Lia laughed.
Demondion-Echeverria had gratefully abandoned his gray monk’s habit for what he had on underneath: a stylish shirt of white satin, ruffled at the neck and wrists, a patterned velvet waistcoat with many gold buttons, a tailored surcoat of the same material with enormous pockets and long skirts, matching knee-length trousers that fit tightly across the buttocks, and tall leather boots turned over at the top into a sort of cuff no less than twenty siemmes deep.
With his dark complexion, that gigantic hook of a nose, and his amiably villainous bearing, Lia thought, the former Jendyne ambassador may have been the one man upon Hanover whom the latest fashion truly suited. At least, she observed, he had rejected the false disfigurement which often went with it, as well as the sartorial burns and tatters that served as “decoration.” The day Frantisek Demondion-Echeverria wore scorched rags in public might well be the day that all of the imperia-conglomerate collapsed, simultaneously. He did affect a brightly colored kerchief over his head, tied somehow at the corners. Although intended to be rakish, she thought it made him look just like one of the Residence’s cleaning ladies, right down to the small moustache he always wore.
His companion, on the other hand, who had not departed the grounds of the Immortal School more than three times over the past fifteen years, had selected clothing half a generation out-of-date, although it was of the highest quality and as elegantly carried as anything Demondion-Echeverria essayed. Lia often had to stop and remind herself that this elderly, increasingly grandfatherly fellow she fenced with verbally today had once been a famous (and infamous) duelist in the literal sense, an interstellar adventurer, and an acclaimed diplomat.
Moreover, the man’s legendary feats of daring and personal generosity as a gambler, his discriminatory powers as a gourmet (and respected chef in his own right), the stories—told behind the winsome masques and fluttering fans of Hanoverian ladies of the previous generation—of his accomplishments (if that were the proper word for them) of heroic gallantry in the boudoir, all contributed to a reputation of mythological proportions. The man was no mere empty celebrity of the passing moment. And were it not for his powerful and subtle intelligence—not to mention his long experience at the very highest level of galactic politics—she would not have asked him here in the first place.
Her father, the former Ceo Leupould IX, had elected to retain his monkish garb, and had accepted the blue mallet and ball with an expression of shared mischief and amusement she seemed always to remember him by, no matter how grave the circumstances. What he would contribute to this consultation—especially given his solemnly observed vow of silence—remained to be seen. Clearly Sedgeley and Demondion-Echeverria placed the highest value merely upon his presence, and Lia herself had always found it heartening, as well. In any case, Leupould could easily denounce or endorse any idea or proposal with the slightest elevation or lowering of his articulate, bushy eyebrows. And his indomitably positive demeanor was infectious. She was glad he had decided to come.
For her own part, although Sedgeley (addressing him as “Uncle” had been a rare, deliberate probe) and Demondion-Echeverria undisguisedly felt it foolish or demeaning, she had chosen the present setting and the prehistoric game of krokay for their very air of detachment from the problem at hand. In this, she had learned, she was rather like her father. Permit the body to distract itself with some wholly inconsequential task, she had discovered, and the mind will thus be liberated from it to operate at its most efficient and productive capacity.
Which was exactly what they needed now. And from his expression, it was clear that her father agreed. At least as far as history was concerned, even the motives of the unknowns behind the Oplyte Trade remained mysterious and, not for the first time, it struck Lia that the business seemed, intentionally or otherwise, to be another one of masques—worn over masques, worn over masques.
Demondion-Echeverria interrupted her train of thought. “Pray pardon me for asking, Ceo, I am unfamiliar with the rules by which this game is played.” He indicated the mallet he had been given, the ball striped with the same colors, and the colored pegs and wire wickets which had been driven into the lawn.
Although it was a familiar green in color, the growth beneath their feet was nothing any human of a thousand years ago would have recognized. More than anything, it resembled the tightly curled fur of some woolly mammal. For almost that same length of time, it had been cultivated throughout the grounds of the Ceo’s Residence, seeded, weeded, fed, watered, and rolled by countless generations of patient servants, until it lay as flat and uniform as a gaming table.
Hanover, for the most part, was a bone-chillingly cold, gray world, whose deep, wet winter snows never transformed themselves further, with an annual precession of seasons that took almost twice as long as upon the birth world of humanity, than into endless summer drizzles. That, and a significantly more oppressive gravity than human beings were thought to have evolved in, made it not the pleasantest of planets upon which to dwell. It was often said that Hanover had chosen mankind, rather than the other way around, its earliest settlement having resulted from an unintentional crash landing a millennium ago.
These unlovely qualities were offset—at least in the Ceo’s Residential park—by §-fields overhead, not unlike those that formed the roof above the ’Droom, although their principal purpose here (aside from providing a certain measure of physical security from various methods of attack) was to abate the drizzle, and to tint the Hanoverian sky (whatever shade of gray it happened to be at present) a dazzling and cheerful blue, with hints of the yellow sunshine that humanity, far from home even after a thousand years, found most pleasing to the eye.
The best part of returning to this place at this time, especially after her long half day in the ’Droom, she thought, was that, aside from the welcome temporary presence of her father and his colleagues, not a single other being was in sight. She knew the truth, of course, that her household guard lurked everywhere, remaining inconspicuous not only for the sake of her privacy, but for that of any potential assassin or interloper who might thereby be taken by surprise. But, exactly like a mirror placed strategically so as to give the impression that a room is larger, what she knew seemed not to spoil what she saw.
“Perhaps it would be best, sir, to watch me and follow my example.” Lia leaned over, held her red-striped mallet in the approved manner (not an easy thing to do against the heavy and voluminous skirts of her dress), and struck the ball smartly. As it rolled toward the first wicket, she turned to her companions.
“So far,” she observed casually, “Those who ply the Oplyte Trade have never attempted to capitalize upon the many political and military advantages they are perceived by their clientele to possess. Just to observe a single frightening example, they might many times have denied their warrior-slaves to the Monopolity of Hanover—at some strategic moment when our survival depended upon having them.”
Demondion-Echeverria made no pretense whatever to proper form, but simply reached down and rapped his ball one-handed, uncaring about its destination. “For that matter, my Ceo, they might easily have deprived any of the many imperia-conglomerate—to the consequent advantage of any other—in some interstellar dispute where they had possessed a hidden interest of their own to nurture.”
“However, all they seem to care about,” Sedgeley offered, always, and by reflex, a competitor at heart and striving hard to imitate the manner in which Lia had skillfully opened the game, “is whatever passes for currency among the imperia-conglomerate from one epoch to the next. Money is all that they seem ever to have cared about, for countless millennia, as far as anybody knows.” Unfortunately, his ball was not nearly as well struck, and rolled off to one side.
Brother Leo’s blue-striped ball stopped rolling only a few siemmes from that of his daughter. He grinned as if to say that he had let her off easily, but offered no indication as to his opinion in the matter they were discussing as they played, which the others took to
mean that he agreed with what was being said.
“Personally,” the cynical Demondion-Echeverria replied, “I consider this ample evidence that they are not human at all, but aliens, known or unknown, with motivations totally incomprehensible to us. Members of our own species, in my sad experience, are willing to sacrifice virtually any sound material consideration for the benefit of petty enmities and microscopic amounts of power.”
Sedgeley, having observed Lia and his friends take their second strokes, and struggling to bring his own ball back into play, chuckled politely over the former ambassador’s witticism, although it was unclear to Lia whether he shared the bleak opinion of their species that it had advanced. “Well said, my dear Frantisek, but the mere notion they might someday take such an advantage represents a constant threat to the peace and order of the Known Galaxy.”
“Indeed,” Demondion-Echeverria replied. No inept participant himself in the many fields in which Sedgeley excelled, he had begun to get a feel for the game and was more delighted with himself than he would freely have admitted. “Such a threat is much too terrible for any intelligent ruler to tolerate if he—”
“Or she,” Sedgeley corrected diplomatically.
“Or she is not obliged to.”
“Oh dear, what was that?” For a moment they were distracted by a bright flash in the sky as a bird flew into inadvertent contact with the §-field a hundred measures overhead and was annihilated. It was this effect that kept a Ceo safe from an assassin’s bomb or trajectile. The same process, applied to droplets of mist filling the atmosphere, was the source of the brilliant light which made it feel to them, within the field’s confines, as if it were a sunny day.
Lia let the men talk—it was the very reason she had brought them here—while she considered what they said. Information of the character that Owld Jenn had brought back to the Monopolity was unspeakably rare. The deadly and dangerous efforts of hundreds of polities and thousands of intelligence missions over a great many centuries had failed utterly to produce anything to match its quantity and quality. The Ceo knew this at first hand, for she had undertaken many such deadly and dangerous missions herself, vainly attempting to ferret out the Oplyte Traders’ secrets for her father. Now, given this potentially strategic windfall, she meant to make the fullest possible use of it.
But she had been anticipated.
“I would wager,” the former Executor-General suggested correctly, “that our Ceo has an eye to ending the risky and repulsive Oplyte traffic forever. In this respect, she differs to a highly significant degree from every other leader presently known to humanity. She is, of course, an extremely moral individual—”
Demondion-Echeverria nodded. “And equally an idealist.”
“It is regrettable,” Sedgeley continued, “that even her own underlings who populate the ’Droom would more than likely disapprove of what she now contemplates.”
“While others would do rather a deal more than simply sneer at such a high-minded undertaking. Fearing for their economic and political well-being, they would actively obstruct her, even take physical steps against her, if they knew of what she purposes, struggling at all costs to maintain the status quo.”
“You make a most telling series of points, my dear Frantisek,” Sedgeley responded. By now he had abandoned all pretense at playing krokay and tried to lean upon his mallet, which proved too short for the purpose. “Even more sadly, in my experience, there are others—likely more numerous than those with such selfish interests—who might not care for current circumstances, but are long and well accustomed to them. At least they know how to comport themselves, as they might not in a universe devoid of the Oplytes and their creators.”
“And if, to redress the balance, the more progressive among their number felt ‘compelled’ to replace the Monopolity,” the former Jendyne ambassador added, “as the largest and most powerful imperium-conglomerate, so much the better.
Lia spoke at last; her tone ironic but not unkindly. “I sincerely thank you, Frantisek—if I may—for offering us the benefit of your experience as one of those who once aspired to replace us. As a student—and onetime teacher—of history, myself, I understand this type of conservatism all too well. I also know that state secrets of the kind we now possess, thanks to Sedgeley’s perspicacity, are short-lived at the best. I appreciate the fact that our actions must be swift if we are to remain unhindered and achieve success.”
Demondion-Echeverria actually bowed. Costumed as he was, Lia found the gallant gesture appealing in the extreme. How sad, she thought, that it arose as part and parcel of a barbarism too terrible even for the former Jendyne to tolerate. “And I, in my turn, thank you for your extreme kindliness, my lady Ceo.”
Of a sudden, for some unknown reason, Leupould seemed to be watching her closely.
“Pray think nothing of it.” She waved it away. “Furthermore, I have an excellent idea upon whom I can rely to help me in what you now know I regard as the noblest of campaigns. I have had, since Sedgeley first contacted me in this connection. And now you have made my mind up. Uncertain allies they may be at other times, concerning other issues; I know I can count upon them in this.”
These enigmatic words evoked a puzzled expression from each of her three companions, which she ignored. “Therefore, my first decision in the matter before us will be to reappoint Sedgeley—now, now, hear me out!—to his once-exalted function as Executor-General. You must understand, Sedgeley—I will have you understand, sir—that this is strictly upon a probationary basis.” Sedgeley gulped and nodded. Knowing him, she wondered whether he was sincere.
“My second decision—and with all due respect to you, Sedgeley, more important and farther-reaching—is to send word to the Monopolity’s nominal worst enemy. By liveried messenger, entrusted with an entreaty I myself shall have enthilled, I purpose to summon the infamous rebel and plunderer, Henry Martyn!”
All three men, including her father, opened their mouths to react. She forestalled their emotional objections—and Leupould’s violation of his vows—with an outturned palm. “By separate messenger, I intend also to summon his no-less-infamous henchman and former first officer, the formidable Phoebus Krumm.”
She found that she enjoyed observing their reactions. Each of them had his own reason to be astonished at the boldness of her plan. Henry Martyn she had known well—since his boyhood, in fact—as Arran Islay, now Autonomous Drector-Hereditary of the moonringed planet Skye. It was upon that world that a rather younger Mistress Lia Woodgate, now Ceo of the Monopolity of Hanover, had once been no more than a humble governess and tutor to the family Islay. And, of course, an occasional spy for her august and terrible father, Leupould IX.
As they gaped at what she had purposed, she lifted the mallet and drove her krokay ball straight through the hoops, striking the peg and winning the game.
PART TWO:
BRETTA ISLAY
YEARDAY 158, 3026 A.D.
FEBBE 14, 518 HANOVERIAN
QUINTUS 17, 1595 OLDSKYAN
“NOW TURN YOUR FACE TO THE §-FIELD,
AND YOUR BACK TO THE TALL MAST-TREE;
AND BEFORE YOUR HEART BEATS AGAIN IN YOUR BREAST,
I SHALL ANNIHILATE THEE.
“BUT FIRST TAKE OFF YOUR KEFFLAR SO FINE,
AND YOUR GOLDEN STAYS,” SAID HE.
“FOR THOUGH I’M GOING TO ANNIHILATE YOU HERE,
I HAVE USE FOR YOUR FINERY.”
“YES, I’LL TAKE OFF MY KEFFLAR SO FINE,
LIKEWISE MY STAYS,” ANSWERED SHE.
“BUT BEFORE THAT I DO, YOU FALSE YOUNG MAN,
YOU MUST TURN YOUR BACK ON ME.”
CHAPTER IX:
A MESSAGE FROM HANOVER
“Damn!”
Arran Islay, sitting up, had struck his forehead against the underside of the draywherry he was repairing. Sliding more prudently from beneath the vehicle this time before attempting to arise, he dropped wrench and neutrino scanner into a nearby tool chest and wiped his gr
easy hands upon his peasant trousers.
Five-year-old Glynna laughed, deepening the lines in her father’s scowl. Audibly breathing his annoyance at having been diverted from an unpleasant and demanding task it had taken him some time and no small exercise of character to confront, Arran set one hand upon a hip and rubbed his forehead. “Now tell me once again,” he demanded of the overdressed stranger responsible for this miniature calamity, “who the devil are you, and what, precisely, is all this nonsense?”
The remainder of the fabled Islay family (save for their eldest daughter) crowded round the masqued and perfumed interloper. The eldest child here, the stranger had been given to understand, was eleven-year-old Phoebe. Next were nine-year-old Lia and seven-year-old Lorrie. Last, after five-year-old Glynna, was three-year-old Arran, squirming in the arms of his mother, Loreanna. It was she who had brought the visitor from the great Holdings Hall which had been the initial destination of his tiny, §-levitated capsule, no different in its operating principles from the machine Arran labored upon now. The older girls were aquiver with curiosity at this unprecedented manifestation from what they held (despite the preferences of their father) to be the center of the Known Universe.
The lace-and-velvet-clad messenger felt out of place in this excessively rustic setting. They all stood with actual mud oozing about their shoe soles—those of the children who condescended to wear them—in a workyard behind the Holdings formed by a surrounding number of lesser outbuildings. One was a hangar of sorts, in which the draywherry, metalloid mesh-constructed like the hull of a starship, was ordinarily housed. The harsh odors of alien livestock animals and agricultural products filled the air. How ever, he wondered, could people—ostensibly of good quality—lower themselves to lead such a vulgar existence?
The figure he found himself confronting now, and for whom he bore his message, was hardly overbearing in his physical stature, but he appeared to radiate a compelling power of personality that the messenger had only before experienced in the daunting presence of the individual (only an hour ago he would have made it, “the unique individual”) who had sent him here to begin with.
Coordinated Arm 02: Bretta Martyn Page 7