The Life of the World to Come (Company)

by Kage Baker

  Heads up, son! Both sides, and they’re armed.

  He looked up to see a couple of powerful-looking youths advancing on him from alcoves on either side of the cave entrance. One wore a headset and carried a sensor wand.

  “Just a formality, English,” the Maelrubha told him soothingly. “You surely understand we’re obliged to do business with all types, and they ain’t all gentlemen like yourself. Of course you’re clean, though, isn’t he, boys?”

  One of the young men trained a rifle on Alec while the other swept the sensor wand up and down in front of him. “No guns, sir,” he said tersely. His wand came up to the level of Alec’s head and stopped. His eyes widened, listening to what his headset was telling him. “He’s a cyborg, sir!”

  Alec could hear the Captain gnashing his teeth. “Yes, I am,” he admitted, in the most calm and reasonable of voices. He held up his open hands, palms outward, indicating the circle he wore at his throat. “I’ve got a linkup through this with the navigational system on my ship out there. It comes in pretty handy.”

  “So it must,” said the Maelrubha. “Neat bit of work, that. Isn’t technology a fine thing! It goes through that torque you’ve got on, does it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “And connects where?” The deep voice was still affable, but had taken on a certain edge.

  “Subcutaneous porting system on my back,” Alec said, wondering if he was about to die.

  “I’ve always wished to see one of them. Just you keep your hands out like that, now, don’t trouble yourself, but I’d appreciate it if you went down on your knees, and would you ever mind if Petrel here took off your coat and shirt so we could have a look at your back?”

  I’ve got fixes on all three of ’em, son, from the forwarddeck cannon. It’ll punch straight through those walls. If I have to fire, you drop.

  It’s okay. This guy doesn’t stay in business by killing customers, I bet. Alec knelt carefully and allowed Petrel to divest him of his upper garments. He bent forward in the firelight, displaying the pattern of interwoven lines on his back. The light of the flames glinted on the torque, shone like red gold on his bare skin and contrasted with the dull silver lines of the knotwork pattern.

  “O, man, that is something fine,” said Petrel in envy. “Can I get one of those, sir?”

  “You can not,” the Maelrubha said gruffly. “With Whitewave’s little one on the way and us with the satellite tracking system not half paid for yet, where d‘y’reckon we’d get the money?”

  “I suppose.” The youth sighed.

  “And even supposing we did, you’d no sooner have it than the other children would be whining to have one, too. No indeed, handy as I’m sure this is, it’s not for the likes of us just yet.” The Maelrubha walked around Alec, studying him with a slight frown. At last he shook his head, producing his pocket flask and offering Alec another dram, which Alec accepted readily. “Here’s for the chill, lord. Give the English back his clothes. I trust you understand the necessity, lord? Can’t be too careful whom you invite to supper these days, and isn’t that an unfortunate comment on our times?”

  Too bloody right.

  Alec shrugged into his shirt—it was too warm indoors for his anorak—and when he had risen to his feet, the party moved down a long passage cut through the living stone, going further into the depths of the island. There were numerous chambers opening off the main passage, living quarters apparently to judge from the glimpses Alec caught of comfortable domestic scenes: a woman rocking a child in a cradle, a great gray hound sprawled asleep and twitching before a fire, a man writing code at a console. There was evidently some complex drainage and ventilation system in place, for the air was fresh and not dank.

  The passage led into a barrel-vaulted room with a firepit in the center. Smoke funneled up through a ceiling vent. Arranged around the fire were a number of wooden benches and two chairs with backs: an ancient padded recliner with its legs missing and an elaborately carved wooden chair, into which the Maelrubha settled, waving Alec to the recliner. Alec sank into it cautiously, looking around. Somewhere on their journey down the corridor the guard had changed. Petrel and his watchmate had apparently gone back to their posts and Alec was flanked by two more youths of great size, both barefoot and toting rifles. They saluted the Maelrubha, glaring at Alec.

  “Sir!” they said. “Orders, sir!”

  “I’ve a credit check to run, boys. Will one of you ask Mother to come up? And have a plate of stew fetched in for the English, here. He’s our guest.”

  “Sir!” They saluted and exited at different doors. The Maelrubha looked over at Alec with a faintly apologetic smile, handing him the flask once again.

  “Drink up, lord. They’re good children, but they don’t care for your countrymen much. You’ll be understanding, I hope.”

  “Perfectly.” Alec cleared his throat and had another drink. “I just want you to know—I think England’s got a lot to apologize for, the way they treat your people. Just because I’m English doesn’t mean I agree with the sanctions.”

  “Very gracious of you, lord.” The Maelrubha looked around and retrieved a pipe from the depths of his chair cushions. He produced a pouch from somewhere else and proceeded to fill the pipe with something aromatic. He made no effort to take the flask back, so Alec drank again.

  “And—I hope some day our countries can be friends. Do you think relations will ever improve?”

  “O, who knows?” said the Maelrubha, holding a hotpoint to his pipe. “When you can live in Belfast without growing a second head from the radioactivity, maybe. Now, I’m sure the subject must be as painful for you as it is for me, so let’s move on to business. We’re accustomed to being paid in gold, but a gentleman of your breeding—well. Once you’ve passed the formalities, I’m sure we can arrange for a simple transfer of funds.”

  “But—” said Alec, and at that moment one of the young guards strode into the room, bearing a dish of something that steamed. Behind him, a queenly lady peered into the room, regarding Alec with interest. Alec looked back at her and started slightly; from her shoulder a blackbird was also regarding him, eyes bright as brass. The lady turned and said something in a soft voice to someone in the passage behind her, and there were shrieks of feminine laughter. The lady withdrew.

  “Food for the English,” announced the guard, and thrust the plate at Alec. He looked at the contents in surprise.

  “Is this fish stew?”

  “Afraid so,” the Maelrubha said, puffing to get his pipe started. “Salt cod. We’d much rather it was soy protein, of course, but that’s a bit hard to come by out here. No, you keep the flask for now. You’ll want a good fire in you, when you go back out into that night.”

  “I like fish.” Alec dipped his spoon into it. He inhaled the mingled scents: seafood, root vegetables, nothing that shouldn’t be there. “Anyway, there’s no trouble with the money. I brought gold.”

  “Have you, now? Lovely. We’ll still want to do the little check on you, though, since we’ve not done business before,” the Maelrubha explained, leaning back and exhaling smoke.

  “No problem.” Alec tasted the stew cautiously. Only the flavors he had been expecting. “I’ll pay for everything.”

  “Mm. Ah, here’s Mother.” The Maelrubha extended his hand to a little lady who entered just then. She was applecheeked, big-bosomed, and the firelight gleamed on her round spectacles. “Mother’s our accountant. My dear, this is the fine lord who’s interested in our wares. And he’s a cyborg, think of that, now.”

  “Is he then?” she said, in a clear precise lilt. “How fascinating. A lord too, is he? I’m sure in that case his credit must be very good indeed.”

  “Of course,” said the Maelrubha, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “But for form’s sake, my dear—”

  “Certainly,” she said, and leaning over Alec she seized his chin in a surprisingly firm hand. “Please to let me examine your retinal pattern, young man.”

 
Alec had just time to realize that her optics were not, in fact, spectacles—they were instead an interface device with her own system—before she had accessed his identification code. The captain did the cyberspace equivalent of holding his breath and flattening himself against a wall while she made a quick and efficient survey of Alec’s official financial records. After a long, long moment she released Alec’s chin and gave him a pat on the cheek. “O, my, yes, he’s quite able to pay for his purchases. Shall I call for Bull to bring up our sample case?”

  “If you would, my dear,” said the Maelrubha. She went to the doorway and spoke a word to the guard who apparently waited just out of sight; then returned to sit at the Maelrubha’s right, quietly folding her hands in her apron. Alec sat there blinking a moment before he had another spoonful of stew. It was delicious. The warmth in the room was delicious, as well, and the complex fragrances of peat smoke and pipe smoke and dinner and the cold sea and machine oil somewhere … and the whiskey, that was delicious too. He had another gulp. What a pleasant place this was. What nice people these were.

  Alec, yer getting drunk.

  No, I’m not.

  “I guess—I mean you should know—well, you probably don’t ask questions much about what people are going to do with what you sell them—” he said.

  “O, no,” the Maelrubha assured him.

  “Never,” said Mother.

  “And of course I can’t tell you anything. But you ought to know it’s in a good cause. Morally, I mean. To fight against injustice and oppression.”

  “Well, I’m glad you told me that much, lord,” said the Maelrubha, nodding solemnly. “We’ll all sleep better knowing that, I’m sure. Yes, it’s hard being in this business, you know; but then with the sanctions we don’t have many ways to feed all the little mouths we’ve got to feed, see. It’s a moral dilemma, to be sure. Though we’re not always going to be earning our bread this way.”

  “No?” Alec tilted the flask for another mouthful of fire and honey. The Captain snarled in his ear.

  “No indeed. As soon as the children all have shoes, we’re going into microprocessors.”

  At this moment a vast rumbling was heard in the corridor outside, in some language Alec didn’t know, and of which he could only distinguish the word sassenach. A great dark bulk shouldered through the door, bearing in its massive arms a polished box roughly the size and shape of a coffin. The figure set down the box and rose up, fixing Alec with a contemptuous stare, light eyes startling in his sooty face. He was nearly as tall as Alec and easily twice as wide, and naked but for leather trousers and apron.

  “You’ll please excuse our gunsmith,” said the Maelrubha delicately. “He doesn’t speak to English. He’ll have no objection to displaying his art, though.”

  With a sneer the gunsmith opened the case. Alec caught his breath. He thought at first he was looking at antiques, so elaborate were the designs, so exquisite the chased patterns on the brass and silver-plated surfaces, so fancifully carved and polished the wooden stocks. Then he noticed the laser sights and realized these were neither flintlocks nor even late model stunners.

  They were disrupters, the last weapons to have been made before weapons were outlawed in the twenty-third century, but as they might have been designed by a third-century genius. Even the power packs were inscribed with Celtic knotwork, the battery light forming the left eye in a little barbaric face, so that when it should wink redly you’d know you needed a new pack.

  “These are fantastic,” said Alec, reaching for one. He hefted it cautiously. It felt as good as it looked. Carefully aiming into a corner of the room, he sighted along the barrel. “Oh, man, I’ve got to have one! Two. Hell, I’ll take the whole case.”

  “The stock’s English oak on this here,” the Maelrubha pointed out. “Pure nickel panels, selenium battery components, guaranteed kill rate of eighteen in twenty, carries a charge for eight hundred rounds. Those others are ebony and cherrywood.”

  “Cool,” Alec sobered slightly. “But I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I need to buy in bulk. I needed four hundred, not four.”

  “Only four hundred?” The Maelrubha waved dismissively. “Take five, and we’ll give you a discount. Here, Bull, show him the little bonus gift for the half-thousand.”

  The gunsmith reached into the bottom of the case and brought out a smaller wooden box, engraved all over with death’s heads. He opened it carefully to display, nested in red velvet, a brass shell the size and appearance of a human skull. Incised knotwork and spirals swirled on its surface, swooped between its blind eyes, incorporating inscriptions that looked as though they’d been copied from some ancient grimoire.

  “You know what this is, of course,” said the Maelrubha.

  “Yeah,” said Alec, who had no idea. He drank uncertainly.

  “I’ll thank you to observe this special feature, here—” the Maelrubha indicated the delicate lettering, “—that you won’t find offered by any other dealer in arms, assuming you could find one in this enlightened age. Each line an original curse of deadly puissance, time-tested by experts! Now, the bomb is free with your order; but for an additional, nominal charge the curses can be personalized. Right here whilst you wait, our artist will engrave the name of your heart’s enemy in that attractive oval blank there, see?”

  It was such an absurd idea Alec found it delightful.

  “Sure,” he said. “Okay! It won’t explode while it’s being engraved on, will it?”

  Muttering, the gunsmith drew a tiny golden acid pencil from a slot in his leather apron. He looked impatiently at Alec.

  “Er—ARECO,” Alec said. And though it seemed as though his thick black fingers could barely get purchase on the pencil’s shaft, the gunsmith quickly and easily wrote ARECO in flowing uncials so perfect you’d swear he’d attended a convent school. “Neat,” said Alec admiringly. “Okay, what do I owe for the lot?”

  “Hm, hm—” The Maelrubha exchanged glances with Mother. “Let’s see now, five hundred of the assorted pistols and rifles—and then you’ll want the extra power packs—plus cleaning kits and accessories—plus the charge for the engraving—and then there’s the Celtic Federation transfer tax, but I like you, so we’ll disregard that—let’s make it a nice round sum and say eleven million pounds English? And I’ll throw in this case as a personal gift, on account of you appreciate a work of art when you see one.”

  Alec gulped. The Captain was stunned into silence.

  “Okay,” said Alec, thinking of the valiant Martian agriculturists and the way the odds were stacked against them. “I’ve got four million in gold specie in the boat. I can transfer the balance from my own account, yeah?”

  The deal was made. Coordinating with Mother’s system, seven million pounds were transferred from Cocos Island Trading’s account to a certain account in Switzerland. As soon as the transaction had gone through, the Maelrubha produced a second pocket flask and quaffed cheerfully.

  “Now, that’ll buy a lot of little shoes,” he said. “Drink with me, English, drink deep. Death to our enemies!”

  And Alec certainly didn’t want anybody to die really, but because he was a courteous man he grinned and held his flask aloft.

  “Death to our enemies,” he said, and drank deep, as he had been bid.

  All that remained was to wait while box after box was loaded into the launch, by barefoot lads who seemed entirely unaffected by the blue cold. The specie was unloaded and examined by the gunsmith, who pronounced it satisfactory with a grudging nod. When the last of the order had been battened in place Alec splashed out to the launch and climbed in. He started up the motor and put about, turning in his seat to wave farewell to his hosts. He felt light-headed and half-frozen, and the thought that he was transporting a real bomb that might blow him to atoms gave him a certain giddy delight.

  The Captain made a note that Alec needed another psychotherapy workout, but was preoccupied by the task of getting the launch safely back to the Captain Morgan
where she rode the rising swell in the eternal blue dusk. It was time to take her out where she’d have plenty of sea room.

  “So long, English,” called the Maelrubha, from where he watched near the cave mouth. “Please call again. Always happy to serve a repeat customer.”

  “Aren’t they English on Mars, sir?” said Mother, waving at Alec.

  “We can hope so, darlin’,” growled Bull.

  THE YEAR 2351 :

  Alec Meets a Girl

  “Sushi for evewyone,” sang Binscarth, offering around a tray as though it contained so many green and black petit-fours. He had to shout over the mariachi music and the roar of the food processor as it battered ice cubes and tequila into a slimy slush. The roar cut out abruptly, replaced by a torrent of curses from Magilside.

  “It’s broken now! I told you we should have rented a houseboy,” he bellowed from the kitchen.

  “Oh, yes, that’d make a lot of sense, have some local spy weporting on us to the Fedewales because you wanted a pwoperly made fwozen mawgawita,” sneered Binscarth. “Sushi, Checkewfield?” He danced up to Alec, who was standing on the balcony staring out at a red sunset over the Pacific.

  “No, thanks,” said Alec. He was too edgy to eat.

  “Don’t be a fool, Mexican’s the best sushi in the wowld,” said Binscarth huffily. Balkister waved him away, lifting his drink in a toast to Alec.

  “He’s no fool. He’s a hero, and he knows damned well that one doesn’t go out on a mission stuffed full of food and drink. Eh, fellow ugly guy?” He stepped out on the balcony beside Alec and considered the view. The vacation house belonged to Johnson-Johnson’s grandmother, and was white and soaring of line, with its back firmly turned on a parched wilderness of scorpions and spiny plants. The land road was a windy misery of brick-red dust. The only pleasant access was by sea, into a perfect little bay of golden sand and turquoise water. The Captain Morgan rocked quietly at anchor below them, at the end of the private pier.