The Crown Jewels
Page 19
Gregor cackled with laughter. “That’s pretty good, boss.”
“Roman can’t know, of course. It isn’t that he’s pro-Imperial, just that he would so disapprove of cheating a client.”
Gregor gave a conspiratorial wink. “No problem. My eyes are sealed.”
“But if we were to sell the Empire any of His Majesty’s sperm, presumably our Constellation friends would want assurances that it was sterilized.”
Gregor frowned. “I follow. Somehow we’d have to let Jensen and her friends see the sample’s been sterilized before passing it to the Imperials.” He shook his head in bafflement. “That’s a tough one, boss.”
Maijstral raised a hand. “I have an idea, Gregor,” he said. “I believe it will work. Let’s see if you agree.”
*
“Baron Sinn. Your servant, sir.”
“Count Quik. Ever yours.”
“My consulate has authorized a bid of two hundred.” This was a lie. Sinn was using his own line of credit— he, like General Gerald, understood this would take too long for the request to go through official channels.
“Will transmit, my Baron. My thanks.”
Baron Sinn returned the phone to the robot and glanced from beneath the shade of the kibble trees toward where Countess Anastasia waited on the croquet court. She did not appear happy. Unfortunate for her, Sinn thought as he returned to the game, swinging his mallet in a jaunty way. For some reason her play was off. The Baron was well on his way toward winning his second game.
*
“And then this giant creature jumped out of ambush. Wearing a puppet disguise, no less. He must have been insane. He seized me, threw me about the place, and kept asking after Miss Jensen.”
“That must have been terrible.”
“He kept strangling me. He wouldn’t let me talk. Even if he took his hands off my throat, there was nothing I could have told him. I barely knew the woman. Until you told me, I had no idea she’d been released. If it wasn’t for your man, I don’t doubt I’d be lying dead in my uncle’s house.”
“Do you think it was the same person who broke into your uncle’s house?”
“It’s occurred to me. But that would mean the burglary is connected with the attack on Miss Jensen, and I can’t think how that could be.”
Nichole smiled, her mind bubbling with her own inward speculation. “Yes,” she said. “Totally baffling.”
Lieutenant Navarre propped his chin on his hand. He spoke thoughtfully. “Reminds me of a play I saw on Pompey. A strange complicated piece, written by one of our local playwrights. Drama, comedy, even a song or two. It had a glorious part for one of my favorite actresses.” Pause. “She rather reminds me of you, my lady.”
“Does she indeed?” Nichole put her hand on his arm. Her voice was a quiet purr. “Tell me all about it. Lieutenant. I’d love to hear everything you can remember.”
*
It was almost time for siesta. Gregor was off on a brief errand to the nearest public phone in order to transmit the Imperial counterbid to General Gerald, leaving Roman to fix Maijstral’s presiesta luncheon with equipment he had brought to the table on a cart. The hot dressing flamed in Roman’s pan. Maijstral watched Roman’s expert movements with admiration.
Time, obviously enough, for a conspiracy. “Your salad, sir.”
“Thank you, Roman. Is that kava-kivi I taste?”
“It is, sir. A small conceit of mine.”
“A splendid idea, Roman. Let it occur to you in future, by all means.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Maijstral tasted the salad again. Roman busied himself with putting away his cooking implements. Maijstral put his fork down and tapped his fake diamond against a front tooth.
“Roman,” he said. “May I ask your advice?”
Roman put down his spatula. “Sir. I would be honored.” Maijstral spoke in Khosali. The logic seemed to express itself better. “We have it in our power to affect the course of history.”
“Sir.”
“It is not a responsibility I have ever desired. My lifelong interests, I’m afraid, have been rather more pedestrian. These elements of galactic intrigue have caught me entirely by surprise.”
“The circumstances of life do not ask permission, but compel as they will.”
Maijstral smiled. This was Khosali proverb, and Roman to the bone.
“Very true,” Maijstral assented. “Circumstance compelled me into this situation, and I could, if I desired, let circumstance compel me out of it.”
Roman’s interest was obviously piqued. “By allowing the bidding to proceed as it will, and delivering the reliquary to the highest bidder?”
Maijstral put down his fork. “Just so.”
Roman’s ears pricked forward. “You wish not to be compelled in such a way, sir?”
Maijstral drew his ear back into a pose of cautious reflection. He contemplated his cooling salad and wondered exactly how he was going to bring this off. He could tell Roman that Sinn and Amalia Jensen had threatened him, but that would just drive Roman into a righteous fury and before long Roman would start prodding Maijstral into challenging everyone in sight. Maijstral would have to find another way.
“Roman,” he said, “I have no desire to be responsible for the destruction of the Imperial line. It is the symbol of a civilization older than humanity. Regardless of politics, I do not feel that I have a right to say whether the Pendjalli should live or die.”
“But honor compels you to maintain the honesty of the bidding.”
“Yes.” Maijstral picked up his fork and poked aimlessly at his salad. “You see me caught up in a dilemma, Roman.”
“Sir, I hardly feel myself qualified to advise—” Maijstral threw up his hands. “If not you, Roman, who?”
Roman’s nostrils flickered in agitation. Maijstral was pleased with his own performance, but he knew that the cry of desperation was not entirely feigned. If he couldn’t persuade Roman to a certain course of action, Peleng— and, for that matter, everywhere else— would become a far more dangerous place for all of them.
“Sir,” Roman said, “pray allow me to think for a moment.”
“Of course.” Maijstral feigned a renewed interest in his salad and watched Roman through hooded eyes. The Khosalikh’s nose twitched; his ears inclined back, left, right; his hands played over the cooking gear. Roman was clearly fighting something out in his mind.
“Sir,” Roman said, “could it not be said that some duties transcend honor, and that the preservation of life is one of them? Could it not furthermore be said that the preservation of innocent life is in itself an honorable duty?”
Relief and joy bubbled into Maijstral. Carefully he suppressed all signs of it. “Well . . . ,” he said.
“The Imperials, of course, consider the royal family itself the expression of a transcendent ideal, whatever the opinion on this side of the political boundary.”
“Roman,” Maijstral said, “it would mean deceiving our clients.”
“That it would, sir.”
“It would mean deceiving Gregor. Someone with his background would never understand our appreciation of the Pendjalli ideal.”
Roman thought for a moment. “That would be difficult, sir.’’
Maijstral raised his napkin to his lips. “That is why we should plan now. While Gregor is away.”
*
“Three hundred.”
*
“Four-fifty.”
*
“Seven hundred.”
*
“A thousand.”
*
“I didn’t expect to see you until the swap, youngster. It might be dangerous for you if you’re seen here.”
“I took precautions. My boss has sent me with a proposition, General.”
“Yes? You interest me.”
“Mr. Maijstral ain’t totally without sympathies in this job. General. He would prefer that one side— the human side— comes out on top.”
; The General’s eyes twinkled. “He does? Tell me.”
“Only too.”
*
“Fifteen hundred.”
*
“He wants it how?”
“Cash, Captain.”
“Cash? Not a credit counter?” Pause. “There may not be that much cash on the planet.”
“I am assured there is. There is always a demand for untraceable funds in even the most ordered society.”
*
“Mr. Romans. Am pleased.”
“You’re too kind, my lord.”
“Please share brandy.”
“Your servant.”
“Surprised you to see. After threatenings I thought you would stay close.”
“Mr. Maijstral has sent me with a proposition. He is not entirely without conviction in this matter. He has a sentimental affection for the Imperial household, and wishes them long life and success.”
“Very interesting. Please say more and continue.”
*
“Wait a minute, youngster.”
“Sir?”
“This sounds more complicated than necessary. How do I know you’re not going to pull a switch?”
“The cryo container will be in plain sight the entire time. You’ll be able to observe it, and Mr. Maijstral won’t touch it. If we pull a switch, you’ll know.”
*
“But Mr. Romans, forgive me. How certains can we be of Imperial spunk?”
“Large areas of the Imperial genetics have been mapped, my lord. Certainly a comparison can be run just before the exchange.”
*
“Gregor.”
“Yes, boss.”
“I shall have to run an errand tonight. Please don’t mention my absence to Roman.”
A smirk. “Right, boss. Like you say.”
*
“Twenty-one hundred.”
*
“Roman?”
“Sir?”
“I shall be away from the house tonight. I’m sure you can guess why.”
Pause. “Yes, sir. Will you need my assistance?”
“I suspect the Peleng City sperm bank has only rudimentary security.”
“As you like, sir.”
“Please do not mention to Gregor that anything out of the ordinary has occurred.”
“Indeed not, sir.”
*
“Twenty-five.”
*
“Twenty-eight fifty.”
*
The Imperial Artifact sat gleaming on Maijstral’s desk. He had just returned from his raid on the sperm bank and was still dressed in his darksuit. His bound hair was piled on the top of his head. He was wearing image-intensifiers over his eyes; his hands were sheathed in gloves that detected the flow of energy. The house was silent save for a bleeping robot— the last— bumbling about in the outside hallway. Before him was equipment for the storage and preservation of Khosali sperm. He had stolen no sperm himself— he had to use the Emperor’s genuine article with the mapped Pendjalli genes, otherwise the deals he’d made would fall through.
Carefully he traced the patterns of the reliquary’s design. The pulse of electrons beat against his temples.
He thought about his plan, and part of his mind quailed. He was needlessly complicating things. He was adding appreciably to his own danger.
Patterns formed in Maijstral’s mind. Tools moved efficiently in his hands.
There was a click. A part of the artifact rotated, then slid aside. Frost formed in delicate patterns along the engraving as cryogenic chill touched the air.
The artifact was open, and at his mercy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Confident in their dreams, the methane creatures in the Peleng City Zoo pursued their slow life as they slid through their frozen ammonia sea. Though they surely possessed language and limited understanding, their watchers were not certain whether or not to credit them with genuine intelligence. Insulated from an outside that would have vaporized them in an instant, the creatures crawled at glacial speed through their habitat, absorbing nutrition and each other, casting off waste and new individuals. Their perception limited to sound and touch, they were happy in their enclosure, safe from overly disturbing contact with the amusing delusions outside.
Those watching through the zoo monitors would have been surprised to discover that the methane creatures did not credit the watchers’ reality. Instead the methanites were convinced that the odd pulsings directed toward them from the speakers were a form of shared hallucination, an unintended by-product of their own vibrant fantasies. The methanites, for much of their history, had been constructing a long dramatic work— an elevated, intricate mosaic, abstract as an opera, torrid as a romance, filled with gods and devils, humor and philosophy, wonder and strangeness, the whole of which commented upon and criticized itself as it went. The endless work had taken on a complex life of it own, novel plot twists appearing unforeseen out of what had seemed to be simple dramatic devices, new insights into character blossoming with astonishing regularity even in characters so old their birth was coterminous with that of the species that had created them.
Attempts to communicate with the methanites had seemed, in the ammonia sea, to take on aspects of these spontaneously generated insights. This was, the creatures concluded, a new, intense form of hallucination, and they began a long discussion into the nature of their own subconscious, wondering whence such thoughts derived, a debate that (to date) has not been resolved. Count Quik’s explanation of Maijstral’s mode of living had sent a shock wave through the small methanite community; perhaps the concept of “thief” could be integrated with the Great Work, perhaps not. The concept presupposed material possessions, which the methanites did not have, and which they could not manipulate if they had. The notion of possession seemed, at the very least, a radical exercise in speculative philosophy. The methanite subconscious, the creatures concluded, was proving more inventive than had previously been suspected.
We should not feel too superior. The methanites’ physical horizons may be limited, but their mental life is lively. Consider also how the methanite experience may be taken as a paradigm of our own. We, like the near-zero creatures, live bounded by conceptual walls of our own making, and they go by many names: religion skepticism, ideology, propriety. High Custom, for example, is a deliberate exclusion of some modes of experience in favor of those considered more elevated or worthwhile. High Custom, though, at least admits to its limitations. The totality of experience, the aeon of corporal existence and the universe . . . no cultural or ideological construct seems to deal with the macrocosm at all well.
The methanites have chosen their illusions, and seem happy with them. That is more than many of us can claim.
*
Paavo Kuusinen was feeling very much like a creature surrounded by walls not of his own making and was beginning to wonder if the events of the last few days might not, in fact, be some odd product of his fevered mind. He was frustrated with a day of watching people go about what seemed to be very ordinary lives— how could, after the last few days, everyone behave so normally? Kuusinen finally gave up his watch and went to his hotel for the evening. At least it would give him a chance to bathe and change clothes. His room seemed faintly surprised to see him— he hadn’t been home for almost two days.
On rising, he ordered first breakfast and scanned the room’s computers for any recent developments. The police remained baffled, Maijstral remained in Nichole’s suite, and— Kuusinen’s ears pricked forward— Nichole had announced Maijstral as her escort for this evening’s farewell ball in honor of the Diadem’s departure.
He paged through his messages, found his invitation waiting in computer storage, and ordered it (and the magnetic code strip that would get him past Diadem security) printed out.
At least tonight he’d be able to get a look at everybody. Maybe their behavior would tell him something.
*
“You’ll excuse us. Lieutenant, I hope.”
“Certainly, madam.”
Lieutenant Navarre bowed, sniffed Nichole’s ears and Maijstral’s, and stepped from Nichole’s parlor into her withdrawing room. The door slid shut behind him. Nichole looked at Maijstral with bright eyes. He smiled.
“A new passion, my lady?”
Nichole made a face. “I said, did I not, that you knew me too well?”
“He has been here two nights. There was no need for him to stay— he could have left wearing his own face. And now I find the two of you finishing breakfast.”
She took his arm and sighed. “He is a startling man. He has a trick memory— can’t forget anything. It’s astonishing, the clarity of his recollections. And he’s done things, Drake. Saved lives, risked his own. He’s been doing all this while I’ve been taking tours in front of the cameras. With him, it’s all been real.”
“I wish you joy, Nichole.”
She laughed. “Thank you, Drake. You know, I’m very glad to see you in one piece.”
He smiled and kissed her. “Happy to be in one piece, my lady.”
“Shall I order second breakfast?”
“Thank you, no. I’ve already eaten.”
“Here. Sit beside me.”
Maijstral removed some papers from his place and idly scanned the lines as he handed them to a robot. “A play, Nichole?”
She gave him a covert smile. “Indeed. Lieutenant Navarre suggested I would be good in it.”
He looked at her. “Is he correct?”
“It’s a marvelous part. The character is a manipulator and she plays half a dozen strong roles just in maneuvering the other characters into behaving as she wishes.”
“Will you do it?”
“The character isn’t exactly young. Once one starts doing mature parts, one can’t exactly go back to playing ingénues.”
“But you will do it, yes?”
“I think so.” She bit her lower lip. “I wonder if I’m up to it. It calls for such range.”
Maijstral took her hand and squeezed it. “Courage.”
She smiled wanly. “Yes. I’ll do it. I know I’ll do it. But I’d just as soon agonize a little more over the decision if it’s all the same to you. I’d hate to think I was taking it lightly.”