The Mammoth Book of Best New Science Fiction 18

by Gardner Dozois

  Thalia nodded, and, with a backward glance at Cicero, turned to go.

  “Just a moment, please – Miss Touray,” the Special said, reaching out to bar the way. “That wouldn’t happen to be – ” he fished a piece of paper from his pocket and glanced at it “ – Miss Thalia Xanthè Touray, Touray-Laurion, would it?” His pronunciation of the Thyatiran names was much better than Cicero would have expected.

  Thalia nodded wordlessly.

  The Special smiled. “Well, that’s a bit of luck,” he said. “Two birds with one stone, as you might say.” He handed the Rector the piece of paper, and said to Thalia: “I’ve a warrant for your arrest as well, you see.”

  Fuck, Cicero thought.

  And he turned to the policeman with the manacles, and with the heel of his right palm hit the bridge of the man’s nose so hard that his neck snapped.

  The other policeman swore and rushed in, knocking the Rector aside. Cicero kicked him in the stomach and sent him reeling back into the porter’s arms.

  “Run – ” he started to say, turning toward Thalia.

  And something hit him very hard in the back of the head.

  Thalia watched Cicero crumple to the ground. She’d hardly seen the man in the round hat move. He stood over Cicero and exhaled slowly through pursed lips.

  “That was a close one,” he said, to no one in particular. He rubbed his knuckles.

  The surviving policeman was throwing up in the doorway.

  “Constable,” the man said sharply. “If you’re sufficiently well rested, you’ll oblige me by taking the young lady into custody.” He turned to the Rector, who was still pressed up against the wall, eyes wide with shock. “A cup of tea’s what you’ll be wanting, sir,” he said. “Sorts you out a treat. We’ve things well in hand here.”

  “Yes,” Alier said, rather unsteadily. “Yes, I’ll just – ” He trailed off, looking from Cicero’s still-breathing body to the dead policeman and back again.

  As the other policeman picked up the fallen manacles and went to put them around Thalia’s wrists, the man in the round hat took Alier’s arm and propelled him gently toward the doorway.

  “On second thought, perhaps a small whisky,” he said. Nodding to the porter, he added: “See that he gets one.”

  “Right you are, sir,” the porter said.

  The man watched them go down the stairs. When the sound of their footsteps had died away, he turned and knelt down between the bodies, feeling behind Cicero’s left ear as if looking for a pulse. He seemed not to find it, and turned Cicero’s head to check the other ear; but then, as Thalia watched in growing horror, he reached inside his coat and drew out a small penknife.

  “What are you doing?” she said, as the man slipped the narrow blade under the skin, and the dark blood welled up. She struggled in the policeman’s grip, and the man in the round hat looked up, fixing her with a cold glare.

  “Quiet, now, miss,” he said. “Right now you’re a material witness. You don’t want to become a suspect.” He went back to what he was doing, fishing around in what was becoming a small pool of red, and came up with a teardrop of gold, no larger than the nail of Thalia’s little finger. “There we go,” he said. He tugged a handkerchief from Cicero’s pocket and used it to clean the knife, which he folded and put away. Then he pressed the handkerchief against the wound. “That ought to do it.”

  He stood, holding the golden drop up to the light.

  “What – ” Thalia began.

  “Hush,” the man said, holding up a hand.

  Thalia became aware of a tiny buzzing noise, like a faint and distant wireless voice caught by chance in between stations. It sounded angry – and worried.

  “There’s some as would give a king’s ransom to have this under their microscopes,” the man told Thalia. He let the thing fall to the tiles. “But the price of letting some others listen in would be much higher than that.”

  And he crushed the golden teardrop under his heel.

  “Assault on an officer, resisting arrest, and willful murder,” the Special announced as he came into the room. “I knew we’d find some way to lengthen your charge sheet, professor, but I didn’t expect you to help us do it.”

  “I’m not a professor,” Cicero said. There was a maddening trickle of blood beneath the bandage over his right ear.

  Murder. He felt it again, the crack of bone, traveling up his arm with the shock of impact. Willful murder.

  They were in the old wing of the Alicata Prison, he thought: stone walls and floor, and a steel door with a window of thick safety glass, so the guard outside could see and assist if Cicero became violent. There was little danger of that. Thick chains ran from his wrists through eye-bolts in the floor to his ankles, crossing under the heavy wooden chair on which he sat; he could shift a little in his seat, but that was all.

  “Well, I can’t very well call you spy, can I?” the Special said. He was standing; at the moment, he was looking out the tiny window into the hall. “And I very much doubt that Alexander Cicero is your real name.”

  “I’m not a spy, either,” Cicero said. “I’m an assistant lecturer in economics.”

  The Special turned to face him. “What you are, professor, is something we have yet to determine.” He leaned forward and put his fists on the table. “Don’t try to convince us you’re innocent. You gave up any pretense of that when you killed a constable.”

  “Shoot me for that, then,” Cicero said. “Why should I give you anything else?”

  The Special smiled and stood up. “Oh, we won’t shoot you. You’re far too valuable for that. No, I expect we’ll keep you alive.” He walked around behind Cicero and leaned forward. “Possibly for weeks,” he said softly, into Cicero’s good ear. “Some of our specialists are quite good at that.”

  Cicero twisted around until he could just see the Special out of the corner of his eye.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you want?” he said.

  “What I want?” the Special asked. He came around to the other side of the table and leaned over it to look Cicero in the eye. “What I want, professor, since you’re kind enough to ask, is for you, and the rest of your kind, to go back where you came from.”

  “You mean Port-St.-Paul?” Cicero said. “Because – ”

  He never saw the blow coming. It struck him just below his wounded ear and snapped his head sideways. The pain was blinding, but, through it, he heard the Special’s voice, leaning close:

  “See here, professor. I’ve worn a mask before now. I’ve ridden with the Secret Empire. I’ve seen an islander hanged just for complimenting a fishmonger’s wife on her dress, and I’ve held the rope that did it.” He grasped Cicero’s hair and pulled his head back, and his face, twisted with anger, swam into focus. “But I’d let that leering sodomitical beach-monkey have my own dear daughter before I’d let your lot have my country.” He let go. “At least the islander was human.”

  The blow had made Cicero bite his tongue. He turned his head to the side and spit blood.

  “I’m as human as you are,” he said, and instantly regretted it.

  The Special gave a short, humorless laugh. “The imitation’s clever; I’ll give you people that.” He pulled out the other chair and sat down, studying Cicero’s face. “I see that the accusation doesn’t surprise you,” he said with a thin smile.

  Cicero closed his eyes. Yes, that had been stupid; it would have been better to keep quiet.

  Still, he thought, better the state than the dealers. No way out now but forward. He took a deep breath and expelled it.

  Opening his eyes, he said:

  “We’re human. And we’re here to help.”

  The Special snorted. “Are you, now?” he said. “And your friends?” He took out a file folder and opened it. “ ‘Philip Marius,’ ” he read. “ ‘Profession, machinist. Charges, unlawful assembly, industrial combination, and sabotage.’ ” He turned the page. “ ‘David Solon. Profession, journalist. Charges, treason, subver
sion, incitement and libel. Jeanne Megaera, nurse: espionage, licentious behavior, vitriolage, solicitation, and attempted murder. Cyrus Mus . . .’ ”

  The Special read another half-dozen names. It sounded like the state had a complete catalog of the Outreach missionaries in Travalle and its colonies. Cicero supposed the dealers had given it to them. He hoped at least some of the others had managed to evade capture.

  “And then there’s you, professor,” the Special concluded. “I don’t pretend to understand what, exactly, the Council of Economic Advisors thinks you’re guilty of. But since you’ve signed your own death warrant two or three times already this afternoon, I think the question is – pardon the expression – academic.”

  He closed the folder. “It’s an interesting idea of help you people have, professor,” he said.

  “I didn’t say we were here to help you,” Cicero said.

  The Special gave him an appraising look. “Point taken,” he said. “Who, then? The islanders? The criminal classes?”

  “Your grandchildren,” Cicero said. “And your grandchildren’s grandchildren.”

  The Special snorted. “Out of the goodness of your hearts, I suppose.”

  “Call it that if you like,” Cicero said.

  “How noble of you,” the Special said. “My grandchildren didn’t ask for your help, professor. And they don’t need it.”

  “It’s our help or the dealers’,” Cicero said.

  “ ‘Dealers’?”

  “Marginal,” said Cicero. “You know who I mean.”

  “Oh, yes,” the Special said. “The illustrious Marginal Limited Liability Corporation. Your competition. Now that they’ve arrived, you’re offering to play fair with us, is that it?”

  Cicero opened his mouth to speak, but the Special cut him off. In the accent of the dockside slums, he said:

  “ ‘Give me one last chance, sir, I swear I’ll reform.’ ” He shook his head. In his own accent, he said: “How often do you think a copper hears that, professor? A good try, but much too late.” He stood up and knocked on the glass. The guard outside peered in and then opened the door. “My coat,” the Special said. “And my hat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the guard fetched the Special’s things, Cicero raised his voice. “Do you think Marginal will play fair?” he said. “They’ll eat you alive!”

  The Special took his coat and hat from the guard. Draping the coat over his arm, he turned to Cicero and said:

  “Odd, professor; that’s just what they said about you!”

  The door closed, and Cicero slumped down in his chair. His mouth was full of the taste of blood, and the taste of failure, too.

  At least it’s not Thalia sitting here, he thought. They wouldn’t treat her like this. She’ll be safely on her way home by now.

  “I am a citizen of Thyatira,” she said, before the man even had time to sit down. “I demand to speak to the High Commissioner.”

  The Special reached out casually and slapped her across the face. Thalia froze, too shocked even to raise her hand to her cheek.

  The man took off his hat. “None of that, now, miss,” he said, his voice mild. “We know very well who you are; we even know that you’re the High Commissioner’s cousin. He’ll hear about this in due course.” The man leaned forward. “The question, miss, is: what else will he hear about?”

  He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak. When she said nothing, he smiled faintly, and sat down. He took out a folder and was quiet for a moment, leafing through it.

  “Will he hear – for instance – that you’re an islander’s whore?” he suggested, looking up at her.

  Thalia kept her face impassive. They couldn’t blackmail her by threatening to tell her family. Cousin Milos already knew, from Embassy Intelligence. It was Thalia’s mother who was going to be the problem, and for that confrontation, she had long been prepared.

  The Special seemed to see that his shot had gone wide. “Well,” he said. “I suppose that would be a manageable scandal. A few tongues will wag . . . probably set the cause of women’s education back twenty years, if it gets in the papers. . . .” He shook his head sadly. “Oh, and your professor-boy will hang for it, of course. But one aristo’s daughter having a little what-you-fancy behind closed doors, that’s hardly the end of the world, is it?”

  Thalia didn’t answer.

  “But what if it was the end of the world?” the Special said. He waited, studying her with unblinking eyes.

  “What do you mean?” she eventually said.

  The Special smiled. “I’m a reading man, miss,” he said, “though I expect I don’t look it, not to the likes of you. Magazines, mostly. Penny dreadfuls. A bit beneath you, I dare say. But they tell me you’re interested in science, so perhaps you know the sort of thing I’m talking about. Airship Stories. Wireless Stories. Astonishing.”

  Thalia had been reading Airship Stories since she was eleven years old. One of the chauffeurs had used to buy it in town, and sneak Thalia his copies when he was done with them.

  “They ran a serial in Astonishing last year,” the Special continued. “I don’t know if you read it. ‘Mask People of Naaman,’ it was called.”

  “Shape-changing monsters from other planets,” Thalia said. “Sensationalist trash.”

  The Special gave her half a smile. “Where’s your professor-boy from?” he said.

  Thalia looked at him. “You don’t need me to tell you that,” she said.

  “Oh, I know where he says he’s from, miss,” the Special said. He referred to the folder and read out: “ ‘Port-St.-Paul, East Chatrang, Roka Archipelago.’ I was hoping he might have been more honest with you.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “If you’re expecting me to tell you he’s a Naamanite ‘Mask Person,’ you’re more stupid than you look!”

  “I’m not so smart as you, miss,” the Special said, “but I’m not stupid, either. I know he’s not from Naaman.” He smiled. “He’s from somewhere much farther away than that.”

  Thalia started to laugh again, and stopped, seeing the Special’s face. His expression of faint amusement hadn’t changed.

  “You’re serious!” she said.

  The Special opened up the folder. He took out a grainy photograph, pushing it across the table for Thalia to examine.

  “I expect you recognize Dr. Rosmer and Senator Oradour-Monatte,” the Special said. “But these two; have you seen either of them before?”

  The photograph showed the steps outside the Round Reading Room of the University Library. There were four men on the steps: one she recognized as a senior librarian, another as a Travallese politician. But the other two –

  Their features were odd, foreign. They were short and stocky, more so even than Cicero. Both of them had strangely pale hair; the color was impossible to tell from the photograph, but Thalia didn’t think it was the gray of old age. One of them, Thalia realized after a moment, was a woman; she hadn’t seen it before because the two were dressed almost identically, in dark, close-fitting trousers and coats buttoned to the throat, cut like nothing she had ever seen before. Neither wore a hat, and the woman’s hair was even shorter than the man’s.

  Thalia shook her head mutely.

  “No?” the Special said. “That’s reassuring. The one on the left – ” he leaned forward, and tapped the picture “ – calls himself Allen Macleane. The woman’s called Bernadette Parker.” He pronounced the foreign syllables carefully.

  “And who are they?” Thalia said.

  The Special sat back. “It’s not who they are, miss, it’s how far they’ve come. Since their last port of call – twenty light-years.”

  Thalia’s bewilderment must have been plain.

  “A light-year is – ” the Special started to say.

  “I know what a light-year is,” Thalia said. “That’s absolutely mad.”

  The Special shrugged. “I don’t claim to know how they did it, miss,” he said. “But they’re here.”r />
  “Why?” Thalia said. “What do they want?”

  “That’s also a matter of some debate,” the Special said. “They say they want trade. Not in gold or cloth or salt fish, which as I’m sure you’ve worked out wouldn’t be worth the cost of shipping. In knowledge, Art, music, scholarship, literature.”

  “That still wouldn’t be worth the cost of shipping,” Thalia said.

  “Right again, miss,” said the Special. “What Mr. Macleane and Miss Parker and their friends – they call themselves ‘Marginal,’ Marginal Limited Liability Corporation – propose to do, is to set up a sort of interstellar semaphore or radiotelephone, connecting Salomé with – with the stars, I suppose, or at any rate the ones they know.” He smiled. “We send them scratchy recordings of the Reunion Philharmonic and they send us the plans to build space-ships of our own.”

  “That hardly sounds like fair trade,” Thalia said.

  The Special tapped the side of his nose. “Do you know how the Archipelago Company makes its money, miss?” he asked. “Used to be, they’d buy wool and pig iron and timber in the islands and sell it here, in Basia; buy woven cloth and steel tools and whatnot here and sell them in the islands. They still do a bit of that, of course. But about fifty years ago some enterprising Company factor realized it would be cheaper to build mills and factories right there in the islands. Now most of what the Company sells in the islands is made in the islands, in Company mills and Company factories, out of wool from Company herds and iron from Company mines, and what they mostly ship back to Basia is money.”

  “It’s not just plans for space-ships they’re proposing to sell us, then,” Thalia said. “We wouldn’t know what to do with them, any more than an Eastern Desert tribesman would know what to do with the plans for a steam locomotive. It’s science, and engineering, and everything we’d need to understand those plans. They could teach us so much . . .”

  “For a price, miss,” the Special said. He seemed to think Thalia had missed his point. “For whatever the market will bear.”

  “I know,” Thalia said. “I have studied economics, don’t forget.”

  “Not for a moment, miss,” said the Special. “But you see where this leads. As the only source of all that knowledge, there’s no limit to the price they could set on it. Within a century these people might own half the world, the way the Company owns half the Archipelago.”