Phase Shift (37 page)

"And the members of Goren's Inner Circle who
are in attendance?"

"They will be taken into custody and secured
on Gaia for all of eternity."

"You can do that? Stop them from ever
shifting again?"

"We have a posit which may provide us with a
solution, yes."

"And what about this Motar? Can you trust
him?"

"Motar Prefect and my father were like
brothers, may my father be remembered fondly in this world and the
next. I trust him as I would trust a beloved uncle.

"In order for this to work, Molly McBride,
you and I must form our own Inner Clerisy Circle of two. No one
must be aware of our true meaning save you and I."

"My husband as well. He knows. And another
man. Someone I've trusted with my whole looking glass story,
although I don't know why."

Reyes looks uncomfortable. "Please. It is
imperative as few people as possible are aware of our plan. The
more who are aware, the closer it may place us to danger."

How did this happen? One moment I'm filling
in for my husband at an innocuous artifact night and the next I'm
being investigated for murder and involved in a political coup on
another planet?

"Continue with your plans for Symposium.
What shall I tell Goren of your progress in this matter?"

I tell Reyes we've finalized our guest list.
I've also contacted a few venues and caterers, but have made no
commitments as of yet. Symposium should take place sometime in the
next three to four months, depending on who we go with.

Reyes nods. "I shall tell Goren, as far as I
am aware, you have no knowledge of Gaian activity on Earth other
than my visits to you. I shall also tell him you are satisfied with
my explication of GaiaCorp's agenda. That should satisfy him.

"Do you need anything from me, Molly
McBride?"

I can't think of anything directly, so I
shake my head.

"For future reference, demanding office with
Goren or myself through Loman Praetner is not a good idea." He
takes a beat and then says, "With reference to Loman Praetner: how
did you know he had connections to Goren?"

"I had a hunch."

"A hunch?"

"Well, that, and his scar." Reyes questions
me about the scar.

"My father had such a scar," he tells me
once I've explained. "Right here," he says as he touches the side
of his neck."

In the split second before Reyes begins to
speak again, I wonder if his father wasn't born on Earth as
well.

"He had not always had it. He became sick
whilst working on the terraforming project. He had a lengthy
convalescence, or so it seemed to a lad who missed his father. We
were not permitted to visit him during that time and my siblings
and I feared he had expired when at last he returned to us bearing
that unusual scar."

A Gaian born on Gaia given an implant after
an illness? Was it possible the crescent-shaped scar was no more
than just the preferred pattern for surgical incisions on Gaia?

"I will make regular contact with you on a
weekly basis to offer my assistance," Reyes continues. "Until then,
Molly McBride," he says with a smile and a nod. He leaves my office
and closes the door behind him. I feel a draft beneath my door.
When I open it, Reyes has gone.

Malaron Tinker earned
his living fixing things. As long as he might continue tinkering,
he would be a wealthy man. Manarit, the medic's wife, refuses to
scrape the plates prior to washing. She calls him once a fortnight
to drain the sink as a result. Roshan, the greengrocer's wife, who
doesn't know how to cook, calls him nearly as often to repair their
cooktop and salvage their meal. She promises him double credit if
he remains discreet. The Tinker family was all set. Between Roshan
and Manarit, they would survive both famine
and
the plague.

Malaron had been
waiting exactly two minutes thirty-nine seconds by his pocket
chronometer in the sombre laneway at the rear of Southern
Sanctorum. He paced the width of the laneway, retracing his steps
back and forth, forth and back, awaiting his contact. Said contact
was Goren Prefect, First Prefect of Theran Prefecture, a formidable
man, to be sure, barring his diminutive exterior. To be summoned to
meet with Goren was alarming in itself, but to acquiesce to the
summons to meet with Goren,
behind
Southern Sanctorum rather than
inside
it, was madness. Malaron
coughed at the chill in the air and pulled the collar of his thin
tunic closed. He resolved to make acquaintance with the tailor and
his wife should he survive this ordeal.

Agreeing to meet Goren
was folly under any circumstance. In his initial contact, he had
alluded to Malaron's craft, had said he had a lucrative proposition
for him, one which would be both fruitful and satisfying, one which
appealed to his particular talent, his particular area of
expertise. And while that might imply almost anything, being a
diplomat of the prefecture in the field of mechanization, Malaron
had an idea as to what he had meant.

Back in the days of
terraforming, Malaron had a brief, yet profitable arrangement with
the prefects of Theran Prefecture. It seemed terraformers working
on the project had developed a cohesion problem. Long term exposure
to the technology which made terraforming possible caused a
variance in the pitch of the terraformers' phases. Malaron was
hired as a member of a team of scientists charged with devising
ways to counteract the phenomenon. It took some time, but they
eventually did it with the invention of a radical implant. The
implant was small—the size of a coin—and was installed just under
the skin of the afflicted, a small, crescent-shaped scar the only
evidence which remained of its existence. Once activated, the
device monitored the patient's pitch resonance and corrected
variances as they occurred.

Quite a milestone
discovery, indeed, yet news of the breakthrough remained a secret.
No one, save the members of Malaron's team, the First Prefects of
Theran Prefecture, and the thankful terraformers, ever knew.
Malaron was promised a comfortable dwelling and schooling for his
children for his participation, and his silence.

If this were the
purpose of the meeting, Goren would be the second person in a short
while to enquire about the technology. Even more unusual was that
the call had come from Goren himself—not a Junior Prefect, nor from
one of Goren's disciples. This was disconcerting to Malaron,
primarily because the meeting was to remain confidential. As a
result, no one knew where Malaron was at this particular point in
time. Depending upon Goren's intentions, that could prove
problematic if not fatal.

At last, a small
figure in stygian dress appeared at the far end of the lane. He
grew larger as he approached, but inappreciably so. It was Goren,
Malaron felt sure, even at this distance. The figure continued to
approach, periodically checking over his shoulder as he did to
ensure they were alone, or to ensure security was in place before
he proceeded, Malaron was unsure as to which. After a moment, the
man stood practically toe-to-toe with Malaron.

Goren Prefect looked
as he had all those years ago, thinning gray hair and yellowed
teeth aside. When he spoke, his voice was also thinner than Malaron
had remembered (or was that simply the effort made to keep their
communion undetected?). When he spoke, Goren had forgone all the
usual niceties of standard conversational etiquette and seemed to
begin mid-discussion. "I need a modulator," he
whispered.

"What?" Malaron asked,
uncertain if he had heard correctly. Modulators had been
unauthorized during a widespread effort to maintain the integrity
of The Pact. Possession of such outlawed materials was punishable
by whatever tariffs the first prefects of a prefecture decided to
impose. In keeping the consequences of breeching The Pact
ambiguous, the prefects could impose whatever disciplinary action
they felt suited the crime. Immediately Malaron felt sure Goren was
leading him to ruin. Should he continue the conversation, Malaron
might indict himself in wrongdoing.

"You are Malaron
Tinker, are you not? The same Malaron Tinker who participated in
the Terraforming Initiative two-and-a-half decades
past?"

Malaron glared at him,
dread preventing his lips from forming a reply.

"Come, come now,
Tinker. The penalties outlined in The Pact are not retroactive. You
cannot be levied for crimes committed in
retrospect."

"It is I," he squeaked
with parched tongue.

"Good, then. I need a
modulator. More specifically, I am commissioning you to fabricate
it."

"The fabrication of
any device to invoke deliberate phase shifting is an act of
treason, an intentional breach in the integrity of The Pact,
punishable as outlined in The Pact Treaty."

"Do not quote
semantics—" Goren began, but then stopped himself abruptly. He
continued to speak in hushed tones. "Do not quote semantics to me.
I was involved in the drafting of The Pact. Quoting The Pact to me
is akin to quoting
The Iliad
to Homer." The lecture in history, as well as the
condescension in Goren's voice, ended. "Will you build me a
modulator, yay or nay? If yay, then I am prepared to speak to you
of remuneration schedules; if nay, then we must part and go our
separate ways before this meeting is detected."

Until now, Malaron had
been wary to look Goren anywhere but in the boots, or the buckle of
his belt. At last he chanced a look into his cornflower eyes, and
saw no warmth. Goren had no love for Malaron, a simple tinker by
profession, nor would Goren care if Malaron's wife and children
were provided for should Malaron cease. Did Malaron have the free
will to refuse Goren's proposition? Or did the mere fact he had the
knowledge that someone—a first prefect, no less—had planned on
compromising the integrity of The Pact mean his death certificate
had already been endorsed?

"Very well," Goren
said. He turned to leave.

Malaron surveyed the
empty laneway in which he had stood. He looked up to the rooftops
which flanked the alley above. Was that it? Could it all be as
simple as that? Would Goren leave him to carry on life as before
without repercussion as the result of the rebuke? Malaron watched
Goren slowly slink down the lane. He no longer felt alone.
Suddenly, he felt the weight of a thousand eyes as they peered at
him from behind the compost retainer, around the corner at the
terminus of the laneway to his rear, atop the pylon on the roofs of
the buildings which formed the alley. They would wait for Goren's
egress and pounce, exterminating him like a house rodent,
destroying all evidence of Malaron's refusal of the
proposition.

In the end, it was the
thought of his wife and children left with no protection or means
of subsistence which forced him to action. "Yay," he
called.

Goren continued to
walk as though he had not heard.

"I say, 'yay',"
Malaron called again, advancing on the dark figure in the
distance.

Goren stopped walking.
Without turning, he waited until Malaron had caught up to him. The
men continued, Goren with Malaron in tow, down the laneway and into
the vehicle waiting at the head of the alley.

The Saving the Worlds Symposium has been the
main topic of conversation in our household over the past few
weeks. It usually occurs in fits and starts. One of us begins to
discuss the possibility of Symposium's success and the other takes
up discussing the probability of its failure. We’ve spent hours
going over menus and venues and itineraries and making lists of all
the politicians and actors and activists and scientists and
educators we might invite.

The hall was the first to be booked, a small
venue north of the city in an old Victorian mansion turned
bed-and-breakfast and conference centre. The meal selected was
totally vegan to satisfy the hunger of the animal activists we'd
invited. We settled on tofu steak in filo with organic, locally
grown—not transgenic—steamed vegetables. We arranged for tap, over
bottled, water and cloth, over paper, napkins. In lieu of an
honourarium, each speaker would receive a certificate stating a
tree had been planted in a tropical rainforest in their honour.

The conference came to be known as "Saving
the World Symposium", but those involved in its planning on Earth
knew it as "Saving the Worlds Symposium", for this was its true
purpose. On Gaia, it was known simply as "Earth Symposium".

Palmer, Josef, Reyes and I did most of the
planning with some input from Goren via Reyes. Palmer and I
realized early on that in order for Symposium to be a success, the
proper framing of the event used to entice those invited to attend
was paramount. As well, the keynote speakers had to be strong,
people who had a loyal following comprised of the politicians,
actors, activists, scientists and educators on our guest list. It
was a given that Goren Prefect needed floor time. I needed time
too, if Reyes and I were to expose The Inner Clerisy Circle's
hidden agenda. Pragmatically I had to concede Goren and myself were
unknowns and unlikely to draw anything past local attention—if
that—as a result. Josef Schliemann was the first to sign on as
"celebrity" keynote speaker, and though he couldn't fathom why on
Earth we'd need a stronger fellow-speaker to draw greater
attendance, we booked a world-renowned Canadian environmentalist as
the other speaker.