Template: A Novel of the Archonate

by Matthew Hughes

  “He will indulge himself in grief to the hairline,” Soof said. “It is the Divorgian way.” The chief constable composed a brief message and appended to it the voice print and image of the suspected Immersionist and gave it to Conn. All rose and made appropriate gestures and suddenly, their business done, Conn and Jenore were back in the station’s concourse amid the flux and flow of people from scores of worlds, woven through by the occasional passage of a feathered or furred ultraterrene.

  They threaded their way through the crowds. Conn letting Jenore set their direction since she seemed to know the terrain. When he inquired, she confirmed that she had been through the place a few times: beyond passenger transfers, the orbiter offered refueling and provisions for private starships, including the chartered craft that had carried the Chabriz show from world to world.

  “There is the Interworld Haulage office,” she said after they had made their way to a section of the concourse past the zone where the major lines maintained ornate facilities to accommodate their various classes of passenger. Here the facades and displays were more utilitarian, the staff beneath them clad in uniforms that bore no marks of fashion or efforts at panache.

  The woman at the Interworld booth was of middling years and stature, with an experienced face and an uncomplicated coiffure. She consulted a schedule and advised that the Grayling, a freighter bound ultimately for Old Earth, was due to depart in a short time and that it had vacant cabins. The fares were more than reasonable compared to the prices the Gunter Line charged.

  “Where else does the ship stop on the way?” Jenore asked.

  The woman flipped a page and ran a finger down a column. “Firenz, Dusoulier, Bashaw and Huddle,” she said. “The first two are station stops. Bashaw is a one-day stand-down for maintenance and refueling. Huddle gets a pass-by if there is nothing to offload or collect.”

  Conn said, “On Bashaw we could advise Flagit Holdings that I no longer belong to them. We might learn something about Chask Daitoo.”

  “We did not think to look for anyone awaiting him when the Dan docked,” Jenore said. “Poor Clariq.”

  “I looked. No one was holding up a sign with his name on it, which I admit would have been unlikely, but neither did I see anyone who looked puzzled or disappointed.”

  The girl regarded him quizzically. “You remembered to do that while we had poor Moat to look after and all those policemen underfoot?”

  “I was trained from my earliest days to take my surroundings into account.”

  She nodded as if to herself. “There are long moments when I forget how unusual you are.”

  Conn was surprised to find in himself an inclination to bridle at the remark. He suppressed the urge and said, “I believe your definition of unusual differs from mine,” he said.

  “That is true,” Jenore said, “but I believe you are even unusual for a Thraisian.”

  “How so?”

  “When it comes to spending money, most Thraisians only have a problem if the outlay benefits someone else. On themselves they lavish as much luxury as their purses will sustain.” She gave him a considering look. “You are somehow innocent of an appetite to pamper yourself. It is an unThraisian trait.”

  “I am far from innocent,” Conn said, but at point the Interworld woman broke into the discussion.

  “Do you wish to book passage or not?,” she said. “I have other work to do.”

  “I say yes,” said Jenore then added for Conn’s ears only, “If anyone is watching for you, they’ll likely be keeping an eye on the scheduled passenger ships. The Grayling will put in at a nondescript berth where we’re much more likely to spot them first.”

  Conn did not anticipate lurkers either way, but he signaled agreement. He produced his credit draft and moments later he and the girl were on their way to a nearby lounge to await their boarding call.

  “This place has not changed since I last came through with the Chabriz company,” she said.

  Conn gave the most minimal response: a sound made in the back of his throat, not developed enough even to qualify as a syllable.

  She looked up at him. “Is something wrong? Are you angry at me?”

  He did not answer but pushed open the door to the lounge, finding an unwindowed space with utilitarian furniture and a row of dispensers for those who required unsophisticated food, drink or modest diversions. There were no other passengers. He chose a bench and sat.

  He was aware that way the young woman was gazing at him meant that she expected a response to her question. But Conn was unsure how to answer – indeed, he was, for the first time in as long as he could remember, uncertain of himself.

  Identifying the feeling left him even more ill at ease. It was not a condition he was used to. Until now, since earliest childhood, his primary sense of himself had been that of strong competence, of being the principal actor in his own story, even when he was reacting to circumstances imposed upon him by others – Ovam Horder, his trainers, his opponents.

  He could always define his goals and establish a strategy to achieve them, could revise the strategy to meet a fluid situation. He had functioned – and optimally, it was universally agreed – within a framework of tasks to accomplish along a clearly visible career path: become a superior contender, strive to rise above his peers, win and hold a pre-eminent position.

  Now all of that was gone. There was no framework, no path, no goal other than to ensure his continued survival and unravel a mystery dropped upon him by the death of Hallis Tharp. The lifelong landmark of his existence, Horder’s Gaming Emporium, had abruptly ceased to exist, and he was pitched from its familiar confines into a wider universe that was rife with whole worlds ruled by mass delusion.

  And now Jenore Mordene sat beside him, again wanting to know, “Is anything wrong?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”

  Her mouth formed a puzzled smile. “You sound like a typical troubled adolescent.”

  “I was never troubled as an adolescent. I had more important concerns.”

  “That, too, is unusual.”

  He decided he would let his irritation show before suppressing it. “You keep using that word in connection with me. I find your views ill founded.”

  “I intended an innocent observation, not an attack.”

  He performed the exercise that restored his equilibrium. “Let us not speak of it. Let us formulate a plan to take us forward.”

  She made a noncommittal movement of head, hands and shoulders. “At some point, we should establish the terms of our relationship. After what I saw you do to Chask Daitoo, I am fearful about making you angry.”

  “I was not angry at Daitoo. Some situations are too serious for the luxury of emotion.” He was quoting from one of his early trainers – he could not recall who had said the words – but the statement reflected his feelings. “Our present circumstances are also serious and I would prefer to make a plan rather than chatter about irrelevancies.”

  She made an ambiguous gesture that could not disguise a mix of emotions. He disregarded them and pushed the conversation on. “On Bashaw,” he said, “we should inquire about Flagit Holdings, the supposed purchaser of my indenture. There may be something to learn about Daitoo and who sent him to kill me.”

  “Discriminator Klepht’s opinion about the bearer bead might also be tested,” Jenore said.

  “Yes. We will accomplish those goals on Bashaw then move on to Old Earth. The nature of the property may also tell us much.”

  “So may an identification of its previous owners. It may also be relevant to know how Hallis Tharp came to possess whatever it is,” she said. She chewed her inner lip thoughtfully, then added, “Perhaps it is stolen and someone wants it back.”

  Another twitch of irritation pulled at his inner balance. “Hallis Tharp was no thief,” he said.

  Her eyebrows quirked. “Why so sharp?” she said. “So you did feel affection
for the old man?”

  “Do not seek to distract me,” he said. But she had zeroed in on a soft spot that he had not known was there. Her suggestion had called up a flurry of images: Tharp seated across the paduay set from Conn, his aged face animated as he made some irrelevant philosophical observation; the thinness of his shoulders under his threadbare garment that Conn had noticed a year or so ago as Tharp departed the playing room after a session; the way his long, delicate fingers would hold a paduay piece above the board for a last moment before positioning it; those same fingers ruined and torn, illuminated by the uncompromising glare of Aumbispero flooding through the filthy window and lighting the bleak room where he had died.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Jenore was saying.

  “I am fine. Let us continue.”

  “Well,” she said, “we can’t plan much beyond the things we may discover on Old Earth.”

  “Yes,” Conn said, “beyond that there are not yet any signposts.” He rubbed his hands. “Still, it is enough for now. We have a plan.”

  “That comforts you,” she said.

  He turned a direct gaze upon her. “It will go better if you do not constantly pick at my crust in search of the inner me. Accept what you see and hear and we will work together more smoothly.”

  She made a placating gesture. “We are all prisoners of our upbringings,” she said. “I was raised to be conscious of the feelings of others.”

  “Why?” he said.

  “A cultural norm,” she replied.

  It struck him that he knew almost nothing about her background. When they had discussed social underpinnings with the Walladers and Ren Farbuck, she had not contributed anything from her own upbringing.

  “Where are you from?” he said. “And what is your founding sin?”

  “So it is all right for you to pick beneath my crust?”

  “If you do not wish to answer, I will not press.”

  “I will answer,” she said. A softness came over her face as if she gazed on a familiar and welcoming scene. “I am from the county of Shorraff on Old Earth.” She described an archipelago along the southern rim of the New Shore, a collection of islands and islets set among reedy marshes. The inhabitants lived on the firm ground or in floating communities linked by canals, bridges, boats and stilt-hacks.

  “We are prodigious boat builders. The young people fashion light and springy craft called bitsas that glide down the channels as if on oiled glass. There are races and regattas. Winners’ ribbons are prized.”

  She told how in their maturity the Shorraffi poured their energies into the making of great barges – foranqs they were called – intricately carved and ornately decorated over the generations into towering confections of shaped and painted wood. “My family’s is white and gold, with a frieze of eyes, in relief and painted red over blue, along the gunwales. Foranqs are mainly for ceremonial use – naming days, birthdays, the exchange of cousins.”

  She fell silent and let her eyes drift away.

  “And your sin?” Conn asked.

  “I suppose, like the Hauserians, our flaw is a kind of pride.”

  “You have some version of the hassenge?” He could not imagine Jenore prodding an opponent with a span of edged metal.

  “No,” she chuckled, “we kill each other with kindness.”

  He waited and she went on to explain that in Shorraff status was the goal. Rank was acquired by the degree to which a person’s “handedness” was in demand. Growing up, young Shorraffis tried their hands at whatever activities caught their imagination, discovering along the way where lay their strongest aptitudes.

  “At the threshold of adulthood, after discussion with our elders and tutors, we undergo a series of trials and explorations called the ratherings to determine where our interests and talents coincide. We then attach ourselves to an acknowledged master or mistress of whatever art or artisanry we wish to encompass, learning by their precepts and examples. Those who show the most promise receive the most attention. They grow and flourish. Those who strike no sparks try other disciplines.”

  “What was your ‘handedness?’“

  Her mouth shaped a moue of bygone regret. “I strove to master the plastic arts – pottery, ceramics – but I lacked the quality we call eyefullness. My shapes and proportions were fashioned well enough, but my glazes and painted scenes never progressed much beyond a child’s daubings. So I became a dancer.”

  He found that could imagine her in motion. He had noticed a fluid grace in her unconscious movements. “And how did you fare?” he said.

  “I was good enough to study under the third best dancer of Shorraff. But it would always have been chorus and entourage for me, with at best the occasional character or feature part.”

  Then the Chabriz show had come to a town on the mainland to which the young Shorraffis liked to paddle their bitsas. Jenore had gone with her crowd to sit beneath the clouds of canvas and watch the Chabriz troupe at their leaps and saltations.

  “They were not so good, we thought. In our youthful arrogance, we did not realize that their art was not in the movements but in the eloquent stillnesses between. Some of us climbed onto the stage and offered our own interpretations.”

  The crowd had complained and the ushers had shooed away the young mockers. But Anwar Chabriz had noticed Jenore. He caught up with her as her group wandered among the put-and-pitch booths and sausage stalls and offered employment.

  “My parents spoke against it, and so did a self-important lump by the name of Alwan Foulaine who fancied he had acquired some rights to my person. But I knew I would never be a first ranker in Shorraff. My handedness as a dancer was good and would have got better but it would never have been great. Chabriz held out adventure, travel, novelty. At the time, these qualities shone with an irresistible luster.”

  “And now?”

  “The glow faded during those long months I sweated for crusts in Skrey.”

  He asked if she would return to Shorraff once she had guided him about his tasks on Old Earth.

  “I will at least visit, to see what has become of my friends and to determine if Alwan grew the paunch that even in youth seemed his destiny.” Her eyebrows performed a small shrug. “But I will not fit there. Shorraff will be like a shoe broken in by someone else’s foot. It will not flex and bend where I do, and it will pinch.”

  “So, what then?”

  She smiled. “Like you, I will look up the road and see what signposts have come into view.”

  A reverberating voice spoke over their heads, announcing that the Grayling was ready to accept passengers. They gathered their baggage and made their way to the docking port. Formalities were few. Their passage vouchers were checked by a breezy young ship’s officer whose neck clasps were left undone. A whistling crewman led them to a suite of small but comfortable cabins forward of the cargo modules. Conn’s and Jenore’s were adjacent.

  “You will find refreshments in the passengers’ mess,” the matelot said and returned to his duties. They stowed their baggage and found the indicated salon, which was set out with tables and chairs and a buffet offering simple fare. The punge was good and the breads and meats fresh.

  There was a smattering of other passengers, none of them remarkable. Conn and Jenore chose from the common board and went to sit at a table in the corner.

  “Your Shorraff does not sound that different from my upbringing,” Conn said. “The capable are well rewarded. Others struggle as best they can.”

  Her small pointed tongue cleared crumbs from the corner of her mouth. She said, “You are fitting what I told you into the template of your own experiences without seeing your biases.”

  “Explain,” he said.

  “I spoke of status, not reward,” she said. “You assumed that money changed hands.”

  “It is a reasonable assumption. It is how things are done.”

  “Not in Shorraff. Money is anathema to us.”

  “That is silly. How do you conduct business
?”

  “Very well,” she said, “and it is not silly at all. My father is one of our best artificers in bone yet he has never taken so much as a bent grimlet. His sole reward is the renown his work brings him.”

  “He does not work for money?”

  “No one does. We see money as a veil that obscures the intrinsic value of things. It reduces everything to the lowest common denominator.”

  “Again, that is nonsense,” Conn said. “Money is a medium of exchange, an economic lubricant, nothing more.”

  “Then how is it that people buy and sell money, that they speculate on whether it will lose or gain value?”

  “All right,” he conceded. “It can also be a commodity.”

  “And does it not corrupt one’s perceptions, so that people labor not for the satisfaction of achievement but for the monetary rewards they receive?” she said. “Are there not people right now swinking away at some task solely to get money?”

  “But only so they can spend it to get the things they want and need.”

  “But if they didn’t have the money to buy those things, might they not discover that they don’t really need them, or even want them, at all?”

  Conn waved her supposition away. “This is circular logic. You end up where you started because that is where you aimed in the first place.”

  “Yet it has served Shorraffis since time out of mind.”

  “But how do you conduct life’s everyday transactions?”

  “Like anyone else. People come to my father’s workshop and choose a comb or a decorative screen or a figurine. They discuss which of his works ‘spoke’ to the acquirer. There are certain formal words and gestures and the object changes hands.”

  “And your father receives nothing?”

  “On the contrary, he receives the respect and renown that are his deserved due and the only reward he prizes.”

  This made no sense, Conn thought. He said, “But suppose a man came in and simply took all of the stock?”