Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (3 page)

Treet did not know whether he should shake the man's hand or throttle him, but considered that he would gain nothing by being belligerent, so took it, though a little less cordially than he might have under ordinary circumstances. Varro evidently sensed the restraint and responded, “I
do
most heartily apologize for the misunderstanding at the airport.”

“Misunderstanding? Was that what it was?” Treet pulled a face that was meant to convey concern, and also anger under civilized restraint. His tone, however, was bewilderment.

“I am afraid so.” Varro shook his head, as if deeply regretting what had taken place. He stepped close to Treet and took his arm, leading him a few steps aside to a nook. One wall of the two-walled cranny was glass; another was flat slabs of irregular stone down which a pleasant cascade of water trickled into a pool somewhere below them. “Please sit down, Mr. Treet. I'd like a word with you before we go in.”

Treet glanced out the window and saw that they were atop the building. Green forested hills stretched out into blue misty distance. There was not a single sign of Houston, or any other city—at least not from this view. Treet sat down on a polished wood bench facing an opposite bench on which Varro settled himself. “I'd like a word with you too, Mr. Varro. The first one being why—why have you people been following me?”

Varro smiled again, showing very small fine white teeth. “Nothing sinister, Mr. Treet, I assure you. Perhaps I'd better explain.”

“Perhaps you'd better. No one else seems inclined to, and I'm becoming testy. I get that way when abused.”

“It isn't what you're thinking.”

“I'm not thinking anything. I haven't done anything—as far as I know. Have I?”

“We're not the militia, Mr. Treet. But I'm not aware that you have done anything you ought to worry about. We don't particularly care one way or another. It is none of our concern.”

“You're just concerned with drugging innocent citizens and kidnapping them in broad daylight.” Treet looked down at his sore stomach and rubbed it distractedly.

“Please, I am sorry for that unfortunate incident. As I have said, it was a misunderstanding. The man responsible has been severely … ah, reprimanded.” Treet wondered what the clown at the airport had suffered for popping him with the needle. Varro did not give him time to wonder for long, but continued. “Now then,” brushing all unpleasantness behind him, “I assume you have heard of Cynetics Corporation?”

“I've heard of it,” replied Treet coolly. Who hadn't? It was one of the six or eight largest multinationals on the planet. Maybe
the
largest, for all anybody knew. Corporation law prevented anyone—especially the government, as long as a company paid its tribute—from finding out just how big it really was. But Cynetics' holdings were thought to include whole countries, several independent corporate states, and not a few colonies. “What does Cynetics want with me? I take it we're on Cynetics' property somewhere?”

“Yes, Mr. Treet, we are. North American headquarters just outside Houston.” Varro glanced back at the leather-bound doors quickly. “I'll try to explain briefly. We haven't much time. I wanted to speak to you first before we went in. We can talk at length after we have seen him.”

“Him?”

“Chairman Neviss.” Varro spoke as though Treet should have known instinctively who he meant.

“Oh,” Treet said. Ordinarily he would have been honored by a private interview with one of the most powerful men in the known universe, but today the prospect did not exactly send a thrill through his viscera. Under the circumstances, he felt he was being extremely magnanimous to even consider an interview.

“He is intent on seeing you, Mr. Treet. He is convinced you are the man for a special assignment he has in mind.”

“Which is?”

Varro made an impatient movement with his hand. “I'll let him tell you about it. What I want you to understand is that he is not at all well. Please, I am asking your cooperation. Do not excite him or cause him anguish in any way.”

“How would I do that?”

“By refusing him.”

“You mean I'm supposed to agree in advance to whatever he wants? What's the point of even going in there?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I just meant—well, if you like what he offers, accept by all means. If not, just tell him you will require time to think it over. He'll understand that. He won't like it, but he'll understand it. However,” Varro brightened once more, “I think you will find his proposal attractive.”

“I'll play along.” Treet shrugged. Why not? He had nothing to lose.

“Good. I knew I could trust you. Shall we?” Varro got up and moved off toward the painted doors, and Treet followed him. This time, as they approached the threshold the panels swung inward on silent hinges, and the two men entered a gallery decorated with pottery and alabaster carvings displayed on metallic pedestals, each with a light shining down upon it from the ceiling as in a museum. All of the pieces were pre-Columbian Aztec. It was an impressive collection.

At the end of the gallery another set of doors opened to reveal a young woman, dressed incongruously in a long white robe— much like the two winged men on the outer doors. Her hair was jet, like her eyes, and bound in a single braid down her back. Her skin was light bronze and porcelain smooth, her cheekbones high, her lips dark. She was easily the most beautiful woman Treet had seen in a very long time. He could not help staring.

“Miss Yarden Talazac,” said Varro, “his executive administrator.”

She offered Treet her hand and said demurely, “Welcome. I'm glad to know you, Mr. Treet. This way, if you please.”

“My pleasure,” replied Treet sincerely. For the pleasure of being in this radiant creature's company, Treet was willing to forgive whatever grievances he had been nursing to this point. Even his punctured stomach did not feel so bad anymore.

The stunning Miss Talazac conducted them into a cavernous domed room whose ceiling was dark and winking with artificial starlight like the ceiling of a planetarium. There were no windows, but at intervals around the circumference of the dome, lighted niches contained statuary.

Before them, on a dais served by a long sloping ramp next to a very large and old-fashioned wooden chair, stood a smoking brazier on a tripod. The smoke was scented—like flowers, but delicate and airy, not oppressive. Treet felt as if his senses sharpened upon entering the room and wondered whether the incense had anything to do with that impression.

In the oversize chair facing him sat a man whose age could not be determined. This, Treet assumed, was Chairman Neviss. Though his very ordinary features were expressionless, he appeared alert, and Treet thought something like mirth played at the edges of the full, fleshy lips—as if the Chief Officer of Cynetics was enjoying some amusing private observation.

“Chairman, may I present Mr. Orion Treet.” It was Miss Talazac who spoke rather than Varro.

Slowly, almost painfully, the Chairman rose and, with a condescending nod of his head, diffidently offered his hand to Treet. Treet approached the dais and accepted the handshake. The grasp was dry and cool, and Treet felt bones beneath the flesh of the palm. “I'm glad you're here, Mr. Treet. I have been looking forward to this meeting with some anticipation.”

Treet did not know what to say, so mumbled something about being honored and privileged to find himself in such exalted company.

“Please be seated, gentlemen.” The Chairman indicated chairs, and Treet twisted his head to see that chairs had appeared where there had been no chairs before. Varro, no doubt, had produced them. Miss Talazac, on the other hand, had disappeared.

Treet sat down and rested his arms easily on the armrests. Now that he was here, he suddenly felt very nervous, very intense—almost excited. What was this all about? Why the intrigue? What did they want?

Chairman Neviss looked at him dryly, and then his mouth opened in a wide grin. “Orion Treet,” he said, shaking his head, “this is indeed a pleasure.”

“I'm honored, sir.”

“Do you know that I have been following your writings for thirty years? From the beginning, in fact. You have a style, sir. Lucid. Astute. I like that; it shows a clear-thinking mind. Your grasp of the interconnected events of history is simply astounding. I envy you your abilities, sir—and there is not much in this world that I do envy.”

It took Treet some moments to realize that it was indeed himself that the Chairman was talking about—he always had that reaction to praise. “Thank you, sir,” he muttered.

“No. Thank
you,
Orion Treet. I have learned a great deal from you. I respect you as a man of keen intellect and sensitivity. Also a man to be trusted. Rare these days to find that, I'm sorry to say. Very rare, sir.”

Treet wondered whether the Chairman knew that his honored guest had been pursued across three continents and then abducted by a contract nab artist in order to make this cozy meeting possible. Likely not—though he might be interested to know. Treet decided not to play that card just yet.

“I can't think, however,” Chairman Neviss continued, “that writing monographs on history—excellent though they are— would offer much of a living for you.”

True, true. No one had much use for history anymore; the present was enigma enough. And though his work was on laserfile with every major library in the world, as well as available through several global datanet services, his royalties from subscriber fees were barely enough to cover necessities. “I manage,” Treet allowed.

“I'm sure you do. But I am in a position to help you, Mr. Treet. I have a proposition I think you will want to consider.”

“I'm always willing to listen.”

“Of course.” The Chairman's smile flashed again, but this time it had a forced appearance. They were getting down to business.

“Empyrion, Mr, Treet. Ever heard of it?”

“Yes, of course. From Ptolemy's theory of the five heavens. The fifth and highest heaven, the empyrean, is a realm of pure, elemental fire. The home of God and His angels.”

Chairman Neviss nodded as he listened, obviously enjoying the recitation. When Treet finished, the Chairman said, “It is also our newest colony—a planet in the Epsilon Eridani system.”

At first this remark did not register with Treet. He did not believe he had head correctly. Then, when he saw that no one was laughing, he figured the "illness" Varro had mentioned was mental. Now the warning made sense.

The Chairman leaned forward and said, “You perhaps did not hear me correctly.” A response was necessary.

“But that … that,” Treet stammered, “would be the first extrasystem colony. Epsilon Eridani is more than … what?—ten light-years from Earth. It's—” Don't get him riled up, he remembered. He'd been about to say something that could upset a man of unstable bearing.

“Impossible? Was that the word you were looking for?” The Chairman seemed to be taking this in good humor. “I always say that a secret is no good unless you can tell someone, eh Varro?”

“Yes, Chairman.” Varro, too, was smiling at Treet, apparently enjoying his befuddlement.

The Chairman raised his hand in an open gesture. “Now you know, Mr. Treet. I won't trouble you with a recitation of the details, although with a mind like yours, I'm sure you would find them fascinating. Only myself and a select number of Cynetics board members know of Empyrion's existence.”

“Why tell me?” He did not mean the question to sound so terse. It just came out that way.

“The proposition I have in mind has to do with this colony. I want your help in solving a problem there.”

Treet's next question was just as terse as the one preceding it: “Why me?”

From nowhere the Chairman's beautiful administrator appeared and handed him a laserfile reader. Chairman Neviss held it in his hands while it spooled information across its black screen, then began reading what he saw there: “Orion Tiberias Treet… son of Magellan Treet, noted historian and astronomer … conceived
in vitro
at Spofford Natal and engineered by Haldane Krenk on December 30, 2123 … graduated from Blackburn Academy in April, 2149 … received your first degree in anthropology from Nevada Polytechnic in March, 2160 … second degree in history from the Sorbonne in June, 2167 … third degree in journalism from Brandenburg Institute in August, 2172 … joined the staff of the
Smithsonian,
rose through the ranks and, as a result of an unfortunate dispute over editorial philosophy, left as editor-in-chief in May, 2200 … became food critic for Beacon Broadcast System, and quit in 2216 … taught philosophy at the University of Calgary until 2245 when the school was closed due to failing enrollment… have spent the last thirty-two years traveling and writing—mostly about history.”

Here the Chairman paused and looked up. “Our information, as you can see, is quite extensive. I could go on, but you get the idea.”

Treet nodded, although such information was readily available from any of several sources if someone cared to spend the time assembling it—which apparently they did. It still did not answer his question, but he let it go.

“In short, you are the man for this special assignment. I want you to go to Empyrion, Mr. Treet. I want you to study the place and write about it. I want you to find out all about it—how it's developing economically, culturally, philosophically. And I want you to send back reports, Mr. Treet.”