Greg Bear: Queen of Angels

“Mary Choy?” the woman asked breathlessly, removing her helmet.

“Yes,” she said.

“We’ve got three minutes before some Hispaniolan sparrows give us a wrinkle. Care to join us?” The pilot shifted nervously on both feet, keeping watch on the sky. Her copilot circled the craft and held a gun on Soulavier and the prêt’ savan.

“They’re all right,” Mary called out. The copilot lowered the gun a hair and motioned for the two men to come around to the door of the church.

“Federal Public Defense and the United States Coast Guard extend their greetings and invitation,” the pilot said. She smiled, still twitching all caution all alertness. “Supers told me you were transform. Boy, are you.”

Mary ignored the comment. “There’s two of us.”

“As planned. Is he mobile?”

“I think so.”

“Not one of them?” She pointed at Soulavier and Charles.

“He’s in the church.”

“Bring him out and we’ll load him.”

Mary and the copilot entered the church and came out with Ephraim Ybarra. Soulavier stood silent by the side of the church path, hands prominently displayed, watching the pilot intently.

“So you’re with the Uncles?” Mary heard the pilot ask him.

“Yes,” Soulavier answered.

“Rough go here, wouldn’t you say?”

He said nothing. When Ybarra was aboard the Dragonfly, Mary jogged across to Soulavier. “If it’s a choice of exile or punishment, maybe you should come with us,” she said.

“No, thank you,” he said.

“Let’s go,” the pilot urged, boarding the craft through the side hatch.

Charles stood behind Soulavier, enchanted by the spectacle.

“Of course,” Mary said. “You have family here.”

“Yes. I know who I am here.”

She looked him over, feeling a sharp spike of concern. “Thank you.” She took his outstretched hand, then stepped forward and hugged him firmly. “Gratitude isn’t enough, Henri.”

He smiled tightly. “Queen of Angels,” he said. “My conscience.”

She released him. “You should be in charge here, not Yardley.”

“Oh, my Lord, no,” Soulavier protested, backing off as if stung by a bee. “I would become like them all. Hispaniolans are not easy to govern. We drive leaders mad.”

‘“Bo-a-a-ard,” the pilot called from the bugeye canopy.

Mary jogged back to the hatch as the screw blades lowered and began to spin. The Dragonfly rose quickly. Mary watched through the hatch window as the seat harness wrapped around her midriff. Soulavier and Charles stood on the white gravel path leading to the church of John D’Arqueville, two toy figures beside a stylish arrangement of huge bones. She looked at Ephraim in his harness, face blank as a child’s. He seemed to be asleep again.

“No sparrows,” the pilot said cheerily from the front left hand seat. “Miami in ninety minutes.”

The valley and aqueduct of Terrier Noir, broad green and brown hills and mountains, a reservoir, the northern shore, and finally the island itself passed behind and could no longer be seen.

“Looks like a hotel,” Carol observed as the limousine pulled into the entry of Albigoni’s mansion. She reached out and gripped Martin’s hand. “Have we got our facts in order?”

“No,” Martin said. “Albigoni can’t expect anything until we learn more about Goldsmith.”

“Into the lion’s den, unarmed,” Carol said.

Martin nodded grimly and stepped through the car’s open door.

Again, the prevalence of dead and preserved wood oppressed him. He hurried Carol through the wide hall to Albigoni’s office and library. A tall, tan transform he had not met before led the way, opening the office door and standing aside.

Mrs. Albigoni—Ulrika, Martin remembered—stood by the window, dressed in black. He was reminded of how little time had passed since the murders. She turned her lined face on Martin and Carol, nodded curtly but said nothing, and returned her unfocused gaze to the window.

Thomas Albigoni stood by his desk. “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife,” he said hoarsely. His skin color had not improved; Martin wondered whether he should seek medical attention. His rumpled longsuit might have served as pajamas the night before.

Mrs. Albigoni did not respond to the amenities. Mr. Albigoni took his seat behind the desk. “I’ve come up with some additional facts on Goldsmith,” he said. “But perhaps nothing really helpful. He was adopted at age fourteen by a black Jewish couple in New York. He took their name and religion. I had to spend a fair amount of money to find this out. There is no record—none, anyway, that I could get access to—of his having a brother. But it’s possible. His real parents are dead. Both died violently.”

“I thought you could search out anything,” Martin said.

Mr. Albigoni lifted his shoulders wearily. “Not when New York City has screwed up important file libraries. All of Goldsmith’s childhood was lost in a programming botch in 2023. He’s one of seven thousand orphaned North Americans without a history.”

Martin and Carol remained standing. “Goldsmith still refuses to answer our questions?” Martin asked.

“Emanuel is no longer in my custody,” Albigoni said.

Martin shifted his eyes, too stunned to say a word for several seconds. “Where is he?”

“Where he deserves to be,” Mrs. Albigoni said, her voice colorless.

“You’ve handed him over to pd.”

Mr. Albigoni shook his head. “If, as you say, Emanuel Goldsmith doesn’t really exist anymore—”

“Such utter shit headed nonsense,” Mrs. Albigoni commented, still gazing through the window.

“—then it doesn’t really matter where he is, or what happens to him, does it?”

Martin drew his head back and sank his chin into his neck, grimacing. “Excuse me. I was…Where’s Paul Lascal?”

“He’s no longer in my employ,” Mr. Albigoni said.

“Why?”

“He disapproved of the decision my wife and I made yesterday evening. My wife has only recently heard about our daughter’s death, you know.”

“I assumed that much,” Martin said. “What did you decide?”

Albigoni said nothing for a moment, gazing on Martin’s face but avoiding his eyes. He looked down slowly and pulled forth a slate and papers.

“You handed him over to Selectors,” Carol said, almost too softly to hear.

“That isn’t your concern,” Mrs. Albigoni said sharply. “You wasted my husband’s time and endangered your own lives.” She turned from the window, her face twisted with grief and rage. “You took advantage of his weakness to coerce him into performing a stupid, evil experiment.”

“Is it true?” Martin asked, rising over Mrs. Albigoni’s voice. “You gave him to Selectors?”

Albigoni did not answer. He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “These papers and file documents—”

“You son of a bitch,” Carol said.

“—are your keys to a reopened IPR. You’ll swear to secrecy—”

“No,” Martin said. “This is too fapping much.”

“How dare you address us this way!” Mrs. Albigoni screamed. “Get out of here!” She approached them, waving her scythe arms to cut them away from her husband like dead dry grass. Carol backed off; Martin held his ground, glaring at her, alarmed and furious at once. His throat bobbed but he did not shift an inch and Mrs. Albigoni lurched to a stop in front of him, hands forming claws.

“Ulrika, this is business,” Mr. Albigoni said. “Please.”

She dropped her hands. Tears glazed her cheeks. She backed away, defeated, and sat like a jointed stick in a small chair beside the desk.

“This will never be over for us,” Mr. Albigoni said. “We won’t live long enough to see a day without grief. I don’t agree with my wife that you took advantage of me. As I said, I’m a man of my word.