Free Stories 2015

by Baen Books

  But if they were not to blame for the drought, then it had to have another cause, and none could be located. Unrest was rising in the towns and communities, reaching all the way up to the planetary government, who in turn demanded help from the Emperor in finding what had happened to the rest of Conoceil’s water. Why a corporation should have no trouble filling its orders when small growers and individuals seemed to be dying of thirst was a knotty problem that intrigued the mind and stimulated the speculative faculties. Yet another concern piled on top of those already amassed: Acqua Astra was a popular growth stock on the Imperium Stock Exchange. Managers of many a portfolio, including those of my cousins and myself, counted it as a must-buy. These experts needed to know if something untoward was occurring so they could move their clientele out of it before public embarrassment reduced the value of the company to zero. Hence, the presence of myself and my crew.

  I looked about the brilliant blue sky as I stepped out onto the platform protruding from the ninetieth floor of the Acqua Astra office tower. The long, sleek air limousine, Clear Spirit, hovered against the edge, with a flexible ramp bridging the gap between the building and the hatch. Zamerling ushered me hastily forward. The crew of my ship, the Rodrigo, lurked somewhere about, monitoring a signal being broadcast from a capsule that I had swallowed before entering the building. My aide-de-camp, Parsons, had assured me that it was shielded from discovery, at least until peristalsis revealed it in some hours’ time. I boarded the craft. OP-634g trundled serenely after me.

  A very slim and handsome young person in a sea-blue jumpsuit that matched the company logo guided me to one of the deeply padded white seats and held onto the safety harness until I was seated. The captain, a human woman of middle years, and her co-pilot, a Croctoid with yellow-green scales, waved a jaunty greeting from the open cockpit. Zamerling introduced them as Captain Sheerling and First Officer Nidden. The Clear Spirit hummed as it pulled in its ramp and shot off into the sky.

  “May I offer you something to drink, Lord Thomas?” the attendant inquired.

  “Try the water,” Zamerling said, encouragingly, from the seat across the aisle. “The jet is equipped with a full range of our most exotic vintages.”

  I lounged back and enjoyed a flight of fifteen or so excellent waters, with Zamerling exhorting me to try them in combination, chilled with spherical orbs of clear glass or at ambient temperature, according to its mineral content.

  “This one,” I said, holding one of the twenty milliliter glasses aloft, “is the most pure water I have ever tasted. It is brilliantly clean-tasting and fresh-smelling. A marvel of nature!”

  Zamerling creased his face into that irritatingly smug expression. “That is exactly where you are wrong, my lord. This particular beverage has had a patented mix of minerals added. That clean taste that you detect comes from calcium carbonate. Limestone tells the human tongue that the water is pure. A touch of sodium bicarbonate adds a little roughness and alkalinity and potassium and magnesium a sensation of well-being. I could list the other trace elements, but it’s a trade secret. You understand. You’ve never had completely pure water.”

  I was baffled and delighted by the notion. “You mean that nothing doesn’t taste like nothing? What is pure water like, then?”

  “Surprisingly, completely pure dihydrogen monoxide is very acid,” Zamerling said. “It’s harmful to most organisms of Terran origin. It doesn’t appear in nature, only in laboratories.”

  “How curious,” I said. I leaned back to peer out of the window of the air car. I could not see behind or before us, only out to the side. The lateral view, however, was most instructive.

  Upon my arrival from the east side of the compound, I had been met by the rising vista of lush hills covered in greenery, dotted with flowers of astonishingly vivid hues. As we lifted off from the Acqua Astra facility, I could see beyond the low peaks that sheltered the tropical range. Now I discovered that like most of my cousins posing for images for their Infogrid files, the island, too, displayed only its most fetching side. On the other side, Conoceil was anything but lush. Plant life there was in plenty, in clusters alongside vast plantations cupped in the valley served by the deep aquifer, but none of them evinced the brilliant greens of the land around the water bottling plant. In fact, the island was yellowing in a distressing fashion, until it nearly matched the dun color of the desert beyond. The lack of irrigation had become acute.

  “How often do you see your cousin?” Zamerling asked, interrupting my perusal. He wore that expression of hero worship that so naturally accompanied thoughts of the Emperor. I was pleased that for whatever other perfidy I suspected him, Zamerling appeared to be a loyal subject of the Imperium.

  “Every day or two,” I said, airily. “My family’s suites are across a garden from the boxwood maze where he likes to walk in the afternoons. I pass the time of day with him casually once in a while, as well as on official occasions. You will find this amusing,” I added, and launched into a recounting of the latest state dinner, held on behalf of a visiting Wichu dignitary. I used the term “dignitary” under advisement, for the white-furred beings comported themselves in a far more casual manner than our leadership. Which, for once, made for an entertaining evening. State events were a form of torture sanctioned by time and custom, to make visitors and hosts equally uncomfortable, serving food that would not appear on any table except in the most extreme circumstances, and featuring entertainment that could only by a stretch of the imagination be thought entertaining. I have liked every Wichu I’d ever met. They made a refreshing change from the citizens of the Imperium.

  As I assumed, Zamerling listened with rapt attention. A subtle movement of his pudgy fingers toward his pocket secretary told me that he was recording my discourse for future reference. I didn’t mind. My comments upon the feast had already been entered in great detail in my file on the Infogrid, with many a withering reply from my cousins and other palace insiders. The Emperor himself had not replied. He never did, but then, I never wrote anything that would overtly or covertly insult him. His behavior was beyond reproach, which in my opinion would be a tedious way to have to live, therefore I and my cousins vowed never to add to that burden. We, too, were loyal.

  My loyalty took an additional form, one known only to a handful-and-a-half of people. Imperium Security had recruited me during my mandatory service, and had employed me since that time in various missions suited to my profile and temperament. Its mysterious head, Mr. Frank, never sent me into a situation alone, though. Apart from OP-634g, whose initials were a shortening of his title of Operative, my personal scout ship was not far away.

  It took no especial concentration to narrate a tale that I had already committed to a public file. I glanced out of the window to my right in hopes of spotting one or more of my escorts. The Rodrigo was too large to pass unnoticed in a civilian setting, but Lieutenants Plet and Oskelev, paramount among pilots, were tracking me closely in small shuttles. I experienced a sensation of safety comparable to being held in the bosom of one’s mother. In my case, this was more apropos than most: my mother was the First Space Lord, and therefore commander of such things as shuttlecraft.

  I have been praised by my family as a compelling storyteller. When I came to the moment in which the Emperor had to embrace his fellow head of state and came away with a chest full of white fur, Zamerling leaned back in his chair to laugh. Judging the timing, I sipped from the flight of small beakers placed before me. I blanched as the fetid, sulfurous odor from the sample at the farthest right touched my nose, and began to cough.

  “Ah, yes, the Hochin spring water,” Zamerling said. “An acquired taste, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ve had worse,” I admitted, setting it down untouched. If it tasted anything close to the way it smelled, it would sour my stomach for hours. “But,” I added, after a moment’s consideration, “I would like to order a half case for my cousin Xan. I’m sure that he will acquire it, if only because he can’t admit to being the butt
of a joke. I can’t wait to see the look on his face!”

  “Of course, my lord,” Zamerling said, now openly activating his pocket secretary. He showed no offense whatsoever at my indication that his product would be used for low-level prank upon a fellow being. A small order might be the precursor to a larger and more lucrative order, always with the hope that the Emperor might sample the merchandise and like it. “It shall be waiting for you upon our return to the office. In the meanwhile, try the next one. It is a sample of our latest and most popular beverage, Ad Astra.”

  I checked to see if he was attempting to play his own joke upon me, but the sincere expression with which he favored me convinced me otherwise. I tipped the glass against my lips, and was delighted by the flavor.

  “This is excellent!” I said, happily, holding my glass up for a refill. The attendant bustled forward with the pitcher. “Marvelous. This has notes of fruit and spice like a very delicate wine. I can understand why it is so popular. My cousins will find it irresistible. Make a note, OP. Quite good.”

  “As you wish, Lord Thomas,” the LAI replied. The two green lights on his upper assembly that I thought of as eyes flashed slightly.

  I glanced again at the wilting, ochre landscape, and a distant glint of metal caught my eye. Right on schedule, I thought with pleasure. Brava, Oskelev. I appreciated the reassurance that my crew had my back.

  “Incoming!” First Officer Nidden bellowed suddenly. A missile-proof shield shot between the pilots’ compartment and our seating area, and smooth shutters slid from the walls to cover the windows. His voice continued over the speakers. “Take crash positions, please!”

  Bad luck, I thought. They had detected my escort. I had better disavow any connection to the distant shuttle.

  Then the bulkhead of the limousine shook, hard, flinging me back against my crash padding. Straps tightened about my body and yanked me closer to the heavy padding. I gawked at the starboard bulkhead in disbelief. We’d been hit! Why would Oskelev shoot at us?

  “Take evasive maneuvers,” Zamerling ordered, slamming his palm down on the arm of his crash couch. “Are the security jets on their way?”

  “Aye, sir,” Captain Sheerling said. “An escort plus two defense flyers.” The limousine took a hard spiraling turn to the right and dropped another thousand meters or so. “Here they come. Please stay strapped in.”

  “I’m so terribly sorry,” I said, shocked. “I assure you, I have not brought any hostiles to this planet with me.”

  “It’s not you, my lord.” The CEO’s face set into a grim expression. “We have had some difficulties with the local population. They see us as the source of their problems, and they have taken to retaliating against our vehicles.”

  “And what problems could possibly provoke violence of this level?” I asked, horrified, as another solid round struck the side of the limousine. The air car shuddered and dropped several tens of meters.

  “Shortages,” Zamerling said, tersely. “Captain Sheerling, back to the tower, please. Lord Thomas must not be placed in any danger.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Despite the danger, I hated to return to Taino without having completed my assignment. What would my mother say? I put out my lower lip.

  “But, what about my tour?” I asked. “Dear Mr. Zamerling, you won’t let me come all this way without seeing the very object I crave, would you? I need to see the source!”

  I could tell that Zamerling was torn. He put on a momentary exhibition of dithering that would have done credit to an interstellar competition. Then, he leaned over the armrest microphone.

  “Sheerling, take us out over the dunes. We’ll go in through the loading dock.”

  I smiled.

  “This way, my lord,” Zamerling said, courteously making way for me.

  I strode behind the CEO as we passed through chamber after chamber lined with vats all gurgling their precious liquid into myriad clear pipes and tubing that fed conveyor belts of ochre bottles, large, small, and minute. Beings of all sentient species, clad in the same bright-blue hazmat costumes as the ones we wore, minded the equipment, taking notes on viewpads or making adjustments to the controls. Occasionally, one of them would glance toward our small party, then turn back to work. They treated Ad Astra as though it was as much gold as the color of its bottles.

  Every surface was shimmeringly clean. We had each had to pass through biometric identification and a sanitizing fog and waded or, in OP-634g’s case, rolled through a mat infused with disinfectant before entering the purification plant. I was keenly aware of two separate forces overseeing my tour. One was, unsurprisingly, security personnel. The other was a cleaning squad who wiped away our footprints as we passed.

  More blue-suited employees oversaw even larger tanks, checking levels and taking samples from valves. Those were conveyed next door to a vast laboratory, all white enamel and shining metal, where scientists frowned thoughtfully at the contents of beakers.

  “We send out four shipments a day,” Zamerling said, via my in-hood audio feed. “We have received orders from as far away as the Uctu Autocracy. The Lady Visoltia has acquired a taste for the mineral compound in Ad Astra. Acqua Astra is doing its part to encourage trade between our two peoples.”

  “And quite rightly, too,” I said. Visoltia and I had formed a fond friendship on my recent visit to the Uctu homeworld. “And what is that mineral compound? You were most forthcoming on some of your other products.”

  “I… well, I really must not say,” Zamerling replied, with a coy expression behind his face mask. “Trade secrets, you know. Now, come this way. You will find this most interesting!”

  And to an extent, I did. We followed the line of moving belts to the shipping area, in which the precious bottles were packed in crates of nine, padded and sealed with the gold double-A logo. The white-walled fulfillment center lay adjacent to the loading dock. It buzzed with the latest in computer design.

  “I cannot connect to any of your LAI systems,” OP-634g said, with just the right self-deprecating tone. Instead of a hazmat suit, the sanitation forces had placed a clear hood over him that descended all the way to the ground, like a large plastic bag. “May I have the access codes, please, Mr. Zamerling?”

  “That won’t be allowed,” Zamerling said, firmly. I noted that he was not as courteous to LAIs as to organic visitors. That put a demerit on his record in my book. “Our systems are closed to protect proprietary information from our rivals.”

  “But what about the source?” I asked. “This is all what one would call the back end of the operation. I want to see the raw material. The diamond in the rough.”

  “Oh, yes! Come this way!” The CEO set off along a broad yellow stripe on the floor. He passed by a large red door. To one side was an identification pad and a broad lens for scanning biometrics. Beyond it, I could hear heavy thrumming sounds. I caught his arm and turned him toward it.

  “What is in there?” I asked. Zamerling dithered, tapping his gloved fingertips together.

  “Oh, that? It’s just the pumping station. A storage sub-basement. Kilometers down. Dirty. Greasy. Not interesting. But, come with me. Let us have a drink and talk about your order, my lord!”

  He set out again. How curious that a secured door was necessary to protect water.

  I turned to the pad. An AI designation was noted on the bottom of the oval plate.

  “Hello, DG-403. May I enter?”

  “I’m very sorry… Lord Thomas Kinago… you are not authorized.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and turned away.

  “Good day, sir or madam.” Hmm, not a top of the line AI, then.

  I nodded to OP-634g, who halted for just a moment, then rolled along beside me in Zamerling’s wake.

  No one else would have noticed the thin silver stream of nanites he had dispensed seep through the crack between the red door and its frame.

  “Well, this has all been most interesting,” I said, waving away Zamerling’s attempt to pour me
another libation of Ad Astra. We sat at a polished stone table in a marble, hexagonal atrium with a fountain shooting no doubt thousands of credits of precious water into the air. “No, no, thank you. I have already had to pay one visit to your most elegant facilities.”

  Zamerling fixed upon me his oiliest smile yet.

  “I am so very pleased that you enjoy our product,” he said.

  OP-634g suddenly came to attention and rolled toward me. I shot a casual glance upward. His upper section bent at a ninety-degree angle so his speaker was adjacent to my ear. Zamerling looked at me with deep curiosity, but I merely offered him a noncommittal smile as I rose.

  “I must go,” I said. “Thank you so very much for your hospitality. If your shuttle will convey me safely back to the town, I would be deeply appreciative.”

  “Of course, my lord. When may I call upon you to inquire about finalizing your order?” he asked.

  “At my hotel,” I said. “I am staying at Bleke House, of course. You will find me in after ten in the morning.”

  Zamerling remained behind, giving me and my attendant transport in a private vehicle that would not excite the ire of the neighbors, but neither of us spoke until we reached the safety of my penthouse hotel suite, at which point we received company.

  Seated most unobtrusively in the darkest corner of the bright sitting room was a figure who appeared to be made of shadow itself. After the brilliance of the day, it was a relief to see.

  “Parsons!” I exclaimed happily, as that dignitary rose to his feet. My aide-de-camp, a commander in the Space Navy as well as a fellow confidant of Mr. Frank, and my mentor, stood a few centimeters taller than my lofty height, with dark eyes and black hair that seemed self-effacing in spite of its gloss.