Phase Shift (40 page)

"I am sorry, Reyes Prefect," Goren said. His
voice actually sounded remorseful. "Your father was a righteous
man, may he be remembered fondly. It is a shame his son's actions
have brought me to this."

To the Enforcers, Goren said, "Detain
him."

"No!" Reyes said, shaking his head. He could
not be put in detention, not now. Molly McBride relied upon him for
support on this world. His job was to rally Motar and his men, to
put them in place in order to intercept Goren and his men when they
returned from Symposium. If Reyes were detained, all would be lost
and Cataclysm would rain down with the force of Zeus's
thunderbolt.

Two Enforcers secured him, each placing a
hand under an armpit. Together they lifted Reyes out of his chair
with the effort of a child flinging a rag doll across the room.
"Goren," Reyes began in an attempt to reason his way out of the
situation, "this is not necessary. I will do as you ask—"

"You cultivate Molly McBride to take her
place as a member of your cohort. You pity all Earthers, paint them
as innocent, when you should be damning them for their role in
hastening Cataclysm. They are the enemies Reyes, not I."

The Enforcers took two steps toward the
door. Reyes struggled against their grasp. "I see that now, Goren,
really, I do."

"I am sorry, Reyes. It is too late."

He shooed his hand at the Enforcers who
carried Reyes out of the room.

Loman Praetner was on the guest list for
Earth Symposium, special guest of none other than Goren, himself.
As a result, he had free license to roam the venue at will. At
present, he felt his presence warranted backstage in the auditorium
where the McBride woman was doing a sound check, counting forward
and back, repeating "test one, test two," and so forth
ad
nauseam
.

His task was loathsome to be sure, but there
was no other choice, thanks to that accursed Josef Schliemann.
There was a saying on Earth with parallels on Gaia: 'If you want a
job done right, do it yourself'. He should have taken it upon
himself to persuade the McBride woman to alter her oration. Either
that or detain her himself. But as CEO of the Gaia Corporation, he
had subscribed to another Earther motto: 'A good manager knows how
to delegate'. And so delegate he had, albeit to the wrong person,
and now he was left to clean up the mess on his own accord.

The backstage was a hub of activity. People
ran forth and back as if the area were a portal or conduit between
sections of the building. In one corner, a man and a woman spoke.
The man was McBride's mate, one Dr. Palmer Richardson. He’d
recognized him from the photograph Schliemann had shown him. The
woman wore the conference centre's staff blazer. She and Richardson
were reviewing papers she had on her clipboard, their backs to the
drawn curtains which separated the stage and backstage areas.

Momentarily the McBride woman came through
the curtains. Having sighted her husband, she made her way to the
refreshment table at the back corner of the stage, conveniently
located at the opposite corner to where her husband was
standing.

Loman approached her. "Hello, Ms. McBride,"
he said with slippery precision. "Or do you prefer
'Professor'?"

"Mr. Praetner," she said, quite taken aback
by his presence.

"It is so hard to tell with Earth women. Now
on Gaia, it is much simpler, a woman is either a daughter or a
mate, less ambiguous as far as nomenclature goes, do you not
think?"

"What are you doing here?" She took a step
away from him, toward centre stage.

"You know what I am doing here," he said.
"Dr. Schliemann's agenda has yet to be mitigated. Someone must
finish the task."

"What task is that?" The McBride woman took
another step toward centre stage. Loman wondered why she had not as
of yet cried out to her mate. Perhaps she feared retribution might
be visited upon him in her stead?

"Why, to get you to change the oration you
plan to make later today. Or prevent it entirely."

"Like I told Josef: that's not going to
happen." She took another step back, butting up against a structure
obscured by the velveteen stage draping.

Sensing an opportunity, Loman stepped toward
her and did what needed to be done. He grabbed her by the flesh of
the bicep and pulled her to him. He'd intended to draw her near,
hold her back to his body, reach over with the implant device he'd
secreted into his suit pocket, and inoculate her with the tiny
modulator, on her neck, just below the jugular vein.

As he advanced on her, she tensed. When he
grabbed her, she started. He let his hand slide from her bicep to
her wrist, but as he tried to spin her so her back was to him, she
pushed.

Loman had a fraction of a second in which to
act. Left hand still locked on her right wrist, he withdrew the
implant and proceeded with the device, injecting the modulator into
her right bicep.

With a barely perceptible gust of air, Molly
McBride vanished.

Loman breathed a heavy sigh. Mission
accomplished. Earth Symposium could continue unfettered by the
McBride woman's remarks. The Gaia Corporation would be introduced
to the world today, but as an institution devoted to bettering the
Earth as well as the lives of her insignificant charges. GaiaCorp
stocks would go up and Loman would reap the benefits as a result.
Without the McBride woman there would be no accusations foisted
upon Schliemann and he would be allowed to remain on Earth as the
official Gaian scribe, generating pulp for the publicity mill.

Gaia and her existence would be protected
and her people would prevail.

Goren will be pleased.

First Joey threatens me. Next Praetner shows
up, grabs me, I can't breathe, and darkness begins to close around
my head. My lips form Palmer's name, but without breath I can't
vocalize it beyond a dry whisper. At last, the air clears. I suck
it in greedily and prepare to call Palmer once more, but then I
realize the atmosphere itself is different.

Backstage at the conference centre, we were
breathing artificially chilled air, the lighting was muted, walls
seemingly upholstered in deep mulberry, so dark they were almost
black.

Now, the temperature is ambient. The room is
white and devoid of furniture save a simple wooden, shaker-style
table and two wooden chairs, upon one of which sits Reyes
Prefect.

"Molly McBride," he says, startled and he
almost leaps out of his seat.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" I say when I clue in to
where I am. "What is this place?" I ask of the stark room.

"You are on Gaia," he tells me.

"I know that—where on Gaia? What is this
room?"

"Theran Prefecture," he continues,
"Detention Room Nine."

"Detention Room?"

"Yes." He sighs and sits down again. "I am
afraid we have been detained."

"We've been...?"

"Yes."

"But how?" I ask, but I think I already
know. I examine the cauterized crescent-shaped scar on my right
arm, the source of a newly persistent ache. "Son-of a-bitch!" I say
again, loudly.

"The detainees in Detention Room Nine will
separate and cease conversation," says a forceful voice over a
loudspeaker in the ceiling. In the corner behind me stands Avatar
exhibiting no real physical presence and making no sound, not even
breathing noises.

Reyes jumps up, grabs my arm at the elbow
and secrets me to the edge of the room, kitty-corner to Avatar, as
if the lack of proximity might prevent him from hearing our
conversation. "The crescent-moon," he says, surprised. "The scar.
It is just like my father's."

"It's an implant, Reyes," I tell him. "Son
of a bitch Praetner implanted me."

"What is 'an implant'?"

"A sub-coetaneous phase modulator."

"Of course," Reyes whispers in sudden
realization. He continues more or less to himself, "So much
experimentation with terraforming and then with phase modulation.
It stands to reason he would be affected before long.
Brilliant!

"And so this implant—my father—he needed one
to help keep him from drifting off?"

"Probably," I mutter. I'm not in the mood to
talk now. I need to figure a way out of here, to get back to Earth
and warn Palmer, to see Symposium through.

"And now you have got one too."

"The detainees in Detention Room Nine will
separate and cease conversation," says Avatar. His lips move as he
speaks though the voice emanates from the centre of the room at a
point just beyond the projection.

Reyes takes off his shoe—really more of a
sandal—more like a leather thong—and throws it at him. Avatar
shimmers, but stays put. "Data stream, interrupted," says a
familiar, female voice from the same point of origin as Avatar's.
The shoe bounces off the wall behind Avatar stopping short of
passing through him on the rebound. "We are being monitored, Molly
McBride," he states the obvious.

Reyes pauses and then asks, "How did you
receive this...implant?"

Praetner. It had to have been. I tell this
to Reyes. "I've got to get it out," I say, "I have to get back to
Earth. I have to warn Palmer, and notify the police."

Reyes nods once, deeply. "I have recently
discovered this Loman Prefect of which you speak, your Praetner,
has been in contact with a man, someone in whom you have misplaced
your trust. This man—"

"Schliemann."

"Yes, this Schliemann has been keeping Loman
apprised of your intention to reveal the Gaia Corporation's true
intention on Earth. Loman, in turn, has been keeping Goren apprised
of the same information. It was a job I believe Goren had first
intended for me, but then he grew distrustful of me when I reported
your agenda for Earth Symposium was in line with our own."

"The detainees in Detention Room Nine will
separate and cease conversation," says Avatar again. Reyes takes
off his other shoe and throws it, too, at Avatar.

"Data stream, interrupted," says the female
voice. Avatar shimmers but remains as 'solid' as ever.

Reyes continues in a softer tone, "At last,
this man, this...Schliemann, told Loman of our true intention for
Symposium, as well as of my duplicity and he detained me. I have
been here ever since."

"How long is that?"

"I am unsure. Nearing the end of the second
cycle of Sol, I believe."

"Two days? Here? In this room?"

"I am taken to sleeping quarters in the
evening and brought to this room during waking hours."

"To do what?"

"To be questioned. Periodically. By Goren or
another member of his cohort."

I think for a moment and then say, "We have
to get out of here. We can't stay and let Goren take over
Symposium. I've been through too much to get to this day to let him
do that."

"Impossible," Reyes tells me. "Detention
rooms are designed to keep the offenders in. This is the reason for
Avatar. Once the threshold has been breeched, the Enforcers are not
long in their arrival."

"How long? After Avatar sounds the alarm.
How long before the Enforcers arrive?"

"Minutes. Maybe three, perhaps four.
Possibly less if they happen to be closer once they have been
notified."

The scar on my arm burns. Damn modulator. I
have to get it out. The exact logistics of how I might go about
doing this have not been lost on me. There are no staples or
stitches I can remove to withdraw the device. I have come to
understand, with sick realization that it has to be cut out.

The question is, with what?

I've been studying the room during our
conversation and there is nothing I can see that might serve as a
weapon, let alone a scalpel, except maybe the water pitcher and
drinking glasses on the wooden table. One thing that's nice about
glass is the way it fractures, if it's not tempered, that is.
Because of this, it may be knapped, like flint, producing an
excellent sharp edge. Bless the First Nations for figuring this
out; thank God the Gaians never developed a formula for
plastic.

"If we have only a few minutes, we'll have
to work quickly, then," I tell Reyes.

"The detainees in Detention Room Nine will
separate and cease conversation, or the Enforcers will be
notified," says Avatar.

"Whatever happens, you have to make sure I
get the modulator out," I say.

Large rivulets of condensation slide down
the exterior of the pitcher making a puddle on the platter. Two
drinking glasses are poised at opposite ends of the platter.
Without warning, I grab the pitcher and hurl it at Avatar. It
passes through him and shatters against the wall behind him. Small
shards of glass rebound half-way across the room.

"Data stream...terminated," says the female
voice and Avatar shimmers out of existence.

Three minutes, Reyes had said of our time,
maybe four. "Find the base of the pitcher," I tell Reyes. He
tiptoes through the glass in bare feet. Before I can stop him, he
calls me and I turn.

"God, Reyes, your feet!"

He goes pale when he sees the bloody
footprints marking his movement about the room. "Do not worry about
my feet. They will heal. They are unimportant at this juncture in
time." He hands me the base of the pitcher. "Of utmost importance
is that you find your way back to Earth."

I take the glass from him, wrap the bottom
of my blouse around the edge of the shard so I can hold it, bring
the other end to my arm and press hard. The glass bites into my
skin. It takes a moment or two to for the air to penetrate the
wound. When it does, the pain is searing, bright white, and
hot.

I apply pressure to the shard until it hits
something hard and then I pull it across and through the muscle of
my bicep. Large rivulets of cherry-red blood slide down my arm to
my finger making a tacky puddle on the floor. At last it hits me,
the weight of what I've just done—or maybe it's the loss of
blood—and I swoon.