Requiem For A Ruler Of Worlds

by Brian Daley

The door slid open. Alacrity looked up, expecting Peaceguardians, Earthservice bureaucrats, medical personnel, or investigators. Instead, a man of medium height and rather athletic build entered; he was tanned and handsome in the fashion that Earthers still referred to as Mediterranean. His hair was dark and straight; the ends of his carefully trimmed mustache curled around his mouth.

  He was dressed all in carefully tailored black, looking distinguished rather than dashing: a billowing shirt with long, ruffled cuffs, high collar with ruff, tapered trousers, and gleaming shoes. He also wore a sleeveless manteau, open at the front, and a satiny sash wound around his flat, slender midsection.

  The man looked to be in vigorous middle age. His eyes were light brown; the breakabout thought them to be direct and extremely observant. He stopped near the foot of the bed. When he spoke, it was in an unhurried, full voice, in formal, well-accented Terranglish.

  "You're in an Earthservice Special Clinic, Alacrity. You suffered concussion, multiple contusions, and shock, along with various fractures, sprains, minor wounds, and blood loss, but all of that's been mended, or nearly so. It's fourteen-thirty hours or so, local time, Alacrity. Do you mind if I use your first name, or would you prefer 'Guildsman' or 'Master Fitzhugh'?"

  "N-no. No. That's fine." Alacrity tried to rouse his thinking equipment and get a grip on things. His treatment and recovery indicated impressive medical resources, as good as any he could recall having seen. The kind available to the select few, or to no one at all, on most worlds.

  The man in black had anticipated most of his initial questions; Alacrity waited.

  His visitor went on, "I am Citizen Ash. Earth's executioner."

  Alacrity had heard about the man from offworlders who'd visited Terra and from the few Earthers who'd been willing to talk to him. And some mention of the office had been made in the meager guides and pamphlets issued by Earthservice.

  Trying not to show his shock, Alacrity remarked, "Very fitting name." Dust to dust. He was too numb to feel afraid.

  Ash nodded. "But it's also a type of tree once believed to be a wellspring of life."

  Alacrity wondered how many times Ash had pointed that out to people. He looked the executioner over. The man didn't appear to be the type to come into the room unprotected, even though the breakabout could see no weapons or defensive devices on him. Escape didn't strike Alacrity as likely.

  A discrepancy occurred to him. Why would the Earthservice spend so much time, effort, and technology on the recovery of an offworlder only to execute him? Perhaps it was another obscure Terran perversion.

  "I heard some of your psychprop babble: 'Earth has few capital crimes in these enlightened days.' "

  "Do us both a favor and stop showing off," Citizen Ash bade Alacrity as he sat on the foot of the bed.

  Terra had reduced its crime rate drastically over the centuries, by behavioral engineering and drastic punishments, enlightened alternatives and others not so enlightened—and by ruthless enforcement. Few serious crimes were committed on the Home world, and only a minuscule number of those were committed by people who could not or would not be dealt with in some fashion that Earthservice was willing to regard as rehabilitation—even if the process turned the perpetrator into a mildly retarded houseplant.

  But for those very few occasions when the law demanded death, Terran society met its obligation in the person of Citizen Ash. The executioner was virtually autonomous within Earthservice; he was responsible for final case review and actual carrying out of sentence. Headsman, hangman, pusher of the button, or whatever—Alacrity wasn't even sure how the man actually performed his office.

  But the breakabout did know that the position carried with it powers of investigator, detective, defense and prosecution, judge, jury, and appeals court, with extraordinary powers reserved to it alone. Even Alpha Bureaucrats showed respect for—and at times fear of—the courtly, courteous man. Ash had met his primary obligation many times during his long tenure.

  Suddenly Alacrity remembered the tall man's final scream as the force-probe had found him.

  "I didn't kill that man," the breakabout said softly, without undue drama; he assumed Ash had heard every variation on the not-guilty plea.

  The Terran made a fist, cocked out the knuckle of his index finger, and put the side of it to his pursed lips, staring into space for a moment. Alacrity waited.

  At length the other said, "It is a little over seventy-nine hours since the killing occurred, Alacrity; sentence was passed just over two hours ago. I would not be here if the case were an open-and-shut matter."

  Alacrity jackknifed upright in bed. Ash never even flinched; he appeared to have no misgivings about being in danger. It reinforced Alacrity's conviction that the executioner was well protected from any violence.

  "Then what … " Alacrity made himself defer to this pensive grim reaper.

  Ash smiled, impressed. "The depositions and testimony of those present and of the Peaceguardians all agree, as does the deathbed testimony of the deceased."

  "Deathbed testimony? He was dead before the fight was over. He had to be; I heard him when—"

  "You've been found guilty of murder, young man."

  "I had no trial!"

  "You've had all the trial to which an offworlder is entitled under Earthservice legislation."

  Alacrity now gathered himself, hidden defenses or no, for a leap at Earth's executioner, to die in a scatterbeam or blaze-field rather than heave out his life in a gasbooth or drool away his last moments under lethal medication.

  Ash held up a palm to him before he could, saying, "However, I am not satisfied that you're guilty."

  When he realized how much he would have to relax, to uncoil, in order to look unthreatening, Alacrity could only give the executioner an abashed shrug.

  Ash went on quietly, "I am intervening in your case. The court did not simply rush to judgment; it broke all previous speed records. I find that for some reason no surveillance monitor records were made of events in the plaza that morning. Moreover, only one witness claimed to have seen you actually use the force-probe. And the instrument itself, incidentally, had been stolen from an excavation site in the fortress ruins."

  He held up an imager that depicted the wiry little man who'd tried to murder Alacrity and killed his fellow Terran instead. Alacrity yelped, "That's him! That's the dungbug who—"

  "This man, too, is dead. Shortly after recording his testimony he fell from one of the trails on Huyana Picchu." Ash tucked the imager away. "I'm told such things are known to happen there."

  "Will you listen to what I'm trying to—"

  "Offworlder, you are an imbecile!"

  Ash had risen to his feet, so angry that Alacrity thought for a moment that the executioner was going to hit him. The breakabout shut up; it struck him as a wise thing to do.

  "Don't you think I can see that it's too pat?" the Terran continued in a more subdued voice. "And you, you young jackanapes, walked right into it. But something went wrong. I don't believe that there was supposed to be a death that day."

  He sat again, leaning toward the breakabout. "But the case, as such, is unassailable, at least in any length of time to be of meaningful help to you."

  "Then what're you doing here? Letting me pick how I go out?"

  The handsome face grew contorted and blood-dark in an instant, the voice raspy with anger. "If you're so inclined." He rose and paced, to turn his eyes away from the off-worlder.

  "Other options are available," he continued over his shoulder. "Radical behavior modification, permanent imprisonment under Earthservice utilization, and so forth. But the guilty party has the right of refusal."

  He turned back. "Would a star-man choose those?"

  Alacrity considered. A forebrain shampoo, or life at hard labor or as a laboratory animal on a blighted, hate-ridden little planet, with no hope of pardon or parole?

  "I suppose you're … " Alacrity's head snapped up. "Wait a second. You didn't come here just to tell m
e this, and you didn't come here because you like me or because you know I was framed. You came here because unless something's done, you're the one who's gonna have to push the button!"

  He could see that he'd hit dead center. Earth's executioner had never shirked his duty, but neither had he ever been placed in a dilemma like the present one. "Stop playing with me and tell me the rest, or by God in the Void, you'll either have to kill me or quit your office!"

  Ash's face colored in unspeakable wrath, then cleared as suddenly, and he gave a bark of laughter. "New Earthservice legislation allows me—us!—a third way. You would be obliged to leave Terra. An Earthservice department, Alacrity—our largest—keeps track of the planet's every resource, including those off world. Some of those offworld resources can be claimed by Terrans, for the benefit of all, but Earthers no longer have the knack for travel among the stars. They often come to grief, even within the solar system."

  Alacrity acknowledged that with a nod. The risks were high, even for veteran breakabouts.

  "We are initiating a new project, Project Shepherd," Ash continued, "to recruit qualified guide-escorts. I can commute your sentence. One mission for Project Shepherd, a round-trip, and you're quits with us."

  "Only one?" Alacrity blurted before he could stop himself.

  Ash gave his thin smile again. "In this case, I make the determination as to how many missions are to be required of you. The minimum, of course, is one. If you qualify, that is."

  Alacrity switched from shocked relief to indignation.

  "Qualify? To nursemaid an Earther?—no offense. Look, I realize that you don't know much about me, but I've been—"

  "Indeed?" Ash broke in. " 'Fitzhugh, Alacrity'—let's just skip the aliases, shall we?"

  That was fine with Alacrity. Ash resumed. " 'Birthplace unknown. Variously claimed or reported to be any of numerous planets and nonplanetary settlements. Most often specified as starship Cavorter in transit between Njarl's World and Hallelujah. No records available. Parents thought to be deceased.' "

  " 'Member, not in particularly good standing, of the All-Worlds Merchant Spacefarers Guild, Spican Aerospace Workers Alliance, Pan-Stellar Pilots Union, and many lesser, kindred organizations. History of frequent arrests, on a variety of planets, satellites, and other locations, including space vessels in transit.' "

  Ash paused, studying the lanky, pale offworlder; the large, almost glowing yellow eyes and the flowing gray mane with its strands of silver. For all his differences from mainbreed Terrans, he was quite youthful-looking to have such a spotty past.

  "Alacrity, what would you do if you were dining with Srillans and your host suggested that it was getting late?"

  The breakabout vaulted off the bed in a swirl of sheet and began an animated, prancing shuffle around the center of the room. Ash watched interestedly.

  Alacrity postured in grandiloquent style. He sang through his nose in imitation of the ebullient Srillan form. "Ning-ning-a-ning!" he cock-crowed. He danced around the executioner, addressing the song to him as though Ash were the hypothetical Srillan host.

  "Let us all now praise Lord Ash, ning-a-ning! For his generous hospitality"—he struck a pose, a waggish aside to his invisible audience—"(don't let the door strike you in the rump!) ning-a-ning!"

  He resumed his declamatory posture. "For this marvelous repast"—and again the aside—"(were all the toxic waste dumps closed?) ning-ning! For his thoughtfulness (it's so seldom you see utensils chained to the table!) ning-a-ning-a-ning!"

  He stopped. Ash wasn't amused; Alacrity remembered, too late, how much Terrans hated the Srillans for what they'd done to Earth.

  The executioner asked, "What would you do if you encountered, er … " He consulted his memory again. "An Adjuster on the planet Wendigo?"

  Alacrity's expression went blank. His eyes unfocused. "Encounter? How? There's no one there, citizen; no one! If I remember that and behave accordingly, she may be indifferent to me and pass by."

  "And the Parade of Initiates on C'que's Nest?"

  "Steer a wide course around it. By parsecs, preferably. The hatchlings are always hungry, and their elders aren't inclined to deny them anything that day of the year. Well? Satisfied?"

  "Quite. You're well qualified."

  Alacrity sat on the bed, nodding smugly. "Damn right. You couldn't find a better … "

  He looked up again, facing Ash. He said slowly, "You couldn't find a better escort on Earth if you tried all day. That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

  "I believe that to be the case, Alacrity, but I can't prove it. At least not now. The sentence commutation covering Project Shepherd applies to lesser crimes as well as to homicide. Inciting to riot, for example; disturbing the peace; aggravated assault."

  "They needed a babysitter, so they gave me a visa and arranged for trouble." He looked around the room suddenly. "Hold on; is anybody, uh … "

  Ash motioned a dismissal. "No one monitors my conversations if I don't allow it."

  "Nobody scroodles with Citizen Ash, huh?"

  "Let's stay with the subject; I haven't much more time. A Terran named Hobart Floyt must go to Epiphany to claim an inheritance at the Willreading of Caspahr Weir, and return to Earth with it for disposition by the Earthservice Resources Bureau."

  "Epiphany … " Alacrity frowned. Few outsiders ever made planetfall on Weir's personal world. The breakabout had heard rumors about the fabulous Frostpile and about Weir himself, even though a little nineteen-system realm was barely a spit in the ocean. Alacrity had already made up his mind but continued to probe, from reflex and for sheer love of it.

  "What's the inheritance? What am I going to be guarding?"

  "Floyt, at the very least. Beyond that, no one knows yet. A pittance, perhaps, or the deed to a planet."

  Alacrity squinted at him. "I can't think of many reasons Earthservice would trust me, saving only one, citizen."

  Ash nodded. "There's a proviso. That's why you're in an Alpha Bureaucrats' clinic."

  "Conditioning!" Alacrity clenched his fists and prepared again to jump the executioner.

  "Stop!" Ash had his palm up again. "There'll be no enslavement, Alacrity; no altering. My word on that."

  Alacrity found himself listening.

  "You escort Floyt to Epiphany, stay with him for the Willreading, which, with its attendant ceremonies, shouldn't take you more than a few days. Keep him safe, then return him with his inheritance. And that will be an end to it, insofar as you're concerned."

  "And all I have to put up with is a little brain-changing, hmm?"

  "There'll be no tampering, Alacrity. The modifications will only ensure that you keep your end of the bargain. I've let it be known that I will tolerate nothing beyond that."

  "Out to Epiphany and back … " Alacrity said to himself, as though he hadn't decided. "You win. But just don't forget: we've both been scroodled, good and proper. Me because I was bugtrapped; you because you're sentencing an innocent man."

  "I have no intention of forgetting it."

  "Why aren't you trying to find out who did it to us?"

  Ash looked at him for five seconds or so. "When I leave here, I will fly directly to the cell of a young woman who's been sentenced to death. She admits her guilt but refuses any alternative. She isn't as fortunate as you in having another way out. I will try to dissuade her from choosing execution, but I don't hold much hope. There are other cases, more than my office can properly deal with. And the backlog's growing worse. You're not the highest priority on my list, not anymore."

  Alacrity said nothing. Ash was about to leave again when he remembered something. "By the way: your surname, 'Fitzhugh.' It's of ancient derivation, like mine. But I doubt it's your real one. What made you pick it?"

  Alacrity grinned. "It was given to me a long time ago. My name's a pun, Citizen Ash. In your precious Terranglish."

  Chapter 4

  Firm Offer

  Floyt drew a deep breath when he reached his apt doorpanel. "Open,"
he said to the pickup mesh; the lock snapped back, and the doorpanel slid aside.

  He trudged between the neat stacks of boxes and cases that held a good part of the family's possessions. They were piled in the hallway because Floyt had appropriated the hall closet as a tiny workspace. Into it he had crammed a chair and minuscule table, desk-model accessor, and the accumulated reference materials and data of years of research. Balensa was fairly tolerant of the arrangement, in that he'd ceded her most of the rest of the apt.

  And there'd been considerably more room once Reesa had moved from her alcove. The seventeen-year-old was engaged in a work-study program in pursuit of an advanced degree, deeply involved in a somewhat romantic recreation of a Pleistocene tribal group. Her parents were quite fond of her, but had been relieved when she'd relocated to the school dormitory in Lapland. Leaving flint chips in the hygiene chamber to ambush bare feet, singeing the carpet with sparks struck during firemaking attempts, and the aroma of artificial animal grease had severely tested her parents' affection. She'd been rather hurt when they'd drawn the line at joining her in primate grooming behavior; Balensa in particular had been dismayed at the thought of searching her family for vermin.

  Floyt grew alert when he realized that someone was in the modest living room with Balensa—a female whose voice he didn't recognize. And it was no tete-a-tete, for the stranger's voice was cold and formal, even hostile.

  There was an expectant pause in the conversation. They were looking his way when he appeared.

  Balensa seemed subdued but vexed. She was still an attractive woman, petite, with chestnut hair, an unlined face, and the figure of a teenager. She was dressed in a reproduction, an Italian style from the latter fifteenth century, of synthetics posing as stiff, densely patterned blue velvet interwoven with gold, its V-shape front showing off her slenderness to good advantage.

  The other woman was unknown to Floyt, but seeing her gave him a start of dismay. She wore a well-tailored office suit and the pleated brown robes of an Earthservice supervisor. He concluded at once that the corridor incident had been picked up by Peaceguardian surveillance equipment.