The Duke of Uranium

by John Barnes

  After a painful, dead silence, Myx said, "You can't possibly mean you plan to register S.P."

  Sesh nodded. "I do mean that." After an awkward pause, when she seemed to be waiting for one of them to say something, she added, "It's not such a big deal anymore. Toktru it's not. And you can still do lots of interesting things if you're registered S.P. You just can't do anything for money or have any responsibility. That's not a big deal."

  S.P. stood for Social Parasite—a person who lived off family money. A registered Social Parasite was a pariah with sharp restrictions on legal rights: S.P.S could own common stock but the government voted it; they had the same free expression rights as anyone else but couldn't vote; they could sue but not speak in court or serve on a jury. Getting your feets back after registering S.P. was painfully difficult, beginning with a mandatory unpaid five-year hitch in the Forces and continuing through four years of re-education and probation. It was a permanent repository for idiot children of the rich, hopelessly ec-centric artists, dangerous incompetents, and the incurably annoying. Although people no longer suicided when they were declared S.P., most 350-year-olds, the oldest generation still alive, would rather have been registered as sex criminals than S.P., and even among young people there was still widespread support for sterilizing S.P.S.

  "You're really going to do it," Jak said.

  "Toktru."

  "But, you're not superrich or anything. I mean you don't dress especially well—"

  "Thanks."

  "I should have said, you don't dress rich. Don't change the subject. I mean I've never seen any evidence that you were rich, and we've been mekko and demmy for more than two years. You don't vacation on the moon or anything."

  "Not lately. I've been there, though, on vacation, when I was younger. And I've been to the Aerie many times. And to Mars, and to Earth. It's just that that was all before you knew me. I didn't travel for the last three years because I wanted to finish gen school. Toktru, once I'm registered S.P. and don't have to hide the trust fund from my toves anymore, I'll probably travel much more."

  All of them stared at Sesh; none of them had any idea what to say. "Look," she said, "it's not a big deal. I'm not evil. The Wager makes perfect sense if you're smart and ambitious and need to make money because your trust fund isn't big enough. But I'm glib more than smart, my main ambition is nice things and lots of time off, and I can afford all that without any job. And it makes sense to teach the Wager to people so that they're more pre-dictable and easier to get what you want from, but I don't care whether I'm predictable or whether anyone gets what they want from me. The Wager is a great set of values to channel people trying to make it into useful pathways, but I was born with it made, and I have no intention of being useful, which is the first step on the road to being used. I'm not going to wear a skirt that doesn't suit my long legs or go out with a heet that doesn't suit my sarcastic taste in humor, so why should I have values that don't suit my real position?" She sighed. "It's nice to just tell you all this. I'm tired of having to tell you that I won an advertising contest or a sweepstakes or something whenever I want to take you somewhere pricey."

  "Oh, no," Myx said. "So you were just—"

  "Toktru masen! And I'm doing it again. After all, there's so much money, toktru it doesn't mean anything to me, but my friends mean a lot to me, and fun means a lot to me. I can afford the lightest, usually many times over, and I like taking you all to places that are light. So—no arguments!—I'm financing some fun with my friends, tonight."

  "Sesh, no—" Dujuv began.

  "I just happen to have four tickets for the closing performance of Y4UB."

  There was a dead silence. Those had been sold out for months; if Sesh had gotten four of them legitimately, she had spent a small fortune, and if she'd gotten them from a scalper, it hadn't been small.

  It was also the kind of event you fantasized about going to.

  "Well," Jak said, '"Principle 11: Break any principle except this one and a few others, but expect the consequences.' I hope you two will come along to make sure I don't fall any further into"—he slipped into his best Teacher Fwidya impression—"the dark swamp of that hideous contemporary affliction, that cancer in the engine of society, that endless font of mixed metaphors, moral relativism!"

  The girls laughed; Dujuv said, "You'll sound more like him if you use more emphasis."

  "Everyone's a critic. But are we going to do this?"

  "Oh, sure," Myxenna said. She stretched in a way that seemed to be sort of an anatomy lesson. "It's not like I've always been extra extremely careful about my principles, if you dak me, masen?"

  Chapter 2

  It's Not the Spread, It's the Score, and You Lost

  Jak had summoned Rover, the family private Pertrans car, as soon as he'd gotten up to leave the Old China Cafe, and by the time he had crossed the hundred-meter-wide courtyard between the restaurant and the private-car Pertrans stop, Rover was gliding into a berth there. Rover was a nice-looking car, with the Crosshatch in a purple-yellow Mardi Gras retro that was very clash-splash-and-smash; Jak was grateful that Uncle Sib had let him program the car's surface colors, so that the thing didn't embarrass him when he was out with his toves.

  As he crossed the courtyard, he glanced up at the high ceiling, seventy meters overhead; Entrepot was located on a series of ring balconies, so that you could always see everything. It wasn't the biggest shopping area in the Hive, and certainly not the trendiest or most expensive, but for Jak and his friends it had been home for a long time, and would be forever—shopping areas paced their demographics, so just as Entrepot catered to teenagers now, in about 180 years, it would be catering to two-hundred-year-olds.

  Sesh's revelations had startled him, not just because of what she had said or because she was going S.P., but also because he'd never thought to add together a few facts in his own life. He got into Rover, and, as he always did, said, "Get me home. High-cost tunnels authorized." That cost fifteen times what using the public tunnels did, but he'd never worried about that one way or another.

  "Very good, sir," Rover said. As the canopy closed and the Pertrans car pulled out, Jak realized it was one more observation to add to his stack.

  Jak lived with Uncle Sibroillo, the only one of his relatives he could recall ever having met, almost the only one he'd ever heard of, and they lived in one of the lightest, most expensive residential districts. They had a private Pertrans car—few people did. And whereas most of Jak's friends had jobs, Sib just gave Jak money whenever he needed it, and though Jak was expected to do all sorts of things (keep up with the Disciplines, learn skills, run errands, keep things neat, maintain some sort of grades), none of it was ever tied to the money.

  For the first time, Jak specked that he was probably from a rich family; there was just too much light stuff around to support any other conclusion. Though it had not been kept secret, no attention had been called to it. As the lights flashed by and Rover whipped through the high-cost tunnels, he decided that it didn't make any real difference to him. Probably that was how Uncle Sib wanted him to feel. He was forever discovering that despite his always seeming to have his feets, one way or another his own freely chosen plan, goal, or way of doing things always turned out to be what Uncle Sib had manipulated him into.

  Rover decelerated smoothly until Jak could feel that the grav was mostly the grav normal to the deck and not the acceleration of the Pertrans car. The flashes of the windows resolved into brief glimpses of the mostly empty garden corridors of his neighborhood. After a swing off the main track and onto the siding, Rover glided through the suddenly opening door and into the entry room of Uncle Sib's house, a comfortable little lounge that was also the reception area for people who came to see Sib on business, and settled onto the floor. Rover was the only car there, so Sib probably had no visitors.

  Jak got out. Turning back to grab his reader, he realized that it wasn't there. He hadn't taken it to school because he hadn't needed it anymore. He might no
t even need to read for quite a while.

  Toktru, between getting his feets, getting rid of school, the prospect of an active life instead of more school, and the Y4UB performance that night—and now the realization that he might not have to read anything for decades to come—Jak felt great, but before he went in to talk it over with his uncle, he tried to put on a solemn face. Uncle Sibroillo would be extremely disappointed about Jak's scores, and Jak needed to look hangdog. The adult world was much kinder to a teenager who appeared contrite.

  If Jak appeared ashamed, Sib would feel justified in imposing no penalty and forgiving him instantly; one thing Jak could count on his uncle for was the very best sort of hypocrisy.

  Sib was sitting in the chair by the door. "You fell short for the PSA."

  "Not by much." Jak looked at the floor and tried to sound like he really felt wanged.

  "It's not the spread, it's the score, and you lost, old pizo. Got anything in mind?"

  "Kind of."

  Sibroillo raised his eyebrows and spread his hands, his gesture for "your turn" or "go ahead."

  Jak swallowed; somehow this moment made it real. "Uh, I'm going to enlist. The Army. Probably career, at least start out like it's career. Try for sergeant, maybe a Guards unit or even B&E."

  Sib seemed to study the ceiling very seriously. At last he stretched and yawned. "Well, avoiding false modesty, I can honestly say I've done a good job with you. Many of the things I've taught you, and in particular the Disciplines, ought to stand you in very good stead. You're bright, even if not very bookish, and you have good coordination, fast reactions, and enough muscle. If you genuinely want to be a sergeant in a B&E battalion, you'll be able to do that. Even the stubbornness and the quick temper can be advantages if you use them properly."

  "It sounds like your opinion is founded on something," Jak said, fishing. Any chance to get Sibroillo reminiscing was important; there were big gaps in what Jak knew of himself and his family.

  Sibroillo shrugged. "Not much to say. I was a mere a few times, back before you were born. Like most meres I got my training in a public army. Rather in four of them, across about forty years, off and on, no hitch more than three years at a time. That's all you're getting out of me today."

  "How about one direct question?"

  "Oh, why not? It's not every day you get out of gen school. One direct nosy question, provided it has no security impact and it's not about my sex life."

  "Yuck."

  "What do you suppose Gweshira and I do when we go out, pizo?"

  "Double yuck, Uncle Sib, and you're not going to distract me that easily. Okay, direct question, were you ever in a B&E unit?"

  "For about two years, I was a lieutenant in the Sixth Rangers, Army of the Hive. Yes, old pizo, I was a beanie myself for a while."

  Jak realized that he had to get out of the room, quickly, or risk letting Sib see that he was impressed. "And the Disciplines help?" he asked. "You're not just saying that to get me to practice?"

  "I want you to practice, but I'm not lying or exaggerating. The Disciplines help a great deal."

  "Then I'd better get to them."

  "Please do." But as Jak turned to go, Uncle Sibroillo leaned forward from his low round chair and caught his nephew by the elbow. "I'm very pleased that you've thought about what you're going to do, that your thoughts are not unreasonable, and that you are ambitious in your plans. It might not be the career I'd have chosen for you but it is not a bad choice at all. Or if it is, we're both wrong. Now, about this concert or dance or whatever it is tonight—"

  Jak started to laugh. He couldn't help it. Sib spied on him constantly. "Let me guess how you knew about it. You monitor my friends and their accounts, and you flag entertainment purchases, and Sesh had probably already put my name on a ticket."

  "All true, but not the way I used. And besides what you thought of and what I did, there are also four other ways I could have used. If you don't know all six ways, then you probably shouldn't try to get away with anything yet."

  "I wouldn't even try."

  "You don't lie as well as you should, yet, either." Sib sat on the edge of his chair. "But no matter—time enough for you to learn more tradecraft. Eventually I will stop monitoring you. Either because you'll get good enough to block it, or you'll be out of range. Meanwhile, you have just time to work the Disciplines, spar with me afterward, eat a quick dinner, and still go meet your toves, all showered and pretty. And I do believe you just said you wanted to get on with practicing—"

  "I was sucking up," Jak said, "since I knew I'd have to do it anyway. But I guess I might as well get started. Is sucking up another one of those useful skills you've equipped me with?"

  "Damn straight, and probably the most useful one of all. Have a good workout; I'll be in to thump you in a while, puppy. Practice your form so I don't hurt you."

  "I'll concentrate on my kicking so I don't bruise my foot on your head, you old gwont."

  Jak stepped into his sleeping room and changed into his fighting practice suit; the suit on its hook and a large ever-changing VuPostR were the only decorations the room had. (When Jak was not home, he left the VuPostR tuned to the Grand Canyon on Earth; when he was, he tuned it to the Bordello Highlights channel. Not that Uncle Sib would care, but it was better to look like he thought Uncle Sib would care.) He noticed that his bed was still unmade from this morning, and pushed the button to make it. He really did have to get his act a bit more together.

  The fighting suit flowed into place over his skin, feeling ready and comfortable as always. Down to the gym-and-studio floor of Uncle Sib's house, Jak took the spiral stair by just dropping the eight meters down the center; in this pricey neighborhood, high up near the outer surface of the Hive, gravity was a bit less than twenty percent of full, and Jak enjoyed the slow drift that gradually became a swift descent.

  The workout room looked a bit like a padded cell, a comparison that Uncle Sib liked a lot, and a little like a wrestling room in which no one was sure which surface would be the floor. Every half meter on all six surfaces, the soft milky lenses of the projectors, a few centimeters across, stared at him; right now a few of the overhead ones projected soft white light.

  As usual, Jak enjoyed the Disciplines. Today he flowed easily into a relaxed, concentrated focus. Almost from the moment that he slipped on the practice helmet in the padded room, the targeting grid that floated in front of his face glowed clear green; his brain waves were showing the clear, attentive no-mind state, free from wandering, daydreaming, worry, doubt, or fussing.

  The targets appeared in their familiar order for the first part, the pure katas. First unarmed: hand strikes, foot strikes, knees, elbows, head butting, and shoulder ram-ming, each a black figure with a small white target zone, closing in on him. In the induced vision from the goggles, Jak's body was also jet-black whenever it moved with perfect speed on the singing-on trajectory; parts that were too low glowed blue, too high yellow, too far right red, and too far left green. The further off his timing was, the brighter they glowed. Each target was presented seven times, for each blow, and then another seven times for Jak's left, off side. The seven positions in which the target was presented marked the center and corners of a hex within which the blow would be appropriate.

  First the target glowed on the onrushing figure's face, and Jak hit it with a clean jab. The figure came in up on its toes, left and right, then from the sides farther away, and finally in a slight crouch. Each time Jak hit singing-on, seeing no light or color in his arm. When he had begun the Disciplines, at age four, an absence of lights would have pleased him, and glows would have frus- < trated him; now it was something he just dakked, without concern of any kind, absorbing it all mentally but having no feeling one way or another about it.

  The seven right jabs gave way to seven left jabs, followed by seven spear-fingered thrusts at the larynx, right then left; then hand-heel strikes at the point of the jaw, then hooks and uppercuts. The pace was set to a blow every 1.3 se
conds, fast enough to be a workout and to require quick recoveries; Jak's breathing synched into the process, and he was aware that his heart was working at six beats to the breath, just as it should, without caring very much. His body seen through goggles remained perfectly black, and he continued to strike and strike, through crosses, thrusts, and chops.

  He finished the first section with the right and left shoulder rams to the straight leg, the front-and-reverse two-leg thrust to the jaw, and the standing clothesline blocks. There had been no glows yet. It was a good day, toktru. His body remained black all through throws, locks, chokes, disarms, short blades, long blades, slug throwers, and beam pistols. Jak burned down his last black attacking figure, drawing a neat line that would have severed the right arm if he had faced a real opponent with a real maser. The score—a personal record— popped up on his helmet, and he pushed the goggles up and took off his helmet. He knelt and let his focus and calm settle deeply, preparing for the second phase, random sparring against the machine, in which it would try to break his concentration. When he felt empty and clear, he reached for the helmet.

  He had just touched it when a cord dropped around his neck and tightened, digging into his windpipe and squeezing his carotids so that the dark poured in from all sides toward the center of Jak's field of vision.

  His concentration was singing-on today, and although this attack called for action, it did not matter. No start or twitch disturbed his focus. Ignoring the cord for an instant, he reached behind, found pant cuffs, gripped and arched, and backflipped out of his kneeling position, hard work even in the .2 gravity. As they flipped through the air and Jak gained slack in the cord, his attacker tried to put knees against the small of Jak's back, to maintain leverage.

  Jak used that motion to twist away, escaping toward the attacker's feet. He slammed the back of his head into his opponent's crotch as he pulled him over his head. The grip on the cord relaxed for an instant, and Jak got another grip, on his opponent's armpits, and pulled him forward and off as if he were fighting his way out of a frenzied sweater.