I was wearing my best clothes—a suit of black whipcord, a blouse woven of Renaissance silk with a Carvnel bloodstone at the throat, a cocked Eulin Bré tricorne—when Johnny and I farcast to TC2 the next day. I left him in the wood and brass bar near the central terminex, but not before I slid Dad’s automatic across to him in a paper bag and told him to shoot anyone who even looked cross-eyed at him.
“Web English is such a subtle tongue,” he said.
“That phrase is older than the Web,” I said. “Just do it.” I squeezed his hand and left without looking back.
I took a skycab to the Administration Complex and walked my way through about nine security checks before they let me into the Center grounds. I walked the half klick across Deer Park, admiring the swans in the nearby lake and the white buildings on the hilltop in the distance, and then there were nine more checkpoints before a Center security woman led me up the flagstoned path to Government House, a low, graceful building set amid flower gardens and landscaped hills. There was an elegantly furnished waiting room but I barely had time to sit down on an authentic pre-Hegira de Kooning before an aide appeared and ushered me into the CEO’s private office.
Meina Gladstone came around the desk to shake my hand and show me to a chair. It was strange to see her in person again after all those years of watching her on HTV. She was even more impressive in the flesh: her hair was cut short but seemed to be blowing back in gray-white waves; her cheeks and chin were as sharp and Lincolnesque as all the history-prone pundits insisted, but it was the large, sad, brown eyes which dominated the face and made one feel as if he or she were in the presence of a truly original person.
I found that my mouth was dry. “Thank you for seeing me, M. Executive. I know how busy you are.”
“I’m never too busy to see you, Brawne. Just as your father was never too busy to see me when I was a junior senator.”
I nodded. Dad had once described Meina Gladstone as the only political genius in the Hegemony. He knew that she would be CEO someday despite her late start in politics. I wished Dad had lived to see it.
“How is your mother, Brawne?”
“She’s well, M. Executive. She rarely leaves our old summer place on Freeholm anymore but I see her every Christmas Fest.”
Gladstone nodded. She had been sitting casually on the edge of a massive desk which the tabloids said had once belonged to an assassinated President—not Lincoln—of the pre-Mistake USA, but now she smiled and went around to the simple chair behind it. “I miss your father, Brawne. I wish he were in this administration. Did you see the lake when you came in?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember sailing toy boats there with my Kresten when you were both toddlers?”
“Just barely, M. Executive. I was pretty young.”
Meina Gladstone smiled. An intercom chimed but she waved it into silence. “How can I help you, Brawne?”
I took a breath. “M. Executive, you may be aware that I’m working as an independent private investigator …” I didn’t wait for her nod. “A case I’ve been working on recently has led me back to Dad’s suicide …”
“Brawne, you know that was investigated most thoroughly. I saw the commission’s report.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I did too. But recently I’ve discovered some very strange things about the TechnoCore and its attitude toward the world Hyperion. Weren’t you and Dad working on a bill that would have brought Hyperion into the Hegemony Protectorate?”
Gladstone nodded. “Yes, Brawne, but there were over a dozen other colonies being considered that year. None were allowed in.”
“Right. But did the Core or the AI Advisory Council take a special interest in Hyperion?”
The CEO tapped a stylus against her lower lip. “What kind of information do you have, Brawne?” I started to answer but she held up a blunt finger. “Wait!” She keyed an interactive. “Thomas, I’ll be stepping out for a few minutes. Please be sure that the Sol Draconi trade delegation is entertained if I fall a bit behind schedule.”
I didn’t see her key anything else but suddenly a blue and gold farcaster portal hummed into life near the far wall. She gestured me to go through first.
A plain of gold, knee-high grass stretched to horizons which seemed farther away than most. The sky was a pale yellow with burnished copper streaks which may have been clouds. I didn’t recognize the world.
Meina Gladstone stepped through and touched the comlog design on her sleeve. The farcaster portal winked out. A warm breeze blew spice scents to us.
Gladstone touched her sleeve again, glanced skyward, and nodded. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Brawne. Kastrop-Rauxel has no datasphere or sats of any kind. Now please go ahead with what you were saying. What kind of information have you come across?”
I looked around at the empty grasslands. “Nothing to warrant this security … probably. I’ve just discovered that the TechnoCore seems very interested in Hyperion. They’ve also built some sort of analog to Old Earth … an entire world!”
If I expected shock or surprise I was disappointed. Gladstone nodded. “Yes. We know about the Old Earth analog.”
I was shocked. “Then why hasn’t it ever been announced? If the Core can rebuild Old Earth, a lot of people would be interested.”
Gladstone began walking and I strolled with her, walking faster to keep up with her long-legged strides. “Brawne, it would not be in the Hegemony’s interest to announce such a thing. Our best human intelligence sources have no idea why the Core is doing such a thing. They have offered no insight. The best policy now is to wait. What information do you have about Hyperion?”
I had no idea whether I could trust Meina Gladstone, old times or not. But I knew that if I was going to get information I would have to give some. “They built an analog reconstruction of an Old Earth poet,” I said, “and they seem obsessed with keeping any information about Hyperion away from him.”
Gladstone picked a long stem of grass and sucked on it. “The John Keats cybrid.”
“Yes.” I was careful not to show surprise this time. “I know that Dad was pushing hard to get Protectorate status for Hyperion. If the Core has some special interest in the place, they may have had something to do … may have manipulated …”
“His apparent suicide?”
“Yeah.”
The wind moved gold grass in waves. Something very small scurried away in the stalks at our feet. “It is not beyond the realm of possibility, Brawne. But there was absolutely no evidence. Tell me what this cybrid is going to do.”
“First tell me why the Core is so interested in Hyperion.”
The older woman spread her hands. “If we knew that, Brawne, I would sleep much easier nights. As far as we know, the TechnoCore has been obsessed with Hyperion for centuries. When CEO Yevshensky allowed King Billy of Asquith to recolonize the planet, it almost precipitated a true secession of AIs from the Web. Recently the establishment of our fatline transmitter there brought about a similar crisis.”
“But the AIs didn’t secede.”
“No, Brawne, it appears that, for whatever reason, they need us almost as badly as we need them.”
“But if they’re so interested in Hyperion, why don’t they allow it into the Web so they can go there themselves?”
Gladstone ran a hand through her hair. The bronze clouds far above rippled in what must be a fantastic jet stream. “They are adamant about Hyperion not being admitted to the Web,” she said. “It is an interesting paradox. Tell me what the cybrid is going to do.”