Emperor of Gondwanaland

by Paul Di Filippo

  “Don’t try to make your life here sound glamorous or even tolerable, Marco,” Geisen said. “Everyone knows you’re in debt up to your nose, and haven’t had a strike in over a year. It’s about time for you to change venues anyway. The days of the freelancer on Chalk are nearly over.”

  Bozzarias sighed dramatically, picking up a reflective marble and admiring himself in it. “I suppose you speak the truth—as it is commonly perceived. But a man of my talents can carve himself a niche anywhere. And Pigafetta has been begging me of late to launch her on a virtual career—”

  “In other words,” Ailoura interrupted, “you intend to pimp her as a porn star. Well, you’ll need to relocate to a mediapoietic world then for sure. May we assume you’ll become part of our scheme?”

  Bozzarias set the marble down and said, “My pay?”

  “Two strangelets from this very stock.”

  With the speed of a glass-tailed lizard Bozzarias scooped up and pocketed two spheres before the generous offer could be rescinded. “Done! Now, if you two will excuse me, I’ll need to rehearse my role before we begin this deception.”

  Ailoura smiled, a disconcerting sight to those unfamiliar with her tender side. “Not quite so fast, Gep Bozzarias. If you’ll just submit a moment—”

  Before Bozzarias could protest, Ailoura had sprayed him about the head and shoulders with the contents of a pressurized can conjured from her pack.

  “What! Pixy dust! This is a gross insult!”

  Geisen adjusted the controls of his pocket diary. On the small screen appeared a jumbled, jittering image of the caravan’s interior. As the self-assembling pixy dust cohered around Bozzarias’s eyes and ears, the image stabilized to reflect the prospector’s visual point-of-view. Echoes of their speech emerged from the diary’s speaker.

  “As you well know,” Ailoura advised, “the pixy dust is ineradicable and self-repairing. Only the ciphers we hold can deactivate it. Until then, all you see and hear will be shared with us. We intend to monitor you around the clock. And the diary’s input is being shared with the Carrabas marchwarden, who has been told to watch for any traitorous actions on your part. That entity, by the way, is a little deranged, and might leap to conclusions about any actions that even verge on treachery. Oh, you’ll also find that your left ear hosts a channel for our remote, ah, verbal advice. It would behoove you to follow our directions, since the dust is quite capable of liquefying your eyeballs upon command.”

  Seemingly inclined to protest further, Bozzarias suddenly thought better of dissenting. With a dispirited wave and nod, he signaled his acquiescence in their plans, becoming quietly businesslike.

  “And to what houses shall I offer this putative wealth?”

  Geisen smiled. “To every house at first—except Stoessl.”

  “I see. Quite clever.”

  After Bozzarias had caused his caravan to kneel to the earth, he bade his new partners a desultory goodbye. But at the last minute, as Ailoura was stepping into the zipflyte, Bozzarias snagged Geisen by the sleeve and whispered in his ear.

  “I’d trade that rude servant in for a mindless pleasure model, my friend, were I you. She’s much too tricky for comfort.”

  “But Marco—that’s exactly why I cherish her.”

  Three weeks after first employing the wily Bozzarias in their scam, Geisen and Ailoura sat in their primitive quarters at Carrabas House, huddled nervously around Geisen’s diary, awaiting transmission of the meeting they had long anticipated. The diary’s screen revealed the familiar landscape around Stoessl House as seen from the windows of the speeding zipflyte carrying their agent to his appointment with Woda, Gitten, and Grafton.

  During the past weeks, Ailoura’s plot had matured, succeeding beyond their highest expectations.

  Representing himself as the agent for a mysteriously returned heir of the long-abandoned Carrabas estate—a fellow who preferred anonymity for the moment—Bozzarias had visited all the biggest and most influential Houses—excluding the Stoessls—with his sample strangelets. A major new find had been described, with its coordinates freely given and inspections invited. The visiting teams of geologists, deceived by Geisen’s expert saltings, reported what appeared to be a rich new lode. No single house dared attempt a midnight raid on the unprotected new strike, given the vigilance of all the others.

  The cooperation and willing play-acting of the Carrabas marchwarden had been essential. First, once its existence was revealed, the discarded entity’s very survival became a seven-day wonder, compelling a willing suspension of disbelief in all the lies that followed. Confirming the mystery man as a true Carrabas, the marchwarden also added its jiggered testimony to verify the discovery.

  Bozzarias had informed the greedily gaping families that the returned Carrabas scion had no desire to play an active role in mining and selling his strangelets. The whole estate—with many more potential strangelet nodes—would be sold to the highest bidder.

  Offers began to pour in, steadily escalating. These included feverish bids from the Stoessls, which were rejected without comment. Finally, after such high-handed treatment, the offended clan demanded to know why they were being excluded from the auction. Bozzarias responded that he would convey that information only in a private meeting.

  To this climactic interrogation the wily rogue now flew.

  Geisen turned away from the monotonous video on his diary and asked Ailoura a question he had long contemplated but always forborne to voice.

  “Ailoura, what can you tell me of my mother?”

  The cat-woman assumed a reflective expression that cloaked more emotions than it revealed. Her whiskers twitched. “Why do you ask such an irrelevant question at this crucial juncture, Gei-gei?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve often pondered the matter. Maybe I’m fearful that if our plan explodes in our faces, this might be my final opportunity to learn anything.”

  Ailoura paused a long while before answering. “I was intimately familiar with the one who bore you. I think her intentions were honorable. I know she loved you dearly. She always wanted to make herself known to you, but circumstances beyond her control did not permit such an honest relationship.”

  Geisen contemplated this information. Something told him he would get no more from the close-mouthed bestient.

  To disrupt the solemn mood, Ailoura reached over to ruffle Geisen’s hair. “Enough of the useless past. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat? Now, pay attention! Our Judas goat has landed—”

  Ursine yet doughy, unctuous yet fleering, Grafton clapped Bozzarias’s shoulder heartily and ushered the foppish man to a seat in Vomacht’s study. Behind the dead padrone’s desk sat his widow, Woda, all motile maquillage and mimicked mourning. Her teeth sported a fashionable gilt. Gitten lounged on the arm of a sofa, plainly bored and resentful, toying with a hand-held hologame like some sullen adolescent.

  After offering drinks—Bozzarias requested and received the finest vintage of sparkling wine available on Chalk—Grafton drove straight to the heart of the matter.

  “Gep Bozzarias, I demand to know why Stoessl House has been denied a chance to bid on the Carrabas estate.”

  Bozzarias drained his glass and dabbed at his lips with his jabot before replying. “The reason is simple, Gep Stoessl, yet of such delicacy that you would not have cared to have me state it before your peers. Thus this private encounter.”

  “Go on.”

  “My employer, Timor Carrabas, you must learn, is a man of punctilio and politesse. Having abandoned Chalk many generations ago, Carrabas House still honors and maintains the old ways prevalent during that golden age. They have not fallen into the lax and immoral fashions of the present, and absolutely condemn such behavior.”

  Grafton stiffened. “To what do you refer? Stoessl House is guilty of no such infringements on custom.”

  “That is not how my employer perceives affairs. After all, what is the very first thing he hears upon returning to his ancestral
homeworld? Disturbing rumors of patricide, fraternal infighting, and excommunication, all of which emanate from Stoessl House and Stoessl House alone. Leery of stepping beneath the shadow of such a cloud, he could not ethically undertake any dealings with your clan.”

  Fuming, Grafton started to rebut these charges, but Woda intervened. “Gep Bozzarias, all mandated investigations into the death of my beloved Vomacht resulted in one uncontested conclusion: pump failure produced a kind of alien hyperglycemia that drove the Stroonians insane. No human culpability or intent to harm was ever established.”

  Bozzarias held his glass up for a refill and obtained one. “Why, then, were all the bestient witnesses to the incident terminally disposed of? What motivated the abdication of your youngest scion? Giger, I believe he was named?”

  Trying to be helpful, Gitten jumped into the conversation. “Oh, we use up bestients at a frightful rate! If they’re not dying from floggings, they’re collapsing from overuse in the mines and brothels. Such a flawed product line, these moreauvians. Why, if they were robots, they’d never pass consumer-lab testing. As for Geisen—that’s the boy’s name—well, he simply got fed up with our civilized lifestyle. He always did prefer the barbaric outback existence. No doubt he’s enjoying himself right now, wallowing in some muddy oasis with a sandworm concubine.”

  Grafton cut off his brother’s tittering with a savage glance. “Gep Bozzarias, I’m certain that if your employer were to meet us, he’d find we are worthy of making an offer on his properties. In fact, he could avoid all the fuss and bother of a full-fledged auction, since I’m prepared right now to trump the highest bid he has yet received. Will you convey to him my invitation to enjoy the hospitality of Stoessl House?”

  Bozzarias closed his eyes ruminatively, as if hearkening to some inner voice of conscience, then answered, “Yes, I can do that much. And with some small encouragement, I would exert all my powers of persuasiveness—”

  Woda spoke. “Why, where did this small but heavy bag of Tancredi moonstones come from? It certainly doesn’t belong to us. Gep Bozzarias—would you do me the immense favor of tracking down the rightful owner of these misplaced gems?”

  Bozzarias stood and bowed, then accepted the bribe. “My pleasure, madame. I can practically guarantee that Stoessl House will soon receive its just reward.”

  “Sandworm concubine!” Geisen appeared ready to hurl his eavesdropping device to the hard floor, but restrained himself. “How I’d like to smash their lying mouths in!”

  Ailoura grinned. “You must show more restraint than that, Geisen, especially when you come face to face with the scoundrels. Take consolation from the fact that mere physical retribution would hurt them far less than the loss of money and face we will inflict.”

  “Still, there’s a certain satisfaction in feeling the impact of fist on flesh.”

  “My kind calls it ‘the joy when teeth meet bone,’ so I fully comprehend. Just not this time. Understood?”

  Geisen impulsively hugged the old cat. “Still teaching me, Ailoura?”

  “Until I die, I suppose.”

  “You are appallingly obese, Geisen. Your form recalls nothing of the slim blade who cut such wide swaths among the girls of the various Houses before his engagement.”

  “And your polecat coloration, fair Ailoura, along with those tinted lenses and tooth-caps, speak not of a bold mouser, but of a scavenger through garbage tips.”

  Regarding each other with satisfaction, Ailoura and Geisen thus approved of their disguises.

  With the aid of Bozzarias, who had purchased for them various sophisticated semi-living prosthetics, dyes, and off-world clothing, the man and his servant—Timor Carrabas and Hepzibah—resembled no one ever seen before on Chalk. His pasty face rouged, Geisen wobbled as he waddled, breathing stertorously, while the limping Ailoura diffused a moderately repulsive scent calculated to keep the curious at a certain remove.

  The Carrabas marchwarden now spoke, a touch of excitement in its artificial voice. “I have just notified my Stoessl House counterpart that you are departing within the hour. You will be expected in time for essences and banquet, with a half hour allotted to freshen up and settle into your guest rooms.”

  “Very good. Rehearse the rest of the plan to me.”

  “Once the funds are transferred from Stoessl House to me, I will in turn upload them to the Bourse on Feuilles Mortes under the name of Geisen Stoessl, where they will be immune from attachment. I will then retreat to my soul canister, readying it for removal by your agent, Bozzarias, who will bring it to the spacefield—specifically the terminal hosting Gravkosmos Interstellar. Beyond that point, I cannot be of service until I am haptically enabled once more.”

  “You have the scheme perfectly. Now we thank you, and leave with the promise that we shall talk again in the near future, in a more pleasant place.”

  “Goodbye, Gep Carrabas, and good luck.”

  Within a short time the hired zipflyte arrived. (It would hardly do for the eminent Timor Carrabas to appear in Geisen’s battered craft, which had, in point of fact, already been sold to raise additional funds to aid their subterfuge.) After clambering clumsily onboard, the schemers settied themselves in the spacious rear seat while the chauffeur—a neat-plumaged and discreet raptor-derived bestient—lifted off and flew at a swift clip toward Stoessl House.

  Ailoura’s comment about Geisen’s attractiveness to his female peers had set an unhealed sore spot within him aching. “Do you imagine, Hepzibah, that other local luminaries might attend this evening’s dinner party? I had in mind a certain Gep Bloedwyn Vermeule.”

  “I suspect she will. The Stoessls and the Vermeules have bonds and alliances dating back centuries.”

  Geisen mused dreamily. “I wonder if she will be as beautiful and sensitive and angelic as I have heard tell she is.”

  Ailoura began to hack from deep in her throat. Recovering, she apologized, “Excuse me, Gep Carrabas. Something unpleasant in my throat. No doubt a simple hairball.”

  Geisen did not look amused. “You cannot deny reports of the lady’s beauty, Hepzibah.”

  “Beauty is as beauty does, master.”

  The largest ballroom in Stoessl House had been extravagantly bedecked for the arrival of Timor Carrabas. Living luminescent lianas in dozens of neon tones festooned the heavy-beamed rafters. Decorator dust migrated invisibly about the chamber, cohering at random into wall screens showing various entertaining videos from the mediapoietic worlds. Responsive carpets the texture of moss crept warily along the tessellated floor, consuming any spilled food and drink wasted from the large collation spread out across a servitor-staffed table long as a playing field. (The house chef, Stine Pursiful, oversaw all with a meticulous eye, his upraised ladle serving as baton of command. After some argument among the family members and chef, a buffet had been chosen over a sit-down meal, as being more informal, relaxed, and conducive to easy dealings.) The floor space was thronged with over a hundred gaily caparisoned representatives of the houses most closely allied to the Stoessls, some dancing in stately pavanes to the music from the throats of the octet of avian bestients perched on their multibranched stand. But despite the many diversions of music, food, drink, and chatter, all eyes had strayed ineluctably to the form of the mysterious Timor Carrabas when he entered, and from time to time thereafter.

  Beneath his prosthetics, Geisen now sweated copiously, both from nervousness and the heat. Luckily, his disguising adjuncts quite capably metabolized this betraying moisture before it ever reached his clothing.

  The initial meeting with his brothers and stepmother had gone well. Hands were shaken all around without anyone suspecting that the flabby hand of Timor Carrabas concealed a slimmer one that ached to deliver vengeful blows.

  Geisen could see immediately that since Vomacht’s death, Grafton had easily assumed the role of head of household, with Woda patently the power behind the throne and Gitten content to act the wastrel princeling.

  “So, Gep Carrab
as,” Grafton oleaginously purred, “now you finally perceive with your own eyes that we Stoessls are no monsters. It’s never wise to give gossip any credence.”

  Gitten said, “But gossip is the only kind of talk that makes life worth liv—oof!”

  Woda took a second step forward, relieving the painful pressure she had inflicted on her younger son’s foot. “Excuse my clumsiness, Gep Carrabas, in my eagerness to enhance my proximity to a living reminder of the fine old ways of Chalk. I’m sure you can teach us much about how our forefathers lived. Despite personal longevity, we have lost the institutional rigor your clan has reputedly preserved.”

  In his device-modulated, rather fulsome voice, Geisen answered, “I am always happy to share my treasures with others, be they spiritual or material.”

  Grafton brightened. “This expansiveness bodes well for our later negotiations, Gep Carrabas. I must say that your attitude is not exactly as your servant Bozzarias conveyed.”

  Geisen made a dismissive wave. “Simply a local hireling who was not truly privy to my thoughts. But he has the virtue of following my bidding without the need to know any of my ulterior motivations.” Geisen felt relieved to have planted that line to protect Bozzarias in the nasty wake of the successful conclusion of their thimble rigging. “Here is my real counselor. Hepzibah, step forward.”

  Ailoura moved within the circle of speakers, her unnaturally flared and pungent striped musteline tail waving perilously close to the humans. “At your service, Gep.”

  The Stoessls involuntarily cringed before the unpleasant odor wafting from Ailoura, then restrained their impolite reaction.

  “Ah, quite an, ah, impressive moreauvian. Positively, um, redolent of the ribosartor’s art. Perhaps your, erm, adviser would care to dine with others of her kind.”

  “Hepzibah, you are dismissed until I need you.”

  “As you wish.”

  Soon Geisen was swept up in a round of introductions to people he had known all his life. Eventually he reached the food, and fell to eating rather too greedily. After weeks spent subsisting on MREs alone, he could hardly restrain himself. And his glutton’s disguise allowed all excess. Let the other guests gape at his immoderate behavior. They were constrained by their own greed for his putative fortune from saying a word.