She pointed the gun at him. “Call it simple curiosity,” she said. “Or revenge for what happened in the tanker, and in Bencil Dornay’s house.”
“But we only hurt you,” the one on the deck-chair protested.
“Yes, and you were so rude to us in Stager,” the beach one said, frowning tight-lipped at her and nodding emphatically. “All we’d been going to tell you was that we’d acquired the contract from the Sad Brothers and you’d be seeing us here if you got the book, but you were so horrible to us we didn’t.”
She kept the gun pointing at the one in the chair, then lowered it.
She aimed deliberately at the book, slowly closing one eye.
The man on the beach threw himself in front of the metal casing. The one in the chair leaped up, arms out toward her and his hands spread. He stepped over his twin, lying hunched up over the book.
“Now, now, Lady Sharrow,” he said. “There’s no need to turn vandal.” He smiled nervously.
She took a deep breath, then pocketed the gun.
“I really can’t work you people out at all,” she said.
The one standing facing her, trunks repeating the surfing scene, looked puzzled and pleased at the same time. She turned on her heel and walked away across the flaking concrete, back to the doorway.
Her skull and back tingled the whole way there, again waiting for a shot, or for the pain, but when she turned round in the doorway they were still in the same positions; one curled up, fetal, round the book casing, the other standing in front of his twin, watching her.
She walked down through the shattered ramps of concrete and the wilderness of fractured lava, back to the snow-cliff and the tunnel where the crawler was waiting.
The crawler took her back to Mine Seven; the weather stayed clear enough for her to take a flight to Trench City, where the hired spacecraft was waiting. She used its terminal to get in touch with the others. She couldn’t contact them directly, but there was a filed message from Zefla reporting all was well in SkyView. She left an entry in the personal columns of the Net Gazette letting them know she had made the delivery. Thinking of cryptic messages, she checked up on the Tile race results for the past week.
There had been one winner called Hollow Book, three days earlier, the day she’d left from Miykenns.
She scanned the other mounts mentioned, wondering if it could just all be coincidence. Shy Dancer? Wonder Thing? Little Resheril Goes North? Sundry Floozies? Borrowed Sunset? Molgarin’s Keep? Right Way Round? Mash That Meat? Scrap The Whole Thing? Crush That Butt? Bip!?…None of the other names seemed to mean anything. Unless Shy Dancer was another reference to Bencil Dornay, of course…and Wonder Thing could refer to the Lazy Gun, and…She gave up; if you thought hard enough there could be significance in every name or none, and there was no way of knowing where to draw the line.
She kept thinking about the crash and the time she’d spent in the mining hospital. She tried hacking into the relevant data banks from Trench, but the wartime records weren’t accessible from outside the mining complex where they were held. She left the meter running on the hired spacecraft Wheeler Dealer (and left its two-woman crew, Tenel and Choss Esrup, to lose more money in Trench’s casinos and game-bars) and took a tube train to the First Cut mine, where she’d been hospitalized originally, after the crash.
The First Cut mine had been the first large-scale mining operation to be set up on the Ghost. The supply of heavy metals in its immediate area had been mostly worked out millennia earlier and the big companies had moved to lusher pastures, leaving smaller concerns to work the thin veins of ores still left. First Cut’s accommodation warrens had been largely abandoned, an underground city reduced to the population of a town.
“Ysul Demri,” she said, sitting in the seat the clerk indicated. “I’m interested in the part the Ghost played in the Five Percent War and I’d like access to the complex records for the time.”
The clerk was a big, blotchily skinned woman who ran her section of the First Cut warren’s administrative affairs from a booth in a small, steamy café in Drag Three, one of the warren’s main hall-streets. People walked past outside, some pushing trolleys and stalls; in the center of the street, small cars hummed past, warners chiming. The clerk watched her with one eye; the other was kept closed while she lid-screened.
“Only abstracts and interpretations available in the city archives,” she said.
A plumbing loom of eight small-bore pipes ran from the counter samovar-cisterns round the café’s walls to the various booths and over the ceiling to loop down to the central tables. The clerk put her cup under one of the small brass taps on the wall and poured herself a measure of something sweet-smelling.
“I know,” Sharrow said. She had bought her own cup, and filled it from the same tap the clerk had used. “I was really hoping to get to the raw stuff.”
The clerk was silent and still for a couple of seconds, then she drank from her cup. “You want the Foundation,” she told Sharrow. “They took over the DBs when the hospital moved to new quarters, just after the war; hospital leases back what it needs from them, like us.”
Sharrow sipped the warm, bittersweet liquid. “The Foundation?” she asked.
“Commonwealth Foundation,” the clerk said, opening both eyes for a second and looking surprised. “The People. Haven’t you heard of them?”
“I’m sorry, no,” Sharrow said.
The clerk closed both eyes for a moment. “I guess not. We tend to forget, out here,” she said. She opened one eye. “Level Seven on down, any shaft. I’ll tell them you’re coming.”
“Thank you,” Sharrow said.
“But they don’t part with stuff without a good reason, usually. Best of luck.”
“To sum up; the history of Golter, and of the system, is one of a continual search for stability. It is a search which has itself consistently helped destroy the quality it was instigated to discover. Arguably, every conceivable system of political power-management has now been tried; none survive conceptually with any degree of credibility, and even the last full-scale bid to impose central authority in the shape of the Ladyr dynasty was more of a retro-fashion pastiche of previous imperial eras—which even the participants themselves found it difficult to take seriously—than a serious attempt to establish a lasting hegemony over the power-functions of the system.
“The current stalemate between progressive and regressive forces has given us seven hundred years of bureaucratic constipation in the shape of the World Court and the associated but largely symbolic Council. Power today rests in the hands of the lawyers. Those whose function it ought to be merely to help regulate have—following the failure of nerve in those with the rightful claim and historical provenance required for leadership—come instead to legislate. By their very nature, they will ensure that having taken the reins of power into their hands, they cannot legally be wrested from them.
“What has to be remembered by those who care for the future as well as the history of our species is that law is no more than an abstraction of justice; an expression of a society’s political will and philosophical conceptions. Truth, right and justice are processes, not states. They are dynamic functions which can only be expressed and understood through action…And arguably the time for action is fast approaching. Thank you.”
The young lecturer executed a small bow to the packed theater and started boxing his paper-written notes. The hall erupted, startling her. She stood at the back of the lecture theater, clutching her satchel and looking round the two thousand or so people crammed into the space. They were all on their feet, clapping and cheering and stamping their feet.
Lectures in Yadayeypon had never been like this, she thought. The lecturer—a slim, medium-tall young man with dark curls and darker eyes—was escorted from the foot of the theater by a shield of efficient-looking security guards in white uniforms who had taken up the first row of seats in the auditorium. The guards had to keep a hundred or so people back from the door
the young man had exited through; the besieging crowd waved notebooks and cameras and recorders, pleading with the blank-faced guards to let them through.
She stood for a while, sporadically jostled by the departing crowds of mostly young and very polite people filing out of the lecture theater. She was trying to recall witnessing a more charismatic speaker, but could not. There had been a startling buzz of emotion crackling through the whole theater throughout the hour of the lecture she’d caught, even though the things the young man had actually been saying weren’t particularly original or dramatic. Nevertheless, the feeling was infectious and undeniable. She’d had the same feeling of excitement, of impendingness that she got sometimes when she heard an especially talented new band or singer, or read some particularly promising poet, or saw some screen or stage prodigy for the first time. It was something akin to the first, lustful stage of obsessive love.
She shook herself out of it and checked the time. There was another tube back to Trench in an hour. She very much doubted she was going to have any luck getting to see this fellow who seemed to control access to everything including fifteen-year-old hospital records, but she had to see the authorities anyway to get her gun back; they’d taken it from her when she’d gone into the lecture theater.
The Commonwealth Foundation appeared to be part charity, part Irregular University and part political party. It seemed to have taken over most of First Cut’s largely deserted lower warren, and this young man, Girmeyn, gave every appearance of being its leader, even though nobody ever quite addressed him as such.
“Girmeyn will see you now, Ms. Demri,” the white-uniformed guard said.
She had been watching screen, sitting in the draftily warm cave of a waiting room with about two hundred other people who were petitioning to see the man.
She looked up, surprised. She’d given up any hope of seeing Girmeyn when she’d seen the crowd. All she wanted now was to retrieve the HandCannon.
“He will?” she said. People sitting nearby stared at her.
“Please follow me,” the guard said.
She followed the white-uniformed guard as he led her to the end of the waiting room and into a corridor. The corridor ended in a long, comfortably furnished chamber looking down into a huge cavern.
The cavern was walled in naked black rock. Its smooth floor was covered with ancient, glittering machinery which towered twenty meters into the space, almost level with the windows of the gallery. The complicated, indecipherable machines—so ambiguous in their convoluted design they could have been turbines, generators, nuclear or chemical reactors or agents of a hundred other processes—glittered under bright overhead lights. Huge pale stalactites fluted pendulously from the roof of the cavern in moist folds of deposited rock, counterpointed by stalagmites on the cavern floor beneath. Where the machinery got in the way, the deposits had merged, the never less than meter-thick columns conjoined to and mingling intimately with the silent machines.
She stared at the scene for a few seconds, made dizzy by the sheer weight of time implicit in the slumped topology of the palely gleaming, technology-enfolding pillars.
“Ms. Demri?” an elderly white-uniformed man said.
She looked round. “Yes?”
“This way.” He held out his hand. Girmeyn sat behind a large desk at the far end of the room, surrounded by a variety of people with yolk-screens, hand-screens, brow projectors, patch-screens and, judging by the one-eyed aspect of a couple of them, lid-screens. She was shown into a large seat to one side of the desk, across a smaller table from a similar seat and just by the windows looking out into the cavern.
She sat still for a few minutes, watching what looked remarkably like a prince conducting the affairs of state, before the young man stood up behind his desk, bowed to the people and walked over to join her. The men and women surrounding the desk mostly stood where they were; some sat down on seats and some on the floor. Sharrow stood up to shake his hand. His grip was strong and warm.
“Ms. Demri,” he said. His voice was deeper than she’d expected. He bowed to her and sat in the other seat. He was dressed as he had been in the lecture theater half an hour earlier, in a conservative black academic gown. He was even younger than she’d thought; early rather than mid-twenties. His exquisitely tangled medium-length hair was blue-black, his pale brown, depilated skin was smooth and unblemished. His lips were full and expressive beneath a long, delicate nose. His jaw was strong and he had a dimple on his chin. He sat relaxed but formal in the seat, his dark eyes inspecting her.
“It’s very kind of you to see me,” she said, “but I really only want access to some fifteen-year-old hospital records.” She glanced behind her. “There are so many people waiting out there, I feel positively unworthy.”
“Are you a student of the Five Percent War, Ms. Demri?” he asked. There was a practiced ease about his voice that belonged in somebody of immense experience and authority three times his age. His voice poured over her.
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
“May I ask where?”
“Well, I did attend Yadayeypon some time ago. But I’m independent now; it’s almost more of a hobby…”
He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “I must have led an even more sheltered life than I thought, Ms. Demri, if students have to carry such large pieces of ordnance around with them.” He glanced round to the desk and made a motion with one hand. The elderly guard who’d first greeted her brought the HandCannon over.
“It is safe to handle, sir,” he said, presenting the gun to Girmeyn, who inspected it.
From the way he held it, she knew he had probably never held a gun in his life.
The elderly guard stooped toward her; he held the gun’s magazine in one hand, and in the other, between two fingers, a General Purpose HandCannon round. She looked up at it and then him.
“You shouldn’t keep a round in the breech like that, ma’am,” he told her. “It’s dangerous.”
“So I’m told,” she said, sighing. The guard went back to the desk. Girmeyn passed the HandCannon to her just as the elderly guard had to him. She put it in her pocket.
“Thank you,” she said. He seemed to be expecting something more. She shrugged. “The competition for research grants is unusually fierce this year.”
He smiled. “You think these old hospital records will help you in your studies?”
She was starting to wonder. She had a feeling—somehow quite distinct but utterly vague at the same time—that there was something important going on here, but she had no clue whatsoever what it might be. “They might,” she said. “I can’t help thinking this is all getting out of proportion. It’s not an especially important request, I’d have thought, and you’re obviously so busy…” She waved one hand.
“Details matter, though, don’t you think?” he said. “Sometimes what appear to be utterly inconsequential actions have the most enormous results. Chance makes the casual momentous. It is the fulcrum upon which the levers of action rest.”
She chanced a small laugh. “Do you always speak in epigrams, Mister Girmeyn?”
He smiled broadly, dazzlingly. “Occupational hazard,” he said, spreading his hands. “Allow me to attenuate my portentousness for you.”
She grinned, looked down. “I heard the latter half of your lecture,” she said. “It was very impressive.”
“In content or delivery?” he asked, slinging an arm over the back of his chair.
“In delivery, absolutely,” she told him. “In content…” She shrugged. “To employ a phrase you might take issue with; the jury’s still out on that.”
“Hmm,” he said, frowning and smiling at the same time. “The usual answer to that question is ‘both.’ ”
She glanced at the people round the desk, most of whom were pretending not to look at Girmeyn and her. “I’m sure it is,” she told him.
“My arguments didn’t touch you, then?” He looked sad. She had a brief, vertiginous, revelatory feeling that she could
very easily fall in love with this man, and that not only had hundreds, perhaps thousands of people already done so, but that many more might yet.
She cleared her throat. “They worry me. They sound so much like what so many people want to hear; what they believe they would say if they were sufficiently artic ulate.”
“Using your chosen terminology,” he said quietly, “I would have to plead guilty. And enter a special defense of being right, and the current law wrong.” He smiled.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that perhaps too many people want things to be simple when they are not and cannot be. Encouraging that desire is seductive and rewarding, but also dangerous.”
He looked away a little, as if inspecting something far in the distance over her left shoulder. He nodded slowly for a few moments. “I think power has always been like that,” he said, his voice low.
“I have a…relation,” she said, “who I think has become, largely because of her environment, quite thoroughly deranged over the last few years.” She met Girmeyn’s gaze and looked into the darkness there. “I have the disquieting feeling that she wouldn’t have disagreed with a single word you said today.”
He shrugged with exaggerated slowness. “Still, don’t be alarmed, Ms. Demri,” he said. “I am just a humble functionary. Indeed technically I am still a student.” He smiled; still holding her gaze. “Two years ago they asked me to lecture; last year they began to call me professor, and now people come to me and ask for my help, and some invite me to visit them and advise them…oh, all over the Ghost.” He smiled. “But I am still a student; still learning.”
“Next year, the system?”
He looked puzzled, then favored her with another broad, ravishing smile. “At least!” He laughed.
She couldn’t help laughing too, still gazing at him.
He wouldn’t look away. She held his gaze, drinking it in.
Eventually she started to consider being the one to break off because otherwise they might sit here like this for the rest of the day. Then the elderly guard approached again. He stood to one side and coughed.
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