Requiem For A Ruler Of Worlds

by Brian Daley

  He forgot his emotional disarray, worried now that he'd been remiss in not reporting the trouble at once, that he'd violated a regulation and was in trouble for it. But he couldn't understand why such an encounter would merit the attention of a full supervisor, even granted that it involved an off-worlder.

  At about forty, she was extremely young for supervisor's rank. Though tall and severe, she wore her long auburn hair loose. She looked him over with cold brown eyes.

  "We've been wondering when you'd get home," Balensa said with a touch of nervousness. "Supervisor Bear has been waiting for nearly an hour. Why weren't you wearing your accessor?"

  "Greetings, Citizen Floyt," the supervisor said before he could become bogged down in explanations or excuses. Her tone was rather steely. "I'm Supervisor Bear, of the Resource Recovery Division. You and I have something to discuss."

  Floyt moved into the room warily, clearing his throat. She'd addressed him as "citizen" instead of the more formal "functionary," so that might be a good sign. Though he was theoretically free to address her the same way, he would never have dreamt of doing so.

  "I—I was going to report the attack as soon as I arrived home, Supervisor. 1 wasn't sure of the procedure, but I thought it would be safer than if I—"

  Bear seemed to gather her self-restraint. An hour or so with my wife has doubtless taxed it, Floyt thought. Even a supervisor's cloak wouldn't have deflected all of Balensa's curiosity. Clearly, the subject of contract termination had been tabled by Balensa for the time being.

  "Citizen Floyt," Bear interrupted, "be so kind as to sit down, if you will. My time's in rather short supply. Won't you have a drink?"

  Floyt refused the drink and perched himself warily on the least comfortable seat in the living room. Balensa was artfully arranged on the sofa, while Supervisor Bear had, of course, taken the cloud-rest lounger.

  On the center table a small bottle of premium Scotch, and a setup stood on Balensa's best imitation-silver tray. The refreshments had undoubtedly been obtained from the apt's service unit with Bear's allotment code; the machine would've ignored such an order given with his own or Balensa's code. Even in his agitated state, he registered the purchase with a twinge of envy—and resentment toward the service unit as well as Bear.

  Balensa edged forward, intent on the supervisor. "You'll pardon me now," Bear said, "but it's necessary that I speak to your spouse in private. Perhaps you'd care to visit your rec-center or take a stroll. An hour should suffice."

  Balensa looked as though Bear had hosed her down with ice water. "But, but—that is, as spouse, I think I have the right to know what it is—"

  Bear let some peevishness creep into her voice. "The needs of Earthservice come first, and right now one of those needs is confidentiality. You're forcing me to use my rather limited time unproductively."

  Balensa was up in a rustle of stiff costume, stalking for the door. "And, citizen … " Bear added. Balensa halted. "Keep utter silence about this visit; this is an official warning. And don't press your spouse for details. You'll be briefed at the proper time."

  Thoroughly put to rout, Balensa exited. Bear took another sip from a drink that was mostly melted ice. Floyt was completely bewildered and still shaken by the assault, but with a supervisor doing the investigating, it would be wiser to wait and learn what he could, tailoring his account and explanations to the circumstances.

  "Citizen Floyt, your hobby is genealogy," Bear began. "You're quite knowledgeable about Terran and offworld lineages and histories."

  He nodded mutely.

  She seemed about to go on in the same vein, then digressed to ask him, "How did you come to be so expert? The subject has little to do with your assignment as an information accessor/interfacer."

  "I was introduced to genealogy during a collating assignment about eight years ago. It caught my interest."

  Bear gestured toward the hall closet. "Your spouse showed me your cubby."

  "I use my rec-time allotment to interface with the information systems, Supervisor." It was all perfectly legal, but he suddenly wondered if he'd done something wrong. There were so many Earthservice regs; it was impossible to know them all. "And sometimes I do research at the workplace, but only during breaktime. And I always charge it to my code … "

  Unconcerned with minor details, she was making a rejecting motion. "Your work has been reproduced off-world."

  He felt himself blush. Interest in offworld things was considered eccentric, if not suspect. "I contributed a few trifles to the data banks. Some offworld accessor noticed them and offered Earthservice a repro fee, or so I was told."

  "They were more than trifles. Three separate, comprehensive genealogies and two monographs." It was true. And the money involved must have been considerable, he'd always assumed, because a microscopic sum had actually been passed along to him, though Earthservice assessments on offworld earnings were all but total.

  "Some of this business apparently came to the attention of a man named Caspahr Weir," Bear was saying cooly, with a proper disdain for offworld things. "He was interested in his misbred origins, I suppose. At any rate, he died recently and saw fit to leave you a bequest in his will."

  Floyt was severely staggered, but first of all by that name. Weir! That Weir should've taken notice of Floyt's work gave him a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment, so much so that he almost missed the last part.

  "Bequest?"

  "You heard me correctly. You're mentioned in the will of a man who was director—monarch, really—of nineteen stellar systems."

  "I don't know what … what I should—"

  "By provision of the will, all heirs—'Inheritors'—must gather at Weir's home on a planet called Epiphany. There you'll attend a Willreading, which is to take place in approximately three weeks. Failure to appear will mean forfeiture of all claim to your bequest. The Earthservice intends you to be there."

  All that had gone before was a gentle overture to the shock waves that began to crash through Floyt's nervous system. Offworld! Without realizing it, he poured himself a tumbler of straight Scotch and drank. He gagged. "I can't."

  "Why?"

  "Why? Vertebrae deficiency: I haven't got the backbone for it."

  "That's as may be, but go you will. We don't know what the bequest is, but the opportunity must be taken."

  "But it might be worthless! The cost of fare alone would be … " He paused for a moment and wondered if Earthservice expected him to pay his way. No, impossible; the price would be more than a Functionary 3rd Class earned in a lifetime. Several lifetimes.

  He gulped. If the Earthservice picked up the tab for his fare to Epiphany, only to find that his bequest was of little or no value, would the bureaucracy be willing to unpocket for a ticket home?

  "Interstellar passage has been provided for by Weir's executors." Bear smiled thinly. "Roundtrip passage, citizen."

  Under the circumstances, Earthservice had nothing to lose by sending him—except perhaps an easily replaceable Functionary 3rd Class.

  The drink trembled in his hand as Floyt thought of the perils of offworld travel. Earthservice never stinted in stressing those to Terrans: injury, disease, death in uncounted forms, enslavement, and the possibility of being stranded forever in some fashion, unable to return home across inhuman distances.

  The thought of danger reminded him of something. "An offworlder tried to kill me on my way home, Supervisor. Or at least she tried to do me more than a little harm."

  Bear examined him fixedly, but she seemed to believe him. He answered her rapid-fire questions, finding to his surprise that exact details of the encounter had already become blurry. He sipped at his Scotch as she thought for a moment.

  Then she activated her own accessor, a more sophisticated and ornate model than any he'd ever seen up close. When she keyed it, he was unable to hear a sound from her hurried conversation. When she signed off and he could hear again, she said, "There's little chance of finding her now, but a search will be ma
de for your assailant."

  "But she's fairly conspicuous."

  "Her appearance has probably changed radically in the past hour. Now let's keep to the subject. I must say, for a citizen with such a high compliance quotient, you're being irksome."

  "Sorry." He'd never heard of a compliance quotient before and wasn't sure he liked having a high one, but he obediently restricted his questions to the matter before them.

  "Supervisor, how can I possibly hope to get to Epiphany, much less bring home some inheritance, whether it's of any value or not? I've no experience; I'm not trained for that sort of thing. This is insane!"

  Bear answered, "We at Resource Recovery have provided for that. You'll be part of a new pilot program: Project Shepherd."

  "It sounds very pastoral. Under other circumstances, I'd be reassured, but the demographics for Terran casualties during offworld travel are disheartening."

  "True enough, citizen. Recovery of offworld resources claimable by Terran citizens has that drawback. But we can't let Terrans simply forfeit opportunities to claim payment, dun debtors, collect winnings, or—as in your case—accept inheritances. Imagine the value of even a minor part of Weir's wealth! Citizen Floyt, do you believe, as I do, that we owe Earth our all?"

  "I … that is—"

  "I knew you would! It's our Earthservice, after all; yours and mine!"

  Naturally, thought Floyt. What with the planet's severely limited resources, every Terran was a ward of the Earthservice and—all but a few—an employee as well. Floyt didn't mention the open secret that Earthservice was controlled by a tight hierarchy, supervisors among them, with Alpha Bureaucrats at the pinnacle.

  She was looking at him with arch expectancy. He hastened to chorus, "Of course, Supervisor."

  "Then you'll want to do your share," she said in a flat voice, eyes staring into his. He knew then that there'd be no avoiding it short of exposing a live power source in the hygiene chamber and taking a high-voltage bath.

  He sighed, "Might I ask just what this Project Shepherd is?"

  "It's my project," she said grandly, chin high. "We'll provide you with a suitable escort, someone experienced in the difficulties and dangers of star travel. A guardian, a guide—a shepherd."

  "Oh. How long will I be gone? And my escort—who is he? Or she?"

  Bear became curt. "You'll meet your escort quite soon and go through a brief orientation. You'll also be given your letter of Free Import."

  "Free Import?"

  "Yes. But all that will be explained in good time. In the interim, put your affairs in order at home and at your workplace. Then hold yourself in readiness." She stood, and he did too.

  "There's one more thing, citizen." She'd left a shoulder bag at the end of the sofa. Now she opened it and drew out a wide, flashing band of some golden-red alloy. "You're to wear this, beginning immediately."

  He took it from her in astonishment. It was a belt of placques so heavy that they dragged at his hand. Each was decorated with cryptic characters and odd symbols. And each bore the same device, a broken slave's collar. The craftsmanship was superb; the placques glittered and chimed as they struck one another.

  Deeply engraved on the back of the buckle was the name HOBART FLOYT.

  "It's an Inheritor's belt," Bear explained. "The executors' instructions require that you wear it from now until the Willreading." Her eyes lingered on it covetously. "It's too bad it can't remain here while you're gone."

  She looked him in the eye. "Did I mention that it appears to contain some mechanism we don't understand?"

  Floyt was foursquare opposed to putting it on, but she glared at him pointedly. With a sigh of surrender, he drew the belt around his waist and clasped the buckle. It closed with a heavy click. It was a perfect fit.

  "It wouldn't shut for me," she said absently, her gaze fixed on the flashing, barbaric splendor of the thing. "It wouldn't shut for anyone. We didn't dare tamper with it."

  Floyt considered that. "It perhaps read my DNA code? Or pore pattern or—but no, how would offworlders have known those?"

  Bear gave him a hard stare then, without answering, turned to the door. "I'll be in touch with you when I've picked the person I want to serve as your escort. Precisely the person I want."

  When she was gone, he removed the belt and examined it, reading his own name again, running his fingertips across the letters. It was odd to think that the artifact had crossed light-years. His heart sank once more at the thought of the danger and hardship the Inheritor's belt represented.

  He stood looking at it for a long time there in his cluttered hallway, and reflecting upon his high compliance quotient. Resignedly, he replaced the belt around his middle.

  When he clasped the buckle, it engaged with a sound of finality.

  Chapter 5

  Volunteers

  Floyt had finally wrapped up his work. it took him longer than it should have; his mind was elsewhere. He'd spent a good deal of his time distracted by fear of what was to come—of a thousand horrifying forms of death or mutilation, and of never being able to return for any of an almost infinite number of reasons. Inventing new and even more terrifying possibilities seemed to be the only thing at which his mind could work with complete clarity.

  He damned Earthservice in his heart. He raged silently against Caspahr Weir. He hated Balensa and anyone else who didn't share his bad fortune. He condemned the job assignment that had long ago brought him into contact with genealogies.

  He'd been able to ignore his immediate superiors' unspoken resentment—that was one small consolation. No one, peer or boss, even mentioned the Inheritor's belt he now wore throughout his waking hours. Word had obviously been passed that Floyt wasn't to be questioned or bothered.

  His fellow workers had wished him well, in ones and twos, briefly and surreptitiously, on his "new assignment."

  Supervisor Bear called just as he'd completed his conscientious efforts at an orderly departure, instructing him to return to his apt within the hour.

  Now Floyt, Balensa, and Bear were in the little living room again; Balensa was quite cheery.

  "Citizen Floyt may be gone for some time," Supervisor Bear was saying. If she seemed warmer to his wife, she was no more cordial to Floyt himself. "In the meantime, Earthservice will provide for you and your daughter, home-front heroines in a new kind of struggle."

  Balensa touched up her hair; Bear couldn't have taken a tack that would have appealed to her more. She was dressed in an outfit that would have been appropriate for marrying into the Borgia family. Claiming the guest seat, Bear occupied couch center. Floyt had tried to keep himself out of the spotlight.

  Now Bear leaned toward Balensa, who sat beside her. "During Citizen Hoyt's absence, you and your daughter will receive a special hardship allocation." She made a pass like a magician over a hat. "Quarters and consumption allotments equivalent to those of a Bureaucrat Fifth Class, in recognition of your sacrifice."

  Balensa was more than elated; she could hardly wait to see her husband go. Under the circumstances, Floyt couldn't much blame her. With the new situation occasioned by Weir's will, all thought of dissolving the marriage had of course been dropped, and, with an overly cheerful superficiality, Balensa was once again his wife.

  "Of course," Bear cautioned, "we'll be counting on you to make yourself available for psychprop interviews, public service spots, morale campaigns, and so forth."

  Balensa agreed fervently. Floyt knew Bear would get gallant, stoic, silently overjoyed support from that quarter. He also suspected that one of the people who would benefit most from the whole episode was Arlo Mote.

  Floyt had had little time for personal preparations; somehow or other Earthservice had selected his guide-escort within a day or two of his first interview with Supervisor Bear. Now a huge plainclothes Peaceguardian waited outside the apt door. He or a colleague had accompanied the new Inheritor everywhere outside of workplace or home since Floyt had put on the belt. Floyt felt himself more prisoner
than hero of the public weal, but no further attempts had been made to waylay him.

  Floyt put a hand on the modest travel bag he was to take with him. Bear and Balensa had both assured him that his precious files and genealogical data would be safe. He was disinclined to believe them, but that hardly mattered to him by then. He worked at achieving a dulled, fatalistic acceptance of the fact that he had no choice but to go to Epiphany.

  "This person who's to travel with me," he said abruptly, "who is … he? She?"

  "He," Bear clarified. Balensa, whose countenance had suddenly filled with concern over the possibility of a female escort, now brightened.

  "A veteran spacer named Alacrity Fitzhugh," the supervisor added. She knew her own inner relief—that after things had gone so terribly awry at Machu Picchu she'd been able to put them back on course again.

  She'd been almost giddy with her own daring in the aftermath of that calamity. Fitzhugh had seemed an ideal candidate despite the fact that she'd been able to discover almost no truly reliable background data on him. What mattered was that he was, though young, a seasoned and widely traveled breakabout who'd survived dangerous situations and thrived in alien surroundings.

  Perhaps as important, as a member of various guilds and unions, he could deadhead aboard almost any ship on which his principal, Floyt, might book passage, saving Project Shepherd enormous expense. That was critical; the project's disastrous pilot mission had depleted the major part of its funding. Even if Bear had wanted to hire a qualified escort and pay his transportation costs, rather than flimflamming him into it, her funding wouldn't have allowed it, and the Alpha Bureaucrats were hardly of a mind to give her more money.

  Until the fantastic luck that was the Weir legacy, which promised to make real her all-consuming desire to be an Alpha, her most likely mission scenario had involved dispatching a Terran spaceport worker to Mars for a paternity suit. The man had fathered a child by a female shuttle navigator, a Martian citizen, and their son had grown into a prodigy on the eerie Martian glass harmonica, becoming the rave of the planet. Under Martian filial law, the father had a right to share in the earnings, but round-trip passage for one to Mars would have taken a fearful bite from Bear's budget, and the outcome of the suit was far from a sure thing.