The Fifth Quadrant

by C. J. Ryan

  “Oh, yes, of course. Thank you.”

  “It reflects well on Dexta,” the woman said. “We’re all very proud of you.” There were more giggles from behind her. The car reached the fortieth floor and Gloria smiled good-bye and stepped out, feeling relieved. Between Charles and the Church, Gloria was feeling strangely vulnerable and conspicuous today.

  She entered the outer office of the OSI and stood just inside the door for a few seconds, like a queen bee surveying her hive. After a slow and uncertain start, the Office of Strategic Intervention was now a going concern, vibrant and humming with activity and purpose. They had handled five interventions, which had required Gloria’s personal presence on the affected worlds, and were now ratcheting up their operations to include a host of lesser matters that could benefit from the OSI’s attentions. Gloria had soon realized that she couldn’t go everywhere and do everything herself, and there was really no need. She had assembled a crackerjack staff, and her people relished their assignments.

  She smiled to her troops as she made her way to her own office and accepted their congratulations. Guarding the door to her inner sanctum, as usual, was her Executive Assistant and best friend, Petra Nash.

  “Good afternoon, Your Avatarness,” Petra said. “How does it feel to be a holy-holy?”

  “Just fine,” Gloria answered. “Anything happening that I need to know about?”

  “A couple of messages on your console, nothing real urgent. Grant Enright is still in Bombay with the GalaxCo people, and Althea is off to Luna for a long weekend with someone whose name I’m not supposed to mention, so I can’t tell you that it’s the Duke of Glastonbury. Jill Clymer says she’ll have a report on some potential mess in Sector 19 for you tomorrow, and, let’s see, Phil Benz wanted me to remind you that he’s got Naval Reserve duty coming up next week. And if you have a few minutes, Pug and I need to talk with you.”

  “Certainly. Just come on in.”

  “Will do. Give me a minute to find the Pugnacious One.”

  Gloria smiled and watched for a moment as Petra got up from her desk and went off in search of Pug Ellison, her assistant, roommate, and lover. Petra was positively glowing these days, and Gloria could only marvel at the way her friend had blossomed with newfound self-confidence over the past six months. At Gloria’s urging and with Pug’s ardent approval, Petra was trying to be less of a Dog and more of a Tiger, and seemed to be managing the transition with style and enthusiasm. Today, she was showing her Tiger stripes in a gray miniskirt that barely concealed her shapely bottom and a matching jacket buttoned only at the waist to show off the subtle curves of her small, pert breasts.

  In the metaphorical (but quite real) menagerie of Dexta, there were Lions, Tigers, Dogs, Moles, and Sheep. The Lions, mostly male, were the natural leaders, relying on strength and force of personality to secure their positions. Tigers, mostly female, were sleek and beautiful, using sex the way Lions used strength. Dogs came in two breeds: Pack Dogs, who roamed the lower levels of the bureaucracy as feral predators, savaging the weak and unprotected, and Lap Dogs, whose loyalty won them the patronage and protection of a willing superior. Moles were sneaky bureaucratic infighters, and the numerous Sheep were the anonymous, workaday backbone of the system.

  The species had evolved over the centuries because Dexta was, by design, a Darwinian jungle where only the strong and smart could hope to survive and flourish. Each year, a hundred thousand new Level XV staffers joined Dexta, and fully 20 percent of them failed to survive the first twelve months. The Fifteens—and, indeed, everyone else, to one degree or another—were subjected to every imaginable form of social, psychological, physical, and sexual abuse in the brutal environment of Dexta. The point of it all was to weed out the weaklings and assure that those who remained functioned at peak efficiency all the time. The system was cruel and often downright sadistic, but it worked, and that was all that really mattered.

  Both Gloria and Petra had almost failed to survive that first dreadful year. Gloria managed by becoming a Tiger—predator rather than prey—and Petra had become her faithful assistant and Lap Dog. Gloria was, with her background, breeding, and beauty, a natural Tiger in any case, while Petra—a diminutive, clever, but insecure refugee from an impoverished home in nearby Weehawken—had taken a while to work out for herself just who and what she was and wanted to be. But she seemed to have hit her stride finally, and Gloria was happy for her.

  Gloria sat down at her desk, checked her console for a few moments, then looked up as Petra arrived with Pug in tow. Pug—Palmer, formally—was a good-looking young man with brown hair, blue-gray eyes, and open, friendly features. He was a bit under medium height, which left him a good seven or eight inches taller than Petra. And, at twenty-four, nearly three years younger. He was a Level XIV to Petra’s Level XIII, but didn’t seem to mind being her assistant. He was, in fact, extravagantly grateful to Gloria for bringing him aboard as a permanent member of the OSI team.

  She had originally recruited him for the mission to Sylvania the previous spring, when OSI needed a band of independently wealthy, big-bucks bureaucrats who could stand up to the get-rich-itch that seemed to infect everyone who came to that brawling boomworld. Pug, a Level XV at the time, had been eager to prove that he was more than just a member of a fabulously wealthy family from New Cambridge, and his work had impressed Gloria. He and Petra had caught each other’s eyes, and eventually they wound up in each other’s arms.

  Back in Manhattan, Gloria had used her clout as the Level X head of OSI—and her personal wealth—to secure a sumptuous apartment for Petra and Pug in the same midtown building as her own glamorous penthouse, three blocks from Dexta HQ. Normally, Thirteens and Fourteens resided in designated Dexta quarters in Brooklyn, but Gloria felt she owed Petra something better after their perilous and painful mission on Sylvania. For Petra, who’d grown up in dire poverty, the apartment seemed like a palace; for Gloria, who’d grown up in an actual palace, the apartment seemed a pittance. Gloria still felt guilty about what had happened on Sylvania, even though Petra, blessedly, had no coherent memories of the rape and assault that had nearly killed her.

  Gloria got up from her desk and went over to the couch, beckoning Pug and Petra to join her there. Pug first got them coffee and tea, while Petra leaned close and inspected Gloria’s new ruby mustard seed. “That’s gotta be the smallest gem I’ve ever seen you wear,” she said. “Usually they’re about the size of softballs.”

  “We Avatars are a modest lot,” Gloria explained. “So, what did you want to see me about?”

  “Cartago,” said Pug as he handed her a cup of coffee, then sat next to Petra on the couch. “We’ve gotten the initial report back from IntSec, and it’s a little troubling. The Bugs have also turned up some additional information that—well, I’ll let you characterize it for yourself. But it’s a bit strange.”

  “Make that a lot strange,” Petra amplified.

  “Oh? Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, first of all, the shooter on Cartago,” said Pug. “There wasn’t a lot left of him, and the DNA trace was inconclusive. That’s not too surprising in itself. I mean, there are three trillion people in the Empire, and we don’t have definitive genotypes on all of them. But the analysts do say, with a ninety-five percent confidence level, that the shooter was not a native of Cartago. And in light of what we’ve learned about the weapon…Well, as I said, it’s troubling.”

  “What about the weapon?”

  “It was a Mark IV plasma rifle.”

  “A Mark IV?” Gloria asked. “I thought those were obsolete.”

  “Not obsolete, exactly,” Pug said. “I mean, they still work. But they’ve been outdated for about thirty or forty years. But this particular weapon is of special interest. You see, according to the serial number, it was a part of a shipment to Savoy at the beginning of the war with the Ch’gnth.”

  “Savoy? You’re kidding!”

  Pug shook his head. “The numbers check out. According to t
he records, that particular weapon was manufactured on Ostwelt in June of 3163, and shipped to Savoy that September, just a week before the Ch’gnth attack.”

  “Savoy!” Gloria exclaimed, impressed by the very mention of the name. To a denizen of the early-thirty-third-century Empire, saying that the rifle had come from Savoy was like saying it had come from Waterloo or Gettysburg. The Empire’s last great war, against the Ch’gnth Confederacy, from 3163 to 3174, had been a desperate struggle, and it had all turned on the outcome of the first crucial battle for Savoy, in September 3163. The Empire’s garrison on Savoy—and the entire population of the colony—had been wiped out by the Ch’gnth, but their last-ditch resistance had bought crucial time that allowed the Imperial Navy to assemble a fleet. It had struck back at Savoy in one of the most decisive naval engagements in history. Military historians compared it with Salamis and Midway. It had turned the tide of the war and led to the eventual Imperial victory.

  “So,” Gloria said, “we have a shooter who’s not from Cartago using a weapon that should have been destroyed fifty-odd years ago. And for some reason, he wanted me dead.”

  “Initially,” Pug said, “the Bugs figured that he may have been connected to PAIN or PHAP, but he could just as easily have been working a zamitat contract, or just some freelance nutcase.” PAIN—the People’s Anti-Imperialist Nexus—was an anarchist terrorist organization of marginal efficiency, and PHAP—the Pan-Human Alliance for Purity—was a racist fringe group of doubtful sanity. The zamitat was an Empire-wide criminal network, with ancestral ties leading back to the Mafia, the Yakuza, and similar organizations on other worlds. Gloria couldn’t imagine why any of them would have targeted her.

  “I can’t see PHAP,” Gloria said. “No aliens on Cartago. PAIN, you can never tell about, but they don’t usually go in for solo assassinations. And I don’t think the zamies have anything against me.”

  “Maybe not,” Pug said, “but there’s something else.”

  “This is the troubling part,” Petra said.

  “Which is…?”

  “This,” said Pug, “is the second Mark IV plasma rifle from the Savoy shipment that has turned up in the past week.”

  “Last night,” Petra said, “we received a report from Watami III, in Sector 23. Six days ago, there was a terrorist attack on the Dexta offices there. They killed seven of our people, including the Imperial Secretary, along with three civilians who happened to be in the office. The complete list of victims is in your console.”

  “Spirit!” Gloria said, genuinely shocked by the news. “What happened?”

  “Details are still a bit sketchy,” Pug told her, “but it seems that three people burst into the office and opened up with plasma rifles. An Internal Security man killed one of them, but the other two made a clean getaway. Apparently they just fired at random, killing anyone they could. An hour later, PAIN released a statement on Watami, claiming credit for the attack.”

  “And then,” Petra said, “this morning we got a report of another attack, four days ago on Kyushu Prime in Sector 20. Same sort of thing—three attackers with plasma rifles shooting up the Dexta office. Only four dead in this one—two Dexta, two civilian. And all of the attackers got away. Again, PAIN claimed it as their work.”

  Gloria leaned back on the couch, a deep frown creasing her features. “What the hell is going on?”

  “IntSec is still putting it all together,” said Pug. “Volkonski says he’ll have a report for you in a couple of hours. But here’s the thing that Petra and I are worried about. The terrorist who was killed on Watami was also using a Mark IV plasma rifle. And that rifle was also part of that Savoy shipment of 3163.”

  Gloria silently stared at Petra and Pug for several seconds.

  “When Arkady gave us the initial report from Internal Security,” Petra said, “he was very insistent about scheduling a meeting to set up coverage for you.” Arkady Volkonski, head of the OSI’s IntSec section, took it as his life’s mission to see to it that nothing bad ever happened to Gloria or anyone else in OSI. He was, in Gloria’s view, a trifle overzealous about it.

  “He thinks,” Pug said, “and we agree, that PAIN was also behind the attack on you on Cartago. From their point of view, it would make sense. They hate Dexta and the Empire, and you are a prominent symbol of both.”

  “Yes, but—” Gloria started to protest, then broke off. She didn’t want to accept the notion that PAIN had specifically targeted her, but the evidence was staring her in the face. “The weapon,” she said with glum resignation.

  Pug nodded. “The Bugs don’t have a clue how those weapons suddenly turned up, but they clearly connect Cartago with the other two attacks. Volkonski says you need protection, and Petra and I agree.”

  “I’ll see him tomorrow,” Gloria said, hoping she could find a reason between now and then to avoid it. She didn’t like the fact that the crazies in PAIN wanted her dead, but she was also not about to submit to the round-the-clock attentions of the Bugs.

  “Gloria?” Pug leaned around Petra to look at her.

  “What?”

  “Your safety is our primary concern, of course,” he said. “But there’s also a larger issue here.”

  “The weapons,” Gloria said.

  “Exactly. How in hell are weapons that were supposedly lost more than fifty years ago on Savoy popping up now? How did PAIN get their hands on them? And what happened to those weapons in the first place, back in 3163? We’re going to need to do some serious historical research, and not all of the records we need are on Earth.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Well,” Pug said, “you know that things used to be organized a little differently. I mean, back before the war, before Secretary Mingus took over and reorganized the Department. Quadrant Administration used to be out in the field, not here in Manhattan. Savoy is in Quadrant 4—and both attacks on Dexta offices were also in Quadrant 4—so we’d need to go to the actual site of the old Quad Administration offices to get at the original records.”

  Gloria frowned. “I asked a simple question,” she said. “For some reason, I’m not getting a simple answer. Just where is the actual site of the old Quad Administration offices?”

  “Well…”

  “On New Cambridge, Gloria,” Petra broke in, rescuing Pug from further circumlocutions.

  “Aha,” Gloria said.

  Pug smiled in embarrassment. “I was afraid you might think…”

  “That you wanted an excuse for a little working vacation on your homeworld?”

  “Um, well…”

  “We’ll have none of that in my office,” Gloria declared firmly. “If it is necessary to send someone to New Cambridge to investigate this matter, they will go there to work. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Now, I think this does deserve further investigation, and I think it makes sense to send someone who is already familiar with New Cambridge and has connections there. I suppose that means you, Pug, but I’m reluctant to send a Fourteen off on an important field assignment without proper supervision. I think you need at least a Thirteen along to make sure you keep your nose to the grindstone and don’t fritter away your time on family reunions and sightseeing tours and romantic getaways. Petra, I suppose I can rely on you to see to all of that?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “I knew I could count on you. Now, it occurs to me that this year’s Quadrant Meeting is in Quad 4, and it’s scheduled for New Cambridge in a few weeks. I wanted to get to that, myself. Ever been to a Quadrant Meeting?”

  Both Pug and Petra shook their heads. “I went to one three years ago,” Gloria said, smiling at the memory. “Quite a show.”

  Each year, on a rotating basis, one of the Quadrants hosted a grand gathering of the tribes. In an empire where communications took days or weeks, it was important for Dexta people to have a chance to make personal contact with their far-flung coworkers. Conflicts and controversies could be resolved face-to-face
at the Quadrant Meetings, and they gave the Dexta brass an opportunity to assess the mood and morale of their troops. The formal agenda at the meetings always included a stupefying round of panels, committees, speeches, and seminars. Informally, much else happened.

  “It’s like going to the circus,” Gloria said. “Anyway, I think the two of you should leave as soon as possible in order to have some results to report by the time I get there. I’ll get a Flyer for you. Can you leave, say, the day after tomorrow?”

  Pug and Petra grinned at her. “Anything you say, Gloria,” Pug said.

  “Uh…there is one thing, though,” Petra added. “If we’re going to be digging around in official Dexta records for the Quadrant—I mean, when we aren’t frittering away our time with family reunions, sightseeing tours, and romantic getaways—we really ought to get authorization from the Quadrant Administrator.”

  “Good idea,” Gloria said. “And while we’re at it, another thought occurs to me. You said Jill Clymer has something brewing in Sector 19? That’s Quad 4, too. Get her in here, then get me an appointment for this afternoon, if possible, with Cornell DuBray.”

  “Wow,” said Petra. “The Quad Admin himself? Level Four?”

  “We Avatars of the Spirit,” Gloria said grandly, “don’t bother with mere underlings. Anyway, I’ve been looking for an excuse to get acquainted with the upper-level Eagles, and this will do.” She got to her feet and walked to her desk.

  “Uh, Gloria…?”

  “What, Petra?”

  “I think you ought to change before you go see DuBray.”

  “Why? What’s the matter with what I’ve got on?”

  Petra walked over to Gloria and reached for her back. She plucked something off it and held it up for Gloria to see. It was a blade of grass.

  “And there are some grass stains, too.”

  Gloria rolled her eyes. No wonder people had been staring and giggling behind her back all afternoon! And that bastard Charles hadn’t said a word…