Salvation

Callum had brought two assistants with him from Delta Pavonis. Eldlund was obviously from Akitha—the Utopial’s main world, orbiting Delta Pavonis. Like all people born into the Utopial movement today, sie was omnia: genetically modified to be both male and female, spending hir adult life in a thousand-day cycle between genders. That baseline genome alteration to every person born into the Utopial culture—enabling and enhancing their core philosophy of equality at a fundamental level—had been hugely controversial when it first began, back in 2119, condemned as extremist by some religions and old-school moralists. There had been plenty of discrimination and even violence against the omnias to begin with, by the usual suspects—the ignorant and prejudiced and fearful. But, as always, what was once exceptional decayed to mundane over time. Today, Eldlund could probably walk down most streets on Earth without any trouble. Sie would be noticed, mind you, but that was down to hir height; all the omnias were tall. And Eldlund was an easy fifteen centimeters higher than anyone else in the room, and also marathon-runner thin with it. Normally I’d call that willowy, but there was nothing fragile-looking about hir—although sie had a very pretty face with sharp cheekbones highlighted by an artfully trimmed beard.

And I could tell just how much confrontational attitude was coiled up in that rigid pose. Utopials from Akitha are always the most evangelical about their way of life; I hoped that wasn’t going to be a problem. Sandjay’s data splash listed hir as a Turing specialist.

Callum’s other companion was Jessika Mye, the greatest political flip-flopper of us all. A Hong Kong native who at twenty went all radical and aligned herself with the Utopial ethic so she could train as an exobiologist on Akitha, only to flip back politically, enabling her to earn those dirty capitalist big bucks available in the Universal culture. I knew she was seventy-four; my altme was spraying the data up as my glance swept across her. She didn’t look it. Interesting fact: She worked for Connexion security back in the day, which is where she got the money for telomere therapy in her early thirties. Then, after one volatile case, she upped and moved back to Akitha where her experience dropped her right into their Olyix Alien Observation Bureau. Five years ago she was promoted to Callum’s senior assistant—an appointment that clearly gave her plenty of time off to work out in the gym. If I was the cynical sort, I’d say Callum appreciated that.

And finally we had Alik Monday. Access “corrupt” in the dictionary, and it’ll likely give you his name. A genuine made-in-America bastard. Occupation: FBI Senior Special Detective, operating out of DC. Believe it or not, when I tried a data mine, his age was classified. He’s a walking, talking federal secret, all personal data restricted. Connexion’s Security G8Turing could have hacked his profile easily enough, but cracking an FBI core would be a huge deal, and not just for the feds. I’d have pattern sniffers all over my ass, and Yuri would be asking questions I could do without. I needed him to keep thinking this was his mission. Some things you just have to let go.

Anyway, I guessed Alik at about 110; he wasn’t so much an undying as a reanimated corpse. Easy tells. That plastic smooth skin comes from so many therapies you’d have to use electric shocks to get his facial muscles to express an emotion. I suspected the color was gened-up, too. Most African Americans are a light brown, but Alik was black like he’d been sunbathing on the equator for a decade; you can’t get any darker. Full bodywork, too. Take his shirt off, and you’ll see the physique of a twenty-year-old Olympian, with every replacement muscle designed and bioprinted in a top San Francisco clinic. I’d give good odds there are some aggressive peripherals lurking in among all those perfect tendons and muscle bands, too.

But…all that time and money, wasted. Anyone looking at him knew he was old, and terribly calculating.

He was connected to the globalPACs operating out of DC, the rich old men who really run Earth, who make sure Universalism, the established democratic capitalist society, stays in place and doesn’t get seduced away from its oh-so-holy guiding principles by shiny new concepts like Utopialism. Just like everyone, the PACs wanted to get a jump on the implications from the artifact. And Alik was their eyes on the prize, with a loyalty that only serious quantities of dollars can buy.

I sat with my back to Central Park and smiled graciously. “Thank you all for coming, and the people you represent for agreeing to this.”

Alik frowned at me. “You’re in charge? I thought I was requested because Alpha Defense was running this.”

“Technically they are,” I said. “We’re running this investigation under their authority. But it is Mr. Alster’s expedition. I’m basically just admin.”

“Keep ’em in their place, huh, Yuri?” Alik grinned.