressor automatically assumes that something besides him or herself is to blame, or at least puts on that front. Physical or mental damage can be blamed…Goldsmith, just to make polite conversation, to put a good face on things, would agree with your presumed judgment that he is insane, and excuse himself by making a metaphor…That he is a shattered egg.”
“He didn’t deny his guilt in the beginning. He said that he did it and that he bore sole responsibility.”
“But you didn’t record those interviews. I can’t learn anything from his tone or his mannerisms.”
Lascal smiled at the implied accusation. “We were more than a little confused and indecisive.”
“I don’t blame you,” Martin said. “Not for that.”
“What do you blame us for, Dr. Burke?”
Martin declined Lascal’s steady gaze. “The obvious…That Albigoni didn’t turn Goldsmith over to the pd immediately.”
“We’ve been through this before,” Lascal said, looking out the window again. They moved rapidly south through light late morning slave traffic, passing the old glass and concrete resorts and ground level neighborhoods of San Clemente. “Mr. Albigoni thought that if he turned Goldsmith in, he would never really know why Goldsmith killed those kids. His daughter. And he had to know.”