Death Sentence (35 page)

Jamie tried his best to give nothing away. "Is there any chance of the message being decrypted without the key?"

"Our scientists estimate that a range of ten to twenty Metran years--say, eight to sixteen of your years--as the earliest time they could have any hope of decrypting the message manually. It might take--will almost certainly take--much longer, perhaps twelve twelve-years. That is unfortunate, as I very much doubt we have even a single twelve-year left."

"But you imply that the longlife formula could save you, somehow. Wouldn't it upend things again, destabilize your society even more than it has been?"

"For all of our history, we have seen the other Elder Races with double, triple, twelve times our life span, some of them far longer than that. We learned to accept the brevity of our lives because we had to. The uprising happened not because our people had been given hope for longer lives but because that hope had been offered, and then snatched away. The Bureaucratic Order has not changed that fact--it has only imposed sufficient repression to subdue the violence--for a time. It cannot keep our people from dreaming of what they could do with lives that were twice as long--or of looking for someone to blame because that dream has been denied.

"For endless years our civilization was stable, as stable as that flat plate before you on the table. Now it is as if that same fragile plate were balanced precisely on a knifepoint. My colleagues call that 'stability.' I do not."

"But I say again, the longlife formula would simply inject a massive new instability into the situation. How could that help?"

"Because the people will be able to look forward to what they might have, what they
will
have, rather than backwards to what was stolen from them. They will have hope. The change in life span will alter many things--but, unless you care for armed guards everywhere, blackened buildings, and three old fools issuing orders for more and more security that will only end when everyone is locked up, I would suggest that things
need
alteration. Do you agree, or do you have another view?"

"I am not suicidal; therefore, I will not answer that question."

"Well put. But allow me to finish my statement, that you may reflect on it fully. If it is the case that you have the decryption key, but not the message, then there could be nothing easier than giving you another copy of the message. You may return home with it, match it with the decrypt key in the presence of our representatives, and all will be well."

"Why would you trust us with such vital information?"

"First, because I think it has been demonstrated that it is not safe or prudent to do such research here. Second, because we will
not
be trusting you. The message is held within two layers of encryption. The key sent with Wilcox merely unbuttons the first layer. There is a second-level key, held by a Metrannan diplomat on Center. A mixed team of human and Metrannan researchers will use the message to develop the actual treatments while working on Center."

Information had been so compartmentalized on the UniGov end that Jamie had not even known about the second-level key. At a guess, neither had Commander Kelly. But here he was, being briefed by the local head of the secret police. "I do not understand," Jamie said. "Why would you want or need human scientists to be involved in a vital program?"

"You are a young member of a very Young race, but you have skill in questioning," said Fallogon. "The reason is simple--and it is also the reason that the underlying data and research cannot be replicated here."

For the first time, Fallogon looked uncomfortable, even embarrassed. He shifted in his saddle-chair, and fiddled with his drinking tube. "The reason--the reason is this. Your biochemistry is different enough from mine that you do not dare try this excellent thatchberry soup. However, human and Metrannan biochemistry is in fact quite similar. Similar enough that Hallaben had no need to do much in the way of original research. He simply read a number of your scientific journals and based his work on what he found there."

Jamie had gotten a fair number of shocks already, but that one had to rate as one of the biggest. An Elder Race using
human
scientific research as the basis for a breakthrough treatment? It seemed inconceivable. His first thought was that it would be a huge propaganda win for the human race--but then he realized how much of a humiliation it would be for the Metrannans--especially on the subject of geriatrics and life extension. And would UniGov really
want
all the Elder Races suddenly realizing that humans could teach at least some of them a thing or two about biochemistry, and, perhaps, about other topics?

The human race was far too weak to dare appear as a threat to anyone. Jamie had been starting to think that the War-Starter designation had been hung on the case because of the near civil-war disturbances on Metran, or perhaps because the potential disruption caused by life extension might be as bad as a war. But maybe BSI-DLO had been more worried, and rightly so, about the dangers of humiliating Elder Races.
They wouldn't like it if they thought we were getting uppity,
he told himself.

It might well be wiser, far wiser, to continue to be underestimated while making forward progress that no one noticed. And on the other side of the coin, keeping quiet about the whole affair, providing low-profile assistance to the Metrannans, could be a very useful way to gain some leverage, to do some horse trading, to gain a useful ally.

"That is interesting information," Jamie said, in one of the great understatements of his life. "But why couldn't his successors simply return to the journals and find the information again?"

"Because all of his work notes, including the journal articles, were destroyed by those who feared change. Much good it did them. What, exactly, he studied, how he applied it, and how far different his final results were from the reading that inspired them is impossible to say. I know it sounds absurd, but one of the items our people are most eager to recover is the bibliography, the citations of what papers Hallaben read. That data, all by itself, might provide signposts enough to reconstruct the work. Without those clues, it might not be possible to replicate his work in any reasonable time, or to do it at all, based on just the few surviving reports on the results of his work. But if it
could
be done, it would require workers intimately familiar with the subject area--that is to say, human workers."

Fallogon was silent for a time. "But all this is for nothing unless we have the message and the first-level key," he said at last. "We have the message. If
you
have the key, then all is well."

Jamie knew that he was far out of his depth, so far out at sea that he couldn't even touch the bottom or see the far-off shore. "As you suggested, respected senior, I think it would be best if I reflect and consider."

"I expected no other answer," Fallogon said. "But come. I believe it is time for the next course."

Jamie looked up to see that the soup tureen in the center of the table was empty, and the other diners at the table seemed to be very pointedly not noticing that he and Fallogon were deep in conversation. Fallogon made an imperceptible gesture, and the chime sounded, signaling the end of the course. The entire room had been waiting for them--or, more accurately, for Fallogon. It would seem that this one of the Three cared not at all if everyone knew he was talking at length to a Younger Race xeno--so long as no one knew what they were saying.

Jamie pushed back his chair and stood as rapidly as he could, before Fallogon could get up, and the rest of the table did the same--one or two of them leveling undisguised glares of annoyance at Jamie. Maybe they did not care to be kept waiting between courses--or perhaps they were jealous of the attention one of the Three had lavished on him when Fallogon should have been making conversation with them.

Fallogon bowed very slightly to the others at the table, then turned once again to Jamie. "I've enjoyed our conversation," he said. "Reflect well. We shall talk again, sooner than you think."

Jamie watched as Fallogon allowed himself to be guided to his next table. "There's no hurry," Jamie said as his own escort materialized at his elbow. "No hurry at all."

TWENTY-TWO

HIDING THE LOST

The dance of the diners went on and on, from table to table, leaving Hannah feeling more and more distracted with every move, a pawn moved around too many times in too many directions. Jamie's prolonged conversation with Fallogon had been agony for her. What had that been all about? Jamie had kept up a devil of a good poker face throughout--but not good enough to fool Hannah. Something had happened. Something big.

Adding to the irritation was that Fallogon talking to Jamie was seen as some sort of signal that humans were acceptable dinner companions, even fashionable. Stony silence turned to endless condescending chitchat from every Metrannan who spoke Lesser Trade, all of whom seemed suddenly eager to tell her how clever it was of humans to have survived as long as they had, and how they were sure to get some scraps of good-quality technology, and, better still, advice, from the wise and good Metrannans--perhaps even from the Unseen Beings.

It took all of Hannah's training, along with every drop of patience she could muster, to be civil in the face of it all, even as she faced two more courses for her hosts that looked no more appetizing than the first one, while she received yet another bowl of yogurt-substitute at every table. It left her very little chance to think things through.

But the next time the chime sounded, she found herself in luck, at least of a sort. Taranarak was seated next to her. But on second thought, Hannah could not believe there was any luck or chance involved in the fact that she was not only at the same table as Learned Searcher Taranarak, but at a table wherein Taranarak was the most senior, thus placing her right next to Hannah. The only real luck that Hannah could see was that the dish being served at her new table was a salad. It was not moving and did not appear to be alive. But even so, she was going to stick with her yogurt-substitute.

It had to be that they had been deliberately placed together. But by whom, and for what reason? She had to assume Fallogon had manipulated things at least insofar as seating himself next to Jamie--but that did not mean he was the only one manipulating the game of musical chairs. For the moment, it didn't matter. What she had to decide was what to do about it.

"We are known to each other, and thus may dispense with rituals of introduction," Taranarak announced to Hannah.

"Yes, we know each other," Hannah agreed. What a strange and rigid world this was, where announcing that one could forgo a ritual had become a ritual in and of itself. But Taranarak was not "known" to Hannah in any meaningful way. Hannah had only learned her name while en route to the mission, had only met her the day before, and by the most generous calculation, they had spent only a couple of hours in each other's presence.

Even so, Taranarak was as close to an ally, a partner, in this case as Hannah was likely to get. And Taranarak was willing, even eager, to talk. However, that was of limited value, given their fellow diners and their surroundings, and the near certainty that their conversation was being monitored. But Hannah's own ignorance was so profound that her gut feeling was that she had to grab any chance to question her.

Obviously, anything discussed during their little chat on the aircar landing pad had to be off-limits. But there
had
to be something worth asking that could be spoken of here. Hannah remembered something Taranarak had said either a lifetime ago or the day before.
"I will tell you things you will quickly learn in any event from studying our news reports, or by speaking with any person you might meet."
That was the key. What was common and everyday knowledge to everyone in the room who wasn't human?

A thought came to her. Learned Searcher Hallaben. He was at the center of the case. In a sense, he had set everything in motion--then vanished from the stage. Hannah leaned toward Taranarak and spoke in low tones, trusting to the noise and bustle in the room to keep the others at the table from hearing--and hoping none of them would try and intrude on the conversation. She had to assume there were listening devices directed at her, but why should she care if she kept to topics that were common knowledge? "I wish to know about the death of Hallaben," she said without preliminaries. "I am not even clear as to when, exactly, it happened."

"Hallaben died two days after Special Agent Wilcox departed," Taranarak said, seeming puzzled that Hannah would bother asking about such a minor matter.

"That seems a particularly inconvenient moment for him to depart life."

"Is there ever a convenient time for death?" Taranarak asked, nibbling thoughtfully on a stalk of something celery-like she had fished out of the salad. "And, for example, it would have been far more inconvenient if he had died two days
before
Special Agent Wilcox departed."

Which is another way of saying that he died as soon as he was no longer useful,
Hannah said to herself. She didn't see anything to be gained in sharing that thought with Taranarak. "What, precisely, was the cause of death?" she asked.

Taranarak gestured dismissively. "Old age," she said. "He was found in his quarters the next morning. As I recall, the postmortem reported that he had died about eight to twelve hours before he was found, of sudden-onset-aging syndrome, if you want the technical term."

"Sudden onset?" An alarm bell started to go off in the back of Hannah's mind. Someone else had died of what might well be termed sudden-onset-aging syndrome.

"It's a perfectly ordinary way to die," Taranarak said, "even for a geriatrics researcher. Hallaben was a trifle young to die that way, but not remarkably so. In fact, the syndrome is more or less a side effect of living a healthy life. It's the death we hope for."