by Brian Daley
Where the main operator's chair or lounger ought to be, there was instead a big platform or dais with—Floyt double-checked to be sure he was seeing right—drains in its surface.
Baron Mason held his hand up to a pulsing green polyhedron, one of a number of free-floating geometric shapes, an ancillary of some sort. The polyhedron rang; the pool's dark waters stirred, then heaved.
Floyt felt an instinctive fear as the waters surged, and stationed himself well behind Mason. Something large came to the surface, the water rolling off it. Floyt asked himself what sense it would make for Mason to bring him all this way just to feed him to a big, brown-green exoskeletal thing with a fondness for computers.
He couldn't identify the being, but then he hadn't had time to study the sentient species of the galaxy to any great extent. Getting his first clear look at the claws, the clashing mandibles, and whipping antennae, he shivered.
"Good of you to receive us, Pollolo," Mason said with mild insincerity. The creature didn't answer, but reached for an object like a cross between an electronic horsecollar and a highly instrumented … Lobster bib, thought Floyt the history buff.
Once that was in place Pollolo responded, his voice synthesized with surprising clarity and humanness.
"Baron Mason," he said in a tone without much warmth. He didn't appear to manipulate controls; probably control pulses were fed into the collar by antennules located down near the creature's mouth.
"Things going well, are they?" Mason inquired politely.
"Everything under my authority is functioning at peak efficiency; I do not tolerate less," the thing answered. Floyt couldn't decide if it more resembled a seal with a shell or a lobster pretending to be a sea otter.
The joints of Pollolo's armor bulged, exposing patches of purple-white tissue. Floyt recalled what the humanoid had said about molting. Pollolo studied Floyt with long eyestalks.
"This lowman here is going to be doing a spot of research for me," the baron said.
The eyestalks and antennae appeared to start a bit, a very interesting sight. The sound matrices in the collar gave a few erroneous sounds before producing, "Research? Where, may I ask, Baron?"
Mason said coldly, "Here, of course."
This time the collar squawked before Pollolo got out, "That is quite impossible! Within limits I shall be happy to feed any data you request to an outside terminal, but it's out of the question for an outsider—and a lowman at that!—to have access to—"
"The terminals in this room are the only ones with no info filters or AI governors. I wish this man to use them," Mason broke in sharply. "And don't ever tell me again what is and isn't possible on Blackguard, do you understand?"
The creature bridled, rearing up on his hind legs. He was several times the human's mass. The baron didn't flinch, but his thumb rested on a decorative boss on his belt.
Whether Pollolo knew that as a threat or simply reconsidered, Floyt couldn't tell. The being quieted and squatted on the floor again. "As you say."
"That's very good of you." Mason conducted Floyt over to a terminal that was set up for a human accessor, behind stacks of peripherals and other equipment. Near it, more of the light shapes were drifting and throbbing softly.
Pollolo trundled heavily to the dais, shedding the last of the water as he went.
The baron sat Floyt down in the operator's airchair. Mason began explaining a few basics, then he called up a program of his own, a powerful AI named Balthazaar. Floyt was astounded at Balthazaar's speed and sweep. Mason had Balthazaar set up a subordinate program for Floyt to use in his research.
"What will be the designation, Citizen?"
"Um … " Floyt looked around at the intimidating array of equipment, the matter and energy peripherals, with the uneasy feeling that he was in an enemy camp, or 'nighted in hostile territory. "Diogenes, I guess."
The baron's voice spoke his amusement. "Diogenes it shall be." He gave Balthazaar the necessary orders.
For Floyt, an Earthservice accessor of the grade functionary third class, it was all quite intoxicating. He'd never had so much sheer computer power and limitless data at his beck.
He put aside preoccupations with captivity and the actijot, Dincrist's impending return, the Astraea Imprimatur—after all, there wasn't much he could do about those now—homesickness, and worries about Alacrity.
Diogenes put himself at Floyt's disposal. It was a little like being offered a ride on Pegasus.
"Thanks," he said warily to Baron Mason, who nodded punctiliously. "Where do I begin, Baron? Matterse?"
"Matterse, yes. But do not neglect Praxis. Balthazaar will tell you who interests me and what it is I'm after. There are things that will be very difficult to ferret out, even here. You have divined why you'll be doing your work here, haven't you?"
Floyt waved at the room in general. "You've accessed all the other compounds' systems, the restricted parts, either by physical tap or SIGINT, right? What else would be the point?"
"Not bad. It may have been better luck than you think that brought you to me. You have potential."
Floyt nearly laughed in Mason's face, having been held from promotion to func-two, in part, for lack of proper motivation. But this was the sort of digging and casting about, prying, noodling, and connection making he loved. On Terra it had gone out of style along with the professional librarian and career archivist. Floyt still thought it was more fun than grinding for a promo.
Mason went to the hatch and paused, looking back to Pollolo, who poised on his dais surrounded by machinery and ancillaries. The hobgoblin stopped what he was doing and rotated eyestalks and antennae toward the baron dutifully.
Mason waited a beat, then said, "Extreme tact."
Antennae waved. "As you say, Lord."
Once the hatch had swung to, Floyt went to work. As a get-acquainted project with Diogenes, he began to correlate all available data on Praxis.
Caught up in his task, Floyt took a few moments to realize he wasn't alone. He nearly vaulted, yammering, from the air-chair as the strangely agile bulk of Pollolo sidled closer, claws held high.
With nowhere to run, he sat where he was, fingers gripping the arms of his seat causing it to wheel slightly. He blanked the displays so the creature couldn't see what he'd been doing.
"A word of caution," Pollolo's synthetic voice warned. "You're still a lowman down here, as above. And from now on, you're to wear a collar, understand?"
Floyt, fighting for breath, husked, "Yes I do. And I also understand 'extreme tact.' "
That gave the thing pause. Pollolo's serrated claws opened and closed once as his antennae waved and his eyestalks drew close to Floyt. Floyt couldn't stop himself from shrinking back in his armchair.
The collar uttered something like a rasping chuckle; Pollolo withdrew. Floyt wilted with relief, shaking, as the thing clambered back onto its dais, resuming its work.
Floyt brought Diogenes back up, trying to collect himself. He paused, looking thoughtfully at the displays. It might've had something to do with Alacrity's influence, but he found himself getting angry. He set his jaw and commanded Diogenes to add a new item to his research:
POLLOLO.
Chapter 12
Flexible Responses
It was unthinkable that any underling would dare enter the office of an Earthservice Alpha-Bureaucrat without very deferentially asking permission, and there was an inflexible rule in Alpha-Bureaucrat Stemp's domain that all visitors be announced. And so when his door slid open without overture, he resolved to crush whoever it was who'd violated his seclusion. A moment later, though, he swallowed his anger.
Citizen Ash, the Earth's executioner, strolled unhurriedly across the huge office. Stemp slipped chameleonlike into reserved good humor and informality as he stepped around the several square meters of desktop to press flesh with the man in black. Stemp was a tall, portly, imposing individual with a high forehead and thick salt-and-pepper hair; Ash, smaller, mustached, had a dark intensity that mi
ght have made him dashing, except that in him it was coupled with a distant, brooding quality.
Theoretically, Ash was as subject to Earthservice heirarchical etiquette as any other citizen and as subject to cooling his shoes in outeroffice buffer zones. But in practice, it came as no surprise that no one, guard or receptionist, had risked barring his way or detaining him. The powers of his office were rather intimidating, and he'd been known to deal harshly with people who obstructed him.
"Good day, Citizen Stemp," the executioner greeted him blandly.
Citizen. While virtually any Terran was free to address any other that way—with very few exceptions, all were part of the all-embracing, all-controlling Earthservice—few had presumed to do so with Stemp in recent memory. Alphas addressed one another informally, as proof of their preeminent rank; all others spoke to them in subservient terms.
The whole visit had an air of effrontery, but Stemp had no inclination to waste time and energy skirmishing with Terra's headsman over minor points of decorum. He knew he'd been put on notice: Ash hadn't come to play the game Stemp's way.
"Citizen Ash," he answered, faintly jovial, "yes. A very good day indeed." The Alpha showed the executioner to a plush sofa, offering refreshments.
Ash had started his Earthservice career as a criminal investigator, Stemp knew, and later become a member of the Earthservice Barrister Pool, defending or prosecuting as random draft decreed. It was an extraordinary person who would accept the job Ash held, the obligations and personal modifications that went with it.
A classified psychoprop profile suggested that Ash's deepest motivations could be traced to his boyhood. He'd been raised in the primitive and remorseless subculture of the undercrofts and outer perimeters of a North African coastal urbanplex, losing two family members to criminal violence and three more in vendettas. It was amazing a human being could come through such an upbringing to emerge a secure, even-tempered, and dispassionate seeker of the truth, renowned for his absolute devotion to justice.
Or perhaps not so surprising at that, Stemp mused. "What can I do for you, Citizen?" He sipped delicately at a tulip glass of real orange juice.
Ash, declining refreshments, said, "I've come to inquire about the progress of your Project Shepherd. You remember: the young offworlder who was convicted of homicide—the one I remanded to serve as escort under the alternative sentencing program? It's been quite some time now; I thought you might have some word on them, Alacrity Fitzhugh and—what was that functionary's name? Hobart Floyt?"
Stemp set his glass down precisely in the center of the marquetry on his coffee table. "I don't believe I understand," he parried. "Why come to me? That project is under the guidance of Supervisor Bear."
"But she's answerable to you; the project ultimately comes under your authority, and I know you pride yourself on keeping abreast of such things."
"May I ask why you're interested? The case is no longer a matter for your office, after all." Ash's position gave him vast powers of review and investigation of the cases sent to him, since he was the one who must carry out the death penalty. He showed no hesitation in exercising them, which was one of the things that made him so dangerous. Still and all, the Fitzhugh matter should by all rights stand safely and permanently closed.
"Oh, simple curiosity, for one thing. Professional interest as well; I'm always eager to weigh alternative sentencing. I do not enjoy discharging my primary responsibility, I assure you."
Stemp was grateful that Ash showed no misgivings about Fitzhugh's conviction. The hasty frameup improvised by Supervisor Bear and the coverup she'd organized in its wake still gave Stemp worried moments.
"But this is in no way an official visit," Ash clarified. "In certain ways the limits of my office are rather rigidly defined, you know."
Stemp did; it was one of the few comforting things about Ash, the reassurance that he couldn't become a loose cannon on the deck. He was required to observe the boundaries of his office, such requirements reinforced with deep and powerful behavioral conditioning. Earth's executioner was not, himself, capable of willfully breaking the law or abusing his powers.
"Quite," Stemp replied. "But let me ask, what makes you think there's been any news?"
"I had it that a starship from the area of Epiphany made planetfall on Luna. Rumors have a way of filtering down, on shuttle runs and so forth; the psychprop bureau and peace-guardian intel people keep track of such things, to be doubly vigilant when offworld cant and canards and disinformation present their greatest threat. My own intelligence conduits are of course modest in comparison to yours. I thought you might have had news."
Ash was being modest about his informational pipelines. Stemp had not yet been apprised of the starship's arrival; it would have been regarded as a routine matter by some, but not by the Alphas, who'd taken a worried interest, a little too late, in the Floyt-Fitzhugh business.
"I have no news of any recent developments," Stemp answered with unusual honesty.
"Ah. Then I've wasted your valuable time, I'm afraid, Citizen."
After the executioner left, Stemp dove to make an encrypted, max-classified commo connection with another Alpha.
The image of Cynthia Chin, rival and adversary in the councils of the Alphas, stared at him with venomous satisfaction. "Why, yes, we've had word," she confirmed innocently. "I was just about to call you."
Liar! "Well? Out with it!"
"Endwraithe's dead. Apparently Floyt and Fitzhugh killed him. They were subsequently sighted at some sort of underworld rendezvous, something called a 'grapple,' but they disappeared somehow. We still have no idea what the Weir bequest was, or where they've gone. That adorable little Bear woman of yours has brought on a crisis situation. Congratulations."
He fought to keep his temper. "The Custodians on Blackguard should be contacted and warned, just in case. It's just possible the Weir legacy is connected to the Repository."
"That's being done, and Camarilla agents are hunting for Floyt and Fitzhugh. I think we really must have a full Alpha conference on this issue."
He broke the connection rather than give her the satisfaction of seeing him lose control. In moments he had Supervisor Bear on his screen in a similarly shielded call. Despite Chin's characterization of her as "little," she was tall and epicene, a woman of forty or so, her most attractive feature being her longish auburn hair.
"Have you any idea what you've done? You and your bloody Project Shepherd?" he practically shrieked.
"B-but it was such a cost-effective, propagandistically sound project."
"Stop babbling and pay attention. I want you to double-check and make sure there are no leaks or exploitables in your coverup of the Machu Picchu incident. If there are, I'll see to it that you are the one thrown to Citizen Ash. Do I make myself clear? And begin dismantling whatever remains of Shepherd at once. Blank all incriminating data. You will not surrender any of it to anyone, particularly other Alphas, do you understand? By this evening it's to be as if Project Shepherd never existed."
"But—but it was so cost-effective!" She was still blubbering as he cut the connection. Then he stood gazing out at wandering clouds, wondering how the devil that imbecile Endwraithe could've let himself be beaten by a bumbling functionary and a shiftless piece of space trash. He calmed himself with the thought that other, more capable agents were moving against the two now and that they couldn't hide for long.
Besides, in the final analysis, the two were still subject to the conditioning given them by Earthservice. They would be drawn, sooner or later, back to Terra, to be dealt with.
The thought of the conditioning filled Stemp with relief. All was well.
Chapter 13
The Company We Keep
"All right, pay attention now, Gute," Alacrity said, settling the deck of cards into a modified mechanic's grip. He shooed away some circling bloodgnats with his free hand and brushed a snail-slow, stupidly curious dustball spider off his leg. "I'm gonna show you how to deal seconds an
d win at blackjack."
Gute, sun-dappled by the shade of the whiffer bushes, sitting cross-legged in the little clearing waiting for the summons of the Wild Hunt, beetled his brows. "Is this legal, what you're teaching me?"
"Huh? Hell, no, it's not legal. I'm not trying to teach you how to enjoy the game, dammit; I'm trying to teach you how to win."
They were conversing in tradeslang, which Gute spoke rather well. "Ah," he said enthusiastically, resettling himself and paying greater attention. "Winning. Fine!"
Alacrity was about to continue this lesson, but from nervous habit they both checked the sky again. They were part of the big, supposedly safe—though dreary and gruesome—body-tagging detail, theoretically immune from attack; but it paid to be careful. Members of the hunt were capable of anything when their blood was up, and the fact that Gute had no actijot and Alacrity's wouldn't trigger a quarry-tracer was no guarantee.
They went back to the cards. "I hope this is of more use than the dice, Shipwreck."
Alacrity had gaffed a pair of dice for Gute, six-ace flats, rather artfully done considering the limited resources available. The problem was that the locals didn't shoot craps, and Gute didn't have much luck instituting the game. Cards would take a lot longer to teach, and Alacrity himself was no expert cheat—he was much more used to spotting cheats—but there was time. At least until Dincrist gets here, Alacrity thought. By then he would either have something worked out or … he had a depressing fallback plan.
"Yeah, yeah; much more useful than the dice, Gute. Now watch this."
Alacrity's sniffing and prying around hadn't come to very much except that he'd become passable friends with Gute. Gute had indeed kept him out of the compounds' more dangerous and objectional jobs. Now that he knew more about the compounds of Blackguard, Alacrity appreciated just how fortunate that was.
Plenty of offworld captives had come there only to end up strapped to a surgical unimech or locked in an iron maiden over at Grand Guignol Compound, or been served up as one of the long-pig repasts at Hellfire Club. Alacrity had been on cleanup crew after one of those feats and hadn't been able to eat or sleep very well since.
