Transmaniacon

by John Shirley

  “Why? Why are you a threat to him?”

  “Partly because he fears that I may use the exciter against him, I suspect. Because he knows how I feel about his using me to destroy the forever-revel. He knows I would destroy him if I could. But also because he controls a monopoly on the manufacture of nulgrav equipment for Denver and Fallon and Astor, which is largely because he has the mining facilities to acquire the necessary raw materials. The key ore is hard to find. But if the Barrier drops we have the whole outside world to mine for it. That would eliminate his monopoly, his greatest source of wealth.

  “But his power comes from the syndicates he controls within the cities. He plans to expand those syndicates into the governments and make the cities wholly his. In order to do that, the syndicates have to grow faster than the city governments. . .If the Barrier were dropped and the resources of the outside world were available—and I’m talking about minerals, and the like, and not slaves—then the city governments would concentrate on exploration and development in the outside world, would expand beyond the reach of his syndicates. The cities would compete in exploration, they’d grow, expand their military strength and their nulgrav capabilities. Chaldin’s syndicates would become small fish, would become obsolete. So he needs the Barrier to remain in control of the nulgrav syndicates. He has to stop me from dropping the Barrier, any way he can. Because if we were free to expand, civilization would once again become extroverted. Now it’s introverted, almost catatonic. He thrives on stifled and stifling conditions. Like mold.”

  “Stop you any way he can? He has chosen the obvious, then. Assassination. Regnor was only the first. If that fails, he will turn the people against you, convince the pedestrians that it is time for dethroning the aristocracy. That Traditionalism thwarts them. He will make the pedestrians into your assassins.”

  “What—what have you heard about assassination, Kibo?”

  “One captured assassin. He died during interrogation. Before he died we learned Chaldin’s general plan. Sabotage the Fist. Assassinate you. If those fail, destroy the city’s system, from within by subversion. Probably, he will set up a puppet revolutionary government...”

  “Yes. That is the way of the Order. Puppetry.” Ben swallowed. He was quiet for a while. It wasn’t the first time he’d been a target. But he was scared this time. Thoroughly. Why? Because he was so close to completing the Fist, the dream of half his lifetime. The Barrier’s days were numbered. The sea was out there. He was so close.

  “So,” Ben began, huskily, “what—” He cleared his throat. Pull yourself together. It would have been easier if Gloria weren’t so distant. Kibo was looking at him with narrowed eyes. Ben put on a stern look; it was crucial that he sustain Kibo’s respect. “So, what have you done about this?”

  “I have doubled the guards around the Fist, and tripled the patrol around the towers. This morning an unmarked, unlicensed flying vehicle approached to within half a mile of your apartments. It moved slowly, began to pick up speed as it approached, as if it intended to pass very near the tower and be gone quickly. We are nearly certain it was equipped with a bomb. We blocked it with three flyers, but it outran us, to the south. Also, according to the desk clerk, the stranger occupying the opposite penthouse was gone all night and all morning. As if he expected trouble. An unusual hour, five in the morning, for a man to take to the currents, especially with the curfew in effect. We still haven’t found out anything about him other than his name. In one room—the bathroom—there is only a thin wall separating the two apartments. The entire floor below you is unoccupied, and we’re guarding it to make sure it stays that way. So, the Rose Suite is the only avenue of surreptitious approach to you within the building. If the man residing there is not working for Chaldin, he may someday be replaced by a man who is. I suggest you force the man from the rooms and rent them yourself, as protection. Or change headquarters.”

  Ben scowled. He was running low on funds. He had paid out fabulous sums in bribes already. And the first payment to the Brothers of Proteus had taken a fourth of his entire savings. Two hundred fifty thousand credit chips. He gritted his teeth and decided to act decisively. It would cut things close, but— “Very well. I’ll do as you suggest. You are a very suspicious man, Kibo. My compliments. And it is true, I haven’t seen my neighbor. That in itself is odd.” And with that he withdrew a silver capsule containing the draft for the second payment to the Brothers, and passed it to Kibo. Kibo made a hand-sign of gratitude.

  Ben thought, Yes, it’s time to move.

  With his head-dress buzzing arrogantly overhead and a practiced hauteur in his expression, Ben buoyed into the hotel lounge and addressed the desk clerk. “The gentleman in the Rose Suite, the penthouse opposite mine, will be moving out this evening. Make the necessary preparations for the removal of his luggage.”

  “You will kindly excuse me, kind Sir Patriarch Ladd,” sputtered the twitching, fluttering desk clerk. “If you would, kindly, excuse me, but please, I don’t—and I say I meaning myself rather than speaking, as you may have ascertained, as an organ of the hotel, that is, to wit: Rudolph Mumm the Third, rather than as Mr. Mumm the clerical, ahhh, executor of the surrounding institution—the I, therewith specified, that is: Mr. Rudolph Mumm, private individual…does not understand. Sir.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you don’t understand, Mr. Mumm?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Well, spit it out! What is it you don’t understand?”

  “We have not been notified in any wise—and I say we as representing my office—though it is perfectly plausible that the gentleman may have made some other arrangements—”'

  “He asked me to tell you.” Ben said patiently. “By the way, do you happen to know the nature of the patriarch’s profession?”

  “No, I as a private individual, do not, though I as the hotel, the institution, may indeed be aware of this fact, as in the third sub-vault there are certain files containing this information—”

  “Never mind. Simply inform the man that preparations have been made for his departure and that should there be any difficulty or misunderstanding concerning what is meant, he should enquire of P. Ladd, who will await him here in the lobby.” With that, Ben stepped into the lift.

  Rising slowly on a vertical nulgrav current, Ben prepared himself on several mental levels. Assuming that the man in the Rose Suite took the bait and was now departing his rooms in a huff, he should be outside his apartment, alone in the hall, away from possible confederates and, hopefully, without weapons. This elaborate precaution, expelling the man from his room on the slim chance he could be allied with Chaldin, seemed a little silly now. But Old Thorn had had a saying: It is wise to be a trifle paranoid—fear is synonymous with alertness.

  So, expecting the man in the Rose Suite to be a stodgy patriarch of the merchant class, Ben prepared himself. He adopted an authoritative state of mind. A boss-image, the essence of a chairman of the board, something a merchant would recognize. That presence, coupled with veiled threats and discreet implications that the penthouse was needed for very private festivities, should be enough to frighten the man away without much resistance. Then, Ben would rent the room and keep a dozen Brothers there, at ready.

  On another level he keyed himself for any eventuality. He reminded himself (while rising up the shaft like a slow-motion bullet through a gun barrel, building up the momentum of aggression as he went) that Chaldin had been compelled to concentrate a major campaign against him. Each day could take on the intensity of pitched battle; he could expect attack at any instant. So he was constantly steeling himself; he paid for it with loss of sleep. Why was Gloria so distant now? Was she reacting to his fever, to his aggressive enthusiasm?

  And on yet another level he reflected that the volatility of the situation was both repulsive and attractive. He felt growing uneasiness at the nearness of death—it didn’t really matter whose death it was—and he experienced horror at the sticky hatred of both the Brothers of Prote
us and the Insulation Committee. They needed to hate and they were very grateful to Ben, who had given them something to hate.

  And equally disquieting was the fact that the destruction of the Barrier had somehow become second in importance to Ben, next to the destruction of Chaldin.

  But the sea…the open sea was the distant light at the end of this long, long passage through darkness.

  He reached the end of the vertical shaft and stepped into the light of the sunny upper hall. The skylight clearly defined milky beams of noon sun spotlighting wisps of dust to make them resemble tiny, luminous ballet dancers. At the end of the hall, where it was dimmer, two doors faced each other. One to the left opened into his own apartments, the opposite led to the rooms occupied by a man he’d never seen. And the man had not yet emerged. Ben waited. He basked in the warmth of sun pouring through the skylight and blinked in the pleasantly mindless glare. All was quiet. He watched the sparkling dust motes and wished he could forget everything––the Barrier, Chaldin, the nearness of killing, and more killing—and call Gloria out here to sit in the sun with him. They would watch the glowing dust motes and the stately turn of sun shafts.

  He was ready to do it. Feeling the advisory kiss of sunlight, he was almost ready to chuck the whole business, to take what money was left and retreat with Gloria to Astor.

  Why not? Did it matter that—

  He never completed the thought. The stranger had come into the hall, and Ben acted reflexively.

  Ben approached him slowly, assuming believable authoritative airs, a stiff, no-nonsense smile on his face.

  He looked at the cloud containing the man’s face and frowned.

  Colored mists obscuring the face, preventing others from seeing in but permitting the wearer to see out, were not unusual. Just a month ago they had been fashionable. But they were evening wear, to be worn only when the rest of the body was nude—to obscure the body as well as the face was considered rude. Yet this man wore a red head-wreath in the full daylight and a black full-length jumpsuit as well. “Whoever you are,” Ben said as the man approached, “you are an amateur.”

  “I beg your pardon?” came a cold voice from within the flame-shaped cloud enclosing the head.

  “I suppose you think that since you are merely going to chastise the desk clerk you needn’t wear your head-dress. It is rare that a patriarch will go ten feet in public without his head-dress. But worse—you are walking on the ground. You really should have put on your web. Patriarchs never—”

  The man sprang for him.

  Ben had played the role of Delegate Ladd for too long. He had assimilated something of Ladd’s staid regard for his person, for, without thinking, he dodged his assailant and reached up to detach his head-dress, left it floating alone in the air near the ceiling. He was unused to fighting in the nulgrav current and wondered, as he turned to face the man charging for him, if it would be an advantage or a disadvantage.

  He discovered shortly that it was a disadvantage. His opponent had all the weight. Ben blocked the blow with his left forearm but was sent sailing backwards. He rebounded from a wall and shot toward his opponent, like a handball, to be batted back again. But this time as he struck the wall he kicked out and wedged between the walls on either side, arresting and steadying himself. The man closed instantly and Ben had barely time to switch off his nulgrav web. He had weight again, when they came together, and he used it to effect. He struck the stranger in the gut with his shoulder, sent him sprawling left, wheezing. The mist around the man’s face suddenly dispersed. Ben had damaged the glass collar dispensing the smokes. And there, wreathed in mists red as anger was Fuller the Slayer.

  Ben’s astonishment was almost his undoing. All this time? It gave Fuller time to recover and draw a knife.

  But then the door on the left opened, at the same time that three Brothers of Proteus came up from behind. Gloria, wearing her black leather jacket, T-shirt and pants, started to step into the hall.

  “No!” shouted Ben. “Fuller’s back there! Get back, get a gun, get Kibo if he’s in there—”

  “Fuller?” Gloria’s expression was odd, indecisive.

  “Go on,” Ben hissed. “Get out of the way!”

  Gloria scowled. “You’re always issuing instructions Rackey, and I’m tired of it. Why don’t you back up a bit and take a look at yourself? So what if it’s Fuller, I’ve known the guy longer than I’ve known you. Maybe I ought to go back with him and old what’s-his-name.” She stepped into the hall, closed the door behind her, turned to Fuller. “Maybe, Fuller, I––”

  But Fuller snarled and lashed out with his right hand, a motion almost faster than the eye could follow, striking Gloria across the forehead with the butt of his knife. Gloria wilted and Fuller caught her up in his arms. He had the knife to her throat before the Brothers could act.

  “Freeze!” Ben ordered.

  They froze. Fuller began to back up, edging into the apartment he had just vacated. He called something over his shoulder; there came a muffled reply and running footsteps. Ben took a needler from one of the Brothers and pushed past them, keeping his eyes on Fuller. They were a few feet apart. Gloria—a red welt over her right eye—was slumped, head tilted back, arms dangling; she was hooked in Fuller’s right arm. Fuller’s left hand held the knife, and his pretty, dark features were taut with warning.

  He backed into the room, the blade still pressed against Gloria’s jugular. Someone inside closed the door in Ben’s face.

  He stood there, hating himself, staring at the door, weighing alternatives.

  It took him ten seconds to decide. She was almost certainly going to be killed anyway. He launched himself at the door. It took him another twenty seconds, with the help of the burly green-clad Brothers who kept getting in the way, to break the door down. When it shattered inward, he stepped into the apartment and sensed immediately that it was empty.

  Fuller had given instructions to someone when he’d backed in. There had been a nulgrav car waiting, anchored outside the balcony. He had taken her.

  Where?

  The Tower of Lenses.

  The Tower of Lenses was a graduated white stalk resembling a telescope with its small end up. Kibo, Ben, and the pilot orbited the tower at a distance of three hundred yards. A car shaped like an owl perched close outside the balcony off the top floor. So, he’s got her in there, Ben thought.

  He could see his hotel, a blue wedge a mile distant. The streets and current-ways and glassy interfaces of buildings came together in this sweeping perspective, a tightly woven machine. In the fierce sunlight, the city, rushing by below as the car sped along, seemed a huge steaming machine of destruction, like a vast armored car.

  Below, the street was congested with demonstrators. Ben squinted. “Take it lower,” he ordered. They swung nearer and he made out a group of men standing on a clear plastic speaker’s platform before the ground floor entrance to the Tower of Lenses. Though the men on the platform were dressed like patriarchs, they stood with their feet on the earth. So, whoever they were, they played for pedestrian sympathies. Behind them a banner with the words, Death To Traditionalist Dictators, in brilliant yellow on black. “Where is Security now?” Ben wondered aloud. “Why are they permitting this mob to gather?” He looked closer. Gray-suited Security officers were present, but they were listening respectfully to the man on the stage.

  “Kibo, mobilize the Brothers to disrupt this mob, any way they can. In fact, bring in that woman you’ve got who’s such a good sniper. I’m not going to wait for Fuller’s terms. I’m going in there.”

  Kibo stared. “But…the demonstrators are Progressivists. As are we.”

  Ben grabbed Kibo by the collar of his green silk cape and dragged his face near. His own actions seemed performed by someone else, as if he moved through a realm of cinematic impartiality. Once again, he was close to losing control.

  He shook Kibo—who was a head taller and outweighed him by eighty pounds—and said, “Don’t give me that brainw
ash pabulum! Stop acting! This is real!”

  “Precisely,” said Kibo, gently disengaging Ben’s fingers. He did this with ease; he was a very strong man. “This is our reality—Progressivism. For another two months, our sympathies are dedicated. This is the pledge of the artist: To The World, My Heart—From The World, My Bread. We have taken the bread, now we must give our hearts. We simply cannot—”

  “All right.” Ben spoke softly, seething inwardly. “Take me down. I am not a Brother: I am not bound by the contract. Take me to that balcony.” Their contract had stipulated that Ben’s own activities were to be regarded as transcending the Traditionalist/ Progressivist contest. He was neither. They could not help him, now, nor interfere with him.

  Kibo dropped the car and they hovered at the balcony, beside the owl-car. Instantly, Ben was at the opened side port, his gun ready. He needled the two surprised guards beside the anchored owl-shaped nulgrav car, and they dropped to the street below. He bent at the knees, preparing to spring from the car onto the balcony.

  But he hesitated. He had glimpsed something shiny from a corner of his left eye, above the owl-car. He turned to look. A camera, the size of a walnut, its conical lens clicking at him, hovering a few feet away. It was a holo pick-up. He stood up straight, thinking hard. The camera recorded his actions—and there must be others nearby to obtain the several vantages necessary for the three-dimensional effect—transmitted them elsewhere from whence they would be projected. But projected where?

  Into the sky?

  Astonished, he looked up at himself. As tall as the tower he was about to assault, there was Ben Rackey, as if the sky itself were a vast mirror, gigantically reflecting him. He swatted at a camera, which moved deftly out of reach, and his image in the sky jiggled and shrunk a little, but it soon stabilized. He was looking at a transparent but clearly recognizable three-dimensional color image of himself, Ben Rackey dressed as a patriarch, his feet on the deck of the nulgrav car. His face, big as the sun, was dark with rage and his hand trembled eagerly at the trigger of his needler.