by Stefon Mears
“I can and I do,” said Tunold, and unless Machado was mistaken, he heard more than a little pleasure in that gruff voice. “My ship’s mage here received a similar message about Mr. Mancuso and agrees that the threat is credible.”
Both the suits turned to Machado, so he nodded gravely. If all business decisions took so long it was a wonder that corporations ever accomplished anything at all.
“All right,” said Stevens. “So we all agree. Now what?”
“Now,” said Machado, “I go into his head and find out what’s going on.”
◊
Jacobs slumped back into his captain’s seat. The ship was safe. The zuglodon hunting ground was behind them. No signs of pursuit. Clear space between Jacobs and Venus.
“Take us down to cruising speed, Mr. Burke. No sense in terrifying the locals.”
And given the proximity of a large collection of some of the greatest space hazards Jacobs knew of, he had no doubt how the locals would interpret a civilian ship coming in at high speed. Even though Venus had negligible laws and landing conditions that sounded downright primitive, such an unconventional arrival would likely result in a poor reception.
Of course, if either of those military ships had linked ahead, Jacobs might be in for an unpleasant reception anyway.
If it survived, the Morgenstern would let them go. Jacobs didn’t doubt that. But the Orpheus, well, Jacobs half-expected to see that cruiser appear on the scanners any minute, half-dead and on fire but riding them down like death late for an appointment.
And even if the Orpheus failed to arrive in person, Jacobs had no doubt that if it survived that battle, it would link ahead to have them arrested on Venus. Captain Liatos struck Jacobs as the sort to push this conflict as far as his rank could take it.
But there was another factor involved. Jacobs’ reception on Venus would depend not only on whether those ships survived that last battle but also on whether they realized that the Horizon Cusp had escaped them. Given the Morgenstern’s last link, they might think that the Horizon Cusp had fallen to the zuglodons.
That had to have been Machado’s work, the reason he needed Jacobs to bring the ship to a dead halt amid a sea of threats. He must have tricked their scanners into seeing the Horizon Cusp destroyed by the great beasts.
Tricky work, but a good call if he pulled it off. Surely not even Liatos would call ahead to interdict a sunken ship.
Another sign that it was time for Jacobs to retire. He had tried to deal with space as he thought it should be handled rather than how it would be handled. Jacobs had known well what a no-fly zone meant, that any ship meeting them inside it would be as likely to shoot them down as talk to them.
But no, Jacobs had persuaded himself that humanitarian aid would rank higher than planetary secrets. He had risked his ship, his crew and his passengers on that little bit of persuasion, rather than taking a safer, longer route.
Perhaps he should let Tunold take the conn for the flight back to Earth...
Jacobs shook his head. The time for self-critique would come later. Right now, he had a mission to finish.
◊
“You are worried about something that isn’t real!” Machado threw up his hands with an exasperated sound, but Stevens looked unmoved. So certain in her perfect suit and luxury suite, backed by her male twin Davis. Machado needed to make them understand. And Goldberg and Tunold while he was at it, or their reports would miss the whole point.
Machado bought a moment by placating his rumbling stomach with a slice of Jarlsberg cheese from the hors d'oeuvres tray, then tried again.
“No viable methods for probing through the thoughts of another sentient being have ever been proven! Sure, some claim that powerful air elementals can be used this way, but I’ve never seen it done. The closest anyone has come involves summoning very dangerous spirits from certain old grimoires—”
“I don’t mean to accuse you of anything. But we do not know what your investigation will turn up. If Mr. Mancuso’s mind has been opened to manipulation—”
“I will not be ‘manipulating.’ I will be looking for evidence of certain types of thaumaturgic structures—”
“Structures you will have to test, which may lead to his revealing trade secrets—”
“I don’t give a damn about your trade secrets!”
“Machado,” said Tunold, his tone just under a roar. Though, to his credit, the ex oh looked ready to throw Stevens through a bulkhead so Machado could do his job. But when Tunold turned to Stevens, his tone came out even.
“I understand your concerns, and agree that you have every right to be there.” He turned back to Machado. “Is there any risk that he could become violent if you try to undo any blocks?”
Machado grimaced, but refused to lie.
“Some. But under the circumstances I consider the risk minimal compared to the potential invasion of his privacy.”
“Understood.” Tunold turned back to Stevens. “You and Mr. Davis may be in the room to protect any secrets Mr. Mancuso might reveal.” He waited until Stevens nodded before continuing, “And Goldberg and I will be in the room to defend Machado physically, in case Mr. Mancuso becomes violent.”
Stevens shook her head and started to say something, but Tunold cracked his voice like a whip. “Either we protect ourselves against all potential risks, or we ignore all potential risks and Machado goes in alone. That is my decision as executive officer of the Horizon Cusp.”
Stevens and Davis looked at each other as though they shared some unspoken communication that even Machado could not sense.
“Very well, Mr. Tunold,” said Stevens. “I acknowledge that you have the right to make that decision and will abide by it. All of us then.”
Machado stood back from the door to the bedroom and Stevens opened it. She started to enter, but Machado put a hand on her shoulder.
“Normally I believe in ladies first, but under the circumstances it would be safest if I lead.”
“You make it sound as if I’m a serial killer,” said the bored voice of Mr. Mancuso.
Machado entered the obscenely large and opulent bedroom — at least obscenely large and opulent compared to most of the Horizon Cusp’s accommodations — where he saw Mancuso stretched out on top of the covers on his more-than-king-size bed, ankles crossed and a refillable novel in his hands.
Every stick of furniture in the room looked to have been hand-crafted from rich hardwoods and trimmed with silver and gold, from the frame of the sleigh bed to the armoire and chest of drawers, to the twin nightstands and even the doors to the walk-in closet and bathroom.
Mancuso himself wore his impeccable suit down to his fine shoes, with the only exception being his jacket, which lay draped across the mattress beside him.
Still not looking up from his novel, Mancuso continued, “I still say this is ludicrous. Tai Shi would never pull a stunt like this. Too much risk for too little reward. What has it gotten her apart from what she would have had anyway? The promotion?” Mancuso scoffed. “I’d first imagined a role like that in business school.”
“If she did it at all,” said Machado, “and I am not saying she did, she may not have had a plan in mind, but a contingency. Protecting herself against a future possibility rather than seeking immediate benefit.”
Machado didn’t believe any of that. Not for a moment. He thought Li Hua seemed arrogant enough that, if she had done it, she probably intended something like the sort of ruling class Cuthbert mentioned. But he knew the contingency idea might strike the right chord with a man like Mancuso.
Mancuso made a humming sound that Machado interpreted as polite disinterest.
“Not likely,” the business magnate said. “But I’ll grant that Cuthbert has my best interests in mind, so if he believes it, I’m willing to let you check it out. And at least this whole debacle proves that my executive business assistant is reading all the contracts the way she’s supposed to. Good work there, Stevens.”
“Then you
don’t mind if I get started?” said Machado.
“Do I have to stop reading? I’m almost done with this chapter.”
“By all means, keep reading,” said Machado with a placating wave of his hand. “It’s good for your mind to be busy while I work.”
Machado pointed at the door. Goldberg closed it. Tunold took up a position on the other side of the bed. Stevens and Davis stood on the near side, uncertain what they needed to do. Machado almost wished he could watch their faces while he worked, but that, alas, was not an option.
Machado stepped close to the bed until his knees touched the soft down mattress. He whirled his finger in a circle and enclosed the bed and himself in a magic circle. Mancuso shifted his shoulders, and Machado raised an eyebrow. That might have indicated discomfort at being cut off from Tai Shi. Mancuso had no thaumaturgic training, nor any particular talent. With his focus on his novel, he likely did not even notice Machado’s whirling finger.
But part of Mancuso responded to being enclosed within a magic circle. Interesting.
With that, Machado began.
◊
Machado shifted consciousness into deep contemplation while calling his familiar back to him. The ghostly panther arrived and said to its master’s mind, “Tai Shi Li Hua rests in her suite. A half-dozen members of the watch stand outside her door awaiting orders.”
Machado said nothing. He pointed at Mancuso. Saravá moved into Mancuso’s body and began looking from the inside for what Machado would seek from the outside.
As his familiar worked, Machado whistled a low tone, long and simple. He let the sound stretch until it filled his body. Then he let the tone vibrate, seeming to shake the world within his circle until it began to elicit echoes.
Outside the circle, Machado knew that the onlookers might hear his whistle, but they would not hear the responses, because they echoed not in sound but in magic.
First, Machado heard the answering call of his circle, his own magic harmonizing with his personal root note. The response came back pure and clear, shivering pleasure down Machado’s face and arms. Little more than calibration, really, because Machado had only just cast that circle. The chances that someone could have already tampered with it lay somewhere between slim and none.
But they provided a secondary benefit: resonance. The circle amplified the root tone as it spread through the bed, where it came back muddled by the magical signatures of the magicians who had enchanted the bed for deeper comfort and relaxation.
Those signatures clashed against the pure, clear tones Machado produced, but he knew he heard them that way because their tones were not his own. Every magician’s signature sounds clear and pure to that magician by its very nature.
But Machado did not dwell on his own signature. Instead he dwelled on the clashing sounds of the signatures he sensed from the bed, disconnecting and isolating each signature, each magical thumbprint, until he understood it. Then he ignored that signature and moved on, his senses now dismissing that signature’s ability to interfere.
He found four signatures in the spells on that bed, none he knew personally. No doubt part of the original manufacture. That fit with the power levels he picked up from those signatures: all Initiates.
But they no longer mattered. Machado moved past them.
Mancuso’s clothes showed no sign of enchantment. Machado double-checked that, surprised, but then when his second sweep came up clear decided that it was a status choice. Fine, expensive clothes made without the aid of thaumaturgy would no doubt cost even more. Or perhaps they were a trend, or exhibited a certain sense of taste.
The details did not matter, under the circumstances. The clothes were clean.
At least, these clothes were clean. Machado would have Cromartie sweep the rest of the man’s possessions before Mancuso left the ship, to ensure that no contingencies had been established.
Check that.
Cromartie could handle the sweep if Mancuso came up clean. If Machado found that the man had been ensorcelled, he would have to check every possession himself, just to make certain.
But for now, Machado turned his attention to the man himself, Mr. Donatello Michelangelo Mancuso.
◊
Machado closed his eyes and paused for three breaths, double-checking the signatures he had calibrated himself to ignore, then cleansing and purifying his own thoughts once more.
He wanted his mind as clear as possible for this last stage. No judgments. No preconceptions. No short cuts. By now Saravá would have prepared the way. Machado had completed the preliminaries. The time had come for the real work.
Machado opened his eyes.
He moved to stand by Mancuso’s feet and began once more to whistle the low, root tone of his personal magical signature. Finding no echo, Machado slowly turned his head, forcing the tone to continue up Mancuso’s calves and across his knees, then slowly past his hips, and up his torso and arms.
Nothing. Further then.
Still on that single breath, Machado sent his root tone the rest of the way up Mancuso’s torso, then his neck, then up through his skull.
Nothing. That was to be expected, but not assumed. If any signs could have been discerned at that level, someone would have discovered any tampering before now. But the obvious possibilities had to be excluded before the subtle methods were checked.
With that in mind, Machado began again at the feet, but this time sweeping across Mancuso’s aura, that region of self that extended beyond the body. Which was the only description of the aura that all magicians could agree on.
Many systems of thaumaturgy defined or interpreted the aura within their own context. Some used terms like “chakra” or “meridian” while others talked about the “spirit” or some form of “higher self.” The trade magazines had some new theory or other every month, as yet more magicians tried to make their personal ideas apply to everyone.
Machado didn’t care what any of them said. He had been raised with Catholicism and Candomblé, and he considered the presence of the aura proof of the soul. That the self extended beyond the confines of the body indicated to him that the self could well survive death and, Oxalá willing, find someplace better to spend eternity.
But Mancuso’s aura showed no signs of tampering.
Again, not a surprise to Machado, but a possibility that had to be eliminated before he could move into the subtlest territory of all: the mind itself.
Auditory checks would not suffice for this. He would have to go deeper.
Machado spread his arms and gathered himself within the territory described by his hands. He turned so that Mancuso’s head lay between those outstretched hands, if still a half-meter below where his hands would meet if Machado clapped.
But Machado did not clap. He closed his eyes and drew his hands together slowly, centimeter by centimeter, and as he did his attention moved down his arms at the same rate. His hands continued to ease toward each other as his thoughts flowed down over skin, muscle and bone. Machado’s awareness left behind his own mind and body as it made its way down those arms, feeling where the air touched skin, where the shirt rubbed and where it hung.
Though Machado could not see Mancuso, he could feel him. The proximity of their auras tingled in the background of Machado’s awareness as it slid past his wrists to his fingertips. When the hands stopped moving, if Machado had opened his eyes he would have seen Mancuso’s face as though between his two hands.
But he did not open his eyes. He had no need to. By that point, Machado’s awareness alighted the tips of his fingers and slipped across the tiny gap between the two men’s auras and into the mind of Donatello Michelangelo Mancuso.
Machado had not lied when he said he would not be able to read Mancuso’s thoughts. But he had not told the entire truth either. He had told as much as a layman could be expected to understand without panicking.
Because what Machado found in Mancuso’s mind was close to his essential self, abstracted.
Another mig
ht have seen a spider web of goals and desires, fear and nightmares, or perhaps those same ideas played out in sculpture or landscape paintings. But for Machado, the mind appeared as a tapestry.
The general shape and form of Mancuso’s tapestry depicted the man triumphant in the classical Italian renaissance style. He stood clad in bright plate armor atop a hill overlooking a harbor full of ships. One boot rested on the grass of the hill. The other was raised, and rested on a solid rock of granite. Each ship in the harbor had the name of some company or industry. In the distance were more lands and seas and sky, and the implication Machado picked up on was that Mancuso had conquered all of this territory. The coat of arms on his breastplate was a stack of gold coins against the background of a contract under crossed pens. He held a helmet under one arm, with a plume of solid gold. At his feet was an admiring hound that carried the sense that it represented politicians.
Machado could have sent his thoughts along through the image of that hound and learned of Mancuso’s accomplishments and plans involving politicians. Not concrete details, but overviews, fragments of inspiration and dream. This is what Stevens, what any layman, could not comprehend. If Machado chose to, he could learn much that was hidden about Mancuso, but he would never come close to anything they would regard as business secrets.
But frankly, Machado had no wish to learn that much about this man.
The voice of Saravá came to Machado. “I have worked from the border in, covering much of the background, but found no sign of undue influence within the skies, the seas, the distant lands, nor in the harbor with its ships.”
“Excellent. I have found no exterior signs. Continue as you have and I will begin now from the center and work outwards to meet you.”
Machado considered whether the head or the heart constituted the true center of Mancuso, but decided that his head must rule. Machado was no businessman himself, but from what he knew of the type he believed they relied on numbers and logic over instinct and feeling.
