And there was much to do in that reality. Reluctantly, DeSilvo turned his back on the glory that was to be and stepped from the holoprojection chamber into his elegant, well-appointed office. Solace was well on its way, but there was still endless work to do. There was no point in reflecting overmuch on glories to be, though he -was supremely confident of the outcome. Once Solace was complete, all of Settled Space would ring with his name.
DeSilvo sat back down at his desk, taking care to sweep his flowing robe up smoothly as he did so, to avoid sitting on it and wrinkling the splendid pale yellow fabric. Whatever others might say of Oskar DeSilvo, for good or ill, all would agree on the man
’
s vanity, though of course his enemies were more likely to dwell on that aspect of his personality.
DeSilvo was of medium build, his bronze skin firm and his physique well toned. His thick shock of hair was jet-black, and showed no sign of thinning. He wore it to flowing shoulder length. He was clean-shaven, square-jawed, high-cheekboned. His bright blue eyes were set off dramatically by his thick black eyebrows.
It would be impossible to judge DeSilvo
’
s age based on his appearance. Nearly every part of him, from his heart to his fingernails, had, in one way or another, been replaced or revitalized repeatedly over the years. Nor did DeSilvo make it easy to establish his own age. His biographies were quite vague on the point, and his extended use of temporal confinement, cryosleep, and timeshaft-wormhole transport had done nothing to clarify the point.
Still, even DeSilvo himself knew something in his appearance whispered that his seemingly ageless, vigorous youth was at least in part deceptive. His eyes were too bright, his teeth too white and perfect, his muscle tone too good. He was the product of regeneration, transplant, and stimulation therapy, rather than of healthy living and good diet. His appearance was meant to be of youth and vigor, but it was in fact the face of wealth and age. Oskar DeSilvo was far from the only wealthy old man who sought to buy youth.
A practiced eye would have spotted the signs at first glance. DeSilvo
’
s skin was drawn too tight, and its slight yellowish cast was a clue that repeated skin regenerations were reaching the point of diminishing returns, where the regen damage was more serious than the cellular decay it was meant to forestall. Oskar DeSilvo was hearty and hale, but the hints were there for those who could read them. The very fabric of his body had come close to the end of its capacity for absorbing the stress and shock of repair.
They called it Gray
’
s Syndrome, after some long-forgotten near ancient who had first described the process of sudden aging onset, when decades of decay seem to sweep across the body in hours or days. One day, in a year, or a century, some part of his body would decide to refuse further regen, and that would set the age toxins flowing. The collapse would come fast.
But for now, all was well, and DeSilvo cut a splendid figure in his scholar
’
s robe—and knew it.
He leaned forward over the desk and studied a data pad that was displaying the Master Action List, the long list of items awaiting his attention. A hundred subprojects of the Solace project, each in and of itself an enormous undertaking, awaited his consideration.
He scrolled down the action list. Massive excavations, comet diversions, gigantic interstellar transshipments, the construction of whole cities. And, last, but far from least, the chronicling of it all, the setting down in history of how such great things were accomplished. There would be the true monument, in the history books. DeSilvo smiled at the list and reached out to touch it, almost caressing it.
It gave him vast pleasure to think on the incredible resources at his command. The energy sources, the political authority, the masses of powerful machinery, the army of workers spread out over the generations that were required to rebuild a world—all were at his command. It was satisfying indeed to have such facilities, such resources, such
power
at his personal disposal. There seemed no limit to what he could accomplish.
But there were limits. Yes. Things could go wrong. He considered the news reports concerning the conclusion of the inquiries into the
Upholder
incident. It was good to have such reminders. The datapages were full of her ordeal at Circum Central, of the way she had been marooned eight decades into her own future, and of her harrowing journey back to the Solar System. He had read somewhere that the ship
’
s commander, Koffield, was to be assigned to some sort of meaningless desk job, pretending to do research, here, aboard the Grand Library.
DeSilvo stared out his private viewport at the spectacular view of Neptune. The mystery of what had happened at Circum Central would remain unsolved for a long time to come, perhaps for all time. As long as it did, and perhaps long after, the whisperers would point at Koffield. Not many would have much to do with the man who had destroyed a timeshaft wormhole and cut off a whole world from the outside universe.
Someone ought to help the man. Encourage him. There could be no doubt at all that Koffield was competent. And there was certainly work that needed doing. DeSilvo nodded to himself. Yes. He would approach Koffield. Invite him to join the project. Let the whisperers whisper. He would reach out to Koffield and allow him to work with Oskar DeSilvo.
DeSilvo puffed up his chest a bit, and smiled proudly to himself, congratulating himself on this latest act of goodness and charity. It would be a good and generous deed, one worthy of the praise it would no doubt inspire.
How lucky for humanity, for the universe, that there was such a splendid being as Oskar DeSilvo in it.
The speeches were over, and the guest of honor had received his award, and given his eloquent thanks. The ceremonies being complete, the informal part of the evening had begun. All around the newcomer, a splendid party, a sparkling celebration, was happening, swirling about its still center, a merry storm of light, color, and music that filled the largest and most ornate ballroom aboard the Grand Library habitat. But, there, at its center, Anton Koffield, recently promoted to the exalted rank of rear admiral, handsome in his dress uniform, stood alone, and still. All was quiet about him. No one went to him. No one even dared come near.
He was the silent eye of the storm, and, as he moved, the quiet moved with him. Voices faded away, and knots of conversation dissolved at his approach. Even the robotic waiters seemed reluctant to tarry long in his presence, and scurried away the first moment they could.
He should have known better than to come, should have known this time would be no better than the last time, or the time before that. The fact that his actions had been officially approved and endorsed by the boards of inquiry made no difference. No one wanted to make small talk with a man who had blood on his hands. And Koffield could not truly bring himself to blame them. He knew what they saw when they looked at him. He saw it himself whenever he looked in the mirror. Guilt. Blame. Failure. No official finding could hide or disguise the shadows that hovered about him.
What, he wondered, for the hundredth, the thousandth, time, was the point of surviving an ordeal as harrowing as the return trip from Circum Central? Could there be any point when the only role life had to offer him was as a focus for the whisperers, the pointers, the ones who stared at his back as they listened eagerly to a friend telling the tale yet again? What point in determination, endurance, leadership, if the reward was this? The partygoers would look haughtily in the other direction if he, Koffield the butcher, had the temerity to so much as catch their eyes, return their gazes.
His crew had spoken well of him through all the inquiries. They had called him courageous, even heroic, and still spoke up for him, even if no one listened. But his crew were not here, and were not, in truth, even a crew anymore. They had retired or resigned or been reassigned. Scattered, as lost to him as the
Upholder,
and the
Upholder
had been written off as a total loss, not worth repairing.
He let out a weary sigh and decided to give it up. There was nothing for him here. He caught up with a passing service robot and set his drink down on its upper tray. Time to go. He started to make his slow and quiet way to the exit.
“
Excuse me,
”
a voice said behind him. A man
’
s voice, the accent warm and sophisticated.
Koffield turned around to see a handsome man in a burgundy scholar
’
s robe. It was DeSilvo himself, he realized with astonishment.
“
Yes?
”
The scholar smiled, his teeth blinding white.
“
I am Dr. Oskar DeSilvo,
”
he said, the needless introduction charmingly modest.
“
You are Rear Admiral Anton Koffield?
”
“
That
’
s right,
”
Koffield replied, bracing himself for whatever bit of theatrics this DeSilvo had in mind. He had been through it all by now. Would it be another drink thrown in his face? Another outburst of verbal abuse? This fellow didn
’
t look the sort to splash simulated—or real— blood onto Koffield, but it was hard to know. But if DeSilvo had intended a direct physical attack, he wouldn
’
t have gotten Koffield
’
s attention first. And the man
’
s manner was distinctly friendly. Koffield decided he could relax his guard a bit, at least.
“
What can I do for you?
”
DeSilvo smiled again.
“
Possibly, quite a lot,
”
he said.
“
I have a large project under way. I am here at the Grand Library to turn over my archives of the Solacian Terra-forming project. I was wondering if you would care to help prepare those archives.
”
Koffield frowned in surprise.
“
I
’
m not quite sure I understand.
”
DeSilvo reached over and put his hand on Koffield
’
s forearm.
“
Your help,
”
he said.
“
I believe your record would make you well suited to a task, an important task, I have in mind. I could use your help.
”
And those were words that Rear Admiral Anton Koffield had never expected to hear again.
They were dying before her eyes. Neshobe Kalzant stood on the observation deck and watched the stampede for the last shuttlecraft. They were shoving, screaming, shouting to get past each other, clawing at each other in a futile attempt to win one of the pathetically small number of seats on the shuttle—seats that were already taken, and already being defended by determined men and women at the shuttle hatch. Neshobe had counted at least four people crushed to death already.
The proud citizens of Solace were trampling one another in the rain-darkened night, forcing past one another in a futile attempt to get aboard what was merely rumored to be the last ship out. The public-address system bellowed its promises that there would be more transport on the way, that the rumors were false. But the crowd could not hear, or would not believe, the mechanical voice.
The storm shouted and thundered over and around the mob outside on the spaceport landing pad, and the rain surged in harder, pummeling the observation-deck window, making it all but impossible to see the madness outside.
For one brief, cruel moment, Neshobe wished that she herself could be on that shuttle. She could do it. Neshobe Kalzant
’
s word was law on Solace. She got what she wanted. Even now, at this late moment, she could give a quiet order to the spaceport guards, and they would bash through the crowd for her, let her take her place aboard that shuttle. She could get the devil off this miserable planet. Even in the midst of this mob, this chaos, none would have dared oppose her. No one could have stopped her.
Neshobe imagined the pleasure of getting herself into the ship and up into the clean sky, away from both the literal and figurative rot and stink of Solace.
She could leave. And she sorely wanted to do so. She all but spoke the words of-command, almost made the gesture with her hand that would have summoned the nearest guards. But she stood silent, motionless, instead. If her word was law here, it was because she held the law in high respect. Neshobe Kalzant had sworn to govern her people, and keep faith with them. She would do so—even as her people scratched and clawed each other to get aboard a spacecraft that wasn
’
t going much of anywhere anyway.
Neshobe felt ill. It had been a mistake to come to the spaceport. She had told herself that she needed to see this firsthand, but seeing the latest liftoff riot had served no useful purpose. Perhaps she had been attempting to assuage her own guilt. Instead, she had simply added a layer of shame and disgust over it.
There had been a run on the Planetary Bank of Solace two years before. The depositors had panicked because of their perfectly accurate perception that the bank
’
s supply of a valuable resource—money—was in short supply. The bank had responded by acting as if its cash reserves were ample to meet any contingency and calmly paying out all withdrawal requests in full—while frantically scrambling in the background to come up with secret short-term credits and bridge loans from every possible source. Most of the planet
’
s other financial institutions were happy to cooperate—for if the Planetary Bank had gone under, it would have taken a miracle to keep the rest of them from following her down.