Brother to Dragons

by Charles Sheffield

  Job glanced at the assortment inside and shook his head. “I don’t use any of those.”

  “Good,” Dell closed the lid. “Do you use alcohol?”

  “Not normally. I did with Stella.”

  “I’ll bet you did. But you’re sober now? I have to tell you a few things. You may think you know them already, but you don’t. While I was waiting for you I took a look around your place. Lots of books. Have you read any of them?”

  “Some. Most.”

  “So you read about the Great Crash—the Quiebra Grande?”

  “A bit.”

  “Then don’t believe a word of it. What the books say caused the crash, that’s pure fiction. They follow the official line, what the government wants you to believe. I’m going to tell you the truth.”

  Dell paused. The lights in the room were unobtrusive, but they were four times as powerful as the bare bulbs in Job’s room. Job could see the lines around Wilfred Dell’s eyes, and furrows in the high brow. The baby face was deceptive. The man behind the desk was in his forties, perhaps in his fifties. And he was an enigma, a type of personality that Job had never met before.

  “I thought that you were the government,” he said.

  “The Quiebra Grande.” Dell ignored the implied question. “I still lived in the city in those days, not too far from where we found you. And not much richer.” He flashed Job a look. “There are ways out, you know, just a few. I used to read the papers, too. I remember when it began.

  “It was like a smelly fart at the duchess’s tea party. At first, all the governments ignored it. They pretended that it didn’t exist, that nothing had happened.

  “Then things got worse. The stink became terrible, too bad to ignore. And all the governments turned and accused each other. You did it, one said, when you cut down all your forests. No, it’s your fault, said the next one, you spent more money than you had, and you pulled down all the world’s financial markets. But you were burning the high-sulfur coal, ruining the air. And you were fouling the oceans with your wastes. And you had the bad reactor meltdown, and quadrupled the background radioactivity.

  “Everything was going to hell. But there’s one other thing to remember about a high-class tea party: no matter what happens, the Duchess won’t be blamed for the fart. And no matter who gets hurt, the Duchess herself won’t suffer. In our case, the Michelsons and the Brooks and the big land-owning families were the Duchess. They were not about to lower their living standards. Other people could do that.

  “But the Quiebra Grande was too bad to ignore. So the powers in this country and elsewhere did what rulers in trouble have done for centuries: they looked for a group to blame.

  “And they found one, people easy to identify and too naive to defend themselves. The air was dirty and radioactive, the water was foul, the topsoil was blowing off the land. There was no money to repair roads or runways or cities, and the transportation system was collapsing. What was the common denominator of all the problems?”

  “Technology,” said Job quietly. “And behind the technology, science.”

  Wilfred Dell had not been expecting an answer. He stared at Job. “You really did read those books, didn’t you?”

  It was nice to know that Dell’s records were not perfect. “I did, but not until I was sixteen years old. I knew the official position long before that. A scientist told me about it when I was ten. Alan Singh. He was one of those they rounded up. I’ve often wondered what happened to him.”

  “I could find out. But I hardly need to look. The Toxic And Nuclear Disposal sites started growing before the turn of the century. By the time of the Quiebra Grande there were hundreds of Tandies, all around the world. The biggest in this country is Xanadu, out in Nebraska—over twenty miles square. It holds the most toxic chemical wastes, the highest radioactivity levels. And when the scientist pogrom began, Reginald Brook and friends decided that the punishment must fit the crime. Scientists should go to the Tandies. The vast majority of them were sent to the Nebraska Tandy.” Wilfred Dell smiled pleasantly at Job. “So your friend Singh probably landed in Xanadu. And he is certainly long-dead.”

  That was where Father Bonifant had been sent, uncomplaining. The assignment to the Nebraska Tandy thus carries a great responsibility, and I choose to regard it as an equally great honor. Job recalled the calm face of Mister Bones. There was no hint in his expression that he had just been sentenced to a terrible death.

  Dell had seen Job’s expression, and misunderstood it. “I know what you are thinking: if Xanadu is fatal to Singh and anyone who goes there, why should it be any different for Job Salk? If you were to stay for a long time in the Nebraska Tandy, or any other—I’m told that the Mongolian Tandy makes Xanadu look like a pleasure palace—you would be right. But that’s not what I’m proposing. You will make a short trip. How short? Depends on how efficient you are at collecting information. As soon as you have what you need, you come out.”

  “And as soon as you have what you need, you kill me?”

  “Now then! Such an idea.” Wilfred Dell clucked his tongue. “I don’t mind your suggestion, it shows that you think along the appropriate lines. But you happen to be quite wrong. I always need first-rate people, as many of them as I can get. And my staff are well-treated. Don’t take my word, ask any of my assistants. All I require in return is loyalty. Of course, this will help.” He picked up Job’s folder from the desk. “Little things like this are held in a safe place. If anything happens to me, they will be delivered to where they will do the most good. Like, to Reginald Brook.”

  “You might as well give it to him now. I can’t do your job. You must have people better suited for it than I am.”

  “Three months ago I might have agreed with you. Four of my staff went into Xanadu. Two men, two women. None came out, or sent messages. Our spaceborne imaging systems remain in position, of course, but—now what’s the matter?”

  “Spaceborne systems. I thought nothing had gone into space since 2003.”

  “That was just the dissolution of NASA. There are other programs, always have been. The remote collection systems keep on looking; but there is a limit to what spaceborne or airborne observing systems can hope to see. A person with the right contacts on the ground, inside Xanadu, can be far more flexible.”

  “I don’t know anything about the inside of the Nebraska Tandy. And I don’t know anyone there.”

  “That’s not necessary. You have this going for you.” Dell tapped Job’s folder. “Before you get there, we’ll make sure that the people who run Xanadu have your records. The place wasn’t intended to have anyone running it when it started out. Criminals were supposed to go there and just die, nice and quiet. But once people began to be sent in they set up their own internal power structure within a few months.” He sighed. “Sometimes I think about dying. And then I wonder about going to hell. And then I think that if and when I go there, the place will be completely organized and run by lost souls, with a council and a works committee and an ethics panel, and I’ll feel right at home. Anyway, you have impeccable credentials for Xanadu. J-D marks still on your wrist and forehead, drug-running conviction, high scores on the science aptitude test.”

  “Why bother? Why don’t you go in openly, in force, and see what’s happening?”

  “Because I’m not willing to admit—officially—that anything at all is happening. Remember, a trip to a Tandy is supposed to be a one-way ticket. To change that policy for more than a few people would cost me too much equity. In any case, collecting information is a tricky business. Access is the first requirement. Your record will help you gain that access, to criminals or to scientists. And the second requirement of information collection is to understand what you hear. No one on my roster is as well qualified as you are. The leaders can use any language they like, but you will be able to follow it. And speak it, too—though that might be unwise.”

  Behind Wilfred Dell, a carved clock hanging on the wall began a strange buzzing. A door ope
ned in its front, and a little painted skeleton emerged. Job heard an unfamiliar C-minor dirge on musical bells, and a rattling of bones.

  “Midnight already. Where does the time go?” Dell smiled, a brief gleam of teeth. “We must wrap this up. I have other obligations.”

  He turned to stare at and through the white wall to the left of him. In the bright light the pupils of his eyes seemed to vanish, while their irises passed through a color shift to paler blue. He was still wearing his half-smile. Job suddenly saw before him a grinning gnome of lust, straight from a five hundred-year-old woodcut.

  “I’m sure that you will have more questions,” went on Dell. “But is there anything that cannot wait for tomorrow?”

  “You haven’t told me what you want me to do.”

  “True. But does it matter, beyond the fact that you will seek information? The main thing is to know where you are going, and why you were chosen. Tomorrow will do for the rest of it.”

  “Do I have any choices?”

  “Ah, that is a nice question.” Dell leaned back in his chair. “Technically, you do. You can go to Xanadu on my behalf, find what I need, and come back. Or you could go into the Tandy and loaf about until you die there. Or, if you were really a masochist, you could encourage me to present your entire folder to Reginald Brook. I would not deny such a request, but I hope you will not consider such a foolish action. I like you, Job. Now, is there any final question?”

  “You promised to tell me who you are.”

  “So I did. Hmm. I assume from your dossier that you never attended school after your first flight from Cloak House?”

  “I never did.”

  “You were lucky. But it means that you will have to take my next statement on faith. Although the schoolchildren of this country emerge from our institutions of supposed learning ninety percent illiterate, knowing nothing of science, nothing of technology, little geography, and less history, every one of them will tell you who rules the country. We are governed by the interaction of a President, learned judges, and our peoples’ representatives.

  “Every child knows this; and every child is wrong. Perhaps it was once that way, but today the Court and President and Congress are either members of the old and wealthiest families, like the Michelsons and Brooks; or they have been bought and controlled by them. The sprawl of government passes and implements policies. But far fewer people, about a hundred in number, set policies.

  “I, and a handful like me, serve the interests of what we term the Royal Hundred. Our job is to make sure that their families, people like Stella, can live lives of perfect irresponsibility in the midst of global chaos. She must never have to worry about a thing. Others will take care of her food, her travel plans, all her material needs. She must be able to walk out into the most dangerous city on Earth, with not a thought for her personal safety. It is my job to guarantee that safety. Sometimes—like yesterday—I can come close to failure. But usually I do very well. I feel sorry for the failures, because Reginald and friends are not tolerant people. But as you see, success has its perquisites.”

  Wilfred Dell glanced smugly around his office, and again stared at the wall next to him.

  Sorry for the failures? There was no trace of compassion in Wilfred Dell’s face. Job recalled one of Father Bonifant’s warnings, when he reminded Job to be careful of possible thieves and murderers on the streets of the city: “There is no end to Our Lord’s mercy and compassion, and there is no one so bad that he or she cannot be saved. But there are those who will not be saved. The world contains people who are truly evil.”

  There was a dreadful plausibility and friendliness to Wilfred Dell, but his smile seemed to Job to be truly evil. Whatever he did, whatever he made Job do, it would be only to serve his own purposes. He would allow nothing to jeopardize his own position. He appeared quite invulnerable.

  But perhaps there were chinks in even that armor of self-confidence.

  “And one day,” said Job innocently, “I suppose that you will be one of the Royal Hundred.”

  Dell scowled. “One is born to that status, one does not ascend to it. The hundred are drawn only from the Brooks and Michelsons, and families like them.”

  He stood up abruptly and turned away. In the instant before the cherub’s face became hidden, Job saw that all satisfaction had vanished from it. He understood, and was perversely pleased.

  Wilfred Dell claimed that he liked Job. Perhaps he did, a little. Perhaps he even liked Job as much as he liked anyone. He probably had no one that he loved, as others used the word love.

  But he did have someone that he hated.

  What would please Wilfred Dell more than anything would be to send Reginald Brook and the rest of the Royal Hundred on a one-way trip to the Great Nebraska Tandy.

  • Chapter Twelve

  I go whence I shall not return, even to the

  land of darkness and the shadow of death.

  —The Book of Job, Chapter 10, Verse 21

  Job had seen maps of the country. He knew that the Nebraska Tandy lay more than a thousand miles west, fifty times as far from the city as he had ever been, halfway to the western ocean. But maps were one thing. Physical experience was another.

  Thirteen hundred miles by aircraft, eighteen hundred by road: it meant eternity, seven bruising days sitting in a hard seat on a stinking, broken-springed bus, with no chance to wash or change clothes. As they came closer to their destination, Job yearned for the sight of the Nebraska Tandy. Anything was better than another day of travel.

  Outside it had been snowing for forty-eight hours. Inside it was hot and stifling, with the stench of sick and pent-up humans growing steadily worse. The bus rumbled on at a steady thirty miles an hour, over ruler-straight roads whose surface was cracked and broken. On either side, the white plain ran from horizon to horizon. Xanadu should be only a couple of hours ahead. Job stared out through the forward window.

  Now and again they hit a real break in the roadbed, one that jolted every passenger and threw them from side to side. No one but Job seemed to notice. They slumped on the frayed seats, eyes open and placid. Back in the city, Job had been the first to board. He had watched in horror as the bus made its stops and the other prisoners appeared. They were all men, and every one was pleasure-drugged to the point where no physical discomfort would rouse them. At four-hour intervals during the journey, the two drivers moved around the bus and stuck a little patch onto each prisoner’s neck. Job had ripped his off before there could be any effect, but the pads proved to be no more than skin-penetrating stimulants. Within thirty seconds the others were sitting up and taking notice. They were fed a packaged meal and permitted to use the roadside as a toilet. In five more minutes the jolt from the stick-on patch wore off. The prisoners returned to their usual blissful apathy. Sores from the seats were ignored. As the days wore on, the trance deepened. Some of the prisoners began to foul themselves where they sat.

  Seeing them at the beginning of the journey, Job had appreciated the favor that Wilfred Dell had done in decreeing that Job did not need to be sedated, and that his drip-I/V could contain not drugs but water. By the third day he was not so sure. The other prisoners could not talk to him, or he to them. He could not speak to the driver or his assistant without revealing his own unique situation. And the ride was too bumpy to let him sleep for more than a few hours a night. All he could do was ride the jolts, stare out at the dreary landscape, and worry.

  Their destination lay almost exactly due west. But they had angled at first to the north, into colder weather and forlorn countryside. Mile after mile, their route passed old and derelict wayside structures, motels and repair shops and restaurants and gas stations and food stands. In front of them, squatting at the roadside, sat newer and smaller buildings of wood and sheet metal. Behind everything, fading off to wooded hills and bare fields, were family vegetable plots.

  Were there thousands after countless thousands of them, or was there just one, endlessly repeated? Job saw in each
field the same stooped elders and the same tiny children, scrabbling in wet dirt.

  During the second day the country changed. The bus chugged through a sterile, deep-scarred terrain of pits and quarries. Beside the old strip mines, scrawny yellow-flowered plants struggled to find a hold in steep-sided slag heaps, more harsh and inhospitable than fresh volcanic lava. Nothing else grew, from horizon to horizon. But still there were people, patiently sifting the rubble.

  Job had no idea what they were seeking. There was no one that he could ask. He leaned his forehead on the seat in front and closed his eyes. Still he saw the array of slag heaps and quarries, marching off to infinity.

  Could the Nebraska Tandy be worse than this? It was hard to see how. The pictures that Wilfred Dell had shown suggested pleasant and peaceful communities, not a hell on Earth…

  “Two years ago.” Dell tapped the table-sized color print. “This is what the spacebirds sent back from a routine scan of Xanadu. There was nothing interesting, except that right here”—he touched the place with the end of a pencil—“an area was being cleared around one of the towns. This is Techville, where most of the scientists sent to the Tandy live.”

  Job leaned over the table. The image was an oblique shot, taken in full sunlight and with excellent detail. The prospect was pleasant. He saw nothing but a well-organized town, laid out as rings of buildings around a central cleared area.

  “Now, look at a year and a half ago.” Dell slid another print partly over the first. “A fence has gone up, all the way around the town. And another fence is being built here.” He ran his pencil point over a rectangular region close to the town center. “So, you tell me. Why would anyone build fences like that inside a Tandy? Are they there to keep something out, or to keep something in?