“She’s involved,” Tand said.
Moth failed to be excited. Tand finally took the point and stood back, folded his hands behind him, silent as Morn.
“You are trying to urge me to Something,” Moth said.
“We had thought in your good interests, in those of the Family— there was some urgency.”
“You are called here simply to inform me, Tand Hald, Your advice is occasionally of great value. I do listen.”
Tand bowed his head, courtesy.
Bastard, she thought. Eager for advancement however it comes fastest and safest. You hate my guts. And, Morn— yours too.
“Other observations?” she asked.
“We’re waiting,” Morn said, “for instructions in the case.”
Moth shrugged. “Simply observe. That’s all I want.”
“Why so much patience with this one?”
Moth shrugged a second time. “She’s the last of a House; the daughter of an old, old friend. Maybe it’s sentiment.”
Morn took that for the irony it was and stopped asking questions.
“Simply watch,” she said. “And, Tand— don’t provoke anything. Don’t create a situation.”
Tand took his leave, quietly. Morn followed.
Moth settled in her chair, hands folded, dreaming into the colored lights that flowed in the table surface.
BOOK THREE
i
There was, in the salon of the Andra’s Jewel, an unaccustomed silence. Normally the first main-evening of a voyage would have seen the salon crowded with wealthy beta passengers, each smartly turned out in expensive innerworld fashions, tongues soon loosened with drink and the nervousness with which these folk, the wealthy of several worlds, greeted their departure from Kalind station. There were corporation executives and higher supervisors, and a scattering of professionals of various fields dressed to mingle with the rich and idle, estate-holders, of whom there were several.
This night there were drinks poured: azi servants passed busily from table to table, the only movement made. The fashionable people sat fixed in their places, venturing furtive glances across the salon.
They were the elite, the powers and movers of beta society, these folk. But they found themselves suddenly in the regard of another aristocracy altogether.
She was Kontrin. The aquiline face was the type of all the inbred line, male or female, in one of its infinite variations. Her gray cloak and bodysuit and boots were for the street, not the society of the salon, elegant as they were. It was possible that they masked armor . . . more than possible that they concealed weapons. The chitinous implants which covered the back of her right hand were identification beyond any doubt, and the pattern held unlimited credit in intercomp, in any system of the Reach . . . unlimited credit: the money for which wealthy betas strove was only a shadow of such entitlement.
She smiled at them across the room, a cold and cynical gesture, and the elite of the salon of Andra’s Jewel tried to look elsewhere, tried to pursue their important conversations in low voices and to ignore the reality which sat in that corner of empty tables. Suddenly they were uncomfortable even with the azi servants who passed among them bearing drinks . . . cloned men, decorative creations of their own labs, as they themselves had been spawned wholesale out of the Kontrin’s, seven hundred years past. Proximity to the azi became suddenly . . . comparison.
The party died early. Couples and groups drifted out, which movement became a general and hasty flow toward the doors.
Kont’ Raen a Sul watched them go, and in cynical humor, turned and met the eyes of the azi servant who stood nearest. Slowly all movement of the azi in the salon ceased. The servant stood, held in that gaze.
“Do you play Sej?” she asked.
The azi nodded fearfully. Sej was an amusement common throughout the Reach, in lower and rougher places. It was a dicing game, half chance and some part skill.
“Find the pieces.”
The azi, pale of face, went among his companions and found one who had the set. He activated the gaming function of the table for score-keeping, and laid the three wands and the pair of dice on the table.
“Sit down,” said Kont’ Raen.
He did so, sweating. He was young, several years advanced into the service for which he existed. He had been engineered for pleasing appearance and for intelligence, to serve the passengers. He had no education beyond that duty, save what rumor fed him and what he observed of the betas who passed through the salon. The smooth courtesy which he had deepstudied in his training gave him now the means to function. Other azi stood about, stricken by his misfortune, morbidly curious.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jim,” he said. It was the one choice of his life, the one thing he had personally decided, out of a range of names which belonged to azi. Only azi used it, and a few of the crew. He was vastly disturbed at his loss of anonymity.
“What stakes?” she asked, gathering up the wands.
He stared at her. He had nothing, being property of the line, but his name and his existence.
She looked down and rolled the wands between her hands, the one glittering with chitin, and infinite power. “It will be a long voyage. I shall be bored. Suppose that we make wager not on one game, but on the tally of games.” She laid the wands down under her right hand. “If you win, I’ll buy you free of Andra Lines and give you ten thousand credits for every game you’ve won. Ten rounds an evening, as many evenings as there are in my voyage. But you must win the series to collect: it’s only on the total of games, our wager.”
He blinked, the sweat running into his eyes. Freedom and wealth: he could live out his life unthreatened, even in idleness. It was a prize beyond calculation, and not the sort of luck any azi had. He swallowed hard and reckoned what kind of wager he might have to return.
“But if I win,” she continued, “I shall buy your contract for myself.” She smiled suddenly, a bleak and dead smile. “Play to win, Jim.”
She offered him first cast. He took up the wands. The azi in the salon settled silently, watching.
He lost the first evening, four to six.
ii
A small, tense company gathered in the stateroom of the ASPAK Corporation executive. There were other such gatherings, private parties. The salon was still under occupation on this third evening. No one ventured there any longer save during the day. There remained available of course the lower deck lounge, where the second-class passengers gathered; but they were not willing to descend to that society, not under the circumstances. Their collective pride had suffered enough.
“Maybe she’s going to Andra,” someone suggested. “A short trip . . . perhaps some bizarre humor . . .”
The Andran executive looked distressed at that idea. Kontrin never travelled commercial; they engaged ships of their own, a class of luxury unimaginable to the society of Andra’s Jewel, and separate. Impatience, near destination . . . even the possibility of assassins and the need to get offworld by the first available ship: the surmise made sense. But Andran affairs did not want a Kontrin feud: there was trouble enough without that This one . . . this Kontrin, did things no Kontrin had ever done, and might do others as unpredictable. Worse, the name Raen a Sul stirred at some vague memory, seldom as names were ever exchanged between Kontrin and men . . . Men . . . Beta was not a term men used of themselves.
This one had been on Andra, and might be returning. Majat were where they ought not to be, and suddenly Kontrin were among them. Until lately it had been possible to ignore Kontrin doings entirely; a man could live years and not so much as see one; and now one came into their midst.
“There’s a rumor—” someone else said, and cleared her throat, “there’s a rumor there’s a majat aboard.”
Another swore, and there was a moment’s silence, nervous glances. It was possible. Majat travelle
d, rarely, but they travelled. If it were so, it would be somewhere isolate, sinking into dormancy for the duration of the flight. Majat parted from the hive became disoriented, dangerous: this one would have awakened long enough to have performed its mission, whatever it was, and to secure passage home— function assigned it by the hive. So long, it might remain sane, having clear purpose and a goal in sight. Thereafter, it must sleep, awakening only in proximity to its hive.
There were horror tales of majat awakening prematurely on a ship; and majat horror tales were current on Andra, on Kalind, on Meron, unreasoning actions, killings of humans. But the commercial lines could no more refuse a majat than they could have refused the Kontrin. It was a question of ownership, of the origins of power in the Reach, and some questions it was not good to raise.
Silence rested heavily on the gathering, which sat uncomfortably on thinly padded furniture in an anteroom designed for smaller companies. Ice rattled in glasses. The executive cleared his throat.
“Kontrin don’t travel alone,” he Said. “There are always bodyguards. Where are they?”
“Maybe they’re . . . some of us,” a Kalinder suggested. “I’d be careful what I said.”
No one moved. No one looked at anyone else. No Kontrin had ever done such a thing as this one had done: they feared assassination obsessively, guarding the immortality which distinguished their class as surely as did the chitin-patterns. That was another cause by which men found it difficult to accept the presence of a Kontrin, for her lifespan was to theirs far longer than theirs was to that of the azi they created. Men were likewise designated for mortality, as surely as the Kontrin had engineered themselves otherwise, and kept that gift from others. It was the calculated economy of the Reach. Only the owners continued. Men were to the Kontrin . . . a renewable resource.
Someone proposed more drinks. They played loud music and talked in whispers, only to those they knew well, and eventually this party too died.
There were other gatherings in days after, in small number, by twos and by threes. Some stayed entirely in their staterooms, fearing the nameless threat of meetings in the corridors, unnerved by what was happening on worlds throughout the Reach. If there was a majat aboard, no one wanted to find it.
The game continued in the salon. Jim’s luck improved. He was winning, thirty-seven to thirty-three. The other azi’s eyes followed the fall of the wands and the dice as if their own fortunes were hazarded there.
The next evening the balance tilted again, forty to forty.
iii
Andra’s Jewel jumped and made slow progress to Andra station. Ten grateful first-class passengers disembarked and the Kontrin did not. The majority of lower-deck passengers left; more arrived, short-termers, for Jim, and three first-class, bound for Meron. The game in the salon stood at eighty-four and eighty-six.
The Jewel crept outward in real-space, for Jim; again for Sitan and the barrenness of Orthan’s moons; made jump, for glittering Meron. Such passengers who remained, initiates of the original company, were dismayed that the Kontrin did not leave at Meron: there had even been wagers on it. The occupation of the salon continued uninterrupted.
The score stood at two hundred forty-two to two hundred forty-eight.
“Do you want to retire?” Kont’ Raen asked when the game stood even. “I’ve had my enjoyment of this. I give you the chance.”
Jim shook his head. He had fought his way this far. Hope existed in him; he had never held much hope, until now.
Kont’ Raen laughed and won the next hand.
“You should have taken it,” an azi said to Jim that night “Kontrin don’t sell their azi when they’re done with them. They terminate them, whatever their age. It’s their law.”
Jim shrugged. He had heard so already. Everyone had had to tell him so. He worked the dice in his clenched hand and sat down on the matting of the azi quarters. He cast them again and again obsessively, trying the combinations as if some magic could change them. He no longer had duties on the ship. The Kontrin had marked his fatigue and bought him free of duties. He was no longer subject to ration: if he wanted more than his meals, he did not have to rely on tips to buy that extra. He seldom chose to go beyond ration, all the same, save once or twice when he had been far ahead and his appetite improved. He cast the dice now, against some vague superstition formed of these empty days. He played himself, to test his run of luck.
He could not have quit, the game unfinished, could not go back to the others, to being one of them, and exist without knowing what he had given up. He would always think that he might have been free and rich. That would always torment him. The Kontrin had sensed this, and therefore she had laughed. Even he could understand the irony.
iv
Andra’s Jewel reached Silak and docked. Ship will continue to Istra, the message flashed to the three passengers who should have disembarked there with the others, to seek connections further. So grand a ship as Andra’s Jewel did not make out-planet runs with her staterooms empty. But the passengers who had packed, unpacked, with the desperate fear that they would do better to disembark anyway and seek other transportation, however long they had to wait. A few more passengers boarded. The Jewel voyaged out, ghostly in her emptiness.
“It’s the Kontrin,” the ITAK envoy whispered to his wife. “She’s going to Istra.”
The woman, his partner-in-office, said nothing, but glanced anxiously at the intercom and its blank screen, as if this might be carried to other ears.
“What other answer?” The Istran shaped the words with his lips, soundlessly. “And why would they come in person? In person, after all?”
The woman regarded him in dread. Their mission to Meron, dismal failure, had been calamity enough. It was their misfortune that they had chosen the Jewel for their intermediate link to Silak— tempted by the one brief extravagance of their lives, compensation for their humiliation on Meron. They were executives in a world corporation; they had attempted to travel a few days in the grand style of their innerworld counterparts, once, once, to enjoy such things, foreseeing ruin awaiting them on Istra. “We should have gotten off this ship at Silak,” she said, “while we had the chance. There’s only Pedra now, and no regular lines from there. We should have gotten off. Now it’s impossible she wouldn’t take notice of it. She surely knows we’re Istran.”
“I don’t see,” he said, “how she could be involved with us. I don’t. She’s from before Meron. Unless— while we were stalled on Meron— some message went through to Cerdin. I asked the azi where she boarded. They said Kalind. That’s only one jump from Cerdin.”
“You shouldn’t have asked the azi.”
“It was a casual question.”
“It was dangerous.”
“It was—”
“Hush! not so loud.”
They both looked at the intercom, uncomfortable in its cyclopsic presence. “It’s not live,” he said.
“I think she owns this ship,” the woman said. “That’s why there aren’t any guards visible. The whole crew, the azi—”
“That’s insane.”
“What else, then? What else makes sense?”
He shook his head. Nothing did.
v
They reached barren Pedra, and took on a straggle of lower-deck passengers, who gaped in awe at the splendor of the accommodations. Nothing the size of the Jewel had ever docked at Pedra. There were no upper-deck passengers: one departed here, but none boarded.
The game stood at four hundred eighteen to four hundred twelve. Bets had spread among the free crew. Some of them came and watched as the azi’s lead increased to thirteen. It was the widest the game had ever been spread.
“Your luck is incredible,” the Kontrin said. “Do you want to quit?”
“I can’t,” Jim said.
The Kontrin nodded slowly, and ordered drinks for them both.
Andra’s Jewel made out from sunless Pedra and jumped again. They were in Istran space, beta Hydri two, snake’s-tail, the Outside’s contact point with the Reach.
There were, after the disorientation of jump, a handful of days remaining.
The game stood at four hundred fifty-nine to four hundred fifty-one. Midway through the evening it was four hundred sixty-two to four hundred fifty-three, and there was still a deep frown on the face of Kont’ Raen. She cast the wands governing aspect of the dice. They turned up star, star, and black. The aspects were marginally favorable. With black involved, she could have declined the hand and cancelled it, passing the wands to Jim for a new throw. She simply declined the fast cast of the dice. The azi threw six and she threw twelve: she won the star and it took next star automatically: twenty-four. The azi declined first throw on the deadly black. She threw four, the azi threw twelve. The azi had won black, cancelling his points in the game. A low breath hissed from the gallery.
“Do you concede?” Kont’ Raen asked.
Jim shook his head. He was tired; his position in this game was all but hopeless: her score was ninety-eight; his was zero . . . but it was his option, and he never conceded any game, no matter how long and wearing. Neither did she. She inclined her head in respect to his tenacity and yielded him the wands. His control of the hand, should black turn up, afforded him a marginal chance of breaking her score.
And suddenly there was a disturbance at the door.
Two passengers stood there, male and female, betas. The azi of the salon, so long without visitors to serve of evenings, took an instant to react. Then they hurried about preparing chairs and a table for the pair, taking their order for drinks.
The game continued. Jim threw two ships and a star. He won the ships and had twenty; Raen won the star and took game.
“Four hundred fifty-four,” she said quietly, “to your four hundred fifty-two.”
Jim nodded.
The Deep Beyond: Cuckoo's Egg / Serpent's Reach Page 28
