The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction Megapack(r)

by Robert Silverberg

  It was the master control for the neuronic network installed in Mardlin’s body. It was quite carefully gradated; shifting the main switch to six would leave the Vonnimooro in no condition to fire a gun. Thoughtfully Herndon nudged the indicator up through the degrees of pain to six and left it there.

  He heard a thud within.

  Putting his shoulder to the door, he cracked it open with one quick heave. He stepped inside. Mardlin lay sprawled in the middle of the floor writhing in pain. Near him, but beyond his reach, lay the needier he had dropped.

  A suitcase sat open and half-filled on the bed. He had evidently intended an immediate getaway.

  “Shut … that … thing … off …” Mardlin muttered through pain-twisted lips.

  “First some information,” Herndon said cheerfully. “I just had a talk with Brennt. He says you’ve been doing some highly improper things with our starstones. Is this true?”

  Mardlin quivered on the floor but said nothing. Herndon raised the control a quarter of a notch, intensifying the pain but not yet bringing it to the killing range.

  “Is this true?” he repeated.

  “Yes—yes! Damn you, shut it off.”

  “At the time you had the network installed in your body, it was with the understanding that you’d be loyal to the combine and so it would never need to be used. But you took advantage of circumstances and cheated us. Where’s the current consignment of stones?”

  “… suitcase lining,” Mardlin muttered.

  “Good,” Herndon said. He scooped up the needier, pocketed it, and shut off the master control switch. The pain subsided in the Vonnimooro’s body, and he lay slumped, exhausted, too battered to rise.

  Efficiently Herndon ripped away the suitcase lining and found the packet of starstones. He opened it. They were wrapped in shielding tissue that protected any accidental viewer. He counted through them; there were thirty-nine, as Brennt had said.

  “Are any of these defective?” he asked.

  Mardlin looked up from the floor with eyes yellow with pain and hatred. “Look through them and see.”

  Instead of answering, Herndon shifted the control switch past six again. Mardlin doubled up, clutching his head with clawlike hands. “Yes! Yes! Six defectives!”

  “Which means you sold six good ones for forty-eight thousand stellors, less the three thousand you kicked back to Brennt to keep quiet. So there should be forty-five thousand stellors here that you owe us. Where are they?”

  “Dresser drawer … top …”

  Herndon found the money neatly stacked. A second time he shut off the control device, and Mardlin relaxed.

  “Okay,” Herndon said. “I have the cash and the stones. But there must be thousands of stellors that you’ve previously stolen from us.”

  “You can have that, too! Only don’t turn that thing on again, please!”

  Shrugging, Herndon said, “There isn’t time for me to hunt down the other money you stole from us. But we can ensure against your doing it again.”

  He fulfilled the final part of Benjin’s instructions by turning the control switch to ten, the limit of sentient endurance. Every molecule of Mardlin’s wiry body felt unbearable pain; he screamed and danced on the floor, but only for a moment. Nerve cells unable to handle the overload of pain stimuli short-circuited. In seconds his brain was paralyzed. In less than a minute he was dead, though his tortured limbs still quivered with convulsive postmortuary jerks.

  Herndon shut the device off. He had done his job. He felt neither revulsion nor glee.

  He gathered up jewels and money and walked out.

  Chapter Five

  A month later he arrived on Borlaam via the freighter Dawnlight as scheduled and passed through customs without difficulty despite the fact that he was concealing more than three hundred thousand stellors’ worth of proscribed starstones on his person.

  His first stop was the Avenue of Bronze where he sought out Benjin and the Heitman Oversk.

  He explained crisply and briefly his activities since leaving Borlaam, neglecting to mention the matter of the shipboard romance with the Lady Moaris. While he spoke, both Benjin and Oversk stared eagerly at him, and when he told of intimidating Brennt and killing the treacherous Mardlin, they beamed.

  Herndon drew the packet of starstones from his cloak and laid them on the wooden table. “There,” he said. “The starstones. There were some defectives, as you know, and I’ve brought back cash for them.” He added forty-five thousand stellors to the pile.

  Benjin quickly caught up the money and the stones and said, “You’ve done well, Herndon. Better than we expected. It was a lucky day when you killed that proteus.”

  “Will you have more work for me?”

  Oversk said, “Of course. You’ll take Mardlin’s place as the courier. Didn’t you realize that?”

  Herndon had realized it, but it did not please him. He wanted to remain on Borlaam, now that he had made himself known to the Lady Moaris. He wanted to begin his climb toward Krellig. And if he were to shuttle between Vyapore and Borlaam, the all-important advantage he had attained would be lost.

  But the Lady Moaris would not be back on Borlaam for nearly two months. He could make one more round trip for the combine without seriously endangering his position. After that he would have to find some means of leaving their service. Of course, if they preferred to keep him on, they could compel him, but—

  “When do I make the next trip?” he asked.

  Benjin shrugged lazily. “Tomorrow, next week, next month—who knows? We have plenty of stones on hand. There is no hurry for the next trip. You can take a vacation now while we sell these.”

  “No,” Herndon said. “I want to leave immediately.” Oversk frowned at him. “Is there some reason for the urgency?”

  “I don’t want to stay on Borlaam just now,” Herndon said. “There’s no need for me to explain further. It pleases me to make another trip to Vyapore.”

  “He’s eager,” Benjin said. “It’s a good sign.”

  “Mardlin was eager at first, too,” Oversk remarked balefully.

  Herndon was out of his seat and at the nobleman’s throat in an instant. His needier grazed the skin of Oversk’s Adam’s apple.

  “If you intended by that comparison to imply—”

  Benjin tugged at Herndon’s arm. “Sit down, Rogue, and relax. The Heitman is tired tonight, and the words slipped out. We trust you. Put the needler away.”

  Reluctantly Herndon lowered the weapon. Oversk, white-faced despite his tan, fingered his throat where Herndon’s weapon had touched it but said nothing. Herndon regretted his hasty action and decided not to demand an apology. Oversk still could be useful to him.

  “A spacerogue’s word is his bond,” Herndon said. “I don’t intend to cheat you. When can I leave?”

  “Tomorrow, if you wish,” Benjin said. “We’ll cable Brennt to have another shipment ready for you.”

  This time he traveled to Vyapore aboard a transport freighter since there were no free tours with noblemen to be had at this season. He reached the jungle world a little less than a month later. Brennt had thirty-two jewels waiting for him. Thirty-two glittering little starstones, each in its protective sheath, each longing to rob some man’s mind away with its beckoning dreams.

  Herndon gathered them up and arranged a transfer of funds to the amount of two hundred fifty-six thousand stellors. Brennt eyed him bitterly throughout the whole transaction, but it was obvious that the Vyaporan was in fear for his life, and would not dare attempt duplicity. No word was said of Mardlin or his fate.

  Bearing his precious burden, Herndon returned to Borlaam aboard a second-class liner out of Diirhav, a neighboring world of some considerable population. It was expensive, but he could not wait for the next freight ship. By
the time he returned to Borlaam, the Lady Moaris would have been back several weeks. He had promised the Steward he would rejoin Moaris’ service, and it was a promise he intended to keep.

  It had become winter when he reached Borlaam again with his jewels. The daily sleet rains sliced across the cities and the plains, showering them with billions of icy knifelike particles. People huddled together, waiting for the wintry cold to end.

  Herndon made his way through streets clogged with snow that glistened blue-white in the light of the glinting winter moon and delivered his gems to Oversk in the Avenue of Bronze. Benjin, he learned, would be back shortly; he was engaged in an important transaction.

  Herndon warmed himself by the heat wall and accepted cup after cup of Oversk’s costly Thrucian blue wine to ease his inner chill. The commoner Dorgel entered after a while, followed by Marya and Razumod, and together they examined the new shipment of starstones Herndon had brought back, storing them with the rest of their stock.

  At length Benjin entered. The little man was almost numb with cold, but his voice was warm as he said, “The deal is settled, Oversk! Oh—Herndon—you’re back, I see. Was it a good trip?”

  “Excellent,” Herndon said.

  Oversk remarked, “You saw the Secretary of State, I suppose. Not Krellig himself.”

  “Naturally. Would Krellig let someone like me into his presence?”

  Herndon’s ears rose at the mention of his enemy’s name. He said, “What’s this about the Seigneur?”

  “A little deal,” Benjin chortled. “I’ve been doing some very delicate negotiating while you were away. And I signed the contract today.”

  “What contract?” Herndon demanded.

  “We have a royal patron now, it seems. The Seigneur Krellig has gone into the starstone business himself. Not in competition with us, though. He’s bought a controlling interest in us.”

  Herndon felt as if his vital organs had been transmuted to lead. In a congealed voice he said, “And what are the terms of this agreement?”

  “Simple. Krellig realized the starstone trade, though illegal, was unstoppable. Rather than alter the legislation and legalize the trade, which would be morally undesirable and which would also tend to lower the price of the gems, he asked the Lord Moaris to place him in contact with some group of smugglers who would work for the Crown. Moaris, naturally, suggested his brother. Oversk preferred to let me handle the negotiations, and for the past month I’ve been meeting secretly with Krellig’s Secretary of State to work out a deal.”

  “The terms of which are?”

  “Krellig guarantees us immunity from prosecution and at the same time promises to crack down heavily on our competition. He pledges us a starstone monopoly, in other words, and so we’ll be able to lower our price to Brennt and jack up the selling price to whatever the traffic will bear. In return for this we turn over eight percent of our gross profits to the Seigneur and agree to supply him with six starstones annually, at cost, for the Seigneur to use as gifts to his enemies. Naturally we also transfer our fealties from the combine to the Seigneur himself. He holds our controls to assure loyal service.”

  Herndon sat as if stunned. His hands felt chilled; coldness rippled through his body. Loyalty to Krellig? His enemy, the person he had sworn to destroy?

  The conflict seared through his mind and body. How could he fulfill his earlier vow, now that this diametrically opposed one was in effect? Transfer of fealty was a common thing. By the terms of Benjin’s agreement, Herndon now was a sworn vassal of the Seigneur.

  If he killed Krellig, that would violate his bond. If he served the Seigneur in all faith, he would break trust with himself and leave home and parents unavenged. It was an impossible dilemma. He quivered with the strain of resolving it.

  “The Spacerogue doesn’t look happy about the deal,” oversk commented. “Or are you sick, Herndon?”

  “I’m all right,” Herndon said stonily. “It’s the cold outside, that’s all. Chills a man.”

  Fealty to Krellig! Behind his back they had sold themselves and him to the man he hated most. Herndon’s ethical code was based entirely on the concept of loyalty and unswerving obedience, of the sacred nature of an oath. But now he found himself bound to two mutually exclusive oaths. He was caught between them, racked and drawn apart; the only escape from the torment was death.

  He stood up. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have an appointment elsewhere in the city. You can reach me at my usual address if you need me for anything.”

  It took him the better part of a day to get to see the Chief Steward of Moaris Keep and explain to him that he had been unavoidably detained in the far worlds, that he fully intended to re-enter the Moaris service and perform his duties loyally and faithfully. After quite some wrangling he was reinstated as one of the Second Stewards and given functions to carry out in the daily life of the sprawling residence that was Moaris Keep.

  Several days passed before he caught as much as a glimpse of the Lady Moaris. That did not surprise him; the Keep covered fifteen acres of Borlaam City, and Lord and Lady occupied private quarters on the uppermost level, the rest of the huge place being devoted to libraries, ballrooms, art galleries, and other housings for the Moaris treasures, all of these rooms requiring a daily cleaning by the household staff.

  He saw her finally as he was passing through the fifth-level hallway in search of the ramp that would take him to his next task, cataloguing the paintings of the sixth-level gallery: He heard a rustle of crinoline first, and then she proceeded down the hall, flanked on each side by copper-colored Toppidan giants and in front and back by glistening-gowned ladies in waiting.

  The Lady Moaris herself wore sheer garments that limned the shapely lines of her body. Her face was sad; it seemed to Herndon, as he saw her from afar, that she was under some considerable strain.

  He stepped to one side to let the procession go past; but she saw him and glanced quickly to the side at which he stood. Her eyes widened in surprise as she recognized him. He did not dare a smile. He waited until she had moved on, but inwardly he gloated. It was not difficult to read the expression in her eyes.

  Later that day a blind Agozlid servant came up to him and silently handed him a sealed note. Herndon pocketed it, waiting until he was alone in a corridor that was safe from the Lord Moaris’ spy rays. He knew it was safe; the spy ray in that corridor had been defective, and he himself had removed it that morning, meaning to replace it later in the day.

  He broke the seal. The note said simply: I have waited a month for you. Come to me tonight; M. is to spend the night at the Seigneur’s palace. Karla will admit you.

  The photonically sensitized ink faded from sight in a moment; the paper was blank. Smiling, he thrust it in a disposal hatch.

  He quietly made his way toward the eleventh-level chamber of the Lady Moaris when the Keep had darkened for the night. Her lady in waiting Karla, the bronze-haired one who had served as go-between aboard the Lord Nathiir, was on duty. Now she wore night robes of translucent silk; a test of his fidelity, no doubt. Herndon carefully kept his eyes from her body and said, “I am expected.”

  “Yes. Come with me.”

  It seemed to him that the look in her eyes was a strange one: desire, jealousy, hatred, perhaps? But she turned and led him within, down corridors lit only with a faint night glow. She nudged an opener; a door before him flickered and was momentarily nullified. He stepped through, and it returned to the solid state behind him.

  The Lady Moaris was waiting.

  She wore only the filmiest of gowns, and the longing was evident in her eyes. Herndon said, “Is this safe?”

  “It is. Moaris is away at Krellig’s.” Her lip curled in a bitter scowl. “He spends half his nights there toying with the Seigneur’s cast-off women. The room is sealed against spy rays. There’s no way he can find o
ut you’ve been here.”

  “And the girl—Karla? You trust her?”

  “As much as I can trust anyone.” Her arms sought his shoulders. “My rogue,” she murmured, “why did you leave us at Molleccogg?”

  “Business of my own, milady.”

  “I missed you. Molleccogg was a bore without you.”

  Herndon smiled gravely. “Believe me, I didn’t choose to. But I had sworn to carry out duty elsewhere.”

  She pulled him urgently to her. Herndon felt pity for this lovely noblewoman, first in rank among the ladies of the court, condemned to seek lovers among the stewards and grooms.

  “Anything I have is yours,” she promised him. “Ask for anything! Anything!”

  “There is one prize you might secure for me,” Herndon said grimly.

  “Name it. The cost doesn’t matter.”

  “There is no cost,” Herndon said. “I simply seek an invitation to the court of the Seigneur. You can secure this through your husband. Will you do it for me?”

  “Of course,” she whispered. She clung to him hungrily. “I’ll speak to Moaris—tomorrow.”

  Chapter Six

  At the end of the week Herndon visited the Avenue of Bronze and learned from Bollar Benjin that sales of the starstones proceeded well, that the arrangement under royal patronage was a happy one, and that they would soon be relieved of most of their stock. It would, therefore, be necessary for him to make another trip to Vyapore during the next several weeks. He agreed, but requested an advance of two months’ salary.

  “I don’t see why not,” Benjin agreed. “You’re a valuable man, and we have the money to spare.”

  He handed over a draft for ten thousand stellors. Herndon thanked him gravely, promised to contact him when it was time for him to make the journey to Vyapore, and left.