by C. J. Ryan
“Like we’re making progress on the Quincannon case? Or real progress?”
“Real progress, we hope.” She offered him an encouraging smile.
“Nice to hear that,” said Connors. “I’ll tell my wife to keep the kids here.”
The detectives left and Petra sat down to pour another cup of coffee. It occurred to her that the two cops were about the only real residents of Central that she’d met. And maybe Jamie Quincannon. Everyone else was some rich snob from up on the cliffside, or Dexta people. It was odd how you could spend weeks in a city and never really connect with anyone.
Her wristcom beeped. “Petra Nash,” said Whit Bartholemew, “are you hungry? Or do you expect to be hungry at some point in the day? I’m hungry. I hunger for the sight of your sweet face and flashing green eyes. I hunger for your wit and charm and intelligence. For your soft white flesh.”
“Are you asking me to dinner, or have you taken up cannibalism?”
“The former, I assure you. I know your time here is limited, and the fireworks the other night prevented me from completing my wily seduction. In all fairness, you owe me another chance.”
“Whit, I’m awfully tired. I was up half the night working.”
“We’ll make it an early evening, then. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Petra shrugged. She was a single woman again, after all. Maybe an actual date was in order. And Whit Bartholemew was a man who intrigued her, although probably for all the wrong reasons. She decided abruptly that for one night, at least, the wrong reasons could be precisely the right reasons.
“I’ll see you at seven,” she said.
GLORIA, ARKADY VOLKONSKI, FIVE OF HIS Bugs, and a pilot accelerated away from New Cambridge. Within an hour of their departure, they would reach 92 percent of the speed of light, turn on the Cruiser’s Ferguson Distortion Generators, and enter the strange realm of Yao Space. Interstellar flight was not very exciting, and the Bugs all tried to get some sack time.
The Cruiser could carry as many as twelve passengers in something approximating comfort. Two rows of bunks flanked a central passageway that connected the cockpit and a tiny galley with a small bathroom and the even smaller engine room. There was really not much need for an engine room at all, since in-flight repairs would have been virtually impossible if anything went wrong, but pilots found it comforting to think that they could control their own fate with a screwdriver and some elbow grease.
Gloria sat with Volkonski in the galley, sipping coffee and munching sandwiches. Volkonski had expressed his skepticism about this entire venture and, particularly, Gloria’s participation in it. “If anything happens on that scumworld,” he said, “you’ll just be in the way.”
“No, I won’t!” Gloria protested. “You’re forgetting, I commanded an entire army back on Mynjhino. I know how to handle myself.”
“You commanded a bunch of half-assed volunteers, and nobody ever fired a shot,” Volkonski said. “You’ve never been in actual combat. You haven’t had any training in small-unit tactics. And you’ve probably never even fired a plasma rifle.”
Gloria couldn’t deny any of that. “So train me,” she said. “We’ve got about thirteen hours. Tell me what I need to know.”
Volkonski sighed. “It doesn’t work that way, Gloria. We’re not exactly set up to put you through boot camp here. It’s not something you can learn from lectures or books. Anyway, if I tried to give you some instruction, you’d immediately decide that you were an expert and insist on running the show.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Of course you would. You couldn’t help yourself.”
Gloria scowled and propped her chin up on her fist. “You know me too damn well,” she said petulantly.
“Keeping you alive requires a close study of my subject,” Volkonski said. “I wasn’t on Mynjhino, but I know what happened there and I know you tried to handle everything personally. And I saw you in action on Sylvania. Sooner or later, Gloria, you are going to have to learn that an executive simply issues orders and lets other people carry them out. I mean, why are you even here?”
“It’s my responsibility to—”
“The hell it is. It’s my responsibility to carry out this mission. It’s your responsibility to define the mission and see to it that I have all the resources necessary to complete it successfully.”
“I think it’s part of my responsibility to be with my people when I send them into a potentially dangerous situation.”
“That’s a very romantic notion,” Volkonski said, “but it’s also total nonsense. I mean, just look at yourself! Who the hell goes into a combat situation dressed like that?”
Gloria glanced down at herself. She was wearing a molecules-thick white bodysuit, set at 70 percent transparency, with the pressure seam in front opened from her neck to her navel. “I wore this on Mynjhino,” Gloria said. “No one seemed to mind.”
“I’m sure they didn’t,” Volkonski said, “because nobody on Mynjhino knew what the hell they were doing. But if we get into a fight on this scumworld, you’ll just be a distraction to my men.”
“I’ll also be a distraction to the enemy.”
“Or a target.”
Gloria pursed her lips, then decided she might as well give in. She hit a contact switch and reduced the transparency of her bodysuit to 30 percent, then closed the pressure seam up to the base of her sternum. “There. Is that better?”
“Not really,” Volkonski said, shaking his head. “But I suppose it’s the best I can expect. Why must you always be the center of attention?”
Gloria reached across the table and put her hand on Volkonski’s. “Arkady,” she said, “I like being the center of attention. And I don’t really have any choice, do I?”
Volkonski looked at his beautiful boss for a few seconds and broke into a grin. “I suppose not,” he said.
“I know how I look,” Gloria said. “I realized early on that I could either fight it, and try to be drab and plain even though I wasn’t, or just accept it, enjoy it, and try to get maximum mileage out of it. Dressing the way I do gives me a kind of power that isn’t available to all you big, strong, tough guys. And I use that power to get the job done.”
“You certainly do that,” Volkonski agreed.
“And as for why I’m here, well, that sort of goes with the territory. Gloria VanDeen can’t be just another bureaucrat. She’s got to be out there where people can see her, sexy and glamorous to the end, even if it kills her. Spirit, do you know how I spent the last two weeks? I put myself on display and let myself be ogled and groped by half the bureaucrats in the Quadrant. And do you know what the result of all that was? OSI is going to make it, Arkady! We really are going to become the Fifth Quadrant! You saw it for yourself at the meeting this morning. OSI was right there at the same table with all the grown-ups. The public is crazy about me, I’ve gotten the support of the Dexta rank and file, and even people like DuBray have to accept the fact that OSI is here to stay.”
“Unless,” Volkonski pointed out, “Gloria VanDeen gets her beautiful head blown off on that scumworld.”
“Well, yes,” Gloria conceded. “There’s always that, isn’t there?”
WHIT BARTHOLEMEW FOUND HIS MOTHER SITTING on a sofa in the library of the Bartholemew family mansion on the cliff north of Central. Sitting with her, to his considerable surprise, was his grandfather, Norman Mingus.
Whit stopped short a few feet away from them and stared at Mingus. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Mingus got to his feet, walked toward his grandson, and held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Whit. You’re looking well.” When Whit made no move to offer his own hand, Mingus withdrew his. “Still the same as I remember you, I see.”
“Believe it.” Whit turned to look at his mother. “What is this bastard doing here?”
Saffron Mingus Bartholemew waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, relax, Whit,” she said. “It won’t kill either one of us to spend a few
minutes with him. Of course, a few minutes is all he has.”
“Ah, the doting grandparent! Managed to find ten minutes for us after twenty years, did you?”
“Fifteen, actually,” said Mingus. “But perhaps I was being overly optimistic.”
“You can drag your ancient ass out of here right now, for all I care.”
“Oh, now both of you, just sit down and stop acting like babies. Father, right here where you were. Whit, plant yourself in that chair and try not to suck your thumb and pout.” Saffron stared at both of them, and the force of her gaze finally drove them to do as she had ordered.
“Father was just explaining why he couldn’t come and visit us while Bart was still alive,” Saffron said.
“And I was hoping that you might explain why you and Whit never came to visit me in Manhattan,” said Mingus. “It was never my desire or intention to be alienated from you.”
“Your desire and your intention,” echoed Saffron. “You never really managed to sort those out, did you, Father?”
“You know why I did what I did,” Mingus answered softly. “And it wasn’t such a bad life, was it? Bart took care of you and tried to do right by you. He was not a bad man, was he?”
Saffron took her father’s hand and squeezed it gently for a moment. “No,” she said, “he wasn’t.”
“He was an even bigger bastard than his father-in-law,” Whit interjected. “You ran your big noble Empire, while he ran his greasy little empire. And Mother and I were caught in between, and nobody ever gave a damn about that.”
“That’s not true, son,” Mingus said. “I cared very much about you and your mother, and I’m sure that Bart did too, in his way. But life is never as simple as we would wish.”
“Spare me the grandfatherly philosophy about life, old man. You want to know what life is? I’ll tell you what it is. It’s an eternal struggle between the fat cats like you and dear old Dad, and all the rest of the poor, stupid, swarming mass of humanity. Only they don’t have a chance, do they? Because the fix is in. The game is rigged and always has been. People like you get what they want, and everyone else has to settle for wanting what little they get.”
“You sound just like you did the last time I saw you,” Mingus said. “You were just out of college then, with your long hair and your beard, spouting leftist drivel as if you were the first one ever to think of it. The boy’s hardly grown up at all, has he?”
“Oh, that’s not true,” Saffron protested. “He’s done a fine job of running the family businesses, and without any help from—from those people. You realize, don’t you, that by the time he died, Bart had made his enterprises almost entirely legitimate?”
“Which is more than anyone can say for you,” Whit said accusingly. “The Empire is the most corrupt enterprise in the history of humanity.”
“The Empire”—Mingus sighed—“is what it is.” He got to his feet, and Saffron and Whit did, as well. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t come here to debate political theory. I have to be going, but I expect to see you—both of you—at the OSI reception Saturday night. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Saffron said. “Of course, the Ellisons will expect us, but I just don’t know.”
“Come,” said Mingus. “I’ll introduce you to the Emperor. Whit too, if he’ll promise to behave himself.” Mingus kissed his daughter lightly on her cheek, paused to gaze for a moment at his grandson, then strode briskly from the room.
“He’ll introduce us to the Emperor,” Whit said with bitter sarcasm. “I have a much better idea. I’ve been planning a little working vacation, and I want you to join me. We’ll leave Saturday afternoon and go to the mountain lodge on Belairus. You always liked it there, and the mountain air will be just the thing to clear the stench of all these bureaucrats.”
“Belairus is lovely,” his mother agreed. “But I honestly don’t see how we can avoid that reception. The Ellisons would be disappointed and despite your disapproval, I suppose I would like to meet the Emperor.”
“I’ll make you a deal, then,” Whit said. “We’ll go to that reception Saturday night, and I’ll behave myself. Then we’ll leave Sunday morning.”
“That’s still rather sudden. Couldn’t we make it next week?”
“No,” Whit said flatly. “Sunday morning. I told you, it’s a working vacation, and I already have meetings scheduled. We can’t leave any later than Sunday morning. If you don’t agree, I’ll make an ugly scene with the Emperor.”
Saffron looked at her son. “You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”
“Damn right I would. Sunday morning?”
“Very well, then. Sunday morning.” Saffron pursed her lips and shook her head as she looked into her son’s eyes. “I never could say ‘No’ to you and make it stick.”
“Really? I always thought it was more the other way around. I remember one time when—”
Saffron pressed her fingers against Whit’s lips. “Hush,” she whispered. “We’ll speak no more about it. Now, as for this evening, I had hoped we could have a—”
“Sorry, Mom,” Whit said. “Got a date.”
Saffron raised an eyebrow. “A date? Anyone I know?”
“You met her at the Ellisons’ party. Petra Nash.”
“That cute little girl who was with young Palmer Ellison? Yes, I gather they’ve broken up. Only to be expected, of course. Steffany is a much more suitable match for the boy. The Ellisons would never have consented to his staying with someone so…common.”
“She’s not common. In fact, she’s delightfully uncommon.”
“Oh? What’s this? Honest attraction, dare I hope?”
“Decide for yourself. I’m going to ask her to join us on our trip.”
“Will wonders never cease?” Saffron asked. “You aren’t finally falling in love, are you?”
Whit had no answer for that. His mother thought he even looked a little embarrassed.
PETRA FELT EVERY EYE ON HER AS SHE WALKED into the fancy restaurant on Whit’s arm, wearing only a filmy green band skirt, adjusted shockingly low on her hips, and a matching halter top that didn’t quite conceal her nipples. Pug had gotten the outfit for her on their shopping spree, and while she doubted that it was something she would wear back home in Manhattan, it somehow seemed just right for this staid, heavy planet. One more way of thumbing her nose at them all.
They were seated at the same table they’d had two nights earlier, with its sweeping, panoramic view of the city. Wine was served, Whit approved it, and they raised their glasses in a toast. “Here’s to two people in a trillion, finding each other in the midst of all this rot and decay,” Whit said.
“You’re cynical even when you’re being sentimental,” Petra noted.
“It’s the Hegelian dialectic,” Whit explained, “the eternal clash of opposing forces, out of which the future is forged.”
“That’s a little better,” Petra said, and sipped her wine.
“With the right motivation, I could do much better. You bring out the poet in me, Petra Nash. The other day in my office, we were simply two rutting animals. Under the proper circumstances, in the right setting, you might find that I can be quite human.”
“I think you’re more human than you realize, Whit. You’re a very attractive man. Maybe I was just getting back at Pug the other day in your office, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel something for you.”
“ ‘Something,’ ” Whit said. “Could you be more specific?”
Petra smiled. “Not just now,” she said.
“Well, I feel ‘something’ for you, as well. I can’t give a name to it, and I won’t insult us both by pretending that it’s love, but whatever it is, it’s real and deeply felt.”
Petra’s smile turned into a grin. “Took the words right out of my mouth,” she said.
Whit returned her grin. “We understand each other, then.”
“Not as well as I’d like to. I wish I knew where all your anger comes from. It c
an be a little frightening.”
He drank some more wine. “My anger,” he said, “is my oldest companion. A friend of my youth.”
“Have you ever tried living without it?”
“No,” he said, “I haven’t, and I have no wish to. My anger is my magnetic north. It provides orientation and direction in my life. It tells me what I must do, and why. Don’t you ever feel it?”
“Not the way you do,” Petra replied. “Sure, I get angry sometimes. But I don’t let it control my life.”
“What does control your life, then? What do you want, Petra Nash?”
Petra sipped some wine. “That’s not an easy question to answer,” she said as Whit poured more wine for both of them.
“It never is,” Whit said. “That’s why we so seldom ask it of ourselves. Confronting our deepest desires is a risky business. We might learn something about ourselves that we’d rather not know. Take you, for example. You’ve just traded in an upright, respectable young boy for a ne’er-do-well, middle-aged rascal. Have you considered just why you did that?”
“It wasn’t exactly something I planned, you know.”
“Plans have nothing to do with it. The fact is, you did it. Here we sit, Petra Nash, together and, to all appearances, enjoying it. That is the reality of the moment.”
“If it’s reality, does it have to have an explanation?”
For a moment, Whit had no response. They watched in silence as a brightly lit vessel in the harbor rose into the dark sky on a plume of blue fire.
“I’m taking my mother away to our lodge on Belairus,” Whit said, looking Petra in the eyes. “We leave Sunday morning. Come with us.”
“What?” Petra asked, taken aback.
“You heard me. It’s only a two-day journey in my yacht.”
“Whit, I have a job. I can’t just take off at the drop of a hat.”
“Why not? The Quadrant Meeting will be concluded by then. You don’t need to stick around just to watch the Emperor blab to the masses in the soccer stadium on Sunday. Don’t you have some time off coming?”