Rock of Ages

by Walter Jon Williams

  This conviction had been an illusion, as the past days had shown. What had happened? Had he ever really been in command of his life, or had he always been the victim of mysterious forces who had, just recently, turned malevolent and mysterious, whereas before they had been content to permit him to live in illusive ignorance?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Media globes winked on high. Maijstral stood beneath the arched gate of Tvar’s estate and smiled benignly at the assembled reporters.

  “Furthermore,” he continued, “I wish to announce that I accept the chastisement of my superior. I refer of course to the Baron Sancho Sandoval Cabeza de Vaca. I hope to reform my behavior, and I thank the Baron for calling my error to public attention.”

  Take that, Maijstral thought.

  A sea of blank faces gazed at him. “What exactly does this mean?” someone asked.

  “It means that I accept the Baron’s assault as justified, and that I choose not to resent it.”

  “So you won’t be fighting?”

  Maijstral detected a tone of outrage in Mangula Arish’s voice.

  “No,” Maijstral said.

  There wouldn’t be a fight unless Baron Sancho managed another attack, and Roman and Drexler, standing at Maijstral’s side with arms folded in the capacity of bodyguard, were there to prevent just that, as well as keep away any other senile delinquents with violence on their minds.

  There was a very respectful distance between Roman and any of the crowd of reporters. Just looking at him caused any number of people to go pale.

  And in the meantime, the Diadem’s publicity people, at Nichole’s behest, would whisper among the media that Maijstral had chosen this humiliating option out of respect for the Baron’s age, and out of concern for his mental health, which—as was plain to observe—was not quite of the best.

  But Maijstral would say nothing of the sort—nothing for the Baron to object to, nothing that could cause him to issue another challenge.

  If Maijstral couldn’t have it both ways, what was the point of being a celebrity?

  Another reporter scowled up from the mass. “So with the Hay fight canceled, and the Hunac fight postponed indefinitely, this means you won’t be fighting any more duels in the near future?”

  Maijstral managed a smile. “Once a week is enough, don’t you think?”

  The reporters’ mood was surly. They’d come for blood—they depended on the spilling of blood, and plenty of it—and now it looked as if they were about to be deprived of their feeding frenzy.

  “Do you think,” Mangula Arish called, “that your opponents are having second thoughts after your victory over Prince Joseph Bob? Do you think their withdrawal might be a reflection on their courage?”

  Maijstral resisted the temptation to bounce a rubber ball off Arish’s hair, and on reflection judged the question an act of desperation. She was trying to reignite the dueling frenzy through name-calling.

  “I have absolutely no reason whatever to question the courage of any of these gentlemen,” Maijstral said, “and I hope that if any of my erstwhile opponents chooses to resent the insinuation, they will remember it was you, Mangula Arish, who made it, and not I.”

  The other reporters chuckled while Arish turned pale at the thought of three enraged, bloodthirsty duelists stalking her.

  “I have only one other announcement,” Maijstral said. “The nearness of death in the last few days has caused me to reevaluate the condition of my spiritual health. It has occurred to me that I have neglected the religious duties implied by my status as the Hereditary Prince-Bishop of Nana, and I have decided to go on a retreat for the purpose of meditation, fasting, and prayer. The administration of Graceland has very kindly made one of their meditation rooms available for the purpose. I will be going on retreat this afternoon, and will remain in seclusion for an indefinite period. Thank you.”

  Ignoring shouted questions, Maijstral made his way back to Tvar’s manse. Roman and Drexler followed slowly behind, their purpose plain—to pound like a stake into the rich Tennessee soil anyone who might feel the urge to pursue Maijstral and hit him with a fist.

  Maijstral entered the mansion and found Tvar waiting for him.

  “How did it go, dear?” she asked.

  He gave her a Khosali smile, tongue lolling.

  “Very well, I think.”

  *

  Later that day a tailor appeared for Maijstral’s fitting. Maijstral didn’t travel with his ecclesiastical garments any more than he carried the formal court dress to which he was equally entitled—both were designed for the Khosali physique anyway, and tended to make humans look stunted, aswim in a sea of fabric and ceremonial implements. The tailor managed the complicated ritual garments in jig time, and then Maijstral posed for a long time in his bishop suit, while Drexler thoroughly recorded his image with a holographic video camera..

  Later that day one of Tvar’s servants—a second footman—stepped out onto the lawn wearing a hologram of Maijstral’s image, stepped into a flier piloted by Roman, and was carried off to the Jungle Meditation Room in Graceland. The media waiting before the gate duly followed, thereafter to wait like pilgrims outside the gate of Elvis’s city.

  The footman would be amply compensated for any fasting, meditation, and prayer he might, in the course of his impersonation, be compelled to undergo.

  In the meantime Maijstral, wearing his darksuit and armed to the teeth, sat in ambush in the room next to his suite. Roman, Drexler, Tvar, Kuusinen, and Roberta were arrayed likewise. Tvar’s estate now contained a remarkable number of passive detectors–– nothing that would broadcast an alarm, because they didn’t want any intruder to hear it and run away, they wanted the intruder to come right in and make herself at home.

  Alice Manderley, or whoever else was responsible for Maijstral’s dilemma, was going to have a nasty surprise in store.

  The hours passed slowly. It was after twenty-six o’clock when Maijstral received a phone call on his shielded lines. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Maijstral, this is Conchita.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “For some reason I’m not receiving a picture—should I call again?”

  “I’m not transmitting a picture. I don’t want to activate any pickups.”

  “Are you on a job?”

  “Something like that. What news?”

  “I thought I’d let you know that Alice Manderley and her husband have left Quintana Roo, and they’re flying north. I’m on her trail.”

  Triumph hummed in Maijstral’s nerves. “Very good. Do nothing to alarm her.”

  “Everything’s right as Robbler. She’s not evading or anything.”

  “Excellent. Call again when you have an idea of her destination.”

  “Right.”

  Gleeful, Maijstral relayed this news to his confederates and told them to be ready.

  Alice was going to have such a surprise.

  *

  The intruder was delayed only briefly by the screamers on the perimeter of Tvar’s estate—they were neutralized by black boxes deployed by an assistant. The approach across the back lawn was made swiftly—a hint of recklessness there, Maijstral thought, there were potential detection problems flying across an open space wearing a darksuit, and the intruder was ignoring them.

  Steal from my friends, will you? Maijstral thought fiercely.

  The intruder flew to the second floor and began peering in windows. Maijstral restrained the impulse to huddle into the holographic camouflage of his darksuit. He was perfectly well screened from anything the intruder was likely to be carrying with him—energy detectors for the most part, intended to locate alarm systems.

  Ram me with a submarine, will you? Maijstral snarled in silence.

  The intruder located Maijstral’s room without difficulty—some of Maijstral’s gear had been left in plain sight to make it easy—and then the window alarms were neutralized swiftly with a black box. The window glass was sliced out and floated skyward on antigra
vity repellers. The intruder entered, darksuit automatically pulsing out minute compression waves that canceled the minute compression waves caused by a body floating through the air.

  Set me up to get killed, will you? Maijstral demanded.

  The intruder floated into the center of the room and hovered, apparently making a survey. Then floated toward the wardrobe that stood in the corner.

  Sending a mental command from the proximity wire in the collar of his darksuit, Maijstral triggered his ambush.

  Hidden force-field generators slammed invisible walls across the windows, blocking the escape route. The intruder could neutralize them, but it would take time, more time than Maijstral planned to give him.

  Roman lunged from the wardrobe, where expert devices had been concealing his body heat, respiration, and very existence. He had a stunner in one hand and a spitfire in the other. He used the stunner first. Energies splashed off the intruder’s shields.

  More doors crashed open. Micromedia globes deployed in formation, recording everything for scrutiny later. Roberta, Kuusinen, Tvar, and Drexler opened fire. Maijstral slid through his door somewhat less promptly, wary of stray bullets.

  “Surrender!” Maijstral commanded, and opened fire with his Nana-Coulville spitfire rifle.

  The intruder’s form, outlined by blazing energies, bounced around the room as if buffeted hither and thither by the blasts of its attackers. Maijstral’s detectors showed that its shields were clearly weakening.

  “Surrender!” Maijstral shouted, firing as fast as he could.

  The outside detectors showed that the intruder’s assistant was soaring across the back lawn, zooming to the rescue of his employer, setting off a lot of alarms in the process.

  The intruder seemed to gather itself as if to spring, then flew swift as an arrow straight for the open window. The arrow hit the shield headfirst with an awesome, meaty thud, then bounced back and drifted toward the floor as if stunned. Drexler, stray fire bouncing from his shields, leaped forward and slapped a palm-sized energy vampire onto the form.

  The vampire began sucking energy from the intruder’s darksuit and equipment. The holographic camouflage began to shimmer, vanish in places.

  “We surrender! Don’t shoot!”

  The voice came from outside, from the intruder’s assistant. Kuusinen sensibly turned his attention toward the newcomer, pointing his heavy chugger toward the window.

  The last of the camouflage drained away, revealing the glassy-eyed, twitching form of Laurence, the actor.

  *

  “We wanted to teach you a lesson,” Deco said, “after you were so mean to us.”

  “I was?” Maijstral said in surprise.

  “You ignored us,” Deco said. “You said you’d never even seen Laurence play you on video—and that had to have been a lie. A deliberate insult. What sort of person wouldn’t watch himself on video?”

  Maijstral tried to remember whether he was ever rude to Laurence and Deco, and came up blank. “I never saw the other fellow either,” he said. “Anaya.”

  “It’s as if we didn’t exist!” Deco said. “And you wouldn’t even introduce us to Nichole!”

  “I wouldn’t?”

  Maijstral tried hard to remember. He couldn’t recall anything about Laurence and Deco at all, other than the fact he’d spoken to them briefly once or twice in the Underwater Palace.

  Actors! he thought. They were each a universe unto himself, invincible little egos oblivious to anything but their own boundless need.

  “And then,” Deco continued, “Laurence called a news conference, announced that he believed in you, and publicly offered to stand as your second for your duels—and what did you do? You forgot his name! You didn’t even call us!”

  Laurence, stripped of his gear and searched for weapons—he hadn’t been carrying any—was lying miserably on the carpet in Maijstral’s suite. Deco, his assistant, knelt next to him, vocal as his friend was silent. The others stood about them, weapons still in hand.

  “It’s just that kind of indifference that made us angry,” Deco said. “So we decided to teach you a lesson!” He looked at Laurence. “It was my idea, actually. ‘Why don’t you just sneak into Maijstral’s room and steal something?’ I said. ‘Show him that you exist! Show him that you’re important!’” He nodded toward Laurence, then looked at Maijstral again. “That’s what I said, and that’s what we did.” His expression turned resentful as he looked up at Maijstral. “You weren’t even supposed to be here!” he said.

  Kuusinen, sitting on the scorched divan with his chugger across his knees, frowned at them both. “Are you claiming,” he clarified, “that you aren’t responsible for the robberies in Tejas and Quintana Roo?”

  At this suggestion, an angry growl emanated from Roman. Deco and Laurence were aghast at this sound, but Deco soldiered on.

  “Maijstral is to blame for those!” he insisted. “They were his robberies, and they went wrong,” he nodded primly, “just like ours.”

  “Confess!” Roman roared. “You were jealous! You tried to get Mr. Maijstral killed!” He seized Laurence by the collar and flung him into the air like a rag doll. He caught the actor before he hit the ground arid shook him vigorously.

  Deco, protesting, jumped to his feet and tried to grab Roman’s arm, but Roman only seized him with the other hand and shook him, too, then banged his two captives together.

  Maijstral, entranced, believed that he could watch this forever.

  “Fine, fine!” Laurence shouted, speaking at last. “I confess! We did it!”

  “But we didn’t!” Deco protested.

  “I confess!” Laurence affirmed. “Let us go!”

  Roman dropped them both to the floor at once. “Details!” he demanded. “And make them convincing.”

  “Whatever you want,” Laurence said, a huddled picture of misery and defeat.

  At this moment there came the chime of a communications system, and a voice.

  “Gleep,” it said, somewhat muffled. “Fnerg.”

  Maijstral listened in puzzlement. He couldn’t quite make out the identity of the caller, or the meaning or import of the words.

  “Snerk. Yibble.”

  Roberta, eyes wide, leaped up from her seat “Batty!” she cried, and ran for the door.

  Maijstral, following at a run, felt his heart sink. Somehow, he knew, it had all gone wrong again.

  He was right. When he ran to Batty’s room, he discovered the old Khosalikh lying on the rug, floored by a stunner blast. The padded supports that had held the late Duke of Dornier’s coffin were empty.

  Maijstral’s, father, the late Duke of Dornier, had been kidnapped, and his coffin with him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Colonel-General Vandergilt was pleased, so pleased that a half-dozen loose strands of hair had escaped her helmet without attracting her notice. A victorious smile played about her lips as she watched a team of Memphis police collecting forensic evidence from Aunt Batty’s room.

  Aunt Batty herself had been taken to the hospital by Roberta. Stunner blasts could have unfortunate consequences for the elderly.

  “It looks as if your gang is falling apart under the pressure,” Vandergilt said.

  “I don’t have a gang,” Maijstral pointed out.

  “You’re connected to all of these people that you’re accusing. Laurence glorifies your crimes on video. Alice Manderley is a fellow professional.” A superior look crossed her face. “Criminal gangs fall out—it happens all the time.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Paavo Kuusinen as he frowned at Vandergilt, “a crime has been committed against Mr. Maijstral. Do you intend to investigate?”

  “Of course,” Vandergilt said. She noticed her dangling locks of hair and began methodically stuffing them back into her helmet as she spoke on, her voice cheerful and matter-of-fact.

  “We’ll do everything possible. Search the room for forensic evidence, put out an alert for the coffin and its, ah, contents. But of course, i
f we don’t find the coffin by tomorrow midnight, it will legally become the property of the thief.” Vandergilt looked at Maijstral and smiled. “An element of the current law which I believe you have, often used to your advantage, Mr. Maijstral.”

  “But it isn’t as if my father was a painting or a statue or a piece of jewelry,” Maijstral said. “He’s a person. There’s no statute of limitations on kidnapping.”

  Vandergilt considered this. “Your father was declared dead, was he not?”

  “Ye-es.” Reluctantly. “Almost two years ago.”

  “Well then, he’s not a person. He’s inanimate—an it.”

  “He may be in a box,” Maijstral said, “but he still talks. Thinks, after a fashion. Isn’t he a dependent, like a child?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said attorney Kuusinen. “The Constellation follows Empire law in this regard. After being declared dead, the elderly are considered keepsakes—like Lady Scarlett’s liver, downstairs. Otherwise there could be no Imperial succession—no one could be crowned Emperor if his predecessors still retained their legal existence.”

  “Admirably put, Mr. Kuusinen,” Vandergilt said with a thin smile. Her eyes glittered as they turned to Maijstral. “Another of those archaic Imperial laws causing trouble for you, Mr. Maijstral. What a pity that the Constellation Practices Authority hasn’t got around to fixing that yet—but with the Burglars’ Association putting up such resistance to the Authority’s efforts to remove protections from Allowed Burglary, their other vital work has been delayed.”

  Another lock of hair was working its way from under the shiny brim of Vandergilt’s helmet. Maijstral wanted to grab it and yank it out by the roots.

  “Perhaps,” Kuusinen said, perceiving perhaps the dangerous look in Maijstral’s eye, “we should let the authorities do their work.”

  Maijstral withdrew, his blood simmering. Stealing his father!

  It wasn’t as if he’d exactly miss Gustav Maijstral if the late Duke dropped out of his life once and for all. But the theft itself was as vile an insult as he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t as if Maijstral’s father was in any way valuable property. The entire theft had been aimed at Maijstral himself. Take this, the theft said, and suffer.