I recovered my good manners. “That’s amazing fun,” I told the manageress. “I’d never stop playing with those controls.”
“If you wish, Lord Thomas,” she said, a trifle reluctantly. “We only wish to make you feel welcome.”
I felt Parsons’s eyes upon me, but I knew perfectly well when to put down someone else’s toy and step away. With regret, I bowed low, my hands at my sides.
“No, thank you so very much. I have enjoyed myself. Thank you so much for the chance to try them. I will tell everyone at home all about the Smithereen Prime Hotel. They will be fascinated, and perhaps wish to come and see it for themselves.” Unlikely, I thought, as Smithereen was not an amusing place to anyone who was not on assignment, but it was the polite thing to say. The manageress looked infinitely relieved. She closed the panel and minced hastily from the room, perhaps lest I change my mind.
“Lord Thomas,” sighed Margolies, his eyes dreamy as he downed a glass of bubbling wine. He belched. “I never met a nobby before. You folks seem as imaginary as video stars.”
“Then you should get to know me better. Ask me anything!” I offered expansively, throwing my arms wide, though it splashed a milliliter of my drink on the plush carpet, which drank it up without a trace. Marvelous room. It would be worth its weight in memory crystals to half the hosts in the Imperium compound. “I’ve fulfilled my duty to the Navy; let us all have a good chat.”
My lighthearted offer opened unexpected floodgates. Eager faces swarmed in around me, shouting to be heard.
“Are you a duke or a prince?”
“Do you people really eat lark’s tongues and trifle? What do they taste like?”
“Do you have to sleep in a bubble to keep from breathing everyone else’s air?”
“What’s the Emperor like? Do you talk to him much?”
Most of their questions were ones I had answered before, at the table with my fellow ensigns. I noticed Oskelev peering between the shoulders of some of the miners, nodding her furry head. I expected that I’d been the subject of some gossip on shipboard. She was undoubtedly recording my new replies for upload to her own friends later on. No matter. I had nothing to hide. Thanks to my friends and cousins, all of my most embarrassing peccadilloes were easily found on Infogrid, in living color, three dimensions and with accompanying soundtrack.
“Well, I am too far down the family tree for an exalted title like duke,” I began, “and one has to be a son or brother of the monarch to qualify as a prince, but . . .”
I prattled cheerfully about my family, my life at home, my mother, my friends and education, my likes, dislikes, turn-ons and turn-offs, favorite colors and foods, hopes, dreams, aspirations and hobbies. I told them all about life in the Imperium compound. With little urging, I told a mild story or two about diplomatic visitors, official rituals and ceremonies, and what I could recall of the coronation of my cousin that had not been aired on galaxy-wide video. The militia and their families listened, agog.
It was a thrill for me to be among real people like this. The only currency I had to repay them for their kindness was a glimpse into my world. The group around me shifted as the querents were satisfied and moved to make room for others. I answered hundreds of questions with all the detail I could recall, aided in part by my collection of images stored in the personal file of my communications unit.
Now and again I caught glimpses of roboservers trundling in with loads of crockery and crystal, and the unmistakable savory but invariably bitter aroma of banquet food began to waft about my nostrils. The thought of food, however, was swirled away in the eddy of adulation and interest from my audience, though it struggled to the surface now and again, buoyed by my growing awareness of hunger. Canapés only reminded me of the gap left by my long-digested breakfast.
When all had been prepared, Chan nudged my elbow and we moved toward the tables. I responded with alacrity, but the questioning never ceased. Our small group had grown to hundreds as other Smithereenians joined the throng. Chan and Chee were the only members of the militia who remained at my table with me, Parsons and Plet. The newcomers, whom I judged to be local officials, were friendly, with their own curiosity to satisfy. I gulped my food as quickly as I could, babbling in between bites. I felt like the groom at a wedding reception. Now and again I looked for Parsons to ensure that I was not embarrassing my family or the Emperor, but every time I met his eyes, he gave me a bland-faced nod.
“Oh, no, we’re not supposed to promote products or candidates, but I know of several instances where it’s occurred. I never did it myself,” I added self-deprecatingly, “but perhaps the right offer hasn’t come along. I’m only human, after all.”
“Thanks, my lord,” said Bendrum Halubi, an engineer from Mining Ship Number Four. “Thought it that video was a mashup.”
“ ’Scuse me, my lordship,” Chee Rubin-Sign asked, raising a finger shyly. I smiled at her encouragingly. I was rather getting used to the host of admiring eyes. In fact, I liked it. Pity my charm seemed to be lost on my fellow shipmates aboard the Wedjet. “Can the Emperor order you to marry your sister?”
“Actually, by law, he can,” I said, feeling my cheeks turning as red as the roasted lily bulb on my salad plate. It was the sort of question I had been rather dreading, but I suppose it was inevitable, as I had offered freely to lay out the details of my life, and this was a fact of it. “It’s been espoused in the ancient laws for as long as there has been an Imperium. The Emperor has the right to oversee the genetic wellbeing of his people, and that includes giving rise to a combination of DNA that is felt to be lacking in the population, even if it means an unnatural relationship between, as you suggest, immediate siblings.”
Her eyes gleamed avidly. “And you would obey, if you were ordered?”
“I would have to,” I said. “My oath of fealty to the emperor means he has domain over my person, my possessions and my fate, as he sees fit. But modern technology means there doesn’t have to be a personal encounter,” I hastened to add. “I mean, it’s sickening, even if my sister is an attractive woman. I feel most strongly that she should be attached to some other person. Firmly. Of her choice. As I hope she will allow me.”
To cover my discomfort, I took a large bite of the pungent bulb. My eyes watered a little, blurring the mix of expressions on the faces of my listeners. We all felt a little uncomfortable, except for the Uctus, whose recombinant genetic material was far more stable than humans or Wichus and did not cause idiocy or mutation when bred closely even for generations. Hence, the tendencies for Uctus to look very much alike.
“Does your sister try to match you up with girls?” Plet asked, in a friendly attempt to change the topic. Could that be a crack in her armor of diffidence? I turned my most grateful gaze upon her.
“All the time!” I exclaimed. “And my aunts, too! I do not know where they find these ladies, but believe me, none of them has been even remotely compatible. Not that I am reluctant to fall in love . . .”
Parsons took the napkin off his lap and folded it neatly to one side of his plate. He rose.
“If you will excuse me, Captain and sir?” he asked, nodding to Chan and me.
I gawked at him. “Is something wrong?” By which, I meant, had I done something wrong. I did not want to have to endure another verbal drubbing from the admiral. Parsons’s head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side.
“No, indeed, sir,” he said. “I have an errand to run in the main shopping district. If I may depart . . . ?”
As if I dared refuse him. Parsons had his mysterious ways, and only the foolhardy deterred him from them.
“Of course,” I said, loftily. “A new town, new sights. If any of the crew wish to join you, they have my permission to go as well.” I scanned for my crew. They were keeping watch on me out of the corners of their eye but otherwise enjoying themselves. Bailly rose to his feet.
“No, sir,” Parsons said, firmly. “It would be well if they remained here with you and enjoyed t
he offered hospitality. In fact, I recommend strongly that none of you depart from this chamber until I return.” That had the authority of an order. Bailly looked crestfallen. I frowned.
“But Captain Chan here . . .”
“Olga,” that dignitary insisted.
“. . . Olga wants to give me a tour of the piazza near her quarters,” I concluded plaintively. “There’s a phosphorescent fountain. And artwork by the local sculptors.”
Parsons was expressionless. “No doubt that outing can await my return, sir,” he said, and the tone brooked no disagreement. I sighed.
“Very well,” I said, dejectedly. “You’ll find us where you leave us.”
Chapter 12
Parsons slipped through the crowded corridors, scanning the faces and, just as importantly, the hands or manipulative limbs of those beings near him. Embedded in the skin of his left pinna was a device that assessed thousands of transient chemical signatures for weapon-grade explosives, toxins or ammunition. While the heavy-metal component of the atmosphere caused it to repeat a staccato tone in high A above C, so far he sensed no immediate threats to himself or that needed to be reported to station security.
In the very first alcove beyond the doors of the hotel, he had hidden his official uniform under a thin microfiber coverall that had been compressed in a flat pouch under his sidearm. A quick dart of the hand into the tool kit of a passing maintenance technician, and he had the means to appear as though he was an ordinary Smithereenian on his way to or from his employment. One only had to seem as if one belonged, to have a purpose, and no one questioned one’s presence.
A quick check by means of his personal communications unit indicated that the tool he was carrying was to open the valves in waste storage tanks. He was a plumber, then. He straightened his spine and gave his stride more arrogance than before. One had to know the hierarchy of the working castes. A good plumber was worth more than a nuclear engineer. Without one in a mass habitation, be it surface dwellings or starships, it did not matter if the other was effective at his job. Over the years, Parsons had had to plumb a pipe or two for the sake of verisimilitude. He had once been offered a handsome sinecure by the president of a small colony in thanks for unclogging the crucial main outfall from the treasury building. It was an honor he was relieved to decline.
Fish-eye globes were placed at every intersection, sending back complex video signals to security monitors. It was doubtful that considering the purpose of the settlement that it ran metal detection, but radiation and explosive monitoring was certain. Parsons was unarmed except for his sword and pistol, both antique but functional. They were concealed in the press-close seams of the coverall, but could be ripped free at need. At the end of the corridor, Parsons eschewed the escalators in favor of the freight elevators.
His contact was to await him in the fuel depot on the surface. He had not met this particular agent before, but mission headquarters’ briefing indicated that she was a retired active who took the station on Smithereen to supplement the less-than-generous government retirement subsidy. It was also suspected that she simply wanted to keep her hand in. Parsons understood the impulse. To feel needed was one of the most compelling human emotions.
Following signposts, he located the fuel depot. The facility itself was a steel-titanium box jammed among thousands of similar boxes that dated from the origin of the mining settlement itself, housed within the main dome, a clear hemisphere over nine kilometers across. The dome and the alloy boxes could have sustained an impact from incoming asteroids, or take a glancing blow from a falling minecraft—which the shops on the end of the block clearly had, at one time in ancient past. Instead of restoring them, the owners lived with tilted roofs and patched walls.
He was prepared for whatever the mission required, but he rather questioned the recognition litany that the contact had insisted upon. When he beheld her, it strengthened his belief. However, the assignment was not open to interpretation. He drew his body into a posture that his persona might affect, and greeted her with a friendly smile.
“What ship you on?” she asked, holding out a hand. “License and payment card?”
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, in precisely the casual working class accent demanded by the intermediary back at Command. “You’re a fine sight for a guy who’s been out in the middle o’ nowhere.”
The old woman behind the counter smiled coyly. She was small and scrawny. Her cheeks were crisscrossed with a network of deep wrinkles that collapsed in the center to emphasize the hollowness of her face. Her eyes, a filmy blue, protruded slightly. Her teeth had undoubtedly been replaced more than once, as the colors of the new enamel did not match from tooth to tooth. Her thin hair was a net of flyaway wisps of silvery gray over a pale scalp.
“Ah, you’re space drunk,” she said, leaning over the counter to shove a palm into his chest. Parsons staggered backwards a pace. She was much stronger than she looked. “Besides, I’m taken. My mate would take a hammer to you if he heard you talking.”
“I mean it,” Parsons said, sticking closely to the litany he had been assigned. “A white bird flying by night would be no match for you.”
She raised an eyebrow. Now she had recognized the call-and-response. “But lobsters glide over the black sands in the moonlight.”
“I heard that before. I dunno where,” Parsons replied. “Must’ve been a song. One of those noises the kids like.”
“Uh-huh. So, what can I do for you?”
“My ma sent me.”
“Yer ma?” The old woman’s eyebrows went up.
“Lost a leg. Can’t expect her to stump in here on her own. She don’t have such good balance.”
“Ah, you know dem triple-cursed prosthetics don’t work a damn out here.”
“Too much interference,” Parsons agreed, affecting an aggrieved expression. Was the woman going to make him go through the entire recitation?
Luckily not. “It’s the cursed magnetite,” the woman said, screwing her face into a whorl of wrinkles like a huge fingerprint. “They’re pouring a whole load of pulverized ore today, and it’s making hell out of the signals. My machines has all got the headache.” She looked to either side, and reached under the counter. Colored lights played upon her face and chest.
The whoosh of the hydraulic door sounded behind Parsons. The old woman straightened up immediately. The lights vanished. A Croctoid with weathered, mahogany-colored skin and pale yellow eyes in a once-white shipsuit barged past Parsons and slapped a plastic card and a large square of metal down on the counter.
“I need a fill, granny. Move it smart!”
The old woman glared at him. “Yer one of dem funny guys? Take an hour to load yer fuel. Dem spent fuel rods is unstable. Minute for courtesy ain’t too much.”
“Maybe for you,” he said, showing his snaggled teeth. “I’m paying. Turn the extractors on. Gotta make my turnaround.”
“What’s the hurry?” she asked, drawing her wrinkled face into the semblance of an inviting smile. “Stay for a while. First day’s parking is free. Good honest grub at Oatmeal and Son. Yer can visit the Interactive Dioramas showing galactic history. Museum of Fictional History, good fun for the kiddies. Holograph Palace—them holochambers gotta see to believe. My eldest grandson spends all his paycheck in there. Anything yer’ve ever dreamed of sleeping with, you come up with it, they program it.” She leered at the Croctoid. He cringed at the expression. Parsons did, too, though inwardly. The old woman took no offense. “You prefer something live, there’s a licensed brothel three shops to the left as yer exit the hangar. Like a little more excitement? The casino’s the best in this whole flipping quadrant. Come to think of it, maybe the only casino. Food’s free there if you trade a thousand credits fer chips. Supersonic theme park next to the Street of Churches. Got coupons right here—” She reached for a hand-sized device on the counter and beckoned him. “Gimme yer commlink, chickling, I’ll load ’em.”
The being shook his head. “Fuel, granny
.”
“Huh. Some people.” The friendly mask fell, and she returned to the scowl she had worn on Parsons’s arrival. He assumed she received some sort of honorarium for steering a customer to the establishments that she had named and was understandably disappointed.
Shaking her head and grumbling to herself, the old woman took the two documents off the counter and shuffled toward the back wall. A group of small, antiquated machines sat on a shelf. She fed the metal square into a reader. It was the detachable portion of a ship’s license. The second half was bolted into the bulkhead aboard the bridge of every spacegoing vehicle in the galaxy. Licenses were made of titanium, nearly indestructible and ridiculously difficult to mold, engrave or counterfeit. To further prevent false documentation, they were filled with intricate flat circuitry that prevented a ship from powering up unless it was present, within a meter of the permanently mounted half. She possessed the oldest reader machine Parsons could recall having seen, but they were made to last centuries, as were the ship ID plates.
“Holborn Empire?” she asked, looking at the small green screen. “What kind of name’s that?”
“No idea,” the reptilian snapped. “Bought the ship at an auction. It goes from point A to point B, so I don’t give a black hole what it’s called.”
“Changing’s just a few credits,” the old woman said. “No need to get nasty on me.”
“I don’t like having my time wasted!”
“Yer think you’re wasting time now? Wait until yer try to lift ship. Port Authority takes hours to release yer.”
“Let them try,” the reptilian snarled. “Now, move it!” He slapped the counter with a scaly palm.
Suddenly, the lights went dim. All the machines in the shop flickered and went off. The lights came back on, but the machines did not
“Now look what yer did!” the woman chided him. “I gotta reset everything. Come and help me.”
“Nik ba na chish sha!”
“Okay, you’re no help. You, come and gimme a hand,” she said, turning to Parsons.
The View from the Imperium Page 17
