by Robert Reed
A question of honor, said the second one.
Steward didn’t like the sound of that word, honor, when it came from that mouth. He told them good-bye and turned and went home by the usual means, always making sure that no one was following him. He wasn’t very good with World-Net in those times, and he lacked contacts who knew what he needed to know. But for an hour he did the groundwork, then he sat and made his final decision in half an instant. He put in a call to a different Farmstead, telling his unseen audience that he had significant information about their enemies. A reply came in a few minutes. A woman with plain features, strong and slim and gray with age, was looking at Steward, waiting for him to explain himself.
He told her everything.
Her breath quickened. A fine layer of sweat appeared on her tanned forehead. She said, I have the picture.
He said, I thought you’d want to know.
And what do you want? she asked. You haven’t said anything about a price.
What’s fair with this kind of thing?
She said, True.
She paused, thinking to herself, and then she offered, We can hire you. Help us defend our borders, breaking no laws and bending no beliefs, and I think you can write your own tab. Okay?
That’s fine.
Starting tonight?
All right. Sure.
She said, Thank you. She said, The name is Steward, right? Then she was gone, the white wall empty, and he placed a call to a number given to him by the second Farmer. The first one was waiting. He saw Steward and misread his face.
Good! he said. You’re with us?
Steward said he was not.
No?
I don’t want to be, no.
The Farmer shook his head and said, Well, maybe we’ll have to find someone braver. Someone who understands.
Steward said, Listen. I’ll be guarding them when you come.
Guarding who?
Steward said nothing.
The Farmer told him, You’re a prick, you know that?
Steward looked at him, trying to gauge him in a dozen ways.
A real prick! the Farmer growled. I always heard what honorable strong creatures you Yellowknives were. And look at you. Shit, I don’t see a spine in you! You’re garbage.
Steward remained quiet.
Well, we’re coming anyway! said the Farmer. You wait!
And he was waiting. In the dark, in a driving rainstorm, Steward found a line of men dressed halfway like apes. He took them from behind. He didn’t have to use any of the weapons he had smuggled from Yellowknife. Hands were enough, and broken bones were enough. When the rain quit there were half a dozen men moaning, and their guns were wrapped around the tall green corntrees, empty and useless.
There’s a second doorway at the end of a short hallway.
It too recognizes Steward and opens for him. He enters a little room made of hyperfiber—all built by the Farmstead in lieu of payment. He keeps his Yellowknife weapons here, safe from everyone, and he has a single wall spliced into World-Net. It’s a simple serviceable office. He likes the location and the Farmers acting as watchdogs. He likes the press of the earth laying around him, and sometimes he will reach and touch the walls and feel the bunker-comfort of hyperfiber and rootbound loess and tall trees interlocking into the high green canopy.
He sits in the lone chair.
He punches a console set in the arm of the chair.
After several minutes of nothing, the Ghost appears. She is a pretty woman—no Luscious Chiffon, certainly, but pretty nonetheless—and she’s wearing glamorous evening clothes that flatter the illusion of a figure. The background is some ancient palace. Lunar, Steward thinks. The high, high arches have a quaint delicacy impossible on the Earth. Painted ceilings show angels and devils and mortals too. There’s something Catholic about it all. Which makes sense. The New Vatican is somewhere beneath Tycho, and half the System’s Catholics live on Luna. The Muslims eased them out of Europe…when was that?
“Steward!” the Ghost exclaims. And she smiles.
He says, “You’re a sight. Am I interrupting?” Ghosts have their own sense of time. Since their surroundings are manufactured by AIs, just as some AI is producing this image now for him, it can be any hour in any day of their own design. “Fancy dancing clothes, Olivia.”
“Dear Steward!” Her smile is sweet and charming. Olivia Jade, socialite and flirt, beams her smile at him. “Is there a question?” she wonders.
“Sure.”
“I’m seeing concern. I do.”
“I’m looking for a wealthy man.”
“And any wealthy man would love having you, I’m sure.”
Steward laughs with her, saying, “Listen.” He says, “You’re a piece of work,” and shakes his head.
“Is he among the living? Or among the not-yet-living?” It’s a Ghost’s joke. Olivia sometimes tells him that she and her kind are the final product in a logical evolution. Flesh-on-blood existence is a simple precursor to true life—a box of glowing crystals.
“The not-yet-living,” he says.
“An obscure man, I’d guess. Or why would you ask me?”
“Your company’s sake.”
She giggles. She says, “So. What can you tell me about him?”
He repeats what he knows and what he can safely guess. The man is from Quito. He’s possibly staying in the Old Quarter. He has nasty habits and considerable money and probably a wicked temper too.
“This may take a while,” she warns.
“I’ll wait.”
“I can call you later. At home.”
“I’ll be here. Call me here.” He has a world of faith in Olivia. She has never done him disfavors. Yet he prefers not to mention Chiffon, or even risk the chance disclosure. It’s a feeling inside him. He breathes and says, “I have some work to do here.”
“Well,” she starts, eyes flickering and her mouth becoming set. “If the man wants to remain hidden—”
“I’ll double the fee.”
She says, “You are a dear,” and vanishes in an instant. Yet the big palace lingers for a moment. In the extreme distance, almost out of view, stand a variety of Ghosts from countless places—all laced into that vast landscape called System-Net. Among the evening clothes are the bright, unmistakable robes of dead Lunar popes. He remembers reading that the popes were among the first to be Ghosted, although he can’t quite fathom how that fits into Catholicism and its ancient teachings. Then the image fades and he stares at the blank wall, thinking to himself.
Sometimes he laughs gently, smiling.
Every so often he looks to the floor, talking to someone in his head.
In theory, none of these weapons can kill.
They look awesome enough when they’re out of their crates and the soft dead-leather cases. They have barrels and gun butts and triggers with ornate guards, and almost anyone would call them guns—rifles and pistols of traditional designs—ignoring the odd features characteristic of Freestate artillery.
There aren’t any bolts of energy waiting in the barrels. Flesh isn’t scalded. Limbs aren’t torn away.
These are subtler weapons meant for a bloodless war.
A good Freestater rifle can deliver a measured amount of pain across several kilometers of open air. It does this wondrous and valuable thing by producing a concentrated ball of high-energy plasma, and the impacting plasma fuses with nerve endings—natural or synthetic—to cause agony. If the target is struck too often, no matter its strength or its training, immobilization results. And of course the anticipation of pain brings horror, not to mention a withering of the will.
Steward has gone fifty years without breaking the ultimate taboo.
He looks at the weapons scattered over the floor. Some are partway disassembled and all of them are fully charged. None can kill. Not intentionally, at least. He cannot kill. Not unintentionally, at least. There is a sound, a cough, and he looks up at Olivia’s knowing smile and her simple casual clothes. Stew
ard has seen this background in the past. It’s a big rich room looking out on a smaller, younger Brulé. Rugs cover the floor and the gemstone furniture. Everything is bright and clean and somehow too perfectly positioned. She says, “I have one suspect. A man named Dirk.”
“Dirk.”
Her eyes narrow. “A Ghost friend of mine knows our Mayor Pyn. They were married, in fact, and the two still talk. I think Dirk fits your description.” She says, “He arrived some months ago, applying for a temporary citizenship. He and his bodyguard inhabit the old Cosgrove Tower. Do you know the place?”
He does.
“A very, very wealthy man,” she claims, laughing with a strange expression on her face. “The entire fifty-fifth floor is for himself and a bodyguard and one other. A girl, some say.” She pauses.
He says, “No other candidates?”
“Not worth the trouble.” She watches Steward, telling him, “A girl, some say. But Pyn is the only one of us who has seen her, and he swears that she’s a Flower. An authentic Flower. Very special and very new.”
Steward is ready to say nothing, showing nothing with his eyes and the rest of his face. He says, “Okay,” with a level voice. He tells her, “Go on.”
“He’s not such a mystery person.” She tells him the basics of Dirk’s career and capacities. The details are not legally binding, but Olivia has also spoken to several dear friends with roots in Quito. They know the name and the reputation. She gives examples of how he does business. Then she returns to her first source and Mayor Pyn, informing Steward, “He’s tolerated for his money. Dirk’s hinting at underwriting the whole mining operation.” Steward remembers Pyn and tries imagining him and Dirk sharing the day’s time. “Dirk is shit,” she says in summation.
Olivia never curses. It’s not her style, and Steward is more than a little surprised.
“Well, he is!” She sits up and sticks out her chest, saying, “I guess I don’t deserve a bonus.”
“No?”
“A thousand other people could have told you this much.”
“Your opinion,” he says. “An agreement was made.”
“You’re sure?” It’s no small amount. It isn’t cheap to be a Ghost—the quality of your world depending on the AIs in your stable—and it isn’t easier when you have pride. “I’m telling you—”
“It’s yours!”
And she says, “Thank you,” because he has left her no other choice.
Most flesh-on-blood types won’t speak to Ghosts. It’s a bias, thinks Steward, and it’s sad. It’s one of the multitude of ways in which we hamstring ourselves…and now he notices a twinkle, unmistakable and fetching, coming into Olivia’s eyes. “What is it?” he asks.
“There’s one more thing,” she admits.
“Go on.”
“I’m guessing, understand. I don’t know your plans or even if you have plans. But I know a significant number of tenants inside the old Cosgrove Tower. All kinds of friends with all flavors of information!”
The potentials wash over him. He smiles and says, “My sweet Olivia. Kiss me!”
And she laughs until her face turns red. Then she shakes her head and tells him, “Think of it. A worthless piece of refuse, of shit, and we can do something about it. A kind of civic project of our design.”
“I mean it. Kiss me!”
“Oh no.” Her face changes. She breathes and looks squarely at him and says, “No, no. A woman knows. It’s not me you want today,” and she bites her lips. She tells him, “I hope you know what you’re doing. I do hope so.”
“Sure,” he says, feeling transparent. No secrets today—
“Sure you do, or sure you hope so, too?” She waves a phantom hand, saying, “Forget that. Here. Let’s get busy, and what do you need?”
The germ of the plan comes to him slowly. He sees the goal and what he can do for himself. Give the wealthy pervert an option, he thinks. If he’s wealthy first and a pervert second, then Steward needs to play the wily salesman and offer the best price in the perfect fashion. Business is eternally business, isn’t it? Besides, he decides with a sinking feeling, this Dirk could always buy himself another Flower.
It’s already well into the afternoon. Steward’s eaten from a stock of dried foods, fruits and spicy roodeer meat, and Olivia has pretended to eat, her own meal sumptuous and served in ornate bowls riding on a bright golden platter. They’re finished working. Everything she can offer has been offered, and Steward pays her from a stock of quiver chips he keeps on hand for contingencies. They’re in a safe in his floor. “Good-bye for now,” he says in the end. “I’ll call and tell you how it went,” and he places one hand up to the image of her face.
She’s gone, oddly quiet at the end.
Scared? he wonders. Or a little jealous?
Now he calls home, punching out a code that circumvents his own extensive security systems. A pulsing blue light means an audio channel has been opened. “It’s me,” he says. “Are you awake?”
“Steward?”
“Touch a wall. Any wall.” It feels as though he’s been gone for days already. He says, “Chiffon?” and there she sits, legs crossed on his little bed and half a dozen books opened and scattered about the scene.
“Where are you?” she asks. “Working?”
“Doing some things for a friend.” He leaves it at that because there aren’t rules for this circumstance. He doesn’t know what to say, looking into her anxious eyes. “Anyway, I’m calling to tell you I’m done. For a little while. I’ll pass by home first, for a bit, and then I’ll go again.”
She watches him. She says, “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” and she lifts a book. He sees graphite bindings and plastic pages, everything a little dulled by time. He can’t quite make out a title. He has no idea what she might find interesting.
“I don’t mind, no,” he says. “Enjoy yourself.”
“I’d rather have you here,” she says.
And he wishes he could touch her, reassuring her with his grip. Her simplest look makes him weak. It does. He’s almost relieved when he says, “I’ve got to go. I’ve got some last things to do,” and lays a hand on the World-Net control.
“I’ll keep busy, love. Hurry home.”
“I will,” he promises.
And she’s gone. He finds breathing easier again. He finds himself debating whether or not to tell her the plan. No. No, he’d better not. He decides there’s no sense in raising her hopes, he can’t risk dashing them. That wouldn’t be fair. He is on his feet, standing on his toes and trying to think. One weapon. Sure. He chooses a small pistol-shaped instrument that’s always felt comfortable in his hands. Then there’s the other equipment, lightweight and expensive and as modern as any anywhere. It fits into a small cloth pack. How about pain grenades? he asks himself. He has some tiny ones easily hidden. But no, the gun’s enough. Anything else he might need is stashed in the Old Quarter. Nothing else? No? He goes through the first door, checking locks, and walks to the end of the hallway and stares straight out at half a dozen lazy apes.
They’re waiting for him.
Chances are they don’t mean harm. Maybe they’re curious, he thinks. A human climbs inside an invisible cave, vanishing, and the call goes out to the troop. They gather, waiting for his reappearance, talking among themselves in that simple language of theirs. They’re puzzled, he tells himself. Nothing more. And he looks around and blinks once and sees that he’s wrong.
The bastards, he thinks…and he starts laughing.
They’ve stolen his hanging rope. They’re playing a trick on Steward, their expressions full of mischief and suspense. He gives them a long calculating look, admiring them, and then he tells the outer door to stay open and walks to the back and squats and adjusts his pack, bracing his right foot against the inner door, taking a long breath and coming up running.
The ape faces turn surprised.
The red-haired man is bear
ing down on them. Them! Masters of the canopy! He reaches the door frame and plants a foot and leaps out into the shady afternoon air, hands reaching and the apes screaming and then scattering in wild disorder.
Steward grabs the nearest branch.
All the apes have vanished.
He hangs for a moment by his own long arms, panting and listening to the buzz of insects and the songs of hiding birds. Then he climbs downward, reaching the forest floor, thinking how he has been happy before but never so happy as now, and he has known purpose but never one so clear as this one.
He starts to run.
Above him the door shuts itself and is gone.
9
I remember Zebulina. Ten years of my life were spent as her suitor, her customer, her underwriter, her patient lover, her impatient lover…my role resisted precise definitions when it came to the girl. I remember her sweet looks and calculated moods and the effortless smile and the striking body. I purchased and furnished an apartment for her, putting her into one of the most exclusive districts in the Galapagos, and I can never say that she never thanked me for my trouble. She was nothing if not an absolutely fair dispenser of thanks. That was one of her largest charms. Fairness. I had a dinosaur tailored for her on her birthday—she was still quite a young girl; I can’t recall her exact age—and she was so glad and so enchanted with my gift that I actually believed that I had won her permanently. The three of us would walk along the Pacific together, on the sandy beaches. The dinosaur was pony-sized, bipedal and thoroughly stupid. There were leash laws for such things, but of course Zebulina couldn’t stand the thought of her friend being restrained. So it ran the beach and we would follow. Then she would come upon some stone or shell, forgettable to anyone else, and she would make me examine it while the dinosaur vanished in the distance. She had this girlish enthusiasm. She had this way of taking in a scene at a glance. I have never known a person so full of life and living. She wasn’t a good person, mind you. I never confused her for someone moral or ethical. Yet I persisted in trying to win her love because I felt—and I think rightly—that a creature like her would someday hit the hard lessons that taught you and me the basics of goodness.