Jinx On a Terran Inheritance

by Brian Daley

  Chapter 18

  The Terran Inheritance

  "I'm sure you'll find it a lot more comfortable staying with us," Janusz was telling them a few minutes later as a roomy old airsedan bore the three men through the night to Parish Above. The hills were lighted with the mansions and villas of the large estates.

  Alacrity noticed that Janusz scrupulously avoided flying over any of the residences and concluded that, as usual, the wealthy had the means to keep out intruders, even airborne ones.

  Janusz's craft was a classic with wood paneling, indigo veneer, nickeled pipes, and blue crimson interior. He handled it very well.

  "Although," he added, "the Dis Hill Caravansary is a scenic place."

  "Especially the way you come and go," Floyt said.

  "People up on Dis Hill are used to watching the streets, but not the sky," Janusz said. He had a soft, cultured voice that commanded attention even though he spoke with an almost stiff propriety. He was dressed in soft ankle boots, flowing trousers and blouse, and puffy vest, his sleeves held back from his hands by what looked like old-fashioned sleeve garters around his upper arms.

  Alacrity noticed that Floyt had his finger close to the emergency button on his proteus, just in case, and nodded approval when Janusz wasn't looking.

  They barreled in low over a high, spikey blue vitristeel wall that radiated an antipersonnel field. The estate was a sizable piece of property, three hectares or so in what appeared to be a most exclusive area of Parish Above. There were trees and flower beds and several small ponds.

  The stately old sedan touched down on a circular landing pad in front of a large chateau resembling a regal, burnished epergne, rising in tiers and levels of elegance and beauty surrounded by splendid trellises, arbors, a lovely belvedere, and a guest house like a jeweled music box.

  As they climbed out, something lazed by overhead. Alacrity looked up and saw a very modem, lethal security drone, an Azrael model.

  "Welcome to Old Raffles," Janusz bade them. Floyt smiled.

  Alacrity saw another of the dolphin-shaped Azraels as they entered the foyer.

  Old Raffles wasn't anywhere near as grand as Frostpile or even the compounds, but it was genteel and stately in unisystem polyglot.

  Household robots, offworld products, approached to take their luggage. Janusz did not suggest that they disarm.

  In a society like that of Parish, domestics and staff ought to be cheap and plentiful, a glut on the market, Alacrity knew. But Old Raffles' looked completely automated. There was even an expensive system of whisk-platforms like flying coasters, to zip occupants around the rambling chateau. Alacrity was beginning to be concerned about what he and Floyt had gotten into, and was very alert. A starship was worth an upright fortune—enough, perhaps, to tempt someone into eliminating a troublesome Inheritor who happened to pop up and wouldn't be missed much.

  They passed through a spacious receiving hall furnished with monolithic furniture and lit by polychrome glow-cages. "Why'd you smile before?" Alacrity asked Floyt out of the corner of his mouth. "What's 'Old Raffles' mean?"

  "Cracksman, Old Earth style."

  "Oh. What's a cracksman?"

  "Later."

  Janusz, in the lead, showed the way to a smaller—but not very much—room, a lavish library. A real fire burned in a free-standing fireplace shaped like a Buddha. Soft music played from the sound system, medieval Terran stuff.

  "Welcome, Citizen Floyt."

  Janusz had been enough of a surprise; in her own way, the woman who greeted him was even more so. She was warming her hands by the fire, a woman closer to Floyt's age than Alacrity's, dressed in a mauve househabit that showed an almost painfully slender figure, and a belt of polished, rough-cut calefacts set in woven copper filaments. She had regular, unremarkable features, a pleasing plainness, pale and freckled, except for the biggest, most astute brown eyes Floyt could remember seeing, under heavy brows. Those eyes were snares, hard to look away from. Her close-cropped sorrel hair shone with highlights from the wavering fire.

  "I hope the music's to your taste," she added.

  "Eh? Oh, it's very fine, very fine," Floyt hastened, realizing that Alacrity was simply staring and waiting.

  Janusz moved in her direction, then changed course to end up at the other side of the fireplace. He still had a clear field of fire, Alacrity saw nervously.

  Calm down, he told himself. They could've killed you anywhere along the line. Why do it here? It was difficult not to think of the ugly surprise of being ambushed inboard the Mountebank, though.

  "And you would be Alacrity Fitzhugh," she said.

  "Yes, that's me."

  "My name is Victoria Roper. We're glad you two are finally here."

  Which you could mean a couple of different ways, Alacrity mulled.

  Floyt said, "That's very kind of you. There are certain things we have to discuss, I suppose."

  "That's correct," Janusz said, turning to warm his hands by the fire. "But first—"

  He turned back with a snubby little scatterbeam pistol in either hand. Victoria had brought a slim sonic tube from her sleeve, leveling it at them.

  Alacrity ground out, "Damn, perverse, sonuvabitch!" but he didn't move; he had no chance against them. He was no gunslinger, and Janusz was way too fast. Floyt's finger pressed the emergency button on his proteus.

  "Hold still, Citizen Floyt," Janusz barked. "I almost shot your hand off just now."

  Floyt spread his hands. Alacrity knew with a sinking feeling that Heart and Sintilla couldn't get to them in time to do any good. It was just the way the breaks went. He braced for the sonic blast or the white-hot wash of the scatterbeams.

  Instead, Victoria reached among the things lying on the Buddha's mantelpiece stomach and took down a baton, an exquisite thing of nacreous icestone, glittering black Lilith's Touch, and plaited red leather. Its cap was a figurine shape like Winged Victory.

  She moved in on Floyt with it—from the side, leaving Janusz and herself clear shooting angles. "I regret having to do this, Citizen Floyt; I apologize. I'll ask you to show me your Inheritor's belt now."

  Floyt didn't see any alternative. His hands went to his fatigue jacket. "Very carefully," Janusz advised. "Please let us have no unfortunate misunderstandings."

  Floyt opened his jacket to show the belt. Victoria verified it somehow with the baton, just as the major of Celestials had when Floyt and Alacrity first boarded the King's Ransom.

  Victoria put aside the baton with her sonic tube. "Welcome, Citizen Floyt. And please forgive us for all of that." She came to him with her hand extended and he automatically took it. Her fingers were short and square-nailed, cool and strong.

  "How about you?" Alacrity said to Janusz, whose guns had vanished. "You sorry too?"

  Janusz bored into Alacrity for a moment with that plasmadrill stare. Then he said, "If you like, yes. My most abject apologies to you both. For taking entirely sensible, necessary precautions, Master Fitzhugh."

  "Y'know, we almost lost the belt along the way."

  "That would have been unfortunate, but probably not lethal, for you," Janusz responded calmly.

  "Yeah? Oh, well, that's okay, then."

  Victoria said to the empty air, "Corva, I believe you should join us now." To Alacrity and Floyt she added, "And that will complete our roster."

  "Three, huh?" Alacrity said, trying to puzzle out just what he and Floyt had stumbled into. He heard the sound of the door behind him.

  "Yes," a voice said. "Ning-ning-a-ning! Swiftly and boldly come Floyt and Fitzhugh! Heroes of the spaceways! (I'll believe it if you will!) Ning-ning!"

  The young Srillan was thinner and shorter than Lord Admiral Maska. His pelt still had some of the tawny highlights of adolescence. He nevertheless reminded Floyt of a sleepy aardvark shambling around on its hind legs.

  Floyt felt an instant aversion to a creature whose kind had devastated Earth, despite the fact that the Earther had reached an accord of sorts with Maska—or
at least a tolerance for him.

  Alacrity, who'd spent quite a bit of time among the shaggy humanoids, said, "Woo! Whatever next?"

  "Next," answered Victoria, "we discuss the Terran Inheritance."

  "Do we really need to go through a big discussion?" Alacrity asked a few minutes later, as they made themselves at home and domestic robos circulated around the library offering all sorts of delights. Floyt was having trouble convincing himself that Tombville had been real.

  "All we really need to know is where Astraea Imprimatur is and what kind of shape she's in. We want to get out of here as soon as we can." One robo had tankards of ale with frost on the sides; Alacrity took one gratefully.

  "The ship is in perfect condition. She's at the spacefield, hidden in a hanger," Corva said. "Nobody knows she's here but us."

  "Pretty fair trick," Alacrity said.

  "Not so difficult. We got an old hulk spaceworthy and tricked it out as the Stray, in secret. Landed Astraea Imprimatur and hid her in the hangar, and conned the hulk out pretending she was the Stray. Anyhow, that's not the Terran Inheritance Victoria meant."

  "Retro back," Alacrity said, making a long arm and catching the robo before it got away. He held up the tankard. "How long is this story going to take? Should I grab a backup?"

  "Perhaps if you'd simply listen, it would turn out to be less time-consuming," Janusz suggested mildly. Alacrity let the robo go and it floated away.

  "Just a moment," Floyt said. "Before we go into this, I think I'd like to use the, er, washchamber."

  Victoria smiled. 'To call whoever you were signaling before, Hobart Floyt? That's not necessary; Old Raffles is shielded. Nothing got out. But you're free to get in touch with whomever you want, of course, and you're welcome to use our equipment. You might care to know more about your situation first, however."

  Floyt relaxed again, sipping a praiseworthy cup of demitasse. "You're right, of course. Please go on."

  Victoria had returned to warm herself by the fire, though the library wasn't very cold. Corva was perched on a low floatstool and Janusz was leaning over the back of a Fifth Empire chair.

  "Perhaps Corva ought to start it," Victoria said. "But let me assure you first, Hobart: that what we say, we can prove. It means you'll have to change your mind about some of the most fundamental beliefs you have. Do you think you can do that?"

  "Maybe if you quit badgering him and get started, we can find out," Alacrity interposed.

  "Fair enough," Corva said. He shifted into a more comfortable position, a typically Srillan one, something like a squatting monkey.

  "What you Terrans have inherited—what's been foisted off on your whole race and mine as well—is the end product of two hundred years of lying, deceit, brutal power politics and manipulation. The center of it is a Conspiracy—the Camarilla—that's kept Earth isolationist and xenophobic for two centuries."

  Alacrity glanced over to check Floyt's reaction. The Inheritor was listening, sipping at his demitasse.

  "The Human-Srillan War never should have taken place," Corva said. "We later began calling it The Bungle War, did you know that?

  "But I'll tell you something: there were humans who welcomed it. Srillans as well. As it drew to an end, there were people on humanity's side who decided to insure that the outcome was in their favor—their personal favor."

  "You have to remember," Victoria said, "up until then it was Earth, always Earth, and the Solar system, running things. Earth dominated and she wasn't always kind, and every other political sphere—even Spica—was subordinate. That's simply the way it had always been. The potential profit and power to be realized by changing that were beyond calculation, almost beyond imagination. And there were a lot of people who had nothing to lose."

  "So the Camarilla was formed," Corva resumed. "Hidden agreements reached, deals struck. High-risk power players; you understand, Hobart? They were used to big gambles. They lived for them.

  "The Srillan High Command was encouraged to make that last strike at Earth—the one the Terrans call the Big Smear—even though a lot of them disagreed with it and thought Srilla ought to sue for peace. The High Command thought it had a chance to deal the human race a knockout blow because Earth was vulnerable. Because it was meant to be vulnerable."

  Alacrity tried to digest that. He wasn't much of a historian, but he knew the Smear had always generated arguments and speculation. A lot of conspiracy buffs talked just the way Corva was talking. Of course, they never had proof, and the ones who got press seemed always to be the ones who needed major attic repairs.

  "And it was a double cross," Corva went on. "Because the Spican fleet showed up too late to save Terra but just in time to wipe out Srillan military power."

  "Whoa; are you saying there were Srillans in on it?" Alacrity interrupted.

  "I am. They were, like their Terran counterparts, ambitious underlings and former top-rank leaders who'd fallen from grace. Most of them died in the final strike and others were eliminated subsequently, even before the surrender; there were triple crosses, and we are as ruthless a species as you."

  "The overview, you already have," Victoria said. "The focus of human civilization shifted to the Spican system. What else, but for the wealth and power of the human race to begin accumulating there?"

  Corva nodded, scratching his long snout. "But the Camarilla had to make sure Earth wouldn't reemerge. The Spicans, especially, would've been happier to see the planet eliminated altogether. But that was impossible; the Terran Camarillans were in power there, and they'd have revealed everything to humanity at large if the Spicans tried it.

  "Anyway, that's how Earthservice got started. Its main function has always been to see to it that Terra stays isolated."

  "Yeah, yeah," Alacrity objected, "but for two hundred years?" Floyt didn't seem inclined to comment or even ask questions.

  "For two hundred years. This Camarilla is a set of mutually opposed forces—or maybe 'competing' is a better word—that nonetheless have common interests. It's a delicately balanced system with its own stabalizing forces built in. The main one is that all the damning evidence of the Camarilla and what it did is still in existence."

  Alacrity almost leapt at her. "What? Where?"

  "About four kilometers from where you're standing, Master Fitzhugh," Janusz said with the bare hint of a smile.

  "Hah? Now, wait. You mean to tell me they didn't destroy it? That can't be."

  "Yes, it can; look at it from their point of view, Alacrity." Victoria took up the tale again. "The Bank of Spica and the other cartels who were in on it didn't trust the Alpha-Bureaucrats, and the Alphas didn't trust the Spican government leaders. And the outsystem plotters—they don't trust anybody, and so on."

  "But then … who's in charge?"

  "A group of men called the Joint Custodians," Janusz said. "They're what amounts to a priesthood, mind-engineered clones, neuters. They've hung on to the secrets of the Camarilla and adjudicated the balance of power almost since the beginning."

  "Four klicks from here. Why Blackguard?"

  "It wasn't Blackguard originally, Alacrity." That was Corva. "As far as we can figure out, the original site of their Repository was in the Solar system. Then for a while it was in the Spican system. One faction or another tried to get control of it every so often, but the Custodians managed to thwart them. In response, these last twenty-odd years, the Custodians have shown signs of becoming a power unto themselves. The more so, as Hawkings get faster."

  Victoria moved away from the fire to take up the thread of the story again, eyes bright and huge, the great wing-brows lifted. Not conventionally beautiful, but absolutely striking, Alacrity found himself thinking.

  "About eight years ago, the Repository was moved to Blackguard. It was an obvious choice, when you stop to think about it, something both the Camarilla and the Custodians agree on. They knew about the compounds, so they knew Blackguard—or Finders-Keepers, if you prefer—is well defended and seldom visited. And there ar
e a lot of powerful people who have a stake in seeing to it that no one comes snooping around or lets word of the place get out."

  "Nobody ever got wind of it until now? That's impossible."

  Victoria was nodding. "You're right, Alacrity. People found out, one way or another. But you're talking about a coalition of some of the most powerful people in human space. How hard d'you think it is for them to silence somebody who sounds like a paranoid in the first place?"

  "Not very, hm?"

  "Not very. They kill them or brainblank them or whatever seems appropriate. Let me tell you something: there's a Camarilla member in the top level at the Langstretch Agency."

  Alacrity stood frozen. For the first time, Floyt glanced up from his demitasse to his friend.

  "Langstretch," Alacrity whispered. Then, "Are you sure? How could you know a thing like that?"

  "Because that's where I found out about the Camarilla," Victoria answered with a wolfish smile, "back when I was a Langstretch Field Operative, Class One."

  Alacrity shifted his face back into neutral the way Floyt had seen him do before. "A class one."

  "I found out about it by mistake; nearly got myself shot for that. Now the Langstretch is after me; I should think that I'm just about at the top of the rat-'stat by now. Of course, I have a few advantages most targets don't. I know the whole operation from the inside."

  Janusz was staring into the fire. There was an almost palpable tension in the air, something between Victoria and the outlaw. But Alacrity didn't want to get bogged down at that point, and certainly not on the subject of Langstretch.

  "As I recall, this was all supposed to be leading up to the subject of Weir, no? And me and Ho and Astraea Imprimatur?"

  "Weir was really the turning point," Janusz said, coming away from the fire. "While he was looking into the Earthservice for reasons of his own, he found out about the Camarilla. He was the first one with a power base and resources enough to protect himself … up to a point. He put together an apparatus of people, a counter-Camarilla. One by one—or in twos or whatever—we gravitated to it. Weir couldn't save everybody; a lot died. And more when this shadow war started."