by Steve Perry
And failure would be due to the instruments chosen, for the gods themselves did not err, save deliberately to give the game an edge. Mkono was willing to do his part. Kifo must see to it that any errors in the Plan were not his own doing, or suffer for it. A risky business indeed, for failing one’s gods meant damnation; of course, that too was part of the allure. To dance on the keenest sword’s edge without being cut was a powerful drug, addictive on its own even without the righteousness of the gods’
bidding as a spur.
Kifo did not wish his own victories to be too easy. Then again, neither did he wish to fail.
In silence Brother Death sat meditating across from Brother Hand, considering all the possibilities. Their number was myriad, but not infinite, and therefore comprehensible.
And what a man can comprehend, he can achieve.
Chapter SEVEN
A DEEP AND esoteric life-philosophy was not Taz’s main concern. She considered herself a pragmatist, dealing with the day-to-day realities of life. True, she knew that happenstance, luck, could run either way. Fortune was fickle by its nature, impossible to control. One moment you might be walking arm-in-arm with your close friend bore chance, the next second the sky could fall, and you’d be caught flatfooted, watching your friend sprint away, laughing her ass off. Such things were to shrug about, if you survived.
Good luck decided to take a quick hike, Taz realized, as she and her brother arrived in The Oxidized Owl.
The Owl, a local restaurant and pub, was always crowded, no matter what hour of the day or night. The reasons for this were simple enough: they served good food and drinks in large quantities and both were cheap. The owner, Noe Teng Bicho, was a more than somewhat gaudy sex-changer from PrimeSat in Centauri. Born male, subsequent surgery and viral/hormonal revision had transformed him into a her, right down to a womb-implant that could, should she ever desire it, produce a child. With a little help, of course. Everybody called the owner of the Owl “Pickle.” Curious, Taz had asked around and found that it had to do with a kind of vegetable made by soaking something called a cucumber in some kind of brine solution. The resulting product was shaped vaguely like a penis, which didn’t really help much, unless you had been into Pickle’s private office and seen what she kept in a jar on her desk. It was still fairly esoteric even so, unless you knew that the pale pinkish-blue thing in the jar had once been attached to Pickle herself.
Even during the most crowded times, there were always tables kept free for the local police. Having cools in the restaurant guaranteed that the most rowdy crowds would stay relatively calm, and if you were a cool, you could eat free. Taz had sometimes taken advantage of that, though not often, given how reasonable the prices were. If Internal Investigations intended to hang her for graft, she’d be in a line that included the Supervisor and the head of Eye-eye, not to mention half the street POs working.
So there’d be room for her and Saval, that wasn’t the bad luck, even though the place was mostly packed and dozens of hopefuls milled around outside waiting for openings. No. The falling sky was, Ruul was there, holding court at the best table in the chi-chi looky-here corner reserved for celebrities.
Fuck him.
You wish.
Fuck you, too. -
Saval stood like a thousand-year-old hardwood tree as Pickle herself bustled up. She was an attractive woman, vibrantly alive, maybe thirty-five T.S., and she looked at Saval with a gaze that reminded Taz of feeding time at the vulp exhibit.
Tel-lo, tall, wide one. New in town?”
“Hello, Pickle,” Taz said. “This is my brother, Saval, from Muto Kato. Saval, Noe Bicho, Pickle to her friends.”
The restaurant owner wore green and red whispersilks that revealed as much as they hid, held in place by static charges that changed polarities every so often to play show and tell with other parts of her. The cloth sang faint, breathy musical chords in minor keys as it moved. Her hair, red and green to match the silks, danced to similar charges. Her body was good, she worked out, and the effect was certainly erotic.
The outfit and hairstyle had to set her back a chunk equal to two weeks’ of Taz’s pay, easy. Maybe three.
Pickle could take her pick of a thousand men on any given night with whom to share her favors, with another five or ten thousand wishing for a chance just to make the short list.
“Are you this big where it doesn’t show?” Pickle said. She put one hand on Saval’s arm. “Heysoo Damn, honey, you wearing armor under those ‘skins? Oh, my, I think I’m in love!” She slid her hand up Saval’s arm, then down again. “A hard man is so good to find.”
“He’s married-” Taz began.
“Sweet cheeks, that never bothers me in the least.” ,
‘-married to an Albino Exotic, Pickle.”
The woman blinked, looked away from Saval at Taz. “Shit, Chief, you really know how to hurt a girl, don’t you?” She turned her gaze back to Saval. “You a monopoker, big man? Exclusive contract?”
“Yes.”
“An Exotic; figures. Damn. All the good ones are taken. Well, if you get lonely while visiting our lovely planet, just touch the com and call my name and I’ll be there before you get undressed.” She waved one hand. “Herzio, get Chief Bork and her brother a table, and a bottle of that qar vine in the lockroom, my treat.”
With that, Pickle flounced away in a flash of skin and silk. Before she took two steps, however, she turned back. Smiled. It was the expression of a savage queen condemning somebody to torture; you could cast it and sell it to scare small children. “I’ll tell Ruul you’re here, Chief.”
Ouch.
Your point, Taz conceded with a nod. Saval is a grown man; he could have protected himself. Shouldn’t have mentioned his wife.
Pickle twisted the bitchy smile a hair, collecting her due. She loved to win, but if you were a good loser she was usually merciful. Maybe she wouldn’t say anything to Ruul.
The waiter led them to a table, and Taz was most careful to avoid looking at Ruul as she and Saval sat.
The bottle of wine arrived within thirty seconds. Taz touched a menu button on the tabletop and a small doubleside holoproj glimmered to life as the wine waiter poured for them.
“What’s good?” Saval asked.
“Everything. Not a bad entree on the list. The local meat beast is called sweef, kind of a cross between porkers and cattle, big ugly suckers, but it makes a nice steak. The fish’ll be fresh; Pickle has a buyer at the docks every morning. The spearfish is good, the shallow tack better. Veggies are all complementary to the main course; the chef’s got good taste.”
He nodded. “I’ll try this one. The Slab.”
“You’ll draw a crowd. That’s almost two kilos of meat.”
“I’m hungry.”
They grinned at each other.
“So,” he said, after the waiter had come and gone. “This thing with you and Ruul serious, or what?”
She nearly choked on her wine. Managed to put the glass down without spewing the stuff all over the table. Swallowed and shook her head. “How the fuck did you do that? We’ve been together since we touched down, unless you’ve got a source in the fresher. Somebody telling you tales while you piss?”
“No. Just paying attention. I saw your expression when Pickle mentioned the name. Saw her trot off to the corner where that guy is making fifteen people laugh. Watched you look at every face in the room like a working po except the guy in the corner.”
She smiled, a small one. He was her brother, but they hadn’t spent a lot of time together in the last twenty years. If the other matadors were this sharp, then they would be folks to reckon with, sure enough. She’d heard the stories, but it was different to see the focus turn upon you for a demonstration.
She was impressed.
She said so.
“And it’s none of my business,” he said.
She shrugged. “It’s no big secret. Ruul is in entertainment. Has his own ‘cast, he’s an actor, comedy.
<
br /> Very funny man, but also got some depth. Very popular in the local system, moderately rich, can pick from a long list of people to run with. Last year somebody killed his niece. Turned out to be an accident, at least in the sense the killer wasn’t aiming at her, she was in the wrong place, wrong time. Ruul and I met when I did the investigation. One thing led to another. We spent some time together. It didn’t work out, that’s pretty much it.”
Saval nodded.
There was a lot more to it than that, of course.
They talked about the murders until the food came. A few people turned to watch Saval’s order when it went past, to see who thought they could put down that much meat in a sitting. Taz had ordered the fish, and while it wasn’t nearly so much as Saval’s, it was probably nearly a half kilo of tender whiteness in a sremea sauce rich enough to make you get fat by looking at it. She had just popped a big forkful of the fish into her mouth when somebody came up behind her. She saw Saval notice before she heard the voice.
“Hello, Tazzi.”
Her heart froze, her brain locked in neutral. She practically inhaled the mouthful of fish to get rid of it.
Turned. Saw him there. Ached as her heart restarted and throbbed much too hard.
“Hello, Ruul.”
He looked good; he always looked good. Even if he wasn’t the funniest man she’d ever met, he’d still get invited to parties just to brighten up any room he was in. Tall, a little taller than she was, slim, naturally blond, -face full of smile lines and character that went all the way into his soul. Eyes too blue to be real, but they were. And, goddammit, he was glad to see her. That was the worst part of it, every time. And if he’d said, Tazzi, you want to go to my house and roll around and destroy the furniture with me? she’d be up and moving before the echoes of his voice died, wouldn’t even wave goodbye. Of course, he wouldn’t say that. Not now.
“Ruul, this is-”
“Your brother,” he finished. “Pickle told me. Not that anybody could miss it. You two split the genes pretty close. Hello. I’m Ruul Oro. Very honored to meet you.”
Saval nodded. “Saval Bork,” he said. His voice was calm, almost grave. He might be a matador and he might be good at hiding stuff from strangers, but Taz caught a hint of something in his tone. He didn’t rise or offer a clasp or palm-down, but he was civil enough.
Taz and Ruul looked at each other. The rest of the place went away for her. A long time passed. Half an eon, at least. Finally he said, “Well. I’ve got some people, I have to get back to them. I just wanted to stop and say hello. It’s good to see you again, Tazzi.” He looked away from her. “And to meet you, M.
Bork.” Looked back to Taz. “Com when you get a chance. Or come by, anytime. The doors still have your code.”
“I wouldn’t want to walk in on anything,” she said. God, her voice was stiff.
“You wouldn’t. There’s nobody else. I miss you.”
With that, he turned and walked away, moving through the crowd watching him with an acrobat’s grace, apparently oblivious to the admiring stares.
God damn him! How could he say that? It was not fair!
She felt herself trembling. Reached for her wine to try and cover it.
“Want me to bite him?”
She blinked. “Huh?”
“Remember when you were eight? The Sin City docks on Hadiya?”
Abruptly, she did remember. Smiled at the recollection. Gods, she hadn’t thought about that in years.
That stupid Confed officer.
“Not right now,” she said. “But maybe later.”
“Anytime, twaddle.”
He dug back into his steak. Gave her as much privacy as he could.
It wasn’t a cure, but it made her feel better. Like a patch pressed against an open wound, it didn’t make it well, but it helped stop the bleeding. Good old Saval. About as perfect as an older brother could be. She was glad he was here. Always there when she really needed him.
Now, if she could solve a series of impossible murders and get in order her relationship with a man she loved but who wouldn’t sleep with her any more, she’d be just fine.
Probably fat, after eating this fish, but otherwise just fine.
Chapter EIGHT
TAZ HAD A house twenty minutes from the police station by flitter. The place was surprisingly large; three private sleep chambers, a fresher for each, plus assorted communal rooms and a kitchen, as well as a garage for her personal flitter, half of which was a gym.
As she showed Bork around, he said, “They must pay cools pretty well here.”
She laughed. “Not really. I’m in debt to my hairline to pay for this. We came in along the Eusi River Expressway, so you missed the scenic route through Mende Town, our local slum. City officials have been trying to clean it out for years but something always happens to stop it. If you limber your arm up a little, you can toss a rock and hit the left hind leg of the place-‘mende’ means ‘cockroach,’ and that pretty much describes the place. Real estate that snuggles against the roach’s backside is a lot cheaper than the hillsides overlooking the bay.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a pretty good alarm system. But you would have noticed that when we came in.”
Bork nodded.
He put his travel bag in the sleep chamber she offered him, and they went to sit in the biggest of the common rooms. The chairs were nonmechanical, overstuffed, and comfortable for somebody Bork’s size.
“So. What do you think about the killings?”
He leaned back. “Locked-room stuff almost always turns out to be done by insiders. A bribed guard, security monitor, somebody selling codes, like that.”
Taz nodded. “Yeah, that’s how we figured it at first.”
“But not now?”
She shook her head. “We’ve strained the brains of the guards, secretaries, friends, lovers, and so far gotten null. You saw the latest one. I’d bet a thousand stads to a toenail clipping everybody we touch will come up clean, even on the deepscans.”
“You have enough money and clout, you can get around a deepscan.”
“Sure, if the operator is open to baksheesh or a higher-up wants to diddle with results. We have our share of bent cools, but we aren’t that corrupt.”
“Then you haven’t scanned the right people yet.”
“Yeah, that’s what we figure. Problem is-how do we find the right ones? Take the second case. Woman killed was Leona chu balm Sikon, a rich humanist. No enemies. Two bodyguards outside her bedroom on the ninth floor of a residential plex. No way in or out save through the door they watched. No windows. The guards tested truthful when they said nobody came or went, but she was chopped up like the others, head here, body there. If what the guards said was true, it was impossible. Just like when my gun got lifted on your planet. It doesn’t compute.”
“When you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how unlikely, has to be the answer,”
Bork said. “Emile used to quote that at us when we were training in defense scenarios. Some famous investigator said that, Watson Hemlock or somebody.”
“Fine in theory,” she said. “But we’ve had our own people working during three of these assassinations and we ain’t eliminated shit. Our computers fuzz when we feed them info; we have almost no physical evidence. How are we going to figure out where to grab hold of these things when they’re as slick as lube on thincris plate?”
“Next time you get a threat, I’ll park myself next to the client,” Bork said. “Maybe get a look at what’s sneaking under the door.”
Later, when Taz was sleeping, Bork went for a workout. She’d converted half her garage into a gym, and it was outfitted fairly well, except there weren’t enough free weights. Taz liked the machines, and while Bork preferred plain flexsteel bars and plates, he could make do. He’d stripped to hardskin gloves, headband and a groin strap, and he had a thick towel over one shoulder.
The murders were interesting. He�
�d never come across anything quite like them, though the matadors had a common file where they dumped records of assassination attempts upon various of their clients.
There was a case where a man had been killed inside a locked and guarded room on Spandle. But that had turned out to be an induced suicide. Somebody had coated a drawer handle with a tailored psychedelic derm chem that soaked through the client’s skin when he touched it. The chem drove the guy crazy and he dived off the desk onto the floor and broke his neck.
It probably wasn’t real likely the guy Bork had seen earlier in the day had chopped his own head off and then cleverly hidden the weapon afterward.
Bork adjusted the controls on Taz’s ROM gear, stepped into the device and allowed it to test his tonus.
A couple of warm-up sets and he began to work out in earnest. He began with legs, and when the machine said he’d reached his limits, he overrode the safety and added five more to his kiloage. The machine could see muscle density, could determine nerve conduction, but no machine could yet measure spirit.
A soft voice repeated, “Warning, you have exceeded your limitations,” as Bork went down to parallel, then slowly strained against the bar across his shoulders to come up. It was hard. The mechanical aspect of it was beyond him, according to the device designed to know such things.
Bork did three reps.
Then he grinned at the computer voice when it said, “Warning, systems malfunction. Please call your dealer for repair. Your operating program is in error.”
Sorry, machine, Bork thought. But he really wasn’t sorry. He’d always liked the fable of John Henry and the contest with the steam engine. He was aware that he was among the strongest men or mues in the galaxy. There had been times when he’d known for sure he was the most powerful person on a particular planet-there were records kept of certain endeavors, weightlifting being a common enough sport on most worlds. If he could push more than the local record, that was pretty much self-evident. It was a mild curiosity in him, though, not one he put much energy into. Strength, like intelligence, was a variable thing. One day you might beat a guy, the next day he might beat you. At noon the puzzle might be beyond you, at dinner the answer easier than snapping your fingers. At any given time there might be a pool of fifty or sixty people, mues surely, who could move more weight than could he; then again, maybe he could outlift them. So he might not be the strongest guy in the galaxy, but then again, maybe so. In any event, it gave him a certain perverse pleasure to make the machine blink when he went past its boundaries.
