Phase Shift (32 page)

"He told you about the trade with
Earth?"

Reyes shakes his head. "He and his brethren
have formed a covert society composed of a number of First
Prefects. He bade me to join their cohort. He called it the 'Inner
Clerisy Circle'. He presented it as an honour, one which is rare to
bestow on mere Second Prefects."

"Did you accept?"

"My father killed himself working toward a
posit which would reverse the ill effects of the terraforming
technology he created. What Goren and his 'Inner Circle' propose
trivializes my father's work. His life. When I join my father in
the Next World, I want to be able to meet his gaze head on, not
cower at his feet begging forgiveness."

"But did you accept Goren's proposal?"

"No. Not in my heart. Though I believe Goren
thinks I have."

"Good. This is good."

Reyes looks at me with horror. "You would
have me join him? You would have me open the door wide and usher in
Cataclysm?"

"No. I want to help you stop Cataclysm. But
if you're a member of Goren's Inner Circle then you'll also have
information that we might be able to use against Goren when the
time comes."

"You would have me carry out covert
intelligence on Goren?" Reyes waits a moment and then answers his
own question. "No. I cannot do this." He shakes his head and paces.
"It is unethical. I will not do this."

"Reyes!" I stand in front of him, blocking
him mid-pace. "How can you expect to stop Goren and his Inner
Circle and avert Cataclysm if you don't know what you're up
against?"

"No," he says. He makes a gesture that looks
like an umpire calling a runner safe at the plate. "There must be
another way."

"This is the only way."

Reyes shakes his head and looks off toward
the still smoking rubble of Goshan Prefecture.

"Right now you have to make it seem like
you're with him. Like you've accepted your fate as a member of the
Inner Circle." Like you're comfortable sleeping with the enemy, I
almost add.

Reyes is once more mesmerized by the broken
bodies that lay in the shadow of what remains of Goshan Prefecture,
of the hurried attempts to dig out the survivurs, of the hovercraft
flitting about the wreckage, like bees during pollination.

"Goren is expecting us. If we're late, he
might suspect something, question our loyalty. We should go."

Reyes agrees. He makes an adjustment to both
of our modulators and in a blink, we're inside Theran Prefecture,
just outside of Goren's office.

"I can't believe you're placing the blame
solely on Earth," I snap. Reyes and I are in Goren's crypt-like
office. Goren sits opposite us, his large, chestnut-mahogany desk
the only thing keeping him and me a safe distance apart. He has
asked me here to get me to host a symposium on Earth, ostensibly to
discuss potential solutions to our collective problem.

"Earth has exhibited apathy beyond the pale
regarding the upswing in what you call 'greenhouse gas emissions'."
Pretty modern buzz-words for a pencil pusher stuck on this side of
the divide.

"From what I understand, phase shifting
began as a byproduct of your terraforming technology," I tell him.
How dare he? None of this would be an issue—none of it—had they not
practiced the very same apathy for the fate of their own planet.
"Once identified," I continue, "the problem was compounded by
willful shifting—"

"Which was further compounded by the upswing
in greenhouse gas emissions on Earth." Goren leans forward as he
says this, his eyes as lifeless as spent coal.

"If willful shifting serves to decrease the
phase variance between our two planets, then all of this traipsing
across the divide, has to contribute to the problem," I persist.
I'm not about to let him off so easily. "I've been here three times
now. That's six shifts, and those were with Reyes, which compounds
the danger even further." Not to mention all of the umpteen shifts
carried out by Goren's minions to trade in goods and human
chattel.

"I'm sorry," I say, unapologetically whilst
shaking my head. "I refuse to help you until you cop to your
culpability in the matter." After lobbing
that
bomb, I can
think of nothing more to do but lean back in my chair and await
retaliation.

"What does this mean? To cop?" Reyes
asks.

"To admit." This last statement is said by
me and Goren in tandem. Son-of-a-bitch! As far as I'm concerned
that's tantamount to a confession of his involvement in the
backroom dealings between Earth and Gaia.

"You've been spying on us," I say, more
amused than accusatory, "collecting intelligence, sending people to
Earth. You do realize you're further compounding the problem, God
knows how many times over, in doing so?"

I wait a moment to gauge Goren's response.
He sits statue-like in cool repose behind his desk, forearms
resting on the burnt-umber wood, fingers tented. "You don't need
me," I continue when it seems like there will be no other response
but silence. "You could easily find a politician with influence and
tell him your plight. Thanks to your intelligence, I'm sure you
could make an educated decision as to which politician to
choose."

"We thought of that," Goren says at last.
"But your people are lunatic. What you call 'security'? It is
impenetrable."

"But with your phase modulator you could
beam in, bring him to Gaia, show him what's happening first hand
and have him back before anyone realized he was gone."

Goren smiles a little. His teeth glow
green-gray in the dim light. "You would have me give the directive
to abduct a government official?" he asks, as if satisfied I'm as
corrupt as he.

"You gave Reyes the directive to abduct me.
And while we're on the subject, why me? Why not find yourself
someone who actually has some influence and capitalize on
that?"

"Your husband is a Prefect, is he not?"
Goren asks, serpent-like. Reyes tenses in his seat as though
Goren's just hit a nerve.

"Well, sort of," I say, quickly adding, "but
it's not the same as—"

"A First Prefect, no less?"

It's not the same thing as on Gaia, I was
going to say before Goren interrupted me. "He's not a politician,"
I say, trying again. "He doesn't have—"

"He maintains reign on his own fiefdom, does
he not?" 'Reign' is a strong word. In his position at the
University, Palmer's no better than a glorified professor. His
decisions have no ultimate bearing on the way the University is
run, let alone the city. In his position, there is nothing he could
possibly do which would have an effect on the well-being—or
detriment for that matter—of the planet, as does Goren Prefect. I
attempt to explain this to the man.

"There are others above him that—"

"You are a Prefect's mate," Goren says. He
stands and creeps around his desk toward us. When he reaches his
destination, he leans back, half sitting on the desk. Piked at the
hips, he leans his face toward me. He smells vaguely of citrus and
coffee. Not coffee—c
hicory
. When I first arrived in his
office, Goren offered me a cup of brewed chicory. "Honestly," he
continues, "why a First Prefect chooses to allow his mate to carry
on his business is beyond me. A First Prefect must maintain the
confines of social order, as he maintains Pact integrity." The
irony woven into the fabric of Goren's statement renders it almost
laughable. Based on my conversation with Reyes in Goshan, Goren
cares no more about Pact integrity than he does the annihilation of
Earth, so long as Gaia isn't taken down with it.

"Nevertheless," Goren continues with smug
intensity, "your mate has endowed you with power in allowing you to
rise to the stature of Prefect. This tells me we have been blessed
with our choice for emissary." Goren relaxes his pose somewhat,
posture more erect, hands at his sides pressed down and around the
edge of the desk, shoulders hiked close to his ears. "Either that,
or your husband is a poor authority indeed." All this posturing to
do no more than issue a couched insult? Smart man, drawing Palmer's
integrity into question. He had to have known I would defend his
honour, had to have known it would goad me into action.

Whatever his purpose, to curry me into
cooperation, or repel me and paint me the scapegoat during the
ensuing supernova, Goren has won, as I am sure, he's so used to
doing. As it is, having insulted my husband's integrity and tearing
my honour to shreds, I have no choice but to acquiesce, if for no
other reason but to save face. "Alright," I say, "I'll organize a
symposium on Earth for you to present your cause. But on one
condition," I challenge.

"Which is...?" Goren asks, smiling like the
Cheshire cat. And he might as well be in this lighting.

"That you agree to step down as First
Prefect when it's done."

Reyes gasps as if about to speak, but he
says nothing. Instead, he rights his posture in his chair and
awaits Goren's response.

Goren nods, once, unflinchingly. "Done," he
says, without hesitation.

"And no more intentional phase shifting
either." I want to see how far he'll go to get me to do this
Symposium. "If Earth is willing to sacrifice to save the planets,
Gaia must be willing to do the same."

"Also done."

I don't trust him. Surely a request as
mammoth as this deserves further deliberation. "I'm serious," I
tell him, voice surprisingly confident. "Reyes is here as witness.
He'll be the one to enforce this agreement once you return to
Gaia."

Reyes looks hurt. He winces at my statement
as if what I've asked him to do far outweighs what he and Goren are
asking of me and their Earth Symposium.

"That will not be necessary," Goren says.
And then, the man who professes to keenly enforce the integrity of
the sacred Pact, the man who assumes the honour of uttering words
of blessing from the consecrated Gaian Cannon, chases these words
with more irony: "I am a man of my word."

I hear them the moment I open the front
door—two voices, one Palmer, the other sounds like Josef
Schliemann. I can hardly believe my ears. Not only had the bastard
the nerve to show his face after his asinine conduct the other
night, but Palmer had the audacity to invite him into our home.

What was he thinking?

I follow the voices to the home office. The
two of them are standing over my desk, pouring over Prescott’s
research notes. I am frozen on the spot, able to do little more but
stand and stare, my purse dangling in one hand, computer attaché
suspended in the other, jaw slack.

Schliemann looks up at me and nudges
Palmer.

“Hey, Moll,” Palmer says.

My right temple begins to pound.

"You didn't get my e-mail," Schliemann says
to me. He looks at Palmer and says, "She didn't get my e-mail,"
deadpan, quite possibly taunting.

I can’t believe my eyes. There he is, the
Great Josef Schliemann, sitting at my desk, pawing through my
things, Palmer standing hunched over him, allying himself with him.
I should feel elated at the prospect of a celebrity in our midst.
Given last night’s events, I feel sick to my stomach instead.

"She's angry," Schliemann says to Palmer. He
turns to me and says, "You're angry."

Palmer kicks Schliemann’s chair.

"What's going on?" I say. I drop my bag on
the seat just inside the door. "Josef? Why are you here?"

"I had an epiphany this morning. I did as
you asked, as Paulie asked. I looked up what's his
name—Prescott?—on the Web and couldn't believe...I mean, I do, I
believe. That's what my e-mail said. That's what it will say when
you get it.

"I went by your office first, at the
University, but you weren't there. I waited a while and then I
finally came here. I waited until Paulie came home and we've been
looking over Prescott's memoirs ever since, waiting for you."

"I...was called away...for a meeting," I
say, not without considerable effort. "Palmer, can I speak to you
for a moment?" I point to the bedroom in a backhanded way.

"Sure, Moll," he says, sounding worried. Or
curious.

"I mean...alone?"

"Sure."

"Sorry, Josef," I say.

"No," he bellows, spinning the 'o' so the
word sounds more like 'new'. "I've plenty of reading material to
keep me busy while you're gone."

I turn as he speaks. We’re practically down
the hall and behind the closed bedroom door before he finishes.

I peel off my jacket and throw it, and then
myself, on the bed. I rub my burning eyes, sliding my hands beneath
my glasses to do so and then I say, "What's he doing here?"

"I talked to him after you left last night
and gave him my card. I never expected him to come."

He never told me he gave Schliemann his
card. We talked—or rather, I talked—most of the way home. I felt
betrayed by Schliemann, still do. It was as if he’d possessed the
philosopher's stone of Pseudo-science, but refused to help me use
it to translate the meaning of life. Palmer always maintained
Schliemann was nothing more than a hack, and that he'd sold his
integrity when he became a panderer to the media, but I never
believed him. Not until last night.

"Why would you do that?" I ask him.

"I thought he might get curious," he says,
tentatively.

I say nothing, so Palmer says, “Look, I
didn’t tell you because I thought you were finally done idolizing
him and I didn't want to give you false hope.” He thought he was
protecting me. Damn, but I hate when he does that.

"You said you had a meeting?" he says
quickly, changing the subject.

"I was with Reyes. He—

"Was that the doorbell?"

"I didn't hear anything,” he says. “Were you
on Gaia? What—”