The Fifth Quadrant

by C. J. Ryan

“There are some other things,” Gloria said. She pointed toward the sky. “There’s still slavery out there.”

  Charles nodded. “I know,” he said.

  “Back on Mynjhino, Randall Sweet talked about selling me to the royal family on Shandrach. What if I wanted to do something about those bastards?”

  “You’d have my cautious support. I’m not Lincoln, and I have no intention of having an Antietam or a Gettysburg on my watch. But I don’t much care for the slavers, and I wouldn’t mind if the history books called me Charles the Emancipator. Sounds pretty good, don’t you think?”

  “So what does ‘cautious support’ mean, exactly?”

  Charles sighed. “I guess it means that I’d be with you in principle, but that there are limits to how far I’d be willing to go in practice. I’m not going to let you drag me—and the Empire—into a crusade or a civil war over the issue. One thing you’ll understand as Empress, Glory, is that you have to take the long view. Some problems may take decades to solve. Others may take centuries. Still others may have no solution at all. You have to be able to tell the difference and act on that understanding.”

  “I appreciate what you’re saying, Charles, and I don’t expect miracles. But you’ve been pretty vague about all of this.”

  “You want specifics? Very well, I’ll consult with the appropriate people on my staff and draw up some sort of document laying out the details of our joint rule. You’ll object to it, of course, and propose changes. We’ll change the changes, and you’ll change the changes to your changes. Eventually, we’ll come to an agreement. Then we’ll have something to wave in each other’s face after we’ve violated the agreement.”

  “All right. Put your people to work on it.”

  Charles turned to face her and put his hands on her shoulders. “We’re really going to do this, then?” he asked.

  “We might,” Gloria said airily, as if they were discussing having lunch. “I mentioned this to Mingus. He said we might do a great job together as Emperor and Empress.”

  Charles’s eyebrows rose. “Norman said that? Well, then…what better endorsement could you want?”

  “He also said that we might wind up leading the Empire into a civil war.”

  Charles laughed. “The Charlesists versus the Glorianos? What fun! If I end up chopping off your head, I promise you I’ll have it preserved and tastefully displayed in the Imperial Museum.”

  “And I,” Gloria assured him, “will do the same with whatever part of you I chop off.”

  GLORIA STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK AT THE MAIN entrance to the immense Dexta complex, which took up twelve city blocks’ worth of ground space in midtown Manhattan. The day was raw and drizzly, and she wore a buff-colored trench coat over her navy miniskirt and jacket. People walking by stopped and stared at her briefly, then continued on their way; Manhattanites had always been accustomed to celebrities in their midst.

  A long black limo pulled over to the curb and hovered there. A door popped open and Gloria stepped in. She sat down next to a man in an expensive overcoat as the door closed behind her and the skimmer pulled away from the Dexta complex. Without bothering to look, Gloria knew that behind the limo, another skimmer filled with Bugs was following at a discreet interval; she had told Volkonski to keep his distance today.

  “Ms. VanDeen?” the man said. “I’m Ed Smith. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Gloria nodded politely and shook his hand. He was a prosperous-looking man of about sixty, she guessed, a little overweight but with a healthy, ruddy look to his face.

  “Smith?” Gloria couldn’t help asking.

  The man shrugged. “Okay, so I’m not Ed Smith. But you have to call me something, so it might just as well be Ed Smith, right?”

  “Fair enough,” Gloria said. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a hardship,” Smith said, grinning. “When I got the request, it took me about a nanosecond to clear my calendar. I’ve seen you in person before—here and there, around town—but I never really expected to have the pleasure of taking you to lunch. By the way, we’ll be going to a little French restaurant we own over on the East Side. There’s a private room, so we won’t be seen or disturbed.”

  “French?” Gloria asked. “I have to confess, I was expecting Italian.”

  “Or maybe Russian? Or Japanese? Stereotypes die hard, I suppose. The fact is, I don’t have a drop of Sicilian blood in me. The organization of which I am a part is—how shall I put this?—ecumenical.”

  “And if I could ask, just how did you become a part of it?”

  “Believe it or not, I was recruited out of college,” Smith said with a slightly embarrassed smile. “I ran the football and basketball betting pools at my fraternity. I was good at it, and pretty soon I was handling the sports book for every frat on campus. And when I graduated, instead of going with GalaxCo or Imperium, I accepted an offer from the zamitat. And I’ve never regretted it.”

  They arrived at the restaurant; Gloria mentioned that she had eaten there several times. “You do business with us every day, Gloria, whether you realize it or not,” Smith told her as they got settled at a table in a private room. Since he seemed to know the place so well, Gloria let Smith order wine and their meal.

  “This restaurant and places like the Club Twelve Twenty-Nine are only the tip of the iceberg,” Smith explained. “We like to think of ourselves as the thirteenth of the Big Twelve. We have long-term relationships with each of them, as well as with Dexta, Parliament, and the Imperial Household itself. The zamitat provides important services that people want and need and are not otherwise available. We are a necessary social lubricant.”

  “I see,” said Gloria. She knew little about the zamitat and was interested to learn how they viewed themselves.

  “Governments,” said Smith, “have sometimes felt it necessary—or politically expedient—to outlaw things like prostitution, gambling, drugs, alcohol, tobacco…whatever. But the demand for them never goes away. Organizations like the zamitat and its predecessors bridge the gap between what is politically desirable and what is socially necessary.”

  “Last year,” Gloria said, “I found myself running a bordello on Sylvania. All perfectly legal, of course, but if it had been illegal, I don’t think that would have made the slightest difference to our operation.”

  “Of course not. People want what they want, and other people have always found a way to provide it for them. As I said, we offer a necessary social service—no less than Dexta.”

  “Speaking of Dexta…”

  Smith shook his head. “If you are not already aware of the nature of the links between the zamitat and Dexta, I am certainly not going to be the one to tell you. Given your position as head of the Office of Strategic Intervention, you might conceivably feel compelled to take action on such knowledge if you had it.”

  “Just a thought.” Gloria shrugged. “Anyway, I didn’t want to see you about that. It’s something else entirely.”

  Smith smiled at her pleasantly. “How may we be of service?” he asked.

  Gloria locked eyes with him. “Someone is trying to kill me,” she said.

  “That business recently on Cartago? Yes, I heard about that.”

  “There are reasons to think that PAIN was responsible. The attack on me seems to tie in with two terrorist episodes in Quadrant 4. Our security people are concentrating on that possibility. But I wonder if there might be other possibilities.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ve annoyed and frustrated a lot of people in my work at OSI. Including some of the Big Twelve.”

  Smith nodded. “And you think one of them might have taken out a contract on you?”

  “That’s one of the ‘necessary services’ the zamitat provides, isn’t it?”

  Smith stroked his chin for a moment, then took a sip of wine. “Interesting notion,” he said. “But I can tell you that I’ve heard nothing about any such contract.”

  “And would you know, if one
existed?” Gloria asked him.

  “Not necessarily,” Smith conceded after a moment’s thought.

  “Could I ask, just what is your position in the organization? I mean, how high up are you?”

  Smith smiled a little. “I suppose,” he said, “you could think of me as a vice president, of sorts. But that’s really somewhat misleading. You see, the Big Twelve corporates are all vertically integrated and organized. There are distinct boxes on the organizational chart, leading upward to a well-defined hierarchy of leadership positions. With the zamitat, the organization and integration are more horizontal. We are, in effect, a cartel—a voluntary association of semiautonomous groups, which we refer to as divisions. Historically, they were known as ‘families,’ although blood ties and ethnic identity now have little or nothing to do with it in most cases. The divisions are distinct entities, but they cooperate with one another rather than competing. When disputes arise, they are resolved by a sort of upper-level advisory board that has real but strictly limited powers. We have nothing comparable to a corporation’s board of directors, and no chief executives.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Gloria attempted to summarize, “is that if some other division of your organization had agreed to a contract on me, you might not be aware of it.”

  Smith nodded. “Still,” he said, “I would think that such a contract would be unlikely. I don’t think any of our divisions would want to be involved in an attack on the most famous and popular woman in the Empire. There would have to be some motivation beyond mere money. Have you done anything that would seriously annoy any of our people?”

  “Not that I know of,” Gloria said. “Can you tell me, would the zamitat accept a contract from PAIN?”

  “We’ve had dealings with them in the past,” he said with a slight shrug, “but I’m not aware of anything like what you’re suggesting. On the face of it, that seems unlikely to me. That assassin on Cartago was killed, wasn’t he?”

  “Instantly,” said Gloria.

  “Well, there you are. If it had been one of our people, he would not have let himself be killed, and you and I would not be enjoying each other’s company today. What the zamitat offers, Gloria, is professionalism, in everything we do. The attack on you was clearly the work of an amateur.”

  Their meals arrived, and they dined in thoughtful silence for a while. At length, Gloria decided to explore another angle.

  “There’s something else,” she said. “The attempt on my life, and at least one of the two terrorist attacks, involved the use of old Mark IV plasma rifles. And each of those rifles was part of a shipment to Savoy in 3163, just before the start of the war with the Ch’gnth.”

  Smith’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You don’t say?”

  “Would the zamitat know anything about that?”

  Smith pursed his lips, then said, “Before my time, I’m afraid.”

  “Mine too,” said Gloria. “But those weapons should have been destroyed in the attack on Savoy in 3163. Yet, suddenly, here they are. It occurred to me that perhaps some of the weapons earmarked for the Savoy shipment were…shall we say, diverted. That’s the kind of thing the zamitat does, isn’t it?”

  Smith drummed his fingers on the tablecloth for a moment, then nodded. “Such things have been known to happen,” he admitted. “If I remember my history correctly, the Savoy colony was pretty much wiped out, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then those weapons either never made it to Savoy or were somehow salvaged from the wreckage. I don’t have any personal knowledge of this, but either way, zamitat involvement would not be improbable. I know the organization turned a substantial profit in the immediate postwar years simply by salvaging and reselling leftover ordnance. And, of course, we’ve always had substantial involvement in shipping and…um…diversions. But, again, I simply don’t know.”

  “I understand,” Gloria said. “But could you find out?”

  Smith moved his head in an ambiguous side-to-side, up-and-down motion. “I could ask around. Some of our senior people might know. But remember the way we are organized, Gloria. Earth’s involvement in some enterprise out in Quadrant 4, fifty or sixty years ago, may well have been pretty minimal. And even if there was some zamitat involvement in the Savoy business, it doesn’t mean that there is any involvement in the current matter.”

  “I understand,” Gloria said. “But at this point, any additional information would be welcome.”

  “Your people have no leads? That surprises me. The Bugs are usually pretty efficient.”

  “It’s an odd case,” Gloria pointed out. “They don’t get many that have roots going back half a century.”

  “Neither do we,” Smith said. “But I’ll see what I can find out for you. I assume you can be reached at Dexta?”

  “For now,” Gloria said. “But next week, I take off for the Quadrant Meeting on New Cambridge.”

  “No problem,” Smith said with a grin. “We’ll be there, too.”

  Gloria ate in silence for a while. Zamitat help with the Savoy weapons might turn out to be useful, although it was something of a long shot. But that wasn’t the real reason she had wanted to see Smith.

  To this point, the contact had been clean and professional—chaste, in a way. But the next step, if she took it, might put her on a road from which there could be no turning back. She would be establishing a relationship. And it wouldn’t be free.

  Smith seemed to sense her discomfort. “Is there something else we can do for you, Gloria?” he asked.

  A necessary service, she thought.

  “Yes,” she said at last. “I need a favor.”

  GLORIA WAS CURLED UP ON A COUCH IN HER penthouse, munching carrot sticks and reading a history of the war with the Ch’gnth when the text on her pad was overridden by a vid image from the downstairs desk. “There’s an Eli Opatnu here for you, Ms. VanDeen,” the guard at the desk informed her.

  “Send him up,” Gloria said. The news both surprised and pleased her. She put the carrot sticks away in the kitchen, then went to the front door. She was wearing only a very thin, blue silk robe, knotted at the waist. After a moment’s hesitation, she loosened the knot and pulled the fabric farther apart.

  Opatnu gave her a toothy grin at the door and held up a bottle of wine. “A peace offering,” he said.

  “Everyone keeps giving me wine lately,” Gloria said, ushering him in. “Tell you what. Hold off on the wine for a bit, and I’ll fix us something better. Go on into the living room and make yourself comfortable.”

  “Whatever you say.” Gloria watched him as he walked, taking note of his long, lean form and the graceful, unhurried rhythm of his movements. Plus, he had a great ass.

  She popped a porcelain kettle into the ’wave and nuked it for a few seconds, then poured the contents into two big mugs. A moment later she arrived in the living room, handed one mug to Opatnu, then sat next to him on the couch. She raised the steaming mug, clinked it against his, and took a sip. He did the same.

  “What’s this? Some kind of tea?”

  “Sort of,” Gloria said. “It’s from Mynjhino. I think you’ll like it. Maybe you can open the wine a little later.” Gloria drew her legs up and scrunched around on the couch. The movement was enough to cause the loose robe to fall away to the sides, uncovering her breasts. Opatnu took note, and Gloria noted his note-taking. Her skin was already tingling, and she didn’t think it was just the jigli tea. She wondered if Eli might have some genetic enhancements of his own; some people had the ability to pump out pheromones on demand. Whatever the cause, she was suddenly feeling exceptionally randy.

  “I thought I should apologize for what happened in your office,” Opatnu said. “I just marched in there and expected you to tell me everything I wanted to know. It didn’t occur to me that you had imperatives of your own. I hope my thoughtlessness hasn’t irreparably damaged our relationship.”

  Gloria smiled slyly. “Oh,” she said, “I have a feeling it w
ill recover.”

  Opatnu grinned and stared at her bare breasts for a moment. “Oddly enough,” he said, “I have that same feeling.” He looked down at his steaming mug. “Say, what exactly is this, anyway?”

  “You like it? It’s called jigli. It is reputed to be the most powerful natural aphrodisiac in the Empire.”

  “Really? Funny, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Almost no one has. You see, the Myn don’t grow it for commercial use or export—that would violate their religious scruples. But I just happened to acquire some while I was on their planet.”

  “Interesting,” he said, and took another sip. “Very interesting…where was I?”

  “You were making a totally unnecessary apology,” Gloria reminded him. “You had every right to be curious about an OSI intervention in your sector. I was going to brief you soon anyway, so I shouldn’t have been so persnickety about those mysterious sources of yours. I’d still like to find out who they are, of course, but I won’t press you on it. Not tonight, anyway.”

  “Thank you, Gloria. I appreciate that.”

  “As for our investigation, it concerns what is known, historically, as a double-flagging operation.”

  Opatnu nodded. “Freighters with multiple identities, that sort of thing?”

  “Exactly,” Gloria affirmed. “It works a couple of different ways. In one, you get yourself two identical freighters and give them the same name and duplicate sets of registration papers. The two freighters work in different places simultaneously, and pay whatever local tariffs apply, but only one of them pays the Imperial taxes. In another version, you get two or three sets of papers for a single freighter, then change its identity as appropriate to evade local taxation.”

  “Uh-huh,” Opatnu nodded. “And you think this is happening in my sector?”

  “We’ve received some preliminary indications of it,” Gloria said. “I have a Financial team on Staghorn at the moment, checking to see if there’s any substance to the charges. Of course, you must realize that in order for a scheme like this to work—”