The Kindly Ones

by Melissa Scott

  "Damn, this is a cold planet," Moraghan said. "I always forget."

  "How the hell do you people stand it?" That was Sabas, grinning as he shoved through the last of the barriers. He balanced a huge travel bag on one shoulder, handling its weight with ease.

  Guil shrugged. "We're used to it, I guess," she said, in a deliberately colorless voice.

  Sabas eyed her speculatively, and Moraghan said, "Darah, behave." To Guil, she said, "We're still on for dinner, I hope?"

  "Of course," Guil answered. Before she could say anything else, Askel had joined them, one hand at the collar of his heavy jacket. "Where can we reach you if we need you, Captain?" he asked, the artificial voice sounding doubly harsh without the blurring hum of his engines in the background.

  "1 hadn't really made any plans yet," Moraghan answered.

  Guil took a deep breath. "If you want," she said, "you're welcome to stay with me." Sabas raised an eyebrow, and Guil added defensively, "It'll save you some money, and I've a place right in the center of things."

  Moraghan nodded. "Thanks. I'll take you up on that. You're on the service, right?" Guil nodded, and the captain looked back at Askel. "And you know Guil. So if any of you need me, I can be reached through her number, all right?"

  There was a muttered chorus of agreement, and Moraghan nodded again. "Right, then. Have fun, people, and for Christ's sake, stay out of trouble."

  Guil hid a smile. It was a clear dismissal—so clear that even Sabas, who seemed inclined to linger, was forced to back away. Moraghan waited until the last of her crew was out of earshot, then said, "Look, I hope I didn't force your hand."

  Guil shook her head quickly. "Not at all. I was sort of hoping you'd stay over—" Someone called her name, and she broke off, stiffening. Moraghan frowned. "Was that. . . ?"

  "Oslac," Guil answered, and looked hastily for an escape.

  "Guil!"

  The voice was closer now, too close to ignore. Moraghan muttered a curse, dropping her carryall with a thud. Guil turned to face the newcomer, schooling her face to its most impassive mask. "Harbormaster?"

  "I'm glad I caught you," Oslac said. He was a bulky man for an Oresteian, but he carried the fat lightly enough. Guil eyed him with growing suspicion.

  "What's up, Oslac?"

  "Well, now," the harbormaster began. "Well, now. It's a chance for you to earn a little extra, Guil, and I know how you need that—"

  "Oslac," Guil interrupted firmly. "I've just come off duty as a substitute. If you want me to fly again, I've got to quote union rules at you."

  "No, no, no," Oslac protested, waving his hands for emphasis. "Not flying at all, I know the regs—l'm your foreman, remember? It's just that I need an on-call pilot—Edlyn's out sick, and it's hard to find people in the Dark. It's double pay."

  "Covell's always bitching about not getting his share of the extra work," Guil said. "Call him." Oslac started to say something more, but Guil held up her hand. "Covell or Martets. Not me."

  The harbormaster hesitated, and Guil's hand slowly tightened on the strap of her carryall. She fought down her anger and, as always, it was Oslac who looked away first.

  "All right, Guil. Just thought I'd give you the chance at the money, that's all."

  "Thank you, Oslac," Guil answered, silkily. "But no thanks." Without waiting for his answer, she stalked away. Moraghan followed, grinning openly, but she did not speak until they reached the main entrance.

  "He wasn't serious, was he? About putting you on duty?"

  Guil lifted a hand to signal a passing tram. As the machine slid to a stop, grounding gently against its single rail, she said, "Of course he was." Try as she might, she couldn't keep the anger from her voice.

  Moraghan whistled. "Regulations. . . ."

  Guil nodded, and pulled herself up into the tram, running her access card through the sensor. Moraghan fumbled in her pocket for a handful of Oresteian coin, and awkwardly dropped the proper fare into the box. Guil moved down the almost-empty car. She had her choice of seats. She chose two together on the left-hand side of the car, where they would have a good view crossing the Ostlaer River. Moraghan joined her a few seconds later, and the tram jerked into motion.

  "Guil," the captain said, after a moment, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the hum of the tram's motor. "What do you mean, he was serious about letting you take the on-call slot?"

  Guil shrugged, wishing Moraghan would drop the subject. "If I'd said yes, he'd've put me on. You know what space is like around here —nobody comes into this volume without us knowing about it. You go anywhere else in an emergency, not Orestes. The on-call pilot's a joke."

  Moraghan raised an eyebrow. "I grant you, it's not likely to happen, but suppose you get catastrophic Drive failure, and somebody gets thrown out into this sphere? Then what?"

  "Come on, Leith, no one survives a catastrophic failure," Guil said, more roughly than she'd intended. She controlled her temper with an effort, said, "Besides, I didn't do it—I wouldn't. So it doesn't matter."

  Moraghan looked dubious, but said nothing for a few minutes. The tram had left the port complex and was halfway to the Ostlaer Bridge before she said, "Look, Guil, if you let me, I'll file a complaint—"

  "I fight my own battles, Leith."

  Moraghan was silent, and after a moment, Guil glanced apologetically at her. The captain gave her a rather taut half-smile, but said nothing. Guil looked away again, out the window at her elbow. The tram was curving up the slight incline that led to the bridge, heading into the city. The buildings glowed and flashed, Agamemnon rising behind them, but Guil was looking at the river itself. The dark waters seemed almost still, not a ripple marring the glassy surface, but Guil knew that was deceptive. The Ostlaer's current was deadly, especially here in the city. As if to confirm that, the tram slowed for the barrier wall, hanging back while a gate creaked open. Then the tram slid slowly onto the bridge, picking up speed again. Guil stared out into the twilight, looking upstream toward the Prosperities. I'm not your crewman, Leith, she thought. Why don't you see that? It's not your business.

  Guil took a deep breath, trying to relax. Moraghan meant well; there was no reason to blame her for Oslac's idiocies. She leaned forward again, touched the captain's knee. "Leith, I'm sorry."

  "It's okay."

  Moraghan's response seemed a little too quick. Guil made a face, hoping she hadn't spoiled another off-world friendship. "No, I mean it."

  Moraghan turned to face her, smiling. "So did I, honest." She looked past Guil, toward the city and the planet looming behind it, and her smile widened. "God, that's spectacular."

  Guil smiled back, feeling the tension ease between them. Dinner tonight, she thought, then the puppet shows tomorrow, and maybe the next day—and I think there's a khy sonon-na at the Blackbird the day after. We'll have enough to keep us busy until she has to leave.

  Chapter 3

  Trey Maturin

  I finished my written report on the things I had seen at the mines six hours before Sunset began, and left it and a formal request for three days' leave in the Matriarch's mailbox. Her equally formal permission was flashing on my workscreen before I had finished packing. I hit the key that acknowledged my receipt of the message, jammed a final hoobey-wool overtunic into my carryall—I was always cold during the Dark, no matter what I did—and headed for the main door. The shuttle that would take us to the train station was already drawn up under the overhanging entrance, a massive eight-wheeler that would carry two dozen people in comfort. There were more than that milling around by the cargo door and the steps leading up to the cab, and I wondered for a moment if we would all fit inside. Then I realized that at least a quarter of the crowd were just helping with the baggage or saying their goodbyes, and threaded my way through the mob toward the steps.

  "Trey!"

  I looked up to see Rohin leaning out one of the eight-wheeler's windows. I waved back, then nodded when he gestured for me to join him, and pushed my way through th
e crowd to the front of the car. Rohin was dressed for exploring the Necropolis, all right, a loose black coat thrown over tunic and trousers, the wide hood folded back on his shoulders. A thin scarf was wound around his neck, ready to double as a mask should he choose to venture into a theater or a brothel. The codes decreed that such a disguise was discretion enough if one stayed away from ghosts. For that, he would need a medium. Rohin gestured to the seat beside him, and I nodded, tossing my carryall into the rack above.

  "Where will you be staying?" he asked.

  I settled myself as comfortably as I could on the thin padding. "At an inn called Colonel Crete's."

  Rohin grinned. "Not our townhouse?"

  "Are you?" I asked in return. The Halex Family, like most Families, owned a house in the most respectable section of Destiny for use of Family members visiting the city on business. I had stayed there once, when I first arrived, and had avoided it ever since. I went to Destiny to get away from the codes, not to follow them.

  Rohin shook his head. "I'm staying at Hills', by the greengates." That was a popular club that catered to the sporting crowd. "I didn't know you were a member," I said.

  "I'm not. Ixora sponsored me." Rohin grinned again. "She still thinks she can get me to crew for her in the Garnocks, and I'm going to take full advantage."

  "The Garnocks?" I asked idly.

  "It's a sledge meet," Rohin answered. "Over in the Axtell Mandate. I crewed for Ixora once—drag-brake man—a couple of years ago. Never again."

  The eight-wheeler's engine started with a coughing roar, cutting off all further conversation. I nodded—sympathetically, I hoped—and braced myself as the eight-wheeler lurched away from the Tower door. Sledge racing—teams of hoobeys pulling a heavy sled—was probably the most popular sport on the planet; it was, not surprisingly, correspondingly dangerous. Hoobeys, while generally even-tempered—they were large enough, the biggest mammals on Orestes, not to need a hair-trigger defense—could be roused to frenzy during the rut. And the only way you could get a team to pull at a racing pace was to put a jill in first flush of rut at the head of the line. The trick was to control the resulting frenzy. I had seen the spiked bits, the weighted collars, the iron-woven traces, and knew that teams still broke loose, overturning their sledges and killing their crews. It took seven people to handle a four-jack team, four for the sledge itself and its complicated brake system, two for the team's side-lines, a driver, and a post-rider to control the jill. I didn't blame Rohin in the least for staying away from that game.

  On the other hand, I had to admit that a sledge race was something I would like to see. Partly, it was the fact that the races were a strong part of Oresteian culture—a whole literary genre, and a subclass of holoplays, centered around the races—but mostly. . . . I had seen hoobeys often enough, grazing placidly across the plains of the Halex Mandate, or penned comfortably in a feeding corral before the shearing. I could not imagine the great, shaggy beasts—animals that towered over even the tallest Oresteians, with legs nearly as thick as a man's body and grey-white belly fur falling in hanks almost to the ground—aroused enough to run. Hell, even flagtails, the pack-hunting carnivores of the equatorial plains, were supposed to think twice before taking on a hoobey herd.

  The eight-wheeler lurched again, and I looked up to see that we were already at the train station. I fumbled beneath my seat for my carryall, wondering idly if I could get leave to see the Garnocks. "When is this meet, Rohin?" I asked as we filed off the eight-wheeler and made our way into the station.

  He gave me a rather puzzled look, but answered, "About three grand-days from now." The code kept him from asking the next question, but I answered it anyway.

  "I've never seen a race before. I'm sort of curious."

  "A lot of off -worlders, don't like it," Rohin said. "It can get—well, pretty brutal."

  I shrugged. The Demi-heir was looking genuinely concerned, though, so I said, "Thanks for the warning." I didn't add that I found a lot of things on Orestes to be pretty brutal. Three grand-days. . . . I made the calculations while the porters examined tickets and baggage, and led us to one of the train's forward carriages. That worked out to about seventeen calendar-days. I just might be able to arrange that.

  The short ride into Destiny was uneventful. The Sunset line had slipped three-quarters of the way down the sky, and faded from the blue of Day to a rich purple-black. Only the horizon still glowed red-orange, like embers in a furnace. On the opposite horizon, Agamemnon rose like a gleaming shield. This was my favorite time of the grand-day, the hours of Sunset. I found myself craning my neck to see through the tram windows as I rode into the city, and searching avidly between the roofs of the low buildings as I walked the final blocks to Colonel Crete's.

  By the time I reached the inn, though, I was glad to get inside. The chill of the Dark was beginning to settle on the city, and I was shivering. Colonel Crete's proprietor, a slim, grey-bearded man, came forward to greet me, gesturing at the same time for one of the attendants to take my quilted coat.

  "'Good afternoon, Medium Maturin," he exclaimed. "Or would you prefer Mediator?"

  He had asked me that question perhaps half a dozen times already. "Medium is fine, Lingard, thank you." I let the attendant, a silent, steel-eyed woman, peel the coat from my shoulders. "How's business?"

  Lingard—I could not remember which Branch of the Halex Kinship he belonged to—gave an eloquent shrug. "In the Dark, wonderful. In the Day. . . ." He let his voice trail off, then brightened. "But everyone suffers that."

  I nodded.

  "However," Lingard continued. "I have the room you asked for, Medium, with the balcony." He frowned again. "I'm afraid there will be an extra charge. . . ."

  He had told me that before, too. "That's fine," I said.

  "Excellent." Lingard nodded to the silent woman. "Escort the Medium to the Gold Balcony room, Huldah."

  The woman nodded, and turned to me. "If you'll follow me, Medium?" Her voice was as metallic as her eyes.

  To reach the main staircase, we had to pass through the inn's main room. A bar heater glowed in each wall, and a dozen chairs, each with its own low table, were drawn up in a semi-circle around the heaters. Only one of the chairs was occupied, however, drawn out of the circle so that it stood beneath the mural of Colonel Grete at the gates of hell. As we passed, the man looked up from his newssheet, and I recognized one of the inn's two mediums. He raised a hand in silent greeting, and returned to his reading.

  My own room was on the top floor, on the side of the building that faced the Necropolis. Huldah unlocked the room's door and followed me inside, setting my bag at the foot of the stove-bed. I gave her her tip, and received the room key in exchange. She bowed herself out, and I turned to explore the room, wondering again about the differences between Orestes and most of the other Conglomerate worlds. On most of them—certainly on all of the Urban Worlds—her job would be performed by a robot, not because robots were cheaper or necessarily more efficient, but because on most other worlds human beings had other, better jobs to do. Not on Orestes, however. I shook my head again, and went to open the thermal shutters.

  The padded screen folded back along its channel, and I took a deep breath. I had never had one of the balcony rooms before—they were usually full during the Dark, and it was only because of a cancellation that I had been able to get one this time. Lingard had said that the rooms on this side faced the Necropolis; he had understated the case. I could easily see over the wall that surrounded the Necropolis and down into the great square backing the main greengate. It was beginning to fill with people, ghosts and para'anin and the living crossing the metalled square, or milling around the lighted kiosks that advertised the bars and puppet theaters and brothels. Seen from above, the square had a fairy tale quality, a gorgeous unreality: from here, every person was dressed like an actor or a king; they were draped in flashing jewels, and every stone was real. Enchanted, I reached for my coat, and the intercom buzzed.

&n
bsp; I swore, and reached for the answer switch. "Maturin."

  "Trey." It was Rohin. "I was wondering. . . . "His voice trailed off nervously, and he tried again. "I bought a bottle of tsaak, and I wondered if you'd want to share it with me."

  I wondered what he really wanted. My eyes strayed to the window again. With Rohin present, I couldn't really watch the passing crowd, would have to pay attention to my guest. . . . Unless what he wanted was my view of the square, I thought suddenly. And I bet it is, too. I smiled, and said, "You're welcome, Rohin, as long as you don't mind an open window."

  "Not at all," the Demi-heir answered fervently. "I'm on my way up."

  I took my finger off the switch, still smiling. Until that moment, I had forgotten that this was the hour of the Promenade, when most of the inhabitants of the Necropolis—actors, dancers, prostitutes, and all the rest—paraded the length of Broad Street, the main street, advertising their various wares. I knew Hills' Club was too far from the wall to let its guests overlook the square, and Colonel Grete's was famous for its view. . . . I wondered if Rohin knew for certain that his twin would appear, or if he were merely hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Personally, I hoped Rehur would be among the crowds. I was curious about this ghost.

  There was a knock at the door, and I opened it to let Rohin in. He gave me a rather embarrassed smile, and held out the insulated flask of tsaak. A massive, fur-lined cloak was draped over his other arm, and in spite of myself I gave it an envious glance as I accepted the tsaak. Instantly, Rohin held it out as well.

  "I brought this, too. Jesma said you feel the cold."

  "What will you wear?" I asked, but I took the cloak, feeling the heavy softness of the fur. It was flagtail, I thought, and the leather—the inner side of the furs that formed the outside of the cloak—had been scraped and finished until it was as flexible as velvet.