The Machine's Child (Company) (20 page)

They dwelt awhile on the racks of instruments and Marco’s living quarters; floated over to the steel shelves, where coffins were still being lifted down and carried out into the drear light; followed them outside and focused in tight as a weeping mortal activated the release on one coffin. With a spine-chilling hiss the seal broke, the lid rose and folded back on itself. The coffin’s occupant flinched from the light and screamed its greeting to horrified immortals all over the world.

The mortal bent down and read the name engraved on the lid. “Baiton,” she said, looking into the nearest holocam. “Its name was Baiton. Does anybody know this one?”

In an HQ in southern China, an immortal named Xiang Lan cried out in grief, for she had known Baiton very well indeed.

The scene was repeated several times during the broadcast. Finally, mercifully, the camera turned for a shot of Suleyman, standing in the doorway under the scrawled sign reading
BUREAU OF PUNITIVE MEDICINE
.

He stared into the foremost camera somberly.

“Suleyman, North African Sector Head. For the record, I state that on twenty-fourth July I received an encoded message purporting to be from Facilitator Grade One Joseph, with whom I have worked in the past but whom I have not seen in many years. The message gave me a set of temporal/spatial coordinates and claimed there were several operatives there in need of repair.

“Fully aware”—Suleyman cleared his throat—” that there have been rumors of certain operatives disappearing without trace for some centuries now, I judged it advisable to take a full security force with me when investigating Joseph’s coordinates. This”—he gestured at the sign above the doorway—” is what we found when we arrived here. There are approximately two hundred and sixty-six individuals who have been, to a greater or lesser degree”—he cleared his throat again—” badly damaged.”

He stepped forward and looked again into the camera. “By the time you view this record, all the operatives in question will have been evacuated to a repair facility at my headquarters in Morocco. These images are
being simultaneously broadcast to operatives of all ranks in cities all over the world, to ensure my personal safety and the safety of the operatives and mortals under my command, due to the fact that no official investigation of the facts regarding this prison has yet taken place.

“I strongly urge you to make the content of this transmission widely known to all operatives. And if any operatives know of a fellow immortal who has disappeared, I urge you to come forward with his or her name and last known location. As soon as we have identified all the individuals involved in this incident, a list of names will be transmitted to all channels. More information will be broadcast as it becomes available.”

He was interrupted by a mortal, pale and shaking, who emerged from the doorway behind him.

“Lord, we can’t—we can’t get that one on the table into his box—”

“I’ll do it,” Suleyman told him. He looked back into the camera. “We will do everything we can for these people. Whoever they are, for whatever reason they were sent here,
this is too much.
I conclude this transmission in the hope that I am perfectly understood. Suleyman out.”

Did it cause a scandal? You could say that.

Suleyman’s HQ was immediately deluged by inquiries from near-hysterical immortals worldwide. A list of the disappeared began to be compiled. It far exceeded two hundred and sixty-six names, however.

There was an immediate response from Dr. Zeus’s main offices in the future, expressing dismay at the existence of the Bureau of Punitive Medicine, as it had come to be known after Suleyman’s broadcast.

They claimed that they had learned of its existence from the Temporal Concordance, which stated that on 26 July 2318, Suleyman and his team would discover the location in the far past and liberate its prisoners. Of course, they had been unable to send a rescue mission prior to that date, since history cannot be changed, nor had they made its existence known, to avoid general panic. However, a committee was now being appointed for a full investigation of the incident, and a heartfelt commendation was extended to Suleyman for his heroic and timely action in aid of the victims.

Almost at once a second transmission came in from the future, but on
a narrow channel accessible only to operatives above Executive Facilitator class, stating that their investigative committee had conclusively proven that the bureau was the work of a deranged Executive Facilitator identified as Marco.

It stated further that this individual, a Company operative since prehistory, had begun to show signs of emotional instability as long ago as 6000
BCE
and had several times been called in for repair and upgrades, but had not responded satisfactorily to treatment. Before he could be hospitalized for further study, however, he had disappeared, and the Company had been searching for him ever since, though the APB had gone out on strictly classified levels to avoid alarming the rank and file.

Further, it reported that the investigative committee had been able to determine that Marco had apparently fled into the deep past and established a base for himself there, from which he had ventured only to capture other operatives, remove their tracking implants, and transport them back to his base, where he had obsessively conducted research with the aim of finding a way to reverse the immortality process, using his fellow immortals as experimental subjects.

The transmission concluded with the assurance that every effort was being made to locate Marco, and that appropriate disciplinary measures would be taken immediately upon his capture.

This was followed within an hour by a third transmission, sent only to Section Heads and Facilitators General above a certain security clearance. It stated that attempts to recover Marco were still ongoing, but that evidence had been uncovered to suggest that he might have other concealed bases at other locations in time, and might possibly have continued his experiments there after fleeing the Bureau of Punitive Medicine.

It added that if this was in fact the case, then the committee was forced to conclude that many unfortunate immortals who had dropped from sight over the years and whose whereabouts were still unrecorded might have become his victims, especially since further evidence suggested that Marco had used his Facilitator training to pose as a security technical. He was thought to have taken custody of operatives who were being transferred between bases for minor disciplinary hearings, and abducted them.

Still unresolved was the status of Facilitator Grade One Joseph, who had allegedly sent the coded transmission advising Suleyman of the existence
of the bureau. Joseph, as far as the committee had been able to determine, had disappeared in 2276 under suspicious circumstances. He may or may not have been a member of the notorious Plague Cabal, most of whose members had been apprehended at that time. He may or may not have been guilty of collaborating with Marco. He may or may not have been responsible for the disappearance of another operative, Literature Specialist Grade Two Lewis. Further investigation was necessary before any conclusions could be drawn, and any operative with information that might assist the committee in its inquiries as to Joseph’s whereabouts should contact it immediately.

This final transmission concluded with the Company’s assurance that every effort was being made to locate the missing operatives and capture Marco, and with its expression of sorrow that this situation had occurred, though adding the observation that, given the complexities of Temporal Influence, such a terrible tragedy was perhaps inevitable, and might in fact have been worse.

“Hey, Father?”

Budu opened his eyes and stared down through the glass. Joseph was peering up at him from the other side, a look of bright speculation on his face.

“Got a question for you. You remember way back, oh, it must have been fourteen thousand years ago, you and I were having a conversation about whether or not history could be changed? How all we had was the Company’s word for it that it couldn’t?”

“I Remember.”

“So, what about it, really? Would it be possible, if you had enough warning? Like, if the Company had really wanted to, they might have stationed operatives to prevent Napoleon being born, or Hitler?” Joseph scratched behind his ear thoughtfully. “I was just thinking I might put it to the test. Give it the old college try, you know? For the sake of experiment. For Mendoza’s sake, too.”

He grinned up at Budu. “See, I found a few more details in the Temporal Concordance. About the guy. Alec Checkerfield. He’s slouching someplace to be born already! Only not Bethlehem. The Concordance says he’s going to be born on a boat near Jamaica on 12 January 2320. That’s just two years from now. What if I was able to prevent that? Fix it so he’s never even conceived. Wouldn’t that be great? There’d be no Hangar Twelve Man, so no Mars Two Disaster. I know it’s pretty radical, but what do you think?”

What Budu was thinking, regretfully, was that his son had gone mad in his loneliness and disconnection. It was not, however, the end of the world. Not for another thirty-seven years, at least. It was simply unfortunate, because Joseph’s obsession with the mortal man was a distraction from the more important business of plotting a strategy to bring down Dr. Zeus. Though his desire to punish the mortal was praiseworthy, and the experiment in Temporal Physics probably worth the effort . . .

“Try,” he told Joseph.

On 23 May 2318, at 11:45
AM
, the alarm system at the San Francisco Mint went off by mistake.

It was obvious it was a mistake even as the first lights flashed, even as the bells rang. For one thing, it was broad daylight in the middle of business hours. The security officers were all standing alert at their posts; the Money Museum was full of tourists and tour docents. Within the vaulted plant, sterisuited technicians were all busy in the manufacture of new identification discs, extruding them, pressing them, cutting them, encoding them, sealing them, shipping them. Nowhere along the assembly line was anything out of place, no intruders seen anywhere.

All the same, the alarm had gone off, and this was the San Francisco Mint, so work clattered to a stop and all the entrances were sealed while a routine search was made. The tourists complained mightily about late luncheons. The authorities apologized. At last the glitch in the system was found and fixed. The technicians got on with their jobs. The tourists were released and given vouchers for free cable car rides.

When it was noticed that six disc blanks were missing from a tempering rack, the technicians conferred among themselves and simply made six more to fill the order. Why stir up trouble?

“Oh, wow!” said Keely the waitress, staring out through the window of the bar. The glass was small leaded panes, thick and very old, so she opened the window for a better view. “Check this out!”

“What?” Nelson the cop came and peered over her shoulder.

“He’s all—he’s all—” said Keely, pointing. Nelson stood gaping, with his cider mug half-raised.

“What is it, for Goddess’s sake?” snapped Mavis, and pushed them aside to see. Just beyond the rose garden a sleek new BMW Zephyr had settled. Crossing the lawn, in obvious pride of ownership, was Joseph.

Not Joseph the shabby little holoset repairman: Joseph impeccably groomed, beard not just trimmed but pomaded, too. It made him look ten years younger. He wore a business suit of expensive cut, gleaming new shoes, had a thick coat draped casually over one arm. “Hi, folks,” he said, seeing them assembled at the window.

Mavis was out of the bar and down the hall so fast she knocked an ancient framed photograph of Princess Diana off the wall.

“Well, hel-
lo
!” she said. “My, don’t you look nice.”

“Yes, I do, don’t I?” Joseph smiled at her brilliantly. “You must be wondering at the change in my fortunes. Well, it’s a long story, and I’d be delighted to tell you over a mug of your best persimmon cider. Shall we retire to a private room?”

“Why—yes,” Mavis said. Keely was already running for the good glasses.

________

“. . . but then the CEO said wait, we can’t let this man go! I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Capra, he said. We’ll retain your services at a hundred grand a year. Plus a fleet car. And I said, well, I don’t know, could you throw in a health club membership?” Joseph paused to drain the last of his cider. Mavis listened, toying with the bright new emerald pendant he had given her.

“So we hammered out the little piddly details,” Joseph continued, waving one hand dismissively. “And here I am. And why
am
I here, you ask, other than to deliver that little token of my esteem? I’ll tell you. One of HumaliCorp’s long-range goals is building up the potential of the North Coast here as a first-class vacation destination. I mean, sea, trees, scenery—we’ve got it all, right? The only thing that keeps ships from packing into this harbor like sardines is lack of recognition factor. But how do you get recognition?

“You get celebrities to visit! Then, word gets out and everyone else in the world will want to visit, too, see? So here’s what HumaliCorp is doing: they’re giving famous people all-expense-paid vacation packages at some of the local places, as a promotional gesture. They’ve already lined up Livilla Barrymore and Tommy Tournay at the Bay Breeze Lodge in Bodega! And Elton Molineux and Fifi Arrevalo just confirmed for two nights at Jack’s Jenner Hideaway.”

“Those people agreed to go up
there
?” Mavis said in disbelief.

“Ah, they’re just show business,” Joseph sneered. “Actors jump at the chance for anything free, honey, trust me. But we’d like a few classier people in on this too, the suborbital set, you know? Some British royalty or something? And I told the CEO: Say, I know an idyllic little place in Muir Harbor, and it’s even got some English history attached to it. So he sent me here to cut the deal.”