by Brian Daley
Alacrity Fitzhugh now stood over the limp body of Hobart Floyt. Floyt lay with his face in a pool of blood. The breakabout held the little Emancipator in his hand, offering it to the banker, glowering at him. He held it with grip extended.
Empty, registered Endwraithe, smug that he'd been fairly confident of that all along. He stepped a little closer.
Alacrity tensed. "I'll make you a deal," he said.
Endwraithe almost guffawed at the man's naïveté. Still, it might be an opportunity to learn Weir's enigmatic bequest to Floyt. And that could be worth quite a lot. He took a few steps closer, keeping in mind that he must finish things quickly. "What sort of deal? Toss the pistol over here!"
"All right, Endwraithe: you get the gun and the groundling, then you let me go and we're quits."
Only too promptly, the banker responded, "Very well, it's a bargain. But throw down the gun right now!" He wasn't too afraid of the weapon; the breakabout held it by the barrel.
"Anything you say," Alacrity agreed, seeing that the man could be lured no closer. His hand swung down and back, preparing to toss. But when it came up, it gripped the pistol normally and Alacrity was taking aim.
Endwraithe's pinbeam began to rise. Remembering that his weapon had fired low the first time, Alacrity aimed higher. The projectile passed through Endwraithe's left eye in an eruption of blood and aqueous humor.
The banker reeled backward, dropping his weapon, clapping hands to his face, falling. He convulsed, blood running between his fingers. The spasms and kicks were weakening even as Alacrity got to him, pistol reversed again, prepared to club him. In moments, Endwraithe had stopped moving.
Alacrity scooped up the pinbeam. "It's over."
But Floyt had already sprung up and charged in to back up his companion. Now he slid to a stop. The Terran's mouth still streamed blood and froth. He looked down pensively at Endwraithe.
"I guess we won't be needing this," he remarked, holding out a palm in which a bloody tooth lay, his own upper left cuspid.
"Nope. Your bicuspid did the trick. A little light for distance work, though, I'd say. How's your mouth feeling?"
Floyt spat out a gobbet of blood. "You try it sometime. And my nose hurts again, too."
"I'm sorry, Ho. I truly am. But it was your idea, after all."
Alacrity started for the ramp. Floyt fell in with him. "What about his body, Alacrity?"
"It's not going anywhere."
They'd barely walked three coils of the ramp when they encountered a mob of Invincibles bearing heavy weapons, hand-held spotlights, detectors, portable shields, and loudhailers. They were instantly surrounded and disarmed. It was clear that they'd receive a thorough pummeling at the first sign of resistance. Officers shouted a barrage of questions at them.
"They never told me this was in my job description," Alacrity sighed to Floyt.
"Mine either."
Chapter 19
Strange Attractors
From the hill on which the alpha bureaucrat's conference villa sat, virtually every part of Kathmandu could be seen, and the great valley in which it sat. The city had escaped destruction in the Final Smear.
The gathered Alphas looked out on buildings of red-brown brick made in time-honored style, side by side with glassy domes; millennia-old stupas next to permacrete minarets. The rainy season was over, but the hour was too early for the heat of the day to have begun blowing the city's dust about.
Ranged along the outdoor breakfast table, Terra's ruling public servants dined on shell eggs, fresh meats in unlimited quantity and genuine coffee, tea, and juices. They were waited upon by attractive, well-trained human servants.
The Alpha Bureaucrats gave their meal appropriate attention; no one else on the planet rated food of such quality. All the Alphas had aged beyond the ability of Earth's medicine to fight off signs of catabolism; all contemplated retirement with great joy.
Their meetings were characterized by a conspicuous, even forced casualness. They maintained an informal clubbishness to set themselves aside from the tightly controlled masses they ruled and to mask the wary and unrelenting competitiveness among them.
"One last thing," Cynthia Chin said around a mouthful of coddled egg, as if she'd just remembered it—though the subject had been hovering in the air all morning.
"There's the matter of that Weir bequest. The one in which that delightful Supervisor Bear person of yours has embroiled us, Raymond."
Stemp contemplated a gorgeous fruit cocktail, pretending to smile. Eyes went to him. The Alphas waited, dressed in their uniforms and ceremonial outfits and eccentric, one-of-a-kind costumes from Earth's past.
"That situation has been dealt with," Stemp assured them with elaborate calm.
"Surely you'll forgive our being curious," Chin pursued. It looked like an afterthought when she added casually, "I understand that there are rumors to the effect that Weir had become aware of certain Blackguard information."
Stemp hid the impact of that warhead by languidly sampling the fruit cocktail, but he'd been rocked. Blackguard information! He wondered where she'd obtained her data—who might be allying with her against him.
Yielding to Chin's probe would be surrendering an Alpha's right to privacy and autonomy. The others might take it as a sign of vulnerability or decline—a very dangerous thing for Stemp.
On the other hand, if he refused to reassure, to keep them abreast of a matter potentially disastrous to all, it might bring about a consensus against him.
And occasionally the predators fed on one another.
He elected to cut his losses and salvage all he could from the skirmish. "Well then, let me put your mind at ease, dear Cynthia. We should never hold back pertinent information, don't you agree?"
Although she tried to avoid answering, showing a noncommittal expression, he went on congenially, "Yes, of course you do." He'd nailed it down, making it awkward for her to refute, since she'd done the asking. He vowed to use it against her one day.
He continued, making strong eye contact with the others as he spoke. "Our agent, the Spican banker Endwraithe, is in place and has been activated. He has orders to discover what he can about the bequest, but his primary mission is to execute Floyt and his escort. He will then transmit confirmation to me on the fastest available ship."
"Ah!" Cynthia Chin toyed with a dish of sherbet. "What if—unthinkable, I know, but isn't preparedness-in-depth always a good idea?—what if the banker fails you?"
Fails you. Stemp considered the possibilities in an instant's hesitation. Endwraithe was one of their most capable operatives. Surely, with his long-established position in Frostpile and the advantage of surprise, he'd have no trouble carrying out an assignment against a minor functionary and a nameless space tramp.
Stemp gave Chin a blase look. "I can give you my personal guarantee: the matter will be dealt with."
"So." She appeared to go back to her egg. "If Alpha Bureaucrat Stemp promises to see to a problem personally, there's nothing more to be alarmed about."
That wasn't what he'd said, as everyone at the table knew. But retrenching and redefining would be tactically unwise, indicating confusion and lack of confidence. Little as he intended to become personally involved in the affair, he let her distortion stand.
The thought of those two idiots, Floyt and Fitzhugh, on the loose with some unnamed Weir legacy and a valid Earthservice letter of Free Import in their possession chilled him. But Stemp forced down his misgivings and exchanged small talk with the other Alphas. After all, Endwraithe was a capable, rigorously conditioned agent.
And his prey? Two hapless pawns. Insignificant nobodies.
* * * *
This time, it was Tiajo who favored shooting them.
And, oddly, it was Governor Redlock who intervened, with the help of Dorraine and Maska. But all the furor over Endwraithe's death was deflected when, in grudging response to the claims of Floyt and Alacrity, Tiajo had Endwraithe's suite and personal effects examined. Among t
he personal commo codes of the deceased were several no one could identify. A canny, squint-eyed old house cryptographer vouched that they were not commercial codes nor anything recognizably Spican. At about that same time, an Invincible forensic officer reported that the story told by Floyt and Alacrity checked out; the banker had attempted to kill them, and they'd ambushed him in self-defense.
"But why would a Spican banker care what happens to us?" Floyt repeated. Medics had stopped the bleeding of his gums and lips, controlled the swelling, and taken away most of the excruciating pain. They'd also removed the sharp-edged roots of his missing teeth, but replacement or regeneration would have to wait.
He was just thankful that he'd had the presence of mind to open his mouth at the last second to minimize the damage done by Alacrity's big fist. Still, the analgesics and the gap in his dentition made his speech lispy, distorted, and a bit sloppy.
Alacrity stood with folded arms, not answering Floyt's question. The doctors had seen to his wounds and tended the fractured knuckles in his right hand, disinfecting the deep lacerations made by Floyt's teeth.
No one else had an answer for the Earther. Finally, Dorraine said, "If you two still intend to go to Blackguard to claim the bequest, I think you'd be well advised to go at once, as quickly as you can."
"But how?" Floyt demanded.
"My wife and I are departing in half an hour, in the Blue Pearl," Redlock answered. "We'll take you as far as Epiphany's spaceport. From there you're on your own."
The two companions looked at Tiajo. The old woman made no objection to Redlock's offer of minor assistance. Neither did she relent on the penalty she'd imposed on them. "If you remain here, I'm reasonably certain that my legal staff can present a number of serious indictments. Spican observers would be present at any legal proceedings."
The pair instantly abandoned any thought of pleading for further aid. Their Earthservice conditioning and their instincts of self-preservation had their hair standing on end; their irresistible urge was to get into motion. Bowing and backing toward the door, bumping into one another, they were gone in moments.
"Strange Attractors," Admiral Maska mused.
"How's that again, my Lord?" Dorraine asked.
"Strange Attractors," the Srillan said again, louder. "Something of an interest of mine. Enigmatic forces affecting the turbulence around them. The subject held a certain fascination for Director Weir, as you know."
"Is that how you perceive those two blatherskites, Admiral?" Tiajo exploded.
"Wouldn't you say that that's been their impact here on Epiphany, madam?" He looked at the door through which Alacrity and Floyt had disappeared.
"And now they're on the loose together in the grandest turbulence of all: the chaotic dynamics of the Third Breath of humankind."
A contemplative silence settled over the chamber.
* * * *
There was no time to wait for automated valets or household servants. Their suite became a whirlwind scene of hysterical packing, of yelling, accusation, and counteraccusation. Nevertheless, they were in too much of a hurry to be angry with one another.
Out in the corridor again, they glanced at the door to Sintilla's suite. "I forgot all about Endwraithe's phony message," Floyt said. "You don't suppose he hurt her, do you?"
"We'd better check. Besides, she might have some advice."
Prolonged leaning on her door signal produced no result. Finally, Floyt pressed out the entry code. "I couldn't help noticing it the other day." He blushed.
"Don't apologize to me; I do it all the time."
She was not inside. On a hunch, Floyt went and hit the playback on her answering unit. On a table lay his and Alacrity's proteuses; they'd completely slipped his mind. He shoved them into a pocket.
No messages were recorded, but in her answering recording, Sintilla said that she would be at funeral rites slated to be held by some of the non-Inheritors.
"So she went straight there after we left her in the corridor," Floyt concluded with relief, "and she won't be back until midnight or so. She's all right, then. Alacrity? What are you doing?"
The breakabout was bent over the journalist's personal, desk-model proteus. "Oh no! Oh, God, Buddha, and Freud in the Void!"
"What is it?"
"Read for yourself!"
Floyt leaned over the screen and read the message on which Sintilla had been working.
TO: ANDRAX MIXTO, MANAGING EDITOR, FIRST BURST PUBLICATIONS
FROM: SINTILLA ANDY, SIT DOWN BEFORE YOU READ THIS, LOVE! I HAVE THE
PERFECT NEW SERIES FOR PUBLICATION UNDER MY BOMBASTICO HERDMAN PSEUDONYM! THE SITUATION FITS THE READERSHIP-PSYCHOMETRICIANS' REQUIREMENT EXACTLY: VERIFIABLY EXTANT MAIN CHARACTERS WITH AN "EVERYMAN" TOUCH; VERY LOW PROBABILITY THAT THEY'D EVEN STEP FORWARD TO IDENTIFY THEMSELVES, MUCH LESS DENOUNCE THE STORIES; PLENTY OF LEEWAY TO "SWEETEN" THE STORY LINES. IT'S A NATURAL FOR MY READERS!
WORKING TITLE FOR THE FIRST BOOK IS HOBART FLOYT AND ALACRITY FITZHUGH IN THE CASTLE OF THE DEATH ADDICTS. OTHERS ALREADY OUTLINED ARE HOBART FLOYT AND ALACRITY FITZHUGH VERSUS THE BRAIN EATERS OF THE GALACTICRIM, AND HOBART FLOYT AND ALACRITY FITZHUGH CHALLENGE THE AMAZON SLAVE WOMEN OF THE SUPERNOVA.
IT COULD MAKE US EVEN MORE MONEY THAN THE WEIR BOOKS! I'LL BE WAITING TO HEAR FROM YOU, ANDY!
KISSES, TILLA
"Well, she said we were going to make her rich," Floyt remarked weakly.
"So. She wrote all those Weir books too. No wonder she's a privileged character around here. I'll bet that's how he bribed her into not writing any more of them."
"Alacrity, she can't do this to us!"
"What're you complaining about? At least your name's first." He settled into a chair, shoulders slumped. "If I sat right here and thought all day, I couldn't think of anything that'd get Earthservice madder, or make things tougher on us. Once this gets out, every mental case in the galaxy's gonna be on the lookout for us."
They both had the same thought in that moment: Kid Risk, and the many kinds of sorrow a similar fate had brought down upon him.
"Alacrity, we've got to hurry." Floyt grabbed his luggage; Alacrity snatched up his warbag. They made for the door.
"Yeah, that's the ticket, Ho! If we can get everything squared away before she gets those books published, maybe we'll be all right."
They spied a corridor tram and hastened toward it. "And if we don't manage that?" Floyt couldn't help wondering aloud.
"The crackpots'll be all over us like a cheap spacesuit. They'll be out to rob us, or challenge us!"
"Or interview us!"
"Run, Ho! Run!"
About The Author
Brian Daley is the author of seven previous novels of science fiction and fantasy, the most recent being A Tapestry of Magics. He also scripted the National Public Radio serial adaptations of Star Wars and The Empire Strikes Back. His whereabouts are subject to change without notice, but he favors Manhattan.
Version History
[v1—25 apr 2003—scanned and proofed by anonymous]
[v2—26 oct 2003—reproofed by Escaped Chicken Spirits (ECS)]
[v2.1—03 aug 2005—reproofed by fltgoon]
And conversion to LIT v2.1 by B.D.
