Rommie began a swift overview. “There are various categories, dividing the emporia roughly into food, theater, music, and gaming. Some combine all of these, in particular the fantasy-lands.”
Harper rubbed his hands. “Fantasy-lands. Let’s hear more about those.”
Rommie in the screen turned his way. “Besides the more usual gambling and gaming emporia that are decorated and run on themes, they also boast live-action participatory entertainments they call bontemps.”
“‘Bo-tahmp’?” said Beka, trying to reproduce the nasal tone.
“It means ‘good times’ in an ancient Earth language. Bontemps are areas where one can assume costume and participate in what otherwise we might have called theater, but there are no scripts or lines, or at least they are limited. It looks like some of these fantasy-lands have guided adventures, others are more free-form, but all of them have safe words to get one out of trouble—for paying customers.
“And nonpaying customers?” asked Harper.
Rommie smiled. “You don’t have to pay. Anyone can participate in them for free—and potentially win an appreciable amount of credit—but then you don’t get the safe words.”
“And just what kind of trouble can you get into?” Beka asked, sending a wary glance Harper’s way. She didn’t trust that grin. Well, he can do what he wants, but he’s not getting me into one of his fantasies, that’s for damn sure.
“Apparently anything up to and including crushed limbs and serious puncture wounds—rumor implies even worse,” replied Rommie. “But that’s not surprising, since the spectrum seems to cover just about anything you can imagine from human, Perseid, or Than history. Most stick to their own history, but there’s some crossover. The Perseids seem to find the human medieval jousts and quests rather attractive.”
Dylan stirred in his seat. “That makes sense, if there are elaborate rules for precedence, verbal exchanges and courtesies, everything bound to etiquette from the dances to what foods are offered and how they eat them. Perseids like complicated rules and etiquette. Most of the Perseid theater, at least three hundred years ago, that I experienced all centered around someone trying to get around their social rules.”
“That sounds Perseid, all right,” Harper said. “Remind me not to snore. But I can’t see Perseids being into safe words and danger.”
“That would be the humans,” Beka commented wryly. “I can believe that some people are attracted by the realism implied by not knowing the safe words.” My brother, Rafe, being first in mind. Only he’d also be the first to find a way to cheat.
“Realism? Perseids, medieval history, and realism do not compute. At least, not the medieval history I watched on the vid once, back in the bad old days on Earth, when I was hiding from a Nietzschean search party,” Harper commented. “According to that vid medieval life was more like picking lice out of your bed, not to mention your hair and less mentionable places, and the etiquette of those banquets was pretty much limited to throwing bones to the dogs and wiping your nose on your sleeve. Or your neighbor’s sleeve, if you happened to be the king.”
“But it’s fairy-tale medieval life,” Beka said. “This entire place is a fairy-tale kind of place, right down to the magic incantations—and here, wealth will buy you the magic.” She eyed the Drift. There were numerous recreational planets in the Known Worlds, terra-formed to seem like old Earth for people who wanted the outdoor experience, but as far as Beka was concerned, outdoor experience was only something to be viewed on a screen, from the safety and comfort of a constructed room filled with filtered air, and no bugs, mulch, hurricanes, quakes, or other planetary hazards within light-years.
Rommie was going on. “… and for those with more exotic tastes, there is even a Nietzschean simulacrum, where people can pretend to be Nietzscheans—or their slaves.”
A snort from the weapons console reminded them all of the real Nietzschean who otherwise had been listening with his customary silence.
“… slaves fighting Magog—”
Dylan sat up. “That’s the second time you’ve brought up slaves. Is this something we need to investigate? Do those games have safe words?”
Rommie said, “So it is claimed. Certainly clients come and pay great sums to play at slavery—”
“That’s sick!” Harper exclaimed.
“You beat me to it,” Dylan muttered.
“—or to play at commanding them, but the supposed slaves in the Magog fantasy-land—”
“Magog!” Beka and Harper both exclaimed.
“Part of one of those gladiator domes,” Rommie said. “The database maintains they are actors, hired, with agreed-on contracts, pay scales, time off, and complete medical coverage. If there are real Magog among them, my guess is they are civilized ones, like Rev Bern.”
Dylan sat back, sighing. “I really don’t like the sound of this slavery business, but I guess if it’s games, and not real…”
“I could investigate some more, if you like, but it will take me a while to get that deeply into their system.”
Dylan shook his head. “Not unless they give us a reason.”
“I can sum up better by saying that in every instance, apparently, considerable wealth changes hands. As Beka stated so correctly, these paradises are not cheap,” Rommie said.
Beka smiled wryly. A recreational Drift that catered to the jaded tastes of exclusive clientele? Only to be dreamed of for the likes of Beka Valentine, daughter of Ignatius Valentine, space grifter, sister to Rafe Valentine, one of the Known Worlds’ worst con artists. She smiled, but it was not an especially pleasant smile. Beka had not survived as long as she had by assuming that just because someone promised something, they would deliver—no strings attached.
She was just waiting for the strings to dangle.
Dylan rubbed his jaw. “Then this Drift has to represent tremendous wealth.”
“Yes.”
“And wealth is what we are going to need if we’re to build the defense the new Commonwealth requires when the Magog Worldship comes looking for destruction.”
No one spoke; they heard the decision in Dylan’s voice, and their memories of the Magog Worldship turned even Tyr’s mood somber.
The only one whose mood did not stay somber was Trance.
“Oooh, it’s so pretty,” she exclaimed from her station at the sensor controls. There was no real need for her to be monitoring the ship: all the lights glowed green, but the crew wanted to be there on the Command Deck where things were happening, and Dylan Hunt had learned to compromise between military necessity and the give-and-take of a trade crew who had become very adept at helping to defend a warship.
Trance’s large eyes, her faintly glowing golden skin, her long elaborately braided hair were etched like sunlight against the darkness of space as she smiled up at the screen. “It’s a crown,” she murmured again. Dylan blinked, his view of the Drift re-forming abruptly like an optical illusion.
“I wonder if that’s on purpose?” he said, but Trance didn’t reply. Dylan wondered what fascinated the mysterious girl who once had been killed and appeared alive again—who once had glowed not gold but purple.
They glided silently past snaking braids of air and fluid conduits, past vast windows that glowed various colors. Maintenance bots drifted along the vast construct, seeing to microrepairs, their tiny lights like fireflies.
In the middle of the Drift were the docking bays, gaping hangars and for much larger ships, like this battle cruiser, extruded arms that were basically life-support conduits as well as access-ways. Andromeda eased up next to the very first dock. A shudder ran through millions of tons of warship as the massive locks engaged.
Rommie glanced down from a side screen. “Communication from Codirector Alphyra Kodos now incoming.”
That meant a two-way link. Before the vid-light above the viewscreen glowed green, indicating that the camera was sending their images to the Drift, Dylan sat up, military posture such a habit he was unaware of how impressi
ve he appeared: tall, strong, wearing a uniform designed to enhance the fit bodies of executive officers in the High Guard.
Trance tipped her head, smiling; Harper straightened up, hiding the cola can behind his back, his most beguiling smile—at least, what he hoped was his most beguiling smile—on his lips.
Tyr Anasazi crossed his powerful arms, otherwise unmoved.
Rommie’s face was replaced by that of a tall woman with thick-lashed dark eyes and exquisite bones under her beautiful dusky skin, all enhanced by a shimmering gown of classical design. “My codirectors join me in wishing you welcome to Paradise Drift, Captain Hunt,” she said. “We thank you for responding to our communiqué.”
“On behalf of the new Commonwealth,” Dylan said, knowing his words were as canned as Director Kodos’s, but the forms had to be gone through. “We are pleased to be here, and we look forward to the opportunity to welcome you to the new Commonwealth.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Director Kodos dipped her head. “As an expression of our goodwill, and our confidence that we will reach an accord and be welcomed in our turn to the new Commonwealth, we would like to extend to you, and your entire crew, an invitation to visit the recreation facilities as our guests; we will furnish each with a goods-and-services chit. I invite you to a special reception in your honor at hour twenty-two, in the Vedran Reception Deck,” the woman finished, and she smiled, a truly beautiful smile. “Again, on my own behalf, I wish to say welcome. I look forward to meeting you.”
The connection blinked, and was replaced by Rommie.
“Wahoo!” Harper started dancing around the Command Deck. “Yeah baby, that’s what I wanted to hear!”
“Harper,” Dylan said.
“Shut up,” Beka added, in case Harper wasn’t getting the hint.
Harper continued to dance about, but his woo-hoos of joy were considerably softer.
Dylan looked around. “So, since military protocol has never worked with this crew, shall we draw straws?”
“Draw?” Trance asked, motioning for a stylus. “As a form of art?”
Harper froze midwhoop. “What? Why?”
Beka had not moved, her chin still resting on her hands. “If this were the Eureka Maru” she said, naming her rattletrap trade vessel with its hyperdeveloped engines and weaponry, now residing down in one of the hangar bays, “do you think I would permit the ship to sit untenanted?”
Harper smacked his hands over his forehead. “But this is a warship! Full of nasty bots that fight with battle lances! Not to mention the booby-traps that an unnamed, genius engineer placed all over the engine department in case someone comes aboard with a serious case of Nose.”
Dylan Hunt exchanged a wry glance with Beka. “They never understand, do they?”
Beka shook her head. “Never.”
Harper groaned. “I hate drawing straws! I always get the short one! It’s the one certainty in an otherwise totally random universe—”
“You may stop whining,” cut in the soft voice of Tyr Anasazi. “I will remain aboard alone.”
Everyone turned to face the Nietzschean, who stood, looking menacing.
“I have no interest whatsoever in recreational Drifts.” His strong white teeth showed briefly. “I can better use my time here, while you are doing whatever it is you are going to do there.”
“Done.” Dylan rose to his feet, the signal for them all to disperse.
Beka waited until they were outside the Command Deck; Harper had already vanished, and so had Trance. “Better use his time?”
Dylan gave her a quizzical glance. “You don’t trust him?”
“Do you?” she countered. Then she gave him a wry smile. “Fight beside him, listen to his plans, believe what he says, yes, but when he promises he can better use his time, but doesn’t say how, suddenly he’s not Tyr but a Nietzschean.”
Dylan laughed. “Yes. I feel the same way. But remember, he won’t be alone. The ship needs a live person aboard in case there is emergency piloting to be done, but only for that reason. Otherwise…”
Beka snorted. “I must be more tired from the Slipstream run than I thought.”
And right on cue, Rommie appeared behind them. Not the digital Rommie who spoke to them from screens but the public-interface avatar Rommie, designed and built by Harper, who looked like a real woman.
A real woman made out of nanosilicate and petrolubricant who was at least as strong as Tyr Anasazi, and a whole lot faster. Who had a vast computer databank for a brain.
“I’ll be here too,” Rommie said—the Rommie in the screen, not standing before them—and smiled. “It’ll be quite cozy, just the two of us.”
“And I,” said the avatar Rommie, “will be going with you.”
THREE
The ancient Earth scientist H. G. Wells once said that the social contract is nothing more or less than a vast conspiracy of human beings to lie to and humbug one another for the general good. If that’s so, why not have fun doing it?
—CANSHI VAS FANGRU,
BEFORE OPENING THE
FIRST RECREATIONAL DRIFT, CY 512
When they regathered to transfer over to the Drift, Rommie handed them all a thin band, watching as Beka clipped hers inside the sleeve of her overall, Harper slapped his round his wrist, and Trance (after admiring it in the light) carefully put it into a heretofore hidden pocket of her stylish paneled overtunic. Dylan’s was already woven into his uniform cuff.
“They will probably give us comlinks on the chits,” Rommie said.
“Comlinks that they will, of course, record and listen to,” Beka put in.
Rommie nodded, her short, shining dark hair swinging against her jawline. “Exactly.” She passed out tiny metallic bags. “So put it in this faraday pocket when you don’t want Paradise Drift to hear what you’re saying. Of course, you’ll need them to change levels, or enter shops or attractions, or charge anything to the ship account, so you can’t leave them there all the time. And besides, I can use the traffic to analyze their encryption tech, maybe eventually let you use the chits without being overheard.”
Beka laughed. “Just chatter when they’re not in our pockets, eh?” She glanced at Harper, eyebrows quirked. “Shouldn’t be too hard for some of us.”
Harper grinned back at her, lounging against the bulkhead, hands in his pockets. “I will share my lofty thoughts freely. But what’s to keep them from listening in on your links?”
“If they want to spend the time it’ll take to break the encryption, nothing,” Rommie said. “That’s assuming they can even find us among so many people. And I’ll probably know if they do.”
She smiled. “Just for added fun, they’ll first have to figure out that I’m using Than com protocols, not human.”
“Then let’s go,” Dylan said, and led the way down the last ramp to the outer lock. Outside the lock, Dylan turned back to the others, saying without much hope, “Anyone besides Rommie who wants to accompany me to the reception, you have but to speak up.”
Harper laughed as though Dylan had made the funniest joke of the century.
Beka said, with her usual cool irony, “Oh, and shock them all with the ruffians you crew with? No, I think we can manage to find a way to entertain ourselves.”
Harper, damn him, was still laughing when the lock opened.
Trance followed Rommie into the lock. Harper was first one in—of course. He was almost dancing with impatience, still grinning at the very idea of standing stiff as an effigy next to Dylan while political pundits bored on and on. Yeah, right, Dylan, try pulling the other one.
Beka and Dylan followed last, both glancing back inside the ship, a captain’s habit going back not just generations but millennia. Their last glimpse of Tyr was a very sardonic lift of the hand as they stepped through the lock into the Drift’s lock.
Dylan touched the console and the ship’s doors slid closed with a quiet hush. For a moment they were alone between the ship and the Drift; the vents hissed as the lock equaliz
ed.
“Captain,” said Rommie, “standard retinal scan and DNA sampling, but we’re also being nanotagged.”
“Interesting,” said Dylan. “Looks like they don’t want us dumping our chits and wandering incognito. Maybe just common sense for such a wealthy Drift, but it might be a good idea to be able to decrypt all the locator protocols you can find. Just in case.”
“I’m already on it,” said Rommie.
Beka’s ears popped. She glanced up at Dylan, tall, powerfully built, his chiseled face dominated by a pair of acute hazel eyes that could change in less than a heartbeat from kindly humor to a frightening intensity.
Habit caused her to repress the warmth of attraction that wanted to bloom behind her ribs when she took in the flawless fit of his High Guard dress uniform, the stylized combination of leather and heavy broadcloth in dark colors, designed to flatter. Not that Dylan needed much flattery.
She glanced away as the Drift lock hissed open, revealing not just the usual bare-bones accessway, smelling of outgassing organics and the faint, never-scrubbed tang of too many sentients in too small a space but a well-designed hall that reminded Dylan of extremely costly hotels on the Commonwealth’s former capital planet, Tarn-Vedra. The lighting was indirect, evoking a soft glow from the complex parquet deck and the star-shaped mandalas inlaid in it.
Waiting to greet them was a tall, weedy young Perseid wearing a plain robe of very fine weave.
“Greetings, crew of the Andromeda Ascendant.” His voice was high and mellow. “I am Kalad, social interface coordinator. Please do come this way.”
As Kalad turned to lead them into the access, Beka sent a glance at Harper. As usual he was dressed flamboyantly, in a very loud shirt, baggy trousers, his fair hair spiked up. He gave her a self-deprecating grimace: Yes, he was on his best behavior, and yes, he would do nothing to blow their chances of fun here. The only sign of his nervous restlessness was the twitch of his fingers against those shabby trousers (which were at least clean); Trance wore her usual complicated clothing, panels and drapes of various golden shades—a style all her own. Beka had chosen a fine suit, comfortable, well cut, and subdued in color and design, whose chief feature was a series of very discreet pockets.
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