Constellation

by Sharon Lee

  Persistence

  Beba walked faster now, nearly running; she’d actually stopped and looked around to see if anyone was within range and now she’d be late. For her, proximity was important. Long range was ten or twenty paces of clear sight distance, or just a few paces if a wall intervened. No one there. And she was late.

  Ignorance is winning.

  Somewhere between five deck and six deck the idea surfaced, and at first she wasn’t sure if it was hers or not, it was so subtle, so tentative. She rarely picked up something as direct as a thought, though once or twice she had; mostly when she was young and hormonal. No one was in range though.

  The idea was persistent, so she turned it over in her aware mind, saw the signs that it was her thought, and that made it more necessary to think about it:

  Ignorance was winning.

  On consideration, that’s what this morning’s time with the news round-up had showed: incontrovertible evidence that ignorance was winning. Market flux caused by the industrial committee’s decision to favor blue over green this year, the newest student-style of self-lighting ring hats that fluttered in the presence of multiple low-power comm calls to the student accounts that invited conference calls, so that they might all flap together in a spotlight-mocking illumination, the resurrection of the so-called Mind Safety Administration. This run of strangeness, all these things together, illustrated the fact that ignorance was winning.

  Beba sighed heavily, a flip of the hand telling the unseeing wall that even the freshly minted shift schedules handed down by the new Bazaar administrators were created more by wishful thinking than thoughtful planning. Orders came down by fiat, by . . . ignorance.

  “Persistence.”

  She said that word out loud, knowing that, after all, she’d done this to herself: created in her own head the idea that there were only two volitional forces at work in the inhabited universe. Those forces were not necessarily antagonistic, except that somehow persistence ultimately was superior since ignorance was entropic and the evolutionary dialectic favored life’s anti-entropic organizing principles.

  Alas, she’d written that in a paper for philosophy class back when she’d still been permitted public schooling and the result had been a severe setback to her grades as well as her social range. Original thinking, it turned out, was antagonistic to her novice philosophy instructor’s preordained lesson plans; she could see it in the stiff shoulder and neck muscles when he walked into class, in the way he avoided looking at her shape, in the swirling purple fog that wisped around his eyes and ears, and in the scent.

  By then her emotive-control tutor, long since banished off-planet as a threat to world order, had deduced that the scent information she got was as real as the visual, and that she ought not tell anyone about it, just as her sister—off-planet now as well!—should not mention that she could so pull names out of people’s heads, nothing else, just names they were thinking of.

  The so-called philosopher was marked in her memory for his associations of scent and people: her younger self had worried that he’d turn cannibal. It was only later that she’d discovered him on video-share, eating. Eating and eating, very publicly, a meal costing close to a year’s tuition. As a ranking member of The Goudry Gourmand Society, he might well have looked at a woman and considered how she’d do as a chaser to roast rump, after a pond of beer.

  In a lab session during that course, her ex-lab partner had managed a search-and-discuss that brought up her family name. From the joyous green cloaking the pronouncement, she doubted it was an accident, and from the response of the locals, she quickly found that friends grew more distant if they thought you knew exactly what they were thinking, though of course there was none of that precision in her family, at least, and perhaps none anywhere save among the legendary Healers of Liad. Damn the healers, that they expressed no kinship, and offered no assistance to those probable kindred living among the Terran worlds.

  She pushed the resentment away rapidly: it was Grandmother Varky who claimed to have written message after message and been rebuffed, and to have stood in the foyer of the Liaden embassy and been laughed at. But she’d been well over a hundred Standards and her memories colored by time and the cyclical nature of her peculiar talents.

  Diploma school had not admitted the family when Grandmother had been young and she’d deplored it as wasted effort when Beba had aspired to it, just as she’d deplored paying for an outside tutor when there were family members like her with wide experience. That she oft remembered things that hadn’t happened yet . . . Mother had gone for the outsider, and Beba’s life was the better for it.

  The family had tried hard to make things better for Beba and her sister. They’d tried. And then they’d slipped away, most of them, with no word to those not at home. Gone with no forwarding address but a note that tested true: Grandmother has seen a place for us. Be well.

  And so she’d fallen in with a man with more plan than money, more connections than cash, and a business that needed tending by someone with just a touch of talent. That Caratunk Carpeting wanted to buy that business on the cheap was an on-going problem for Derry Caratunk, who had more than once cast lusty glances at Joshu, was married into one of the triads in new management, and spoke to Beba only because she was part of Joshu’s life. She’d made it quite plain, had Derry, that the Sinner’s Rug was a detriment to them doing regular business, and a minus to any buy-out.

  “You,” he said without heat, “are late. That means I may well miss the second seating at Charleschow!”

  She laughed, pleased that he wasn’t angry, or beset with swarming customers. Charleschow, of course, was so far above their budgets as to be a joke.

  “I see then that you have found a major buyer?”

  He shrugged at the room, turned and shrugged at her, then pointed with a nod of the head.

  “That one, see, who appears to be browsing as so many others, that one is a buyer, my dear. I think, given his coat and manner, that he is not one to buy from the floor bins. I note that he has support staff, which of course a simple tourist will not.”

  Joshu, who had opened the booth this morning, was an optimist, which was good, for she could not have lived on the shop floor with a pessimist, nor one who dwelt overmuch on failure, delay, or insult. Such thinking was not only unfortunate habit for some, but a burden to one who suffered her family curse of knowing far more and far other than was said.

  She’d marked the man Joshu indicated, which was easy enough to do, though he was halfway to the end of the hall. Clearly, he was not looking to find one item of this or one item of that in order to take home a gift; but for something more. And surely, walking the full bazaar from which Bazaar itself took name, one might find anything in profusion.

  The gentleman appeared not to need random profusion as he stood in the aisle of fabrics and textiles; rather he was examining the cards as well as the goods and if he left far more cards than he carried with him, that was the sign of a careful and deliberate buyer. The kind of buyer who might carry more than a holiday tenbit in his pocket, of which they’d seen far too many in this buying season.

  “Joshu, yesterday the large female wearing strings of steel chain was the hope of the day, that we’d unload the last of the Flovint rags. The day before was the cruise ship madness which would make us our season. The day before . . .”

  “This is hardly fit topic for conversation: you and I both see this buyer and we can see he ignores the left side of our booth, which is for the tourists and pays for the rice in our bowls . . .” he paused and shrugged his shoulders “. . . at least some days it pays for the rice. But this man, my dear, this man is impeccable. He is discriminating, he . . .”

  Unexpectedly, Joshu had run out of energy. He reached into some inner reservoir and continued at a slower pace.

  “He is the only one who has come back for a second look at the warebook, who has done more than stare at the pretty images of the Sinners Rug. Truly, I believe it was wrong of
us not to have a catalog made up of that rug alone, to sell to the tourists.”

  “Should I flaunt myself to see if he notices?” Beba swayed her shoulders suggestively, ringed right hand turning palm out in invitation. “The rug provides ample tutoring!”

  The quelling look was lost on her, but his words carried some sense.

  “Hah, or should I flaunt? Someone as careful of his person as that one may have wide-ranging tastes, my dear.”

  She laughed, for Joshu believed himself as very private of his personal appetites as he was forward with his wares. The image of him publicly flaunting himself was one she’d not previously entertained, though she suspected Derry Caratunk might.

  But there, their wares had not been so much of interest and though they were not destitute they were far from their goal of relocation out-system.

  “I’m for my break, and then the commerce office to see if there’s any update on those shipments that got lost—so I’m away for awhile. But if that buyer comes around, you pay attention.”

  She nodded, but he took her hand and looked deep into her eyes.

  “Really, listen to your head, Beba,” he said, nodding at the man and those two satellites who might also be his people, “and tell me of his mood. I see he stays distant; if you must, yes, gain his eyes.”

  He took a deep breath. “I have to be elsewhere!”

  For one with no measurable talent of the mind, Joshu had instincts which served him well, and she knew that his game of naming this or that top prospect was as much a challenge to himself as a prediction. Often enough, he turned those sales, even without her help.

  For a heartbeat, she opened her senses to Joshu. She did this rarely, for it seemed he kept his thoughts secret from himself as well as from others. This time was unsettling, for his mood seemed somber in a way that belied his earlier banter. Colors fogged his face briefly, and the sense was that of a long walk in near darkness, with grays and night-faded greens moving in a deep, distant ravine.

  She used the training bought so dearly from the tutor and smiled honestly at her partner as he left, as if in joy of the hunt.

  * * *

  The three of them were obviously a team, with the man Joshu had pointed her toward the probable hub. All of them were pilots, if one read their movements, and all of them were alert far beyond the edge of normal, if one saw the very tiny signs and ignored the public ones.

  The public signs were thus: the smaller man, with the look of a Liaden, was doing the larger scan of the hall with some efficiency, his eye trained to see the carpet and not the display. The others moved on their own after they spoke with him, always staying within quick distance of the hub but still looking for this or that, likely at his direction.

  The larger man. She sighed, for she had been known to be fond of larger men herself; she admired him not only for his stature, but for the way he masked his elegance of walk and motion. He appeared to the public face to be perhaps one as might carry burdens or stand as bodyguard, and truth was he carried a public gun. He was, however, far from the shambling person he projected and his eyes were clear and alert.

  He looked at her with a nod, and Beba fought to avoid reacting with other than a polite nod and smile of her own. His form aside, the momentary scent she’d experienced was that of urgent effort, as if the casual tour was far from that. Beyond that was a deeper scent, and she feared that the scent was blood.

  And there, a movement of hand, a flash of alert orange across the face, gone; the scent of blood, gone; the orange fading to light blue as if his burden were removed.

  She turned, to find the third of the trio rotated between her and the hub; this neat and tidy woman. The woman was no mere servant either, nor dumb. With very fast eyes and hands that carried their own dark color, she was alert as a matter of breathing, as a pilot might be, and it was across her face and gone, the recognition, and the scents were of wood-fire perhaps, and those of fireworks or ammonia, and under it all, the touch of blood persisted, as if the pair had recently seen some tragedy that underscored their lives. This one nodded and approached—no—she intercepted!

  The hub was being guarded, Beba realized, and glanced to where he stood yet at his own efforts. He dismissed an ordinary carpet with a quick touch and moved on to another of better quality, the eyes taking in a detail—she caught a scent of carpet that was not the carpet around her, but the carpet around him.

  Then it was gone, the scent. She’d yet to see color there.

  “Are you one of the principals of this operation?” The woman’s hands moved wondrously smooth, accurately describing their boundaries, the colors of her face almost absent as they sometimes were with those concentrating on a goal beyond the moment.

  “Yes, Gentle, I am Beba, co-operator of Joshu’s Superb Surfaces.” Given the Liaden in the group, Beba’s nod was deep, just shy of a bow. The nod-that-was-not-a-bow was mirrored so precisely that Beba was concerned she’d offended, but the colors that flashed across the woman’s face now were crisp, businesslike, scentless.

  “Our group is relocating our own operations and are seeking quality goods across a range of prices. Inexpensive is very good, for the market we are entering will take some building and the low end is more extensive than the high. Not cheap, mind you, but inexpensive. We will also be looking at a few high-end goods, even uniquities.”

  Beba listened and watched hard, hearing what one might expect of a customer, remembering the scent of blood earlier. Perhaps she’d been right and there had been a tragedy, now requiring a rebuild.

  “We can supply all of that, Gentle,” she said. “Quality goods at low cost, and a unique piece rarely available for transport, ready to go. If you would like to enter your order, I’ll be pleased to loan you a wireless-entry catalog so that you may purchase at your leisure from our marked prices.”

  “Yes, I can see that you might,” said the woman, and there was perhaps a touch of humor in the eyes, even with the small flash of alert orange, “but our chief associate is of an older school of business than that, and having determined his interest would like to discuss some matter of process in quieter surroundings, it being the way he is used to proceeding.”

  “Matters of process? Indeed, we might work with appropriate amounts of cash, and pre-approved letters of credit, and reasonable . . .” In the back of her mind, Beba had concerns, for surely Juntava worked this way, and quieter places might not be safe places, after all.

  The woman nodded as if hearing these very thoughts, offering open hands as she said, “Surely, there must be a fine place of dining you prefer, you and your absent partner. Name the place, and if you are free this evening or tomorrow at lunch or dinner, we shall be there, pleased to have you as our guests. I have heard very good things of Raleighs, and Panada Paradise, and Charleschow—please name your choice and time.”

  At this juncture, the large man arrived, nodding to both with the nearly absent air he wore like a cloak over his competence, his colors showing bright points and flashes, as of irritation.

  “. . . ’essa,” Beba heard him say, “we’ve been offered an extra rate to stay where we are, as I apparently misunderstood the community rules here. They seem to feel I owe some gift or . . .”

  Blood scent, clear and clean, from the woman. And why not, for the Bazaar was endangering itself with these games, these so-called second contracts and rise costs.

  “We will talk in a moment,” she said quietly, “and then I will have the name of the person expecting gifts. But we await word from the lady if dinner appointments might be made, so that we can begin arrangements quickly.”

  The colors were gone quickly, but Beba was sure she would not want this person facing her in that mood. And now, there were decisions to be made. Joshu’s instincts must count, but prudence also had a place.

  “Might I know the name of your—”

  There was color behind her then, and a scent of something more, of carpets recalled and of chocolate and tea distantly, and of blood.<
br />
  “You may, Lady, if I may be sure of yours?”

  He stood before her, shorter by a hand than she, and bowed an exquisite bow. His colors went cool, as if the ritual were calming, and his eyes were on hers when he finished the bow. There was in them frankness, while over all of his face flickered a strength and determination all limned in steel.

  She’d never seen color take form like that, down to the shine of metal honed to edge, down to the shape of knife and gun, behind it all the scent of blood and the scent of carpet intermingled. She stepped back, startled, from tripping. She’d found herself steadied, drawn in to his center, his arm on shoulder. Not since training, had she allowed herself to be so overwhelmed by a reading.

  “Is there something amiss?” The smaller man looked concerned, the colors were cooled to a mild green tinged with orange, with alert.

  She centered herself with great effort and the big man withdrew his hand from her shoulder with a nod.

  “Surprise, I think,” she managed. “Usually I am not unaware of someone so close!”

  There was a flash of hands, speaking that language she’d never learned, and the trio moved a half-pace back, giving her room to stand and be comfortable.

  She felt the flush go from her face then, smiled. There were only colors of normal concern, and the blood scent had receded.

  “I am Beba,” she said carefully. “I am sure that my senior partner, Joshu, and I will both be interested in speaking with you—dining with you. Our section closes at fourteen—let us say at fifteen, at ummm—the places you mentioned are all more than adequate—let us say at Charleschow. If, of course, I may tell him with whom we dine!”

  Another bow, complete with sweep of flawless, bare hands. She had the fleeting impression that the hands were rarely thus, and ought to be showing a multiplicity of rings. Not a casual tourist, this one, not an ordinary person.

  “Then it is done. We shall meet you and Joshu at fifteen, at Charleschow. If it pleases you, Beba, you may call me Conrad.” When he said Conrad there was the scent of a distant spice, and hot sand, and a wash of color she associated with someone manipulating their own beliefs.