House of Shards

by Walter Jon Williams

  House of Shards

  Walter Jon Williams

  CHAPTER 1

  When one star gobbles another, the universe may be forgiven if it pauses to take breath. Imagine the sight: the smaller star a bright-haloed emptiness, a nullity that draws into itself vast ruddy flares of stellar matter until it consumes the very heart of its companion. People might well stop and stare. Some may even pay for the privilege. Thus Silverside Station, a small asteroid held within view of the phenomenon by mighty anchors of self-generated gravitational energy. Small, hence exclusive. With exclusive rights to the view. And about to have its grand opening.

  A private media globe hung inconspicuously over the control console. Recording every word.

  “Imagine it. Everyone on both sides of the border wanting to have a ticket. Salivating for one. Offering anything to get one. And the two of us, flying into Silverside on our own private racing yacht.”

  A doubtful frown. “I’m not certain of this rule banning the media. It seems extreme.” A glance at the private globe. “I can’t record myself. That’s a little absurd.”

  “The ban only applies to most of the media, Pearl. Some will be there. Kyoko Asperson, for one.”

  “That,” the Pearl said, her ears flattening, “will guarantee catastrophe.”

  Pearl Woman was tall and dark-haired. Her shoulders and arms bulged with transplanted muscle: in her youth she hunted daffles from proughback, and that takes upper-body strength. Her hair shagged from her head like the mane of a lion. She wore a single pearl hanging from the left ear, an object balanced artfully by a duelling scar on her right cheek. Both were her trademarks within the Diadem, never duplicated by others of that exclusive organization, though they were often imitated by her admirers across the Constellation.

  The enthusiasm of Pearl Woman’s companion was un-dimmed. “Only three of the Diadem were invited. Three of the Three Hundred. You and the Marquess Kotani and Zoot. Imagine that.”

  Pearl Woman gave her a look. “Advert. I need to dock the ship.”

  Sulkily. “You could put it on auto.”

  “Not my way, Advert.”

  Advert, with a self-conscious glance at the media globe, fell silent. She was young and pale and willowy, with wavy brown hair that fell halfway down her back. She had dropped her second name, hoping the Human Diadem might notice and consider her for the next vacancy. She wore silver rings on every finger, including the thumbs, and fondly hoped they (and perhaps the hair) might one day become her own trademark. Pearl Woman knew better, but had not as yet disillusioned her.

  Advert was new to this sort of existence and still felt a little uncertain. Her remaining illusions, Pearl Woman thought, made her charming, though in an unformed sort of way. One day Advert’s particular brand of charm would cease to hold its attraction; but that day had not as yet arrived. Throughout their conversation, the awesome sight of one star consuming another had been splayed across the ship’s viewscreens. Neither paid it the slightest attention.

  The entry concourse was a long, low room, carpeted in dark green. Darker tapestries flashed winks of silver thread from the walls. The lighting was subdued, and a small orchestra played brisk tunes in the corner. People in uniforms stood behind desks; robots carried bags in efficient silence. Disembarking passengers took their time strolling toward the desks. It was not done to seem in a hurry.

  “Pearl Woman. You are looking very dashing.”

  “Maijstral. It’s been years.”

  “The matched swords are very elegant. What are they, small sabers?”

  “Cutlasses. I thought they’d add a swashbuckling touch.” Pearl Woman snicked one sword from its scabbard, performed a figure, returned it. Like the claws of a kitten, a touch of fear moved along Maijstral’s nerves. Someone had tried to hack him to bits with a sword just recently, and the presence of edged weapons made him more than usually nervous.

  He and Pearl Woman clasped hands (three fingers each) and sniffed one another’s ears as, around them, the entry concourse bustled on. Maijstral was slightly taller than average, but he had to raise his head to reach the Pearl’s neck.

  Drake Maijstral’s dark hair waved to his shoulders. He was dressed in grey. Lace floated casually at neck and wrists. He wore a large diamond on one finger, and leather buskins on his feet. His eyes were green and heavy-lidded; they gave an impression of laziness, or at least languor. He seemed to be in his mid-twenties.

  Maijstral turned and indicated a restless young man dressed in violet plush. “My associate, Mr. Gregor Norman.”

  “Charmed, Mr. Norman,” said Pearl Woman, “This is Advert, my companion.”

  “Mr. Maijstral,” she said, pointing. “Your desk is over there.”

  ———

  Disembarking from second class, a nondescript, portly man named Dolfuss picked up two heavy suitcases from the robot baggage carrier and began moving toward customs.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the robot said. “I will be happy to carry those.”

  Dolfuss ignored the robot and moved on.

  ———

  The room glowed blue. Mr. Sun, sitting in his padded chair behind a U-shaped console, found it a soothing color.

  He looked with satisfied eyes at his security monitors. Individual media globes had tagged everyone who had just disembarked, and images of each decked the walls. A hologram projector set into Mr. Sun’s desk showed a file labelled Known Associates.

  Gregor Norman, it said. Human male, age 20 yrs. The picture was an old one and showed Gregor wearing vulgar earrings and a grossly offensive hairstyle. A short arrest record was appended.

  Next to Gregor floated the hologram of a Khosalikh wearing a subdued dark suit with a fashionable braided collar. Roman, it said. Khosali male, age 46 yrs. Bodyservant. No arrests or convictions.

  Mr. Sun touched an ideogram on his console. Two of the video monitors flashed. Match, the console reported, and made a pleasant chirring sound.

  Mr. Sun smiled. He touched another ideogram to transmit the pictures to Khamiss at the entry concourse.

  Acknowledged, flashed the response.

  Mr. Sun looked down at his uniform, brushed away a speck of lint. A simple touch, he thought. A simple gesture like this, he thought, and like the lint, the thieves are brushed away.

  In his view, this set of burglars had a lot to atone for, and he intended the atonement start now.

  ———

  “Mr. Norman,” said Khamiss. “Your line is over there.”

  “I’d count those rings if I were you,” Pearl Woman said.

  Advert glanced in surprise at her fingers, and Pearl Woman smiled. Advert was so easy.

  “Sometimes they’ll take the jewelry right off you, right in public,” Pearl Woman said. “It’s vulgar, but sometimes Allowed Burglars like to show off.”

  “That Gregor person was vulgar enough, heaven knows.” Advert looked dubiously at the trademark that dangled from the other woman’s ear. “Aren’t you worried, Pearl?”

  Pearl Woman touched the matched silver hilts of her swords. “Not at all, Advert,” she said. “It’s for other people to worry, not me.” She looked at Advert. “If Maijstral ever bothers you, there’s something you can do to get rid of him.”

  “Yes?”

  “Ask him if his mother is well.”

  “That’s all?”

  “It’s always worked for me.”

  ———

  Dolfuss waited in a queue with the other second-class passengers. (Second-class passengers weren’t expected to mind waiting in line.) The others were either servants of the first-class passengers or people who actually worked at Silver-side, late arrivals come to take up their new jobs. Dolfuss was the only guest. Dolfuss didn’t care. He was enjoy
ing himself.

  ———

  Annoyance flickered across Maijstral’s face. A tall, thin, grimly satisfied sort of person was looting his luggage. Gregor, a step back, gazed on in astonished dismay.

  “Darksuit,” said the man, a human named Kingston. His ears fluttered in disapproval. He lifted the object from Maijstral’s trunk, and handed it to a robot. “Illegal onstation. It will be returned to you on your departure.”

  “The point of a darksuit,” said Maijstral’s servant, Roman, “is to blend in with the darkness. There is no darkness on this station. The suit would be useless.”

  Roman was a tall Khosalikh, erect, dignified, his ears folded in an expression of cold fury. He spoke Human Standard without accent and, considering the circumstances, with admirable restraint.

  “You may complain to Mr. Sun if you wish,” Kingston said. “He’s head of security. I only enforce the regulations.”

  Roman’s nostrils palpitated in anger. Maijstral gazed in cool annoyance at the sight of his belongings strewn over the concourse. He frowned.

  “I see no need to appeal to underlings,” he said. “I will complain to Baron Silverside in person.”

  “Nothing, sir, would give me greater pleasure,” Kingston said, radiating grim happiness. He looked down at Gre-gor’s trunk, then reached into it. He picked up a small gadget and held it up to the light.

  “An electronic device of the sort referred to as a ‘black box,’ “ he said. The quotes were clear in his voice. “Commonly used to interrupt alarm systems.” He wagged a solemn finger at Gregor. “Very naughty, Mr. Norman,” he said. “You’ll get it back when you leave.”

  Gregor turned red. Maijstral folded his arms. “Must we be subjected to this amateur stand-up routine while you search our baggage?” he asked. “Let’s get it over with, shall we?”

  “Certainly, your worship,” said Kingston. He handed the black box to his robot with an elaborate gesture. “Now let’s see what Mr. Norman has in his gadget box, shall we?”

  ———

  There seemed to be a delay in disembarking the second-class passengers. Dolfuss waited patiently, glancing over the concourse. There were supposed to be members of the Diadem here, and Dolfuss had always been a big Nichole fan.

  ———

  The lounge bar, called the Shadow Room, was dark, quiet, scarcely inhabited. A woodwind quartet readied their equipment in a corner.

  “Marquess.”

  “Your grace.”

  “I enjoyed the recordings of your last play. I only wish I’d had the chance to see it live.”

  “Thank you, your grace. The play did wonders for my share. I believe I saw you in that race on—Hrinn, was it?” The Diadem’s researchers had given the Marquess Kotani current facts on every prominent person scheduled to be at Silverside, the better to be ready for informed conversation. The Marquess always did his homework.

  “Yes. I did fairly well in the Hrinn race.”

  “Second only to Khottan.”

  The Duchess smiled. “Khottan,” she said, “was lucky.”

  Kotani returned the smile. He was a spare, cultivated, brown-skinned human with a brief mustache, greying temples, and a distinguished profile. He had been born in the Empire and had made his reputation with the naturalness of his languor. He was one of the older members of the Diadem—their first lord—and his share had always remained in the top twenty.

  The Marquess cast a careful glance over the lounge bar, seeing no one he cared to talk to other than the Duchess. “Will you join me at my table?” he asked.

  “Alas,” said the Duchess, “I am here to meet someone.”

  “Some other time, your grace.” He sniffed her and withdrew.

  Her grace Roberta Altunin, the Duchess of Benn, was nineteen and a gifted amateur athlete. Her hair was dark red and cut short, her eyes were deep violet, and she moved with grace and confidence. She had first-rate advisors, and they had suggested Silverside as a perfect location for her debut.

  She stepped to the bar and ordered a cold rink. She nodded to the man standing next to her.

  “Mr. Kuusinen.”

  “Your grace.”

  They clasped hands (one finger apiece) and lightly sniffed one another’s ears. Mr. Paavo Kuusinen was a slight man with an unexceptional appearance. He wore a green coat laced up the sides and back.

  “The coat suits you, Kuusinen.”

  “Thank you. I discovered that my wardrobe marked me too easily as an Imperial citizen, so I had a new one made. Your gown is quite becoming, by the way.”

  Roberta smiled lightly. Her drink arrived, and she put her thumbprint on the chit.

  “The Count Boston has arrived,” Kuusinen said. His forefinger circled the rim of his glass. “I understand that Zoot is aboard. And Drake Maijstral, the burglar.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “I have seen Maijstral. He seemed to be having difficulty at customs.”

  Lines appeared between Roberta’s brows. “Will that be a problem for him?”

  “He seems a man of considerable resource. I’m sure he will rise above the difficulty.”

  She raised her glass, put it down again. “I don’t want this to go wrong, Kuusinen.”

  “Geoff Fu George is already on station. Perhaps he would be more suitable. He has more resources to draw on.”

  “I want Maijstral.” Firmly.

  Kuusinen assented. The woman’s mind was made up. “Your grace,” he said.

  Roberta glanced behind her, seeing Kotani in conversation with a short woman in bright clothes and a funny hat. “We shouldn’t be seen together for very long, Kuusinen. Perhaps you should make your congé.”

  “As you wish, your grace.”

  They clasped hands, still one finger apiece, and sniffed. Kuusinen passed the woodwind quartet on his way to the door. Roberta took her drink and drifted in Kotani’s direction. She noticed silver media globes hovering over Kotani’s conversation.

  “… I’m still looking for something suitable,” he was saying.

  “I understand,” the short woman agreed. She spoke a broad provincial accent that seemed less comically non-U than, somehow, a deliberate provocation. “It must be difficult finding a part nowadays that features the sort of old-fashioned character you favor.”

  Kotani stiffened slightly. “Not old-fashioned, my dear,” he said. “Classical, I should think.” He turned to Roberta. “Your grace, may I present Kyoko Asperson. Miss As-person is a personality journalist.” He gave the words an unnecessary emphasis that indicated his distaste. “Miss Asperson, may I introduce her grace the Duchess of Benn.”

  Roberta offered the journalist a cautious finger during the handclasp, receiving two in exchange. Kyoko Asperson was a head shorter than Roberta, with straight black hair and a round face. She dressed in bright reds and yellows, and wore a odd mushroom-shaped hat. A loupe stuck over one eye allowed her to see through the lenses of her hovering media globes.

  “Congratulations on your Hrinn race,” Kyoko said. “You gave Khottan a run for his money.”

  “Metaphorical money, of course. An amateur event.”

  “Will you be turning professional anytime soon?”

  Roberta sipped her drink. “Probably not. Though I haven’t quite decided.”

  “You don’t need the money, of course, but on the professional level the competition is more intense. Do you find yourself intimidated by the prospect?”

  Roberta, having never considered mis question, was mildly surprised. Amateur contests, in her circle anyway, were far more fashionable than professional competition. “Not at all,” she said, truthfully, and then wondered if she’d said it convincingly enough. But Kyoko had already moved to the next question.

  “Do you feel any pressure to turn professional simply in order to have people take you more seriously? Do you think that people take amateur sports seriously enough?”

  The quartet began to play, starting with a high-pitched screech from the rist
or. Roberta glanced at Kotani in dismay. He smiled at her and nodded, happy to be out of it.

  Roberta resigned herself to a very long afternoon.

  “Mr. Drake Maijstral?” Maijstral’s interrogator was a slight man in a brown jacket.

  “Yes. May I be of assistance?”

  “Mencken, sir. VPL.”

  Mencken held out Maijstral’s Very Private Letter. Throughout Maijstral’s life, the appearance of a VPL courier would have been an occasion for dismay. Maijstral’s father had used VPL almost exclusively, and his letters were either long lectures concerning Maijstral’s faults, or requests for money in order to honor an old debt. Maijstral restrained his reflexive annoyance, signed for the letter, glanced at the seal, then broke it.

  “Will there be a reply, sir?”

  “Not now. Thank you.”

  “Your servant.” Mencken bowed and withdrew. Maijstral looked at the card, then handed it to Roman. “We’re invited to a wedding. Pietro Quijano and Amalia Jensen will be getting married on Earth in six months’ time.”

  Roman read the card. “Will we be attending, sir?”

  “Possibly. We’re heading in that direction. I’ve never seen Earth.”

  “Nor have I.”

  “Perhaps it’s about time we did. But I’ll need some thought before I decide.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  ———

  The orchestra was packing up and heading for the main lounge. Dolfuss had finally arrived at the customs desk. “I feel so lucky,” Dolfuss declared. “I won my ticket in a lottery. Otherwise I’d never have a chance to visit a place like this.” He glanced around the room. “I’m impressed already!” he said.

  The uniformed Tanquer closed her nictitating membranes, as if to deny what she was seeing. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I understand just how lucky you feel.”

  “And I was able to schedule my ships so as to work in a business trip. Stop at Ranc on the way home. That’s why I’m carrying my sample case.”

  The Tanquer’s bushy tail twitched. “The exit is that way, sir. Your room is programmed to receive you.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to have fun here, I know it!”

  Dolfuss laughed as he picked up his suitcases and walked for the exit. He was the only person carrying his own luggage. As he moved into the corridor, he saw Maijstral asking directions of a robot.