Self satisfaction—and was that suppressed mirth?
Rommie glanced around. Resignation and politeness in the Perseids, suppressed yawns in some of the department heads. No one could tell what the Than thought, of course, though Rommie was willing to bet they didn’t share the joke, whatever the joke was.
Neither did Delta Kodos, who stared down at her flexi, still busy with duty, her mouth compressed.
“And the molding we chose for all the hatches was a combination of materials from the asteroids around our fourth satellite here. The color selected is meant to evoke the peace of a dawn on a planet….”
Alphyra Kodos listened with an air of calm, but was that a shadow of laughter at the corners of her mouth? Torbal droned on about the styling on doors coming from a thousand year old Than upper-caste hive mode, and what it had signified.
Torbal turned to each of the six doors, delivered a smooth, bland, and completely elementary lecture on each, and then invited them to tour Supply next.
Delta had gone back to monitoring her flexi; department heads were surreptitiously conducting communications, and the other guests seemed glaze-eyed with boredom.
Rommie watched Alphyra summon her young Perseid aid, who led the Perseids toward one lift. A low-caste Than guide gestured for the Than to follow her. Then she stepped up to Dylan while the long line of humans trailed to another lift, and during the shuffle of precedence before yet another transfer, the two of them slipped into a small private lift, and vanished.
And while Beka skimmed the inner surface of a huge sphere made to look like an asteroid inside out, dodging and hiding behind floating rocks and laser-zapping other players in their null-g cars, Ujio Steelblade stopped in a little eatery, and took a private booth.
He had finished his own tour of the main concourses, having compared what he saw to the map supplied by the Information Desk and then pulling up some deeper information from his flexi.
As he’d expected, the locator system had bounced his probes pretty hard. It was now time to release his nanoscanners, level by level, and start his own search. He downloaded the tourist map into his flexi, then paused to add a single corollary: the physical stats on one Beka Valentine.
Memory seized him: “This is the one I want. “The ugly, thick passion in the Nightsider’s voice contrasted with the holo of a slim, laughing young woman. “Beka Valentine. I want her dead. And I don’t care how long you take to do it. In fact, I do. Make it last—then bring me her head—and you will get paid double.”
Ujio Steelblade dismissed the memory. He sat back, palmed the tiny capsule from his wrist dispenser, and thumbed its catch. He watched the brief flicker of light that indicated thousands of nanobots winging off on their search.
EIGHT
A friend in power usually becomes an enemy—unless you have more power.
—DRAGO MUSEVENI, CY 8689
Trance emerged from the lift-tube to discover yet another park in the center of the concourse. This one featured a profusion of bright green, ferny plants among tumbled rocks that were shaped into small pools. In the middle of each pool was a fountain, the sprays slowly changing from spurts to arched streams, colored lights in the rocks shining on the water to alter the hue of the constant flow.
In the center lay a large pool, but from it water did not emerge. Instead a constant cascade of the bees—Trance had decided to call those iridescent nanobots bees, as they did not act like any nanobots she’d ever seen before—emulated water, even to reflecting the fluid silvery white of the fountains. But the waterfall, or bee-fall, suggested shapes, always pleasing to the eye, always melding and blending too swiftly to be distinctly identified.
Trance turned her head, and discovered that it took an effort to direct her eye away from that mesmerizing shimmer of constant, fluid color. Now she watched the passersby.
This park was the largest, and the fountain seemed to draw the most attention. Some of the beings were too involved in their destination, or in one another, to glance this way, but those whose eyes strayed toward the park, no matter how idle, how distracted, inevitably slowed their steps. Faces that registered expression (humans or humanoids) seemed bemused, pensive, contemplative. The Than slowed their steps, their movements stiffened curiously; some of the other races hooted, shivered, or stridulated, indicating interest.
Trance closed her eyes and reached, detecting psychotropic resonance.
Deliberate? Definitely. To what end?
When she opened her eyes and again surveyed the crowded concourse, she was distracted by a familiar figure: Harper, walking with a woman. Trance smiled, glad he’d already found a friend.
That was first glance. Second made her look more closely. Everything about Harper—his walk, his posture, his pained expression—seemed wrong.
“Hullo,” Trance said, and both Harper and the woman looked up fast.
“Trance,” Harper said, and seemed about to add something, but then he shrugged.
Trance turned her attention to the woman, who was small, short light hair, dressed like most spacers in loose, practical clothing, her scarred face alert and wary.
Harper waved a hand. “Trance, we’ll be going now. We’re on the point, you might say, of some lethal communication, or should I say poisonous?”
The woman glared at him.
“Poisonous,” Harper said, now in his manic mode. “Definitely poisonous, but I hope to take the edge off, if you get my drift. My Drift, not yours—”
The woman nudged him, and he jumped. “Stop babbling, and let’s go,” she said in a low voice, adding with obvious extra meaning, “There isn’t much time.”
“Right,” Harper said, spreading his hands. “Right, right, right. Trance?”
“Let’s gö.”
The woman abruptly started off in another direction, and Harper lunged after her. “Oh no, I’m not losing you,” he said.
Trance watched as they were swallowed by the crowd. That was strange, even for Harper, but… she closed her eyes.
No, she couldn’t see any lines of probability—the interference from the bees was far too strong.
Bees.
Trance studied the constant waterfall, with its fascinating fall of soft rainbow colors. How many of these things are there? she wondered, and pulled out her chit.
Alphyra, where are you?
Delta, stay with the tour, and keep Dylan’s aide busy and happy.
But you promised there would be no negotiations without the other directors present.
This is not any negotiation. It is merely one human introducing another human to the Drift. I want him to be comfortable because that means he will be receptive. You may tell Vandat that, if he notices. I timed it very carefully, for everyone’s comfort: the Perseids should be busy at their own reception. The Than at theirs. You must be hostess for the humans; take them up to our reception chamber, and keep them entertained until we return.
Alphyra sensed that Delta was unhappy, though she tried to hide it. Dear Delta, so loyal, but so simple. Regrettably so simple. Alphyra made a mental note to give her a little personal time later on; now was too crucial for the well-being of the Drift, of Rigos, for anything but this Captain Hunt.
And so she waved him into her grand salon, and stood back, watching him take in the tasteful decor, evoking Vedran styles of three centuries ago. She led the way past an magnificent hand-painted folding screen depicting highly stylized centauroid shapes cavorting in a springtime setting, to where a table sat, again in the Vedran style, made of exquisitely carved wood.
“Come, have some refreshment,” she invited, and laughed. “Not reception food, either, which has to be so very bland in order to appeal to all the various beings who congregate together here. But you have already come to that conclusion, I am certain.”
Dylan Hunt gave her a wry smile, and she rejoiced, knowing that she’d struck the right tone here—which was a promising sign that indeed this fellow would fall right in with the rest of her plans.
She served him with both hands, and then sat back in her chair, observing his covert glances at her head with its crown of hair piled up in the style popular in the Vedran court three hundred years ago, her gown in the same style. Men are so simple, she thought, so delightfully predictable. And sat so that he could better appreciate the figure beneath the costly gown.
“Now we can begin,” she murmured.
Yes, back to the subject. He braced himself for a diplomatic onslaught, and she observed that slight tightening of the shoulders, the smoothing of his expression.
She leaned forward. “Correct me if I mistake, but I imagine you are tired of diplomatic speeches. Instead—only if you wish—please just talk to me. You were born during the period of history I love the most. If it wouldn’t be too tedious, tell me about life on Tarn-Vedra?”
The question was completely unexpected, and Dylan hesitated a long moment. Instinct was giving him mixed signals: beautiful woman evocative of home conflicted with the expectation of the game-playing that underlay diplomatic maneuvers.
He resisted the impulse to sigh as automatically and as skillfully as he’d repressed yawns during that tour, which had been curiously elementary. He also resisted the impulse to tab Rommie and ask what she thought. Let her listen in; they could talk later.
Meanwhile she could also keep a digital eye on the other crew members. Not that Beka would need it. She was the walking model of self-sufficiency. And Trance was…Trance.
Dylan thought of Harper, hoped he had managed to stay out of trouble so far, all in the time it took to take a sip of the fragrant herbal drink. The extremely rare, expensive herbal drink.
He looked up into Alphyra’s beautiful eyes, her lovely smile.
“Where should I begin?” he asked.
“Where should I begin?” asked the young woman with the scarred face.
“With me,” Harper said, as the two slid into a corner booth of a spacer bar, the bar as well as the booth chosen by mutual and unspoken agreement.
Harper and his assailant both realized a moment later that they’d wanted a familiar setting, and neither of them would sit with their backs to anyone. They both needed to face the room, and have at least two exits in view: the conventional one, and the discreet workers’ exit just adjacent their booth.
The sight of scruffy spacers of both sexes; the sounds of raucous music from human worlds; the smells of cheap, spicy food and very good beer, were all familiar. Comforting, even.
They both realized it, and recognized each other’s reaction, but the shared realization did not ease the situation one jot.
Harper grimaced. “Definitely begin with me. Or to be exact, with why me?” He frowned, staring at her profile, as a serving flexi slid up from the corner of the table; they ran their chits through it and tapped a choice, the flexi slid down, and a moment later the table dumbwaiter brought up two frosty mugs of beer. They both reached for a mug. “Or, you could begin with you, and why you look familiar, and then we’ll talk about me.”
“Cynda Shendo,” she said.
Harper choked on his first sip of beer, regretting it a moment later, as the beer was far too good to waste. “Cyn?” he squawked.
She gave him a thump on his back. “So you remember me?” she asked, her mouth twisted.
Harper cleared his throat. “How could I forget? You were—well, you and I—well.”
She propped her chin on her hand and watched him run a hand through his already messy yellow hair. How cute he was—still! After all these years. No, thinking that way would lead exactly nowhere. “Go ahead. I’d love to hear how you’re going to put it.”
Harper sighed. “We were thirteen, Cyn! And you had red hair in those days, and. You were, urn, shorter. And. Younger. I mean, so was I, and we were both young, way young, and we. Well.”
Cyn gave him another of those twisted smiles. “Were you about to apologize for sneaking with me up into the rafters over the abandoned museum all those years ago for some kissy-face? And here I thought it was I who was leading you astray.”
Harper opened his hands. “All I remember are the kisses. That was one of the very few things I like to remember from those days. So you aren’t here to…” He waved a hand. “Get mad at me, or get even with me, for those happy afternoons over Boston Museum? I mean, I wasn’t exactly couth in those days, I realize, and so when—” He realized he was babbling, and shut up. No, she couldn’t possibly still be angry that he’d dumped her for a fascinating older woman of fifteen.
Cyn snorted. “I don’t blame you for all the silly stuff we did in those days any more than I blame you for shooting more rats than I did afterward. Life wasn’t much fun in those days.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Entirely too unfun.”
“Yes.”
“Just like now,” she said, her eyes narrowed to angry crescents over the foam of the beer she gripped in both hands.
“Whoa,” Harper said. “Not that I’m denying anything, but you really don’t want to spill this beer. That would be an act against art, if not nature. It’s entirely too good for spilling. Trust me.”
Cyn glanced down, then drank half her beer in one long gulp. “Yes. It’s good. Unlike the rat-piss we get at home, because that’s all that’s available.”
Harper sighed. “You’re not blaming me for that. Are you?”
“You abandoned us,” Cyn whispered.
“No, I didn’t! I ran for my life!”
“You promised to help, and you abandoned Brendan. And the rest of us in Boston. The rest of the world.”
“No, I didn’t!”
Her eyes narrowed again, angrier than ever, despite the tears gleaming in them.
“You broke your promise and you abandoned us.”
“Cyn, there was nothing—”
“So I’m here to help you keep your word. You won’t get that antidote until we get leave the dock in my ship and are on our way to the Slipstream.”
“Arrrgh.” Harper ordered another beer, then let his head thump on the table in front of him.
NINE
The idea of placing artificial intelligences aboard warships is preposterous. What is to prevent them from deciding to take the initiative? What would happen to us then?
—SENATOR GASPARD WHITLOCK,
TWO YEARS BEFORE THE
SYSTEMS COMMONWEALTH DISCOVERED EARTH
Keep me busy? Rommie nodded once. That suits me just fine. I think Dylan would want me to dive a little deeper into their systems: this diversion is reason enough to suspect we may need an ace—or several aces—up our sleeves.
When they emerged from the VIP lift Delta Kodos faced the humans remaining, and said, “We’ll go back to the reception salons now, in case anyone has further questions.”
And as she led the way to the VIP lift, Rommie noted that whereas Alphyra had ordered Delta to take everyone “up,” Delta herself said “back,” the way a spacer would in an environment that didn’t rightly have an up or down.
Sisters, presumably educated together, and one thinks in terms of planetary orientation—or was that hierarchy?—and the other doesn’t. Rommie wondered why that might be.
Remembering the other order Alphyra had given her sister, and her own wish to get into the Drift system, Rommie positioned herself next to Delta when they emerged from the lift.
“I do have some questions, if you have time,” she said, doing her best imitation of the eager and alert young aide.
Delta gave her a polite response, as she led the way to the buffet. The humans, mostly older, all of them important traders, were talking in low voices about the latest interstellar political scandals and personalities as they busied themselves with various refreshments. Rommie took a stance
at the corner as if lingering over a choice between two drinks and observed Delta frowning down at her flexi. She made some notes, then listened on her com, subvocalizing answers.
Delta’s muscles contracted minutely, and Rommie realized she felt she was being watched, so Rommie swung away obligingly and faced the huge windows, studying the orderly traffic arriving and departing, escorted by the Than-piloted shuttles, overseen on a visible perimeter by armed satellite-drones and by slip-fighters on their stately rounds. But, of course, although Delta couldn’t know it, Rommie’s hearing was cyber enhanced, so it was simple to eavesdrop on both sides of the conversations.
Keeping her visual focus on the window, Rommie listened to Delta patiently field questions, almost all of them for Alphyra. One after another her quiet voice patiently promised an answer at this or that time. Three questions she resolved herself. Rommie gathered very swiftly that all the logistical chores were left to Delta, but policy decisions were strictly reserved for the directors as a unit.
At least, so it seemed on the surface.
Then a familiar voice: “Delta. Did she get her private interview?”
Rommie rapidly assessed that voice, matched it with the voices she’d already recorded on Paradise Drift: Torbal, the aide from Environment and Design. The question seemed harmless, but Delta’s breathing sharpened, and her voice softened into controlled politeness when she responded, “Yes. You know you are to use her private comlink.”
Torbal chuckled. “It’s shut down. Now we know why. Good work, little sister.” And another chuckle.
Delta responded, “Thank you, Torbal. Let’s hope for a successful negotiation, once she returns” A faint emphasis, but definitely there.
Then Torbal cut out.
And that was all, but Rommie felt her own sensors red-flagging the message, all based on tone and physical response that did not at all match with what otherwise seemed innocuous words.
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