"Noted," the computer replied. "My name, too, can be changed to suit you, Magnus. I have found that most human beings prefer to shorten long designations."
"Indeed." Magnus nodded. "Let us make a contraction of 'Hercules Alfheimer': 'Herkimer.' " He smiled; there was something amusing about so grand a ship having so modest a name.
" 'Herkimer' I shall be henceforth," the computer agreed. "Would you like a tour of the ship, Magnus?"
"After we are in space," Magnus said. "For now, I would like to be away as quickly as possible."
"The control room is straight ahead," Herkimer informed him.
Magnus nodded; he had surmised as much, from the blunt ending of the corridor inside the airlock. He paced forward a dozen steps and found himself looking through an open doorway into the bridge. To his right was a drop shaft; to his left . . . "What is this hatch across from the elevator?"
"A bunkroom, for those occasions when you wish to sleep near the bridge," Herkimer answered. "There is a more fitting bedchamber below."
Magnus could just bet there was. Judging from his guest quarters in Castle d'Armand, it was going to be such a swamp of luxury that he'd probably prefer the bunkroom permanently. He nodded, stepped through the door, sat down on the control couchand suddenly felt that the ship was really his. "Warm your engines and plot a course for . . . " Magnus paused; he hadn't thought this far ahead. Then he shrugged; he wanted to get to Terra sooner or later. "Plot a course inward, toward the sun; we will adjust it in space."
"Very good, Magnus."
Magnus was barely aware of the most subtle of vibrations; somewhere in the ship, machinery had come to life.
One final matter remained. "A communication channel to Fess, please."
"Here, Magnus."
That had been suspiciously fast. "Fess, you are once again the property of Rod Gallowglass, née Rodney d'Armand, High Warlock of Gramarye. You are to return to him as quickly as possible."
"Understood, my former master. You will understand, though, Magnus, that I leave you with some trepidation."
"You may take it with you; I already have enough trepidation to last me a lifetime."
"A feeble attempt at humor, Magnus."
"Perhaps, Fess, but I have become wary of sentiment. I will treasure your regard; and you may be as sure as any may, of my safety."
"That is my cause for concern, Magnus."
Magnus smiled. "Still, we must bear it, old companion. Farewell, till I see you again on Gramarye! Give my love to my parents and Cordelia, and my warmest regards to my brothers."
"I shall, Magnus."
"Depart for Gramarye now, Fess. May your trip be smooth."
"And yours, Magnus. Bon voyage!"
A surge of feeling hit Magnus, and he might have said more, but Herkimer's voice murmured, "Ready for liftoff."
"Which shall lift off, Maxima or we? Nevertheless, let us go."
There was absolutely no sense of motion—after all, it didn't take much acceleration to escape from so small a worldlet. But escape they did, and Magnus felt a massive surge of relief. "Viewscreen on, please."
The screenful of stars before him faded into a view of the "castle," with the boarding tunnel curving out of the eastern wing. The rough, pitted form of Fess's ship stood by it, dull in the merciless sunlight. As Magnus watched, the lumpy ball rose and drifted upward, but away from them, toward the constellation of Cassiopeia. When it was well away from the surface, it began to accelerate, dwindling rapidly. Magnus watched as his last contact with home diminished, feeling suddenly very much alone. Just before the ship shrank from sight, Magnus murmured, "Farewell, companion of my youth. You shall ever be with me."
"You may be sure of that, Magnus," Fess answered. "Farewell."
Then he was gone, and Magnus was staring at the screen, not at all sure he liked that last remark. "Herkimer—what did he mean?"
"There was insufficient information in his last remark, Magnus; I would have to conjecture almost blindly."
But Magnus was developing a nasty conjecture of his own. "Why were the two of you connected by cable, just before I came aboard?"
"Why, for a data transfer, Magnus."
"Indeed." Magnus braced himself. "What data was transferred?"
"The entire contents of his memory, Magnus, except for personal matters that his previous owners wished kept confidential."
Magnus's heart sank. "You now know all that Fess knew?"
"Everything, Magnus, with the exceptions noted previously."
"Including my entire biography."
"As much of it as Fess knew, yes."
Fess had been right—he would always be with Magnus. "Well, it is good to have reminders of home," Magnus sighed. "But, Herkimer?"
"Yes, Magnus?"
"You do understand that it is not necessary to tell everything you know?"
"Of course, Magnus. Any personal information of yours shall not be disclosed to anyone but you."
"That, of course," Magnus said, "but I was more concerned with family history. You understand that there is no reason to seek to impress me with the importance of the d'Armands, or the obligations of my rank?"
"Why ever should I wish to do that?" Herkimer said, in tones of mystification.
"I can't think of a single reason—but Fess could, and did." Magnus breathed a sigh of relief.
Then he breathed another, realizing that he was finally, really away from that cloying and clinging excuse for a Maximan family. It came to him that he had narrowly escaped the exact mesh of entangling relationships his cousin Roger had feared. Magnus found himself wondering if perhaps he had not betrayed the man, then wondered if he had not himself shirked his responsibilities. "I know that I must be my brother's keeper," he muttered, "but must I also watch over my cousins?"
"They are not your burden, Magnus," Herkimer replied.
Magnus looked up, startled, then realized that he had phrased it as a question. He was oddly reassured by the machine's response. It might be logical, but it lacked humane considerations, and was therefore not necessarily ethical—but it was still reassuring.
Which brought another matter to mind. "Herkimer—if you have all Fess's data, you are aware of my . . . talents?"
"Your psionic abilities?" Herkimer asked. "Yes, Magnus, I am—and I know those of your brothers and sister, and your mother and father, as well."
"And my grandfather, no doubt, and all of the rest of the knowledge of Gramarye." Magnus relaxed another stage; he could talk freely about home, if he wanted to. "Then you will understand that I have been raised with certain ethical standards in regard to the use of those abilities."
"I am so aware, yes."
"And you are aware that I used them to influence my cousin Roger?"
"That was included in Fess's briefing."
"And that such use violated my ethical code?" The robot was silent for a half-second, then said, "I cannot truly discriminate, Magnus. There were extenuating circumstances."
But Magnus knew, and knew well. To get himself out of a bind with his relatives, he had violated a major ethical principle: he had altered the memories and emotions of a human being who was not an enemy, and without that person's permission. In retrospect, he thought he might perhaps have committed the equally unethical, but lesser, offense, of just walking out on his relatives with words of rebuke.
Though truly, he could see no third choice. There might have been one, and he could have stayed till he had found it—but that would have taken months, perhaps years, and by the time he'd been able to see it, he would have become too deeply enmeshed in the family's troubles to be able to free himself.
But that still did not excuse the violation he had committed. He had allowed his integrity to be breached, and his corruption had begun.
He wondered how much further it would go before he would be able to halt it.
Especially since he found that he had no wish to. Now that he was clear of Maxima, he could let his guard down, let himsel
f go, let himself feel the hurt and the pain—and the anger at Pelisse and her grandmother surged white-hot through him. How dare they toy with him, how dare they seek to use him so, to exploit him! Hadn't they realized that they would degrade him thereby? And themselves?
The whole matter left a very bad taste in his mouth, and great bitterness in his heart. He felt a sudden craving to wash out the one and assuage the other. "Herkimer! Set course for Ceres City!"
"As you wish, Magnus," the computer replied—then, almost in an echo of Fess, "Are you sure?"
"Quite sure," Magnus snapped. Ceres City—which, Fess had taught him, was a sink of iniquity, to be well avoided by any young man not wishing to be dragged down into degradation. His father had been much more succinct. "Ceres City is Sin City," he had said. "If you ever get to the Solar System, stay away from it, unless you really want to be tempted."
Magnus was in a mood to give in to any temptation that came to hand. If he was going to be corrupted, he wanted to get it over and done with.
"Seal the hatch when I've stepped through it," Magnus told Herkimer, "and don't open it for anyone but me."
"Confirmed," Herkimer answered. Then some data from Fess's memory banks must have nudged him, because he said, "I hope you won't do anything rash, Magnus."
"Never fear," Magnus assured him. "Everything I do will be well thought out." And he stepped through the hatch, intent on a very well-considered and thoroughly planned drunk.
He paced through the boarding tunnel and out into the concourse. He looked about him, dazed by the dazzle and glitter of advertising messages and direction signs. A circle of gambling machines filled the rotunda, and asteroid miners and merchant crews and passengers came pounding off their ships to start feeding credit cards into the slots of the mechanical bandits. A 30-degree arc of the rotunda wall was taken up by a mammoth bar, and young and shapely men and women strolled around the edges of the crowd in tight-fitting body suits of dark colors. As Magnus watched, one young woman's suit suddenly turned transparent around her right breast. She glanced down at it, then up toward a man who was staring at her. The body suit turned opaque again, but another circle turned transparent, highlighting a different portion of her anatomy. Smiling, she strolled toward her prospective customer, hips rolling. Magnus glanced about and saw that the others who were similarly clad were developing transparent circles that came and went in response to the stares of the passersby. If it was like this in the spaceport area, what would it be like in the corridors of the city proper?
Magnus felt his hormones stir at the display of dancing circles, and turned away just in time to avoid a young woman who was homing in on him. Feeling slightly sick, he stepped over to the bar, ordered a shot of straight grain whiskey, paid for it with one of the coins his cousins had given him, drank it straight down, and turned to follow the signs that promised a way out.
"Hey, fella, what'cha lookin' up?"
Magnus turned, surprised. Could someone really be talking to him?
It was a slender youth with shortish hair and very old eyes, fine-boned features, and a sinuous walk inside a body suit which was, fortuitously, totally opaque. "Saw y' walk away from the skirt, pard. Interested in a little something else?"
It came to Magnus that he was being propositioned. He felt that odd sort of locking within him, and his face went neutral. "I thank you, no. My plans for the evening are already fixed."
"Tightwad," the young man said contemptuously. His left hip went suddenly transparent. He glanced at it, then up on a line with it, and saw a matronly looking, lumpy woman with hot eyes. Instantly forgetting Magnus, he strolled toward her.
The sickness settled by the whiskey rose again, and Magnus followed the signs down the concourse and through the automatic iris that passed for a door.
The corridor was ten times what the concourse had been, except that the businesses themselves were hidden by partitions with doors. Floating glaresigns and moving, three-dimensional displays lined the sides of the broad thoroughfare, making very clear what sort of goods or services were purveyed behind each door. In the center, overhead, dancing displays advertised various brands of products. Magnus was overwhelmed by simple profusion—and by the decadence of it all. Suddenly, he was glad that he had begun his introduction to modern civilization with the much smaller-scale milieu of Maxima. He had studied all of this in Fess's data banks and 3DT displays, and it had prepared him for this, but not enough—the physical reality of it was stupefying.
So he cut it down to size. He took the first display that showed liquor pouring from an antique bottle into a glass, and went through the door.
There was a bar against one wall, tables and chairs in the center, and a line of closed booths against the far wall. Magnus could only imagine what went on in such privacy, and from the moans and gasps, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Looking at the displays behind the bar, he realized why—there were at least as many drugs on display as there were liquors.
"Name your poison," said the man with the smoking dope-stick and traditional sleeve-garters, and Magnus didn't doubt that he meant it. He scanned the bottles and pointed to something in a fluorescent purple. "That one."
"Aldebaran Bouncer?" The man shrugged. "Your life, citizen." He punched a combination on the machine in front of him. "Thumbprint."
A glowing square appeared in front of Magnus, and he rolled the ball of his thumb across it. Didn't they need to see the card?
Apparently not; the bartender nodded, satisfied, and took a brimming glass from the machine. He set it in front of Magnus.
Magnus stared; he hadn't known it would be so large.
" 'Smatter? Don't like it?"
Magnus shrugged, hoisted the tumbler, and drank. It seared his throat, and he could feel the fire trail all the way down into his belly, but it felt good somehow, burning away the shame that had soiled him within. He set the glass down, inhaled long and hard, and found the bartender staring at him. Magnus caught his breath, nodded, and said, "Good. Another."
The bartender shook himself, shrugged, and said, "Your funeral. Thumb it again."
Magnus rolled his thumb, and the bartender set another livid purple glass in front of him. Magnus took a bit longer with this one—it must have lasted two minutes. As he lowered the empty, he looked up to see the bartender watching him with a speculative look. "A girl?"
"Several of them." Magnus pushed the empty glass toward him.
"Several!" The bartender snorted. "Lucky bozo! I'm doing good to get turned down by one! Thumb it."
Magnus rolled his thumb across the plate and settled down to a single swallow at a time. He was beginning to feel numb inside, and that was good, very good. He studied the people around him, and found that a disconcerting number of them seemed to be looking his way. He scowled and locked stares with them, straightening to his full height, and one by one, they found something more interesting to look at.
Except for one man—in his thirties, at a guess—who was nowhere as tall as Magnus but had arms far longer than they should have been, and shoulders to match. He grinned back into Magnus's glare and shuffled over toward him.
"Hey now, Orange!" the bartender snapped. "Let the kid alone!"
"Alone?" Orange stepped up close, grinning up at Magnus. "I wouldn't think of it. You peaceable, kid?"
Magnus recognized a push for a fight when he saw one. Joy lit within him—at least it was something clean! " 'Orange'?" he said. "What sort of name is that?"
"Short for 'orangutang.' Wanna make something of it?"
"Juice," Magnus said.
"Not in here!" the bartender yelped.
Orange grinned around at the crowd. "You're all my witnesses—he tried to put the squeeze on me." He lifted his hands, balling them into fists.
The bartender lifted his hand—with a nastylooking little blaster in it. "Out!"
"Why, how inhospitable," Magnus murmured. "But I was never one to stay where I wasn't wanted." He turned away to the door. Behind him, Orang
e grunted, "Then how come you're still on Ceres?"
"You don't want me, then?" Magnus said as he stepped through the door and pivoted about.
"Just for a target," Orange snapped, as his fist slammed into Magnus's midriff.
Magnus rolled back, not quite fast enough; the punch hurt, and for a few seconds, his breath was blocked. But he caught Orange's fist, sidestepped, and yanked, and sent the shorter man sprawling into the wall of spectators, of whom there seemed to be an increasing number—and two of them were moving from person to person, punching the keys of their noteboards. Several of the bystanders obligingly shoved Orange back on his feet, and he snarled, leaping in and out, feinting, then slamming a quick combination of punches at Magnus's belly and jaw. The second shot at the face clipped Magnus on the cheek; he recoiled and ducked around and in, under Orange's next punch, and up, hauling him by his shirtfront and throwing him. But one of those long arms snaked out and snagged itself on Magnus's neck, throwing him off-balance and pulling him down. Magnus stumbled into a fist, staggered back as two more hit him, then caught the third and threw Orange away, shaking his head to clear it and seeing two copies of the human gorilla as he stepped back in, hand grabbing at a flat pocket against his hip . . .
. . . and coming out with a knife that flicked open, its blade glowing.
Magnus stepped back, recognizing a force-blade from its descriptions. The cleanliness of punch and pain was suddenly soiled, but not much, for he parried the arm with the blade twice, then caught the wrist with his right hand and slammed an elbow back into Orange's solar plexus. The shorter man doubled over, gagging; Magnus twisted the blade out of his grip and backhanded him on the side of the head. Orange stumbled into the cheering spectators—there were three times as many of them now, and four men with noteboards moving among them.
The nearest watchers obligingly shoved Orange out again. He was game, he swung at Magnus even now, but the young giant blocked the clumsy punch easily and slammed a right to his jaw. Orange folded and slumped to the ground.
Magnus stood, staring down at the man, teeth bared in a grin, heaving deep breaths. He reached down and hauled Orange to his feet with a surge of fellow-feeling. "Good fighting, friend. I'll stand you to the next drink."
A Wizard In Absentia Page 7
