Black Brillion

by Matthew Hughes

  They stepped out onto a deserted strand of black shingle, waves of iron-gray water swishing about their ankles. Offshore, a black-hulled ship with tattered sails lay half careened against jagged rocks while some beaked and tentacled sea beast tore at its rigging. Bandar paid the spectacle no heed but led the way up the beach to the tide line, where he contrived another rift and pushed Baro through it.

  The young man opened his eyes to find himself lying on his bunk in the Orgulon’s cabin, Luff Imbry’s stentorian snores ringing in his ears and the early morning sun pouring in through the porthole. A knocking came at the door and he got up to open it, and found a disheveled Guth Bandar in the corridor.

  “I thought I had better come see if you were all right,” the historian said.

  “It seemed we were less than an hour in the Commons,” Baro said, “but here the night is over.”

  The noönaut stretched and yawned. He did not appear much rested. “Time is not time in the noösphere,” he said.

  “I am sorry to have troubled you,” Baro said. He remembered the sense of necessity he had felt, the compelling urge to move. “I felt that I had no choice.”

  “There are many places where it can be perilous to be without a full range of options,” said Bandar. “The Commons is worse than all of them. In fact, it is all of them, every terrible crime and defeat that has ever happened, distilled to its essence and compounded. It is also every joy and triumph of the human story.”

  “Perhaps when this … episode of my life is over I could take up the exploration of the noösphere,” Baro said. “Might I study under you?”

  Bandar went pale. “It would be kinder if you simply killed me now,” he said. “Be assured, I will never again go willingly with you into the Commons. In fact, I intend to ask the captain to lend me the landship’s gig to take me away from here today so that I cannot be pressed into service again.”

  “But what about your researches?”

  “I could take scant pleasure in them while at constant risk of your dragooning me to my death.”

  “The danger seems remote.”

  “To you, no doubt. To me it is inescapable if I remain within range of you, and since I do not know what your range might be I shall put as great a distance between us as I can.” The historian made a placatory gesture. “I intend no offense.”

  “I take none,” said Baro. “The matter mystifies me.”

  From the upper bunk, Imbry gave a final crescendo of snorts and wheezes and opened his eyes. “When’s breakfast?” he said.

  While they were still dressing, stewards came knocking on doors, inviting passengers to gather in the dining room for the morning meal and another visitation from Father Olwyn.

  The room was lit by dawn light through the windows. The chairs and tables had again been rearranged, a buffet having been set up in the middle of the space. Baro and Imbry lined up for plates of fried truffles, truffle bread, and truffle kedgeree, none of which the young man found inviting. He contented himself with a cup of punge, although Imbry piled high his platter and dug in. The lassitude sufferers were again fed from plates of gruel.

  When all had breakfasted, the simulacrum of their host materialized on the dais. Baro peered at the image. Gebbling’s face was not as it had appeared in the file photo. The earlier image had had a rosy, impish softness to it; this face was stark and drawn.

  “Regard him,” Baro said to his partner. “He is not the same as his image in the file. You knew him. What do you think?”

  Imbry looked at the simulacrum over the rim of his cup. “He does look to have endured hardship, some sort of trial perhaps,” he said. “That is not like Gebbling. He was always a great one for the soft life.” He took another helping of truffle bread.

  Gebbling had meanwhile been calling down welcomes and blessings on the gathering and voicing rhetorical inquiries as to the quality of their sleep and the state of their health upon rising. Now he got to the nub of his remarks.

  “I can already feel an elevation of chuffe,” he said. “The fah, sey, opah has had effect. I applaud you. Now I will give you the second-stage mantra and bid you chant it through this day. It is bom, bom ala bom. Let me hear you say it.”

  Baro recognized Ule Gazz’s voice rising above most in the crowd, though she was not louder than the woman who still had blue-fire stones in her white hair. The chant of bom, bom ala bom swelled until it filled the room. After a full minute, Gebbling raised his hand and called for silence.

  “Very good,” the image said. “Your chuffe expands exponentially. Please continue through the day and I will speak to you later.”

  The projection winked out and Imbry said, “That answers one question.”

  “What?” said Baro.

  “Whether the projection is a live transmission or a recording. It strains credulity that Gebbling would fail to take note of an apparent miraculous healing, followed by the arrest of the resurrected one on suspicion of murder. These must be recordings.”

  “Hmm,” said Baro. “I think you are right.” But it bothered him that the amateur had drawn the right conclusion before the trained agent had even thought to pose the question. “I should have thought of that.”

  Baro hadn’t realized he had spoken the last thought out loud until he saw Imbry mime astonishment. The fat man said, “Do I see the first crack in the facade of your scroot arrogance? Or even in the foundation?”

  “I have had other things on my mind,” said Baro.

  “Yes, exploring the Commons and mooning over a certain security officer.”

  “I do not moon,” said Baro.

  “As you say,” said Imbry and took another helping of kedgeree.

  The day passed tranquilly, the landship’s crew going about their business while the passengers gathered to chant. Imbry perambulated about the deck, then retired to the cabin for a nap. Baro saw Raina Haj come on deck twice but she did not notice him and he was diffident about bringing himself to her attention.

  He would have liked to identify himself as a Bureau agent; that status ought to impress a mere landship’s security officer. But he was under orders to conceal his identity. Still, leaning on the rail and watching distant clouds form and re-form, he imagined scenarios where he might step forward, flourish his plaque, and set things to rights in a way that would turn violet, turquoise-flecked eyes his way.

  Guth Bandar came up the companionway, saw Haj, and approached her. There was a brief discussion in which the historian clearly did not persuade Haj to accept his view of things. He went below and came up later carrying various apparatuses from which he took readings from time to time. He showed no desire to discuss the noösphere with Baro when the young man attempted conversation.

  “I would not still be aboard but Raina Haj refuses anyone permission to depart until her investigations are complete,” he said. “How could I be a suspect? I was with you and Haj herself when the artist fell.”

  Baro expressed sympathy and sought to steer the conversation toward the Commons, but Bandar was adamant in his refusal. He suggested that they take care to sleep at different times. “Or, if you find yourself dreaming your way back into the Commons, have the courtesy not to interfere with the dreams of others.” His small hand struck his forehead in a gesture of bafflement. “Although that is supposed to be impossible for the untrained.” He went off muttering to himself.

  The evening brought more truffle cuisine—Baro ate sparingly—and another recorded visitation from Horslan Gebbling.

  “Piety and platitudes,” said Guth Bandar, when the image winked out. The historian had thought it better to sit at Baro’s and Imbry’s table rather than risk another verbal assault from the white-haired disciple. His comment brought a sharp look from Ule Gazz, who rose and led Olleg Ebersol across the dining room to where a mass chant of bom, bom ala bom was gaining momentum.

  Mirov Kosmir had not graced their table and Flix was still confined to her quarters, so the three were left to each other’s company. Baro tried
to initiate a discussion of the noösphere—he still felt an urge to return there—but Bandar declined and retired to his cabin. Imbry declared an intention to sample more, indeed everything, from the desert cart. Baro visited the ship’s library, found a book by one of his favorite authors of police procedurals, and settled in his bunk to read. But the story could not hold his attention and he fell into a surprisingly dreamless sleep.

  The next morning was identical to the preceding one until after breakfast when Gebbling’s projection again appeared in the dining room.

  “We begin the day with a surprise,” the image said. “I ask all of you to put on warm clothing and go up to the promenade deck. There will be a departure.”

  There was a window behind Baro. He turned now and looked out over the grayness of the dawn Swept. He was facing east and the great red rim of the old sun was creeping over the ruler-straight horizon. “We are slowing,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Guth Bandar. The historian had come to peer over Baro’s shoulder. “And I think they mean to have us debark. Are those Rover carts?” He rubbed his hands. “Yes, I believe they are. I’ve always wanted to travel the Swept in a Rover cart.”

  “What is a Rover cart?” Baro asked.

  Imbry looked put out. “A mode of transportation that offers no respect to the civilized posterior,” he said.

  Barohad never noticed the wind while the landship was moving, but once the great vessel was standing still he became aware that he was at the bottom of a vast river of air flowing unhindered across the flatness of the Swept. In this part of the prairie, the land was covered in waist-high grass, thin-stalked and topped by feathery tassels, every stem of it bobbing and bowing toward the east as the wind pressed it down. Occasionally, sharper gusts would rush in from the west, making the grass dip closer to the ground, and the landscape would ripple like the sea.

  “I think I like all this space,” he told Luff Imbry as they descended the gangplank and onto the grass, which stood tall here in the lee of the landship.

  “I like civilization,” said Imbry, swiping at stalks as if they were bothersome urchins, “which is what we’re leaving behind.”

  Security Officer Haj was a small distance away, deep in conversation with Flix, whose rigid stance and emphatic gestures suggested she was making demands rather than requests. Raina Haj’s stance was exactly the same as that with which she had responded to the historian. Curious, Baro drifted a little closer.

  “The gig has sufficient range to fly me to a number of towns where I might catch a commercial flight or even hire an air yacht,” Flix said.

  “How would you know the gig’s range?”

  “I asked Mirov.”

  “Mirov? So you and First Officer Kosmir are on a first-name basis?”

  Flix said nothing.

  “Uh huh.” said Haj. “Air yachts are expensive. Are you sure you could afford it?”

  “I can certainly afford a commercial ticket home,” Flix said.

  “The issue is moot,” Haj replied. “You are a material witness to a murder. You are in my custody.”

  “You have no jurisdiction!”

  “I am security officer of the Orgulon. You are a passenger. That is sufficient jurisdiction.”

  “But we are not on the Orgulon. We are about to be handed over to a pack of Rovers. Are you their security officer as well?”

  “An interesting point,” said Haj. “You might consult a legal intercessor when an opportunity presents itself.”

  “This is not fair!” said Flix. “I came on this trip to be rid of the lassitude. I am rid of it now. Why should I not go where my wishes lead me?”

  “You may begin walking in any direction you choose,” said the security officer, “but the gig is not available.”

  Flix made a noise that would have suited a furious rodent.

  “Either accompany the other passengers in the Rover carts, or return to your cabin under guard,” said Haj. “Choose.”

  Flix signaled her decision by stalking away muttering to herself. Baro turned to go back to Imbry but felt a tap on his shoulder. Raina Haj had come up quickly behind him. “Is this yours?” she said.

  In her outstretched hand she held the crushed remains of the clingfast.

  “Why would it be mine?” Baro said.

  The security officer said, “Don’t you think a better answer would be ‘What is it’?”

  “I defer to your judgment,” Baro said. “What is it?”

  The violet eyes held him. “I think you know exactly what it is. Further, I believe you put it on Monlaurion’s collar. What I’d like to know is why.”

  Baro had never thought that he would be mentally consulting the Bureau manual on interrogation techniques in order to frustrate one, but he did so now. The manual said that the most difficult interviewee is the one who says nothing.

  After the silence had lengthened, the security officer said, “I’d also like to know why you and your friend are traveling under assumed names, why you pretend to be afflicted by the lassitude, and why you were so interested in my conversation with Flix.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Baro said and knew right away it was a mistake. Lesson one in the introductory course on interrogation taught that the suspect who responds by saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” always knows exactly what the interrogator is talking about.

  Baro was chagrined. He remembered the lesson exactly, yet the steady gaze of Raina Haj had caused him to react like any guilty felon.

  “I made inquiries,” she went on. “Phlevas Wasselthorpe and Erenti Abbas are where they are supposed to be—on the Wasselthorpe estate.”

  Baro said nothing. He could repeat verbatim the instructions to undercover agents whose false identities were discovered—evade capture and return to the operational base—but under the steady eye of this daunting and attractive young woman the words simply jostled each other in his head like peas in a rattle.

  Now she rolled her eyes and made a dismissive hand gesture. “Get away from me,” she said.

  Relieved, the young man turned to depart.

  “Baro,” she said as if seized by an afterthought.

  “Yes?” he said, turning.

  “Uh huh,” she said, stepping toward him and taking his arm in a firm grip. Baro felt her fingers reaching for nerve points that she would press if he tried to pull away. “Now, I want all of it or you and your partner go in the brig until we arrive at the nearest Bureau station.”

  The interrogation technique and the come-with-me grip were pure Bureau. “You’re a scroot,” he said.

  “Of course I am,” she replied. “Sergeant-Investigator. And I would be tempted to say, ‘You’re a scroot, too,’ if it weren’t for all the inescapable evidence that you haven’t the faintest idea how to conduct yourself while working undercover. When did you graduate from the Academy?”

  Baro told her. Her eyebrows went up and she said, “But that means you’re still a probationer. What are you doing out in the field?”

  Baro told her that, too: the trailing of Luff Imbry, the arrest in Sherit, the sudden promotion, and the assignment to go after Horslan Gebbling.

  She let go of his arm. “The plump fellow is a fraudster you arrested? And he’s now your partner? With no training?”

  When Baro had first seen Raina Haj, he had wanted to make an impression on her. Now he could see that he had. Unfortunately, the impression he was making was both deep and unfavorable. He hoped it wasn’t indelible.

  He essayed a rescue of his sinking image. “The promotion and assignment were personally ordered by the Archon,” he said. “Directing Agent Arboghast chose my partner.”

  The eyebrows went even higher, forming almost perfect bows above the steady violet eyes. “Fine,” she said. “Fine. I detect the odor of politics, at the first whiff of which a sensible sergeant walks away. But, for the record, what is the rest of your name?”

  “Harkless.”

  Now the b
rows drew together and formed a thoughtful line. “There are two chapters by a Baro Harkless in the manual on handling evidence.”

  “My father.”

  “Ah,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Is he an associate of Arboghast?”

  “He died when I was young.”

  “Ah,” she said again, but in a different way.

  “What are you doing on the Orgulon?” he asked.

  “I won’t tell you that.”

  “At least tell me if your assignment has anything to do with Horslan Gebbling.”

  “It does not.”

  “Is there any connection between Gebbling and Flix?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” she said. “Is that why you put the clingfast on Monlaurion?”

  “We thought they might be shills for whatever Gebbling is up to.”

  “I’ve conducted a thorough investigation into both of them, and no link to Gebbling has-turned up.”

  “Could you have missed something?” Baro said.

  She shook her head. “Improbable.”

  “Was there anything on the clingfast?”

  “No. It was crushed beyond use.”

  A wave of despondence came over Baro. It must have showed in his face because Raina Haj smiled reassuringly and patted the arm she had earlier gripped. “Don’t take it to heart,” she said. “Confidence scheme investigations are often difficult, even for experienced agents.”

  “Have you any advice?”

  “I would wait until you encounter Gebbling, then arrest him on a technicality. A thorough search of his person and surroundings will surely turn up some usable evidence.”