Araldis generally honoured their agreements, bound as they were by notions of honour and status.
What was it that the woman had negotiated for?
Logic-mind stamped upon his erotic memories and set about reviewing the contents of his negotiation.
Aaaah, yes. That’s right. She wanted a tyro for one of her kind.
Never! squealed logic-mind. Those Latinos are so socially primitive.
Who cares? free-mind replied. Just ask the question. Be seen to be upholding the agreement.
Tekton saw the sense in free-mind’s suggestion. He slid out of his sack and patted the excess of lotion from his body with an absorbent cloth.
Moud?
The hum returned. Yes, Godhead?
Make an appointment with the Chief Astronemein.
* * *
Balbao, the Balol scientific Chief-of-Station and Tekton did not share similar interests, ideals or biorhythms. In their previous two encounters the C-o-S had exhibited little concern for Tekton’s complaints. This would work perfectly in his favour and Tekton approached the meeting confident that Balbao would deny his request instantaneously. He would then be able to relay the difficulties he was having to Marchella Pellegrini on Araldis and basically stall—indefinitely—for time.
On previous occasions he had met with the C-o-S in a laboratory but today the Balol assistant ushered Tekton into Balbao’s private rooms.
Tekton took a moment to absorb the size and luxury of them: the garish gold-plated fittings and pattern-switching floor covering.
The Balol sat perched in a swivel armchair with his feet on the ledge of a window facsimile. He sipped something frothy from a fluted glass and flexed his neck frill as if deep in thought.
Tekton ahem-ed politely to gain his attention.
‘Yes, Godhead?’
Tekton detected Balbao’s sarcasm. To the astronemeins the tyros were merely convenient study animals.
‘I have a request.’
Balbao gargled the last sip of his drink before he answered. ‘Let me guess. Longer opening times at the Melange bar? Pickled Ink Squid on the room-service menu? Lotion towels in the diner?’
‘I’m sure you are well aware that I do not use towels. They are too abrasive. And while your humour is mild and inoffensive, it also suggests that you perceive us to be frivolous and superficial.’
‘Superficial? You, Tekton? I would never think such a thing.’
Tekton fixed him with a cold stare. ‘I wager, Balbao, that it will be our endeavours which uncover the truths about the Entity. Not your tedious measurements and excruciating empirical observations.’
Balbao frowned. His skin turned an unflattering shade of grey like the first puffs of a storm cloud.
Tekton assessed him as suitably enraged, and delivered his request. ‘I wish to petition for a new tyro and I want you to support me to Higher Intelligence Affairs.’
The Balol’s crest flattened into his thick neck and he made an odd choking splutter. ‘You j-joke, of course?’
‘Humour is not a strong Lostolian trait. I wish to petition for a female from the Latino races to join us here.’
‘A Latino female?’ Balbao flicked quickly through some images until he got a representation. His absent look suggested that his moud was enlightening him about Latinos. After a few moments he let out an unattractive hawking sound as though he had a throat full of phlegm. ‘Godhead, you do have a sense of humour... a female tyro from a repressed, patriarchal society.’
‘Bigotry can achieve wonders,’ stated Tekton loftily. ‘Makes the mind hungry.’
Balbao snorted. ‘Then you won’t be surprised to hear that not only will I not support your application, but I will fight it to my last breath.’
Tekton conjured a look of annoyance. ‘That is regrettable,’ he lamented. ‘But I will not be denied.’
‘Oh yes, you will,’ growled Balbao.
Perfect, thought Tekton.
* * *
Tekton took a taxi to the Melange bar to celebrate his easy manipulation of Balbao. To his disappointment only Labile Connit was there. He had barely spoken to the Geneer in his months on Belle-Monde. The man appealed to him almost as little as Balbao did, although his skin colour had a pleasant golden hue as opposed to the grey pigmentation of the Balol. It seemed rather unbalanced of nature, Tekton thought, to bestow such a radiant skin on a Geneer: they were such dour and imperative-bound types.
Yet you could not do without them, his logic-mind piped in.
Not yet, countered free-mind.
In a far more expansive mood than earlier and contemplating the notion that with his Sole-gained enhancements he might never have to consult a Geneer again, Tekton engaged Labile Connit in conversation.
Connit was hunched over a table-screen that was blurred by the spills from his row of empty agave-beer glasses. Tekton could smell the sweetness of the beer’s succulent base.
‘Good morning, Connit. May I buy you a beverage?’
‘Shure. Why not?’ the Geneer slurred and waved his hand. ‘After thish many I’ll drink with anyone.’
Tekton ignored the insult and ordered drinks via his moud.
They sat in awkward silence until the waiter served them. That is, Tekton felt a trifle awkward. Connit seemed oblivious to anything other than the flicker of images running across the table-screen.
‘The entertainment is tediously limited here, don’t you think?’ commented Tekton.
Connit shrugged. ‘I hate this place.’ Then, to Tekton’s surprise, tears brimmed and trickled down the young Geneer’s cheeks.
A crying drunk, said Tekton’s free-mind. Disgusting!
But useful, countered logic-mind. Drunker the better when it comes to secrets.
Tekton ordered Connit another beer, this time with a shot of fatta extract. Fatta extract was expensive but as tasteless as vodka and was known for its numbing effect on the humanesque amygdala.
‘It sounds as if you need a sabbatical. Or perhaps a visit with your family? That is... I don’t know where you come from but it can’t be too far. Orion is rather small.’
Connit slurped down the fatta-laced beer, none the wiser. ‘No. No... Impossible!’ He shook his head vehemently.
Why not? Tekton wondered. The tyros were free to go anywhere, anytime, unless their sponsors had set restrictions. Tekton’s main sponsor was GOHI and his minor sponsor was his studium. He imagined the others had similar arrangements.
Moud, who is Labile Connit’s sponsor?
The Group of Higher Intelligence.
And?
Tekton sipped his juice while he waited for the moud to answer. Really, it was bordering on the ineffectual as bio-ware went.
Godhead, there seems to be an anomaly in my information.
Yes?
Godhead Connit’s co-sponsor is stated as being an industrial company called CGE.
And who in-a-Lostol’s-fine-skin are they?
I have searched the Orion companies register and they do not appear to exist.
Aha! gloated logic-mind. A secret!
‘What programme entertains you so, Labile?’ Tekton enquired.
Connit scowled and turned the table-screen off abruptly. He drew shapes in the spilled beer and didn’t bother to answer.
Moud?
The station AI informs me that Godhead Connit has been streaming Unbound broadcasts.
Unbound? Tekton had heard of Unbound—vaguely. Where do they emanate from?
There is no proven point of origin though it is commonly held that they originate from Consilience.
‘How interesting,’ Tekton murmured.
‘Whassat?’ slurred Connit.
Tekton realised that he’d spoken aloud and smiled blandly at the Geneer. ‘What is what?’
‘What’d you shay?’
‘Perhaps you should get some sleep, my dear Connit, for I said nothing at all.’ Tekton smiled again and excused himself.
On the taxi ride home he flipped things
between his minds.
Why would one of Orion’s top Geneers be watching streams originating from Consilience? And why would he not be able to visit his family?
Logic-mind was of the opinion that Connit was showing all the symptoms of dislocation syndrome.
Dislocation syndrome. Pah! said free-mind. He’s lonely and he’s hiding something.
When he got back to his quarters, Tekton told his moud to stream Unbound to his viewing screen. He spent impatient minutes while the moud ran lists of the programmes broadcast in the last hour through the myriad of sub-broadcasts that came through the Unbound node. The political propaganda from the countless groups uncensored by the OLOSS charter was at worst unintelligible and at best sinister.
Tekton felt a moment’s relief that OLOSS had a powerful military force to suppress such anarchical tendencies among sentients. Those insufferable
Extropists perpetuated much of this lawless behaviour. He wondered if they realised that in their desire for post-humanesque evolution they had swayed dangerously close to anti-humanesque. How peeved they must be by the appearance of Sole.
‘Narrow the search. Reject “authentic war” and “combat injury”
The feed dropped to a more manageable ten thousand channels. Tekton continued refining his search based on the glimpse he’d had across the viewing table in the Melange bar. With five hundred channels left he began to question the fruitfulness of what he was doing. What was he expecting to find? Why was he even bothering?
No good reason, said logic-mind.
Searching for a clue, said free-mind.
A clue to what? What had suddenly so intrigued him about the recalcitrant and graceless Geneer?
Tekton left the screen and went to his bed where he disrobed and ordered the room into complete darkness. There he let thoughts percolate in his mind for a time, letting them flower into possibilities in the way he let his designs mutate.
Moud, call Miranda Seeward.
Yes, Godhead.
When Miranda answered he climbed from his bed and returned to his living space. ‘Good day, Miranda.’
‘Indeed it must be, Tekton,’ she said wryly, ‘since you forgot to dress.’
He glanced down at his naked body and then back at his muse. ‘Come now. Don’t pretend to be shocked.’
‘Shocked, pah! Now, what disturbs you enough to call me stark naked? Something that obviously cannot wait until tonight.’
Tonight?
The tyros’ weekly meeting, his moud reminded him.
Ah, yes... Now, how to say this so that she won’t be too curious? ‘I am concerned for Labile Connit. I spoke with him this morning and he seems beset by melancholy. Perhaps there is some way we could cheer him up. A surprise visit from his family, perhaps.’
Miranda’s mouth dropped open, sending her chins into an outrageous wobble. ‘Tekton, how thoughtful! I had noticed the same thing. You know, you really are a treasure under that brittle self-serving exterior.’ She leaned closer to the screen. ‘And I should know.’ She winked. ‘I have the fondest memories of our tryst on Scolar.’
Tekton felt his akula swamping his objectivity. Miranda seemed able to arouse him with the merest hint of her over-abundant pheromones. He made an effort to repress the rush. ‘As do I, my dear. But it is Labile we should be thinking of at this moment. ..’
She frowned at having the conversation deflected from one of her favourite topics. ‘Well, though your intentions are noble I think we would have little joy locating his kin. It is rumoured that he was incubated at an illegal birth-station.’
‘Then he has no family?’
‘Not a jot.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh?’
‘Then we must think of something else,’ said Tekton.
Miranda gave him a sceptical look. ‘I will put some thought into it. We can discuss it this evening.’
‘I shall look forward to it.’ Tekton ended the call and sat at his viewer for several moments, thinking of his conversation with Labile.
Moud, tell me what you can about Labile Connit’s origins.
Godhead, Connit has a privacy lock on his biographical information.
Isn’t there another way to access it?
No, Godhead.
If the moud had been corporeal Tekton would have kicked it. Really, it was next to useless.
He returned to his bed and resumed his darkened thinking. Geneers, he mused, were linear thinkers by and large. Moud, search biographical details of Labile Connit’s genetic parents.
Tekton was rewarded with silence while it did as he bid, and he felt a little surge of triumph. Connit had placed a privacy screen on questions about himself. He had not thought to protect himself from a sideways query.
There is no record of such humanesques.
Was Miranda correct, then? Had Labile been incubated illegally? He sat up again and this time he dressed with purpose.
Moud, call me a taxi and then hibernate.
Yes, Godhead.
Tekton put on a comfortable day robe, moisturised his smooth skull and sat down to wait for the taxi. It looked like he would have to find out the old-fashioned way what he wanted to know.
THALES
Politic detention was in a grand Renaissance Redux building adorned with gold-impregnated pilasters and movement-activated uuli hums, and took up an entire block along Gorgias Boulevard. Each detainee—so Thales’s guard informed him—was afforded a sleeping room and an antechamber with a desk and an aspect cube.
Though the surroundings were eminently comfortable, Thales felt the infringement of his liberty as painfully as a fresh scalding. Worse, when he realised that he would have to share his confinement.
As the Brown Robe thrust Thales to the floor and slammed the door, his room companion regarded him with interest.
‘You have trodden on someone’s toes. In fact, I would surmise, their fingers as well,’ the man said.
Thales scowled and climbed to his feet. ‘This is shameful. What sort of city is this where one cannot disagree with one’s wife without being jailed?’ He pounded on the door and continued pounding until his knuckles bled and his voice became hoarse. ‘Release me!’ Rene. Rene!’ he roared.
Then, finally, when it became apparent no one would come he slid to the floor and crouched in a trembling huddle.
The older man poured a glass of coloured water from a china pitcher and brought it to him.
Embarrassed and angry, Thales ignored him at first, but the man was gently insistent.
‘Please. It will not serve you at all to be wretched. Perhaps a civil discussion might lift your spirits?’
Thales took a sip and held it in his mouth, letting the minerals soothe his throat. He stopped short of gargling for, at first glance, the other man seemed most refined and hence out of place in such an establishment. Not only were his manners and demeanour superior, but his bearded face bore the furrows of a man who thought much and had seen more. Not leathery or worn, but erudite. He did not affect the glamour allusions that many scholars favoured and his aquiline nose was untouched by the sculptor’s rod.
Still, Thales was too upset to be gracious. ‘What do you know of discourse? What do you know of me? Your; presumption would suggest... very little.’
The older man did not sigh or take umbrage. He sat down and gestured across a small polished table at another plain leather armchair. ‘You are quite right in that. I know very little other than that it will be more comfortable for you to sit here rather than on the floor.’ He took a small sip from his own glass of stained water and waited.
Something about the man’s mildness stung Thales into recognising his own childishness. He glanced down to his bleeding hand. ‘I sh-should wash first.’
The gentleman nodded.
Thales climbed to his feet and found the washing cubicle next to the vacant bedroom. He hastily rinsed his hands and face and patted his hair into some order. It had come loose from its weave of plaits and fell loosely to
his shoulders. The swing of it in the mirror reminded him of Rene and he clamped his lips together.
When he had dried himself he took his seat opposite the gentleman and attempted to adopt an air of reasonable composure.
‘I am Thales Berniere, incarcerated by the Sophos for disagreeing with my wife.’
The man smiled sadly. ‘Even in Scolar I would have thought that would be permitted.’
‘Not when your wife is the daughter of a Sophos Pre-Eminent,’ he said bitterly.
‘Your disagreement was... philosophical in nature?’
Thales blew air from his cheeks. ‘I suppose you could say that, though the nature of it was more encompassing than a simple point of dialogue.’
The man’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. ‘How so, Thales? In a city of such wide and varied philosophy and learning.’
‘Wide and varied Scolar may be, but it is also toothless. Here you may come to learn and preach almost anything but actual decisions are made only by the Sophos Pre-Eminence. And their doctrines are stale and limited. There are no challenges to their practice. Arguments between opposing doctrines are hypocrisy—no more than that.’
‘Would you care to share your own beliefs with me?’
Again, the gentleman’s mildness lulled Thales’s antagonism. He settled back into his chair. Draining his glass, he nursed it against his chest. ‘Currently I am investigating Jainism. I find the upashrayas serene and uncluttered with opulence. They are a fine place to think.’
The gentleman frowned in recall. ‘Jainism? Aaah, yes... eternal, universal truths, spiritual independence and individual equality... non-violence: Ahisma, Satya, Asteya, Brahmacharva, Aparigraha.’
Thales blushed. ‘As you can see, I am far from attaining Moksha. I am at the beginning of my journey but I would never, never use violence on another sentient.’
‘What of the lower life-forms?’
Thales reddened, unsure how to answer.
Chaos Space (Sentients of Orion) Page 7
