Curse of the Iris

by Jason Fry

  Carlo looked away.

  “It was only for a few minutes, and in deep space, but you were so excited,” Tycho said.

  Tycho had lost track of how many times the snippet of music had played by the time the top of the teller’s bald head reappeared. The teller settled back into his seat behind the desk, adjusted his monocle, then carefully put the fingers of each hand into its armature.

  The red light above the special services line faded away, the gold lettering reappeared, and the music cut off. Someone ahead of them in line clapped briefly, stopping at a sharp look from behind the desk.

  Yana returned, followed a couple of minutes later by Huff, who betrayed no sign that he’d had too much grog. Tycho tried to make conversation, but his sister and his grandfather were both too angry. Yana extracted her mediapad from her bag and stared into it with a glower. Huff continued muttering to himself, while Carlo alternated humming and inspecting his fingers. Tycho just stared—at his boots, the ceiling, the hologram sign, the teller’s fingers, or nothing in particular—as the line of customers ahead of them slowly shrank, and the woman in front of them finally stepped up to the desk.

  “How long has it been?” Yana asked, putting her mediapad away.

  “You don’t want to know,” Carlo grumbled.

  “At least it won’t be much longer now,” Tycho said.

  “Belay that, Tyke,” Huff muttered.

  “Seriously,” Yana muttered. “Now you’ve jinxed us.”

  And indeed he had. The woman from the shipping lines reached into a carryall and pulled out a stack of currency chips, followed by a bundle of data disks and, worst of all, a folder of actual paper. Yana shut her eyes and sighed.

  What followed was a deep discussion of several somethings, none of which Tycho could understand. The conversation required the teller to leave twice for consultation with a manager. While he was gone, Tycho estimated he heard the snippet of music more than fifty times.

  The woman finally collected her belongings and marched away with an annoyed shake of her head. The teller adjusted his monocle, examined the joints of his left-hand armature, and then lifted his chin at Tycho.

  The four Hashoones stepped forward.

  “I understand you have a key card, Mr. . . . Unger?” the clerk asked, staring into the world of data only he could see.

  Tycho retrieved the card from his jumpsuit pocket and held it up. The teller stared into his monocle, then extended a hand encased in metal and wire. Tycho handed over the key card and leaned against the desk.

  “Customers are requested to maintain a courteous distance from the working area of bank representatives,” the teller said.

  “Sorry,” Tycho said, hastily drawing his arms back.

  “Bureaucrats,” Huff rumbled.

  “You are Mr. Unger?” the teller asked.

  “Well—”

  “Since you do not appear to be one hundred twenty-three years old, I shall conclude that you are not,” the teller said.

  “He never said he was,” Carlo objected. “Your stupid AI said that.”

  The teller peered at Carlo. So did Tycho, simultaneously annoyed at his brother for stepping in and relieved that he’d done so.

  “Not disagreeing with an incorrect statement is the same as agreeing with it,” the teller said.

  “No, it isn’t,” Carlo said. “If that were true, we’d spend our entire lives disagreeing with each other.”

  “Isn’t disagreement a necessary part of a more complete understanding and thus cooperation?” the teller asked.

  “Sometimes. But other times disagreement is a distraction. For instance, an unhappy customer might say, ‘The service at the Bank of Ceres is horribly slow, and the tellers’ behavior is shockingly rude.’ Another party might disagree but seek to prove the customer wrong by helping him conclude his business in a speedy fashion.”

  Carlo smiled at the teller, and Tycho felt a flash of irritation that his brother’s scar had only made his handsome features more distinctive.

  “If it were not banking hours, I would be fascinated to discuss your example, which is no doubt hypothetical,” the teller replied. “But as you can see, the Bank of Ceres is quite busy.”

  “On this we are in complete accord,” Carlo said with a smile. “Let us therefore move on to cooperation and the matter of this key card.”

  “I am glad you have at last decided to use our facilities for a discussion of actual banking,” the teller said. “But I suspect you are not Mr. Unger either, sir.”

  His eyes jumped briefly to Yana.

  “At the risk of making a perilous leap of logic, I will rule you out as well.”

  As Huff growled something, Carlo drew himself up to his full height, though that still left him a good way below the teller’s eyes.

  “I am not Josef Unger but Carlo Hashoone,” he said. “This is my brother, Tycho, my sister, Yana, and our grandfather, Huff Hashoone. We are officers aboard the Shadow Comet, registered under a Jovian Union letter of marque, and the key card is our possession as legal salvage.”

  The teller sighed.

  “It appears our discussions have moved backward,” he said. “It sounds like you require the service of an admiralty court judge. Let me direct you—”

  “We are more than familiar with the admiralty courts. Our business is with you—or with someone else at this bank, if you are unwilling or unable to help us conduct that business.”

  The teller waved his fingers in the air.

  “Purely to give you an example of the power of cooperation, I shall review your case briefly with my superiors,” he said.

  “Wait—” Tycho began, but the music had already begun to play.

  “I’m going to cry,” Yana said. “No, I’m not. I’m going to get a projectile cannon and blast this bank off the face of Ceres.”

  “Now yer talkin’,” Huff said.

  “I bet the line to do that would be really long,” Tycho muttered.

  Carlo just raised his eyebrows and whistled along with the synth grunge.

  The teller returned, looking faintly disappointed to see the Hashoones still there. He sat in his chair and spent a minute verifying that his armatures were working properly before returning his attention to them.

  “This is a most irregular case,” he said. “A long-standing agreement directs us to produce the item or items held in security here upon presentation of a valid key card.”

  “Excellent news,” Carlo said. “Since we have given you a valid key card, let us—”

  “A moment, please,” the teller said. “The agreement stipulates that the item or items shall be produced if a valid key card is presented and a captain of the Collective or his or her heir is present. Is there a captain of the Collective or valid heir present?”

  Tycho, Yana, and Carlo looked at one another, puzzled.

  “The Collective,” Huff muttered. “That’s what the surviving pirates from the Iris raid called themselves.”

  “We can proceed, then,” Carlo said to the teller. “Johannes Hashoone was a member of the Collective as captain of the Shadow Comet, and we are his heirs.”

  “I see,” the teller said. “Our scanning services have verified your identities. As the merest formality, let me cross-index those against registration information for your vessel.”

  “Still say we should leave this be,” Huff said. “Fool’s business, diggin’ up the past.”

  “But aren’t you curious, Grandfather?” Tycho asked.

  “Curiosity ends at the wrong end of a carbine,” Huff grunted.

  After a moment, the teller smiled.

  “According to the records, none of you is captain of the Shadow Comet—and therefore none of you is a valid heir to the Collective,” he said. “Would any of you care to disagree, as a point either of business or of philosophy?”

  “I certainly would,” Carlo said. “The agreement referenced the presence of a captain or a valid heir. If you examine the registration records of th
e Shadow Comet, you will see our grandfather’s extensive history as captain. And as Johannes Hashoone’s son, he counts as his valid heir. As do the three of us, I might add.”

  “One moment,” the teller said, fingers tapping in midair. “Registration records verified. However, registration information indicates Huff Hashoone is no longer captain of the Shadow Comet.”

  “No longer captain . . .” stammered Huff, his forearm socket jerking back and forth.

  “What does that matter?” Carlo said. “It’s true that our grandfather is no longer captain. But that doesn’t make him no longer a valid heir.”

  “There you are incorrect,” the teller said with a smile. “The Collective agreement includes a number of relevant subclauses. A captaincy takes precedence over any claim to being an heir. Is there a Dee-o-cle-sha Hashoone present?”

  “Take it easy, Grandpa,” Tycho said, seeing the flesh-and-blood half of Huff’s face turning an alarming shade of red.

  “DIE-o-cle-sha,” Carlo said. “That’s our mother. She’s in court.”

  “How unfortunate,” the teller said, handing the key card back. “If you return here with the current Captain Hashoone, or proof that the captaincy has been dissolved, we will be happy to further explore your request. Have a nice day.”

  “But we just waited in that line for an hour and a half!” Carlo exclaimed.

  The flesh-and-blood half of Huff’s face was now purple.

  “Without the current Captain Hashoone, I cannot proceed. Please stand aside.”

  “But this is ridiculous!” Carlo sputtered.

  “We of course welcome customer feedback on our operating principles and business procedures. Please ask our lobby AI for a comment form.”

  Tycho was tucking the key card back in his pocket and so missed Huff’s lunge for the teller’s throat. He fell short by a centimeter or two, and his metal hand clanged on the imitation marble. The other tellers’ heads snapped around to stare at the disturbance.

  “Grandpa, don’t!” Yana yelped.

  “Bankers!” roared Huff, taking another swipe at the teller. “Biggest swindlers in the universe, the whole wretched lot of yeh! At least when pirates try to rob yeh, yeh gets to shoot ’em!”

  Guardsmen rushed in from either side of the screen, black batons raised.

  “Arrr, I’ve seen better service from a Martian royal executioner,” Huff said. “Now c’mere, you dirty bilge rat! I’m gonna tear that fancy glass off yer eye an’ jam it—”

  Tycho jumped in front of the guardsmen, hands raised, but they shoved him aside and grabbed Huff from behind.

  “Wait!” Tycho yelled. “Let me talk to him!”

  Huff flailed in the guards’ grip, the socket of his forearm cannon twitching madly. The Hashoones watched helplessly as he was dragged off, foul oaths echoing through the bank.

  “Shouldn’t we go with them?” Tycho asked. “Grandpa’s power indicators were flashing yellow—what if his cybernetic systems run out of power?”

  “They have recharge ports in the Ceres lockup,” Carlo said. “He’s been hooked up to them before. I’d better send a message to Mom.”

  The teller adjusted his monocle.

  “Unless one of you also intends some ludicrous outburst, please step aside and allow other customers to attend to their affairs.”

  “Why don’t you kids move it already?” someone growled behind them.

  Defeated, the Hashoones stepped out of line.

  “Have a nice day,” the teller said.

  Diocletia looked tired when she and Mavry arrived, and her children’s competing explanations of what had happened only made her look more tired.

  “Welcome back to the Bank of Ceres, Captain Hashoone and First Mate Malone,” the AI said as they entered the vestibule. “We are—”

  “Zip it,” Diocletia said, striding past the screen.

  To Tycho’s relief, the customers had thinned out with the end of the business day approaching—only eight people were in line.

  “Are you sure Grandpa will be okay?” Yana asked Mavry.

  Their father smiled. “Oh, by now he’s having a grand time telling his cellmates how he forced the entire bank to beg for mercy.”

  “Is he going to be in a lot of trouble?” Tycho asked.

  “A moderate amount,” Mavry said. “I doubt there’s anyone on this dismal little planet who hasn’t fantasized about strangling a Bank of Ceres teller.”

  “I’ve certainly considered it,” Diocletia muttered.

  After a few minutes, the teller who’d debated with Carlo earlier indicated they should step forward. Diocletia approached, boot heels ringing. The teller mutely extended a hand, and she placed the key card in his fingers.

  “Identity scan complete, Captain Hashoone,” the teller said. “And registration lookup verifies your status as current captain of the Shadow Comet with rights stipulated according to the Collective agreement. Do you wish to retrieve the contents of the safe-deposit box?”

  “I would be delirious with pleasure,” Diocletia said.

  “One moment,” the teller said, removing his finger armatures. He handed back the key card, then vanished from view.

  “He sure is moving a lot faster than last time,” Yana grumbled.

  “That’s because he’s afraid of Mom,” Carlo said.

  “He isn’t,” Diocletia said, then cocked an eyebrow. “Yet.”

  The teller emerged from an ornate doorway beside the desk and indicated that they should follow him into the bowels of the bank. Beyond watchful guardsmen and several electronic gates was a room with blank walls, a lone computer console, and a bare metal table. Two bank functionaries appeared from another door with a long box. At a nod from the teller, they drew gleaming keys from their belts and stood on either side of the box. Both pressed their keys into locks and turned them, then stepped back.

  The teller removed the lid. There were five hollow spaces inside the box, each with a light, a nameplate, and a slot for a key card. Three of the spaces were empty, their lights dark. The names by the empty spaces read ORVILLE MOXLEY, MUGGS SAXTON, and JOSEF UNGER.

  The other two slots contained gray cylindrical devices about a half meter long. The lights beside those slots were red. Tycho read an unfamiliar name—BLINK YAKATA—before he came to JOHANNES HASHOONE.

  Yana peered into the box. The strange devices were identical—one end flared into a bell, while the other was topped with a box and some kind of readout.

  “What are those things?” Tycho whispered to his sister.

  “Some kind of scanner,” Yana whispered back. “I’ve never seen a model like it.”

  “A scanner for finding the treasure?” Tycho asked.

  Mavry elbowed Tycho and shook his head. The teller pulled white gloves from somewhere within the recesses of his uniform and put them on.

  “The key card, if you please,” he said, then stopped, peering into the case.

  “What happened to Josef Unger’s device?” Tycho asked. “When was it removed?”

  “You seem confused about our business, young man,” the teller said, beginning to strip off his gloves again. “We are caretakers, not archivists.”

  “But you must have some record of when the device was removed,” Tycho insisted.

  “Yes, you must,” Diocletia said. “I’d like to know the answer to that question myself.”

  The teller said nothing, concentrating on carefully folding his gloves.

  “Any such information would be a private matter between ourselves and Mr. Unger,” he said finally. “And as we determined in rather exhaustive detail earlier, Mr. Unger is not present.”

  “But you’re letting us use his key card,” Carlo objected. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It is consistent with our operating principles and business procedures.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “At the Bank of Ceres we hold confidentiality in high regard. Just as we honor our agreements with cust
omers, despite the fact that we no longer deal with businesses such as yours.”

  The Hashoones’ eyes jumped to their mother’s face. Diocletia’s expression didn’t change, which is how Tycho knew the teller was in real trouble.

  “Businesses such as ours?” she asked. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean by that.”

  “I was referring to irregular professions.” The teller sniffed. “No insult was meant.”

  “It most certainly was. And I’ve had quite enough of it. First you abuse longtime customers, and now you act as if we’re too stupid to recognize an insult.”

  “A fascinating perspective, but since our business appears concluded, I’ll leave further exploration of the question to you and your brood.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Diocletia said. “Let’s go discuss it with Sir Armistead-Kabila.”

  “Alfonso Armistead-Kabila? You know our bank’s chairman?”

  “Since I was a little girl. Does that surprise you, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Hohenfauer,” mumbled the teller.

  “Surely you’re aware, Mr. Hohenfauer, that the chairmen and chairwomen of this bank have known my family since my ancestor Ulrika Hashoone became a founding director some three centuries ago.”

  Hohenfauer blinked rapidly, and his fingers twitched, trying to summon the information that would have been instantly available if only he’d been at his desk, where things suddenly seemed much safer.

  “I’ll lead the way—I remember where Alfonso’s office is,” Diocletia said.

  “That—that won’t be necessary,” the teller sputtered, rushing over to a terminal. “What was it you wanted to know?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself—Alfonso will be happy to help us.”

  “My dear Captain Hashoone, let’s not be hasty,” Hohenfauer said. “There’s no need to bother the chairman, is there? Ah—it seems the records were incomplete earlier. I have the information right here. The device was removed in 2816, by Josef Unger himself.”