“He’ll take us to the local Ichena capo,” Murray yelled into Hunt’s ear. He pointed at Cullen. “Just him, you, and me go. The two Frankenstein brothers stay here.”
“You expect us to trust human nature?” Cullen protested. “They’re our security.”
Murray showed his empty hands. “You want to talk, not him. That’s the deal.”
Hunt looked at Cullen. Cullen shrugged and nodded. “What’s the choice?” He called Koberg and Lebansky over and explained the position. They looked uneasy, but accepted it.
Murray exchanged some more words in Jevlenese. Lesho finished his drink and stood up. “Let’s go,” Murray said.
On a sacred mount in the Rinjussin wilderness, Thrax stood on the Ascension Rock, staring up at the night sky. Shingen-Hu was nearby, arms outstretched, while around them the circle of cowled monks focused their minds on the shimmering thread of current curving down from the blackness, trapped by their combined powers and being drawn ever closer to the peak.
Thrax had never seen a current flowing so closely before. Inside it he could discern the filaments of iridescence, twisting, dividing, pulsing, recombining, as if each one moved with a life-force of its own. He could make out the patterns formed within the whole, coming together and dissolving, ever-changing as they danced and mixed with the rhythm of the flow.
In normal times, he would have spent much of his training absorbing the visions of Hyperia that the currents carried, before he rose up with them. Shingen-Hu, however, had relaxed that requirement, since these days the currents were too few and too precious for an
attempt not to be made. Thrax trusted the Master’s judgment and had accepted the decision.
“Prepare thyself, Thrax,” Shingen-Hu called across to him. “The current comes lower. In a moment you must reach out.”
“I am prepared, Master,” Thrax replied.
He took a last look around him at the hills outlined vaguely in the darkness, which was the last sight he would see of the world he had known. When an adept arose out of Waroth, his physical body dematerialized to merge its substance into the current, so that only his spirit would enter the new being that he was to become. If he ever saw Waroth again it would be through the eyes of one of the Inspired, inside whose mind he would return to speak.
“Remember, your task shall be to serve the spiral of Nieru,” Shingen-Hu intoned. “Seek those who follow the sign.”
On another peak, not far away, Keyalo was watching the glowing ribbon of current looping downward above the mass of rock rising dimly on the far side of a gorge. Ethendor was with him, with a company of priests projecting their own attractive powers upward toward the current. Also standing by were two of the rare fire knights, adepts who had chosen to dedicate their powers to the development of martial skills, and whose services were sought by the kings of all nations. Behind them, flexing their wings and rattling their tether chains in their impatience to be released, stood six fearsome griffins with their handlers.
“The moment is near. Prepare thyself,” Ethendor warned. “I am prepared, Master!” Keyalo cried.
The rendezvous was at a corner opposite a small park. Remembering from the drive into the city the canopies with their simulated skies that enclosed some parts but not others, Hunt was unable to tell if the pale green darkening into evening overhead was real or artificial. It seemed a better class of neighborhood, cleaner and with the buildings well maintained, although Lesho had brought them only a few blocks. One of the things that had struck Hunt about Shiban was the way that the entire character of the surroundings could change abruptly, sometimes by simply crossing a street.
A shiny limousine drew up noiselessly. Two men—strong-arm characters by the look of them—climbed out from the front and checked Murray, Hunt, and Cullen for weapons. One of them said
something in Jevlenese to Lesho, who raised a hand in salutation to Murray, nodded briefly at the other two, and walked away. Then a door of the rear compartment opened, revealing two sets of seats facing each other, with those on one side occupied by three more men: in the center, a broad, craggy-faced man with cropped gray hair, who reminded Hunt vaguely of Caldwell and who was presumably the capo, and what looked like two bodyguards. Murray stepped forward to the doorway, and there was another muttered exchange of Jevlenese. Then he climbed in and moved across the empty seats, motioning for Hunt and Cullen to follow. One of the two men who had gotten out first closed the door behind them, then returned with his companion to the front. There was the sound of more doors closing, and the vehicle pulled away.
“His name is Scirio,” Murray informed Hunt. “He wants to know why it’s so important for you to find this guy Baumer.” In an aside he added, “He knows you’re from PAC, and suspects anyone who’s mixed up with the Administration—especially Terrans. They know what Earth-style governments tend to mean for their kind of business.’’
“Tell him I’m not interested in his business. That’s why we’ve come here unofficially like this. Baumer has information on somebody whose gone missing, who we’ve reason to believe might be in danger.”
Murray conveyed the message. Then, “Why should he help you? He’s a businessman. What’s in it for him?”
“He understands protection, right? This is to do with an interplanetary situation that involves the politics between Jevien and Earth. If we don’t get any satisfaction unofficially, then other people are going to do it officially. And they won’t fool around. In other words, it’s either a friendly favor to us or a police bust. Which does he want?”
Murray translated. Scirio laughed and spat out a stream of what was clearly derision, emphasized by gestures and a final throwing-away motion.
“He farts in the faces of the Shiban police. They’re all assholes, and wouldn’t know how to bust their way into an empty room. In any case, he owns them. We have to do better than that.”
“Then try this,” Cullen said, cutting in. “There are big players moving to get the Ganymeans out of Jevlen and replace them with a Terran occupation backed by a military force. That’s what we’re
trying to stop. If we fail, what would that do to his business?”
Murray passed it on, and Scirio went very quiet; Then he called out something in a raised voice to one of the two men in front.
“He’s gonna call the head office,” Murray muttered.
A tone sounded from somewhere. Scirio opened a small compartment in a divider between two of the seats and took out a telephone handset—apparently whoever was on the other end and what was said were private matters.
Speaking in a low voice, Scino told Grevetz the situation. Grevetz, in his villa outside the city, pondered. The German that the Terrans were trying to trace was the one Iduane had said to get rid of But if the Ganymeans and Terrans were showing that much concern, it might lead to real problems. He ought to double-check with Eubeleus before doing anything drastic, he decided. He could always get rid of Baumer tomorrow if Eubeleus still wanted him to. But if he did it today and it turned out to be not such a good idea for some reason, that would be less easy to fix.
“Have you got any idea where this guy they’re looking for is?” he asked Scirio.
“If he’s not anywhere they’ve tried, then he’ll be freaking out in the club,” Scino replied.
Grevetz thought about it. If the Terran Murray was with them, the club wasn’t a secret. It didn’t sound as if they were interested in the firm’s business, anyway; more like some political crap that Grevetz didn’t want to get involved in. Perhaps just playing it straight and open would be the quickest way of getting them to leave him alone.
“Okay, you can take them there,” he instructed Scino. “If the German’s there, let them have him.”
Scirio replaced the handset. Saying nothing to Murray, he called out something to the front compartment again. A voice acknowledged from a grille in the partition.
Murray raised his eyebrows and nodded. “That did the trick, guys. We’r
e on our way to the Gondola.”
In the court of the People, Baumer watched from the prosecution table as the Accuser began reading his role of witnesses.
“In support of the case brought against the accused, I call upon the religious teachers of all time . . .“ A line of men in robes, cloaks, cassocks, some bearded, several with long, flowing hair and carrying wooden staffs, filed into the room through a side entrance. “I call upon the world’s great artists, its poets, its seers, its mystics, all those who have tried through the ages to turn Man’s eyes away from the mundane and the material, and open them to . .
The Accuser’s voice trailed away as the Counsel for Defense rose to his feet, waving his hand in an impatient protest. Beside him was a dwarf dressed as a jester, hopping up and down excitedly in his eagerness to speak. From the dock, the industrialist, the engineer, the scientist, and the philosopher looked on with interest.
“If I might be permitted, I have here a single witness who will put an end to this whole farce now, without wasting any more of the court’s time,” the Defense Counsel said. “I move for the case to be dismissed.’’
“Who is that fool?” the clerk of the court demanded, indicating the dwarf from his seat below the bench.
“A gremlin who was found lurking in the subconscious of the prime mover responsible for these proceedings.” The Defense Counsel turned and stabbed a finger at Baumer.
Startled, Baumer sat upright in his seat. This shouldn’t be happening. Something was going wrong.
A murmur went up around the hall. “Speak,” the Judge directed.
The Defense Counsel went on. “Briefly, this whole case reduces to an indictment of reason and its manifestation in technology. But this witness will testify that we are all, now, every one of us, creations of precisely those processes and nothing else. So is the entire reality in which we exist. In other words, the Accuser himself is a product of that which he would have us deny. Therefore, were he to prove his case, neither he nor his case could exist.”
“Is this true?” the Judge challenged, looking at Baumer.
Baumer rose to his feet, confused. “I don’t understand,” he stammered, staring at the dwarf. “He shouldn’t be here. How did he get in? If he’s mine, I can deny him. Proceed as if he didn’t exist.”
“But he does exist,” a voice boomed. It was JEVEX. Everything was going out of control. JEVEX had no business intruding like this. . .
The loop of current dipped downward, and Thrax felt its flux of energy touching his mind. Strange sensations and a feeling of detachment swept through his being. He saw fragments of images: figures in a large hall, some seated in tiers, others standing, and a row of what looked like a tribunal of judges behind a raised bench. Then there was a flash of a completely different place, a tiny cell in which he was looking up at the ceiling. The power of the assembled monks surged around him.
“It is time! The moment has come! Arise, Thrax!” Shingen-Hu’s voice resounded.
But suddenly everything exploded in pandemonium. From another peak outlined dimly across a deep gorge, bolts of fire curved through the darkness and burst among the rocks, causing the monks to scatter in alarm. At the same instant, winged shapes descended from above with terrible screams and slashing claws, driving them to seek cover. As the hold broke, the stream of current kinked and redirected itself toward the other peak.
A griffin swooped at Shingen-Hu and Thrax, who had been left standing alone. Shingen-Hu felled it with a lighting-dart aimed through a finger, and it fell to the ground shrieking and convulsing.
“There is another power!” Shingen-Hu cried. “See, the current is being drawn away. We cannot contest it. We are confounded!”
On the neighboring peak, Ethendor cackled gleefully. “Ha, they are undone! The current comes to us! We have it now. Rise up, Keyalo! Priests, send up your minds with him. Praise be to Vandros. Give strength now to thy servants!”
Keyalo felt powerful forces surging through him, bearing him aloft. The river of current loomed bright and pulsating before him, then everything was light.
“See, he rises up!” Ethendor exulted. “He delivers his substance to the current! He is borne into the night!”
Keyalo was pure patterns of energy, formless, unfettered. Pure being. A cosmic wind traversing a void. The void contracted, whirling and falling inward upon itself.
The limousine stopped in a dark, narrow street on one side of an enclosed square. There were a number of other vehicles parked nearby, several of them large and luxurious in Hunt’s estimation— although his experience in judging Jevlenese standards was limited. There was little sign of life, and the few figures visible scurried through the shadows, minding their own business. Hunt and his two companions got out first, the pair of bodyguards followed, and Scirio came last. The two men up front stayed in the vehicle.
They walked a short distance along one side of the square and then turned into a walkway with weak overhead lamps and solidly constructed doorways at intervals along both sides, all closed. At the end was another alley running crossways, some stairs going up on one side, and an opening into an even dingier passageway on the other. They entered the passageway and stopped at a door whose outline Hunt could barely make out in the shadows. Somebody must have pressed a button or something, for after a few seconds a voice spoke from a concealed speaker. One of the bodyguards, a big, steely-eyed man with a gray, battleship-armor chin, whom Hunt had mentally dubbed “Dreadnought,” replied. The voice said something else, and this time Scirio responded. A second or two went by, and then a spotlight came on above the door, illuminating the six figures outside. The light went out again and the door opened.
Inside, it was almost as dark as out in the passageway. And as bare. They were in what seemed to be a small foyer. It had a seat running along one wall, and a hole in the wall framing a reception desk opposite, with a door alongside. A pair of double doors led out at the rear. Scirio rapped on the door next to the desk, which was opened promptly from within. He entered, leaving Hunt, Cullen, and Murray with the two bodyguards, who lounged against the wall and stared into space. The sounds of several voices talking came through the opening above the desk.
“Did you say you knew this place?” Hunt asked Murray.
“I knew it was here—I’ve sent people to it. But I’ve never used it. I’ve got enough spooks in my head already. I don’t need this kinda shit.”
“Then why couldn’t you have brought us yourself, without all the performance?” Cullen asked.
Murray shook his head. “When you come here, nobody sees anything; nobody knows who you are. You wanna know if this guy you’re so anxious to find is in one of the booths? There’s no way you’d get to know without the boss’s say-so.”
Then Scirio came back out accompanied by a man in a dark jacket, whom Hunt took to be the manager. Scino spoke rapidly to Murray, indicating Hunt and Cullen with a nod and gesturing at the door that he had just come out of.
“Step inside,” Murray interpreted.
Hunt and Cullen followed the manager back through, while Murray and Scirio waited just inside the door. It was a small office, with another man sitting in an easy chair in a corner, and several screens above a console by one wall. The manager sat down at the console
and brought a picture up on one of the screens. It showed people sitting at tables and in seats set in alcoves, others at a bar, mostly alone, but several in pairs and one small group talking. The lighting was evidently quite low, for Hunt could tell from the quality that the image was being enhanced.
“See if you can spot him anywhere there,” Murray said.
Hunt studied the picture carefully, then shook his head. The manager operated a control on the console to single out each of the men present in turn for a close-up view. Then he shifted the view to bring different people into the field and repeated the process. Baumer wasn’t there.
The manager said something in Jevlenese, and Scirio answered. “They’re goin
g to try the booths,” Murray supplied.
Another screen activated to show the figure of a woman reposing in a Thurien-style neurocoupling recliner situated in a small booth. The manager flipped to the next, which showed a man with a white beard. “No,” Hunt said. The next two tries were men again, negative, then another woman. Hunt ceased responding after the first half dozen or so, allowing the manager to simply step on through the list at his own pace, dwelling for a second or two when the subject was a man, and passing straight on to the next in the case of a woman.
They must have been somewhere up in the twenties when Hunt suddenly craned forward, beckoned Cullen closer with a finger, and exclaimed, “That’s him!”
Hogan, James - Giant Series 04 - Entoverse (v1.1) Page 30
