The woman thrashed and spasmed in the hospital bed. Her dark hair was matted to her head with sweat, and her uncontrolled motions seemed almost epileptic. Her eyes, however, did not have the wildness of the insane—instead they were focused. Deter­mined. She was not mad; she just couldn't control her muscles. She kept waving her hands in front of her with awkward movements, movements that seemed strangely familiar to Jason.

And she did it all in silence, never uttering a word.

Jason switched off the holo-vid, then leaned back in his chair. He had watched the vid a dozen times, but it still confused him. However, he couldn't do anything until he arrived at Evensong. Until then, he would simply have to bide his time.

---

Jason had always felt an empathy for the Outer Platforms. There was something about the way they hung alone in space, claimed by neither planet nor star. They weren't lonely—they were . . . solitary. Autonomous.

Jason sat beside the shuttle's port window, looking at Evensong as it approached. The platform resembled others of its kind—a flat sheet of metal fifty miles long, with build­ings sprouting from both its top and bottom. It wasn't a ship, or even a space station—it was nothing more than a collection of random buildings surrounded by a bubble of air.

Of all the Outer Platforms, Evensong was the most remote. It hung between the orbits of Saturn and Uranus, the furthest deep-space human outpost. In a way, it was like an old west border town, marking the edge of civilization. Except in this case—no matter what human­kind liked to think—civilization lay outside the border, not within it.

As the shuttle approached, Jason could Sense the city's separate skyrises and towers, many of them linked by walkways. He sat with his eyes turned to the window, though the position was redundant. He had been legally blind since he'd turned sixteen. It had been years since he could even make out shadows or light. Fortunately, he had other methods of seeing.

He could Sense lights shining from windows and streets. To him, their white light was a quiet buzz in his mind. He could also Sense the line of buildings rising in a way that was almost reminiscent of an old Earth city skyline. Of course, there wasn't really a sky or a horizon. Just the blackness of space.

Blackness. Voices laughed in the back of his mind, memories from before. He pushed them away.

The shuttle slid into Evensong's atmospheric envelope—the platform had no sphere or force-field, like some of the older space stations employed. Element-specific gravity generators had eliminated the need for such things, and had opened space for mankind. ESG, along with fusion generators, meant that humankind could toss an inert piece of metal into space, then populate it with millions of individuals.

Jason sat back as the shuttle made its final approach. He had a private cabin, of course. It was well-furnished and comfortable—a necessity for such a long trip. The room smelt faintly of his dinner—steak—and otherwise had a sterile, well-cleaned scent to it. Jason approved—if he had owned a home, he would have kept it in a similar way.

I suppose it is time for the vacation to end, Jason thought. Silently bidding farewell to his relaxed solitude, Jason reached up to tap the small control disk attached to the skin behind his right ear. A sound clicked in his ear—the acknowledgement that his call was being relayed across the void to Earth so far away. Faster-than-light communication—a gift given to Earth as a reward for mankind's most embarrassing political faux pas of all time.

"You called," a perky feminine voice sounded in his ear.

Jason sighed. "Lanna?" he asked.

"Yup."

"I don't suppose anyone else is there?" Jason asked.

"Nope, just me."

"Aaron?"

"Assigned to Riely," Lanna said. "He's investigating CLA labs on Jupiter Platform Seventeen."

"Doran?"

"On maternity leave. You're stuck with me, old man."

"I'm not old," Jason said. "The shuttle has arrived. I'm initiating a constant link."

"Affirmative," Lanna replied.

Jason felt the shuttle set down in the docks. "Where's my hotel?"

"It's fairly close to the shuttle docks," Lanna replied. "It's called the Regency Fourth. You're registered as a Mr. Elton Flippenday."

Jason paused. "Elton Flippenday?" he asked flatly, feeling the docking clamps send a shudder through the ship. "What happened to my standard alias?"

"John Smith?" Lanna asked. "That's far too boring, old man."

"It's not boring," Jason said. "It's unassuming."

"Yes, well I know rocks that are less 'unassuming' than that name. It's boring. You operatives are supposed to live lives of excitement and danger—John Smith doesn't fit."

This is going to be a long assignment, Jason thought.

A quiet sound buzzed in the room—an indication that the docking had finished. Jason rose, fetched his single bag of luggage, slid on his sunglasses, and left his quarters. He knew the glasses would look odd, but his sightless eyes tended to put people on edge, especially when they discovered that he was obviously able to see, despite his unfocused pupils.

"So, how was the trip?" Lanna asked.

"Fine," Jason said tersely, walking down the shuttle's hallway and nodding toward the captain. The man ran a good crew—in Jason's opinion, any crew that left him alone was a good one.

"Come on," Lanna prodded in his ear. "It had to be more than just 'fine.' What kind of food did they serve? Did you have any problems with the . . ." She droned on, but Jason stopped paying attention. He was focused on something else—a slight warble in Lanna's voice. It sounded for only a brief second, but Jason immediately knew what it meant. The line was being tapped.

Lanna had undoubtedly heard it as well—she was loquacious, but not incompe­tent—but she continued as if nothing had happened. She would wait for Jason's signal.

"How are the kids?" Jason asked.

"My nephews?" Lanna replied, not breaking the rhythm of her conversation a she received his coded request. "The older one's fine, but the youngest has the flu."

The young one was sick. That meant the tap was on Jason's end, not hers. Interesting, he thought. Someone had managed to get close enough to scan his control disk without him noticing.

Lanna fell silent. She was preparing a tap block, but would only act if Jason ordered it. He didn't.

Instead, he stepped out of the shuttle and walked down the short ramp to the arrival station. Before him spread sat a line of scanning arches, meant to search for weaponry. Jason strode through them without concern—there wasn't a scanner in human space that could discover his weapons. He nodded with a smile as he passed a guard; the man smelt faintly of tobacco and was wearing a blue uniform that registered as a pulsing rhythm in Jason's mind. The guard frowned as he saw the silver PC pin on Jason's lapel, then turned a suspicious eye on his scanners.

Jason stepped aside as the other passengers formed a line at the registration counter, ostensibly searching for his ID. He watched them with his Sense, however, his useless eyes turned downward. Most of the people wore the soft rhythm of navy, the roar of white, or the still silence of black. None of them stood out, but he memorized the patterns of their faces. The person who had tapped his line must have been on the shuttle.

After they had all passed, Jason pretended to find his ID—one of the old plastic ones, rather than a new holo-vid card. A tired security man, his breath smelling of coffee, accepted the ID and began processing Jason's papers. The guard was a young man, and his skin was tinted blue after one of the newer fashion trends. The man worked slowly, and Jason's eyes drifted to a holo-vid playing on the back counter. It displayed a news pro­gram.

". . . found murdered in an incineration building," the anchor said.

Jason snapped upright.

"Jason," Lanna's voice said urgently in his ear. "I just picked something up on the newsfeeds. There's been a—"

"I know," Jason said, accepting his ID back and dashing out of the customs station and onto the street.

---

Captain Orson Ansed, Evensong PD, hustled through Topside's slums. It still surprised him that Evensong had slums—all of the platform's buildings were built of rich telanium, a super-light, silvery metal that didn't corrode or fall apart. In fact, most of the buildings had been prefabricated with the platform, and were actually an extension of its sheet-like hull. The buildings were spacious, well-constructed, and sleek.

And still there were slums. It didn't matter that Evensong's poor lived in homes that many wealthy Earthsiders couldn't afford. By comparison, they were still poor. Somehow, their dwellings reflected that. There was a sense of despair to the area. Shiny, modern buildings were hung with ragged drapes and drying clothing. Aircars were rare; pedes­trians common.

"Over here, captain," one of his men said, motioning toward a building. It was long and squat—though, like all buildings on the platform, it had other structures built on top of it. The officer, a new kid named Ken Harris, led Orson inside, and Orson was immedi­ately struck by a pungent smoky scent. The building was a burning station, where organic materials were recycled.

Officers moved about in the darkened room. Like most buildings on Evensong, this one was poorly lit. Evensong's distance from the sun kept it in a perpetual state of twilight, and the platform's inhabitants had grown accustomed to having less light. Many of them kept the lights dim even indoors. The tendency had bothered Orson at first, but he rarely even noticed it any more.

Several officers saluted, and Orson waved them down with a petulant gesture. "What've we got here?"

"Come and look, sir," Harris said, weaving through some equipment toward the back of the room.

Orson followed; eventually they stopped beside a massive cylindrical burner. Its metallic face was dark and flat. One of the bottom reservoir doors was open, revealing the dust below. Mixed with the dirt and ash was a large section of carapace, its shell stained black from the heat.

Orson swore quietly, kneeling beside the carapace. He poked at the shell with a stirring rod. "I assume this is our missing ambassador?"

"That is what we assume, sir," Harris said.

Great, Orson thought with a sigh. The Varvax had been asking about their ambassador since its disappearance two weeks before.

"What do we know?" Orson asked.

"Not much," Harris said. "These burners are only emptied once a month. The carapace has been in there for some time—there's almost nothing left of it. Any longer, and we wouldn't have even found him."

That might have been preferable, Orson thought. "What did the sensor net record?"

"Nothing," Harris said.

"Does the media know about this?" Orson asked hopefully.

"I'm afraid so, sir," Harris said. "The worker who found the body leaked the informa­tion."

Orson sighed. "All right, then, let's . . ."

Orson trailed off. A figure was silhouetted in the building's open door—a figure not wearing a police uniform. Orson swore quietly, standing. The officers outside were sup­posed to keep the press out.

"I'm sorry," Orson said, walking toward the intruder. "But this are as restricted. You can't . . ."

The man ignored him. He was tall and thin, with a triangular face and short-cropped black hair. He wore a simple black suit, a little out-dated but otherwise indistinctive, and a pair of dark glasses. He brushed past Orson with an air of indifference.

Orson reached out to grab the insolent stranger, but froze. There was a gleaming pin on the man's lapel—a small silver bell.

What! Orson thought with amazement. When did a PC operative get here? How did he know? The questions didn't really matter—regardless of their answers, one thing was cer­tain. Orson's jurisdiction had come to an end.

The Phone Company had arrived.

---

It had finally happened a hundred and forty years before, in the year 2071. Oddly enough, the ones who had made First Contact had been an outdated, nearly bankrupt phone company.

Northern Bell Incorporated had been on the loosing side of technological progress. While its competitors had been researching and incorporating holo-vid technology, Northern Bell had tried something a little more daring: cybernetic-based telepathic linking.

Cyto, as it was dubbed, had turned out to be a failure. Holo-vid technology was not only cheaper and more stable, it had also worked. Cyto had not worked—at least, not as Northern Bell had hoped. In the last days before its impending bankruptcy, the company had finally managed to get a few squeaks of sound through the system. Those squeaks, while unimpressive to their human monitors, were also inadvertently projected through space to a group of beings known as the Tenasi. The Tenasi reply had been the first inter-species contact Earth had ever known.

Second contact had been made by the United Governments Military when they accidentally shot down a Tenasi ambassadorial vessel. But that, of course, was an entirely different story.

"He's been missing for two weeks?" Jason asked, kneeling beside the burned carapace. It was silent in his mind—a foreboding indication of its black color.

"Yes, sir," the officer said.

"Yup," Lanna said at almost the same time.

"Why wasn't I informed of this?" Jason asked.

The police officer looked confused for a moment before realizing that Jason wasn't talking to him. Ear-links were a common, if confusing, part of modern life.

"I assumed you knew, old man," Lanna said. "You know, Jason, for an all-knowing spy type, you're remarkably uninformed."

Jason grunted, standing. She was right—he should have looked into local news stories during his trip. It as too late now.

The officer regarded Jason with hard eyes. Jason could read the man's emotions easily. Not through the use of his Cyto Senses—it was a common misconception that psionics were telepathic. No, Jason could read the man's emotions because he was accustomed to dealing with local law enforcement. The officer would be annoyed at Jason for interfering with his investigation. But, at the same time, the officer would be relived. Local men always felt overwhelmed when it came to dealing with other species. Aliens were to be handled by the Phone Company; the PC had made first contact, the PC had negotiated Earth out of danger following the Tenasi incident. The PC had brought FTL communi­cation to human­kind.

So, the officer watched Jason—jealous, but thankful. Jason could hear other officers muttering at the edges of the room, angry at his interference. Dirty PC. Why is he here? Why does he look at us like that? Can't you see? What's that in front of your face? Is it my fist? Can you see it if I hit you? Maybe that will—

"Jason?" Lanna's voice sounded in his ear.

Jason snapped upright, muscles twitching, memories fading. He still knelt beside the burner. The officer still stood staring at him, the room still smelt overpoweringly of smoke, and he could still hear the reporters arguing with officers outside.

"I'm all right," Jason whispered.

He stood, dusting off his suit, listening to the reporters. They, like the policemen, would probably assume that Jason had come to Evensong to investigate the Ambassador's death. It didn't matter that Jason's shuttle had left for Evensong over a month before the murder. An alien had died, and a PC operative had arrived. That would be enough for them.

"I shouldn't have come to the scene," he mumbled.

"What else would you have done?" Lanna asked. "This is our duty, after all."

"Not mine," Jason said. "I'm here to retrieve a missing scientist, not investigate a murder." Then, speaking louder, he continued. "I'm certain the local law enforcement is competent. Let them investigate—the PC can handle diplomatic negotiations."

The officer looked surprised. But, apperantly uncertain what else to do, he saluted Jason. Jason nodded, then turned to leave.

"Not that the 'diplomatic negotiations' will be too hard," Lanna noted. "The Varvax are so insanely docile that they'll probably apologize for inconveniencing one of our mur­derers."

"They're all like that," Jason said, stepping out onto the building's front steps. "That's the big problem, isn't it?"

There was a moment of shocked silence as the reporters realized who he was. They stood in a ring around several beleaguered police, and the commotion was attracting a crowd of curious onlookers. Then the reporters exploded with questions. Jason ignored them, pushing his way through the crowd. He had his head bowed, his hand raised to forestall questions. However, in his mind he was looking.

He scanned the crowd, pushing through the humming and pulsing colors. He looked over each face, comparing them to the ones in his memory. A smile crept to his lips as he found what he was looking for. The media let him leave—they were used to the PC ignoring their questions. Behind him, Jason could hear their on-the-spot vidcasts. They had all the facts wrong, of course. There was fear in their voices—a fear of what they didn't understand, a fear of the retribution that might come. In their world, retribution was assumed. In their world, you hurt that which was weaker than you.

Jason continued to walk with his head bowed. Behind him, a man broke free from the group of onlookers and wandered in Jason's direction, obviously trying to look casual.

"I wish there were more flowers," Jason said.

A second later, a click sounded in his ear. Then Lanna sighed. "What took you so long?" she demanded. "I've been waiting for you to do that ever since you got off the shuttle. I feel creepy knowing someone's hacking our line."

Jason continued to stroll forward. His shadow followed—the man moved with the skill of one who had been well-trained, but he made the mistakes of one who was inexperi­enced. There was no change to his step—he probably hadn't noticed the switchover. At that moment, he would be listening to a fabricated conversation between Lanna and Jason. For some reason, Jason suspected he didn't want to know what kind of silly things Lanna's replicated version of his voice was saying.

"Is he buying it?" Lanna asked.

"I think so," Jason said, walking away from the slums. "He's still following."

"Who do you think he's with?"

"I'm not sure yet." Jason turned, taking the steps down into an airtrain station. The man followed.

"If you caught him this quickly, he must not be very good."

"He's young," Jason said. "He knows what he's supposed to do, but he doesn't know how to do it."

"A reporter," Lanna guessed.

"No," Jason said. "He's too well-equipped. Remember, he managed to hack into a secure FTL comm."

"One of the corporations?"

"Maybe," Jason said, strolling into an underground café. It smelt of dirt, mold, and coffee. His follower waited for a few moments outside, then walked in and took a table a discrete distance from Jason.

Jason ordered a cup of coffee.

"We haven't even discussed how he managed to scan your disk," Lanna noted. "You're losing your edge, old man."

"I'm not old," Jason mumbled as the waitress brought his coffee. It smelt of cream, though he had ordered it black. He turned his ineffectual eyes on a newspaper someone else had left on the table, but his mind studied his follower. The man was indeed young—in his early twenties. He wore softly humming grays and browns.

"So," Lanna said, "do you want to try and get me a visual so I can look him up?"

Jason paused. "No," he finally said, taking a sip of his coffee. It had far too much cream in it—probably attempt to obscure its poor flavor.

"Well, what are you going to do?"

"Be patient," Jason chided.

---

Coln Abrams sipped his coffee—it didn't have enough cream. He had to keep telling himself not to look at his target. Coln didn't actually need to watch the man to monitor the conversation, he just had to stay within range.

What are you doing here, Write? Coln wondered with frustration. How did you know the ambassador would be killed? What does this all have to do with your plans?

Coln shook his head. Jason Write, head operative for Northern Bell Phone Company, one of the most enigmatic people in the Solar System. What was he doing on Evensong? The United Intelligence Bureau knew a lot about the man, but for every known fact there seemed to be two more missing.

Take, for instance, the Tenasi agreement. Coln had read the document itself a hundred times, and had watched the holo-vids, commentaries, and old news casts relating to the Tenasi incident over and over. The United Governments military had accidentally shot down a Tenasi diplomatic vessel—thereby initiating a rather embarrassing First Contact. Earth had been thrown into a chaos of confusion and worry. Where they being invaded? Would they be invaded now that they had made such a horrible mistake?

Then the PC had stepped in. Somehow—using means they had yet to explain—they had contacted the Tenasi. The PC had brought peace to Earth. But in exchange, the company had demanded a steep price. From that moment on, the PC had become completely autonomous—untaxable, unquestionable, and completely above the law. In addition, the PC had secured sole rights to the aliens' FTL communication technology. And, with those two concessions, the PC had become the most powerful, most arrogant force in the system.

Coln gripped his mug tightly, barely noticing as the waitress brought his sandwich. He was still listening to the conversation between Write and his Base Support Opera­tive—they were discussing what color of roses they liked best.

Coln had never trusted the PC—and he hated things he couldn't trust. The PC grew fat off of its treaties—it held exclusive contracts with all twelve alien races humankind had met. The alien races all refused to deal with Earth unless they went through the PC first. The Phone Company kept humankind locked in space, refusing to share FTL travel technology. It claimed that the aliens had yet to give it to them. Coln suspected he knew the truth. The aliens had FTL travel, that was certain. The PC was simply keeping it from humankind, and that infuriated Coln. He wanted to find—

Coln froze. The conversation in his ear had stopped mid-sentence. For a panicked moment, Coln feared that Write had slipped out of the restaurant and out of range.

Coln's eyes darted across the room. He was relieved to find Write sitting in his booth, sipping quietly on his coffee. It had simply been a lull in the conversation.

"What do you think he'll do when he realizes his cover is blown?" the Base Support Operative, Lanna, said in Coln's ear.

Coln paused.

"I don't know." Jason Write's voice was firm. Arrogant. Coln could see Write's lips moving as he spoke. "I suspect he will be surprised. He's young—he assumes he's better than he really is."

Write looked up, his sunglassed eyes looking directly at Coln's face. Horror rose in Coln's chest, an emotion quickly followed by shame. He'd been discovered.

"Come here, boy," Write ordered in Coln's ear.

Coln shot a look at the door. He could probably get away—

"If you leave," Write said, "then you will never discover why I am on Evensong." His voice was sharp and businesslike.

Coln regarded the man indecisively. What should he do? Why hadn't any of his classes covered situations like this one? When an agent was discovered, he was supposed to pull out. But, what if his target seemed willing to talk to him?

Slowly, Coln rose and crossed the café's dirty floor. Write's sunglasses watched him quietly. Coln stood for a moment beside Write's table, then sat stiffly.

Don't reveal anything, Coln warned himself. Don't let him know that you're with the—

"You are young for an UIB agent," Write said.

Inwardly, Coln sighed. He already knows. What have I gotten myself—and the Bureau—into?

"I wonder," Write said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Is the Bureau growing more confi­dent in its young agents, or am I simply slipping in priority?"

He doesn't know! Coln realized with surprise. He thinks I'm here officially.

"Neither," Coln said, thinking quickly. "We weren't ready for you to leave. I was the only field agent who was unassigned at the time. It was simply poor luck."

Write nodded to himself.

He accepted it!

"I must say," Write said, setting down his mug. "I am growing tired of the UIB. Every time I think that you people are going to leave me alone, I find myself being followed again."

"If the PC weren't so untrustworthy," Coln said, "its Operatives wouldn't have to worry about being followed."

"If the Bureau wasn't so poor at investigation," Write said, "it would have realized by now that the PC is the only company that the Bureau can trust."

Coln flushed. "Are you going to say something useful, or are you just going to insult me?"

"A clever man would realize that my insults contain the most useful information you'll likely receive," Write said.

Coln snorted, rising from the chair. Write had just invited him over to gloat, and Coln had ruined his own career for nothing. He had been so certain that he could tail Write, that he could figure out what the man was doing, discover truth behind the Tenasi Agree­ment. . . .

"You may accompany me," Write said finishing his coffee.

Coln paused mid-step. "What?"

Write set down his mug. "You want to know what I'm doing? Well, you may come with me. Maybe this will finally alleviate the UIB's foolish suspicions—I'm tired of being followed."

"Jason," Lanna said in Coln's ear. "Are you certain—"

"No," Write said. "I'm not. However, I don't have time to deal with the UIB right now. This is a simple mission—the boy may come with me if he wishes."

Coln stood, dumbfounded. He couldn't decide what to do. Could he really trust a PC operative? No, he couldn't. But, what if he learned something important? "I—"

"Hush," Write said suddenly, holding up a hand.

Coln frowned. Write wasn't looking at him, however. He was staring straight ahead, his face confused.

Now what? Coln wondered.

---

Something was wrong. Jason ran his mind around the room, trying to Sense what was bothering him. The café had about a dozen other occupants, all eating quietly. Most of them were in workers' clothing—flannels and denim that pulsed an irregular symphony in Jason's mind. He studied their faces, and recognized none of them. What was bothering him?

A line of bullets blasted through he window just beside Jason. They came far too fast for his body to react or dodge, moving with the incredible speed of modern weaponry.

As fast as the bullets were, however, Jason's mind was faster. He whipped out, a dozen invisible mindblades slashing through the air. The force of his attack slapped the bullets backward as well as sliced each one in two. There was a series of audible clicks as the pieces bounced back off the window then fell to the café floor. All was silent.

The UIB kid plopped into his seat, his face horrified as he stared at the window and its holes.

"Jason?" Lanna said urgently. "Jason, what happened?"

Jason Sensed out the window, but the sniper was already gone. "I don't know."

"Someone shot at you?" Lanna asked with concern.

Jason regarded the bullet holes—they ran in a small circle in the window just beside the UIB kid's head. "No," he said. "They tried to kill the kid."

The café's patrons were running about in fear, some calling out, others hiding beneath benches. The UIB kid was looking down at himself with surprise, as if he couldn't believe that he was still alive. "They all missed," the boy whispered with amazement.

Jason frowned. Why would someone try and kill a UIB agent? Why not focus on Jason? The PC was a far more dangerous threat.

"How did you let him sneak up on you like that?" Lanna asked.

"I wasn't expecting to be shot at. This was supposed to be a simple assignment." Then, turning to the kid, he nodded. "Let's go."

The kid looked up with surprise. "Someone tried to kill me! Why?"

"I'm not certain," Jason said. He ran his Sense over the room one last time, memoriz­ing faces. As he did so, he noticed something. While most of the people were hiding or quiver­ing in fear, one didn't seem to be concerned at all. A solitary form sat quietly at the back of the café. He was a nondescript man with a long nose and a firm body. He watched Jason with interested eyes—eyes that seemed slightly unfocused. Almost as if . . .

Impossible! Jason thought. Then, without bothering to see if the UIB kid followed him, he left the café.

---

"You must take the apologies of us," Sonn urged. The Varvax Foreign Minister's words were delivered by a translating program, of course—the Varvax language consisted of clicks and snaps mitigated by hand gestures. The figure on the holo-vid screen was large and boxish, and its skin shone of quartz and granite. That was, of course, only the exo­skeleton—the Varvax were actually small creatures that floated in a nutrient bath sealed within their inorganic shells.

"Sonn," Jason pointed out, sitting back in his chair, "your people were the victims here. Your ambassador was murdered."

Sonn waved a claw-like hand; a symbol of denial. "You must understand that he knew the risks of living in an undeveloped civilization. Creatures of lesser intelligence cannot be held responsible for their acts of barbarity. You have not yet learned a better way."

Jason smiled to himself. Comments like that one that earned the Varvax, and most other alien races, humankind's disgust. It didn't matter that the comments were true—in fact, the truth of such statements only enraged humankind more.

"We will return what is left of the body as soon as possible, Minister Sonn," Jason promised.

"Thank you, Jason of the Phone Company. You must tell to me—how go your efforts at civilization? Will your people soon raise themselves to Primary Intelligence?"

"It will take some time yet, Minister Sonn," Jason said. "You are an interesting people, Jason of the Phone Company," Sonn said, his claws held before him in a gesture of suppli­cation.

"You may speak on."

"You have such disparity amongst what you are," Sonn said. "Some of Primary Intelli­gence, some of Third—or even Fourth—Intelligence. Such disparity. You must tell to me; are your people still convinced of the power of technology?"

Jason shrugged an exaggerated shrug—the Varvax liked to watch and interpret human gestures. "Humankind believes in technology, Minister Sonn. It will be very difficult for them to accept another way."

"Of course, Jason of the Phone Company. We will speak to each other again."

"We will speak again," Jason said, shutting off the holo-vid. He sat for a moment, Sensing the room around him. He couldn't just relax completely anymore—he missed that. If he let his concentration lapse, the darkness would come upon him.

"They certainly are confident, aren't they?" Lanna asked in his ear.

"They have reason to be," Jason replied. "It has always happened as they expect. A race discovers FTL Cytonic Transmission at the same time it achieves a peaceful civili­zation."

"If only they weren't so cursed ingenuous," Lanna said. "A part of me kind of wishes I had three Varvax diplomats, a card table, and a host of 'useless' technologies I could cheat out of them."

"That's the problem," Jason said. "There's a little of that in all of us."

"What if they're wrong, Jason?" Lanna asked. "What if we do get FTL travel before we're 'civilized?'"

Jason didn't reply—he didn't know the answer.

"I looked up the kid for you," Lanna offered.

"Go on," Jason said, rising and gathering his things. The attack the day before still had him worried. Was it an attempt to scare Jason off? From what? "The day you left, a young UIB agent named Coln Abrams disappeared from the Bureau's training facilities on Jupiter Fourteen," Lanna said. "He stole some sophisticated monitoring equipment. The UIB put out several warrants for him, but they aren't looking this far—apparently they didn't expect him to make it all the way to Evensong."

"It isn't exactly a prime vacationing spot," Jason noted, strolling over to the window and trying to imagine what the city would look like to normal eyes. It would be dark, he decided—most of it didn't vibrate very much to him at all. Dark and tall, like a city constructed entirely of alleyways. Lights were sparse and insufficient, and the air always smelt musty. It always seemed to be a few degrees below standard temperature too—as if the vacuum of space were closer, more ominous, than it really was.

"So," Lanna said, "we've got a wanted felon. Can we turn him in?"

"No," Jason said, turning from the window and putting on his suit-coat and sliding on his dark glasses.

"Come on, lets turn him in," Lanna said. "In fact, it was probably the UIB who tried to have him killed yesterday."

"They don't work that way," Jason said, walking to the door. "Do you have my permits secured?"

"Yes," Lanna said.

"Good. Turn the kid back on and let's get going."

---

The image was blurred and poorly exposed. Unfortunately, it was the best he had. Coln walked around the large holo-image, studying it as he had hundreds of times before. The answer was before him; he could feel it. The image held a secret. Yet Coln, like thousands of others, was unable to determine just what that secret might be.

The image had been taken by the only spy to infiltrate the PC's central headquarters. It was a picture of a simple white room with an apparatus lining the back wall. That appara­tus, whatever it was, powered all of humankind's FTL communications.

It was the greatest secret of the modern age. Humankind had been trying for nearly two centuries to break the PC's monopoly on FTL communication. Unfortunately, no amount of research had been able to duplicate the PC's strange technology—and until someone did, humankind would be indebted to a tyrant.

It has to be here! Coln thought, staring at the unyielding image. He walked around it to look at several angles. If only it weren't so blurry. He looked closely at the holo-image. A security guard sat against the right side of the room, staring in the photographer's direc­tion. There seemed to be several cylindrical outcroppings on the far wall—relays of some kind? One was larger than the others, and dark in color. Was it the answer?

Coln sighed. Men far more technologically savvy than he had tried to dissect the image, but none had been able to draw any decisive conclusions. The picture was just too fuzzy to be of much use. He had spent the entire morning trying to decide why someone would try and kill him. He had only been able to come to one decision—that for some reason, Write had ordered him assassinated. The PC agent had been the one who had coerced Coln over to sit beside him, in the place where the assassin had shot. The PC was behind it somehow. Except, the assassin missed, Coln thought. He must have done so on purpose. Write wanted to scare me off. He acted like he didn't care if I followed him, then he tried to frighten me away. Coln nodded. It made sense, in a twisted PC sort of way. And if Write didn't want him along, then Coln had to make certain he stayed.

"Wake up, kid," Lanna's voice crackled suddenly in his ear.

"I'm awake," Coln said, bristling at the reference to his age—twenty-three was hardly young enough to earn him the title of 'kid.' At least the other two had stopped feeding him dummy conversations—when they didn't want him to listen, they simply shut him out com­pletely.

"The big guy's leaving," Lanna said in her pert voice. Coln was beginning to wonder why Write put up with her. "He says you can go with him, but only if you can keep up."

Coln cursed, throwing on his jacket.

"Oh, and Coln," Lanna said, "try not to steal anything from him. Jason's kind of attached to his equipment."

Coln flushed. How much did they know?

He dashed out into the hallway just in time to see Wright's black-suited form turn a corner. Coln padded across the floor, catching up to the operative. Write barely acknowl­edged him. They walked in silence to the end of the hallway, then took the private lift down to the lobby. The lush carpets and wealthy furnishings hinted that they were far indeed from the previous day's slums.

"So, what is it?" Coln asked as they stepped out onto the silver telanium street. The street, like always, was dimly lit—though hundreds of lights shone from windows and signs. Evensong was dark, but it did not sleep.

"What is what?" Write asked as an aircab—obviously chartered—pulled up in front of the hotel.

"What is your purpose here, Write?" Coln asked, climbing into the back of the car beside the operative. "I assume you knew something about the ambassador's death?"

"You assume wrong," Write said as the aircab began to move. "The ambassador's murder was a coincidence."

Coln raised an eyebrow in skepticism.

"Believe me or not, I don't really care."

"Then, why are you here?" Coln asked.

Write sighed. "Tell him."

"It happened just under two months ago, kid," Lanna said, "a scientist named Denise Carlson disappeared from Evensong's PC research facility."

Coln frowned at the comment, searching through his memory. He paid attention to anything the Bureau learned about the PC. He recalled something about the scientist's disappearance, but it hadn't seemed very important.

"But," Coln said, "our reports said she was nothing more than a lab-assistant. The PC home office barely paid attention to her disappearance—it said that she had been the victim of a common street mugging."

"Well, at least someone pays attention to current events," Lanna said.

Write snorted. "He might pay attention, but he should have realized that any story we downplay is far more important than it seems."

Coln blushed. "So, you came to find this Denise Carlson?"

"Wrong," Lanna said. "That's why he left, but that's not the goal any more. While Jason was in transit, we located Miss Carlson. Just under two weeks ago a woman fitting her description was picked up by authorities. She was diagnosed with severe mental problems, and was checked into a local treatment ward."

"So . . ." Coln said.

"So I'm here to retrieve her," Write said. "Nothing more. We're going to bring her back to Jupiter Fourteen so that she can receive proper treatment. My role is that of a simple courier." Write smiled slightly, turning his black glasses toward Coln. "That is why I am willing to let you tag along. You sacrificed your career so you could watch me escort a mental patient."

---

Jason strode into the hospital, the depressed Coln tagging along behind. The kid kept asking questions, convinced that Jason's actions had some greater purpose in the PC's 'master plans.' Jason was beginning to regret bringing him along—the last thing he needed was another person jabbering at him.

The nurse at the front desk looked up with surprise when he entered, her eyes flickering toward his silver lapel pin.

"Mr. Flippenday?" she asked.

He paused only briefly at the horrid name. "I am. Show me to the patient."

The nurse nodded, leaving the desk to another attendant and waving Jason to follow. She wore white—a roaring, blatant color. To others, White was neutral, but to Jason it was by far the most garish choice. Better the subtle hum of gray. The walls were white as well, and the hallways smelt of cleaning fluids.

Why do they do that? Jason wondered, shaking his head slightly. Do they think that it will make their patients feel at home? Lifeless sterility and monochrome white? Perhaps all these people need to regain their sanity is a little bit of color.

The nurse led them to a simple room with a locked door—ostensibly for the patient's safety.

"I'm glad you finally decided to come," the nurse said, a slightly chiding tone in her voice. "We contacted the PC weeks ago, and the woman's just been waiting here all this time. With no relatives on the Platform, one would think that you people . . ."

She trailed off as Jason turned toward her. After losing his eyesight, he had eventually learned that a look of discontent could be accomplished as much with one's bearing as with one's eyes. As he stared sightlessly at the nurse, her resolve weakened, and the punitive tone left her voice.

"That is enough," Jason said simply.

"Yes, sir," the nurse mumbled, shooting him a spiteful look as she unlocked the door.

Jason walked into the small, unadorned room. Denise sat beside a desk—the room's only furniture beside a bed and a dresser. She regarded Jason with wide eyes. She looked much like his holo-vid—she was thin, her short dark hair in curls, and she wore a simple skirt and blouse.

Jason had met her several times before—Denise had shown an affinity for Cyto, and had been midway through her training. She had once been a straightforward and calculat­ing woman. Now she looked like a young squirrel that hadn't yet learned to fear predators.

"They said you would come," she whispered, the words awkward in her mouth. "Do you know who I am?"

Jason looked toward the nurse.

"She's amnisiatic," the nurse said. "Though we can't determine any physical reason for it. She also has some sort of muscular problem—she has trouble keeping her balance and controlling her limbs."

Denise demonstrated such, rising slowly to her feet. She wobbled slightly as she walked forward, but she managed to remain on her feet.

"She's made amazing progress," the nurse said. "She can walk now if she doesn't move too quickly."

"Denise, you're coming with me," Jason said. "Abrams, help her walk."

The kid looked up with surprise. Jason didn't give him time to complain—instead, Jason turned and strode from the room. Abrams cursed quietly, but did as Jason ordered, giving the confused Denise a helpful arm as they walked from the hospital.

They were nearly out when Jason noticed something. He never would have seen it without his Sense—the man hid behind a door, barely peeking out. The Sense was far more discerning than normal eyes, however, and Jason recognized the face even through the door's small slit. It was one of the men from the café—not the strange man who had sat at the booth, but one of the regular workers.

So, they've been watching her, Jason thought as he left the building, the kid and Denise following. Did they expect her to reveal something, or did they know that I would come for her?

---

"I do not know what this means," Denise said, staring at the menu with her wide eyes. She looked up, confused.

"You can't read?" Jason asked.

"No," Denise replied.

"Here, let me help," Abrams offered, reading down the list of items.

Jason sat back, allowing himself a slight smile. The kid was showing an almost chival­rous devotion to the amnisiatic woman. She was passably attractive, in a sickeningly inno­cent sort of way. Abrams was just betraying the inherent predisposition of a young human male; he had seen a woman in need and was trying to help her.

Denise raised her hand awkwardly in an odd gesture as Coln read. "I still do not know what it means."

"None of the words sound familiar?" Jason asked, leaning forward with interest.

"No."

"But you can speak," Jason mused. "What do you remember?"

"Nothing," Denise said. "I don't remember anything, Mr. Flippenday."

Jason cringed. "Call me Jason," he mumbled as Abrams asked the girl what kind of food she liked. She, of course, didn't know.

She should have remembered more. Most amnesiacs remembered something—if only fragments. "What do you think?" Jason whispered.

"It's odd," Lanna said. "She's changed, old man. Whatever they did to her, it was pretty thorough."

"Agreed."

Abrams ordered for the girl and himself—choosing, Jason noticed, two of the most expensive items on the menu. He knew that Jason would be paying. At least the kid had style.

As he sat, Jason thought back to the strange man in the café. The man couldn't have access to Cyto—in a hundred and fifty years, no one had discovered the ability besides the PC. But, what if someone had? What if they had learned about Denise, and had captured her to try and learn what she knew? What had they done to her get at her knowledge?

His ponderings led him nowhere. Eventually, the food came, and Jason began to eat. He preferred simple, cleanly meals, so he had ordered a tossed pasta dish with a very light sauce. He ate quietly, thoughtful as he watched a man a short distance away haggle over his bill with the waiter.

He shouldn't have been worried about the ambassador's death. The police would prob­ably find that the murder had been preformed by some xenophobic activist group. They were prevalent. There were those who hated other species because of assumed superiority, those that hated because they thought the aliens were too arrogant, and those who simply hated them because they were different. The student-sponsorship program, where human children would be sent to other planets to learn of other species, had been defeated three times in the United Senate.

The ambassador's death probably wasn't related to Denise. Jason should leave—there were too many things that demanded his attention for him to waste time chasing false leads. This trip had taken far too long already.

Jason paused. Denise had turned and was staring at the man who was arguing about his bill. He raised his fist at the waiter, uttering a few epithets, then finally slapped down some bills and stalked out of the building.

"Why is he like that?" Denise asked? "How can he be so angry?"

"That's just the way people are some times," Coln said uncomfortably. "How is your food?"

Denise turned her eyes down at the steak. She had taken several awkward bites, though Coln had been forced to cut it for her. "It's very . . ."

"Very what?" Jason prompted.

"I do not know," Denise confessed, blushing. "It tastes too . . . strong. One of the flavors is very odd."

Jason frowned. "What flavor?"

"I do not know. It was very strong in the hospital's food too, though I didn't say any­thing. I didn't want to offend them."

"Describe the taste to me," Jason said. Something was tickling at the back of his mind—a connection he should have made.

"Leave her alone, old man," Abrams said. "She's been through a lot."

Jason raised his eyebrows at the use of 'old man.' He heard Lanna chuckling through the FTL link. Jason ignored Abrams, turning his head toward Denise. "Describe the taste to me."

"I can't," Denise finally said. "You must understand—I don't know what it is."

Jason reached for the salt shaker, then sprinkled some of it on his hand. "Taste this," he ordered.

She did as asked, then nodded. "That's it. I do not like it very much."

Abrams rolled his eyes. "You've figured out that she doesn't know the word for salty. So? She doesn't know what any of these foods are, or even what her name is."

Jason sat back, ignoring the kid. Then he turned to his food and continued to eat in silence.

---

"I've arranged your return trip to Jupiter," Lanna said. "You'll be leaving on the courier ship Excel at 10:30 PM, local time."

Jason nodded to himself. He stood on his balcony, leaning against the railing as he listened to Lanna's voice in his ear.

"The ship is a good one, and always punctual—as you like them," Lanna said. "Your accommodations are for two people."

Jason didn't reply. He Sensed Evensong before him, feeling its massive metallic buildings and numerous walkways. Sometimes, he tried to remember what it had been like to see. He tried to imagine colors as images, rather than as Cytonic vibrations, but he had trouble. It had been so long, and his eyes hadn't been very good in the first place.

Evensong was in motion around him—aircars flew, people moved on the walkways, lights flickered on and off. It was beautiful, in a way. It was beautiful that humankind had expanded this far, that it had found a way to thrive even here, in the middle of space, where the sun was barely more than another star.

"You're not coming back yet, are you?" Lanna asked quietly.

"No."

"So you think the ambassador's death might be related?"

"I'm not certain," Jason said. "Maybe. Something is bothering me, Lanna."

"About the murder?" she asked.

"No. About our scientist. Something about Denise is . . . wrong."

"What?"

Jason paused. "I'm not sure. She learned to walk and talk too quickly, for one thing."

Lanna didn't respond immediately. "I'm not certain what to tell you," she finally said.

Jason sighed, shaking his head. He didn't really understand what he meant either. He stood quietly for a moment, watching the flow of people on a walkway a short distance away. Something was wrong—he couldn't decide what it was, but he knew what he feared. For over a century, the PC had maintained a monopoly on Cyto. He didn't expect psychic ability to remain confined to the PC—in fact, it was his ultimate goal that it not be. The very thing he was working toward was what he feared.

"Jason," Lanna asked, "have you ever worried that what we're doing is wrong?"

"Every day."

"I mean," Lanna continued, "what if they're right? The Tenasi, the Varvax, and the rest—they're all much older than humankind is. They know more than we do. Maybe they're right—maybe humankind will become civilized before it obtains FTL travel. Maybe by holding Cyto back from them, we're keeping ourselves from progressing as we should."

Jason stood quietly beside the balcony, listening to the sound of children running on the walkway below. Children, laughing . . .

"Lanna," he said, "do you know how the Inter-species Monitoring Coalition rates a race's intelligence class?"

"No."

"They look at the race's children," Jason said quietly. "The older ones. Children who have lived just long enough to begin imitating the society they see around them, children who have lost the innocence of youth but haven't yet replaced it with the tact and mores of adulthood. In those children, you can see what a species is really like. From them, the Varvax determine whether a species is civilized or barbaric."

"And we failed that test," Lanna said.

"Miserably."

"That's all right," Lanna said. "Every race fails it during the early part of their growth. We'll get there eventually."

"The Tenasi had barely begun using steam power when they made their first FTL jump," Jason said. "The Varvax weren't far behind them—they still didn't have computers. Both species traveled to other planets before they learned to send a shuttle into space."

Lanna fell quiet.

"We've been in space for nearly three centuries now," Jason continued. "The Varvax say that technology isn't the way—they claim that technological development had boun­daries, but that a sentient mind is limitless. But . . . still I worry. I worry that humankind will find a way, somehow. We always have before."

"And so you play watchdog," Lanna said.

Jason stood for a moment. "The few, so cleans'd, to these abodes repair," he finally said in a quiet voice. "And breathe, in ample fields, the soft Elysian air. Then are they happy, when by length of time, The scurf is worn away of each committed crime; No speck is left of their habitual stains, But the pure ether of the soul remains."

"Homer?" Lanna asked.

"Virgil." Above, beyond the buildings, beyond the air, Jason could Sense the specks of starlight in the sky. "Space is Elysium, Lanna. The place where heroes go when they die. The Varvax and the others, they've fought and bled, just like we have. They finally over­came all of that—they paid their price and have earned their peace. I want to make certain their paradise remains such."

"By playing god?"

Jason fell silent. He didn't know how to reply, so he didn't. He simply stood, Sensing the paradise above and Evensong below.

Continue to Part 2