“That’s it,” murmured Siegfried to him. “That’s the canisters.”
“I see,” said March. Given the immense value of the canisters, he wondered if someone would try to snatch them right off the stage.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, eight of the spidery defense drones emerged from behind the curtain, their legs clinking against the stage, and arrayed themselves in a perimeter around the Guides and the cart.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the voice from the speakers, “the Masters of Burnchain Station are pleased to open the auction for nine canisters of Fifth Terran Empire biomorphic fungi. The minimum bid is two hundred and fifty million credits, or an equivalent amount of precious metals, gems, artworks, or other items of value that can be transferred easily.” The bid remote lit up in March’s hand. “The bidding begins at two hundred and fifty million credits…now!”
The holographic display of horrific devastation changed to a floating scoreboard, indicating the present highest bid and the bids entered by the various organizations and governments present. A map showed the location of the various boxes in the auditorium. For an instant, March wondered if the Masters had slipped up and revealed the identity of their guests, but the guests were only identified by box number. The feigned embassy from Al-Khazmar was in Box 49, and a quick look around confirmed that Mr. Odin and the Iron Hands occupied Box 3, while Alexei Murdan and the Oradreans were in Box 7.
March entered a bid for two hundred and fifty-one million credits (it wasn’t his money, and he had no qualms about hanging debts on a ruler as brutal as the sultan of Al-Khazmar) just to get things started, and that opened the floodgates. Bids started flashing across the floating holographic screen as the various governments and organizations placed higher and higher amounts of money. The total rose in spurts and bursts. Soon the bid hovered around four hundred million credits, with the bidders adding small sums of ten or fifteen credits as they tried to one-up each other.
That lasted for the better part of twenty minutes, and then suddenly the bid shot up to six hundred million credits. The bid had come from Box 11, and March saw the pantherax in that box. Evidently, the aliens had decided that the risk of the weapon falling into the hands of one of their tribute planets was too much. That set off a round of frenzied bidding until the maximum bid stabilized around one billion credits.
“Notice the game the Oradreans and the Machinists are playing?” murmured November.
“Yeah,” said March. “It’s just like we thought.” Neither Box 3 nor Box 7 had entered a bid since the total passed five hundred million. “They’re going to wait until the end, until the bidders without their resources have been forced out. Then they’re going to start a bidding war between themselves and drive up the price as high as they can.”
“And regardless of who wins the bid,” said Alan, voice grim, “the Machinists are taking home the canisters.”
March nodded, watching the total on the holographic board. The price had crept up to around 1.1 billion credits, and only a dozen bidders were still active. That much money would have forced out most of the private groups and terrorist organizations among the bidders, though March knew that the Oradrean government’s annual budget was around three and a half trillion credits. The Oradreans could pay that much, and the Machinists could draw upon rivers of money harvested from their slave worlds.
Then the Machinists entered a new bid of their own.
One and a half billion credits.
The Oradreans countered with a bid for 1.6 billion credits.
The bidding exploded into frenzied mayhem. The remaining dozen organizations tried to match the Machinists’ and the Oradreans’ bids, but both Mr. Odin and Alexei Murdan topped every bid by one hundred million credits. One by one the other organizations stopped placing new bids, and soon the highest bid was 5.7 billion credits from the Oradrean government.
Silence hung over the auditorium. The bid remained unchanged.
The remote buzzed in March’s hand again.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the modified voice from the speakers, “no new bid has been entered for one minute. A thirty-second timer is now in effect.” The countdown began on the holographic display. “Should no new bid be entered in that time, the Masters will declare the occupants of Box 7 the winner of the auction.”
The timer continued its inexorable countdown.
No new bids appeared.
The holographic display flashed, and a chime filled the air.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Masters of Burnchain Station are pleased to declare the sale of the biomorphic fungi to Box 7, for the total sum of 5.7 billion credits. The Masters invite a representative of Box 7 forward to discuss arrangements for payment and transportation.” The voice seemed to harden. “Should Box 7 be unable to meet the terms of payment, we shall reconvene for another auction in one hour. Until then, you are welcome to enjoy the amenities of Burnchain Station.”
“Such as they are,” muttered Northridge, scowling.
“Well,” said November with a white smile. “It seems we have failed in our mission for the sultan.”
“We have,” said March, his mind racing ahead to the next steps. The first step would be to figure out which ship docked to the station belonged to Alexei Murdan. Alexei wouldn’t hand over the weapon to Mr. Odin until they were well away from any prying eyes. For that matter, the Machinists might want to send the fungi to Oradrea as part of some plan or another.
March started to reach into his pocket for his phone, intending to call Vigil and instruct her to scan the nearby ships for the one most likely to belong the Oradreans.
Then November went rigid next to him.
“What is it?” said March.
“Look,” murmured November.
March followed his gaze and frowned.
One of the Iron Hands was striding up the aisle towards them. Had Mr. Odin sent the Iron Hand on an errand? March felt the man’s eyes upon him, felt the weight of that gaze. He recognized the feeling. The Iron Hand was a killer.
March knew that feeling because he was one as well.
The Iron Hand stopped at the edge of their box, face expressionless, his hard eyes unblinking.
“Sir,” said Carina, her smile turning nervous. “I wish to remind you that the Masters prohibit violence between their guests.”
“This is known to me,” said the Iron Hand, his voice flat. A black leather glove concealed his left hand, a hand that would be identical to March’s own. “I come instead with a message for the leader of this embassy.”
“And what message is that?” said March.
“Mr. Odin invites you to speak with him,” said the Iron Hand, “here and now. You will talk to him, and then return unharmed to your companions.”
“Because the Masters do not permit violence between their guests,” added Carina. The Iron Hand ignored her.
March met the Iron Hand’s eyes without blinking. “And what does Mr. Odin wish to discuss?”
“He wishes to discuss,” said the Iron Hand, “the man named Jack March.”
Chapter 7: All The Kingdoms Of The World
“Does he, now?” said March, feeling a chill.
“The invitation is not mandatory,” said the Iron Hand.
“You’re damned right it’s not,” said March with more heat than he intended. He forced himself to calm down. “Why does Mr. Odin want to talk to me?”
“He wishes to discuss items of mutual interest,” said the Iron Hand, “involving the man named Jack March.”
If Odin knew who he was, then almost certainly he knew that March was part of the Silent Order. Yet that didn’t mean they had to abort the mission. Odin could point out to the Masters that March wasn’t really from Al-Khazmar, but so long as March didn’t break any of the Masters’ rules, they would leave him alone. Of course, the Kingdom of Calaskar had numerous enemies in the auditorium, and one of them might be willing to take a shot at the Tiger once they left Burnchain Station. Or
maybe this was part of some deeper plot. Given how the covert arm of the Final Consciousness spun a vast web through its network of sympathizers, agents, terrorist cells, informants, and paid thugs, perhaps Odin wanted to speak to March as part of some scheme.
Or maybe he was curious. Iron Hands did not often leave the Final Consciousness.
“What if I don’t want to talk to him?” said March.
The Iron Hand gave an indifferent shrug. Even that brief gesture looked dangerous on him. “Then no action shall be taken.” For the first time, a flicker of amusement appeared on the hard face. “Even if we wanted to take action against you, the Masters’ security measures would render that impossible.”
March glanced at the others, thinking.
“You can’t be serious,” said Siegfried.
“It seems I have little choice,” said March. He looked at November. “Keep an eye on things while I’m gone. If I’m not back in an hour, inform the Masters that the Final Consciousness has violated their rules and attacked me.”
November nodded. “Good luck.”
March got to his feet and looked at the Iron Hand. “Let’s go.”
The Iron Hand nodded and led the way down the aisle. Beneath the Iron Hand’s shaggy hair, at the base of his skull, March glimpsed the flat black shape of the hive implant, the cybernetic device that linked the man to the hive mind of the Final Consciousness. This close to Odin, the Cognarch would likely have been able to see through the Iron Hand’s eyes and listen through his ears.
They descended towards the stage, some of the other guests throwing them curious glances, and at last came to Box 3. The five other Iron Hands stood there, their vigilance obvious. Marco Skinner waited in their midst, and his lip twitched with annoyance as he saw March. Beyond them, on the stage, March saw that the Oradrean embassy stood with the four Guides overseeing the canisters. Alexei Murdan was speaking with them, no doubt about arrangements for payment and transport.
Mr. Odin waited behind the Iron Hands, a gray shadow in the subdued lighting of the auditorium. His lined face turned towards March, and again he felt the weight and age of the ancient mind behind that unblinking black eye. Odin was holding something in his right hand, something round and metallic. It looked like a golden coin about an inch and a half across, its surface marked with odd geometric patterns.
“Cognarch,” said the Iron Hand March had followed. “He is here.”
“Thank you,” said Odin, his voice deep and a little rough. The Iron Hand stepped to the side, and Odin gazed at March.
March remained silent. If Odin wanted to talk to him, then Odin could talk first.
“This place,” said Odin at last, glancing back towards the stage.
“What about it?” said March.
“It’s a sewer,” said Odin.
“What do you mean?” said March.
“Jack, you know exactly what I mean,” rumbled Odin. “The Masters are a blight upon humanity, growing rich and fat on the misery of those they torment and exploit. Would you agree with me? I think you do.”
March recognized the tactic at once. It was an old interrogation trick. Find a rapport with the target, some point of agreement or another, and then build from there. He wondered what Odin wanted to know. At all costs, he had to avoid revealing any information to Odin.
“They’re not my favorite people in the galaxy,” said March.
“And it’s a big galaxy,” said Odin. “But don’t mince words. You detest them. As it happens, so do I. At least our enemies in the Kingdom of Calaskar are men of principle. The wrong principles, to be sure, but principle nonetheless. The Masters would sell their own daughters into prostitution for another credit in profit. I look forward to the day when the Revolution of the Final Consciousness triumphs and we are rid of all such vermin.”
“Given how much business the Final Consciousness has done with the Masters,” said March, “that’s an odd argument from you.”
“You know better than that,” said Odin. “Men like us have to work with the tools at hand, don’t we? The Masters are a tool, so we use them. A flawed tool, to be sure, but better than no tool at all. You understand. Those biologists and the Marine lieutenant that Censor saddled you with for this mission? Flawed tools. Completely unsuited for a covert mission. Yet here you are, and here they are.”
March shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m here to purchase the weapon for the sultan of Al-Khazmar. Seems like it didn’t work out.”
Odin laughed, his thumb rubbing against the coin in his right hand. “No, you’re not. I know all about you, Jack March. In fact, I know everything there is to know about you.”
“I doubt that,” said March.
Odin smiled. Somehow it made his eye darker. “You were born on Calixtus several decades after we conquered the planet, while we were still integrating it into the Final Consciousness. Your mother was named Jane March, an inmate at one of the labor camps. Your father was named James Fleming, and he was one of the local population conscripted as a camp guard.”
March blinked, something uneasy shifting in his mind.
He had never known the name of his father and could not even remember the man. His mother had never exactly gotten angry when he had asked about his father, but she had always changed the subject. Given the harsh realities of survival in the Machinist labor camps, there had always been something urgent to do to stave off starvation.
“Oh,” said Odin. “You didn’t know that, did you? Is it possible that I know more about you than you do yourself?” He kept talking. “From what I understand, your mother slept with your father in exchange for increased rations. It was a common enough arrangement among the camp guards and a form of corruption that we never quite managed to stamp out on Calixtus. Then James Fleming was killed in a riot, and your mother was left with a toddler. Frankly, I’m surprised that she didn’t leave you to die of exposure, which is what usually happened to the children of such liaisons. Perhaps you inherited both your stubbornness and your chronic sense of moral outrage from her.”
March said nothing.
“Then your mother died from malnutrition, and you were left on your own,” said Odin. “Which is why you missed the mandatory testing for compatibility with the hive mind. Since you had to steal to survive, eventually you were caught, tested, and joined to the hive mind as an Iron Hand.” He smiled. “Do you remember the procedure, Jack?”
March felt a sudden overpowering urge to use his cybernetic fist to turn that smiling one-eyed face into bloody pulp.
“Since you know so much about me,” said March, “you know perfectly well that I do. It’s not as if you put the Iron Hands to sleep while you install your damned cybernetics.”
Odin kept smiling, the coin flashing in his left hand. “And you were one of our most effective Iron Hands. Remarkably effective, in fact. We could always rely on you to get the mission done. And you came back to enjoy the rewards, the rest periods and the women…”
“The women?” said March. “The women you give to the Iron Hands as a reward? Seems strange for you to complain about the Masters when you do that.”
Odin raised his gray eyebrows. “That hit a nerve, did it?” March rebuked himself. “But you’re smarter than that, Jack. The women in the brothels here are enslaved for the profit of the Masters. The women we give to the Iron Hands are playing an important part in the final stage of human evolution. Not everyone can play a part in our Revolution, and they should be honored to have a role, even a small one.”
March scoffed. “Bullshit in the left hand doesn’t smell any different than bullshit in the right.”
Odin blinked and then laughed. “Indeed? Such an earthy aphorism. I like that. I shall have to remember it. But that was a digression. You were an effective Iron Hand right up until Martel’s World…”
“Which you destroyed for no reason,” said March.
“Where you were wounded and taken in by a slum family,” said Odin. “After you recovered, left the planet, and r
ejoined our fleet, you then betrayed us, stole a ship, and fled to the Kingdom of Calaskar. You have since become an Alpha Operative of the Silent Order, and a consistent thorn in our side. Most recently when you killed Simon Lorre, one of my most reliable agents.”
“Is that it?” said March. “You’re upset about Lorre’s death?”
“Not particularly,” said Odin with a shrug. “Agents come, and agents go. I’ve used thousands of them over the centuries. But you killed him, and you used to be one of mine. It is always irritating when a tool turns against you.”
“I imagine so,” said March. “Is that all you wanted to talk about? Simon Lorre?”
“Do you regret killing him?” said Odin.
“I regret not killing him sooner than I did,” said March. “Innocent people might still be alive.”
Odin snorted. “There’s no such thing as innocent people, son.” He waved a hand over the auditorium. “Look at this place. If the reactor went critical right now, how many innocent lives would be lost, do you think? There are tens of thousands of people on this station right now. How many of them do you think are innocent?”
March snorted. “What am I, Abraham? Am I supposed to beg you to spare the city if but ten righteous men can be found within it?”
He expected Odin to become irritated at the religious reference, but the Cognarch only smiled. “The Book of Genesis. When Abraham asked God to spare the cities of the plains if but a handful of righteous men could be found within their walls. Shall I be flattered that I am God in that story?”
“No,” said March. “Though I am not surprised that you would think of yourself as God.”
“Me?” said Odin. “I’m not God, Jack. There’s no such thing as God. We’re going to build God ourselves. When the Final Consciousness fills every planet of every solar system in the galaxy, then mankind will be God.”
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