by Brian Daley
"Or this," said Constance as she fired at a current read-file. The file went woof! and green smoke billowed. Alacrity struggled—to distract them, not because he thought he could break free. Someone threatened to crush his windpipe with a forearm. He quieted.
The gas spread even faster than he'd hoped. Constance had a peculiar look on her face as she tried to keep her pistol aimed at him. The grips on him were already loosening, and he felt his head spin.
"This is your last chance to … to … " she said, trying to recall what she'd started to say. "Your last chance … "
Her eyes grew enormous as it came to her that she'd been popped. She tried to press her thumb down on the firing stud of her gun, its muzzle wavering off target so that her groggy crewpeople yowled and ducked, letting go of Alacrity. He heard bodies thumping to the floor as the smoke thickened and could himself barely stay on his feet.
Constance never got off a round. He had the satisfaction of seeing her go down first; head emptied of thought, he dropped.
After a long, drifty time, Alacrity came around for a moment. His head was banging, his stomach was rebelling, and even his eyeballs hurt. He was looking up at the frescoes in Astraea Imprimatur's salon. "Uhch! Did we win?"
His head was in the Nonpareil's lap. "We did what we set out to do," she said. "I think that qualifies as a win."
Sintilla bent close. "We've got all the evidence, except for what Constance destroyed. Janusz and Corva and Victoria are getting us into Hawking now."
Floyt moved into his line of vision too. The Earther had handfuls of documents and data. "I think we also finalized accounts with Constance, Alacrity. When we left, Notch's gang was in control of things. The Lamia's gone for good. I wouldn't be surprised if Constance ends up scrubbing floors for the kids. Oh, and you'd be surprised how fast word gets around in Parish; when we took our leave, there were mobs from Tombville looting Old Raffles and breaking into the Repository."
"Well, nobody needs a little plunder worse than they do."
He tried to move, then inhaled with a sharp hiss of pain. Whatever the knockout smoke was, it was nasty.
"Relax for a while, Bright Eyes," Sintilla said. "You'll need your strength."
"Uh-oh. I don't think I like the sound of that."
Sintilla grinned. "After all, we've got the evidence to crack the Camarilla wide open, but now we've got to do something with it. Are we gonna have fun now!"
Chapter 22
With The Rich
And The Mighty
"Alacrity, I never would've guessed it of you: you're innocent. It says so right here." Sintilla held up the message wafer.
"Maybe the Custodians' intel wasn't so great after all," Heart said as she applied a dressing to Floyt's wound. She gave Alacrity a sweet leer. "Innocent, ha!"
"No, no, it says so right here in this report," Sintilla insisted.
Everyone but Janusz was assembled in the Stray's salon, going through the captured materials. They found that along with the load of Camarilla evidence, they'd also seized the most recent packet of communiques from various Camarilla sources, including the Alpha-Bureaucrats of Earth.
"Let's see that," Alacrity said, putting his own reader aside. " 'Background data' … 'Weir Inheritance' … 'Project Shepherd'—huh! 'Misexecution of the original plan to recruit Fitzhugh for Project Shepherd by arranging for him to be convicted of encouraging public disorder and incitement to riot'—I guess they didn't know how to spell 'frame'—'resulted in commission of accidental manslaughter by crowd member, for which Fitzhugh was subsequently charged and convicted. Indications of official involvement were suppressed and neutralized by Earthservice supervisor Bear.' Oh, if I ever see her again … "
"Time for that later," Heart said. "For now, it's time to not push our luck anymore and to get into Hawking. Janusz! When will we be ready?"
Janusz, returning aft from the bridge, said, "Whenever we want. I've put the last mathematical model into the guidance suite. The ship wasn't damaged, so we can start for Srilla whenever we want."
"Which would be fine," Corva said, "except that we can't go to Srilla or Spica either. We're in much worse trouble than we thought." He held up another reader. "This is the most recent message among the commo file the Custodians kept.
"It seems the Camarilla members are uneasy. They were aware that Endwraithe didn't finish you and Hobart, and they lost track of you at the Grapple.
"They've issued warrants under Spican and Srillan law—what you would call 'John Does.' The charges specify a terrorist conspiracy aimed at destroying interstellar unity and fomenting revolution. They're throwing everything they have into finding and eliminating you."
Janusz, leaning over Corva's shoulder to read, nodded slowly. "They're risking a great deal; they're betting they can discredit anyone who tries to move against them. I doubt even your Uncle Maska could help us now, Corva—even if we could get to him."
"I don't see anything to do but get back to Epiphany and open up to Dame Tiajo and Redlock," Alacrity said.
"That wouldn't be wise, according to this," Janusz said. "There's a Spican fleet poised to move against anybody who starts whistleblowing. Even Weir's Domain couldn't hope to stand against the Spicans. Besides, this message indicates that there is still at least one and possibly several active Camarilla contacts at Frostpile. Among the Invincibles, or Taijo's advisors, perhaps? If we went there we'd stand a good chance of being jailed or assassinated."
"This Camarilla evidence has a short half-life," Sintilla pointed out. "The Camarillans will try to discredit it and they'll act in concert. But what if we go to the news services? I've got press credentials. We go directly to them—"
"You'd better scan this message," Corva said. "They've got Infotel in their pockets, and Transgal and New Pathé. They can checkmate the others, I think."
"And in the meantime, Langstretch would be all over us," Victoria put in.
"Where does that leave us?" Heart said. "We have to move quickly."
"What about the Solar system?" Alacrity proposed. "What about that original scenario, the Letter of Free Import, and taking Astraea Imprimatur to Earth? The Solar authorities couldn't stop us, right?"
"Theoretically, the Solar Forces are obliged to respect the letter and at least give us a chance to land," Victoria ventured slowly. "But what could we do there? The Alpha-Bureaucrats have everything under their control. There's no one to overrule them."
"There's Citizen Ash," Alacrity said.
"The executioner?" Sintilla said. "D'you really think he'd defy the Alphas?"
"I've met him," Alacrity answered. "Nobody controls that guy. And besides, the Solar Defense Agreement covers Terra. The Spicans and Srillans couldn't move against Earth without getting involved in a shooting war. Earth may not have any defense forces anymore, but the Lunies and the other Solarian governments would be tough for anybody to mess with on their own ground."
"I'm afraid that there are already Spicans in the Solar system, a whole flotilla," Corva said.
Alacrity groaned; Corva explained. To forestall any attempts by Floyt to return to Terra, a Spican flotilla commanded by a Camarilla member had been dispatched to the Solar system under the cover of a goodwill tour.
"The boltholes are closing fast," Sintilla said. "Maybe we ought to run for it, get way out where nobody has ever heard of us and nobody'll come looking, until we figure out what to do."
"There isn't time," Victoria said. "We've got to get this information out somehow before they can preempt us with disinformation and psychprop and counteraccusations. Besides, with the Repository gone, they might get into an internal struggle that will cost millions of lives."
"It is too bad, about Earth," Corva said. "It would have been the optimal place to go public. I believe the Spican flotilla is there only to blockade; it's too bad we have no way past it."
"They'll certainly keep ships in position to monitor vessels approaching Terra," Heart said. "The Solarians would try to stop us from landin
g on Terra too, unless Hobart transmitted his letter of Free Import, which would tip our hand."
"But if we could get past the Spicans, get close enough to land on Terra, the Solarians would keep them or anybody else from interfering," Alacrity contended.
"It comes back to the same thing." Corva sighed. "The Spicans will be watching. Even Astraea Imprimatur couldn't fight her way through."
"What does that leave?" Floyt asked. "Is there some other document or immunity—like the letter—that the Spicans would have to recognize?"
"Oh, diplomatic credentials or something like that would work, I guess," Victoria said absently. "Nothing we could come up with. Not too many people can tell the Spican Navy and the Solar Defense Forces to mind their own business and get out of the way."
"What's the matter, m'love?" Alacrity said as Heart leapt up with a cry. "Lingerie creeping up?"
She raced off, leaving them mystified, returning shortly from Harpy, which was nestled in the Stray's boatlock. She'd been digging through the plunder they'd inherited from Sile.
"It's right here. Remember, Alacrity?" She slipped a memory lozenge into an adaptor so the Astraea Imprimatur's system would accept it. It was the tape of Praxis, leader of the Church of the Human Potential.
"Well, so what?" Sintilla said. "I mean, I know he's a right slime, and I'd love to see this splashed everywhere, but even Praxis doesn't have the kind of gees it'd take to keep the Spican Navy off our necks."
"No," Heart agreed, "but he's in charge of the Regatta for the Purple. Of who gets to enter and what course it takes."
Alacrity gathered her into his arms and locked his lips to hers.
"The chief justice of the Interstellar Peace Court
is participating," Victoria said. "The chairwoman of the Currency Regulation Board. The high arbiter of the Interspecies Cooperative!"
"And the Spican defense coordinator," Sintilla said. "Even the Spican Navy wouldn't dare stop the regatta. Shiva's snatch, the last time anybody even mentioned it the regatta members imposed informal sanctions and brought—what was it?—the Dungaling Coalition to its knees!"
"But—a race," Janusz said dubiously. "Some of the fastest vessels in human space will be in the regatta. I'm not at all certain the Stray could even begin to keep up, and we certainly don't have photon-sailing capability for that phase of the race."
"We don't have to run the whole race," Heart reminded him. "Just stay up with them long enough to get past the Spicans and close to Earth."
"If anything were to go wrong, we could always run for Hawking again," Corva mused.
Alacrity was looking up at the erotic frescoes, scratching his Adam's apple, and thinking, with great relish, reckless thoughts. "We've got that oversize Hawking back there; we could probably hold our own in translight. But in normal space—we'd have to ask an awful lot out of our conventional engines."
"Then we'll have to ask it," Floyt said with unswerving conviction. "Alacrity, we have to."
"You're right; we'll have to," Corva said. "Don't worry, Hobart; the engines will deliver."
"Ahem!" Sintilla said. "Have any of you stopped to consider how well insulated Praxis is? Well, I have, because I did a feature on him once. We can blackmail him if we can get to him, but how do we get to him? He spends most of his time sequestered in that neon basilica of his, in the Redoubt of the Self."
"If my father has gotten through to Praxis, I can," Heart said, leaning her elbow on Alacrity's shoulder.
"Do we get to wear little captain's hats with rockets on them?" Sintilla asked.
"There must be some way around it!" Alacrity growled.
Praxis' august image stared at him and the others crowded into the Astraea Imprimatur's bridge. "For the last time, young man, there is no way around it. In order to qualify, all captains must attend the Sendoff Wassail and personally tender their entry tokens to the master-at-arms. That is an inflexible tradition and not even I can alter it."
"It's a trick," Janusz said.
Praxis' noble face showed vexation. "Do not be an ass, sir! Do you seriously think that I want to risk creating a scene at this point? You've been admitted to the race—over strong opposition, I assure you!—and the course will be as you wished it. I shall probably be persona non grata at the Great Tables, and perhaps be blackballed from every influencial institution in human space, but I've kept our bargain.
"But if you violate the protocols of the race you'll be barred, it is as simple as that. The choice is yours."
"Don't go away." Alacrity put Praxis on hold. "What d'you think, Ho?"
"Out in the open like this—what could anybody do to us?"
"We don't all have to go," Sintilla said. "It would be just plain foolish for Janusz and Vickie to show their faces; too much chance of Langstretch stringers.' "
"I rather fear I'm out of the question, too," Corva admitted.
"Well, according to the info from the Repository, nobody's actually put Ho's and my likenesses out in a wanted bulletin to the general public yet. This won't take us a minute. What've we got to wear that's purple?"
"Captain and First and their escorts, Praxis said," Sintilla pointed out. "I think that means Heart and me, and it's just as well you two lugs won't be wandering around out there among the patricians on your own."
"No!" Alacrity resolved. "I don't want you two in the middle of this."
"You don't seem to have many options," Victoria reminded him. "And besides, Heart knows the ropes in places like this. Tilla too."
Alacrity reconnected with Praxis. "All right; we'll be there. Uh, has there been any sign of Dincrist?"
"No. He and his Celeste Aida have been scratched from the race. Be at the grand pavilion in one half hour. If I should encounter you, do not speak to me. If you're wise, you'll stay well clear of me henceforth."
"Don't waste your wind threatening us," Floyt replied. "There're too many people ahead of you. But I'll tell you something: there're times when I wish you hadn't given in, because now you get to keep your secrets and your image. I wish we could've pulled you down."
Praxis's white, bushy eyebrows rose. "Oh, but I know that, young man. I saw it in your face, and your friends', from the outset. I knew you weren't bluffing." He signed off.
Janusz clapped Floyt's shoulder. "Everything has its price, Hobart. Some deals are harder to strike than others."
"We have to get moving," Heart said. "Where's that captain's entry token Praxis gave us?"
They ransacked Astraea Imprimatur and the adjoining Harpy. The two couples emerged with only a little time to spare. Floyt had fastened himself into a uniform of Sile's that was the right hue. It was decided that, since his uniform most resembled that of a real regatta captain, he would be the one to hand in the token. The idea tickled him.
Sintilla was on his arm, wearing matched galligaskins and blouse and a purple cloak, all of them Constance's. Alacrity had on the ice-blue shipsuit with an improvised sash of the race color, and Heart was in a tinselmesh skinsuit, Constance's, in purple. Theatrical, often bizarre makeup was commonly worn by both sexes at the gathering; Alacrity and Floyt were fantastically done up with the contents of Sile's disguise kits and Constance's cosmetic cases. Heart and Sintilla hid their faces behind modesty veils.
The sky of Rialto was a restful sepia, lending the planet an air of aged elegance. Its primary, an amber immensity called Moloch, was lowering toward the placid brown waters of the Orphean Sea, along whose shore the race's starting-point encampment had been pitched. Rialto was an agreeable, languid sort of planet, hypercivilized, its population interbred and rather aloof. Astraea Imprimatur, a late arrival, was grounded on the fringe of the noisy camp. The Stray's contingent began making its way to the palatial purple canopy of the great pavilion.
They passed aging captain-owners of both sexes, escorted by friends, crew, and hangers-on. Race entrants had the double draw of the regatta's glamor and their own wealth and power; their coteries included only the most famous or influential, r
ich or sexually desirable. Crewpeople, dressed in the uniforms of their vessels, enjoyed their high-profile status within reason; the stern Rialto constabulary could be very harsh on disruptive outsiders or commoners.
Alacrity was secretly gratified to get a closeup look at some of the racing craft. They were grounded in casual disorder, starships so beautiful and right for their purpose that it pulled at his middle and wrung a kind of hopeless love out of him. All sorts of designs were present, though they all incorporated aerodynamic principles; racers had to handle well in atmosphere.
He saw a streamlined, delicate craft scarcely bigger than the Harpy and wicked-looking vessels longer than the Stray but far leaner. Despite his prejudice, he had to admit that the Stray, only a converted privateer, was out of her element, simply outclassed and outshone.
There were none of the hawkers and vendors, pickpockets, crowd hustlers, panhandlers and gawkers, celebrity chasers, newspeople, or social climbers Floyt had expected. The Rialto constabulary and various private guards were firm about keeping out the rabble. Being caught on the site without proper documentation would earn the guilty party instant ejection along with a possible broken arm or fractured skull.
Guards and security systems had already verified the identities of the Astraea Imprimatur's complement several times over—once on approach, once upon landing, and twice since in spot checks. But all that had done was match I.D. data with the phony names Praxis had entered into the system.
Many captains and other important personages had provided entertainment. The four passed bagpipers, poets, boxers, philosophers discoursing in tag-teams, tightwire fiddlers, clowns, caricaturists, and such.
Alacrity recognized a few of the people they saw, and Heart quite a number, but Sintilla seemed to know almost everyone by sight. There were ambassadors, overlords, military heavyweights, megastars from all the arts, and titans of commerce and industry, intellectual cynosures, and academic and scientific luminaries.
