Alphyra faced round again, now leaning forward with her flawless chin resting on one slim, smooth hand.
Delta said, “I shall do better. But how shall I respond to the request of Captain Hunt’s aide? She wants access to the system in order to monitor their crew. Not just coms—we gave them that—but location.”
Alphyra’s tiny shrug was expressive of indifference.
As she watched Delta take the shrug for permission, Rommie pinged her incarnation on the Andromeda Ascendant for an update. Delta would be opening the third-level portal again any moment, and she wanted to make sure that the little seeker subroutine she had set to watching it had the latest information. Data flashed back: the expected communication from Rigos—she set that aside for a moment—and a meta-analysis of all detected encryption protocols! Quickly she budded off a viral patch for the seeker to take advantage of the new patterns, also adding more parasitic abilities so it could leech more computing power from the Drift to help it with its decryption attempts. For now, of course, it was dependent on the shipboard computers for many of its capabilities; its only true autonomy lay in its (hopefully) undetectable communications protocols, a heritage of the vanished Systems Commonwealth.
After a moment or two the Perseid director finished his speech, and Rommie rapidly reviewed that, too: all expected demands, protection, trade, economic laws and tariffs to mutual benefit, and what the Perseids in their turn were willing to offer.
It took less than a second. As the Than directors rose and their reedy voices fell pleasandy on the hushed air, Rommie felt the portal open and the seeker flash through. It closed, then milliseconds later opened to emit the acknowledgement of Delta’s command, with data from the seeker parasitic on it. The link between Rommie-the-avatar and Rommie-the-warship hummed with a fierce burst of data.
As she quickly budded off more subroutines, she received a corn-link from Delta.
“I have opened the human locator protocols to you, coded for diplomatic tags,” she said, squirting a data burst along with her words.
So it’s likely our crew are the only officially accredited human diplomatson the Drift, Rommie realized. That makes it easier. Working with the speed only possible to an AI, she modified the bud to match the new protocols.
“Thank you, Delta. This will set my captain’s mind at rest concerning his crew.” The bud flashed back over with her communication; Rommie was sure that Delta’s emotions were distracting her sufficiently that she’d not notice its slight traces.
Delta glanced over at her. Rommie read unease in her body language. She was working too fast, thinking too hard, and although Rommie now knew what underlay her strange responses, her sympathy for Delta had to be laid aside.
The Perseid speech had been full of elaborate courtesy, as Perseid speeches could be—if the Drift joined the alliance and Vandat had his way, the celebration ritual would probably last a full cycle—but Than, outside of their own hives, tended to be succinct, if not cryptic.
Sure enough, the Than finished with a few short, briefly worded demands—Delta was distracted as Alphyra rose and paced to the center of the conversation pit—
As she had done with all her communications, Delta moved Rommie’s acknowledgment to storage, and her flexi faithfully mirrored it into the Drift’s long-term storage…along with Rommie’s newest code.
But now Rommie was watching from the inside, and new vistas of the Drift’s computer systems opened before her.
Ujio stopped before the Neek Neek Theater, frowning. No, this was definitely the location for the last ping.
He studied the front of the building, winced, and then approached the entry. He’d been in many strange places over the years, but this one ranked high on the list of seriously bizarre. He’d thought Valentine would make straight for one of the null-grav gyms, or maybe a shooting range, or even one of those dueling arenas though perhaps that would be too much like regular life for her. But one thing for certain, unless she’d gone out of her mind, he would never expect her to be here.
He poked his head inside, stopping just long enough to do a careful scan of the dome within. He saw at least forty different types of exoskeletal beings, all of them chittering, buzzing, stridulating, and keening as, down on the area he figured had to be the stage, more of them flitted about generating even more noise than the audience. It was like a scene from Madman Aktzu’s Vision of Orgies in Hell, only worse.
And nothing even remotely endoskeletal in sight, unless for some reason Valentine had seen fit to don a carapace disguise—
Disguise.
Hiding?
Ujio Steelblade frowned down at his flexi. Was it possible she somehow knew he was seeking her, and was on the run?
Now, looking again at his map of the Drift, suddenly her trajectory made sense.
Laughing out loud, he whirled around and sprinted through the crowd.
Rommie did not listen to Alphyra Kodos’s speech in the same way she knew Dylan listened. She knew the gist of it already from the communication. What Rommie was more interested in was separating out disinformation from information, hidden agendas from that in view.
Human beings, she knew, were responsive to physical signals as well as aural. From his heightened heartbeat, the alteration in his breathing, Rommie’s sensors picked up that Dylan was interested in the woman, not so much in her message.
And so, while Alphyra brought her comments gracefully to a close, Rommie finished gathering her arsenal of data, and waited with the even patience of the AI for Dylan’s attention.
“… if we were on the mountainside of Rigos’s capital city, we would be looking at the evening stars,” Alphyra Kodos said. “And that would be signal to give over the business of the day, and to take up the pleasures of the evening. You will all be notified of our next meeting, here, at which we shall break into our agreed-on groups for individual interviews.”
Alphyra then headed straight for Dylan, and said, smiling, “We have set aside rooms for you, of course, but if you would like to experience the most diverting games of chance the Drift has to offer, I know that many here would love to join you in Star Chamber.”
Dylan opened his mouth to refuse, but before he could the majority of the humans clustered round, most of them gazing at him in expectation, and so he gave in with as good a grace as he could muster.
Alphyra smiled, was separated from Dylan in the polite dance of deference as they moved toward a spectacular sliding door that had previously been a shadowed wall, and Rommie overheard her order to Delta: “I want him free. Keep the aide busy elsewhere.”
Rommie smiled. Now she’d have Delta all to herself.
Delta saw that smile, mistaking it for perky friendliness. She was about to tell Alphyra that the aide and the captain were comlinked, but hesitated; Alphyra swept on past, linking her arm with Captain Hunt.
Delta realized she ought to have spoken up, but she hadn’t. Guilt and anxiety blossomed behind her eyes, little pangs of pain, when she realized she was not just hesitating but deliberately withholding information from Alphyra. She tried to reassure herself that Alphyra probably expected that, anyway, trying hard also not to feel the queasy clash of respect and loyalty with her increasingly uncomfortable perceptions of Alphyra’s nature.
“I’d like to see more of your art,” the aide was saying. “If you have time.”
Duty. Pleasure.
Delta felt the incipient headache recede just a little. Duty: she was obedient again, she was doing what her sister ordered. And this time duty was even something she found important. She breathed slowly, deeply, as she led the way to the service elevator, unaware of Rommie monitoring her physical signs, a tiny frown between her eyes.
Trance dove through the Drift along a null-g lift-tube apparently used exclusively by the bees. All around her streamed the humming bees, bathing in the glory and harmony created by…what?
It was not until she really listened to that harmony, opening her senses to the fullest at last,
that she perceived the subtle shadows obscuring the flow of time and space:
She and the bees were not alone.
FOURTEEN
Gambling is for fools willing to permit others to control the odds.
—GAHERIS RHADE TO DYLAN HUNT, CY 9783
“Just use your chit,” said the beautiful woman next to Dylan.
Her smiling brown eyes reflected the spread-spectrum lighting overhead, set into a shadowy ceiling, and muted to an eye-pleasing degree that enhanced the glow and glitter of the game setups, yet conveyed an atmosphere of timelessness, of intimacy.
“Have fun,” she added.
Dylan said, “I’d like to look around first.”
Alphyra Kodos lifted a finger to adjust a displaced hair in her magnificent coiffure, glancing around as she did so. Vandat watched, ostensibly turning his interest to the stochastic pidgin wheel, where gamblers bet on the permutations of an artificial language whose evolution was governed by their bets; she moved away with a little wave of her hand, taking the arm of a dapper older man in whose long, expensive faux-lizard coat gemstones of staggering value were set.
Dylan touched his link. “Rommie, does she mean what I think she means, that the gambling is free?”
“No. Your chit covers not goods but just services—you can find the data if you dig—which definitely excludes gambling debts. It’s spelled out, but not easy to find.”
“Interesting. I would almost say she misled me.”
“Oh, I think she did. I think she counted on your old-fashioned notions of diplomatic immunity, because she’d know that back in Tarn-Vedra’s day, diplomats could gamble all they liked at the state games, but at the end of the day their hypothetical debts vanished.”
Dylan turned to study the largest whackabot game he’d ever seen, intent players manipulating their hammers to smash intricate little bots that disassembled under the blows only to reassemble into ever more complex forms that moved even faster, and paid off higher when smashed. “Why would she want to get me to spend my own money? If I had money. Not, surely, for some kind of leverage in the negotiations. On the surface they have no extraordinary demands. And I wouldn’t have thought she’d be so crude.”
He moved on to the next game, which at first his eyes refused to assemble into meaning. Slowly, he realized that the twisting, colored ribbons, mesmerizing in their impossible geometry, were an analogue of DNA, or an alien equivalent, and that the gamblers were betting on what entity would emerge when the structure, modified by their bets, was completed. He glanced back at Alphyra Kodos, who stood near a cluster of high-ranking Than, their decorated carapaces gleaming richly in the subdued light. Dylan breathed deeply, feeling a faint sense of loss—yet at the same time the anticipation of the hunt tightened the outsides of his arms, caused laughter to spark deep in his chest.
He breathed again. “Oxygen content higher in this room?”
“That’s traditional,” came Rommie’s crisp answer. “Listen, there are three things you should know. One, the history of Rigos is quite different in the planetary data-system. It seems the Kodos family did not see eye to eye on the matter of universal rights and suffrage. They saw themselves as enlightened despots, as well as genetic innovators, and were exiled. There have been two wars since, between various island republics, and evidence exists that the Kodos family helped animosities along. All the details await you in your personal files.”
“Anything about our hostess?” Dylan subvocalized, wondering if the room were wired for sound.
“Nothing overt, but plenty of strange anomalies I will follow up on from here and the ship, as I can. The second thing you should know: Delta is her clone. She’s the fourth in a series. The records of the others have been erased from the databanks on the Drift, but their births are duly recorded on the planet. As well as their educational records. Then nothing.”
“Killed, do you think?”
“I don’t want to surmise anything until I discover more facts. But here’s the third interesting fact: Alphyra has her own personal books as well as the Drift books.”
Dylan looked up again, surprised Alphyra’s gaze across the room. He smiled. She smiled. He turned to a new game, murmuring, “So what do you suggest about this gambling?”
“What she probably does not know is that Systems Commonwealth warship Als were all equipped with the diplomatic codes for eradicating debts, and that those are so old and deep that virtually every computer system in Known Space responds to them. They are certainly active here.”
“So you think I should blunder into the trap?”
“If trap it is. It might be interesting to see what happens.”
Dylan grinned. “Done,” he said. And out loud, he laid down his chip, named an amount of money that caused some discreet gasps, and said, “I’m in.” He looked around and rubbed his hands. “Now, who will explain the rules?”
While Dylan was initiated into his first game of chance—with stakes beginning at the rough equivalent of the cost of a custom-made slip-fighter—Beka felt an internal ping!
Rommie’s confuser routine!
She turned to Harper. “The seekerbots just pinged me again. We’d better be on the move.”
“That was sufficiently weird,” Harper said, hooking a thumb back toward the level of the Neek Neek Theater. “Why there?”
Beka threw back her hood, saw Harper’s startled look, and shook her head. No use in the hair disguise anymore; she restored her hair to its usual blond, and blinked out the contact lenses. “Disguise,” she said. “And hiding place. But he’s got some kind of illegal searchbots, Rommie said. She gave me a confuser routine via the comlink so the bots at least can’t pinpoint me. They can only ping. We left just in time. It obviously wasn’t strong enough to ward the bot, but at least it revealed its presence.”
As Cyn’s frowning gaze shifted from one to the other, Harper nodded once. “Right. And you don’t know where this guy is in relation to us. So I suggest we start moving.” He raised a hand. “Not straight toward the docking bays. Unless he’s an idiot, or has a team, he’ll be projecting an intersecting path.”
Beka held up her chit. “Well then, let’s make it interesting. These give us access to a variety of bontemps. Rommie, can you reach the safe words for these playacting games?”
“Yes,” came the reply. “For most of them. I’ll direct you as much as I can.” She clicked off, but Beka knew she was still listening.
Beka gave Harper a wry, not-quite-humorous grin. “Sounds like things are getting interesting at her end.”
“Then we’ll just have to match her,” he replied, a bit of his usual insouciance back again. He held up his chit in turn and rotated slowly, watching as the nanolights resolved into various temptations. “How about this,” he asked, squeezing his chit to bounce his choice to her and Cyn.
An image formed in front of Beka: two tall ships with glistening white sails, predator and prey, heeled over in a choppy sea against a cerulean sky, jets of flame and smoke issuing from the bow of the pursuer.
Two Years Before the Mast: the ancient Caribbean was a place of romance and danger, lost treasures and bloodthirsty pirates. Sail into adventure aboard the Galloping Frottage. Free play joins the crew, passengers and officer roles available by bid. Level 2 physical.
“Rommie?” queried Beka.
“Level two physical: bruises and avulsions likely, casual attitude towards infliction of pain, ten percent probability of accidental broken bones. Safe words and phrases: ‘A manly ship for manly men,’ ‘Yarrrrrh, and frostily too,’ and ‘Swordfish’.” Anonymous access into six other bontemps.
“They call that a good time?”
“It’s one of the more popular bontemps,” said Rommie.
Beka shook her head. In real life, a posse of vicious Nortumber falstaffs couldn’t drag her onto a wooden—wooden!—ship floating on cold salt water. And so, she hoped, Ujio wouldn’t look for her there.
“Well, we’ll just be passing through
,” she said.
Harper laughed and made a grand after-you gesture.
Minutes later, after a briefing that made Beka wonder how anyone ever survived to old age in pre-space navies, and a quick application of nanospray costumes—Beka was glad they didn’t smell as bad as they looked—they found themselves on the deck of the Galloping Frottage.
The three nearly stumbled as the wooden deck beneath their feet heaved and surged; Cyn looked up at the confusing geometry of ropes stretching every which way, and winced at the sound of groaning timbers. Surely the ship could not be falling apart! It’s fake, she told herself. Wood’s fake, ropes are fake, waters probably even fake.
Except the unmelodic graunch and groan of the strained wood, the thundering rattle of the heavy canvas sails, the clatter of big blocks and above all the smell of brine and mold and sweat and hot iron seemed very, very real.
“Bow gun crew!” yelled a fellow at the back of the ship, wearing a weird-looking hat with three corners. “Reload!”
“Reload, aye-aye,” shouted a filthy, sweaty man dressed only in trousers that appeared to be made of the same material as the sails overhead. This man stood near the front, where the ship came to a point. On either side two squat iron cannon hulked, tended by sweaty, filthy-looking crew—impossible to know if they were actors, Als, or customers. The gunner’s mate roared at Harper & Co. All three stared at his grizzled face, earring in his ear, the greasy pigtail hanging down his back.
He motioned to them. “Hey! Get to work! You, grab that tampion, and clean out the barrel!” He pointed to Harper, who looked around with a who-me? gesture, then reached for the long stick with the brush thing on the end.
Beka could smell the heat of that monstrous gun; in the distance, a puff of smoke appeared behind the other ship, and a moment later, a weird screaming whoosh! was followed half a second later by a massive black blur passing within inches of her head, the disturbed air buffeting her face.
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