How the girls would love to ride in it.
“Give me something to sit on,” he told the smartcore. “Turn the lights up and activate flight control functions.”
An acceleration couch bloomed up from the floor as the ribs brightened, revealing a complex pattern of black lines etched on the cabin walls. The Delivery Man sat down. Exoimages flipped up, showing him the ship’s status. His u-shadow cleared him for flight with the spaceport governor, and he designated a flight path to Ellezelin, two hundred fifteen light-years away. The umbilical cables withdrew into their tower.
“Let’s go,” he told the smartcore.
Compensator generators maintained level gravity inside the cabin as the Artful Dodger rose on regrav. At fifty kilometers altitude, the limit of regrav, the smartcore switched to ingrav, and the starship continued to accelerate away from the planet. The Delivery Man began to experiment with the internal layout, expanding walls and furniture out of the cabin bulkheads. The dark lines flowed and bloomed into a great variety of combinations, allowing up to six passengers to have tiny independent sleeping quarters that included a bathroom formation, but for all its malleability, the cabin was basically variations on a lounge. If you were traveling with anyone, he decided, let alone five others, you’d need to be very good friends.
A thousand kilometers above the spaceport, the Artful Dodger went FTL, vanishing inside a quantum field interstice with a photonic implosion that pulled in all the stray electromagnetic radiation within a kilometer of its fuselage. There were no differences perceptible to ordinary human senses: he might have been in an underground chamber, the gravity remaining perfectly stable. Sensors provided him with a simplified image of their course as it related to large masses back in spacetime, plotting stars and planets by the way their quantum signatures affected the intersecting fields through which they were flying. Their initial speed was a smooth fifteen light-years per hour, near the limit for hyperdrive, which the sophisticated Lytham planetary spacewatch network could track out to a couple of light-years.
The Delivery Man waited until they were three light-years beyond the network and told the smartcore to accelerate again. The Artful Dodger’s ultradrive pushed them up to a phenomenal fifty-five light-years per hour. It was enough to make the Delivery Man flinch. He had been on an ultradrive ship only twice before; there were not many of them, as ANA had not released the technology to the Central worlds. Exactly how the Conservative Faction had gotten hold of it was something he studiously avoided asking.
Two hours later he reduced speed back to fifteen light-years an hour and allowed the Ellezelin traffic network to pick up their hyperspatial approach. He used a TransDimensional (TD) channel to the planetary datasphere and requested landing permission for Riasi spaceport.
Ellezelin’s original capital was situated on the northern coast of Sinkang, with the Camoa River running through it. He looked down on the city as the Artful Dodger sank down toward the main spaceport. It had been laid out in a spiderweb grid with the planetary parliament at the heart. The building was still there, a grandiose structure of towers and buttresses made from an attractive mixture of ancient and modern materials. But the planet’s government now was centered in Makkathran2. The senior bureaucrats and their departments had moved with it, leading a migration of commerce and industry. Only the transport sector remained strong in Riasi. The wormholes that linked the planets of the Ellezelin Free Trade Zone together were all here, incorporated into the spaceport, making it the most important commercial hub in the sector.
The Artful Dodger landed on a pad little different from the one it had departed from barely three hours before. The Delivery Man paid a parking fee for a month in advance with an untraceable credit coin and declined an umbilical connection. His job here was finished. His u-shadow called a taxi capsule to the pad. While he was waiting for it, the Conservative Faction called him.
“Marius has been seen on Ellezelin.”
It was the second time that day the Delivery Man flinched. “I suppose that was inevitable. Do you know why he’s here?”
“To support the Cleric Conservator. But as to the exact nature of that support, we remain uncertain.”
“I see. Is he here in the spaceport?” he asked reluctantly. He wasn’t a frontline agent, but his biononics had very advanced field functions in case he stumbled into an aggressive situation. They ought to be a match for anything Marius could produce—although any aggression would be most unusual. Faction agents simply did not settle their scores physically. It wasn’t done.
“We don’t believe so. He visited the Cleric Conservator within an hour of the election. After that he dropped out of sight. We are telling you simply so that you can be careful. It would not do for the Accelerators to know our business any more than they want us to know theirs. Leave as quickly as possible.”
“Understood.”
The taxi capsule took him over to the spaceport’s massive passenger terminal. He checked in for the next United Commonwealth Starlines flight back to Akimiski, the closest Central world. All the time he waited in the departure lounge overlooking the huge central concourse, he kept his scan functions running, checking to see whether Marius was in the terminal. When the passengers boarded forty minutes later, there had been no sign of him or any other Higher agent.
The Delivery Man settled into his first-class compartment on the passenger ship with a considerable sense of relief. It was a hyperdrive ship that would take fifteen hours to get to Akimiski. From there he would make a quick trip to Oronsay to maintain his cover. With any luck he’d be back on Earth in less than two days. It would be the weekend, and they’d be able to take the girls to the southern sanctuary park in New Zealand. They would enjoy that.
The Rakas bar occupied the whole third floor of a round tower in Makkathran2’s Abad district, just as the same building in Makkathran itself had a bar on the third floor. From what he had seen in Inigo’s dreams, Aaron suspected the furniture here was better, along with the lighting, not to mention the lack of the general dirt that seemed so pervasive in the original city. Rakas was patronized by a lot of visiting faithful who perhaps were a little disappointed by how little space the nucleus of their movement took up in comparison to the prodigious metropolises of the Greater Commonwealth.
There was also a much better selection of drinks than the archetype boasted. Aaron presumed that was the reason ex-Councillor the Honorable Corrie-Lyn kept returning there. This was the third night he had sat at a small corner table and watched her knocking back an impressive amount of alcohol at the counter. She wasn’t a large woman, though at first glance her slender figure made her seem taller than she was. Ivory skin was stippled by a mass of freckles whose highest density was in a broad swath across her eyes. Her hair was the darkest red he had ever seen: depending on how the light caught her, it varied from shiny ebony to gold-flecked dark auburn. It was cut short, which, given how thick it was, made it curl heavily; the way it framed her dainty features made her appear like a particularly diabolic teenager. In reality she was a three-hundred-seventy-year-old. He knew she wasn’t Higher, so she must have a superb Advancer metabolism, which presumably was how she could drink any bad boy under the table.
For the fourth time that evening, one of the faithful but not terribly devout went over to try his luck. After all, the good citizens of Makkathran had very healthy and active sex lives; Inigo showed that. The group of guys he was with, sitting at the big window seat, watched with sly grins and minimal sniggering as their friend claimed the empty stool beside her. Corrie-Lyn was not wearing her Cleric robes; otherwise he never would have dared to go within ten meters. A simple dark purple dress slit under each arm to reveal alluring amounts of skin wound up the lad’s courage. She listened without comment to his opening lines, nodded reasonably when he offered to buy a drink, and beckoned the barkeeper over.
Aaron wished he could go over and draw the lad away. It was painful to watch; he had seen this exact scene play out many time
s over the last few nights. The barkeeper came over with two heavy shot glasses and a frosted bottle of golden Adlier 88Vodka; brewed on Vitchan, it bore no real relation to original Earth vodka except for the kick. Adlier produced a liqueur that was eighty percent alcohol and eight percent tricetholyn, a powerful narcotic. The barkeeper filled both glasses and left the bottle.
Corrie-Lyn lifted hers in salute and downed it in one shot. The hopeful lad followed suit. As he winced a smile against the burn of the icy liquid, Corrie-Lyn filled both glasses again. She lifted hers. Somewhat apprehensively, the lad did the same. She tossed it down straightaway.
There was laughter coming from the group at the window now. Their friend slugged back the drink. There were tears in his eyes; an involuntary shudder ran along his chest as if he were suppressing a cough. Corrie-Lyn poured them both a third shot with mechanical precision and downed hers in a single gulp. The lad gave a disgusted wave with one hand and backed away to jeering from his erstwhile pals. Aaron wasn’t impressed; the previous night one of the would-be suitors had kept up for five shots before retreating, hurt and confused.
Corrie-Lyn slid the bottle back along the countertop, where the barkeeper caught it with an easy twist of his wrist and deposited it back on the shelf. She turned back to the tall beer she’d been drinking before the interruption, resting her elbows on either side of the glass, and resumed staring at nothing.
Watching her, Aaron acknowledged that cultivating Corrie-Lyn was never going to be a subtle play of seduction. There was going to be only one chance, and if he blew that, he would have to waste days finding another angle. He got to his feet and walked over. As he approached, he could sense her gaiafield emission, which was reduced to a minimum. It was like a breath of polar air, cold enough to make him shiver; her silhouette within the ethereal field was black, a rift into interstellar space. Most people would have hesitated at that alone, never mind the Adlier 88 humiliation. He sat on the stool the lad had vacated. She turned to give him a dismissive look, eyes running over his cheap suit with insulting apathy.
Aaron called the barkeeper over and asked for a beer. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t go through the ritual degradation,” he said. “I’m not actually here to get inside your panties.”
“Thong.” She took a long drink of her beer, not looking at him.
“I … what?” That was not quite the answer he was prepared for.
“Inside my thong.”
“I suddenly feel an urge to get ordained into your religion.”
She grinned to herself and swirled the remains of her beer around.
“You’ve had enough time; you’ve been hanging around here for a few days now.”
His beer arrived, and Corrie-Lyn silently swapped it for her own.
Aaron raised his finger to the barkeeper. “Another. Make that two.”
“And it’s not a religion,” she said.
“Of course not; how silly of me. Priest robes. Worshipping a lost prophet. The promise of salvation. Giving money to the city temple. Going on Pilgrimage. I apologize; easy mistake to make.”
“Keep talking like that, offworlder, and you’ll wind up headfirst in a canal before dawn.”
“Headfirst or headless?”
Corrie-Lyn finally turned and gave him her full attention, her smile matching her impish allure. “What in Ozzie’s great universe do you want?”
“To make you very rich indeed.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“So I can make myself even richer.”
“I’m not very good at bank heists.”
“Yeah, guess it doesn’t come up much at priest school.”
“Priests ask you to have faith. We can take you straight to heaven; we even give you a sneak preview so you know what you’re getting.”
“And that’s where we come in.”
“We?”
“FarFlight Charters. I believe your not religion is currently in need of starships, Councillor Emeritus.”
Corrie-Lyn laughed. “Oh, you are dangerous, aren’t you?”
“No danger, just an aching to be rich.”
“But I’m on my way to our heaven in the Void. What do I need with Commonwealth money?”
“Even the Waterwalker used money. But I’m not going to argue that case with you, or any other for that matter. I’m just here to make the proposition. You have contacts I need, and it is my belief you’re none too happy with your old friends on the Cleric Council right now. Might be willing to bend a few ethics here and there—especially here. Am I speaking the right of things, Councillor Emeritus?”
“Why use the formal mode of address? Be bold, go the whole way; call me shitlisted. Everyone else does.”
“The unisphere news clowns have many labels for all of us. That doesn’t mean you haven’t got the names I need up here.” He tapped the side of his head. “And I suspect there’s enough residual respect for you in Orchard Palace to open a few doors for me. Isn’t that the way of it?”
“Could be. So what’s your name?”
“Aaron.”
Corrie-Lyn smiled into her beer. “Top of the list, huh?”
“Number one, Councillor Emeritus. So how about I buy you dinner, and you either have fun stringing me along or give me your private bank account code so I can fill it up. Take your time to decide.”
“I will.”
FarFlight Charters was a legitimately registered company on Falnox; anyone searching its datacore would have found it brokered for several spacelines and cargo couriers on seven External planets, not a huge operation but profitable enough to employ thirty persons. Luckily for Aaron it was a simple front that had been put in place should he need it, he did not know by whom. But if it had been real, his expenses would have had serious implications for this year’s profitability. This was the third night he’d wined and dined Corrie-Lyn, with much emphasis on the wine. The meals had all been five-star gourmet as well. She liked Bertrand’s, in Greater Makkathran, a restaurant that made the Hotel Buckingham look like a flophouse for yokels. He didn’t know if she was testing his resolve; given the state she was in most nights, she probably didn’t know herself.
She did dress well, though. Tonight she wore a simple little black cocktail dress whose short skirt produced a seductive hem of mist that swirled provocatively every time she crossed or uncrossed her legs. Their table was in a perfectly transparent overhanging alcove on the seventy-second floor, providing an unenhanced view out across the huge nighttime city. Directly below Aaron’s feet, capsules slid along their designated traffic routes in a thick glare of navigation strobes. Once he’d recovered from the creepy feeling of vertigo, the view was quite invigorating. The seven-course meal they were eating was a sensory delight, each dish accompanied by a wine the chef had selected to complement it. The waiter had given up offering a single glass to Corrie-Lyn; now he just left the bottle each time.
“He was a remarkable man,” Corrie-Lyn said when she finished her gilcherry leaf chocolate torte. She was talking about her favorite topic again. It was not difficult to get her started on Inigo.
“Anyone who can create a movement like Living Dream in just a couple of centuries is bound to be out of the ordinary.”
“No, no.” Corrie-Lyn waved her glass dismissively. “That’s not the point. If you or I had been given those dreams, there would still be Living Dream. They inspire people. Everyone can see for themselves what a beautiful simple life can be lived in the Void, one you can perfect no matter how screwed up or stupid you are, no matter how long it takes. You can only do that inside the Void, so if you promise to make that ability available to everyone, you can’t not gather a whole load of followers, now, can you? It’s inevitable. What I’m talking about is the man himself. Mister Incorruptible. That’s rare. Give most people that much power and they’ll abuse it. I would. Ethan certainly fucking does.” She poured the last of a two-and-a-half-century-old Mithan port into an equally ancient crystal glass.
Aaron
smiled tightly. The alcove to the main restaurant floor was open, and Corrie-Lyn had downed her usual amount.
“That’s why Inigo set up the movement hierarchy like an order of monks. Not that you couldn’t have lots of sex.” She sniggered. “You just weren’t supposed to take advantage of the desperate faithful; you just screw around among your own level.”
“So far, so pretty standard.”
“ ’Course, I wasn’t very pure. We had quite a thing going, me and Inigo. Did you know that?”
“I do believe you mentioned it once or twice.”
“ ’Course you did; that’s why you hit on me.”
“This isn’t hitting on you, Corrie-Lyn.”
“Slim and fit.” She licked her lips. “That’s what I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Very much so.” Actually, he didn’t want to admit how physically attractive she was. It helped that any sexual impulse he might have felt was effectively neutralized by her drinking. After the first hour of any evening, she was not a pleasant person to be around.
Corrie-Lyn smiled down at her dress. “Yeah, that’s me, all right. So … we had this thing, this fling. I mean, sure, he saw other women. For Ozzie’s sake, the poor shit had a billion females willing and eager to rip their clothes off for him and have his babies. And I enjoyed it, too. I mean, hell, Aaron, some of them made me look like I’d been hit hard by the ugly stick.”
“I thought you said he was incorruptible.”
“He was. He didn’t take advantage is what I’m saying. But he’s human. So am I. There were distractions, that’s all. The cause. The vision. He stayed true to that; he gave us the dreams of the Void. He believed, Aaron; he believed utterly in what he was shown. The Void really is a better place for all of us. He made me believe, too. I’d always been a loyal follower. I had faith. Then I actually met him. I saw his belief, his devotion, and through that I became a true apostle.” She finished the port and slumped back in her chair. “I’m a zealot, Aaron, a true zealot. That’s why Ethan kicked me off the Council; he doesn’t like the old guard, those of us who remain true. So you, mister, you just keep your snide patronizing to yourself, you bastard. I don’t fucking care what you think; I hate your smart-ass weasel words. You don’t believe, and that makes you evil. I bet you haven’t even experienced one of the dreams. That’s your mistake, because they’re real. For humans, the Void is heaven.”
The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle Page 7