Inherit the Earth

“Before going on to the other aspect of our inquiry, however,” Yamanaka continued, when he realized that he still had the floor, “it might be worth my pointing out that this message has some unusual features. No Operator, including one-oh-one, has ever used the phrase enemy of mankindbefore; unworthy of immortalityis the customary formula. Nor is it usual for Operators to appeal to kindred spirits to find and identifysomeone. It might be a hoax, of course; one of the nastiest aspects of the Eliminators’ game is that anyone can play. Code number one-oh-one has been used a dozen times, and the relative coherency of the attached files has allowed it to build up a certain reputation, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that all the messages came from one source. In any case, the message was only the first piece of the puzzle. You know, I suppose, that you’re not the only person co

“One of my foster parents, Silas Arnett, lives near San Francisco,” Damon admitted warily. “Some stupid resort area landscaped to look like the south coast of Old England—or some so-called continental engineer’s notion of what the south coast of England used to look like. I haven’t seen Silas in years. We don’t communicate.”

Actually, Silas Arnett was the only one of his foster parents with whom Damon might have communicated, had he been a little less rigorous in his determination to carve out his own destiny. Silas had been far more of a father to him than Karol Kachellek or Conrad Helier ever had, and had made his own escape from the tight-knit group shortly after Damon—but Damon had always had other things on his mind, and Silas hadn’t contacted him except for sending dutiful messages of goodwill on his birthdays and at each year’s end.

“Silas Arnett has disappeared from his home,” Yamanaka said. “According to a witness, he was forcibly removed—kidnapped—the night before last.”

Damon felt a stab of resentment. Why hadn’t the Interpol man told him this first, instead of teasing him with all that crap about the Eliminators? He knew, though, that it was mostly his own fault that the discussion had got bogged down.

“What witness?” he asked.

“A young woman named Catherine Praill. She was an overnight guest at Arnett’s house. She was asleep when the abduction took place—she heard the struggle but she didn’t see anything.”

“Is she involved?”

“We have no reason to think so. There’s no evidence of any untoward activity on her part, and no indication of a possible motive.” Yamanaka was being very careful, and Damon could understand why. Silas Arnett’s house must have had all the standard security systems; it would have been very much easier to bypass them if the intruders had someone inside with direct access to the controls. The police must have gone through Catherine Praill’s records very carefully indeed.

“Was she a veryyoung woman?” Damon asked.

“There is little to distinguish her from dozens of other guests Mr. Arnett had entertained during the last few years,” Yamanaka replied diplomatically—perhaps meaning that if the kidnappers knew Arnett’s tastes and habits well enough, it would have been easy enough to get someone inside to facilitate their work.

“You think the people who took Silas also posted that message?” Damon said, pointing at the windowscreen.

“We think that it’s an interesting coincidence,” Yamanaka admitted. “There’s more. Another of your father’s contemporaries has an address in San Diego, but he’s proving equally difficult to trace.”

“Who?”

“A man named Surinder Nahal.”

Damon could understand why the pedantic inspector has chosen the word contemporaries. Conrad Helier and Surinder Nahal had been in the same line of work, but they’d never been colleagues. They’d been rivals—and there had been a certain amount of bad blood between them. Damon didn’t know exactly why; it hadn’t been an acceptable topic of conversation among his foster parents.

“Has he been abducted too?” Damon asked.

“Not as far as we know,” said Yamanaka, careful as ever.

The inspector’s associate had now drifted back to his side, having completed his superficial inspection of the apartment. “Karol Kachellek also claimed that he hadn’t seen Silas Arnett for many years,” Rolfe put in. “Eveline Hywood said the same. It seems that your surviving foster parents fell out with one another as well as with you.”

Damon realized that it would be foolish to swing from one extreme to the other—from taking it for granted that he was a suspect to taking it for granted that he wasn’t. The Interpol men were undoubtedly fishing for anything they could catch. “I dare say it’s true,” he said cautiously. “Silas’s decision to retire must have seemed to Karol and Eveline to be a failure of vocation almost as scandalous as my own: yet another betrayal of Conrad Helier’s sacred cause.”

Yamanaka nodded as if he understood—but Damon knew that he almost certainly didn’t. It was difficult to guess Yamanaka’s true age, because a man of his standing would have the kind of internal technology which was capable of slowing down the aging process to a minimum, as well as PicoCon’s latest cosmetic engineering, but he was probably no more than sixty. To the inspector, as to Damon, the glittering peak of Conrad Helier’s career would be the stuff of history. At school the young Hiru Yamanaka would have been dutifully informed that the artificial wombs which Conrad Helier had perfected, and the techniques which allowed such wombs to produce legions of healthy infants while the plague of sterility spread like wildfire across the globe, were the salvation of the species—but that didn’t mean that he could understand the appalling reverencein which Conrad Helier had been held by his closest coworkers.

“Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kidnap Silas Arnett?” Yamanaka asked Damon with unaccustomed bluntness.

“None at all,” Damon replied, perhaps too reflexively.

“Do you have any idea why anyone would want to blacken your father’s name?” The follow-up seemed as bland as it was blunt, but Damon knew that if Yamanaka was right in his estimation of the interesting coincidencethis might be the key that tied everything together. A brusque none at allwould not serve as an adequate answer. “I was encouraged in every possible way to see my father as the greatest hero and saint the twenty-second century produced,” Damon said judiciously, “but I know that there were some who had a very different opinion of him. I never knew him, of course, but I know there were people who resented the strength of his views and his high media profile. Some thought him unbearably arrogant, others thought he got more credit for the solution to the Crisis than was due to him. On the other hand, although I couldn’t follow in his footsteps—and never wanted to—I don’t disapprove of anything he did, or anything my foster parents did in pursuit of his ambitions. If you want my opinion, whoever posted this notice is sick as well as stupid. It certainly wasn’t Silas Arnett, and I find it difficult to believe that it might have been anyone who understood the nature and extent of Conrad Helier’s achievements. That includes Surinder Nahal.”

Sergeant Rolfe curled his lip, evidently thinking that this eye-to-eye interview was turning out to be a waste of valuable time.

“There were several witnesses to the death of Conrad Helier,” the inspector said matter-of-factly, “and his last days were recorded, without apparent interruption, on videotape which can still be accessed by anyone who cares to download it. The doctor who was in attendance and the embalmer who prepared the body for the funeral both confirm that they carried out DNA checks on the corpse, and that the gene map matched Conrad Helier’s records. If the man whose body was cremated on 27 January 2147 wasn’t Conrad Helier then the gene map on file in the Central Directory must have been substituted.” He paused briefly, then said: “You don’t look at all like your father. Is that deliberate, or is it simply that you resemble your mother?”