Judas Unchained

“The behavior of several people, including Baron. She’s part of a network of agents who are acting against human interests. We’re compiling information on them which should lead to their arrest.”

“Shit, you do mean it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So why tell me?”

“I’d like to know why you have a warrant out for Isabella Halgarth.”

“The shotgun, the one which claimed Doi was a Starflyer agent. There was something wrong about it.” She explained her misgivings about the whole setup; and the way Isabella had subsequently dropped out of sight.

“Interesting,” Paula said. “Especially her connection with Kantil. We are looking for any Starflyer connection among the Commonwealth political elite. She might well be the link.”

“Isabella as a Starflyer agent? That’s hard to swallow.”

“You said yourself there’s something wrong about her. That shotgun did a lot of damage to the Guardians’ credibility. It is logical to assume the Starflyer would use disinformation of that nature to damage its one true opponent. Her involvement would confirm her connection to its network.”

“But she’s only twenty-one, and she was going out with Kantil two years ago. How would she get messed up in something like that so young? She spent most of her early life on Solidade. You can’t get more sheltered and protected than that.”

“I don’t know. Is there any chance you could research her background more thoroughly?”

Renne blew her cheeks out as she sighed. “That won’t make me terribly popular with Hogan.”

“Yes, I heard. Your choice, of course.”

“I’ll do what I can, Boss.”

“Thank you.”

Paula stayed at the table, finishing her drink as Renne walked out. Her virtual hand touched Hoshe’s icon. “She’s leaving now.”

“Yeah, we’ve got her. The team’s boxing her. Monitor programs for her unisphere access are loaded and running.”

“All right. Let’s see what we turn up.”

“Do you think it’s her?”

“I hope it isn’t, but who knows. If it is, the information I’ve just given her should goad her into making contact with someone in the Starflyer network.”

***

Although it wasn’t far from New York to the Tulip Mansion, Justine kept her own apartment on Park Avenue. It was a nice base in town for those times she wanted to be on her own, or throw a small soirée for close personal friends and important contacts; it was also somewhere private for affairs she preferred to keep quiet about. The building was two centuries old, a massive art deco–Gothic block favored by both the urban chic and serious old money. Her apartment occupied half of the fortieth floor, which gave her a nice view out over the park from her balcony. Tall marble gargoyles lined the stone balustrade, framing the city’s magnificent ma-hon tree as it glittered rose-gold in the late evening sunlight. She never tired of the unique sight of the biochemical anomaly. It was always a shame CST had closed its homeworld off, she felt; now there would never be any more transplanted to the Commonwealth worlds.

The maid had prepared a light supper of poached salmon and salad. Justine ate it cautiously before her guest was due. Sure enough, twenty minutes after she finished she had to rush to the bathroom, heaving up most of it.

“I’d forgotten this part,” she said to herself as she wiped her mouth with a tissue. It would have to be cold still mineral water and plain crackers when the meeting was over.

Her e-butler told her Paula Myo was on her way up from the lobby. She took a bottle of mouthwash from the medicine cabinet, and swilled it around. The horrible bitter acid taste was replaced by a clinical peppermint. It wasn’t much better.

“Stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself,” Justine told her reflection in the mirror. She splashed some cold water on her face, which wasn’t looking so hot these days. Ah well, it wasn’t as if she was on the prowl for lovers right now. Her virtual hand touched her father’s icon. “She’s here.”

“I’m on my way down,” Gore said; he had the apartment above.

As always, Paula Myo was dressed impeccably, in a blue suit that was obviously tailored in Paris. There was a stern expression on her dainty face as she looked around the big living room with its exquisite antique furniture.

“I was in another Park Avenue apartment yesterday, about a kilometer away from here,” she said. “I thought that was ostentatious, but it would fit in this room and still rattle around.”

“Some people are aspirant,” Justine said. “Some of us obtained a long time ago.”

“Materialism never really appealed to me.”

“Is that part of your Huxley’s Haven heritage?” Justine had almost said: Hive heritage.

“I don’t think so.”

“Course it is,” Gore Burnelli said. He marched in through the living room door, dressed in a mauve polo sweater and black jeans. The overhead chandeliers reflected a burnished amber light off his golden skin. “Materialism would distract you from your obsession, wouldn’t it, Investigator? The Foundation wouldn’t want that in their police force; I suppose it makes you immune to bribes, too.”

“Father!”