L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume 35

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Find a school,” he repeated.

  “Did you understand anything else I just said?”

  He wagged his head unconvincingly. “Most?”

  Mag folded the kickstand. “Get on.”

  The multi-spired outline of Hotel Alikesh was the grandest sight for miles, including Ellawi’s three-hundred-year-old cathedral. Gleaming ramparts and polished roof tiles glowed the color of sunset and resembled a flaming crown.

  Mag and Lio agreed that they’d pretend, if asked, that he was her personal attendant. At the city gate, Mag balked at the gatekeeper’s exorbitant entrance fee. As she reached for her wallet, palms sweating slightly, Lio leaned around to stare at the gatekeeper. The man smiled at him and offered a discount on behalf of her hungry-looking kid. Mag was happy to take whatever kindness she could get.

  The hall clock read five minutes after one in the afternoon as Mag turned her room key in its lock. Lio sprang across plush carpet toward the array of complimentary fruit and nuts. Mag stashed valuables in the room’s safe, sent a bag of clothes to the laundry, then locked herself in the bathroom for a thorough washing. Half an hour later, the laundry returned, pressed and steamed. The Alikesh almost certainly employed a simmer.

  Mag dressed, then noted the emptied food bowls. Lio lay curled on the bed, eyes closed. Perhaps his flatulence of the previous night had been his stomach’s distrust of a full meal after prolonged starvation. She tapped his shoulder and suggested that he bathe, then called Petrin Nasheed’s room and acquired permission to borrow his therma-pin for the negotiation. She took a slow stroll through the hotel’s courtyard, noting the sky’s deepening shade of purple while she relished a cig, then returned to the room.

  Lio was asleep atop the bedspread. His wet hair smelled of orange-blossom soap, but he’d put on the same filthy long-sleeved shirt again. She reached to touch his forehead, then stopped herself. She seated herself at the room’s desk, back to the sleeping boy, and fixed her eyes on her notes.

  Big. Important. I see in your face. What you do today?” Lio asked. Mag sat at breakfast with him in the courtyard. He’d been slipping dried dates into his pocket.

  She said, “I’m going to help some angry people find a way to agree.”

  He leaned in. “Angry people are dangerous, yes? You bring gun for shield?”

  She smiled. “No guns. Just mouths for talking and ears for listening. And brains for thinking. Hopefully.”

  “No one have guns?”

  She shrugged. “Well, someone usually smuggles something in. But I keep tempers in check so that no one uses them.”

  Her hip throbbed in bitter protest.

  “Then you take this.” Lio held up his lucky bracelet.

  The conference room’s twin chandeliers reflected on Mag’s polished boots. Her buckles, buttons, even her gold nose-ring, were freshly shined. Lio’s bracelet weighed heavy in her pocket. She’d purchased an expensive black scarf from the hotel boutique in order to wear Palab’s traditional color of power.

  Mag had left Lio in the hotel room with plenty of vids and snacks, and stern orders to stay put. She entered the conference room an intentional five minutes late.

  All were in attendance. The ice-blue marble floor was streaked with white branches and black flecks, resembling a dark snowfall. A double row of brown earth-stone pillars lined the hall like an orderly forest. Two tables faced each other, seating three delegates apiece.

  Before introductions, Mag silently scrubbed for bugs with her snoop, calibrated the borrowed therma-pin, then strode to stand at the room’s far end.

  She mentally summoned her clients’ profiles as she surveyed them.

  Nalib Rinwahl had held a national monopoly on duja sales for fifteen years. Five years ago ceded sales south of the Hebra River to Petrin Nasheed. Lost wife to stomach cancer within the last year, but still wore a silver wedding cuff. Known for his severe temperament, Nalib Rinwahl was also a traditionalist obsessed with reputation and honor.

  He sat to her right, flanked by his two adult sons, Ush and Isma. He wore a well-trimmed beard, black suit, and digital signature band on his right pinkie. Ush, Rinwahl’s eldest, dressed like his father, but the younger Isma wore an azure collar beneath his jacket. Isma stared at Mag for a long moment, then absently rubbed his little finger as she turned aside.

  Petrin Nasheed had been raised by his uncle after losing both parents in a maglev wreck. Opened a business consulting firm at age nineteen. His acute intuition for social scenarios had routinely roused suspicions that led to repeated tests for empathic abilities, always with negative results. His unofficial slogan: “I’m just good with people.” Seven years ago, left the consulting world to enter the duja trade. Business had thrived steadily until a recent outbreak of violent run-ins with Rinwahl had burned bridges and dragged the government into the fray.

  Petrin Nasheed sat between his advisers Murelle Dijab and Liata Greensword. Nasheed flashed Mag a grin while his fingers spun a ballpoint pen in a complex weave. Both advisers’ headscarves were flame orange. Dijab wore half-moon reading lenses and wrote on a tablet while Greensword watched the room with sharp, bright blue eyes.

  Mag drew a breath. “As all of us know, we’re here to resolve the rift between your two enterprises. As mediator, I’ll work to facilitate terms that are well balanced and acceptable to all. I offer the following: One, confidentiality on all matters discussed here. Two, voluntary participation—I will not force you to concede any point. Three, neutrality—I promise an unbiased stance. I will channel and facilitate discussion. I will not advise.

  “The rules: Listen. Don’t interrupt. When you do speak, strive for courtesy.”

  She cleared her throat and paused. Nasheed seemed attentive, though his eyes were slightly reddened from lack of sleep or possibly substance indulgence. Rinwahl wore stoic skepticism. Mag’s gut said Rinwahl would be her stubborn client.

  She continued. “During my separate meetings with each of you, I established your objectives. Mr. Nasheed, you seek a stop to the recent wave of violence. Mr. Rinwahl, you seek renewed adherence to your original contract terms, specifically that sales of Mr. Nasheed’s duja remain strictly south of the Hebra.”

  Both sides nodded curtly.

  Good. No time wasted there.

  Mag said, “Four days ago the Palabi government instated a 5,000-crescent fine for each day that this dispute remains unresolved. This adds incentive to proceed with efficiency.” She paused.

  Of course, the fact that no one had yet been jailed for the murders meant that the government was still being generously paid off, to some extent.

  Rinwahl was clenching his jaw in agitation.

  Nasheed raised his hand. “I’d like to make an opening statement.”

  Mag nodded.

  “We’re here about the killings,” Nasheed said. “The trend began two months ago when Rinwahl provided his so-called peacekeepers with assault-mode scatterblitzes. This ridiculous stance of martial authority puts my vendors at a constant disadvantage.” Nasheed looked sidelong at his advisers, then added, “I’m well aware we could meet the challenge with bigger, better guns, but I’ve read too much history to think an arms race will solve matters.”

  Rinwahl grimaced, motioning for attention.

  “Is there anything you wish to correct in Mr. Nasheed’s statement?” Mag asked him.

  “No. But I’ll supply details that he blithely glossed over.” Rinwahl leaned forward, elbows brushing the tabletop. “I issued those scatterblitzes after multiple safety complaints. My employees are like family, and I take their safety seriously.”

  The younger Rinwahl son rolled his eyes. Familial discord.

  Rinwahl said, “Five years ago, I ceded the southern half of the country to Nasheed’s sales. But he hasn’t been satisfied with that. He’s flagrantly stolen my customers. Then, when he resented my means of prot
ecting my people and territory, he tainted a batch of duja during its bottling, which made my customers have violent nausea.”

  Counselor Dijab read from her tablet. “The precise contract terms should be noted here. The agreement appeared fair, but a close inspection of Palab’s population density reveals the division of customers was steeply tilted in Mr. Rinwahl’s favor.”

  Rinwahl seemed ready to rebuff the claim, but Mag said, “Yes, the population disparity between the North and South surfaced in both our pre-meetings. The gist of the contract was that Mr. Nasheed would buy raw duja product from Mr. Rinwahl’s greenhouses at a minimal markup that was only to rise with the country’s standard inflation rates. Mr. Nasheed’s sales would be restricted to the South, which was less populated than the North.”

  “Significantly less,” Nasheed muttered. “And the clientele is poorer and less civilized, if I may be blunt.” He locked eyes with Rinwahl. “But I surprised you. Instead of withering, my business thrived. But to address the accusation of tainting your duja, I suggest improving your quality control, since another bad batch could impair your credibility.”

  Reading between those lines was simple: Nasheed had a man inside Rinwahl’s manufacturing plant. When Rinwahl used his new guns, Nasheed had signaled his man to tweak a batch of duja that then sickened Rinwahl’s clients. If Rinwahl’s product could be made to seem unreliable, his customers would flock to Nasheed.

  Counselor Dijab handed Nasheed a simple, unadorned echo tin. He murmured into it. A projection of a scuffed brown-glass bottle spun into view.

  “Most of us know Rinwahl’s duja,” Nasheed said. “It comes in one flavor and one strength—highly intoxicating. All well and good, if that’s what you like. But this is my duja.”

  In the projection, a velvet curtain enclosed the room and a polished table appeared at the room’s center bearing gold-etched glass vials.

  “The projections can’t carry smell, but I have vanilla, mint, and sandalwood scents, among others,” Nasheed said, “with intensities to match any passion. I proposed this product to Rinwahl seven years ago. He turned me down. Then, after I’d grown a business that was successful enough to worry him, we signed that stilted contract. He wanted to cut me off from his best cities and customers. He thought I’d dry up. But I didn’t.”

  Mag said, “Is it fair to say, Mr. Rinwahl, that you underestimated the potential of Mr. Nasheed’s business model?”

  Rinwahl hesitated, then nodded. “It’s dishonorable to begrudge a man his success, but I believe I can criticize Nasheed’s disregard for terms. I’ve spent my life growing things, you see.” He took out his own echo tin. It was twice the size of Mag’s own, filigreed with spiraling swallows. He murmured into it and the conference room was domed by glass and steel girders. Lush, raised beds lined the ground in rows, bearing lime-green stalks and tan blossoms.

  “Furthermore,” said Rinwahl, “my customers include the most influential families of Palab. I may not have a flashy product, but I have a time-tested tradition. I cannot abide the brazen attitudes of your vendors, Nasheed, slipping across the Hebra, enticing customer migration, having no scruples about whether your goods are resold up north.”

  “I’m not shooting people at every chance I get. Let’s be clear on that,” Nasheed snarled.

  Rinwahl reddened. “If you call self-defense a—”

  “Self-defense?” Nasheed laughed coldly. “And this, after you raised the cost of my raw duja to triple the rate of inflation, leaving me with no recourse but to swallow it?”

  “Okay,” Mag raised both arms, “we’re at the heart of it.”

  “No.” Nasheed stood. “The heart is that my good friend Brussin Seff was murdered yesterday because, despite this upcoming meeting, you still didn’t call off your dogs.”

  Mag absorbed this new information and watched Nasheed’s face flush as he shoved a chip into his echo tin. She crossed to him and placed her hand firmly atop the box. “Wait a moment,” she said.

  Nasheed’s eyes were flaming, but he eyed her unyielding stance and relented.

  Counselor Greensword whispered something in Nasheed’s ear. He shrugged and replaced the chip in the echo tin with a different one.

  Mag turned to Rinwahl. “A man’s broken word is quite an insult. Mr. Nasheed’s contract violations have destroyed your respect for him, correct?”

  “Absolutely.” Rinwahl spoke coolly, eyes on Nasheed’s face.

  “And Mr. Nasheed, you seek an end to bloodshed. A peaceful way forward.”

  Nasheed cleared his throat, struggling to speak.

  So the murdered man had truly been a friend. Even in Palab, where hyperbole was everywhere, he hadn’t exaggerated this.

  Nasheed said at last, “Yes. Of course.”

  “Can we agree that peace and mutual respect are worthy goals?”

  Mag let the awkward silence hang until both men gave verbal agreement.

  Then Nasheed said, “Now let me explain, Rinwahl, I’m trying to do good business. It’s no secret that my duja is more popular. But your ‘family’ are harassing and shooting my vendors at the mildest provocation. And they’re not just killing my guys. Children were hit by crossfire more than once. My wish is that duja sales throughout Palab would flourish, but that’s too lofty a goal for today. I’d settle for keeping my people safe on the street and a fair cost for raw duja.” His eyes glittered for a moment, then Nasheed added, “I’d thought to share a view of the alley where Brussin’s body was found. Instead,” he glanced at Counselor Dijab, “in better taste, I give you the medical examiner’s report.” He whispered into his echo tin and the report spun as a single page in three dimensions. “Read it for yourself, but I’ll highlight the thirty-seven bullet wounds, all delivered from the back. His tongue was cut out.”

  The room hung still until Rinwahl said, “Though this man’s death was a mistake, I must say that threats to those under my protection will always be treated seriously.”

  Mag knew Nasheed’s next move before he took it.

  “No apology,” Nasheed muttered.

  Mag held her breath.

  A nasty grin contorted Nasheed’s face. “Shall we talk about what’s really threatening your family?”

  Both the Rinwahl sons flinched. Isma straightened.

  “You’ve been trying to cover your son Isma’s gambling debts for years now,” Nasheed said as Greensword nodded beside him. Dijab handed Nasheed a tablet. He read it quickly, then said, “Today we see he’s not even wearing your family dig-sig anymore, which means you’ve cut off his independent spending.”

  Mag flicked a glance at the finger that Isma now held studiously still. How recent was this development?

  Nasheed continued, volume mounting, “You supplied false reasons for raising my raw duja cost because you needed funds to placate the casinos. You’ve even started selling your wife’s jewels. I don’t know what kind of deal you made to get those scatterblitzes, but it’s obvious you aren’t thinking with a level head.”

  Rinwahl had flushed from red to purple, which was notable given his bronze complexion. “How dare you bring in my personal matters?” he growled. “You’re not trying to make peace! You’re trying to tear me down!”

  Mag said loudly, “We’re going to take a recess.”

  But a clatter of chairs drowned her voice as Rinwahl, Nasheed and their supporters took to their feet.

  A rapid assessment of both sides’ confident postures told Mag that concealed weapons were in the room. The weapons’ presence wasn’t usual, but if anything went off, even assuming no one was injured, the negotiation failed and Mag lost her payment. Of course, if she was dying of a bullet wound in her gut before the storm hit, affording shelter would be pointless.

  Mag gritted her teeth as she strode to stand, arms wide, between the two tables, hoping for a nonfatal shot if she was going to be hit.

&nb
sp; The elder Rinwahl son had one arm extended, bent at the wrist, probably readying some hidden dart gun. Nasheed brandished a pistol in plain view. Mag thought briefly of her concealed moonblade, but a knife was little help here.

  “Eyes on me!” Mag shouted. “I said eyes on me!”

  Nasheed responded first, but not as she’d expected. He tensed and bent, as if to run. She looked at Rinwahl, whose eyes were wide with a similar terror. Ush caught his father by the arm, face full of concern. A sudden mood change in both leaders.

  Mag’s skin chilled.

  Not now. Please not now.

  The therma-pin beeped three sharp notes. She turned its glowing light toward her face. “The device has registered a simpathic heat-signature,” she announced. “The pulse was erratic. No further activity detected.”

  “You hired a simpath, Nasheed?” Ush Rinwahl spat with disgust.

  Counselor Greensword glared at him. “Do you really think he’d have hired a simpath to attack himself, too?”

  “It could be a clever ploy,” Isma Rinwahl suggested.

  “This meeting is canceled,” Rinwahl growled. “Simpathic sway compromises everything.”

  Mag rapidly scanned the room, silencing her panic with pragmatism, noting where a simpath might hide. Making rapid decisions, she said, “Here’s what we’ll do: Put those weapons away—out of the room. Take an hour lunch break. You can channel your anger into creative problem-solving. Regroup among yourselves and I’ll arrange private meetings. I’ll also re-secure the premises. Send your own security teams, too, if you like.”

  “I agree with Rinwahl,” Nasheed said. “Simpathic disturbance should nullify this now.”

  Mag crossed her arms. “Is that really what you want? To schedule another negotiation date, rehire a mediator, all with those daily fines?” She turned her palms up. “It’s your money, not mine.”

  She refolded her arms to hide the shaking. She wouldn’t consider a reality in which this negotiation was canceled. Not yet.