Mindworlds

by Phyllis Gotlieb

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  Another Mysterious Stranger

  Spartakos Cuts a Deal

  Good Night

  TWO

  A Hot Box

  Armor

  THREE

  Hasso Alone

  And a Good Time Was Had by All

  FOUR

  Ekket

  Hasso and Tharma: Covering Everything

  The Gardeners

  FIVE

  Tracks

  Friendships

  Choices

  Beyond

  SIX

  In Deep in Bonzador

  Tharma and Ravat and Vannar

  No Love Lost

  Three Heads

  SEVEN EXITS

  Out of Sight

  All’s Well That Ends

  TOR BOOKS BY PHYLLIS GOTLIEB

  Copyright Page

  and this one’s for Jake

  I would like to thank Science Fiction Canada for having patience with my occasional groans and many requests for research help.

  PROLOGUE

  Fthel IV, Montador City: The Company

  The restaurant’s bubble-shaped tower rose on its thin stem a quarter-kilometer above the roofs of the city but from inside at the table near the wall Tyloe was looking around at a panorama of endless marshes humped with pulpy succulent growths; among their twining branches were colonies of dreaming Lyhhrt who never woke. Somehow he knew this without seeing them.

  But only at a glance. Tyloe was wide awake and sitting there to guard Brezant, not admire the scenery.

  Brezant’s teeth were on edge. “Lorrice! Stop that damned stupid whimpering!”

  She was biting her knuckle. “I can’t help it, I’m scared of them. They’re lumps of slime inside machines, they know everything about you—”

  Brezant’s finger and thumb circled her wrist like an iron cuff and she shrank back, but could not pull away.

  Tyloe, stationed at her other shoulder, might have raised a cautioning hand then, but there were other watchers, owned by Brezant, sitting at this and other tables. All wearing much the same muted cylon zip, chosen by Lorrice. Brezant had bought the restaurant for this night, and he owned Tyloe as well.

  Brezant said through his teeth, “We know that, Lorrice, but they aren’t paying attention to you, they know nothing about you, they don’t give a shit about you, you’re none of their business, they—”

  “Madame would choose a cordial?” The very sober waiter with the down-the-nose look might have been a robot, or a Lyhhrt, or a very experienced elderly man. He was clearing the table with thick-bodied grace.

  Brezant let go of her wrist. Lorrice rubbed it and said, “Bourbon. No water.”

  The restaurant was one of a chain that specialized in exotic environments, and its decor was based on whatever the designer could convey of a Lyhhrt’s “vision” of its home world. It suddenly struck Tyloe that the eyeless Lyhhrt species would never have known what their world looked like if aliens had not come to show them.

  On the concave wall across from him the sun of Lyhhr rose in a double set of halos studded with parhelions and the sky turned mother-of-pearl …

  Then a Lyhhrt rose from the lift in the center of the floor among the blue marble tables, and another followed: they were hominid forms, one in conservative dark bronze, the other more expansive in brass inlaid with arabesques of silver. Their heads tilted in courtesy-nods.

  Brezant’s impervious helmet was tattooed under his scalp. He wore an external one for show, its network plated with gold and studded with diamonds and emeralds at the cross points; neither of the two would deter the Lyhhrt from esping him, but he had nothing to hide from them, even Tyloe knew that. Lorrice wore no helmet at all. Brezant would not let her. The necklace with its tiny gold five-point star marked her as ESP-one, but only a Lyhhrt could reach the mind of another; Lorrice was there to esp not the Lyhhrt but Tyloe, and the lawyer Cranshawe, the secretary Istvan, and all the other suits and muscles that enfolded Brezant wherever he went.

  The two Lyhhrt slid themselves into the green luxleather chairs. “Andres Brezant,” Bronze said, “You come well recommended, citizen.” His machined voice was warm and expressive as any Lyhhrt’s, and his lingua unaccented.

  “I make sure of that, Ambassador.” Brezant did not ask his name, because Lyhhrt do not have them.

  “You live on this world?”

  “Sometimes. I come from Earth, in the Sol System.”

  Both Lyhhrt already knew all of this, but neither party had much small talk.

  “Tell me what you can offer us then, citizen.” It was no question.

  “We will give you freedom from the shame of being enslaved and revenge for the neglect of Galactic Federation.”

  Brass-and-silver said, “We had that freedom one Cosmic Cycle ago before the Ix attacked our world and laid their eggs in our bodies. It did us very little good.”

  “And five years ago, when the Khagodi needed your help, you freely sacrificed yourselves and your ship to save their world from being destroyed by the Ix. No one thanked you for that. Not Khagodis, nor the Federation.”

  “And you believe it is thanks we need?”

  “We can bring you reparations.”

  “Truly! And we are to sign a new Oath and be slaves to you now, instead of the Ix?”

  “A business agreement. Lyhhr has withdrawn from trade pacts with three worlds in the last five years. If you kept on doing that your world would regress—I am willing to say boldly—to its primitive state, before the Federation pulled you from the swamps to make those workshells, before the Ix, before anyone knew you at all.”

  “We are very much aware of that, citizen. Some of us believe that state is—you would say—heavenly!”

  Brezant did not bother to ask the Lyhhrt if he believed this. “Without skills and without the materials to practice them. Without any kind of protection or defense. But the Khagodi are still afraid of your anger, and especially so now that Lyhhr has stopped importing platinum and iridium from their Isthmuses District, when so much of their world’s economy was based on that trade.”

  “You have educated yourself well,” Bronze said. “I believed only Lyhhr and Khagodis knew that. I voted against those actions when I served on my world’s Council. But I and those who agreed with me were voted down—some considered us suspect because we had left our colonies to work on other worlds and were felt to have become over-individualized, heretical. Even contaminated. So much for rewarding our services. But I still serve as well as I can.”

  Brezant nodded toward Brass-and-silver. “May I ask if that’s your companion’s feeling?”

  Brass focused his diamond eyes on Brezant. “If it was not I would not be here.”

  “And on your world there are still others who feel as you do …” It was a half-question.

  “There are enough, citizen.”

  Bronze said, “The Khagodi must find new markets for their ores, and that serves them right, but because of our foolhardy Council’s votes and our broken trade pacts we can’t build our ships or the instruments that run them.”

  “I’ll make my offer then. You can sue Khagodis for reparations. If they refuse I can bring a force of up to ten thousand troops with small arms and hypersledges to make sure you get them—”

  “Get what, citizen?”

  “Control of their Isthmus Territories, twenty-five to thirty-five of their richest mines. We will ship the ores anywhere you choose, as long as we get one-half of the profits. Khagodi are heavy and slow. Their culture is low-tech and their aircraft are flown mainly by the Kylkladi. They have produced a few clumsy gladiators, but seldom warriors, and never
mercenaries.” Or we need not bother with chatter about reparations and simply raid them.

  A moment of silence. The thought resonated so strongly that even Tyloe could sense it … but no one else in the room so much as flickered an eye. Tyloe for an instant wondered if he had been suddenly gifted with telepathy and in the same instant realized that Lorrice had opened Brezant’s mind to him. By way of the Lyhhrt. It closed with a snap.

  They’re so sure of themselves they don’t care who reads them. And she wants something from me … what?

  I’ll find out later. He doubted he would escape finding out.

  Brezant’s flash of greed did not seem to disturb the Lyhhrt. Bronze said, “Any sudden attack would be very unwise, citizen. We have not dealt much with Galactic Federation lately, but they would take us before we had dug much ore from the pits. Then we might all end up digging in the Urgha Mines, where there are coals and not platinum. And Lyhhrt never do such things without warnings. Wounded we may be but we are not yet devolved.”

  Brezant was easy. “If you agree with my proposal—”

  “Not quite so quickly! You want more from us than an excuse to make a raid on Khagodis’s mines …”

  “Your skills. Do what you like with your half of the profits but design and build our electronics, our satellites, our ships—”

  “For your world—and its colonies?”

  “For us, and our enterprises. This Company.”

  “And your weapons? Those we would never build.”

  “We’ll put that aside. With Lyhhrt skills and precious metals from the Isthmuses we would be very satisfied.”

  “It’s an intriguing proposal. You understand that we cannot answer at this moment.”

  “How long do you need?”

  “We may need three or four of your thirtydays to gather a consensus.”

  Brezant’s nails danced on the table. “I thought you came here ready to deal!”

  “You may have your forces here, Citizen Brezant, but most of ours are on Lyhhr. We cannot bend all of the laws of reality to quicken communication.”

  “I can’t keep all my people on standby for very much longer.” Brezant did not move to wipe the sweat from his face.

  “Perhaps you have presumed too much,” Brass-and-silver said.

  Tyloe was always conscious of a vibration, a trembling, coming off the surface of Lorrice’s mind. It twinged like a tuning fork up the back of his neck into the base of his skull now.

  Brezant’s knuckles hit the table-top four quick light raps. “Maybe I invited you here for an evening of entertainment! Maybe the fun is over and it’s time to go home!” Darkness was beginning to climb the walls of the Lyhhrt world; its sky had many stars but no moon.

  Both Lyhhrt were silent for a moment. “Citizen, we said nothing on purpose to offend you. Both parties have too much invested in this meeting to give up on it. Once we communicate with our base we can reach an unalterable decision in five of your minutes, but twenty thousand space-lights more than all the thousands we have broadcasting now couldn’t relay our messages faster. We need a minimum of two thirtydays to bring you the answer.”

  Brezant nodded. “That’s done then.”

  “But remember this, Andres Brezant. Whatever our decision is, it begins with a mission to Fthel Five and a complaint to Galactic Federation.” Bronze and Brass-with-silver rose and flowed away down the lift.

  Brezant waited a beat after the floor closed over them, then grabbed Lorrice’s empty bourbon glass, flung and smashed it against the wall. Tyloe could have caught it but didn’t dare.

  Lorrice sat still. Her tuning fork rose an octave.

  Brezant made a gesture, and his guards and flunkies moved away from him to the wall. Tyloe got up, but Brezant waved him to his chair. He found a handkerchief and patted his face dry. “All right.” He turned to Lorrice, his voice caught a roughness and he swallowed. “You’re the ESP, what did you pick off from them?”

  I don’t think it’s the Lyhhrt she’s afraid of.

  : You think too much, Tyloe!: the mindvoice said.

  “They weren’t lying about wanting the deal. They believed what you said.” Lorrice dug in her gold-skinned handbag, offered him a Zephyrelle, an expensive mixture of weed and dope encased in purple and gold, put it in her mouth and lit it for him.

  He accepted it, drew in deeply. “Yeh. What else?”

  “Ah, this restaurant reminded them of a Lyhhrt decontamination chamber—”

  “I don’t give a shit if they think it’s a pigsty. Go on.”

  “Nothing rea—”

  “There’s lots!” His head turned. “Isn’t there, Tyloe? You looked as if you were hearing something.”

  What does he want from me? Tyloe, the newest member of the guard, wasn’t eager to be an advisor. “Only what everyone else got. That they believed you, but they needed to consult.”

  “Yeh.” The heavy stubbled head turned again, and then Tyloe’s armpits sprang a sweat of relief. “All right, Lorrice, out with it!” Brezant bent toward her. The smoke fell from his nostrils in thin streams.

  She was pale, and gauntness aged her face. Her hair glimmered faintly in the dying light. “They—they said themselves they weren’t speaking for all of Lyhhr … but,” stumbling, “they never once referred to themselves as ‘I/we’ or ‘we/us’ and—the three or four Lyhhrt I’ve known have always done that at least once every ten or fifteen minutes to show they’re connected to others even if they’re alone.”

  “So?”

  “This is a group that’s split off from their world, and, ah—”

  Cranshawe, the lawyer, rescued her. “We can’t tell how big that group is, and how much of Lyhhr they represent.”

  “They’re enough for me.” Brezant pushed himself away from the table and stood. “Let’s get out of here.” His shadowed men and women rose around him.

  The lift ran down the stem of the bubble, a long way down, and Tyloe was crammed in beside Lorrice with her scent and Brezant with his smoke. Brezant’s hand ran down Lorrice’s hip and began plucking at her dress, rubbing a fold of black chiffon between thumb and finger, not quite pinching or touching, his pink hand a small animal gnawing the twist of fabric.

  Lorrice’s mind retreated to some area she had created for herself; Tyloe wanted to look the other way, but there was nowhere else.

  The beggar with upturned hands who waited by the restaurant door in the stem’s base was an O‘e, a remnant of the old Zamos clone factories. At its peak the Zamos Corporation had created thousands of clone slaves for underwater mining, personal service and prostitution. The O’e had been left over as detritus when the Corporation fell. This one had the hominid shape and grayish skin of most of them, along with an eye eaten out by skegworm and the warped body of one who dug in garbage heaps for scraps of rotted food.

  Brezant, coming out of the door into the hot night, found one of the beggar’s crooked feet in his way, kicked it aside, dropped his burning Zephyrelle in the beggar’s cupped hands and passed by heading for his landcar.

  When he was out of sight the beggar pinched out the hot coal with his fingers, plucked a transparent envelope from his dirty rags and tipped the Zephyrelle into it. He crawled away, painfully slouching down the lanes and alleys that threaded the ancient palaces of a fallen civilization, until he reached the back-door garden of Galactic Federation’s World Headquarters. The door was opened by a Lyhhrt in a gunmetal workshell, who let him in and followed after.

  He stumbled across the too-big rotunda, even bigger at night, to where Willson was working late in his closet of an office. The lamp was just bright enough to show the gloss of sweat on his face. Gunmetal moved to close the door, but Willson said, “Main power’s out, cooler’s gone, this is too bloody hot.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” the beggar said.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

  “Here.” Digging into the stinking rags, he found the envelope and placed it on the desk between Willson’s hands
.

  “Eh, this looks like something. Get some good genes off it. Wait’ll Greisbach sees this!”

  “I/we hope so.” The beggar pulled off and flung aside his rags and skin, and became another Lyhhrt in a brushed silver casing.

  “You think this yobbo is one of the leftovers of Zamos’s little empire?”

  Gunmetal said, “Do not make ‘humor’ about Zamos.”

  “Awright, awright! No offense meant.”

  “Whether this is a remnant or not, it’s dangerous,” Silver said, “and we will find out what.”

  “It’s sure lucky he had that cigarette.”

  “That was not luck. I made sure he wanted one.”

  “A risk, though. Watch you don’t outsmart yourself—eh,” calling through the open door, “Greisbach, is that you?”

  “No, but I will do instead,” the voice said. Both Lyhhrt saw through Willson’s eyes the figure with the dark gleam of wrought iron striding the rotunda, heard the tzuk! of the bullet, felt Willson’s life dissolve into nothingness, tzuk! again and again—as Gunmetal exploded, Silver, who had been the beggar, fell crashing against the wall, the intruder’s hurried footsteps echoed off the marble floor of the rotunda … .

  My Other! Gunmetal’s workshell lay in ruins, oozing with the thin pinkish ichor that was Lyhhrt blood.

  The surprise of the attack had shattered Silver’s control of the workshell, he had twisted helplessly in his attempt to dodge, and the explosive bullet, aimed at the midsection where his body nested, had missed and gouged the tip of his shoulder, showering the room with a thousand minuscule silver flakes.

  Lyhhrt cannot run in hominid workshells that would batter them like shaken babies, and by the time Silver could begin to pull himself out of that black shock he saw Willson slumped dead with his forehead on the desk. No cigarette butt in an envelope. No telepathic traces, and the Lyhhrt did not know of any ESP more powerful at shielding than himself or another Lyhhrt. So one of the Lyhhrt delegation had twigged him and followed. Outsmarted.