Floating Worlds

by Cecelia Anastasia Holland

  At the top of the stair was a gate, beside the gate an enclosed booth for the guards. Tanuojin passed their identification in through the little revolving door in the window. The guards were staring at him. Paula hung back by the grillwork of the gate. Tanuojin would not let her carry the little plastic card Saba had made up for her on the ship’s computer. The gate clicked, and they moved into the street beyond. They went down a trunk street, empty like all the others, reading the numbers of the doors, and crossed a white line into a sector darkened for the artificial night. The only light came from the display windows of shops in either wall, where pale-skinned mannequins showed off clothes of feathers, of green plants, and metal.

  “He’s a whore,” Tanuojin said. “He’ll lie down for anybody.”

  “Maybe he enjoys it.”

  “You won’t be so broad-minded when he catches you with his wife.”

  She swerved over to the side of the street. In the wall white letters marked the office of the Committee for the Revolution. The door was locked.

  “Don’t tell him about that,” she said. Bunker was nowhere in sight.

  “Then keep sweet with me. What are we supposed to do, wait outside?”

  “No. Give me that card.”

  He gave her his fleet card and she used it to shim the lock. She reached for the latch. His hand caught her wrist. Startled, she looked up at his face, and he flung her off into the street and dodged back.

  A muffled crack sounded. The door shook. Waist-high in the middle panel a ragged hole appeared. Paula rolled over to her hands and knees. Tanuojin launched himself shoulder-first at the door and through it into the office.

  The door slammed against the wall with a splintering crack. A Martian voice cried, “Watch out!” The inside ceiling lights came on bright as sunlight. Paula got up, breathing a coppery stench that made her heart gallop. Shots like sticks breaking crackled inside the office. A bloody man staggered across the threshold and fell on his face in the street. He had a gun in his hand, and she stooped and took it. His shredded Martian tunic was dark with blood. Suddenly his body flew backward feet-first into the office. She whirled.

  “Come in here,” Tanuojin said. “Turn these lights down.”

  She went into the waiting room of the Committee office. Under a glaring ceiling, three other men lay on the tawny carpet. Tanuojin’s hands and the forearms of his sleeves shone with blood. She found the light switch and turned off all the lights but one.

  “There’s one more,” Tanuojin said, shutting the door. “Down the hall. He has your friend Bunker, but he’ll probably shoot at me first. Are you all right?”

  She nodded. Bent double, she went from one Martian to the next; they were all dead, all their eyes were open wide. When Tanuojin faced her, she saw a ragged hole in his shirt over his chest.

  “You were hit.”

  “I’m fixing it.” He went to the door behind the desk and opened it.

  She watched him go into the corridor beyond. She knew what would happen. Three shots banged out from the end of the hall. Tanuojin went toward the gun, his hands at his sides. Paula went into the hallway behind him. The Martian crouched in the doorway at the end of the hall let out a screech and shot once more, and the Styth reached him.

  Behind him, on the floor, Dick Bunker lay tied up like a market hen. Paula brushed by Tanuojin, who let the Martian drop.

  “Richard.” She knelt by the bound man. “I didn’t think you fell into things like this.”

  She picked out the knot with her fingers and teeth. Tanuojin said, behind her, “Is he hurt?” His voice was thick, as if with pain. Still on one knee, she twisted to face him. The door beside her was open and the light spilled out, glittering on the side of his face. His cheek was laid open down to the white bone. The wound was healing so fast she could see the meat growing. There was no blood.

  “No.” she said. She glanced at Bunker. “He’s sound.”

  Bunker was untangling himself from the rope. His eyes never left Tanuojin. The stink of blood was heavy over the fading coppery taint. Tanuojin’s face had healed to a thin gray scar. His eye above it looked swollen and he pawed at it with his hand. He was splattered with blood. None of it was his.

  “We have to get out of here,” she said. “You can’t walk around the streets like that, there must be a washroom.”

  They found a washroom at the end of the hall. The ceiling lights came up.

  “He’s going with us,” Tanuojin said. Just inside the door, Paula stopped to dim the lights. Bunker walked in a circle around the blind end of the washroom, his hands in his hip pockets.

  “Where?”

  “To Uranus,” Tanuojin said. He unbuckled his belt and stripped off his shirt and gave them to Paula. Leaning on his arms on the washbasin, he slumped a moment, his head hanging. She realized he was tired. She turned his shirt inside out, to hide the blood. Bunker was watching from the dim back of the room.

  “I’m not going to Uranus.”

  “You’re her friend.” The water pounded into the basin. Tanuojin scrubbed his hands. “Otherwise I’d kill you.”

  “Tell us about General Gordon,” Paula said to Bunker.

  The water ran pink down the drain. Tanuojin said, “I don’t care what he says. He knows about me. I won’t let him go.”

  Paula looked across his bent back at the other anarchist. Their eyes met. Tanuojin put on his shirt and she handed him his belt.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  “Yes.” He got Bunker by the shoulder again and steered him out the door.

  They went down to the rail bus. There was a train in the platform; they went through it until they found an almost empty car. The lights glared on and off. At the far end of the car, a man sat staring at his hourly, ignoring the Styth twenty feet away. Tanuojin yawned.

  Beyond Tanuojin, Bunker raised his head. “General Gordon,” he said, staring across the car. “After you shot up Luna, he was kicked down and jailed. Where he seems to have jellied.” He was using Styth, which he spoke badly. “A writer disguised as a priest got to him and encouraged him to, unh, confess. The priest recorded the whole thing on a pocket tape, which he managed to smuggle out of Luna.”

  Tanuojin transferred his grip from Bunker’s shoulder to his wrist. Bunker jumped, and his mouth shut. His glance licked at Paula.

  “Keep talking,” Tanuojin said.

  Bunker looked away down the car. “Anyhow, the priest converted back to a writer, and sold the tape to a publisher in London, who decided it was entirely too ripe for the masses and sold it back to Luna—General Marak—for three and a half million dollars in virgin iron. General Gordon caught a buzz. The writer overdosed. The publisher’s air car crashed outside the dome, and the pollution killed him.”

  Tanuojin thumbed down his mustaches. The bright lights made him squint. Paula leaned forward to see Bunker. “But Marak has the tape.”

  “Apparently there are copies. I’ve never seen one, I don’t know anybody who has.”

  Paula glanced at the man at the far end of the car. Now he was watching them from behind his hourly. Tanuojin said, “Now that interests me,” and yawned again.

  “I don’t know anything more,” Bunker said. He slid down slumped on the bench, his wrist caught in the Styth’s grasp. “This is the first time I’ve heard that Gordon said anything about the Ybix incident. The bomb was his version of the ’49 coup. And the things he knew about people still in power. Not the least being Cam Savenia.”

  The bus lurched around a curve. Paula looked up at the ceiling. The glaring lights hurt her eyes. “Maybe we can find a copy of the tape.” The checkpoint was coming, and the bus slowed.

  “That might take time,” the Styth said. He let go of Bunker and fingered his fleet card and Paula’s out of his left sleeve. The lights flickered. Bunker sat relaxed on the bench, his eyes down, showing no interest in escape.

  The bus stopped. The police came into the car and walked toward them: a young man and an old on
e. “Badges?” Tanuojin gave them the cards. The two men handed them back and forth between them. When the young man gave them back to Tanuojin, he saluted.

  “Master commander. Hope you enjoy your stay here.” He turned to Bunker. “Badge.”

  The anarchist rose, taking a folder from his hip pocket, and held it out. Paula said, “That badge is forged.”

  Tanuojin shot to his feet. The old man snatched the folder from Bunker, and the young one drew his gun. The old man ran the badge through a pocket scanner.

  “It is a forgery!”

  “Hold it,” Tanuojin said. “He’s mine.”

  The young man’s gun jabbed at Bunker. “Spreadeagle. You’re under arrest. You’re responsible for everything you say or do henceforth.” His partner took out his gun and aimed it at Tanuojin.

  “You stay out of this, Commander.”

  Bunker moved down the car and put his hands on the wall. Tanuojin said, “I’m warning you—” Paula pulled on his sleeve.

  “Be careful.”

  He struck her arm away. One policeman was groping down Bunker’s sides. The old man pointed the bell-shaped muzzle of his gun at Tanuojin’s stomach. “You keep out of this, or I’ll be forced to shoot.”

  The young man turned around, his nose wrinkling. “What’s that smell?”

  Tanuojin took a step toward Bunker. Paula got in his way. “If they shoot you,” she said, under her breath, “everybody on Crosby’s Planet will know about you.”

  His face gleamed with sweat. He stood rigid while the policemen took Bunker out of the car.

  “Don’t worry,” Paula said. “He won’t say anything. Who would believe him?”

  His look made her flinch. He sat down beside her on the bench. All the way back to the hotel, he said nothing to her at all.

  Saba was not there when they reached the hotel. He had not come back when they left the next morning for the courtroom. Tanuojin cursed him all the way there. Paula bought an hourly from a stand just outside the court building. The Ybix—Luna Case was still in the right top headline. They went into the courtroom. Tanuojin sat down in his chair, scowling.

  “Do you know where he is?” Paula asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he safe?”

  “Yes.”

  She took the hourly out of her pocket and unfolded it. There was no sense worrying about Saba. Below the story about the Styths was a headline in lighter print. The Council had voted to send a peacekeeping force to Venus 14, to settle the civil war there. Maybe that was why Jefferson was in Crosby’s Planet. Meddling Roland. She looked over the top edge of the hourly at Chi Parine’s aides, sitting in their row opposite her. Now the little lawyer himself came out of Wu-wei’s office, behind the courtroom, and took his place on the adversary side. He wore a yellow vest, bright as a daffodil.

  Wu-wei came in, and everybody stood but Tanuojin. The audience howled until the bailiff rang for order. Chi Parine advanced swaggering toward the Bench.

  “Your Excellency, there is a very serious charge being made against one party of this court.”

  Paula straightened her face. She put the hourly into the pocket of her jacket. Wu-wei glanced at Tanuojin and said, “Parine, I hope you aren’t about to use my time and space for a hyde-park.”

  “Your Excellency, this is entirely relevant.” Parine gestured with an outstretched hand, and an aide hurried forward with two sheets of paper. He gave one to the Bench and brought the other across the room to Paula. Parine said, “I am giving you a record of a heinous crime. A horrible crime. Of which the defenser is certainly not ignorant.”

  The paper was a list of four names, addresses, ages, and causes of death. Parine spoke with relish. His voice boomed through the room.

  “These four men were murdered last night. They were slaughtered, brutally and efficiently, at the office of the Committee for the Revolution.” The rapt crowd murmured. “They were slashed to pieces, as if by the claws of a powerful animal.” The crowd gave up its breath in a sensuous gasp.

  “Bench,” Paula said, “would you mind requiring the adversary to show how all this is relevant?”

  Wu-wei smoothed down the worksheet on the table before him with the flat of his hand. “I’ll accept that request. Parine?”

  Parine stalked toward Tanuojin, who sat moveless in his chair, his head propped up on his fist. “The guards passed at least one Styth into that sector and out again, at times bracketing the time of the murder. Are you willing to surrender that man for questioning?”

  “If you like,” Tanuojin said. His voice was mild. “It was me.”

  The audience fell silent. Parine’s forehead creased into a frown. Tanuojin unfolded himself out of the chair. “I’m an Akellar of the Empire. I don’t savage people in alleyways.”

  Wu-wei’s lips were curved into a pensive bow. His gaze went to Tanuojin’s hands. Parine said, “I don’t believe it was you. Your—colleague isn’t here. Why not? Because he’s recovering?”

  Paula leaned forward in her chair. “Parine, do you have any actual evidence of any of this?”

  “Your Excellency.” Parine rushed forward toward the Bench. “These four men were murdered in a manner that only a Styth could employ. One of the defense panel is missing, obviously another casualty. Since it happened at the Committee office, and these people are so well connected with the anarchists, we have no hard evidence—”

  Tanuojin said, “If there really is a connection between what happened there and here, it’s between those four niggers and this one.” He waved his hand at Parine.

  Parine said, “Your Excellency—” and the Bench shook his head at him.

  “No, Parine. No more argument. Obviously I am the only one of us who doesn’t know what happened at the Committee office. Since neither of you wants to enlighten me, I can’t rule on your motion.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “I’m finding you both in contempt. I’ll charge you each half a day for wasting my time and trying my patience.”

  Tanuojin’s head snapped up. “I resent being called a liar.”

  “I resent being lied to.”

  Parine hurried forward. His flushed face clashed with his yellow vest. “Your Excellency, I consider this a grounds for protesting the conduct of the entire trial.”

  “Your prerogative, Mr. Parine.” The little judge banged on the table. “I’ll break for lunch. Until fourteen o’clock. Don’t bother to sit, Tanuojin.” He walked out the little door in the wall behind his table.

  Parine said, “I’ve never seen such bias in a court of this rank.” Among his staff, papercases snapped closed in a series of reports like gunshots. Tanuojin’s eyes closed. He put his head back, his hands at his sides, tired.

  “I see a few of the raiding party are missing,” Parine said.

  “Yes,” Tanuojin said, “but now we have General Gordon, white boy, and General Marak and Cam Savenia and you are going to wish we didn’t.”

  Paula went around the table to the door to the judge’s office and knocked.

  “Come in,” Wu-wei called.

  She turned the latch. Wu-wei was standing at the desk on the far side of the small half-round room. He said, “Oh. Mendoza. Come in.”

  She crossed the room. On the wall behind him were three or four Japanese woodcuts of women bathing and combing their hair. The little yellow judge sat down behind his desk.

  “I’ll warn you, Mendoza, the past two days’ experience has not inclined me toward your people.”

  “Don’t blame us for the ambush at the Committee office.” She nodded at the woodcuts. “Those are beautiful. Are they originals?” The black and white studies were of the style called “the floating world,” delighting in the ordinary.

  “Yes,” he said. “ ‘Ambush’ is rather a suggestive word.”

  She looked from the prints to the smooth face of the judge. “Yes, ambush. Dick Bunker is in jail on a charge of forgery in that sector. He’ll tell you what happened.” She went back out to the courtroom.

>   Tanuojin had gone. She stopped, surprised: Saba was sitting in the chair his lyo had been using. She crossed to the other of the big armchairs.

  “Where were you? Not at prayers.”

  “You two didn’t seem to need me.” He looked around the courtroom. Even in recess the audience still packed the gallery chairs. They sat eating lunches they had brought, a hundred faces moving around mouthfuls of food. Saba said, “Is he hotted up at me?”

  “He’s yours, not mine. I don’t know what he thinks.”

  “What has happened? Are you still going through the maneuvers with this cockspur lawyer?”

  “Yes, here. The big events are all outside the courtroom.” She told him about the fight at the Committee office and General Gordon’s confession. “So we are acting as if we have the tape. To see how that makes Parine jump.”

  “A fight. Was he hurt?”

  “Momentarily.” She nodded past him toward the big doors at the back of the courtroom. “Here he comes.”

  Tanuojin walked down the aisle, his men at his back, ignoring the hisses and insults of the crowd on either side. He swung the gate open, gave Saba a brief angry look, and came over to Paula, in the other armchair.

  “Get up.”

  She stayed in place as long as she dared, about fifteen seconds, and gave up the chair to him. Saba was looking off in another direction. While she brought a straight chair from the wall to the space between the armchairs, Parine led his staff down the aisle, his chest puffed round under the sunlight-yellow vest, the heavy raised heels of his shoes tap-tapping on the floor. The bailiff stood up.

  “Please rise for the Bench.”

  Paula stood. Everybody else but the Styths got up in a clatter of feet and chairs. Abruptly, Saba straightened onto his feet. He tapped Tanuojin on the shoulder.

  “Get up. I outrank you.”

  Tanuojin threw him a look white with temper. He put his feet under him and stood. A mutter ran through the audience, swelling to a roar of comment, and a few people clapped. Wu-wei sat down behind his table. Parine went forward, bristling.

  “Your Excellency, this is rank theatrics—”