“Maybe so…” Kwinan did not sound convinced. “Can you come through via stage three? I’d like to talk with you about something… personal.”
Kelsey frowned. His first intention was to refuse—a need to be at the site early tomorrow, fatigue, any excuse. His second was to recall that Kwinan was still his superior within the Church and that Kelsey should not discourage any willingness to confide.
“I’ll need to see if any of the dorm’s rigs are open.”
“I’ll make certain that one is,” Kwinan promised. “Come by my residence. You still have the coordinates?”
“I do.”
“Great! And thanks.”
Kelsey hummed to himself as he shut down his second-stage link. He donned a light cotton robe and slippers, combed his hair, and walked down to the virt transfer unit set up in the basement of the dormitory that had been constructed for on-site workers. As Ben had promised, a couch was empty. When he placed his hand on it, he found it was slightly warm. Someone must have been evicted.
Stripping, he worked the links into place, assisting his hands with touches from his virtual telekinesis. Then he gave a command and a grey mist rose. As the network aion took over, he gave it the coordinates for Kwinan’s place, stepped into a violently violet cab, and leaned back to enjoy the ride to the site where many of the Church’s Virtuan members maintained dwellings.
Although in theory space within Virtu was infinite, in reality the average complex proge or aion could not maintain its own site and have memory left to divert to other projects. Therefore, they “rented” space from a genius loci and tailored it to suit their personal tastes. Some of these sites had the equivalent of “zoning regulations” to maintain a particular theme. Others, such as the one Kelsey’s cab was now entering, were eclectic.
The decor of Ben Kwinan’s residence was always changing, usually reflecting Kwinan’s latest fascination. Today it resembled a Navajo ho-gan—a rounded structure with log and mud walls and a softly curved mud roof. It contrasted oddly with the staid brownstone on one side and the miniature Moorish palace on the other, less because of the primitive materials of its construction than because it was aligned so that its entryway was on side to the street rather than facing it.
When Kelsey was admitted to the hogan, he learned why this was so. Dressed in worn blue jeans, a Western shirt with silver buttons, his hair (still the same grey as always) bound with a wide fabric tie, Kwinan pushed aside the blanket that covered the door revealing a roughly round room with a fire in the center. It was decorated simply, with practical articles hanging on the wall and elaborately patterned rugs heaped on the floor.
“Thanks for coming by, Randall.”
“Pleasure. Interesting place.”
“Navajo hogan. I’ve had a lot of fun working on it. I guess it’s my compensation for not being able to be on-site in California.”
“This looks like a lot more fun,” Kelsey assured him, following him into the hogan.
“Walk to the left of the fire,” Kwinan said, steering Kelsey slightly so that he did as directed. “Traditionally, the hogan is aligned with its door facing the east. The south side of the fire was reserved for the men, the north for the women.”
“And the west?” Kelsey asked, noting that this was where Kwinan was placing him.
“Was for honored guests,” Kwinan said with a beaming smile. “Take a seat on the rugs—I think you’ll find them comfortable. The patterns and textures are from the Wheelwright databank. Can I offer you a drink?”
“It’s not going to be anything peculiar like goat’s milk, is it?”
“Not if you don’t want it to be. I have a completely stocked bar.”
“Coffee, then. It’s been a long day.”
“Coffee it is. I have some pinon cookies, too.”
“Wonderful.”
When they were settled with coffee and cookies, Kwinan fell silent for so long that Kelsey wondered if his host had directed a portion of his attention to another activity. When they had first started working together, Kelsey had not been certain if Kwinan was a complex proge or an actual aion. The longer they had associated, the more certain he had become that Kwinan was an aion. But, as Kwinan never mentioned the matter, and Kelsey felt that an inquiry would be rude, he had never pursued the matter.
“We are completely private here,” Kwinan said after a time. “I mention this because I want you to be assured that whatever we discuss here will go no further than between the two of us.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Kwinan picked up a ball of yarn, unwound a bit, wove it into something like a cat’s cradle around his fingers, picked up and dropped strands, apparently giving his entire attention to creating the elaborate design.
“I hardly know how to begin. I’ve brought this… consideration to you for several reasons. First of all, we’ve worked together a long time. You are probably the Veritean I feel most comfortable with—I know you’ve made an effort to understand the Virtuan point of view. You’ve also demonstrated the ability to think for yourself time and again.”
“However, I’ve also made some rather serious errors,” Kelsey said dryly, “as in not detecting that Arthur Eden’s interest in the Church was other than spiritual.”
“How could you be expected to know that? Eden didn’t fool just you—you simply took the fall for the rest of our slowness. There are many members of the Church for whom involvement is less than spiritual.”
“I’m shocked, simply shocked.”
“Right. How are you enjoying the revenues from that tee-shirt you’re marketing?”
“You know that my name is just being used to front that project for the Church.”
“Shocked… Randall, you think for yourself, work harder than any two members, and maintain a sense of humor about the entire mess.”
“Thank you—I think.”
Ben Kwinan let his loop of yarn fall limp between his fingers. He raised his gaze to meet Kelsey’s.
“Randall, there was a day you expressed some doubt about the wisdom of letting the gods of old cross over into the Verite. You expressed concern about how their values, their power, would interact with those of modern Verite.”
“I remember.”
“At the time, I gave you the party line, but now that I’ve been working with the great ones myself, I find myself wondering if you were right. What do you know of the gods of Virtu?”
Kelsey wrinkled his brow, momentarily disoriented by the apparent change of subject.
“I know that they exist, that many of the aions worship them rather than gods generated out of the Verite. Once or twice, I have heard it whispered that the ‘gods’ who manifest in our Virtuan temples during the services are not the reawakened deities of ancient Babylon and Sumer, but are some of the lesser deities of Virtu playing a role and reaping some intangible benefit from being at the center of so much attention.”
“You listen carefully, but I am not surprised by this. I’ve always known you were aware of more than you ever mentioned.”
“And?”
“And? What if I was to tell you that you were right on many counts?
Right as far as you go—although there is more to the picture than what you know.”
“If you told me that, I suppose I would ask you to tell me what is missing from my picture.”
“Again, what I would expect. Very well, Randall, consider yourself told. When the Church of Elish worships the gods of Sumer and Babylonia, they also worship with the gods of Virtu.”