CHAPTER
FIVE
It was not the best way to end a long day. Armando Cabral had taken the call from the Governor's Residence in his limousine only minutes out from the southern industrial park, and even Monsarez's private secretary did not know the agenda of the meeting, only that it was urgent. This was a warning to Armando, for it meant his business with Monsarez was private, and thus secretive, regarding matters known only to the two of them.
Armando had a good idea about the meeting's subject: the failure of his people to completely destroy Zed Force, and then the escape by Guzman. On the first matter, his own intelligence was yet incomplete, but it seemed the error had been a military one, with two units missing the drop zone by wide margins, and Perez being forced to attack only two units before returning to the command post. Monsarez had lost in two ways: being able to hold up Guzman as a trophy before the general populace, and failing to satisfy the petty vengeance of a broken government now forced to pay him tribute.
Armando had only one loss to mourn, and it was the continued life of one Eduardo Cabral.
If I keep Guzman underground, and move slowly, the public will soon forget he ever existed, thought Armando. And the Colombans are in no position to refuse reparations unless they wish to be crushed and removed altogether from power.
Armando puffed slowly, filtering smoke out through his nose, and sipped the second drink provided to him by the dispenser. The ride was smooth and quiet, hydrogen-powered, the limousine massive with windows of spun quartz. Pau was nearing the horizon, turning from orange to red in a sky thick with smoke and aerosols, but inside the limousine the air was filtered, cool and pure.
The pedestal of Belarous Tower was directly ahead, standing on four cantilevered legs reaching out forty kilometers north, south, east and west of the city. From this distance, he could see the circular skirt around the city, a hundred meter wall of granite against which the shantytowns grew faster than they could be burned down by police. Warrens of the vermin living there enjoyed new growth with the return of uneducated foot soldiers from the war. Armando would continue to publicly lobby against destruction of the shantytowns. Even the unfortunate deserved a place to call their own. They were also the best customers for the products of Colomba's jungle farms.
Coming closer, the spires of the city were now visible above the wall. They rose three hundred stories, but still well below the tower base. At fifteen hundred meters, the base was connected to ground by a single shaft the width of a city block. The tower itself, ten kilometers in diameter, disappeared into the smoky sky just beyond the bulge of level one. Tiny spots of orange flickered along the base of the city wall, the first cooking fires of the evening, while to the east were the visible flames from another shantytown meeting its doom.
As Armando saw the larger fire, Pau's light disappeared, the limousine entering one of four tunnels ducking under the wall and into the city, a drive of six kilometers in yellow-lit gloom. They came out into thick stands of trees, hardwoods and palms rising from a thick mat of ferns and mosses, all tended by irrigation, and a welcome relief from the scrub-covered hills surrounding the city. City center was thirty kilometers in from the wall, three concentric rings of highway bypassing the congested center, all of it in the tower's shadow at midday. They turned east, and curved north towards the Governor's Residence, passing Armando's own estate only minutes away.
Nearer to the edge of the city, the estates covered acres, surrounded by high stone walls, homes nestled in private jungles with open carpets of flowers, and guarded entrances. Within these walls lived the elite, brought there either through wealth or influence, and usually both. The archaic architecture dated back to first landing, and was kept pure by the traditions of The Church.
The middle class, roughly sixty percent of a two-million person city, had centuries ago abandoned life on the ground to live in Belarous Tower, and the three others like it around the equator of Nova Brazilia. They were rarely seen in cities on the ground, and were aloof to the problems there. They lived outside Church law, because they were unbelievers. Their God was technology, a God who tithed regularly to Armando Cabral.
The Governor's Residence sat on a knoll close in to central city, was small and plain compared to the neighboring estates. There was a high wall with guardhouse and gate. Green lawns and swirls of flowerbeds fronted a three-story box of a building in granite with scattered, smallish windows, and a balcony on the third floor. The guards at the gate waved them straight through, but at the front entrance to the building, two came up to the limousine and infrared scanned both Armando and his driver. Under no circumstances were sims ever allowed to enter the building, even for a reception. One did not send a simulacrum to cover a business or social function at the invitation of the Governor of Nova Brazilia.
The driver remained with the limousine, and a young soldier in dress blues took Armando's hat and coat at the doorway. The foyer was white marble, the high ceiling domed and covered with a fresco of clouds in a blue sky with birds flying. A chandelier in amethyst and clear quartz lent a bluish tinge to the floor. Halls ran left and right beyond the foyer, and from one of these came a man considerably older than Armando, and slightly stooped, white skin like thin parchment stretched over a grinning skull.
“You're earlier than we expected, Senor Cabral, but the Governor will see you right away. Come this way, please.”
Armando followed the man down a hall dimly lit in orange by tiny lamps sprouting like polyps from the otherwise bare marble walls. One left turn, and a few steps beyond was a single door, elaborately carved in dark wood. The old man knocked softly on it, and there was a muffled reply from the other side. He opened it, and bowed to Armando.
“Please go right in.”
Armando took one step inside before the door was closed behind him. The room was in near darkness, but reminded Armando of his own study when the lights were on. Now there was only the lighted lamp on the desk, the man behind it rising and leaning over to shake Armando's hand as he approached.
Cesario Monsarez, Governor of Nova Brazilia and temporary overseer of Colomban affairs, was an extremely large man, and powerfully built, his massive chest swelling beneath a velvet, purple robe. His hand enveloped Armando's clear up to the wrist, the grip cautiously soft, but with a hint of the bone crushing strength lurking there.
“Good of you to come so quickly, Armando. Please sit. Can I offer you a drink? A cigar, perhaps? Colomban, of course.”
Armando accepted a cigar, clipped its end, lit it with a golden lighter and inhaled a deep lungful of smoke before sitting down in a leather chair in front of the desk. “Excellent,” he said. “Richelieu, isn't it?”
Monsarez smiled. “You always know, my friend. I will send you a box of them.” He sat down, and lit one for himself, puffing a blue cloud and fingering the cigar, the huge emerald on his ring finger flashing green.
They smoked in silence for a long moment, Monsarez studying his cigar. Armando searched the man's face for a hint of emotion. For the size of the body, the round head seemed too small, the lips and nose too large, the ears tiny. And there was not a single hair on the Governor's head.
“There are some troubling matters we need to discuss,” said Monsarez. His eyes, small and black, finally focused on Armando. “I'm sure you've done your best in the matter, but from my point of view the Colomban operation did not go well, and I would like to know the reasons for it.”
Armando nodded. “I share your concern. My people are searching for Guzman as we speak. I'm confident he will be found and eliminated in the near future. The rewards I'm offering to informants are too high to be resisted for long.”
Monsarez scowled at him. “If you obtain information about Guzman's whereabouts, I like to think you will share it with me.”
“Of course,” said Armando. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, striking a reflective pose. “We need to coordinate our efforts. I don't want my people getting in the way of yours. It would be best if operational information were shared in both directions.”
“What kind of information do you need?”
“Areas being searched, and time tables would be enough. While you're focusing on one area, my people can focus on another, day by day.”
Monsarez nodded. “Yes, I think I can provide you with that. It's clear that someone spirited Guzman away only moments before the attack on his bunker, yet Perez's report says he saw nothing. Can you really trust this man?”
“I own him,” said Armando, “and he knows that any betrayal means death for his family, and himself. Yes, I trust him.”
“Then I have news for you, my friend,” said Monsarez. “You must move Perez right away, and in the presence of watchers. Our intelligence people know where he is, and he's the first target of the team assigned to find and kill Guzman.”
Armando was shocked, and allowed it to show in his eyes. “So soon? How?”
Monsarez chuckled nastily. “We are not the only experts in bribery, Armando, and our intelligence network is League-wide. No world is safe from them. Perez will be dead within a month unless you hide him.”
“I owe you for this, Cesario,” said Armando softly. “I'll have Perez moved right away.” Better still, I delay the warning, save considerable money and tie up a loose end.
Monsarez leaned back in his chair and exhaled another cloud of smoke. “We also have the matter of Zed Force to discuss. It wasn't completely destroyed, as promised.” He held up a hand as Armando opened his mouth to speak. “Vasquez is furious about the outcome, and I've endured his whining for weeks. I need the man, Armando. I need him to stabilize Colomba with my interests in mind, and I need his support in Colomba's congress when I bring forth my candidacy for League Presidency.”
“The man wanted vengeance on our number one killer unit, and got half of it. Isn't that enough?” asked Armando.
“Apparently not,” growled Monsarez.
Armando fingered his cigar, and spoke softly. “Don't worry about Vasquez. Remind him he remains Governor of Colomba because you are his friend. His private accounts are fattened by years of cartel payoffs. If his whining continues, remind him of those accounts, and threaten him with exposure. You might also tell him you know a benefactor who supports his continued Governorship, a man who is prepared to deposit two million cruzeiros into his private account, one million now, and the other after he has publicly supported your candidacy for President of The League.”
“And who is this benefactor?” asked Monsarez, smiling broadly.
“An old friend of yours,” said Armando.
Monsarez beamed. “I think that calls for a drink. A brandy, perhaps. Isabella, dear, please pour a brandy for Senor Cabral and me, and bring it here. That's a good girl.”
Armando jerked his head to the right to follow Monsarez's gaze, and saw something move in a dark corner of the room. There was the gurgle of liquid being poured, then the clink of glass striking glass.
“I thought this was private!” said Armando.
“Calm yourself, Armando. It's just my daughter. Yes, now bring the drinks here, my sweet.”
A girl, late teens, came out of the shadows, carrying a brandy snifter in each hand. Tall, slender, with buds for breasts, her long, black hair spilled down over her shoulders. She wore a black jumpsuit, tightly fitting, with matching slippers that made no sound on the floor as she walked. A lovely girl, long neck, beautifully arched nose and wide eyes. But as she neared the desk, Armando saw the vacancy in the eyes, the passive, emotionless expression of a thing that looked human, but was not.
Monsarez chuckled. “A sim, Armando, of my youngest daughter Isabella. She is my favorite these days. Put the drinks on the desk, dear, and come sit in daddy's lap.”
The simulacrum said nothing, but placed the glasses on the desk, walked around and sat down in Monsarez's lap, draping one arm casually around his neck and looking passively at Armando. Monsarez put an arm around its waist, his other hand coming to rest on a knee.
“This is Armando Cabral, dear. Please greet him.”
The eyes remained vacant, its voice soft and melodic. “Good evening, Senor Cabral. It is good to see you with us again.”
“Thank you,” said Armando, and Monsarez smiled, moving his hand along a thigh, then back to the knee. “Is she a recent copy, Cesario?”
“Recent, yes, but exact, no, except for the body. There are three different heads for my wife, and two each for the daughters, and though some features are familiar, they still disguise the true images.”
“As long as we've known each other, I've never met your daughters, and only twice have I seen Beatriz at functions.”
“Alas, what you met were sims, Armando. I guard the identity of my family very carefully, but both Beatriz and the girls abhor armed escorts watching over them. They come and go freely. Estelle, my oldest, has even ventured outside the city to sooth the brows of the poor. It seems to give her a sense of importance. Isabella is less venturesome, aren't you, dear? What do you like best?” Monsarez's hand moved up a thigh, then the side to the chest, cupping the left breast there.
“I like to be with my daddy,” said the sim, still expressionless.
Armando felt revulsion at the sight, disguising it by taking a long sip of brandy. Monsarez's fingers stroked delicately, and he smiled.
“Such attention to detail. Even the little nipples become hard at a touch. Do you like that, dear?”
“It's nice,” said the sim, still looking at Armando with fathomless eyes. Armando bit his tongue to keep from voicing his disgust, but his eyes betrayed him.
“Are we bothering you, Armando?” asked Monsarez.
“I'd rather not watch you play like that with a machine,” said Armando.
Monsarez laughed at him. “It's harmless, my friend, and not the least bit offensive to her. No emotional responses at all, but the feel of her is real enough. I don't expect you to understand, Armando; you have no daughters, only the three sons.”
“I have two sons,” growled Armando.
Monsarez's hand now moved to the sim's right breast, then down to the groin. “Ah, but there's a third, and he's still alive. I'm surprised you haven't had Perez killed for that. That's why I asked about him.”
“Eduardo's alive for now. There will be other opportunities,” said Armando.
Monsarez's hand rubbed the android's groin, and it turned to look at him. “Do you wish to enter?” it asked.
“Later, dear,” said Monsarez, and shook his head, perplexed.
“I don't understand you, Armando. Many families in our class have bastard children. They are acknowledged as such, and have no rights of inheritance, though a generous and honest father will set aside a trust fund for them.”
“Eduardo did not come from me, as you well know,” said Armando. “There will be no inheritance for him.”
“That's up to you,” said Monsarez, “but you still don't have to kill him. Just disown him.”
“Angelina would divorce me if I did that. I made her a promise, and she means everything to me. Her indiscretion was due to my neglect, and I'm responsible for it.”
“How noble,” said Monsarez, “but murder is so archaic as a solution. Surely you know who the father is; find him, bribe him to reveal himself to Eduardo, arrange an adoption.”
“If I knew who the father was, the man would have been dead a long time ago,” said Armando, then swallowed the rest of his brandy in a single gulp.
Monsarez's hand returned to the android's knee. “I must admit that an heroic death for Eduardo would have been most convenient for you: proud memories for a grieving mother, and public admiration for a wealthy man who would not use his influence to remove a precious son from dangerous combat. But the war is over, Armando. I urge you to reconsider your present course with Eduardo. It wouldn't do for someone so close to me to be arrested for murder, don't you think?”
Armando's face flushed. “I am a patient man, Cesario, and not a stupid one. Do not concern yourself over this.”
Monsarez had been smiling, but now it faded. “Then I will leave the matter in your capable hands,” he said.
Armando was still seething over the Governor's prying into a family matter as his limousine rounded a final curve within a forest of trees and stopped in front of the column-fronted house lit by blue floodlights from ground level. All the interior lights were on, every window bright. He climbed the twenty-four stairs to where M-1 awaited him at the doorway to take his coat and hat. M-2 rushed by him in one direction, then Luiz and Marcelino in another, all of them carrying armfuls of bedding. Marcelino grinned at him over a shoulder as he passed by.
“I've never seen Mother so excited. I'll let her tell you why,” said Armando's eldest son.
And a moment later, he knew why. Angelina came rushing down the stairs, and threw herself into his arms with joy.
“Oh, Armando, The Mother has heard me again! Eduardo called just an hour ago. He's coming home, darling. He's coming home! Oh, I have so much to do!”
She released him, and hurried away on some errand. Armando stood still for a moment, stunned by the news, then went to his study to escape the chaos, and locked himself in for the entire evening. There were arrangements to be made.