EMERALD EYES A TALE OF THE CONTINUING TIME DANIEL KEYS MORAN This is a work of fiction. None of the characters in it are real people and any resemblance to anybody, living or dead, is a coin- cidence. It is the author’s intention that this work should be freely downloadable, copyable, and shareable in electronic format. It may not be reproduced, shared, or transmitted for a fee by any party to whom the author has not contractually granted permis- sion. The author retains all other rights. Emerald Eyes Copyright © 1987 by Daniel Keys Moran The Star Copyright © 1998 by Daniel Keys Moran Dedicated to The Tales of the Continuing Time are dedicated to a whole bunch of writers – everybody I ever read, according to one re- viewer. That seems fair. This book is dedicated to Amy Stout-Moran. She was the edi- tor at Bantam Books who first bought this novel; she is the mother of my sons and the love of my life. EMERALD EYES A Tale of the Continuing Time The gods can either take away evil from the world and will not, or, being willing to do so cannot…. If they have the will to remove evil and cannot, then they are not omnipotent. If they can but will not, then they are not benevolent. If they are neither willing nor able, they are neither omnipotent nor benevolent. Epicurus, 300 BC The Ancestors 2029-2053 Gregorian 1. YOU WILL HAVE heard the story of Carl Castanaveras; of Suz- anne Montignet and Malko Kalharri; of our ancestors. They made plans for they were human, as you and I; and the uni- verse, which cared no more for them than for us, struck them down. Its tool was nothing less than a pair of Gods of the Zaradin Church, one of them myself, fighting a battle in a war that was ended nearly sixty-five thousand years before they were born. I have told this story before, and I shall someday tell it again, in a different fashion; but for Now, know the story so: DARRYL AMNIER WAS a man without a title. A title makes one knowable. “Tell me about them,” he said. “Oui.” Amnier’s assistant was French; a depressingly large number of Unification employees were these days. “The direc- tor’s name is Suzanne Montignet. She is French born, but ar- rived in the United States in 2015. It is thought that her parents were fleeing the European theater of the War. She was fourteen then. We do not have accurate records for her after leaving France; she arrived in America a year before the Unification War reached that continent. Her parents were killed, apparently by Americans, after the War began. One would have expected this to turn a young girl against the country in which she found herself, but obviously not. When next we have accurate records of her, beginning in 2018, she studied under a scholarship at the College of the Camden Protectorate, in New Jersey. She had by then, and retains today, a substantially American accent. Though she spells her name ‘Suzanne’ she had further taken to pronouncing her name ‘Susan,’ in the American style, a habit she also retains. In 2024 she graduated with high honors; two years ago, her work in genetics led to her current position with the United Nations Advanced Biotechnology Research Labora- tory in New Jersey, this ‘Project Superman.’ ” 2 Tales “Don’t use that name. It’s not correct.” After a pause Amnier’s aide continued. “The Ministry of Population Control has granted her an unlimited parenting li- cense. She seems apolitical, aside from her personal habits.” “By which you mean?” “Monsieur, she lives in Occupied America, among a proud people who have been, hmm, conquered? Conquered. An appar- ent distaste for the United Nations might be expedient.” “Not when dealing with the United Nations purse strings.” “As you say.” “What of Malko Kalharri?” “What of Kalharri?” Amnier’s aide seemed to find the ques- tion amusing. “Sir, I think there is little I can tell you that you do not already know about Colonel Kalharri.” WITH A SHOWER of gamma rays I came into existence at the fast end of time. A wind was raised with my appearance in the empty corri- dor. Had there been any to observe they would have heard the sharp crack created as air was moved aside at greater than the speed of sound, and might have felt a brief warmth. Those with sharp eyes might have noticed a shadow in the fraction of an in- stant before I moved away from the spot of my appearance. They would not have seen more of me. Even at my end of time they would have seen little to note: a human dressed all in white, from the boots on my feet to the white cowl that covered my head. Even with the visual distortion that is unavoidable when time is sped so drastically, men of their century would have found the lack of focus upon the surface of a white shadow cloak a striking thing. Of course they were not in fast time, nor could be. I began trudging through the air, toward my destination. The corridor was nearly dark; flashes of ultraviolet light marked the passage of X-rays, each flash illuminating the corridor like a small lightning. The normal visible spectrum was shifted too deeply into the radio to be of use to me. Moran 3 I was in a hurry, pushing through the resisting atmosphere, and I unaccustomed to hurrying; but I was being closely followed by an enemy who had promised to cut my heart out and eat it— and I believed Camber Tremodian would do it, given the chance. I did not intend to give him the chance. At the fast end of time I hurried through the slow air. WEDNESDAY , DECEMBER 12, 2029; the United Nations Advanced Biotechnology Research Laboratories, in New Jersey. He arrived from Capital City just before eight o’clock; secu- rity let Darryl Amnier into Suzanne Montignet’s office more than two hours early. They were uneasy, doing it. But they did it nonetheless. He sat behind her desk, in her chair, with the lights dimmed. A small man, with paper-white hair and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that made him look far older than he was, he found Montignet’s chair slightly too high for his taste. He did not readjust it. Her office had no window, which pleased him to the degree that he ever allowed himself to be pleased. A crank with a rifle was that much less likely to bring three quarters of a mil- lion Credit Units’ worth of research grinding to a halt with a single shot. The decor was standardized, little different from what Am- nier had seen in over twenty other research installations in the last four months. Amnier was not certain whether that sur- prised him. From a woman of such exceptional skills, one might reasonably have expected anything— The same might be said of Malko Kalharri, the lab’s director of security. An Information Network terminal, left turned on and con- nected to the Mead Data Central medical database, sat at atten- tion immediately next to her desk. Amnier made a note to find out what sort of bill they were running up on information re- trieval. An ornamental bookshelf against one wall held reference works in too excellent condition. There were no holographs, not even of Colonel Kalharri, who was reputed to be her lover. Nor were there paintings. The desk was locked. Amnier considered 4 Tales picking it, and decided not to. There was unlikely to be anything inside that he would either understand or find incriminating, and whether he opened it or not, Montignet was certain to sus- pect he had—which was the whole point. THE EMPTY CORRIDOR in which I appeared connected the sterile genegineers’ labs with the showers that led to the un-sterilized outer world, on the first floor of the New Jersey laboratories of the United Nations Bureau of Biotechnology Research. The en- trance to the genegineers’ labs was through a small room with sealed doorways at both ends. They were not airlocks, though the technology of the day was sufficient to allow the use of air- locks; indeed, at the interface between the showers and the rest of the installation airlocks were in use. But it was cheaper to keep the laboratories under a slight over-pressure; when the door opened, the wind, and contaminants, blew outward. The door swung wide, and a pair of laboratory technicians in white gowns and gloves strode through. The resemblance be- tween their garb and mine brought the ghost of a smile to my lips. As they left, I, the god Named Storyteller, entered. SUZANNE MONTIGNET STOPPED by Malko Kalharri’s office on the way to her own. The lights in his office had not yet been turned on. Entering the room from the brightly lit hallway, Suzanne found it difficult to see Kalharri at first. “Malko?” “Yes?” The office lacked a desk; the man who was sprawled loosely on the couch, one oversized hand wrapped loosely around a steaming coffee cup, continued to watch the holotank in the corner of his office. Kalharri did not resemble his name, which he had received by way of his grandfather; he was a big blond man with a tan. The channel light glowed at 335; S-STR, the po- litical news station. “What’s happening?” Malko Kalharri had been a soldier for too many years; he did not move quickly when the situation did not warrant it.