The Other

by Matthew Hughes

  “There is a needle-thrower in the Arbitration’s connaissarium,” Brosch said. “It is an antique from the clitch-mining days, but I believe it is still functional.”

  “Would it fit in my pouch?” Imbry said.

  “Yes. It is designed to be concealed in the palm.”

  “Then I will take it. I will also need some kind of communications device that can bespeak spaceships passing by Fulda.”

  “I do not know if we have such capability,” Brosch said. “Fulda’s policy has always been ‘no truck nor trade with the Pit.’”

  “You have some kind of communicator.”

  The elder signified that was so. “We use it to contact our colleagues.”

  Communications had been standardized among the Ten Thousand Worlds for millennia, Imbry knew. “Then provide it to me. I can probably adapt it to serve my needs.”

  “Anything else?” Shvarden said.

  Imbry thought the younger man’s tone bordered on the peevish. “I ask little enough,” he said, “considering that I am risking my life in the furtherance of your spiritual destiny—in the joys of which I am not to be included.”

  Shvarden conceded the point. “All right,” he said, “anything else?” This time the question contained no barbs or abrasives.

  “I don’t suppose you have a medical scanner?”

  “A hospital would,” Brosch said. “Here we have only a first-aid capacity. Why?”

  “Whoever started all this has had no difficulty keeping track of my movements. He has probably implanted a device that reports to him. If I could remove it safely, I could disappear from his view.”

  In truth, Imbry would not throw away a tell-tale. Instead he would use it to set a trap for his kidnapper. But there was no reason to burden the arbiters with that knowledge, nor with the fact that the moment he had the means to get off Fulda, the progress from Eye to Eye to the navel of the world would summarily end. And the First Eye would depart with him.

  “There is a hospital at Old Camp,” said Brosch. “That is near one of the Eyes on your route.”

  “Would they treat an oddy?” Imbry said.

  “They will do so if we ask it.”

  “Then let us plan on that.”

  “Anything else?” Shvarden said, sounding as if he desired to be helpful.

  “To get out of here without encountering Breeth,” Imbry said. “Can you arrange that?”

  Brosch went to a cabinet, opened its doors, and removed several containers and parcels stacked on the shelves. Then he removed the shelves themselves and, kneeling, slipped a finger into a hole in a bottom corner of the cabinet’s back. The panel swung inward, revealing another flight of steps into darkness. Shvarden uttered a small sound of surprise.

  Brosch stood, brushing grit from his kneecaps. “If the investigator knows of this exit,” he said, “he is a very knowledgeable provost’s man, indeed.” To the younger arbiter he said, “Go upstairs and bring the needle-thrower and a communicator—we’ll need to keep in touch with the Arbitration. Tell Cope and Bardijan to put together the necessities for our journey, but do not tell them anything else.

  “In the morning, I will take a carriage and depart by the north road, as if I am going to Vring to consult with High Arbiter Platch. Before I leave, I will stop at the provost station and tell them that you remain in our custody and under study.”

  “And what do I do?” Imbry said.

  Brosch indicated the cabinet. “The tunnel goes north. It comes out in a slight dip that screens it from the town. Go to its far end and wait until I arrive and say that all is well. Arbiter Shvarden will accompany you.”

  Another question occurred to Imbry. “Why did you dig the tunnel?”

  Brosch formed his mouth briefly into a dismissive quirk. “When our ancestors built the first Arbitration in Pilger’s Corners, there was some disaffection from the old population.”

  “They didn’t care for you arriving and telling them that their home was now yours.”

  “Actually,” said Shvarden, “we burned their homes. They were unclean.”

  “There was no other way,” said the elder. “The Blessed Haldeyn had made it clear that there was no place for irregulars on Fulda.”

  “Until,” Imbry said, “he decided that there was.”

  “It is a mutable revelation,” said Brosch, “subject to change as we grow nearer to perfection.”

  “And you think you’re quite near now?”

  Brosch pointed to the box on the table. “Can there be any doubt?”

  “Breeth seems to entertain more than his share of it,” said Imbry.

  Brosch made a contemptuous sound at the back of his throat. “Breeth is finished.”

  “The investigator might have his own views on that score, too,” the fat man said. “Another reason why I will require the needle-thrower.”

  “You would shoot a provost’s man?” Shvarden said.

  “Ordinarily, no. But Investigator Breeth is a special case. If he comes at me again, I will shoot him out of hand.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The tunnel’s exit was plugged by a wooden door, precisely fitted to the dimensions of the tunnel and covered on its outside, so Shvarden said, by a stucco of stones and grit that blended with the stony earth in which it was set. Imbry was not prepared to take the arbiter’s word for it. With the needle-thrower snug in the palm of his hand, he gently pushed against the barrier until it came free of the tunnel mouth. Cautiously, he moved it aside then stepped out into the predawn stillness.

  He was on the inner slope of a hollow not far from the road that led north out of Pilger’s Corners. He could see the road where it descended the same slope to his right, not much farther than Imbry could have thrown a stone. It carried on, empty of traffic, in a straight line across the bottom of the hollow until it began to climb a gentler slope about a half an hour’s walk north.

  He wished he had a viewer with which to scan the distance, using energies that took no notice of whether it was day or night. But to his naked eye, no one was within sight. He scaled the slope he had emerged out of, poking just the top half of his head over its rim, and saw nothing moving between him and the outskirts of the town.

  Not entirely satisfied, he slid back to where Shvarden sat, knees to chin, a little way into the tunnel. Imbry backed in beside him then took up the camouflaged cover by the handles set into its inner surface and repositioned it over the mouth. It was a good fit, no chink of dawn light showing. Unless Breeth knew it was there, he ought not to be able to find it.

  “We will wait,” he told the arbiter. “Although perhaps you would care to lie on the upper slope and peek over the rim to watch for Arbiter Brosch?” The implant Imbry believed had been inserted in him would tell his enemy where he was. Now that the fat man had a weapon, it might be useful if whoever came and went in the carry-all tried another mischief-making descent. Shvarden was the only available bait.

  But Shvarden declined the invitation, saying, “The Senior Arbiter said we were to wait inside until he came. You have already violated his orders by going out and looking around.”

  “I am not subject to his orders.”

  Shvarden put on a stern face. “The arbitration has the legitimate power of governance on Fulda, in all but the criminal law. You are subject to that governance.”

  “What are my countervailing rights and recourse?” Imbry said.

  “If you were an Ideal, you would be entitled to the provisions of the Founding Charter.”

  Imbry said, “Does my status as Finder make me an Ideal?”

  “No.”

  “Then I repeat my original question.”

  The arbiter seemed chagrined. “I have noticed,” he said, “that when we discuss the status of irregulars you appear to become aggravated.”

  “It is more than appearance. Imagine that you were snatched from your daily existence and unwillingly transported to the Pit. Imagine further that there you found that your qualities, though obviousl
y worthy in your own milieu, were treated with contempt, that people shuddered at the mere thought of your touch, that the authorities could beat you with impunity. I predict that your threshold for aggravation would be even lower than mine.”

  Shvarden’s brows drew down. “It would not happen thus. I am an Ideal, a last of the last. The irregulars of the Pit would immediately see my worth and defer to me.”

  “Oh, really?” said Imbry.

  “You doubt?”

  “The last time there were Ideals on whatever world your ancestors came from, there was very little deference. My understanding was that you all left with their boot prints on your fundamentals.”

  The arbiter made a noise between a cluck and a tch and rolled his eyes. “What would an irregular know about such things?”

  “For a start,” said Imbry, “this irregular would have a far better grasp of how a world full of irregulars would view an Ideal whose only claim to distinction is to be completely and demonstrably average in every respect.”

  “It is a holy thing to be an Ideal! We are the template, the Golden Mean from which the rest of humanity has strayed!”

  “On sensible worlds,” said Imbry, “rich worlds full of wonders and beauty, it is the exceptional who are valued and sought out—precisely for the exceptionality.” He made a dismissive gesture. “The fellow who is merely average stands in the shadows of his betters.”

  Shvarden drew a long breath of outrage. “Betters?” he said. “You turn reality on its head! It is the Golden Mean that provides the standard. Anybody knows that.”

  “Anybody, I agree,” said Imbry, “who has seen as little of the true state of the human condition as is visible from Fulda.”

  Shvarden had grown increasingly agitated. His arms flew about, his eyes looked here then there, but found nothing comforting on which to settle. “I never thought to hear such pernicious nonsense,” he said. “You’re so misguided, I do not know where to begin correcting you.”

  “No,” said Imbry. “Mine is the proper perspective, based on a wider experience of humanity than all of the Ideals of Fulda put together.”

  The arbiter spluttered, then said, “No! I will hear no more of this!” He looked at the camouflaged door as if seeing it for the first time. “I will go and look to see if Decider Brosch is coming.” He rose and took hold of the barrier’s handles.

  “Shall I come with you?” Imbry said. “I would like to try for a meeting of our minds.”

  “No, you may not. And when the decider comes, I strongly advise you to modify the expression of your views. He has a short tolerance for such puff and piffle.”

  “I will take your advice,” said Imbry, “since I know it is well intended.”

  Shvarden stepped out and looked about. He made to reposition the door in its place, but Imbry begged him not to bother—he would take care of it. The arbiter left the chore to him and trudged up the slope on the Pilger’s Corners side of the hollow.

  Imbry did not close the portal. Instead, he angled it so that it was almost closed, though there remained a gap of a couple of fingers’ breadth between the top of the door and the top of the opening. He crouched down, holding the portal thus ajar, and watched the sky above them. His back was against the door, his stomach beneath the overhang of the tunnel roof. The needle-thrower was in his palm, its orifice projecting between two plump fingers.

  And so he waited. Shvarden had prostrated himself on the slope, as Imbry had suggested. The fat man could hear him muttering to himself. Imbry supposed the man was unused to having his preconceptions challenged—Fuldan society was clearly not such as to offer a welcome to anyone who aspired to debate first principles—and probably the last source from which an arbiter might expect an argument was an irregular.

  But the strategy had worked. The bait had taken the bait. Now the question was: would Imbry’s quarry be as cooperative? He kept his eye on the upper air which, because of the peculiarity of Fulda’s dense, moist atmosphere was comparatively brightly lit, while down at the surface the crepuscular light was dim. He had an idle thought: that he would be interested to read the planet’s entry in Hobey’s Compleat Guide to the Settled Planets, the indispensable handbook for travelers of The Spray. It was odd that a world so small and with such light gravity should have such a dense and high-reaching atmosphere—and one so full of moisture. It ought to rain, he thought, yet it doesn’t. He could conceive of no easy explanation for the anomaly. The Fuldan tendency to toss around casual mentions of piercing the membranes between the Planes made Imbry think that the world might be one of those rare, and usually out-of-the-way places he had heard about, places where the borders between the dimensions could be crossed. In such places, the laws of physics were subject to radical amendment. Besides, he thought, the atmosphere is far from the most anomalous feature of the place. He would not be surprised to see Fulda’s Guide entry headed by large letters, set in colored type, and framed by a dark-bordered box, that read: NOT RECOMMENDED.

  The dawn was advancing. There was even more light in the upper air. He squinted up through the gap between door and tunnel mouth, his thighs beginning to ache from the sustained squat. Perhaps an arbiter would not do for bait. Or perhaps whoever was up there could see him peering. The tell-tale lodged in his belly—he was sure that’s where it would be, its hooks clutching the inner lining of his stomach—might not be screened by the roof of the tunnel. The watcher would not come if he knew he was being watched.

  But then he saw a spark of light, tiny but bright, high up. Imbry shuffled deeper into the tunnel, pulling the door closer, so that the gap narrowed to a crack. The sun again glinted off some polished surface far above him, but not as far now as when he had first glimpsed it.

  He closed the door, moved a little deeper into the tunnel and listened. Meanwhile his educated thumb flicked over the control studs at the base of the needle-thrower’s short barrel. He set it to release only one of its tiny high-speed missiles per activation. He didn’t want to riddle his target—at least not prematurely.

  He breathed slowly, and thought through what he was about to do, picturing it step by step on the inner screen of his mind. If the situation was thus, he would act so. If it offered a different set of circumstances, he would be ready. When he moved it would be quickly, and his well-trained reflexes would carry him through.

  He heard a soft thrumming, almost below the threshold of hearing. He knew it would not get much louder. And then it ceased. He heard a faint scritching of metal on the hard ground and a sharp “Oh!” from Shvarden. Imbry threw aside the door and stepped out.

  What he saw was not quite what he had expected. A short distance away, resting on the flat where the slope ended was the carry-all. That much was no surprise. But he did not see an operator inside the forward canopy. Indeed, he saw no canopy; the dome had been removed. The operator’s compartment stood open to the elements, which would have been no inconvenience on mild and temperate Fulda, but if Imbry were to attempt to fly the vehicle up to where the ship from which it originated orbited, he would soon be in the same condition as poor Shan-Pei.

  More surprising, at least for the moment, was the figure who stood in the open cargo compartment that made up most of the length of the vehicle. Imbry recognized him right away, not so much by the features—since Ideals were visually interchangeable—but by the expression of sanctimony. Somehow, the long-dead Founder of the Ideals movement had found an opportunity to return to this imperfect plane and was now standing in a battered utility vehicle, beckoning to Shvarden.

  The young arbiter had been lying belly down on the slope, peering toward town. When the vehicle alighted behind him on the hard soil, he would have turned over. Now he lay on his back, his upper half propped up on his elbows. In a glance, Imbry took in the man’s attitude, which was that of a devotee of any cult who unexpectedly encounters his deity: mouth wide open, eyes the same, throat convulsively working as he swallowed nervously and simultaneously sought for words to express his shock.<
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  But Imbry disregarded the Blessed Haldeyn. He raised the needle-thrower close to his mouth so that he could speak in a whisper to inform it of its target, then lowered and extended his arm so that the weapon could discharge toward the operator’s compartment. There was neither sound nor recoil, but the needle-thrower vibrated briefly against his palm to inform him that it had done as ordered. Imbry did not see the needle it discharged—the tiny, densely compacted missile flew at hypersonic speed—but he saw the effect of the impact.

  The needle struck with no more noise than the snapping of a dry twig, but a protrusion on the operator’s console exploded into fragments. The figure standing in the cargo bay took no notice of the flying debris, some of which passed right through him without causing any damage, though the shrapnel should have torn flesh. But there was no flesh to tear. The apparition of the Blessed Haldeyn was a projected three-dimensional image from a device that was probably fixed into the carry-all’s bed.

  Imbry was striding forward. “Stop!” he said, as he heard the vehicle’s obviators begin to cycle up. “This man”—he indicated the arbiter, still gaping but rising shakily to his feet—“is a member of the civil authority of this world. He orders you not to depart!”

  The carry-all continued to energize its systems, but its integrator said to Shvarden, “Is what he says true?”

  The young man opened and closed his mouth twice.

  “Say yes,” said Imbry.

  “Yes,” said Shvarden.

  Imbry had reached the vehicle. He leaned into the cargo bay and pressed a control on the simulacrum projector he found there. Immediately, the image of the Founder of the Ideals disappeared. Then he spoke to the integrator.

  “You are in trouble,” he told it.

  “Am I?”

  The device’s question was intended for Shvarden. Imbry turned to the arbiter and said, “Say yes.”

  “Yes.” Shvarden was staring into the carry-all’s cargo bay. His shock had passed and his face was hardening into anger.

  “Kidnapping and murder,” said Imbry,