Jack McDevitt - A Talent for War

There was a book on the side table: a volume of poetry by Walford Candles. The title was Rumors of Earth, and though I’d never heard of it, I knew Candles’s reputation. He was one of the people that no one really reads, but that you were supposed to if you were going to call yourself educated.

The book aroused my curiosity though, for several reasons: Gabe had never shown much inclination toward poetry; Candles had been a contemporary of Christopher Sim and Leisha Tanner; and, when I picked it up, the book fell open to a poem titled "Leisha"!

Lost pilot,

She rides her solitary orbit

Far from Rigel

Seeking by night

The starry wheel.

Adrift in ancient seas,

It marks the long year round,

Nine on the rim,

Two at the hub.

And she,

Wandering,

Knows neither port,

Nor rest,

nor me.

Footnotes dated it 1213, two years before Candles’s death, and four years after the war’s end. There was some discussion of style, and the editors commented that the subject was "believed to be Leisha Tanner, who alarmed her friends by periodically dropping out of sight between 1208 and 1216. No explanation was ever advanced."

I SPENT THE night at the house, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and retired afterward to the big armchair in the study. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and Jacob announced that he was pleased to see me up and about so early. "Would you like to talk politics this morning?" he asked.

"Later." I was looking around for a headband. "In the table drawer," offered Jacob. "Where are you going?" "The offices of Brimbury and Conn." I tried the unit on, and it slid down over my ears.

"When you’re ready," he said drily, "I have a channel." The light shifted, and the study was gone, replaced by a modern crystalline conference room. There was a background of soft music, and I was able to look through one wall at Andiquar from a height that far exceeded the altitude of any structure in the city. The woman from the transmission, tall, dark and now of oppressive appearance, materialized near the door. She smiled, approached with aggressive cordiality, and extended her hand. "Mr. Benedict," she said. "I’m Capra Brimbury, the junior partner." That provided my first inclination that Gabe’s estate was worth considerably more than I had imagined. I was beginning to feel it was going to be a pretty good day.

Her tone was hushed and confidential. An attitude one adopts with a person who is temporarily an equal. Her manner throughout the interview was one of studied enthusiasm, of welcoming a new member to an exclusive club. "We’ll never be able to replace him," she observed. "I wish there were something I could say."

I thanked her, and she continued: "We will do everything we can to make the transition easier for you. I believe we can get a very good price on the estate. Assuming, of course, that you wish to sell."

Sell the house? "I hadn’t considered it," I said.

"It would bring quite a lot of money, Alex. Whatever you choose to do, let us know, and we will be happy to handle it for you."

"Thank you."

"We have not yet been able to set a precise value to the estate. There are, you understand, a number of intangibles, artwork, antiques, artifacts and whatnot, which complicate the equation. Not to mention fairly extensive commodity holdings, whose worth fluctuates from hour to hour. I assume you will wish to retain your uncle’s investment broker?"

"Yes," I said. "Of course."

"Good." She made a note, as though the decision were a matter of little consequence.

"What about the burglary?" I asked. "Have we learned anything?"

"No, Alex." Her voice trailed off. "Strange thing that was. I mean, you don’t really expect that sort of behavior, people breaking into someone else’s home. They actually used a torch to cut a hole in the back door. We were outraged."

"I have no doubt."

"So were the police. But they are looking into it."

"What exactly was stolen?" I asked.

"Difficult to say. If your uncle kept an inventory, it was lost when the central memory banks were erased. We know they took a holo projector and some silverware. They may also have got some rare books. We’ve had a few of his friends look at the property and try to make a determination. And maybe jewelry. There’s simply no way to check his jewelry."

"I doubt if he had much," I said. "But there are some extremely valuable artifacts in there."

"Yes, we know. We compared them with the insurance listings. They are all accounted for."

She steered the conversation back to financial matters, and in the end I complied with her wishes pretty much down the line. When I asked for the security code, she produced a lockbox, of the sort that destroys the lock when it is opened. "It’s voice-operated," she said. "But you need to tell it your birthday."

I did, lifted the lid, and extracted an envelope. It was signed by Gabe across the flap. Inside, I found the security code. It was thirty-one digits long.

He was taking no chances.

"I leave everything to you, with confidence."

It was a hell of a way to treat a worthless nephew.

Gabe had been disappointed in me. He’d never said anything. But his early satisfaction at my interest in antiquities had given way to reluctant tolerance when I failed to pursue a career in field work. He’d shown up at the graduations, had dutifully encouraged me, and had been openly enthusiastic about my academic "achievements." But beneath all that, I knew what he thought: the child who’d camped with him by the shattered walls of half a hundred civilizations was, in the end, more at home in a commodities exchange. Worse yet, the commodities were relics of a past which, he argued, grew constantly more vulnerable to our heat sensors and laser drills.

He had damned me for a philistine. Not in so many words, but I’d seen it in his eyes, heard it in the things he had not said, felt it in his gradual withdrawal. And yet, despite the existence of a small horde of professionals with whom he’d dug his way through countless sites, he’d turned to me with the Tenandrome discovery. I felt good about that. I even felt a vague sense of satisfaction that he’d played fast and loose with security, and allowed the Tanner file to be taken. Gabe was no less fallible than the rest of us.

I went next to the police station, and talked to an officer who said they were hard at work on the case, but that there was no progress to report as yet. She assured me they’d be in touch as soon as they had something. I thanked her, feeling no confidence that there would be any movement by the authorities, and was reaching for my headband, about to break the link, when a plump short man in uniform hurried through a double door, and waved in my direction. "Mr. Benedict?" He nodded, as though he understood I was in severe difficulty. "My name’s Fenn Redfield. I’m an old friend of your uncle’s." He took my hand, and pumped it vigorously. "Delighted to meet you. You look like Gabe, you know."

"So I’ve been told."

"Terrible loss, that was. Please come inside. Back to my office."

He turned away, and retreated through the double doors. I waited for the data exchange. The light shifted again, brightened. Heavy sunshine fell through grimy windows. I was seated in a small office, riddled with the smell of alcohol.

Redfield dropped into a stiff, uncomfortable-looking couch. His desk was surrounded by a battery of terminals, monitors, and consoles. The walls were covered with certificates, awards, and official seals of various sorts. There were some trophies, and numerous photographs: Redfield standing beside a sleek police skimmer; Redfield shaking hands with an important-looking woman; Redfield standing oil-streaked at a disaster site, with a child in his arms. That last one held center stage. The trophies were all grouped off to one side. And I decided I liked Fenn Redfield. "I’m sorry we haven’t been able to do more," he said. "There really hasn’t been much to work with."