Authors: M.D. Hall
Even at fifteen, Gorn was not given to speculation, but he was still tempted to think that what Jaron withheld had to be something capable of frightening both mothers, both boys, most likely all of them. He had not previously given Jaron much thought, but tonight he decided he liked him, perhaps because he was someone who cared, but more likely because he trusted Gorn to behave, and act responsibly with the dangerous information he had imparted.
Forced to think about what Jaron had said, he accepted that he was closer to Genir than anyone else, but he was unable to imagine a time when he would trust anyone enough, to divulge all his thoughts and feelings. If that day ever came, would the recipient be Genir who, for all his loyalty and camaraderie, could never fully understand and, therefore, never share his aspirations and dreams? He was unsure. He also suspected the sacrifice Jaron had made, in showing mercy at Gallsor was lost upon his son, it was not lost upon Gorn.
He watched as the reluctant Gallsor hero regarded his son and, for just a moment, Gorn was sure he saw fear etched in the man’s face. When Jaron shifted his gaze to the son of his erstwhile close friend, Gorn read clearly what was written in that same face; the older man was placing his trust in him to look after Genir. The boy nodded slightly and, in return, received an imperceptible smile.
Gorn understood the importance of this gesture by the adults, and what it must have taken for them to reveal these secret matters. He stood and went to Jaron, holding out his hand to the older man. ‘Thank you sir, I will carry what you have said to me, always.’
Jaron took the proffered hand in a not too firm grip. ‘Probably just anxious parents, being over protective,’ he smiled.
The two boys then took up the academy embrace, which like every other academy ritual, had been learned by heart, and which amounted to taking hold of the other’s right arm, below the elbow, with their own right hand. The adults responded with the time honoured, obligatory applause and, for the remainder of the evening, it was as if nothing revelatory had been said.
No one in that room had any idea that Jaron’s message was a piece of a jigsaw that would, ultimately, bring their people face to face with the greatest danger they had known in almost three thousand years.
Three years ago
Telluria
Δ
He pulled into the space reserved for him,
Hugo Black
emblazoned on the wall, in large white letters, with the all-important word
Partner
below.
Moments later he was handing his keys to George, the valet; a fifty-one year old ex marine who was the proud father of a very smart daughter, who despite the benefits of a scholarship to study physics, still needed support from a doting father. His meagre wage and military pension were never quite enough to cover the costs of her education, or his wife’s soaring medical bills.
George’s wife had been the victim of a subway attack eighteen months before. While the physical injuries had healed, the nightmares continued, and she needed expensive monthly psychiatric sessions. He had inherited one hundred and fifty-thousand dollars, after taxes, on the death of his mother, three years ago. The money had been wisely invested, and was always meant to fund his daughter through college, he never figured it would be needed for his wife.
Hugo liked George from the moment the valet started, a little over a year ago; a man immensely proud of both the women in his life, and who never complained. When Hugo met someone for the first time, someone with whom he would have regular dealings, he made sure he found out all he could about that person - his cases were invariably high profile, and some of his adversaries would use any means at their disposal to undermine his position.
When George discovered, via a talkative supervisor, that questions had been asked about him, there were a few days when things were a little awkward, until Hugo raised the matter and the two of them talked, openly. Afterwards, a quiet respect existed between the two men.
Hugo never ascribed to the view that the value of a man was measured by what he owned, or the position he held. George, he believed, was the better man. For his part, George looked up to Hugo, not because of his status, but because he took the time to talk, remembered everything he had been told, and showed that he cared. Who else, of all the people he looked after in this basement, would send flowers to his girls on their Birthdays, ostensibly from the firm? The most any of the other partners could manage was a cold politeness, while others were downright rude.
It would have been out of the question for Hugo to offer George a handout, instead, he asked to have his car fully valeted every Friday, so it would be pristine for the weekend – Hugo was not one of those lawyers who needed to work weekends. George was paid to perform this service by the maintenance company that looked after the building, but Hugo still
tipped
him $150 in recognition of a job performed, above and beyond his duty.
Both men knew what was happening, but after several attempts to refuse the money, George gave up and accepted with good grace. In fact, he actually spent more time and care than he would on his own car, if he could afford one.
‘Hi George, how are the girls?’
‘Hello, Mr Black,’ George smiled. ‘Melissa rang last night to tell me she’s had a paper published, about something called SUZY. I asked her:
‘Is she a famous scientist?’
She laughed, and said it’s an acronym. She told me what it meant, but I’ll be damned if I can remember,’ he smiled, more to himself than to Hugo, and shook his head. ‘I'm not a stupid man, more like a plain man, yes, I guess that’s more like it. But Melissa, she got her brains from her mother, no question. All I know is, my girl’s the smartest. Never heard of the magazine though, don't suppose I’d find it on my local newsstand,’ at that he winked.
‘To get a paper published at twenty-one is going some,’ Hugo replied, noting the ex marine had yet to say anything about his wife’s condition, he decided not to press him. There was a short, awkward pause, George always had something to say about his wife, his other
girl
.
To save any embarrassment, Hugo smiled and headed towards the elevator. He had only taken a few steps, when he heard the sound of a dry throat being cleared. Turning around, he saw the solid ex-marine with moisture in his eyes.
‘My Jeanine is in hospital...’ his voice broke. Despite knowing she had her problems, this came as a surprise to Hugo, who said nothing.
‘I came in last night and she wasn’t in the kitchen, she’s always there when I get in, leaves the dinner so that we can finish making it together, we always do it that way, she looks forward to it...’ he stopped again.
‘Look George,’ said Hugo not wanting to see the man, his friend, in pain, ‘you don't need to say any more.’
This was the impetus the valet needed, he ploughed on. ‘I found her on the bathroom floor, she had taken all her medication, she didn't know who I was.’
‘Where’s she now?’ asked Hugo, fearing the worst.
‘St. Patricia’s,’ was the reply.
Hugo’s fears were realised. The district in which George and his wife lived was, to say the least, deprived. It and several others just like it were served by a massively under resourced, and overworked hospital that had last seen better days thirty years ago. Jeannine would be patched up and sent home, and what little money they had left would be swallowed up, if George sought the help his wife needed.
‘You shouldn’t be here George, go and sit with your wife.’
As soon as he said it, Hugo knew how implausible his suggestion was. The valet was a man on minimum wage, in an era of high unemployment, if he went to be with his wife he would lose the money he needed to pay for her care, not that he could afford it anyway. George smiled sadly, and nodded his head in response.
The lawyer turned and, this time, got into the elevator that would take him directly to the first floor of his law firm, which subsumed the top three floors of a prestigious city centre office block in Boston’s financial district. A walk through the foyer, jostling with hordes for a place in one of the communal elevators was not for him. The thickly carpeted cube, hurtled silently skyward and, like everything in his life, whispered quality and taste.
His route to senior partner in charge of corporate law with, unusually in this day of specialism, a healthy following in patent law, was typical. A hyper successful commercial lawyer who had sacrificed everything, including his marriage, to become indispensable enough to merit junior partnership in the hugely influential firm of Mariner, Scott by the precocious age of twenty-seven.
Following his divorce from Kathy, an equally ambitious neurosurgeon, there followed a string of meaningless, but satisfying dalliances, he could never call them relationships. Everything else he indulged in, golf, tennis, opera and art were all meant to project him further up the greasy pole towards professional Nirvana, but he soon discovered that networking was unnecessary. It was certain unique abilities that set him apart, and two years later, full partnership was being thrust upon him, the youngest in the one hundred and two year history of the firm.
The more successful he became in the law, the less it appealed to him. It had all become, at the age of thirty-five, just too easy. He had often thought of a change, but succumbed to the temptation of wealth and comfort, afforded by success.
Despite the more lurid imaginings of his contemporaries, he was not a
fixer.
He obtained his exceptional results, usually without recourse to litigation, because of an uncanny skill in persuading opponents, that it would be more costly to litigate than settle. Those who failed to heed the warning, invariably lost their case, and shortly afterwards their clients, to Hugo Black.
In a few short years he had become the major rainmaker within the firm. His department acted, in a consultancy capacity, to several very large and powerful corporations. While no single person could hope to wade through the mountains of paperwork and motions that corporate litigation invariably attracted, his skill was such that from a detailed summary, he could rapidly spot strengths and weaknesses in a case and by asking the right questions of his team, who had access to the voluminous data, develop a winning strategy.
Even the markets responded favourably when it became known that Hugo was involved in a case.
The consequential spillover generated by his department, had a monumental effect on the fortunes of the firm. In a little over six years, fee income increased nine fold. They now had offices in every major city in the United States, with overseas branches in each of the major European cities, as well as Russia and China.
Understandably, his partners were ambivalent about their situation. They were richer and more powerful than they could have imagined in the AB days,
Ante-Black,
but they knew if, or when he left, all their power, wealth and influence would evaporate in the time it took him to get to the elevator. They did all they could to keep him. It went without saying, he was the highest paid partner in the history of the firm. Nothing he ever did was questioned, not that he ever did anything that would justify questioning, and all the firms’ resources were at his disposal.
Hugo never abused his position of influence, he would eschew the word
power
. He was, in all his dealings, with partners and staff alike, courteous and considerate. He understood why others might be a little wary of him, even afraid of what he could do to them, and saw no point in trying to persuade them otherwise. It would most likely cause them to wonder why he was singling them out for attention, and so defeat the aim of instilling calm.
By all normal parameters life was good. He was still on excellent terms with his ex-wife, while in his private life, he rarely spent time with lawyers, or people who would seek to use his influence for their own ends. Instead, he enjoyed playing golf, unsurprisingly off scratch, with two friends: one a police captain; the other a plumber. There used to be a fourth, the service manager of a car dealership, until he ran off with his boss’s wife, none of them saw that one coming, not even Hugo.
Other than golf, they shared nothing in common. While his two friends knew Hugo to be a wealthy lawyer they were completely unaware of his status in the legal world. As he was a law abiding citizen who did not practice criminal law, he never had cause to come across the policeman, while the times he had used the services of the plumber, he paid the going rate.
Content with his own company, there were times he preferred to share his experiences with others, and by others that meant, women. He loved the way the paintings of the American Impressionists portrayed them, particularly Frank Weston Benson. Unsurprisingly, given his tastes, he eventually turned to the French, and Claude Monet, above all the rest.
Despite his not inconsiderable fortune, courtesy of wisely invested income, he could not bring himself to purchase an original painting. The insane asking prices were not the issue. He took the view, paintings should be enjoyed as they were originally displayed. For that reason he would, spontaneously, take the firm’s jet to Paris and visit his favourite gallery, the Musée d’Orsay, perhaps the one abuse of his
influence
!
One failed marriage behind him, he was unable to commit. Although, following the initial string of one night stands, he gravitated towards longer, but still fleeting encounters with beautiful women, where the usual course would be concerts, dinner and exotic trips, before the inevitable break up. The only condition he imposed on himself was that they were intelligent; they needed to be as pleasing to the ear as they were lovely to the eye, and there was never a shortage of suitable candidates.