The Pillars of Eternity

8

Two local days later Aban Ebarak received another visit, this time entirely unannounced.

But it was not without forewarning. He had rigged up a simple apparatus to project the images flashing so unpredictably from the time-gems onto a screen (though he had not, yet, worked out a way to capture a gem’s output on all facets simultaneously). On the screen, the door of the laboratory opened and a tall slender figure, wearing a hooded street cloak clasped at the throat, entered. Ebarak was able to study the face for several seconds before the image faded.

By resuming the investigation so rudely interrupted years before, he had been able to calibrate the angle through which light was refracted on entering a gem. The scene he was witnessing registered a time bracket of five minutes either way of the present. Since it had not happened yet, it would happen shortly.

Patiently he waited, until a small sound came from the other side of the door.

‘Come in, Cere,’ he called without turning his head.

The door opened and in walked Cere Chai Hebron, Director of the Department of Scientific Affairs, and econospheric Cabal member.

‘How did you recognize me?’ Hebron said in genuine surprise. He undid his cloak’s throat-clasp, threw back the hood and pulled a flat, flesh-coloured device from the side of his neck. Immediately his face began to change its appearance, no longer pulled into a false shape by the device’s neurological control over his facial muscles. The real face that now showed was pale and finely chiselled, like Ebarak’s, but unlike his it had a sultriness about the mouth, a hint of passion about the eyes, when Hebron listened or spoke intently.

‘The eyes, Cere,’ Ebarak said. ‘You forgot to disguise the eyes. That gadget couldn’t fool me.’ He was amused. A survey had once revealed that thirty-eight percent of scientific workers – a far higher percentage than chance could account for – had eyes of the same cool blue hue. There was still argument over what the finding meant.

Hebron sighed. It was a habit of people of his class to disguise themselves when moving alone in public. In this case he had an additional reason for doing so. He was putting himself at risk by being here at all.

‘There’s something else,’ Ebarak said. ‘You probably imagine I saw you come into the vestibule through a monitor. I didn’t. I watched you enter this laboratory – in advance.’

He spun a wheel, backtracking the recorder and running the scene again for Hebron’s benefit.

‘Time-gem?’ Hebron asked, staring at the few seconds of action in fascination.

‘Yes. You already know I have them, of course. That’s what brings you here.’ He paused. ‘It would make a good warning system, if it could be made reliable.’

‘But productive of paradoxes?’ Hebron suggested as the scene faded.

‘Oh, I don’t think so. Paradoxes don’t exist in the real world.’ Ebarak turned away from the screen, switched off the apparatus and swivelled to face Hebron. ‘I would have got word to you that I have the gems. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Do I?’ said Hebron acidly. Feeling the heat of the laboratory, he removed his cloak. Draping it over one arm, he stared down at Ebarak in schoolmasterly fashion. ‘You should have let me know immediately. This matter has been given top priority. It is only a matter of time before Orm’s bloodhounds track you down, and this Joachim Boaz, too. I shall protect you for as long as I can, but it would be easier if you had confided in me.’

‘Orm?’

‘He’s now chief of the Rectification Branch. And he’s a brute, I promise you.’

‘How did you find out I have the gems?’

‘My own people have been watching you. You met Boaz once, years ago. It seemed possible he would seek your help.’

Ebarak raised his eyebrows. ‘You knew of my acquaintance with Boaz?’

‘You told me, at the time.’

‘Did I?’ said Ebarak vaguely. His eyes glazed in a vain effort at recollection. This time it was Hebron’s turn to smile, partly with exasperation. Scorning memory adplants, Ebarak was prone to these blank spots in his knowledge of past details.

‘How many gems did Boaz give you?’ Hebron asked.

‘Twelve. But I believe he may have more.’

‘Let me see one.’

A trifle reluctantly, Ebarak went to a safe, bent to its audio plate where he quietly hummed a series of tones, and opened the thick metal door. He took out the pouch Boaz had given him, carefully extracted a gem, and handed it to Hebron.

The Director lifted the gem to the light, peering into its depths. He rolled it, chuckling.

‘It’s genuine! And so clear! This is like old times, Aban! This time let’s try to ensure that they stay in our possession.’

He handed back the gem. ‘But we must get properly organized. I hope you didn’t have thoughts of working on your own? You’ll get nowhere that way. What’s needed is teamwork.’ He stroked his jaw thoughtfully. ‘Also your facilities here are too limited – quite apart from what will happen if Orm learns of your past relationship with Boaz.’

Ebarak swivelled his chair so that he was in profile to the Director and gazed into the distance, as though not wanting to hear what Hebron had said. Hebron leaned back against a workbench, supporting himself with his hands, and scrutinized his old friend. ‘I see you are displeased.’

‘It’s just that I’m not convinced people with philosophical commitments can produce good scientific work,’ Ebarak said in a neutral tone.

Hebron was not offended. ‘The pure scientist, as ever! Excellent. It is why we value you.’

‘Also I do not share this aim of yours.’

‘Do you not? Yet you seem willing to work toward its accomplishment… Yes, I know, it is disinterested research where you are concerned. The pure search for knowledge. And yet the great transformation might be achieved. Temporal mutation might become possible. Think what you will have unleashed on the world! Recklessness of that order, simply in the quest for knowledge, borders on a philosophical commitment all of its own.’

‘Except that these gems may not lead to what you want. I have no reason to think they do.’

‘And have you communicated that belief to Boaz? After all, his aim is the same as mine.’

‘He is a man obsessed, in a way that even you are not. He forms his own opinions.’

‘And you exploit that obsession to get what you want. You see, we all use each other. In this case you have no choice but to work with my team. You need me to ward off Orm – if I can. Otherwise I do not think you will live long enough to contemplate, in your intellectual purity, the new knowledge of time you may glean from these gems.’

Ebarak turned his head sharply toward the Director. ‘Do you never contemplate the risks you are taking? You are a member of the Cabal, yet you are committing what amounts to state treason. I do not think you will suffer a simple death, when you are found out. They will make a terrible example of you.’

‘I will enjoy a simple death,’ Hebron said quietly. ‘It is already arranged. I assure you I am not oblivious to the risk. As for why I take it, your friend Joachim Boaz understands it even if you do not. He believes it is possible to lift the dead hand of predestination. Do you never feel it pressing down on your every deed, Aban? Does the impossibility of original action never depress you?’

‘No, because what you are saying is philosophy, in other words, it is imagination.’

‘It is fact. What a stubborn refusal to appreciate reality!’

‘Your lack of caution amazes me, nevertheless,’ Ebarak persisted mildly. ‘Being such a prominent figure, you are skimming very close to the event horizon.’ He was using a contemporary figure of speech that, in an earlier age, might have emerged as ‘skating on thin ice’.

‘Oh, but I am a powerful man, Aban. You must rely on obscurity for your protection, but I can employ econosphere resources to avoid discovery. Besides, it is now a matter of urgency. There is something I might as well tell you. You said to me once that even if a way to alter predestination could be found, the changes that could be made would be trivial. I have put some of the best brains in the econosphere to work on just that point, and what they say is this: a small change in this universe will effect a total change in the next one. Changes wrought in the current manifestation may well be trivial, as you predict – perhaps even imperceptible. But it is during the latent period, not the material one, that the consequences of those changes work themselves through. Here is an analogy: immerse alum crystals in water, heat it and the crystals will dissolve and disappear. Cool the solution again, and the crystals will reappear in the same formation as before. But what if the solution is stirred while hot? Then the case is not the same. The crystals will arrange themselves differently on their next materialization.’

Ebarak listened closely while Hebron went on: ‘So you see, Aban, there is a race on. Whoever succeeds in this thing will have the key to unimaginable power, if it can be controlled. I sense that it will succeed; the process is under way. But by whom will it be accomplished? If your work does not produce results then Joachim Boaz, for instance, will go elsewhere, and perhaps, eventually, he will succeed. So if we die, still not masters of our fates, we cannot be sure what will become of us in our next resurrection, and perhaps as individuals we will cease to exist at all, forever.

‘Tell me,’ he said after a long pause, ‘did Boaz have a woman with him?’

‘He had no one with him.’

‘There is evidence that he had a woman with him when he fled Meirjain. Is he residing in the City?’

‘I believe so.’

‘He has a deficiency, a physical dependence on his spaceship. He is unable to stray far from it… his ship may even be hidden somewhere near the ship ground. I will investigate…’

He dropped his eyes and fell silent. Ebarak said nothing. Hebron, he knew, was thinking that the woman he had mentioned would be a good source of information about Boaz. But he did not want to feel curious about what such a line of inquiry entailed.

Idly he switched on the projector again. A picture formed on the screen, snatched from out of near-time. With relief he saw a cloaked and hooded Hebron, a few minutes in the future, depart from his laboratory.

Exuding an odour of sweat laden with pheromonic musk, Eystrach Orm moved down the line of young men bent over their monitor desks. As he passed, each junior policeman felt a tremor of terror mingled with lust.

Everyone who worked in that department had to come to terms with Orm’s tastes. He liked young men, but he liked them to be heterosexual, and to overpower their natural repugnance for his advances. Dismay, horror and unwilling but irresistible attraction were for him an indispensable sexual recipe. To this end he used not only his rank, not only his impressive physical presence, but also crudely chemical means. The scent he wore contained concentrated organic compounds that overcame almost any male’s resistance.

‘Sir.’

‘Yes?’ Orm strode to a monitor who had raised his arm. He bent to the screen, placing his hands on the youth’s shoulders and squeezing slightly as he brought his head close to his.

‘Look, sir.’ The policeman was twisting slide-dials, trying to sort the signal he had traced from the rest of the city’s traffic and bring it up on the screen.

Orm frowned at the flickering, fading pattern in pastel colors that was brought to the screen. ‘It looks like noise. Probably just reflection.’

This section prided itself on being able to intercept any beamed signal in the city. ‘That’s what I thought it was, sir – a double reflection, it’s so faint. The general traffic completely hides it normally. But—’

‘Yes?’ Orm’s hand was fondling his subordinate’s neck.

‘It has a constant level, sir. It must be a deliberate output.’

‘But it’s too low. It isn’t a useful signal.’

‘No sir. But I can’t understand its multiplexing either.’

‘Keep on it. Let me know if you need a filter-booster.’

‘Yes sir.’

Orm’s hand dropped from the policeman’s neck. He prowled away, left the monitor room and came to where the outworld reports were being sifted. ‘Well?’

Seated at a datagrator was an officer wearing silver braid. His eyes looked dazed as he rapidly absorbed the results that were being fed to his adplant through a silver nerve in his thumb. At the same time a broad-angle holdisplay was before him, though Orm couldn’t see it from where he stood.

The officer came out of his near-trance. ‘It’s shaping up, sir. Two positive placings, a significant curve of probables over the year. It looks as if he’s moving in this direction.’

‘Eh? The cheeky bastard.’ Orm studied a dataplate the officer handed him. The difficulty in these cases sprang from the total lack of migration or trade controls on nearly every planet of the econosphere. A man could land and take off without anybody bothering him, and could even pay his shipground dues without leaving a record of his identity. Despite that, detective work was straighforward. One simply collected, through a far-flung plethora of spies, informers and data machines, a billion or more small facts which were analysed statistically. It always brought results, given enough time. Amazingly trivial objects could be tracked, such as items of cargo.

‘Do you think he could actually be here?’ Orm asked wonderingly. ‘In Kathundra?’ It seemed irresponsibly reckless – unless the desperate shipkeeper had a reason good enough to risk it.

He thought of the mysterious minimum-power signals the monitor had picked up. There could be a connection with the physical reliance the ex-colonnader was supposed to have on his converted cargo ship. The prisoner Romrey had spoken of its unusual communication system.

If Boaz was already in Kathundra, then Orm’s quarry was trapped.

‘We might snuff out this one sooner than we thought,’ he said with a purr of pleasure. He smiled, feeling a touch of excitement, the excitement of a chase nearing its end. Excitement caused him to sweat more, and as his evaporating perspiration cast extra pheromonic volatiles into the air, his sexual presence became all the stronger.

Moving with the burly grace of a puma, he padded back to the monitor room.