“No, sir,” Tolchik said, leaning toward me. She reached out to grab my forearm. “I’m serious. I need a peep at my future. Look at me! I’m seventy, and never made it up the ranks. I got to know if I bother to stay in the service or go ahead and take pension. I got good years ahead of me—or do I?”
My heart bobbed back to the surface, and went out to her.
“I am sure you do,” I said. “I think . . .”
“Thomas . . . !” Redius began to voice a warning. I shrugged regret.
“What can I do? It isn’t fair that Tolchik didn’t get her turn. I had hoped to offer my services to everyone who made the list before the ban was placed. She would have received some measure of comfort.”
I dropped to silence as one of the serverbots arrived tableside with a tray full of main-course plates. It was not too much to assume that the staff would report violations of personal electronics use or other misbehavior. A pair of mechanical hands came up out of its dome and served each of us. It also deposited two pairs of squeeze bottles of sauce at each end of the table. As soon as it rumbled away, fresh inspiration struck. I regarded the dish before me. A golden-brown cutlet of some variety lay there upon a bed of purple rice, flat, enticing and featureless.
“Now, this is a marvelous coincidence,” I said, in delight. “We have here a perfect blank slate. I have been working on an entirely new divination method. I call it condimentomancy.”
“Condiwhoozeewas?” Tolchik asked. The rest of our fellow diners looked just as puzzled.
“Yes, indeed,” I said. “Here.” I handed her one of the bottles of sauce. It contained a grayish-brown cream. “Go ahead and anoint your meal as you normally would.”
“Well, I don’t use that stuff,” she said. “I like the other one.” She pointed to the orange-red concoction in the other bottle.
“Very well, it doesn’t matter which. Go ahead and apply it. Season your meal.”
With an odd look at me, she drew a series of curlicues on the surface of the cutlet. I peered at the results with great interest.
I had in fact noticed my own tendency, when provided with the means to do so, to draw designs on my own food. Each of the patterns I produced with a bottle of sauce, a spoonful of dressing or a shaker of herbs bore a general resemblance to one another, but had distinctly different characteristics. I had been curious as to what provoked the variations. Over a series of weeks, I began to make notes of what I was thinking during the meal, and how I felt about each of the foods in question. Once I dismissed the variables, I noticed a pattern emerging.
I had been reading research undertaken by psychologists of earlier millennia about seemingly random patterns who determined that they were actually nothing of the kind. These splashings, sprinkles and squiggles were a fairly keen indicator of my mood and concerns of the moment. Using these observations, I prepared a chart of the designs I produced. Watching my friends eat and asking them leading questions at those moments led me to see that similar moods produced patterns with similar traits. I thought that I had grasped a handle, so to speak, on a lid that could be lifted from a seething pot of mystery.
Tolchik pushed her plate toward me.
“Like that?”
“Exactly like that. Hmm.” I stroked my chin. “I see that while you appear to be confident and outgoing, you are actually a private individual. You keep yourself on a very tight rein, and you are afraid of flouting authority. You shouldn’t do that. I strongly recommend flouting authority. It’s good for both you and the person in charge.”
“She put pepper sauce on her meat,” Dinas Veltov said, scornfully. “That’s all that’s there.”
“That is what you see, my friend,” I said, haughtily elevating my nose. “I see constraint, the product of years of holding back one’s normal impulses, partly from caution, perhaps from fear. If I were to say to you that your future held more of the same, what would you think?”
Tolchik regarded me with an expression bordering upon awe.
“I’d say skip the next re-enlistment bonus and go home,” she said. “You can see something, just like that? It’s magic!”
“It’s not magic. It’s psychology,” I said. “I base my observations on human nature, as well as taste, time, physical condition and emotional connection. Now, I rarely feel constrained, myself. Tonight, perhaps more than other nights, but I seldom produce a pattern like that. You have to bear in mind the kind of food that lends itself to a good condimentomancy reading. If it is something that you would not eat, that changes the reading in many ways. Of course that introduces a further set of variables, depending upon one’s liking or disliking of the contents, or whether one prepared the meal oneself. If it was a comestible that one was to lift in the hand, one would naturally apply fewer lashings of sauce close to the edge, which would suggest temporary restraint, if only to spare one’s clothes. A flat surface gives the best results. I have an entirely separate chart just for sandwiches. I would be happy to show it to you some time. But I digress. You were under slight pressure to perform, so I take that into account, but your normal characteristics emerge in your actions.”
Tolchik stared at me as though I had done something clever, which I had. I tried to look modest under her regard.
“You are a wizard,” she said. “I got a lot to think about.” She pulled her plate back and curled an arm around it. I noticed that she studied her food closely before cutting into the meat.
“Read mine,” Allen said. He had liberally decorated his cutlet with mushroom ketchup.
“You’ve had your reading,” I said, with raised eyebrows. “One mustn’t be greedy.”
“But never a condimentomancy reading! That sounds cool!”
“Take me next,” the Wichu said, shoving his cutlet in my direction. “If there’s anything to it. Which I doubt.”
The spiky parallel lines spoke of one thing that was common to most Wichus, but there were personal elements to them as well.
“Impatience,” I said. “You also dislike this food, but you’ll eat it because it’s in front of you. You have a flair for leadership. Perhaps a tradition in your family? I notice a backhand curve at the top of each stroke. I would undoubtedly say the same if I analyzed your handwriting.” I pushed the plate back to him.
Before I knew it, we surrounded with crewmembers. They had been listening in a casual manner, but when a senior officer began to participate, the floodgates of interest opened up wide. They gathered close around us to listen. Items daubed with various flavors and colors of condiment were pushed under my nose. I couldn’t help but state my opinion of the interpretations. Which only attracted more surreptitious and not so subtle onlookers and would-be seekers.
Which led, naturally, to the arrival of the captain’s bullet-headed serverbot. I heard it long before I saw it, and realized the import of its advent.
“Make way, please! Make way!”
I shook my head in resignation.
“Sorry, friends. Time for me to go.”
I pushed aside the last of the decorated plates before me and rose the ’bot before it had finished its warning. Those still waiting looked up at me in dismay.
I followed the ’bot out of the entertainment center toward the lift.
It did no good to protest that it hadn’t been I who started the descent into disobedience, so I did not even essay to pass responsibility. I should have recalled that my condimentomancy reading said that I had an impulsive streak, too.
CHAPTER 17
“Breathe,” a voice said. “Come on, I don’t have all day. You’re okay. Open your eyes. Hurry up!”
M’Kenna gasped in a lungful of air and began coughing. Her eyes flew open. Glaring lights beat down on her. She shut her eyes again, cursing under her breath.
“That’s better.” She recognized the voice as Allisjonil’s. “She’s all right. What about him?”
At a distance, she heard whimpering. Her babies! Her babies were alive!
She opened her eyes aga
in and sat up.
“Not quickly,” said a female Uctu in an enveloping white garment, catching her by the shoulders as she swayed. Her head swam as if her brain was made of rubber. “Slow now.”
“Where are my children?” she demanded. Her voice sounded far away to her own ears.
“Recovering,” the Uctu said. She pointed one narrow orange hand through a doorway.
M’Kenna squinted against the bright lights. Gradually, her eyes adjusted. All four children were within her line of sight. Every one of them was alive and well. Lerin was reading a tablet, with Nona helping him. Dorna and Akila sat on the floor. Their faces were smeared with crumbs from the cookies they held in each hand. M’Kenna felt tears overspill her eyes. She brushed them away, but more kept coming. She wept, letting the grief and terror of her last few minutes of consciousness sweep over her. The Uctu physician patted her sympathetically on the shoulder, then handed her an absorbent square from hovercart full of medical implements and supplies at her side. M’Kenna blotted her face with it and handed it back.
“Food now?” the doctor asked.
“Something to drink,” M’Kenna said. Her tongue was dry. The physician offered her a sealed bubble with a straw protruding from the top. M’Kenna sucked up the fresh water in a few gulps. The physician handed her a second sphere. She drained half of it, and felt her senses coming back to her.
“Your family’s readings show anomalies, like to analyze,” the doctor said.
“Sure,” M’Kenna said, faintly. She wasn’t really paying attention. She was too busy looking around.
They were no longer in their family cell. Correct that, M’Kenna thought. We aren’t in the same cell. Like the first one, this suite of locked rooms had no scopes or screen tanks in the cells, so she and the others might as well have been taken out of the first cell, turned around three times, and returned to the same place. This cell had solid walls, instead of the glass-fronted exhibit box in which they had been living for weeks, and a door consisting of floor-to-ceiling bars. The wall opposite on the other side of the hall was still blank. The beds had blue coverlets instead of gray. The hygiene unit was in the opposite corner. The air seemed cleaner and there was more light, but it was still a grim prospect.
“Where are we?” she demanded.
Allisjonil came back to her.
“You got transferred to Dilawe.”
“How?” M’Kenna demanded. “When?”
“Well, they knocked you out. They always do that.”
M’Kenna felt fury burning in her belly.
“They gassed my babies!” she snarled. “How dare they do that?”
Allisjonil shrugged his enormous furry shoulders.
“Some of the prisoners get violent and try to escape, so they take no chances. You haven’t met any Donre yet, I bet. Their confooferation is on the other side of Uctu space. They never come through to the Imperium, or not yet anyhow, but they’re little like your kids. I got bitten by one of the little nerffis, so I’m with the Uctu on this one.”
“I want to talk to someone!”
“It won’t help. They won’t listen. Calm down. Everybody’s fine. The kids ate about an hour ago. You want some lunch?”
“No!” M’Kenna was too angry to swallow. Allisjonil turned up a leathery palm.
“Suit yourself. Dinner isn’t for another three hours.”
Cursing, M’Kenna struggled off her bunk and went to her children. They were all fine. She examined each child carefully over his or her protests, but could see nothing wrong with them, apart from the ineffable fact that they had been rendered unconscious without any prior warning. Rafe, on the bed adjacent to hers, was still out. He lay as still as a statue. His prison jumpsuit was open to the waist. His wide chest rose and fell shallowly. M’Kenna sat down beside him, holding his hand.
“Why won’t he wake up?” she asked.
“It takes the big people longer,” Allisjonil said. “I don’t know why. Proportionately, the little guys absorb more of the knockout gas. He’ll be okay soon.”
The Uctu healer glided to M’Kenna’s husband’s side and put a hand to the side of his throat. She beckoned to the hovercart. It hummed over to her. She tapped one of the embossed panels in its side, which popped open. She extracted a patch the size of M’Kenna’s palm and applied it just below Rafe’s throat. A few seconds later, he let out a snort and began to shift on the bunk.
M’Kenna stayed by him. His eyelids started to flutter. When they opened for the first time, she held her hand across them to shield them from the light. Soon his eyes focused and turned to her.
“We’re alive?” he whispered.
“Everyone’s fine,” she said, projecting assurance she did not feel. “The kids are doing all right. So am I. Can you sit up?”
“I think so,” Rafe said. He groaned. M’Kenna pulled his arm to help him up. He settled with his back to the wall.
“I’m fine.” He smiled at her. That smile always melted her. M’Kenna started to relax. When the physician offered Rafe something to eat, she discovered she had an appetite, too. The rations were about the same as they had been given on Partwe, but tasted less as though they had been processed. Food gave them the energy to start talking again. M’Kenna explained what had happened and where they were, with the attorney filling in the blanks.
“When do we get our day in court?” Rafe asked Allisjonil.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I find out,” he said. “I gotta go. The crew of Sword Snacks ought to be waking up right about now . . .”
As he said that, they heard a bellow somewhere close by but out of sight.
“What the hell just happened to me?” shouted Nuro. Allisjonil grinned.
“Yeah, just like I thought. I’ll be back in a couple of days.” The Wichu felt in the thick fur on his chest. “Oh, yeah. Almost forgot. They’re not so tight about the technology here. You get an extra tablet, if you want it.”
He brought out a new viewpad. It still had the clear plastic wrap around it.
“You bet we do,” Rafe said, with an avid look. “No more playing tug-of-war with the kids? Sign me up.”
Allisjonil stripped the tablet and stuffed the wrapper into his fur. He logged onto the unit, then handed it over to them. He went to the door. A male Uctu guard, clad in a different style of uniform than M’Kenna had seen before, let him out. The doctor went with him, pushing her cart.
Rafe opened their message center and waited. The connection there on Dilawe was good, much better than on Partwe. It took only moments for the inbox to fill up, then empty more than halfway as the automatic spam detector to delete group messages, advertising, begging letters or solicitations.
“There’s thousands of messages here,” he said. “Maybe hundreds of thousands! Man, we must have been out for days.”
“Any replies to the letters I sent to the Imperium government?” M’Kenna asked.
Rafe scanned down the endless scroll of return addresses.
“Can’t tell you yet. It’ll take a while to get through all this. This is just the real mail!”
Lerin came over, the other tablet clutched under his arm.
“Mama, I don’t feel good.”
M’Kenna felt his forehead. His temperature was normal. She didn’t like the faint greenish tinge of his eyes.
“Do you have a stomachache?”
“Kind of.”
“The kind where you’re going to be sick?”
“Uh-huh.”
He might have been getting to be a big boy, but she picked him up bodily and carried him to the sanitary center. She was just in time. Lerin knelt over the disposer. All the lunch he had just swallowed came back up again. When it was over, she sat on the floor with him, wiping his mouth with a cool cloth. She gave him the rest of the bulb of water she hadn’t finished.
“Why couldn’t you have done this in front of the doctor?” M’Kenna asked, wryly, as he sipped at it.
“It didn’t feel so bad before.”
She hugged him.
“Siff messaged back,” Rafe called. “She’s on her way. Bringing her own lawyer, so she won’t get caught up in this.”
“Good thing,” M’Kenna said.
“She says can she bring anything with her?”
“How about a hacksaw and a map to the nearest exit?”
“You know the authorities are going to listen to this,” Rafe chided her.
“If they think I’m serious, they’re more stupid than I already think they are,” M’Kenna said. “You going to be all right, sweetheart?” she asked Lerin.
“Yes, mama.”
“The air smells worse here than it did in the other place. Why don’t you lie down for a little while and let your stomach settle?”
“Okay.”
He brought the tablet over to Nona, and lay down on one of the bunks with his arm over his eyes. M’Kenna rejoined her husband. He handed her the new tablet.
She went through the rolls and rolls of mail. Notes of support from family, messages from suppliers, jokes from all those connections she had dating back to primary school who had her on a mailing list waited to be sorted into the appropriate folders. She set aside all of those to read later. She needed help, not jokes.
Below the first hundred or so, she saw a return address that read “Justice Department.” Hastily, she clicked on it.
Dear Ms. Copper,
We have reviewed your request for assistance. The Justice Department receives literally millions of messages every year from citizens. We regret that we cannot intercede in a case brought by a fellow sovereign nation. Until the Uctu Justice System has rendered a verdict, the Imperium cannot offer aid for an appeal. Please keep us apprised of your situation.
Sincerely yours,
Bowner Koroyeb
M’Kenna slammed that message into her received file and went on. Beneath that, she found entry after entry from the officials and authorities to whom she had written. Every one of the replies was a variation on the first one. They couldn’t help. They wouldn’t help. They didn’t have the resources to help. She received hundreds, no, thousands of polite form notices, a few out-of-office memos, and plenty of voice messages that all added up to nothing.
Fortunes of the Imperium - eARC Page 18
