Pietro bit his lip. When he spoke it was a whisper. “That container,” he said, “is a cryonic reliquary containing the sperm of the heirless Pendjalli Emperor, Nnis CVI.”
Maijstral looked at the object in his hands. He perceived Gregor’s stunned look, Roman’s jaw dropping, and he wished he had sent them both away, far out of earshot, far off the planet even.
The thing hummed in Maijstral’s hand, a cold, impossible weight.
“Oh,” Maijstral said. “The Fate of the Constellation really is at stake, then.”
CHAPTER SIX
The cryonic reliquary sat on the table. It gleamed in the soft light of the room. Maijstral reached out his glass and accepted another fill of champagne. The group was on its second bottle. Maijstral told the robot to chill a third. He was going to need it.
He wanted nothing so much as to get rid of the reliquary without further delay. Drop it off a speeding flier into the nearest bottomless lake. Toss it into the heart of the first fusion furnace he stumbled across. Fire it into the heart of Peleng’s sun.
It had come true, he thought. The worst nightmare of every thief. To have stolen something so valuable, so fabulous, that it would be desired by every soldier, every politician, every criminal, every diplomat, every murderous fanatic.
Poor Maijstral, thought Maijstral. And drank his champagne without pleasure.
*
Maijstral would not have been cheered by the idea that some people were in worse situations. Consider poor Nnis.
The current Pendjalli Emperor had spent his youth in the Imperial harem, a withdrawn, scholarly child, out of place in the competitive, none-too-gentle atmosphere of the place, He preferred catching insects and scrutinizing their genitalia under a microscope to the usual harem activities, which consisted largely of children engaging in intrigues that were imitations of those indulged in by their mothers, each child being pushed along in a typhoon of plotting and scheming and maneuvering, a miniature storm reflective of those external stresses created by the endless struggles of the best-born Khosali houses to make one of their offspring the favored child, the next heir. The Khosali Imperium had no rule of primogeniture, no regular system for determining the heir save the Imperial will itself.
If one were not a natural intriguer, childhood in the harem could be ghastly. Nnis was not an intriguer. He was, however, very good at bugs.
It was with considerable relief that Nnis learned he had lost the contest to a younger half brother. His bitterly disappointed mother, the beautiful and high-strung daughter of the Duke of Moth (pronounced Myth), lectured him for hours about his inadequacies. Nnis didn’t care. He sniffed her ears good-bye and flew to Gosat on happy libelulla wings, where he spent the happiest three years of his life studying desert entomology. His studies were interrupted by the terrifying news that the Prince Royal had died in a freak ballooning accident, and that, as the result of a particularly successful bit of intrigue on the part of his mother and the Moth (pronounced Myth) clan, he had been anointed the next heir. Panicked by the prospect, Nnis dashed back to the City of Seven Bright Rings in order to inaugurate a counterconspiracy aimed at getting himself removed, only to find on his arrival that the Emperor had moulted and lapsed into coma. All was lost.
The Moths were smiling in the coronation holographs, a row of red, tolling tongues. Nnis CV1, in the green brocade cloth of state, looked as if he were attending a funeral.
The Moths’ smiles were, in the event, short-lived. Emperors are restricted in many areas of their lives, but Nnis concluded that he could arrange his family life, at least, to suit himself. The City of Seven Bright Rings subsequently announced that the Dowager Mother would be built a new palace on Gosat, where she would become Custodian-Pensioner of the Imperial Entomological Collection. The Duke of Moth returned to Mothholm minus the cost of a lot of expensive coronation presents.
Nnis must have concluded that there was some point to being Emperor after all.
Nnis subsequently married about a dozen times. His harem was small— there was a certain resentment over that, particularly on the part of the Moths’ hereditary enemies, who had been looking to get their own back— but what really got the traditionalists wailing was the fact that Nnis declined to sire any offspring.
There had never been an Empress; tradition decreed that the crown go to a male. The tradition had been founded before the days of widespread genetic technology, when a male heir could sire many more offspring than could any Empress. Gene technology made this requirement obsolete, but the necessity of a male Emperor was continued simply because it was tradition, and tradition was something a Khosalikh could never question.
Nnis, however, wanted to postpone the intrigue over the heir for as long as he could. As he liked his insects best when they were pinned to a mat, he liked his household quiet, quiet and unexciting. Predictable, calm, scholarly. His first inquiry, on being proposed a new wife, was whether or not she had a soft voice; the second was whether or not she had published.
Quiet he got. Forty years worth. And when excitement came at last, it more than made up for the previous two score years.
It has been a matter of historical debate concerning whether effective and spirited leadership from the Imperial City would have prevented, or altered the course of, the Human Rebellion. Probably not— prior to Nnis’s accession the course of Imperial policy had been set, the ministers were in place, the humans already agitating. If Nnis had looked up from his collection long enough to notice there were problems, he might have brought them to his ministers’ attention and they might have been compelled to look more closely . . . but it was not the Emperor’s job to consider the inconceivable, and a successful revolt was simply that.
Nnis was the first Khosali Emperor to lose a war. Ever. Imagine that.
Had he suicided, no one would have blamed him, and most would have applauded. At least it would have shown an appreciation of his position. But his presence was necessary to maintain both the Emperor Principle and the peace. And, of course, there was no one to follow— he had seen to that.
But the shock was too much. His health collapsed and he went into his cold coffin. From there he kept a tenuous grip on affairs and on ritual. Kept soldiering on for two generations as the medical procedures used to keep the final darkness at bay grew ever more elaborate and extreme, and his hands upon the reins of Empire grew ever weaker, ever colder,
He never had an heir. His ministers had, years before, impressed upon him to contribute the royal seed to cryonic storage. Three containers were prepared— the donation was eventually made. But the war wrecked it all. Two containers were destroyed, another was missing and presumed lost. By the end of the war, his fertility had declined to the point where future contributions were pointless. Nontraditional means of succession, such as cloning, were denied the tradition-bound Emperor.
And there he sat for years, dreaming in his box, awaiting release, the last comforting silence. Wondering where things went wrong, what he could have done differently.
Wondering if they will ever let him die.
*
Lieutenant Navarre swung from side to side in his hammock and frowned into his receiver. While searching the house for further sign of theft, he had found the hammock in his uncle’s storage closet and promptly strung it between two trees on the lawn. His telephone he always carried with him, on his belt. The Pompey High Seas Scouts are always prepared. Lives can depend on solid communications links.
He’d had a two hour nap, interrupted when a pair of plum-colored birds decided to play follow-the-leader through the leaves overhead. Then he decided to call Amalia Jensen and tell her about the theft at his uncle’s place; and incidentally repay her dinner last night with an offer of one of his own. But there was no answer, and that was odd. Not even a robot or an answering device. And Jensen had told him she would be in all day.
It was as if communications had simply gone down.
He put his receiver down, swung his legs out of th
e hammock and reached for his uniform jacket and mourning cloak. He would deliver the message in person. He smiled as he thought of Amalia Jensen amid her scented bower.
So intent was he on this vision that, as he strode across the lawn adjusting his jacket and calling for the robot to lace him up, he forgot that he left his telephone sitting on the hammock. It glittered silver in the sun, rocking two and fro with the wind.
One of the plum-colored birds fluttered down onto the hammock. The telephone winked at her. She picked it up in her forepaws and flew into the sky.
*
The press found out that Maijstral had been expected at Nichole’s hotel late last evening— a rumor Nichole had agreed with Roman to plant, a false trail laid by Roman for the benefit of his shadow. The media globes hadn’t seen Maijstral enter, but then again he was known to be elusive. Nichole had declined to discuss the matter further, which only enhanced speculation.
Nichole knew how to prime the pump of rumor. It was her profession, after all.
And now came the phone call. “Drake Maijstral, ma’am.”
Nichole had programmed her bedroom with a deep masculine Khosali voice, deferent and respectful. This was in deliberate contrast to the brassier, female tones of her dermatology robot, which was carefully applying her cosmetics. She ordered the dermatologist to withdraw its apparatus and told the room to accept the call. Maijstral’s life-size holographic head appeared on a level with her eyes. His hair was escaping the knot into which he’d tied it. He seemed not to have slept well.
“Hello, Maijstral. Did you have a profitable evening?”
“It was . . . an interesting night, Nichole.” Something in his voice made her sit up.
“Are you all right, Drake?”
He hesitated. “Yes. But I must beg off luncheon today. You know I wouldn’t leave you without escort were there not compelling reasons.”
She hadn’t heard Maijstral’s name on the vid save in connection with her own. Whatever the problem was, it wasn’t public.
“Can I help?”
Maijstral’s smile was strained. “It’s very sweet of you to ask, but no.”
“Anything you need, Maijstral. We’re friends. You know that.”
He paused a moment before answering, then shook his head. “Your offer is very kind, but I think not. You should stay clear of this.”
She rested her chin on her hand. “It’s serious, then.”
“Yes, milady. It is.”
“Is Roman looking after you?”
He smiled. “Very well. Thank you.”
“Take good care of yourself, Drake. Don’t do anything foolish.”
“I won’t.” He raised a glass of champagne into the holo field. “Thank you for understanding. I’ll make it up to you when next we meet.”
Nichole smiled. Maijstral always did have ten points for style. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said. She watched him sip from his glass, and she realized there was something about his manner that still bothered her. He was, she realized suddenly, shaken. Truly shaken. The champagne was a careful attempt at regaining savoir faire. She had never seen him in this state before, and if she hadn’t known him very well for a brief interval she would never have noticed it. “Drake,” she said suddenly, “call me tomorrow. I want to know how you are.”
He moved the glass out of the holo field. His look was neutral. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m flattered by your concern.”
It was a typical Maijstral remark, but he’d spoken High Khosali, in the conjugation relating to the state of the universe. Ten points for style again, but there was still something seriously wrong.
Not the least of which was, Nichole now had no escort for a public luncheon. After Maijstral’s head vanished from her room, she thought for a minute and told the room to dial the residence of Lieutenant Navarre.
He wasn’t home. Navarre’s telephone asked for a message, but Nichole declined to leave one. Members of the Diadem spoke face-to-face or not at all.
She thought for a moment, then decided to plead fatigue and beg off the lunch. The press, she knew, would assume Maijstral was still with her.
Good. Whatever was going on, Maijstral wouldn’t be hurt if everyone assumed he was someplace he wasn’t.
*
The plum-colored bird had flown her nest in alarm from the chirping sound made by Lieutenant Navarre’s telephone. But the phone fell silent, and after a moment of contemplation the bird decided to make a cautious recce. She perched on a limb just out of reach and looked down at its home, one forepaw scratching her beak in puzzlement.
The telephone sat among the bird’s treasures, bits of tinsel, a shiny candy wrapper, a fountain pen, several bright-colored rocks, a child’s ring. The bird hated to concede its trove to the interloper. The damn thing had only been playing at being inanimate.
When the phone chirped again the bird raised her wings in alarm, but only retreated a few paces along the branch. The chirping sound continued. The bird’s alarm decreased and she moved closer, a slow sense of delight beginning to trickle into her mind.
The thing talked! The bird had never had a treasure that talked before. The bird ruffled its feathers and said “Coo!”
The phone chirped on. The bird answered. Finally, in Peleng City, the insurance investigator hung up, and the phone was silent.
The plum-colored bird returned to its nest, happy in her new friend.
The materialist approach to life, as the plum-colored bird will attest, is not always marred by the philistinism alleged by its detractors. Consider the joys of surrounding oneself with the objects that bring comfort and pleasure— the good wines, the fine art, the leather-covered volume, the well-made conveyance— and one may very well bid the rest of the world go hang. There are worse ways to arrange one’s life, and it is only when the materialist impulse moves from comfort to compulsion that it becomes obnoxious. No one needs more than one colander per residence, and when one makes a point of collecting platinum colanders with diamond-studded rims and allegorical reliefs on the base, and all for the purpose of showing up one’s neighbors, then the observer can safely assume the materialist impulse has got out of hand.
Allowed thievery is based on-materialism, but without philistinism. One searches for the perfect object, the best of its class, the rarest, the most astonishing— and then, through one’s own efforts, one ventures to possess it. What might be a vulgar case of breaking-and-taking becomes instead a venture in aesthetic romanticism. A century ago Ralph Adverse saw the Eitdown Shard and knew he had to have it, that he could not rest until he held it in the palm of his hand and watched its dark splendors dance in the light of his homefire. No wonder he spent half his life trying to steal it— not to sell it, but to possess it for himself, for its own glorious sake— and in the end, having spent all the money he’d made over a lifetime of thievery in its pursuit, having at last clasped his hands and known it was gloriously his, he committed suicide with the Shard clutched to his bosom rather than have it auctioned by the Imperial Revenue Authority for back taxes. Who can blame him? He was a romantic first, a materialist second.
But one can be a materialist without having to go overboard. Consider the philosophy of the plum-colored bird: find something nice, take it home, sit on it and make friends.
The homely comforts are always the best.
*
Lieutenant Navarre gazed at the wreckage in Amalia Jensen’s house. He had called the police as soon as he found Howard scattered over the roof. I’m being persecuted, he thought. Someone’s following me around and doing this to me.
He followed Officer Pankat through the litter in the living room. Mortally wounded blossoms gave off their dying fragrance.
“I had dinner. We talked. I flew home.” What else could he say?
“No, I didn’t see anyone. I barely knew the woman.” Officer Pankat looked at him through level almond eyes.
“Do you think, sir, in view of the other incident last night, that someone might b
e persecuting you?”
Navarre started. He was just thinking that. But all he could think of saying was, “But why?”
*
Paavo Kuusinen stepped out of his flier and examined the yellow grass. Leaves rustled overhead in the gentle breeze. Amalia Jensen’s pastel house stood half a mile away. Here, Kuusinen found, was where the two lurkers had waited out the night; he easily found the marks of the flier on the ground and two sets of prints, one small, one large, both identified, from the shape of the boot, as Khosali.
He had followed Sergeant Tvi for a while, from Navarre’s manse to an estate which, on inquiry, he discovered was rented by the Imperialist Countess Anastasia. From there he followed Tvi to Amalia Jensen’s, whence he had heard smashing noises and witnessed Tvi and her big associate carry out a limp body, which they transported to the Countess’s. Kuusinen had then gone to Maijstral’s place, but no one seemed to be home. He had checked the early reports on his scanner, heard there had been a robbery at Navarre’s, and returned there in time to see Navarre take off in the direction of town. Kuusinen had followed, to discover Navarre lighting on Jensen’s roof.
Kuusinen scoured the ground carefully and found a pair of empty hi-sticks that had probably been used by the big Khosalikh while the smaller one scouted Jensen’s house. There was nothing else of interest.
He returned to his flier and told his scanner to seek the robbery report for Navarre’s house. The report had added a description of the one object missing, a silver cryonic container. To the official description was added the description from the auctioneers’ catalog: “with power source, Imperial seal. c9, functional, wt 16sm, 18xl7ng.” To this was appended: “value approx 18n.”
Odd, Kuusinen thought. The container scarcely seemed valuable enough to justify all this fuss. He wondered what was in it, and considered for a moment all the activity he’d witnessed, the two Khosali consorting with the Imperialist Countess and a baron from the Imperium, and he wondered what all of this had to do with the silver container, Amalia Jensen. and the copper-skinned lieutenant from Pompey.
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