Template: A Novel of the Archonate

by Matthew Hughes

  When they had entered the aircar, Daitoo had instructed it to take them to Skrey. Now, as they slid toward the gray anonymity of that district, he bid Conn tell the vehicle the exact address. Conn spoke the coordinates into the car’s ear and there was a slight change of direction. More interesting was the sudden alteration in Daitoo’s disposition.

  It was but the tiniest flex of a minor facial muscle, and Conn caught it only from the corner of his eye. He gave no hint of his perception, instead turning his head as if to gaze out over the parks and precincts of the neighborhood known as the Glebe passing below, meanwhile taking note of the set of Daitoo’s features and the increased rigidity of his posture.

  He said to the aircar, “Contact Jenore Mordene,” and gave her communicator code. The minimal apparatus in her room did not offer a visual connection so after the sound of her coin being deposited in the device it was only her voice that came into the vehicle. Conn told her that they would set down outside her building in a short time.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said.

  Conn sat back and considered what he had learned. The address was of significance to Chask Daitoo. Unless the man was exceptionally proficient at controlling the micro-motions of his facial muscles, and there was no evidence to suggest he was, the name and voice of Jenore Mordene meant nothing – neither had evoked a reaction.

  The vehicle landed softly and the two men emerged and approached the building. Before Conn could announce himself to the who’s-there he saw motion through the scarred transparency of the door. It opened and Jenore appeared, her hand reaching into a pocket of her utilitarian smock and producing the metal wafer.

  He watched her face. She regarded him with the same openness of expression he had seen before: no calculation, no suppressed emotion, although he saw an underlayer of sadness that bordered on despair. Then her eyes went past him to focus on Daitoo, and now he read in her face a succession of reactions: first, mere recognition, as if Daitoo’s was a face seen before though not much noted; then mild confusion as she realized that the two men had arrived together at the door not by coincidence but because they were connected; finally, alarm.

  Conn was already turning as the last expression registered on Jenore’s face. Daitoo was to his left and close behind him. Now the man was moving backwards and his right hand had closed around a compact dark object that Conn realized must have been ejected into his palm from a holster up his sleeve. Daitoo was lifting the weapon to bring its emitter to bear on him.

  With an economy of motion, Conn’s left arm flicked out to bring the back of his hand into contact with Daitoo’s wrist, knocking his aim askew. The energy pistol discharged in a coruscating burst of intensity that struck the wall beside the who’s-there. A light sconce burst in an explosion of flaming metal. The sound of an automatic alarm scarcely overpowered the force of Jenore’s scream.

  Daitoo was well trained and far from inexperienced, Conn thought. The agent was still falling back, even allowing himself to topple backwards as he swung the weapon again toward Conn. The player now read nothing in the agent’s face but a professional’s concentration on the task in hand.

  Conn was still pivoting on his left foot. He kicked out with the right, the hard inner edge of his boot connecting with Daitoo’s hand. He performed the motion at full speed so that his leg became a blur and the force of the impact shattered fragile bones and sent the weapon flying over the aircar to bounce somewhere on the street.

  Daitoo’s back and shoulders struck the pavement. Though his shock and pain were obvious his eyes never lost their focus on Conn Labro as he rotated his left wrist in a sharp gesture that brought another weapon into his grasp. Conn saw its emitter blink as the man aimed and the weapon automatically charged itself.

  Rush a pistol, flee a blade was the rule when outmatched by an opponent’s equipment. Conn had faced similar situations in virtual combat and had even “died” once in his youth when a cunning adversary had lured him into a cul-de-sac in a constantly mutating maze. There had been no escape and the distance between hunter and hunted had been too great to cover before the “fatal” shot.

  This situation offered equally daunting prospects. If he ran, Daitoo’s pistol would burn his legs from under him. If he leapt at the man, the blast would catch him in mid air. Jenore Mordene, frozen in fear, could contribute nothing useful to the situation, not even a distraction.

  Conn bent his knees, dropping to a squat, and simultaneously threw his head and upper torso to the left. If the movement caught Daitoo by surprise, the pistol’s first blast might narrowly miss and in the brief interval before it could recharge, Conn would spring at the agent and end the fight.

  But Daitoo was all too clearly a professional. His target was the center of what he could see and Conn could not move fast enough to escape the killing zone. He saw the narrow cone of the weapon’s expected field of fire in a tactical image superimposed on his vision and knew that in a moment its rim would blast away part of his torso.

  A flash of energy briefly dazzled him. When he blinked his eyes clear Chask Daitoo’s head had become an incandescent lump that was already fading to ash and stinking vapor. He heard the whine of gravity obviators and looked up to see an FRP patrol car descending from rooftop height. A uniformed constable was at the controls and Hilfdan Klepht was retracting the vehicle’s main armament.

  “I was interested to see where things went after the sale,” the discriminator said after he had led Conn and Jenore a little distance from the body.

  “I am glad to have engaged your interest,” Conn said.

  The constable brought Klepht the contents of Daitoo’s wallet. It contained identification that the discriminator soon dismissed as forgeries – “though professionally done and good enough to pass in the short term” – as well as a sealed envelope and a ticket on the afternoon departure of the Dan, a ship of the Gunter Line’s interworld service.

  “Where was he bound?” Conn asked.

  “It is an open ticket. The Dan’s first stop is always the sector hub at Holycow. After that, there is a wide range of options, although he was supposed to be acting for a company on Bashaw.” Klepht tapped the end of his long nose. “Of course, you realize that he intended to travel alone.”

  Conn nodded. “I had already come to that conclusion. He apparently meant to kill me.”

  “The question is why?” said Klepht, opening the sealed envelope. He scanned its contents and said, “And here is the likely answer.”

  It was the last will and testament of Hallis Tharp, who had left all of his possessions to Conn Labro. “It now becomes clear what this was all about,” the discriminator said after a moment’s reflection.

  “Not to me,” Conn said.

  “Hallis Tharp has left you the contents of a locked box at Allguard Trust. Your employer can seize those assets and apply them against the amount owing on your indenture contract. Obviously, Tharp owned something this Daitoo wanted, something Daitoo knew or suspected was in the box. Unable to get it from Tharp, he killed him so that you would inherit. He then killed Horder to bring your contract onto the market so that he could buy it. The Arbitration would transfer ownership to him and he would have what he wanted. Then he would kill you and go off-world to claim whatever reward was in the offing.”

  “You don’t think he wanted it, whatever it was, for himself?”

  Klepht signaled a negative reply. “Chask Daitoo, or however he was really called, has all the markings of a hired man, though an expensive one. Whoever sent him could afford his fee, the price of your contract, and the private spaceship he used when he killed Horder.”

  “What could be worth so much death and pain?” Jenore said.

  “Why, something valuable,” the FRP man said. “Death is a small coin to some, especially when it is someone else’s death.” He handed Conn the will. “I suggest we open the box and see.”

  Conn had another question. “He intended to kill me after securing what he was sent for. B
ut why did the sight of Jenore Mordene prompt him to act prematurely?”

  Conn could hear that there was still a tremor of shock in Jenore’s voice as she answered. “I have seen him before, though we’ve never spoken. He lives in a room a few doors down from Hallis Tharp and me,” she said. “Or he did. Now that I think of it, I have not seen him since Hallis was killed.”

  “It fits neatly together,” Klepht said. “He did not know of Jenore Mordene’s connection to you. When he saw her, he realized that she might say something that would cause you to link him to the Tharp killing and put you on your guard against him. That would make you hard to kill, and dangerous. Now we know it all.”

  “Except who sent him and what he was supposed to recover,” Conn said. He looked over at the remains of his would-be assassin, now being covered by the constable. “If you had used a shocker instead of the patrol car’s intensifier we might have wrung some answers from him.”

  “I would have needed a few seconds to come within shocker range,” said Klepht, “by which time any answers would have been of little use to your charred corpse.” He pulled at his long nose. “Let us go a look at whatever is in Hallis Tharp’s mysterious box. Ms. Mordene will accompany us.”

  “Why?” she said. “I know nothing of this. I must go to work.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Upon presentation of the key, the clerk at Allguard Trust led Conn, Klepht and Jenore to a small room then left them briefly before returning with a locked box of a size to hold a pair of shoes. After the functionary discreetly exited Conn used the key to open the container. Inside was a deposit book for an interest bearing account at the same branch, an object that resembled a large bead and a sealed note with Conn’s name on it in Hallis Tharp’s handwriting.

  Conn opened the note. It read: Conn: If you are reading this, I am dead. The money is yours and should be enough to buy out your indenture. Take the bearer deed to the Registry of Off-world Properties in the city of Olkney on Old Earth. My advice is to sell it for whatever it will bring. Use the proceeds to make for yourself as satisfying a life as you can manage. I am sorry I cannot do more for you.

  In the same hand but in a different colored ink was an addendum: Please help Jenore Mordene to get home. She has been a good friend.

  Conn placed the paper back in the box and extracted the deposit book. When he opened it he saw that a single deposit had been made in his name when he was an infant, in a long-term account that paid the Trust’s highest rate of interest.

  When Klepht examined the book his eyebrows elevated themselves to their uppermost reaches. The initial deposit had been substantial though not a fortune, but twenty-four years of accrued interest had more than tripled the sum. In addition, there had been many small deposits, each attributed to the Horder Emporium’s tote. “I believe that some of these dates coincide with your more lucrative victories,” he said.

  Conn examined the record. “They all do. He must have wagered on me from as soon as I was in competition, though he never mentioned it.”

  Klepht said, “There is more than enough here to buy out your own contract. You are a free man.”

  Conn was puzzled. The money had been Hallis Tharp’s, enough to let the old man live decently, yet he had subsisted in Skrey on a bowl of soup a day. Or he could have long since bought Conn out of Horder’s keeping, if that was his goal. Why had Tharp kept him indentured to Ovam Horder all these years? He put these questions to Hilfdan Klepht.

  “Only Tharp would know,” the discriminator said. He picked up the beadlike object between finger and thumb and proffered it to Conn. “This may have more information.”

  Conn could see that it was covered in tiny lines and spirals. “What is it?”

  “A bearer deed. One does not see them much anymore. It denotes ownership of property that is located in some place where there is no official apparatus to adjudicate property rights.”

  “How could there be a place where property rights are not central to the organization of society?” Conn said.

  “There are still places where all rights are determined solely by what one holds in one’s hands,” Klepht said, “be it a bearer deed or a well aimed weapon. Especially out in the Back of Beyond.”

  He handed the deed back to Conn. “Apparently you now own property. Perhaps knowing its type and location will shed more light on your circumstances.”

  But the illumination available on Thrais was scant. They called the clerk back to bring them a reader but when the bead was placed inside it aperture, the attached screen filled with a jumble of mismatched symbols.

  “It is encrypted,” said the clerk. “And by a very sophisticated cipher, high up in the consistencies.”

  “Could Allguard’s integrator decipher it?” Conn said.

  “No.”

  “What about yours?” Conn asked the discriminator.

  “We are a small and relatively uncouth police agency,” Klepht said. “You’d need a force that was used to dealing with more imaginative criminals than we encounter in Bay City.”

  “Where might I find one?”

  Klepht made a noncommittal gesture. “Old Earth, for certain. But that is also where the Registry of Off-world Properties is to be found, and unless I miss my guess, that is where this bearer deed was originally issued.”

  “Another mystery,” said Conn. “It appears that Hallis Tharp involved himself in my life, though whether for good or ill I cannot say.”

  Jenore Mordene’s voice was thick with mingled anger and grief. “Hallis Tharp was your dearest friend,” she said. “He spoke often of you and only in the best terms. He admired your skills and looked forward to your weekly meetings.”

  “Yet he kept me indentured to Horder.”

  “If he did so, it was because he believed it was what was best for you.”

  Conn studied her tearful face, looking for some clue that would let him make sense of what she was saying. But he saw nothing to help him. He said, “But how did it profit him to do ‘what was best’ for me?”

  He saw a flash of frustrated rage that fell apart and became helpless sorrow. “You people,” was all she said, turning away and wiping her eyes.

  “It seems you have a choice,” Hilfdan Klepht put in. “You can accept what fate has accorded you – modest wealth and legal freedom – and resume your life here on Thrais, perhaps to buy a share in a sporting house.”

  “Yet someone wanted this bead badly enough to send an assassin for it.”

  The discriminator knit his brows. “Property is often worth killing for, but in this case the killer was at pains not to let you know of your inheritance. Now that you have the deed, the threat may well lapse.

  “On the other hand, it is a bearer deed. It confers title on whoever owns it. Someone, somewhere, values it highly and therefore might think it worthwhile to assemble whatever resources it would take to kill you and relieve you of it.”

  “I could offer it for sale,” Conn said.

  “Only as a mystery item. It would not bring much.”

  “But the highest bidder would certainly be the one who sent Chask Daitoo.”

  “Doubtful,” said Klepht. “He has already shown a flair for subtlety and indirection, not to mention ruthlessness. He might send an innocent who knew nothing and who was scheduled for elimination by other agents before the deed was turned over to whoever was ultimately pulling the strings and levers.”

  The discriminator pulled his nose again and said, “If you wish to pursue the matter your next step is to go to this Registry of Off-world Properties on Old Earth. There you can discover what the property is and what it is worth. If you then put it up for bids, you may at least narrow the field of candidates who could have sent Chask Daitoo to kill you, not to mention Ovam Horder and Hallis Tharp.”

  “While advertising myself as a target,” Conn said.

  “Take action or stand pat. There are risks and rewards to either strategy,” Klepht said. “You must weigh and choose.”

/>   Conn agreed. “I will think about it,” he said and began to do so, sifting and sorting probabilities as he had always done in games of skill and strategy.

  The discriminator cleared his throat, “First Response would pay a reasonable fee for information that would allow us to make a definitive conclusion on Horder’s death. In the interests of maintaining our closure rate.”

  Jenore Mordene had regained most of her self-possession. “Do you mean you will not pursue your inquiries off-world?” she said.

  Now it was Klepht’s turn to look puzzled. “Ovam Horder is dead and his heirs have not offered to contract for a full investigation. For whom would we be acting?”

  “How about for the sake of justice?”

  “Justice is an abstract concept,” the discriminator said, “and mutates substantially with a shift in the observer’s point of view. It is often difficult to determine whether or not it has been achieved, whereas a transaction involving specified services for agreed-upon fees allows for far less slippage.”

  The observation seemed self-evident to Conn Labro, but he saw the young woman turn away with a grim retort left unexpressed. But he had more important matters in the foreground of his mind. “I have decided to take the bearer deed to Old Earth,” he said. “I will begin by using Daitoo’s ticket to Holycow. Perhaps someone will be waiting there for him. That might give me an opportunity to learn where he came from and who sent him.”

  “FRP can grant you status as an independent auxiliary agent,” Klepht said. “You could then ask for assistance from police agencies that recognize our standing, which includes most of those along The Spray.”