The MI offices were in a slim, gray, windowless tower situated close to the octagon station. Security was tight. His weapon was tagged and removed, retina and fingerprint checks were run before he was shown to an elevator protected by steel blast shields.
"Ah, Jon, do come in." In a civilian-cut gray suit, Petrie welcomed him out of the elevator. A slim man of medium height, a scion of a very famous family, the commander was in medium extended age, around eighty-five. Iehard's practiced eye quickly picked out such aging details as the resistant little pot belly.
The outer office was filled with young workers and small trees in ceramic tubs. An air of studious industry filled the place.
Jon saw that Petrie was wearing a little psi field deflector, the metal headband gleamed across his forehead. Must keep the operative from picking up more than he should, thought Jon. Deflectors never worked well with fear sensors. Jon could easily read Petrie's unease.
"Good of you to get down here so fast. We've got a crisis on our hands. An emergency, otherwise I wouldn't dream of interrupting your work. I know how overloaded you poor devils are. Sometimes I think our society's going to the damned, I honestly do. That one yesterday, that...?"
"Arnei Oh."
"Yes, that one. Very bad business. Very bad; a lighting designer of all things, I read." He sighed. "Well, it's over at last. Do take a seat."
Petrie's private office was bowl shaped, with exotic tropical flowers that grew on mirrored tiers all the way to the mauve ceiling. Iehard sank into a sensual sofchair that started to massage him lightly, almost imperceptibly. He didn't want to sound ungracious but the thing made his spine crawl. "Is there any way to turn this chair off?"
"Yes, of course, right by your right hand, the stud."
The massage ended.
It was much too early in the day for Petrie to offer Jon a drink, though Iehard had the strange feeling that Petrie rather wished he could, and thus have had one for himself. Perhaps the commander hadn't slept at all well.
"Well, Jon, I won't waste time, we have to hurry as it is. We live in a big system, don't we? So all our problems are pretty big, aren't they?"
Trouble, Jon thought.
"This involves laowon, Jon. It's a dreadful case." Petrie had an electronic wand out and a picture popped up on a TV screen nestled among yellow orchids.
Head and shoulders shot, an old man, face dominated by a large, slightly bent nose; broken and improperly repaired. The eyes were blue and bored into the camera. The gray hair was tied up in a knot at the back of the head. A single earring of red enamel stood out on the heavy tan of someone who had been to hot stars.
"An Elchite?" Iehard voiced a certain amount of wonder. "There aren't any Elchites within a hundred light-years of here. Not on this side of the Hyades anyway. They're anticorporate."
"He's a fugitive, on the run from laowon justice."
There it was, filthy laowon work.
"What did he do?"
"They say he planted a bomb on a private space habitat, in laowon space, and among those killed were twenty excellencies, including nine Exalted of Blue Seygfan."
Jon sucked in his breath. "Grand Weengams and Twirsteds then?"
Petrie nodded.
"Then the cult is involved, for Bloodrite?"
"Not as yet, not at least as far as we can detect."
"But there is Superior Buro." Jon said it with certainty.
Petrie nodded. Of course there was. Laowon Superior Buro penetrated all known space.
"Noble blood, the most exalted. They must want this old man very badly. Where exactly did it happen?"
"There are quite a few mysteries about this case. All we have is what I told you."
"That's not much to go on." Jon waved his hands.
"I know. I'm sorry, Jon, Superior Buro have a lock on the data. We're not to ask too many questions, it seems. They're very sensitive right now. I don't need to tell you that on the laowon levels they are howling with rage over this. The man is to go to Lao itself and expiate on the chair before the Grand Court. Can you imagine? So we must move quickly but we must move carefully, diplomatically. The last thing they want is a big full-bore investigation. They don't trust the police department whatsoever. That nest of leakers is a very last resort. If this hits the media..."
"How long has the man been here?"
"We believe just a few days."
"A few days is enough time for someone to go far. This is a big system."
"We do not think he has even left Hyperion Grandee yet. He was only tracked here by the merest chance. I am assured that the man cannot know he has been followed."
Jon's visions of combing the eight hundred-odd megahabitats, gigahabitats, asteroids, and moons for that face faded. "I suppose that's something."
"Of course, it goes without saying the man is extremely dangerous. However, this is a job calling on your extraordinary tracking skills, rather than your normal, aah, line of work. No gunplay is expected of you. At least that's my fervent hope. But you're the best psi senser we have, Jon. So it has to be you. There was a specific request from the laowon ambassador. You'll be given all the personnel and equipment. I will see to it personally that you have the fullest cooperation of my staff. Any nonsense about your origins and I'll—"
"What's his name?"
Commander Petrie swallowed. There was a short, uncomfortable silence. "Eblis Bey, an Elchite of the Red Crescent. Has been involved in Elchite outrages before this. Extreme Panhumanist, charged in the murder of laowons on at least one other occasion. He's regarded as so dangerous that you are not to make personal contact with him. No communication is permitted, the laowon have stressed this to me several times."
A chime sounded. The elevator was coming up again.
"That will be their excellencies. They wanted to see you in person to impress upon you the importance of the task."
Laowon here? Outside the laowon level, maintained for them free of charge by the Hyperion Grandee taxpayer?
They were anxious indeed.
The doors slid apart to reveal three laowon led by a full Urall in gold and blue. They wore dark glasses, and only removed them when Petrie dimmed the light. Jon's eyes widened at their magnificence.
"His Excellency, Gold and Blue of Chashleesh," Petrie said, bowing low from the waist as dictated in the diplomatic protocols.
Iehard bowed. He felt the compulsion to do so from long ago. These were mighty excellencies, full Weengams of the Blood. The blue-skin superior race were among them! His heart wanted to sing, his feet to dance. He had to fight the disgusting doglike joy in himself.
The Urall was a distinguished-looking specimen, in fighting trim, wide-faced with tawny gold eyes. He wore a black and gold uniform. "Roaring Clusters" glittered on his chest. His skin was a dark mauve.
"The Lady Blasilab of Chashleesh" was a haughty female relative of the Urall, slightly taller than Iehard and with a cadaverously thin face and large teeth. A much paler blue, she wore a green gown, of the high neck, long-sleeve fashion still common in military families on the frontier. Behind her ears she wore triplets of purple spines. She feigned indifference but Jon sensed an intense inspection from under heavy-lidded eyes.
"His Excellency, the Morgooze of Blue Seygfan." Petrie indicated the third laowon, a young male still with the heavy uncut mane of adolescence. His chest bristled with family emblems. He wore a dark-blue tunic and met Jon's eyes with a flat, level stare.
Jon tried not to let the shock show on his face. This was the Morgooze of Blue Seygfan itself! Only the hereditary Urall could stand higher.
He knew that each laowon would have noticed the faint scars on his forehead that marked the site of the old brand.
Before anyone had sat down, the Lady Blasilab turned to Petrie and started speaking to him as if she were addressing a gardener or a house servant. "Petrie, have you briefed the operative?"
The commander flushed, forced a smile, and showed the Grand Urall to a seat.
"Y
es, Lady Blasilab, he has been briefed. There is not much to tell him in fact. Superior Buro, you see." Petrie was ingratiating, humble. Still, Iehard sensed laowon discomfort. Petrie had been too assertive. They-who-were-innately-glorious might have been offended by human clumsiness. What if the blue ones would leave as a result? Taking away the radiance of their presence! Heaven forfend!
"Damned Superior Buro!" exploded the young male in the lao hunting tongue. "I told you they'd be tampering. There was a clear edict from the court. If they've curtailed information on this case I will lodge a formal complaint. We are to be the primary contact."
The Urall waved a hand, almost indulgently. Iehard heard the overtones, read the intricate pattern of facial expressions that accompanied the words. "Blue Seygfan does not fly alone in its concern in this case. But no Seygfan should raise formal complaints before a proper examination of the details. Otherwise Blue Seygfan will eventually fly alone."
Was inter-Seygfan conflict brewing? Iehard knew that whole planetary systems had been burnt out before by warring fleets dedicated to different Seygfan.
Petrie's knowledge of the face tongue was limited. He had only the formal tongue, the language of the lao court's paper correspondence. However, the Urall had noted that Jon understood their words.
He looked up and spoke to Iehard, in interlingua with remarkable little accent, a sure sign that the Urall had served a long time in human systems. "We have learned that you were born on a lao-ruled world. Why did you choose to leave?"
Iehard knew that deceit would be detectable. "I wanted to be free."
The Urall nodded. "I understand. I would feel the same if our situations were reversed. So you are a man of your race, but now you must cooperate with us. A terrible wrong must be righted. This fugitive, do you think he can be found?" The Urall's great eyes had tightened.
"This evil creature has escaped before!" the Lady Blasilab broke in. The Urall was visibly annoyed at the interruption. Jon, however, had counted the seven marks of lineage Blasilab wore on her taut bosom. In bloodlines she outranked even the young Morgooze. Thus the Urall bit off his remonstrances and continued to eye Jon while she ranted on.
"Once, we had him cornered. But he performed an amazing feat. He escaped our net and we still do not know how he got away. So we must be very certain this time. We must track him very, very carefully. He must suspect nothing. That is why we demanded you. We cannot afford to have dozens of humans blundering about, only the very best."
She stabbed a long, slightly blue finger at him to emphasize her words. Iehard fought the compulsion that made him see sexual attractiveness in her. He found his throat uncomfortably tight as he replied in a quiet voice.
"It is of course very unusual for an Elchite to be found in this sector of the human hegemony." His quietness forced them to concentrate. Laowons often failed really to listen to what humans said. Lady Blasilab, however, interrupted harshly.
"What is this hegemony? You refer to the designated region. Hegemony is a word that is inappropriate to human tongues."
Jon stared into the wrath of the blue-skinned goddess and refused to tremble. He'd been free too long for that.
The Urall chided her lightly in a Tollicki dialect of the hunting tongue. Iehard understood only snatches but the recriminating tone was plain. Then he continued smoothly to Jon.
"This man has traveled a very long way, it is true."
"Just ensure that he is taken this time!" said Blasilab sharply.
Petrie broke in with diplomatic smoothness to describe Iehard in flattering terms.
The young Morgooze laughed suddenly, interrupting. "I know this man. He kills for the Mass Murder Squad, am I correct?"
"Yes," Iehard said in a whisper.
The Urall's eyes widened. "Not in my brief. I will have to speak to my advisers. An odd omission for them."
"But you won't kill the Elchite, will you?" The young Morgooze's eyes were hard and bright. "You see, I must take him to the chair myself and there make him expiate before the cameras. In the name of Blue Seygfan, I demand this!"
As he uttered those words the young lord seemed to expand, to fill the space and speak for all justice, everywhere. His voice resonated in a way that made Jon's eyes blink.
On the psi plane, however, he could detect Lady Blasilab's rage and the Urall's unease. There was a silence in the room.
Iehard took a moment to speak. "I won't kill your Elchite. I only insist on one thing. That when I start the case I work alone, or only with those with whom I choose to work. Later, when I find him, you can come in, but until then I want no interference."
They-who-were-innately-glorious raised their eyebrows in an almost human expression of surprise. But Jon read the nuances of reproach, disgust, anger wisely withheld.
In the end, though, they agreed, most reluctantly, but they admitted that they had no real choice. Lady Blasilab tried to activate the submission/agreement conditioning that she suspected the willful human must have received in his youth. She used the coded allure of her eyes and lips, smiling, stretching, promising. Iehard ignored it all. The Urall even chided her again, which roused her wrath considerably at being thus exposed before a human—he read the face tongue, that was plain.
And for his part Jon knew that no one in the meeting could speak for the Superior Buro anyway. Buro agents would be on his trail. He knew what to expect.
And if he found the fugitive for them? Then an old man would be taken by the laowon and flown at enormous expense at FTL speed all the way to Lao itself and there made to scream and writhe before a crowd of thousands and a battery of cameras under hot bright lights.
A few minutes later the laowon left. Iehard was free to start his search.
CHAPTER FOUR
From a park bench, he called Coptor Brine and gave him the news. He would be freelancing for the Military Intelligence people until further notice, top priority.
Coptor agreed sourly to what was an unpleasant reduction in his limited force. But if Commander Petrie demanded it, there was no point in raising objections. "Take yourself good care, young Iehard. I want you back."
Then Jon rode the transit tube to Octagon Seven, where Meg Vance had her computer studio. Old Meg Vance was the only person he'd met who truly didn't care about his laobreed origins.
Octagon Seven was the center of the fashion industry. The station exited at the bottom of a wide shaft of reflecting glass walls. On the walls flowed gigantic projected images, models, clothes, faces, colors. Everything shifted constantly and changed frame. Seven was the frantic heart of Hyperion Grandee's nonstop social life.
The crowds on the ramps and on the prime level were heavy. It was a bluecard hour, the card cops were out in force. All bearers of red and green cards had to stay out of the octagon until the hour changed. Since it was just a few days before the Seasonal Festival that would inaugurate the annual thirty-one days of Winter Month, everyone was out shopping for something to wear to the huge corporate parties and the Masque balls that would pound on for days during the ThanksaKrismas weekend.
That's when the habitat mirrors would be tilted to the "winter position," which allowed a fraction less light. The interior would cool about fifteen to twenty degrees and a carefully orchestrated recreation of a terrestrial winter would take place. Right down to the annual snowfall, for an hour or two. It was a mark of Corporate Style, something that Hyperion Grandee and other major corporate megahabs clung to in the face of the slow, remorseless economic decline.
When two card cops in their distinctive brown uniforms demanded his bluecard, he flashed them his squad card instead. Their eyes bulged a little, but one was angry, thinking it a hoax, and wanted to check it in the nearest function box; but the other dissuaded him with urgent gestures and handed the plastic back to Jon. They moved away quickly with anxious glances back over their shoulders. No cop wanted to be involved in that kind of business!
He turned off onto a small service ramp and went through a beat-up floppy door
to a delivery corridor. The glamour soon faded back on the workshop floors. The hideous yellow wall panels were cracked and seamed. There was even some loose garbage, packaging materials and stuff, left in the corners. It could almost have been Main Street in some impoverished gigahab.
But this was just low-rent space with few amenities. Noncorporate workers, who always struggled to survive on Hyperion Grandee, clung on in competitive niches like freelance computer services. This was where Meg Vance lived and worked.
In fact Meg did well enough on the freelance money she earned from the Mass Murder Squad, working as computer backup for Iehard, that she could have had an office on a much nicer level, even with windows. But Meg was too careful with money, and too cantankerous a tenant, ever to move upscale.
In effect, outside the squad, she was Iehard's only true friend. With other people, his laoman identity had always somehow intruded even though his brands were gone. People just hated the laowon so. He remembered a girl who'd been ready to match genes with him once, then she asked him about the triangular notch in his ear. When he told her she went cold. Days later she ended the affair.
He thought sometimes that without old Meg, he would have spaced himself, just gone down to the docking bays and committed a Section Nine crime: "The felonious removal of a human body from the Hyperion Grandee biosphere without approval of the Funerals Board and its Biosphere Fluids Management Committee."
She had always managed to be there when he needed her. It was a debt they were both conscious of but never alluded to. In some ways, he thought, Meg treated him like the son she had never been able to afford. Of course she always laughed their friendship off, said that since she'd come up from the Unders of Nostramedes herself, she never felt right about putting on airs with people from anyplace else.
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