Coordinated Arm 01: Henry Martyn

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by Smith, L. Neil


  Leupould was naked as the fabled imperator, his mountainous midsection covered with a light rug, and about to finish his third mug of caff—stiff with cream, sugar, and chocolate so dark it had gone into the mixture black—which served the purposes of sharpening his alertness for the day's duties and maintaining his deceptive bulk. The mug sat upon a small mesh table beside the chaise which also held a servant summoner to which he had rare recourse, and a ceramic dish heaped with ashes and stubbed ends of nicotinettes representing (in his estimate, for, unlike many things he enjoyed, he could find no reason to justify it) Leupould's

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  only genuine vice. Daimler-Wilkinson drank the same caff as Leupould, this being his only vice.

  A knock came at the right-hand door. This, too, happened every morning. As ordered, without waiting for permission, a security aide poked his head into the room, raising cultured eyebrows in inquiry. Not bothering to rise, as he and his Executor-General would have done on any ordinary day, Leupould raised a giant hand, palm outward. The timing came as a surprise, but neither the event nor its necessity. Nonetheless, Daimler-Wilkinson felt a chill.

  "We'll be delayed this momin', Wendling, kindly inform the Drectors-Hyphenated. See they're supplied with whatever refreshment they desire." He indicated the device lying beside his caffcup and ashtray. "We'll not be long, nor disrupt your well-planned schedule, we assure you. We shall ring when we're ready to be dressed."

  "As you wish, sir." The aide withdrew, closing the door without otherwise responding. Given the enormous difference in their stations, it was the closest, Daimler-Wilkinson recognized, the man could come to a pout, and one reason he preferred employing non-human servants.

  Even as he winked at his Drector-Advisory again and pondered the most graceful manner in which to broach a subject no one, including Daimler-Wilkinson, would ever know had deprived him of sleep the previous night, Leupould reached for a packet lying beside the ashtray, removed the final cylinder it contained—it had been full when he had awakened this morning—drew upon it, and exhaled smoke. He crumpled the empty packet in his pawlike hand. In keeping with a ritual Leupould had never been aware existed, Daimler-Wilkinson arose and took it from him for later disposal. Leupould would not have servants enter this personal sanctum until he was prepared to leave it, not even to empty his overflowing ashtray.

  "Sedgeley, my good and faithful, much as we both wish otherwise, the moment's arrived which you and I have dreaded all momin'." Tick, lock, tick, lock, tick. . .

  Daimler-Wilkinson braced himself as if he, not the mannequin, felt the blade about to fall. No question lingered whether he deserved it. It had been his idea, he regretted bitterly, to suggest that his own niece, beautiful fourteen-

  year-old Loreanna, be oflfered as a goodwill gift in betrothal of marriage to the doddering, but still technically eligible, Ribauldequin XXIII, Ceo of the Jendyne Empery-Cirot. Tick, lock, tick, lock, tick . . .

  "I'm glad you don't deny it, nor ask me what I speak of. We understand each other. I s'pose she had to be informed of my decision. But I don't know why, after all your years of service, you'd ever think, once the suggestion was made and accepted, that her preferences in the matter would be inquired into. Tell me, Sedgeley, d'you know what a quintillion is?"

  "Sir?" What did this have to do with the subject at hand?

  "A quintillion, Sedgeley, in the old, pre-barquode writin' which I find a deal more expressive than the soulless stripes we use today. A *one' followed by eighteen *zeroes.' By some estimates, something more than a quintillion human beings exist within the various polities of the known galaxy, perhaps that many within the Monopolity itself." Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick. . .

  Except for an uncle who had proven less meritorious a protector than he might have been, Loreanna had no family. While she was still an infant, her parents, Sedgeley's younger brother Clyve and his lovely wife Jennivere, had disappeared in the vastness of the Deep while touring their far-flung plantations and mining properties. It had been years, and before the end was in sight had required an enormous amount of money and exertion, before Loreanna's uncle learned, beyond aii evaporating shadow of his last cherished doubt, what had become of them.

  "Possibly this estimate is exaggerated, sir," he replied. "May I—"

  "No, you mayn't, Sedgeley. Not for the moment, old friend. You're correct, it's quite possible the estimate's exaggerated. After all, the ravages of a thousand years' unceasin' warfare, and what's less widely understood, the everyday predations of the governments who wage it, some ten or fifteen times worse than war itself, must take some toll of that figure."

  Clyve and Jennivere had been just two victims somewhere between systems. Sedgeley's brother had fallen prey to the ultimate pressgang. Tranquilized within seconds of his ves-

  sel's capture, he had been transported to a hidden "factory" world where the unspeakable was carried out upon a production basis. From that moment he never again knew human consciousness nor the feeling of acting upon his own will. In a sense it might have been asserted that Clyve Daimler-Wilkinson had died. Tick, tock, tick, lock, tick. . .

  "Sir?" Only now did Leupould's words register upon his much-preoccupied mind. "Everyday predations of governments." Had the Executor-General uttered these words, he would likely have been executed without trial.

  "Try not to look so shocked, Sedgeley! You know me better, or should. Ton the other hand, the estimate of a quintillion may well be too low. To be sure, no method exists of being certain."

  Despite himself, Daimler-Wilkinson's mind had begun to wander backward in time. Upon that hidden factory world, listed in no official interstellar chart, along with millions of other victims, Clyve's mind and memories, all that distinguished him from every other member of his species, were erased by "electrotherapy," psychoactives, operant conditioning, and surgery. In another sense, this might have been the moment of Clyve's death, for at this point, it all became irreversible.

  What was it the Ceo had just asserted? No method of being certain—but of what? "No, sir, regrettably. If I may—"

  "You bally well may not! I've thought this out with great care and postponed the day's work to get it stated. Pray don't interrupt again."

  Clyve's body had continued living, swollen with hormones, machine-exercise, and tailored viruses, for such was the purpose of the process. In secret, at unimaginable expense, the hulking thing which had once been a man was converted into a fighting robot, to be transported to more "civilized" reaches, perhaps Hanover itself, and sold for more than its weight in precious metals. Clyve Daimler-Wilkinson had become an Oplyte.

  Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick . . . Leupould paused here, awaiting acknowledgement. Realizing he had forbidden any word at all, he continued before his friend could be caught in

  another error. "Such numbers convey precious little to the human mind. A quintillion? What is that? Eighteen zeroes? What do they mean? Nonetheless—p'rhaps for this very reason—valuable lessons are to be learned from them, regardin' the human condition."

  It was no different with Clyve than for centuries with a hundred million others. Popular belief held Oplytes to be "rehabilitated" criminals, mutants, aliens, the product of some advanced petrosorcery. However, contrary to all the myths and rumors, they were former human beings one and all, suffering perhaps the crudest fate ever inflicted by one man upon another. Victims of a ubiquitous and voracious form of slavery, each had been selected, subjected to elaborate alteration, for no purpose except killing. An amateur athlete, Clyve's misfortune—the basis for his selection—was that he possessed superlative reflexes and a magnificent physique.

  Tick, lock, tick, tock, tick . . . Again the Ceo paused, this time for a longer time. Unable to bear the prolonged silence, and the persistent tock-ticking of Leupould's hideous new toy punctuating it, the Executor-General risked speaking. "I see, sir. Pray continue."

  "Thank you, Sedgeley, you're most kind. Now, whether consciously or not, the lessons I ment
ioned are extracted by everyone, upon an everyday basis. They form the unstated ground upon which every decision and transaction is carried out in our thirty-first-century civilization."

  Daimler-Wilkinson's search had taught him more about thirty-first-century civilization, and the character of those he lived among, than he had ever wanted to know. When he had learned the truth about Oplytes, he had wanted it broadcast from the top of the 'Droom to a galaxy which would rise in arms to exterminate every slaver plying the Deep. He had been taken aside quietly by the Ceo's other advisors. The Oplyte "secret" was not much of a secret, after all. The pretense served many interests. Small effort was necessary to preserve it. All that was necessary was for certain people to look away, which they were more than willing to do.

  "Sir?"

  "To wit: a single unit of any commodity in such abun-

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  dance as to be expressible only in numbers like quintillions can't possess much value in itself. Whatever mankind's self-delusional philosophies have ever asserted to the contrary, there exists, as there always has and always will, an immutable natural law which every murchan has savvied since the day cuneiform accounts were first baked into clay." Tick, lock, tick, lock, tick. . .

  Sedgeley's time and money, however, had purchased him a uniquely terrible experience. A law of physics, as immutable as any the Ceo chose to lecture him about, states that nothing is without cost. An Oplyte's superhuman powers demanded that his brain and body be overdriven, after no more than three or four years' service to his owners, to the point of self-destruction. It was difficult to obtain any Oplyte in particular. It had never occurred to anyone to try. No true individual could be identified among them, any more than with spreighformed caffcups or ashtrays. This would defeat the entire purpose of having "created" them. Each was considered, by supplier and customer alike, to be an identical, expendable, replaceable unit.

  "I believe I—"

  "The law states, as it always has and always will, that the more there is of anything, the less valuable any single unit of it becomes. This is the Law of Marginal Utility, to which all things everywhere are inalterably subject."

  After a prolonged wait, Daimler-Wilkinson had accepted, in a state of growing horror, delivery of a particular used-up, useless slave. Instead of a replaceable unit, however, he saw before him someone he had loved, fifteen years the younger, now white-haired, toothless, wrinkled, noncoherent. Clyve was unaware of his surroundings. His body trembled with an uncontrollable affliction resembling Parkinsonism, and he suffered premature senile dementia. This, as everybody knew, was the fate of every Oplyte.

  Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick. . . "Sir, I—"

  A scream penetrated the room. Daimler-Wilkinson's head jerked toward the timepiece, where, as the pointers indicated the end of the hour, the swinging blade reached its victim. Miniature shirt and chest were cut through. Minute organs could be seen inside. A hideous scarlet liquid pooled round, splashing across the blade. Daimler-Wilkinson had

  no alternative but to listen to the enthilled scream as the pendulum swung back and forth through the tiny violated body thirteen times in all—that was the hour, early afternoon—before the head slumped, the blade returned to its original position, the little man's wound healed by a mechanical miracle, blood drained away to be recycled, and the ordeal began anew. They sat in silence for a long while.

  With some effort Leupould turned upon his side, to face his old friend and advisor. "I hope with all sincerity that you appreciate what Fm drivin' at, old fellow, for we're quite late gettin' started today—I'm not altogether certain that new timepiece is in good taste, are you?—and I should regret havin' to waste more time explainin' any further."

  He arose, cast the rug off with the same gesture as his expensive finery, and seized the summoner for his dresser. "Given the Law of Marginal Utility, in all the starry universe, across the cold expanse of the Deep, upon millions of planets, nothing, Sedgeley, is found in greater quantity—or upon this account is less valued—than a human life."

  Tick, lock, tick, tock, tick. . . The timepiece counted minutes before the next atrocity. "Not yours, nor mine, nor those of your brother and his wife—yes, I know all about them— not even your own dear niece, Loreanna."

  Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick . . . "If you get my meanin'..."

  Chapter XXXIV: Of Lies and Love

  Brougham knew.

  Across an expanse of table which felt like a vast and empty playing field, Daimler-Wilkinson's eyes lay with fond sadness upon his niece, but his thoughts were upon the loyal yensid retainer attempting to serve them dinner.

  "Do you prefer aircrab and dressing, sir, or jellied marmot?"

  "I suppose the crab, Brougham. The Ceo served curried

  rikshii at luncheon, which, to my taste, is rather similar to marmot."

  "As you wish, sir." Brougham turned to Loreanna. "And for you, Miss?"

  Loreanna, lost in her own thoughts, started at the abruptness of Brougham's inquiry. She had been attempting, with no more luck than at any other moment over the past days, to determine whether the guilt she felt toward her uncle might be less justified than her feelings of abandonment and disappointment.

  Daimler-Wilkinson observed her state of abstraction. As was ever the case, both the meal and the manner in which it was served were faultless, although he had experienced better appetite. His niece pushed the food about upon her plate, picking at infrequent intervals as if to forestall a solicitous word from the uncle she no doubt felt had betrayed her, perhaps even from the alien she had grown up thinking of as her best—now perhaps only—friend.

  Meanwhile, Loreanna had come to the conclusion she always arrived at. Any self-respecting young woman would reject a marriage such as her uncle had proposed, would resent being offered the alternative of exile in a frozen waste and being expected to regard it as a favor.

  "Nothing, thank you. Brougham, I shall continue with the preserves."

  Something like parental disapproval, resigned but not to be denied, colored Brougham's reply. "As you will. Miss."

  The glittering traditional service, old-fashioned dishes and cutlery which had never been within a klomme of any spreighformer, the snowy cloth which was a living organism from some far-off world and could never show a stain, the subtle lighting evoked from wainscotted upper walls by the antenna chandelabrum, all served as reminders of more auspicious circumstances. Loreanna, Daimler-Wilkinson was certain, was thinking that, in a few more days, she would never see these lovely things again. To him they were, bitter mementos, treasured heirlooms though they were of a happier time, long past and long lost, when other chairs about the table would have been occupied by those he loved, other voices raised in conversation or laughter.

  Loreanna watched her uncle, wondering what thoughts

  occupied his mind. A greater grievance lay behind her outrage than the bleak alternatives of banishment or marriage to a total (and, by all accounts, obnoxious) stranger. The former might prove no more than unpleasant. The latter had been the destiny of many women throughout human history. Somehow both women and humanity had survived. She was, however, troubled by a conclusion, predicated upon girlhood observation of her uncle's rise within the 'Droom—which he, believing her sheltered from harsh reality, had never realized her capable of drawing—concerning the results of mixing two forms of polite and bloody warfare known as politics and love.

  "If that will be all, sir, I shall retire to the pantry."

  He looked up, startled as his niece had been. "Thank you. Brougham. We shall let you know should we require anything."

  Even imperturbable Brougham seemed to suffer under the tension. As Daimler-Wilkinson had found himself thinking when this familiar, circular pattern (he was unsure he would call it "reasoning") had begun. Brougham knew everything of the family tragedy which he, Loreanna's uncle, had never dared convey to her.

  He spoke: "Excuse me, my dear, I—would you pass the cinnamon?"

&nbs
p; She spoke: "I should be delighted, Uncle."

  Again he had failed to say the words which might have extricated them from this speechless nightmare. She had responded, not with "Uncle Sedgeley," or even "Sedgeley" as she had been more inclined to call him until recently, but with a naked label, cold and remote. He accepted the shaker—she seemed careful to avoid touching his fingers— and discovered he had quite forgotten why he wanted it.

  Loreanna brushed the interruption aside. Physical intimacy between the genders—although she had never yet experienced it herself—may or may not have constituted the transcendent, all-consuming pleasure of which everyone seemed to speak with such melodious rapture. (If it required so much advertising, what must be wrong with it?) Possessing a theoretical grounding in its blunt mechanics (and its manifold consequences, none sounding at all pleasurable), she felt an inclination not just to reserve judgment in the

  matter, but to marvel at the capacity in others for temporary insanity.

  Daimler-Wilkinson blinked. Where had his thoughts been? Yes: the guilty secret he and the yensidhad preserved between them so many years, telling themselves—and, when resolution faltered, one another—that it was necessary for their beloved Loreanna's protection. One of them now knew differently, and Daimler-Wilkinson suspected that, to whatever extent the alien possessed something akin to human feeling, Brougham harbored similar doubts regarding the real motive for the course they had chosen. He discovered that his hands were shaking and took steps to regain control, tucking them into his lap beneath the table.

  Loreanna noticed the tremor in her uncle's hands, wondering what troubled him so. It did not occur to her it might be the dispute between them. She had come, in recent weeks, to the honest if unwelcome belief that she was the only individual who cared what would become of her. Instead, since her mind dwelt upon similar subjects already, she gave in to momentary speculation that he might be having an affair with some 'Droom lady, suffering the proverbial attendant woes thereof. She was reminded of an ancient song at which she had learned to accompany herself upon the synthechord, "Plaisir d'Amour," for whose timeless, universal wisdom, couched in extinct language though it be—it had been necessary to find another antiquarian to translate them—she felt increasing appreciation. Whatever the pleasures of grunting, sweating, interpenetration, it was certain they were ephemeral.

 

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