Credence Foundation

Chapter Twelve



Trumaine felt decidedly better.

His head didn’t hurt as much as he had feared and after he had removed the cumbersome band-aid from his forehead and had looked at his other self in the mirror, he thought he could still do.

He had eaten a quick lunch, then he had called the university. He had asked the administrative secretary where he could find information about one of the alumni, namely a James John Boyd. She told him he should check the alumni section in university library.

He explained her he was a detective, that he already had the yearbook and no, it wasn’t for a newspaper article; Boyd had killed himself the previous night and he might be involved in a murder. He needed to talk to someone who recalled Boyd.

The secretary had put him on hold. After a long while, when Trumaine thought she must have forgotten the call, she picked up again. She said there actually was someone who would remember the alumnus and that he would be happy to meet him.

She told him the name he would be asking for and, yes, he would be available in the afternoon.

She was decent and polite as all people talking into a phone should be.

The university was south of the City, in the green belt area that contained most of the cultural buildings: the Art and History Museum, the City Library, the City Theater, most high grade schools as well as all university faculties.

The university building was a squat modern building lined in titanium sheets which climbed in convoluted ripples, ending with a wild flourish.

Boasted as the most exquisite sample of neo-modern architecture, it looked very much like a squashed pie that was sprayed all over with aluminum paint. But it wasn’t just the fancy of a moody architect. Like an old car that needed spanking new chromium wheel caps to be sold, culture too needed a flashy look to draw the private financing it lived on.

Trumaine drove into the parking area contiguous to the university yard.

It was filled with students’ vehicles: a lot of electric bikes, a decent number of motorcycles and a bunch of monocars. They all stood in front of lean, electric trees that would provide the electricity needed to recharge them.

Trumaine, too, left the car under one of those trees. He swiped his ID card into a slot in the white plastic of the trunk and two LEDs turned green; the first to communicate that the card had been accepted, the second to ensure that the car was correctly aligned and that the recharging circuit of the vehicle had been detected.

It was high time the police adopted the new induction system, thought Trumaine; it was easier and way cleaner.

He spun around and strode toward the university quad.

A constant flow of students in light-blue suits moved to and from the glass entrance to the building. Some of them would huddle around the noticeboard and whisper excitedly about the results of an exam; others would sit on the benches arranged around the entrance, either checking their pads for half-digested notions, or waiting for their next lesson; others would just lie idly in the grass, warming themselves in the sun.

Trumaine entered the university hall.

He peeked down the various corridors and into most of the lecture rooms he passed, looking forward to seeing the real looks of his guardian angel—the girl with the platinum wig. He had seen at least two who resembled her quite a bit. But, he wondered, even if she acknowledged him, would she give herself away? Probably not. Probably the girl who dated for money in the night and the diligent student who kept her nose in the electronic books during the day didn’t even know each other. One would go to bed while the other got up, both oblivious of the other.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Trumaine climbed up a wide staircase, arriving on the third floor.

On either side of a long, silent corridor, a dozen doors opened; those of the many offices and studios of the various professors who had a teaching post at the moment.

Trumaine walked along, reading the names on the doors as he passed them, but none matched the one the secretary had told him.

He came to a widening where a few chairs and a coffee table had been arranged. Only one door opened onto the widening and its nameplate read: LARS SVENSSON - PRESIDENT.

That was the name.

Trumaine knocked on the polished wood.

“Come in!” said a deep, powerful voice.

Trumaine found himself in a large, silent office completely paneled in red-cedar wood. He could tell it was the real thing because of the vaguely acrid smell that was in the air. It was a nice smell to sniff at, a smell that made long, tedious working hours feel like knitting.

Watercolor reproductions and engravings of ships from times past covered the walls. Even a scale model of an ancient schooner, included with perfectly-carved trimmings, found its place on a stand in the corner.

A tall man in his midsixties sat behind a very old, very solid-looking oak desk, his fingers joined.

Lars Svensson had snow-white hair combed backwards and a long beard the same color. Even if he didn’t wear the blue jacket with the brass buttons and the cocked hat eighteen-century officers of the Swedish Royal Navy used to wear, he still looked like a tall-ship captain.

Lars Svensson had unfaltering, piercing eyes the color of ice that were so deep it took a week for a stone to drop to their bottom. Eyes that studied Trumaine ever so carefully as he stepped up in front of the desk and presented his badge.

“Detective Trumaine,” he announced.

Without flicking his eyelids, Svensson motioned him to the next armchair.

“Sit down,” he bid.

It was a solid high backed wing deckchair which Trumaine sat on; it crackled cozily under his weight, giving in so very little he thought it must be real, thick leather.

Svensson kept studying him then, after what felt like hours, he spoke.

“If I’m not mistaken, you are investigating one of our alumni. My secretary told me he’s dead ...”

“Seemingly, he hung himself.”

“You’re not sure?”

“It might be homicide. We’re still looking into it.”

For a while, Svensson just drew in air. Slowly and steadily, like a huge whale that had come to the surface after a long dive.

“I suppose these are what you’re looking for.”

He pointed his palm at two university registers lying open in front of him. He turned them around for the detective to see.

Trumaine bent over and examined a long list of names and numbers. Among many, the name JAMES JOHN BOYD could be glimpsed. A star had been drawn next to it.

“What does the star stand for?”

“The star is only awarded to our best-achieving alumni. You will find copy of the award in the book of achievements, of course, to your left.”

Svensson pointed to the second register.

At the center of a page crowded with ribbons and flourishes, stood Boyd’s name, written in red capitals. Below it, two black lines read: For services offered in the undying name of science. And: Assistant to Emeritus Professor Aarmo R. Jarva.

“Boyd was Jarva’s assistant?” asked Trumaine, disbelieving.

“For as little as six months, he was. Not many will remember him, since Jimmy was a shy man. Even that record is there at my explicit request.”

Trumaine furrowed his brow. “Why?”

Again, Svensson joined his fingers.

“There is a reason I didn’t let the secretary send you to the yard library. The reason is that I wanted to talk to you, Detective.”

Trumaine sat back in the armchair, listening.

“I knew Jarva,” continued Svensson. “I’m sorry about him; he didn’t deserve to die like that. His wife certainly didn’t.”

He made a long pause, as if weighing the words he would say.

”Science. Enlightenment. Progress. Emancipation. Behind those high-sounding names lies a viscid world made of petty jealousy over chairs and careerism at all costs. A world contaminated by the insane, eternal search for funds. It isn’t a very good show, it isn’t uplifting. Nonetheless, it’s a world that does exist and, I’m ashamed to admit it, I too am part of it.”

Again, Svensson took a deep, slow breath.

“I owe Aarmo a lot. It’s thanks to bureaucrats like me that he couldn’t develop his latest studies.”

“His latest studies?” asked Trumaine in surprise.

Svensson smiled sadly.

“Yes. There were late studies. Jarva wasn’t a cheap scientist that would research what he was paid for and stop abruptly when the money didn’t flow anymore. He was a genius, a free-thinker. And his latest studies would have been as earthshaking as Pistocentrism was, if not more.”

Svensson’s gaze was lost for a moment in never quite forgotten memories that still tormented him.

“You might be aware that, five years ago, Jarva had dropped his studies about space travels. Nobody knows the reason behind such a drastic decision. Nonetheless, he changed his field of study in quite a radical way. A few will know, as I do, that Jarva was always interested in marine biology. The aquatic life fascinated him. I don’t know to what extent you’re familiar with the Aquarian fauna, Detective. Suffice it to say it’s thriving. Aquaria is a pristine planet. Ninety-five percent of the fauna lives underwater. It’s an exceptionally beautiful and savage world ... Well, five years ago, Jarva asked and obtained from the university a period of leave to study the Aquarian cetaceans—an amazing chance for a scholar like him. You will start to wonder what’s the point of this long story—I’ll come to it soon enough. Jarva wasn’t interested in just any fish. He pursued and studied the biggest of them all: the Aquarian Leviathan. Huh, I should have an image of the beast, somewhere ...”

Svensson rummaged through a bunch of books standing on the bookshelf behind him, retrieving a large anatomy atlas. He thumbed through the pages and when he found what he was looking for, he shoved the book under Trumaine’s nose for him to see.

“There it is ...”

Svensson stabbed his finger at something that had little resemblance to any terrestrial fish. According to the small silhouette of a scuba diver that had been drawn in the corner of the page for size comparison, the ‘beast,’ as he had called it, must be more than three hundred feet long. Its wrinkled, bluish skin was divided into segments like in a gigantic earthworm; its head wasn’t anything more than a rounded wart with a jagged hole at its center that could be the mouth, while its other end was a large and flat horizontal fin.

Svensson noticed the disgust on Trumaine’s face.

“I agree with you that he isn’t exactly pretty to look at, but not all creatures count on sheer appearance as a means to mating. You see, the leviathan is blind. And despite the fact that he also lacks all the organs that Earth’s mammals use to communicate—a larynx, a tongue and teeth—he’s nonetheless able to relay signals to his peers.”

“How does it do that?”

“That’s an excellent question. That’s precisely what Jarva asked himself. When the answer dawned on him, it must have felt like a cold shower.”

At once, it dawned on Trumaine too.

“They are telepaths ...”

Svensson nodded his head and smiled delightedly.

“I must say I’m impressed, Detective.”

“That’s what Jarva and Boyd were studying? Telepathy?”

“Exactly. James Boyd had accompanied Jarva on his journey to Aquaria to help him to come up with this formidable bit of information.”

“How come nobody knows about that?”

“Once again, you’re on the right scent, Detective. How come such a devastating discovery has never been divulged before?”

Svensson made another long pause.

“Five years ago, Jarva was on the verge of another epochal discovery. What happened instead? I’ll tell you: he was revoked all funds, his permit torn to pieces and he was forbidden to set foot on Aquaria ever again.”

“I don’t understand ...”

“You see, there are two reasons why research is suppressed. One, it’s useless. Two, the matter under investigation is too dangerous.”

“But he was a Nobel Prize winner,” protested Trumaine. “A first-class scientist. Without his studies on the human brain, Credence wouldn’t exist. We would have been confined to Earth for eons. Why, then?”

“The answer is quite simple. The research that Jarva was carrying out was too dangerous. You can’t deny that even Pistocentrism, without a proper direction, could have been the end of mankind. I was demanded by the Federal Authority not to divulge what Jarva had just discovered and to report all those who attempted at making it public.”

“But ... how would they know about Jarva?”

Svensson exhaled disconsolately.

“Because I told them ...”

“You?”

“I, Jarva’s champion and close friend, betrayed him. I warned the Authority about the dangers of what Jarva was uncovering. It is I who prematurely ended Jarva’s blazing career as a scientist.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because I owe Jarva. I would do it all over again, of course, if I had to. Nonetheless, I should promote knowledge, not hinder or conceal it. I feel like I have failed my purpose. I’m telling you all this in the hope that this information, which is and must remain confidential, can push you closer not only to discovering who killed a great scientist and a good friend, but possibly to shed some light on the circumstances of why a too shy alumnus who went by the name of James John Boyd killed himself ...”

Trumaine crossed the university hall, headed for the video message booths that lined the far wall.

He entered one.

It was a soundproof cubicle of frosted glass that included a flat monitor, a design stool bolted to the floor and a slot for the payment cards. As Trumaine inserted his own credit card, the large, obsidian screen hanging on the wall came to life, emitting a translucent pearl-white glow.

“Call for Captain Grant Firrell, Department of Police,” requested Trumaine.

The monitor blinked its answer: CALL SENT.

After a few seconds, Firrell’s large face appeared on the monitor.

“Trumaine. Any good news?”

“Boyd knew Jarva. Five years ago, they were both on Aquaria. Guess what they were working on?”

Firrell shrugged. “You tell me.”

“They were studying telepathy. As soon as the Federal Authority came to know, both their funding and their permits were canceled.”

“Why is that?”

“Potentially harmful research. A Lars Svensson, director of the Marine Biology Department of City University, told me. If Jarva were to find out that humans were capable of telepathy, you can imagine the dangers that would come from it. Just think about security issues.”

“It looks like we’re getting somewhere, at last,” said Firrell, reaching out for a note lying on his desk.

“I got news for you too. We might have found the car we were looking for. An illegal amateur street cam installed just outside the hotel parking got the plate of the Meteor ’55. We checked it—it belongs to a Steven Goldmar, 5657 Riviera Avenue. If you get a move on, you’ll find Eddie there.”

“I’m on my way,” said Trumaine.