by Scott Meyer
“Master Rayzo certainly seems to be giving it his all,” Migg said.
“Yes,” Lord Jakabitus agreed. “He came in here with a real head of steam today. He said that after yesterday, he never wants Hennik or anybody else to get the best of him again. He and Hartchar started early. They’ve been working on countermeasures to Hennik’s ridiculous trick; now they’re running through the various permutations of how such a match could play out.”
“Master Hennik’s signature move has been outlawed in official tournament play,” Migg said, “but that certainly would not stop him from using it against Master Rayzo here. Wise of you and Hartchar to develop countermeasures.”
“It was Rayzo’s idea.”
“Excellent,” Migg said.
“You aren’t going to warn Hennik about this, are you?”
“Yesterday, my job was to serve Master Hennik. I didn’t want to help him attack Master Rayzo, but I did. Today, my job is to serve House Jakabitus, and when Master Rayzo surprises Master Hennik with his countermeasures, I want very badly to be here to see it.”
“Yes,” Lord Jakabitus said, studying Migg. “I thought you might.”
Just then, Lord Jakabitus and Migg were distracted by a discreet cough. At first Migg thought Phee was attempting to get her attention, but upon turning they discovered that Shly had arrived with His Lordship’s training beverage.
Lord Jakabitus smirked. He looked at his son, still struggling, oblivious to the world beyond the borders of the mat. In a much louder voice than necessary, Lord Jakabitus said, “Hello, Shly. It’s always good to see you, Shly. I am ready for my drink now. Shlyyyyy.”
If Rayzo heard his father, he didn’t let on. He and Hartchar continued to grapple with each other as if nobody had said a word.
In a much lower voice, Lord Jakabitus said, “Okay, Rayzo, I think it’s time you took a break.”
Rayzo immediately said, “Yes, Father.” He and Hartchar stopped pushing and pulling against one another, relaxed, and slowly disentangled, dropping, panting, to the mat.
As they lay there struggling to catch their breath, Rayzo turned his head, and in as cordial a tone as he could manage, said, “Hello, Migg, Phee, Shly.”
The fact that he had the presence of mind and the maturity to greet them in order of rank despite his exhaustion and the events of the previous day impressed Migg. The fact that he noticed anyone other than Shly impressed Lord Jakabitus, Hartchar, Phee, and Shly.
Migg said, “Master Rayzo, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to say how sorry I am about my part in yesterday’s events.”
Like his father, Rayzo waved off her apology. “What happened yesterday happened yesterday. I’ve learned several lessons, and I’ve moved on.”
“And what lessons have you learned?” Lord Jakabitus asked.
“That Hennik’s weakness is that he believes himself superior. My weakness was that I believed him. One of us is stronger now.”
“I didn’t tell him that,” Lord Jakabitus said, smiling. “He came up with that all on his own.”
“Waiting for others to tell me what lessons I should learn was another of my weaknesses,” Rayzo said.
47.
Wollard sat in the departure lounge, waiting to board a transport for the second leg of his journey. While working with Lady Jakabitus, he had seen more travel than the average person, but he had never truly understood how thoroughly insulated he had been from what most people considered the experience of traveling.
For one thing, he had not set foot in a second- and third-class departure lounge since he was twelve, and he was shocked to see how little they had changed. The wall of windows offered a wonderful view of the planet below, and most of his fellow passengers were taking advantage of this view, because it was by far the most pleasant thing to look at.
Wollard wouldn’t have called the departure lounge ugly, but no living creature would have called it pretty. Like many public spaces, it was designed to offend nobody’s sensibilities, and as such, it didn’t do much to excite anyone either.
People were also making a point of not looking at the transport, floating outside, waiting for boarding to commence.
When Wollard first left home, interstellar travel had been a dreary, utilitarian affair, a fact that had been reflected in the design of the ships. Wollard had been under the impression that great efforts had been undertaken to make interstellar travel more aesthetically pleasing for the traveler. Now he saw that things had only improved for some of the passengers. The first-class passengers, specifically.
Like the orbital transports that delivered dignitaries to Palace Koa in such a way as to maximize the view, Her Ladyship’s official transport had always approached commercial interstellar transports nose on, so he was accustomed to only seeing them from the front. Now, looking at the transport he was about to board, he understood why. The front was gloriously designed, with a gleaming exterior and immense windows through which one could see the flight deck and lavish first-class accommodations. Behind the nose section, the decoration ended abruptly, replaced with a bewildering tangle of struts and cables, so densely packed as to obscure the actual bulkhead they were presumably there to support. The vast preponderance of the fuselage resembled a prickly cylinder. It was engineered to be light, strong, and easily reparable. It did not need to look good, and it didn’t.
At boarding time, Wollard lined up with the rest of the people in the departure lounge. He knew that on multiple levels, in countless identical lounges, other passengers were lining up to board the same transport. He was curious to see how they would all find their seats on the new, extra-large vessel.
The line moved through a door, down a hallway that twisted and descended, and into a room that held a surprise.
Wollard had expected to walk through a gangway, as he had on older vessels, but instead he entered a huge space that contained row after row of seats. They were organized like the seating in an auditorium, except that instead of all facing the same direction, the rows alternated so they faced each other. The seats were fastened together, side by side, in clusters of ten, but while they appeared to be quite solid and stable, they were not attached to the floor.
The passengers filed in and, at the insistent direction of the attendants, sat down in as orderly a manner as possible.
Wollard took his seat, marveling at the brilliance of the system. Why take our seats on the ship, where space is limited, when we can just take our seats here, where there’s plenty of room. Then, presumably, the rows of seats will be transported onto the ship. Quite civilized. And the seat’s not bad. It’s a shame I don’t have my own armrests, but I’m sure the strangers sitting on either side of me will let me have them for at least part of the trip.
The only thing that puzzled Wollard was that while each seat featured a built-in view screen, the screen was mounted on a stalk on the armrest, and seemed to be positioned away from him at an angle that made it impossible to see. He puzzled over this, fiddling with it to see if it could be readjusted, but finally concluded that it must be there to convey information to the attendants, not the passengers.
An attendant walked down the line of seats, handing each passenger a small pouch and a cup of fluid.
Ah, Wollard thought, snack service before we’ve even boarded. The offerings seem rather meager, but still, very nice.
The attendant handed Wollard his pouch and disposable cup. The cup appeared to contain water. The pouch was marked “Complimentary Repressors,” and contained five pills of differing size and shape.
Wollard turned to the woman in the next seat, who was tearing her packet open while keeping her elbows stubbornly rooted to her armrests. “Pardon me,” Wollard said. “Can you please tell me what these are?”
She looked at him and said, “Repressors. Complimentary.” Her eyelids were at half-mast, as if mourning the death of her enthusiasm.
She started popping pills into her mouth. Between each pill she stated their purpose, as if calling attendance. “Appetite. Nausea. Urinary function. Bowel function. Panic.”
Wollard looked down at his repressors while she tossed back her cup of water and swallowed. “How long will they work for?” he asked.
“If you’re lucky, almost the entire trip.”
“What if I don’t want to take them?” Wollard asked.
“It’s an eighteen-hour trip,” the woman said. “You wanna take ’em.”
When Wollard looked around, he saw that everybody was taking the pills, so he did as well. The empty cups and pouches were thrown on the floor, where they started their utilitic-assisted trek to eventual recycling. A prerecorded voice rang out clearly above the collective mumbling of the passengers.
“Thank you for traveling with us today,” the voice said. For your safety and convenience, there will now be a ten-second countdown before your seat’s inertial safety restraint system is activated.”
As the voice counted backwards from ten, Wollard noticed the other passengers were adjusting their clothing and scratching themselves with an odd, frantic intensity. Just seeing it made Wollard’s nose itch. Thoughtlessly, he lifted his hand to his nose. The count reached zero, and suddenly Wollard felt much heavier. At first he thought he was accelerating upward at a forty-five degree angle, then he thought his seat had fallen backward, but his eyes told him that the seats were not moving. His right arm weighed more than the arm itself could lift. He struggled to keep it aloft for an instant, then gave up. Unfortunately it slammed down painfully into his gut. His other hand had been on his lap, but was pulled into the crevice between his thigh and the seat’s armrest. His right arm, now relaxed after having been used to punch himself, also crammed itself into the space between his leg and the armrest. He looked down to either side and saw his seatmates were both gripping the armrests. They didn’t look comfortable, but they looked quite a bit more comfortable than he was.
The prerecorded voice resumed. “All passengers are secure. Ambient artificial gravity will be deactivated, and final boarding will commence.”
Wollard felt no lighter, but the bank of seats to which he was held drifted gracefully into the air, as did all of the others. The row across from Wollard started moving toward him. It remained perfectly parallel with his bank of seats, but appeared to be on a collision course. As the seats drew closer, Wollard realized that they were staggered so there were no passengers directly across from him. Instead, he was facing the space between two passengers.
The opposite bank of seats drew so close that Wollard braced himself for a collision, but at the last second the bases of both rows stopped moving and the seats tilted forward. Wollard’s knees were mere inches from those of the two people opposite him. The heads of the passengers in his row and the opposing row had meshed like the teeth on a zipper. Wollard’s head slotted neatly into the empty space between the heads of the two passengers opposite him; if he looked up, he saw shoulders and if he looked to the side, his eyes were four inches from an ear. If he looked forward, most of his field of vision was taken up by the view screen mounted to the arm of the seat opposite him, an arrangement that suddenly made sense.
The two rows of seats, locked into formation, maneuvered as one piece, joining a line of seating units to drift out of the room, down a long gangway, and into the ship through the first-class section. Despite the obvious motion, Wollard still felt as if he were simply lying in a chair that leaned back while the entire orbiting terminal, gangway, and transport ship maneuvered around him. He was glad he had taken the nausea repressor.
Most of Wollard’s field of view was blocked by the blank view screen and other people’s laps, but he could sense the vast empty space within the ship. Beneath him, there were already countless seating units like his own. Only the backs of seats and the backs of heads were visible as he glided past. Then Wollard saw a line of backrests and heads seem to rise up beneath him as his block of seats lowered into position and locked into place. After another moment, he felt another row of seats take position directly above and behind him.
With great effort, Wollard moved his head to look around his view screen at what was beneath him. The back of another passenger’s head was roughly five inches in front of Wollard’s ankles. Then they reclined their seat, coming to a stop not quite touching Wollard’s shins.
Wollard’s view screen blinked into life, showing an image of wide-open farmland, a fresh crop of bulk-stalks swaying gently in the breeze. It was a serene and comforting image. Wollard attempted to lose himself in it, but was distracted when the passenger who was simultaneously opposite him and next to his head said, “Hi.”
Wollard turned. It was hard to get a full impression of the man when viewing him from a distance of only a few inches, but he appeared to be middle-aged. He had unruly hair and a broad smile that might have been only a little off-putting if his face weren’t so very close to Wollard’s.
“Hello,” Wollard said.
“Where are you headed?” the man asked.
“The ship is going to Aquillus,” Wollard said.
“Sure is,” the man said. “Is that home, or are you just visiting?”
“It is only a layover.”
“Oh, so where’s your final destination?”
The question posed a problem for Wollard. He could answer it, admitting that he was on his way to the Central Authority, which would be very interesting to the stranger, and would lead to more questions. Or he could refuse to answer, which would be mysterious, and would lead to more questions. Lying would be bad form, and was not an option. Wollard took a moment to think, a moment too long, it seemed, as the man said, “Hey! I asked you a question. Why don’t you wanna answer? Come on, don’t be rude.”
Wollard said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d planned to spend most of this trip asleep.”
“But now you don’t have to, ’cause I don’t mind talking!” the other man said. “So, where are you headed?”
I decided I was going to remain positive during this journey, Wollard thought. Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise.
He looked at the man again.
A masterful disguise. Still, I’ve been leading a sheltered life. This person is exactly the kind of individual from whom I’ve been sheltered. Perhaps I should embrace this opportunity to interface with my fellow man. My trip to the Central Authority should prove an interesting topic. Perhaps he’ll have some insight that hasn’t yet occurred to me.
“Actually,” Wollard said, “since you’ve asked, I’m going to the Central Authority.”
“Oh,” the man said, “the Central Authority. Huh.”
“Yes,” Wollard said. “It’s the galactic headquarters of the Arbiters, the keepers of the Formalities and the employers of the Masters of Formalities.”
“Yeah,” the man said. “I’m aware of the Arbiters.”
“I expect you are,” Wollard said. “Everyone is. I already knew of them when I was selected to work for them when I was twelve. That’s when I took the aptitude test.”
“Yes,” the man said, looking down at his screen. “We all took the test.”
“Indeed, and mine showed that I was suited for the Formalities. I was thrilled.”
“Yeah,” the man said without looking at Wollard.
“Of course, they took me away for training. I’ve worked for the Arbiters ever since, but I’ve never been to the Central Authority.”
“Yeah,” the other passenger mumbled. “Good for you.”
“Um, yes,” Wollard said. “Anyway, I’ve always wanted to see the Central Authority. You know, they say that all Arbitration is still handled from the same modest building the great houses built for the Arbiters back when they ratified the Charter of Arbitration. I’m
told the rest of the planet is left in its natural state as a reminder both of the chaos of a world left—”
“Look, pal,” the other passenger said sharply, looking up from his screen, “I know your business trip is fascinating to you, but I’m not interested in the Arbiters, okay?”
“Oh,” Wollard said. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” the man said. “I think it would be best if we just tried to get some sleep.”
“Of course,” Wollard said.
The man nodded and returned his attention to his screen.
Wollard said, “I wanted to sleep in the first place.”
The man jerked his head up to glare at Wollard.
Wollard said, “Sorry,” then leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and tried not to think about how much he missed the palace.
48.
Dinner service for the Jakabitus family was complete, but instead of the usual postdinner cleanup, Ebbler was busy preparing one more meal. It was to be served to Hennik in his quarters, which for the time being was also his cell. Kreet and Shly stood by silently, waiting to deliver the prisoner’s meal. Glaz watched, as always.
Barsparse had wanted to serve Hennik bulkfabbed food, but Migg had reminded her that the Formalities required a hostile prisoner who was also a member of a ruling Great House to be served food of the highest quality available, within reason.
When Phee agreed with Migg’s report, Barsparse pivoted into a debate as to the possible interpretations of the word reason. In the end, it was decided that he would be served the same dishes as the Jakabitus family, but he would be served later, as Migg had suggested from the beginning. They also agreed that his food would be prepared entirely by Ebbler, who needed the practice anyway.
Ebbler plated Master Hennik’s meal, then turned to get Barsparse’s opinion of his work.