by John Barnes
“You’ve pinned it down in pure clear quartz,” the Rubahy warrior said. “I have seen Prince Cyx three times, and I have seen this Clarbo Waynong too many times, and if it were the religious heritage of my species hanging on the slim possibility that the eager, hasty fool will not offend the proud, supercilious fool, I would tremble for us. One less fool in the picture would brighten everything considerably.”
Jak pretended to think about it; but still he needed to make it appear that Waynong had succeeded. And Mejitarian had already told him it wouldn’t be easy. “I don’t like the situation much,” Jak admitted. “Maybe if I were older and colder-blooded I’d merely mutter something about how inconvenient Clarbo Waynong is, and ‘let things happen’ and thereby be able, if they found out who did it, to claim there was all a cultural misunderstanding. But … I can’t take that step.”
Dujuv sighed. “Old tove, I’m glad to see you have scruples, but what a time to develop them!”
“I know. I don’t believe it either.” Jak leaned back. “How about telling your toktru tove everything about your life? Your messages are great, but people always leave a lot out of messages.”
With a billion people, the Hive had more than enough to provide an ambassador to everywhere, and a staff for the embassy, but that did not mean the diplomatic work got done. Harmless Zone diplomatic posts were magnets for patricians who liked all the recreational opportunities but objected to doing anything other than attending the more entertaining receptions and playing outdoor sports with the better class of Chryseans.
Since all embassy slots were allocated to political appointees and their friends and relatives, the Roving Consuls were created to do the actual work. Theoretically a Roving Consul was not much more than a traveling clerk who arranged everything a Hive citizen might need: legal representation, medical care, extradition, corpse-transportation, out-of-polity marriage licenses, intellectual property liens. Roving Consuls also negotiated “boilerplate” treaties as they were expired or canceled or suspended, and did the endless face-to-face talking for, to, and about the Republic of the Hive to 1200 puny principalities and powers. Dujuv’s description of the job was “half file clerk, half kindergarten teacher.”
“I can see you’ve got parts of that diplomat job down cold,” Jak said.
“They tell me I’m good at this,” Dujuv said. “Who’d’ve thought I’d turn out to have either the brains or the talent?”
“Uh, me. Your oldest tove. Myxenna wasn’t surprised either, you know.”
“How is she?” Dujuv smiled at the mention of her name, which relieved Jak no end. Panths bonded strongly in midadolescence, and Dujuv had bonded to Myxenna, who had been his demmy all through gen school; it had taken him years to be able to see her as just a friend.
“She’s on her way here. Supposed to take over from Clarbo Waynong. I got a short note from her earlier. Same old Myx.” He was afraid that his toves might ask him for details (strange, now, that with so much at stake, lying and covering up was bothering him more than it ever had before) so he hurried to change the subject. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything like your stories to tell, Dujuv. I’ve been keeping track of Forces dependents arrested for shoplifting, and permits for roast hamster stands, and so on.”
“They seem to think you’ve done a good job of it,” Dujuv pointed out. “You’re the one that they put in command of this mission.”
“Does that bother you?” Jak asked. “Because it does me.”
“Yeah, it bothers me.” Dujuv’s expression was utterly flat. “Like the thing on Mercury, three years ago. You have a gift for being noticed … and I have a gift for being your sidekick. The heet who was there with Jak Jinnaka.”
Jak nodded, and said, “I speck you might feel that way. You deserved to have this as a solo mission without all the rest of us horning in. It was not my choice, Duj.”
“Yeah, I know, old tove, but who else am I going to complain to? And honestly, it’s not just your getting the credit; it’s the fact that I spend all my time doing the actual work for all these people who just picked their families carefully. And creating credit for my superiors to claim. I feel like a chump and a stooge.” He leaned back and stared into space. “I haven’t really known what to do with myself since Mercury, Jak.”
Three years before, in a complicated many-sided web of betrayals and exploitations, Jak, Dujuv, and Shadow had been sent to Mercury to look into the supposed mystery of emerging labor trouble in the vast mines on which the whole solar system’s industry depended. In fact, they had found Jak’s mortal enemy, Bex Riveroma, the man who most wanted Jak dead. They had also found a system of brutal oppression, known to everyone in the solar system, discussed by no one.
The three toves had been lucky to escape with their lives. Jak had wronged toves and done things that had shamed him in ways that he could not have imagined, before, that he was capable of; he had faced Riveroma, who had beaten him once before, and this time had gotten away with his life and pride, but without his once-secure and once-automatic sense of having his honor; he might die for some things, but not that. If there was any Principle of the Wager that Jak believed in, it was 116: “The dead can have honor, but they can’t eat it, either.”
But as much as Mercury had changed Jak, it had changed Dujuv more. The happy-go-lucky athlete-adventurer had been shocked and horrified by what he had seen, and had come back as a painfully serious young man.
Jak himself had been shaken by the conditions on Mercury. Even with longevity treatments, most people there lived only a bit past age one hundred, as opposed to the common 350 on the Hive, the Aerie, or in the clean parts of Earth and Mars. Mercurials had a word for it—razdundslag—the mix of high radiation and background toxicity that aged them prematurely. Mercury had the nearest thing to real poverty to be found anywhere in the eighth century AW, hereditary peonage, uncontrolled corporations, and the last actual banks in the solar system. After having been there and lived among Mercurial miners, Jak knew that they had nearly every other ancient evil, no matter how long it had been eradicated in the rest of human space. He had heard tales of torture and meat-puppetry, and would not have been shocked to hear of cannibalism. The Mercurials’ worn and stressed faces, unmodified by even the simplest cosmetic work, looked like bags of old leather hanging clumsily on the front of a skull, broken by rows of crooked teeth and surrounding eyes blank except for mistrustful sadness. This on people not much past fifty. It still haunted Jak’s dreams at times.
Jak had come back to the Hive angry and half-willing to join the Reform Party, but Sib, and Gweshira, and Dean Caccitepe had straightened him out with a few short lectures. The free, peaceful societies of the Hive, the Aerie, Earth, Mars, and all the upper-planet satellites depended on cheap raw materials to keep people quiet, contented, and un-rebellious. One substantial revolution would cost generations to pay for, even if it was defeated, and would unleash violence and terrorism throughout the solar system, as other malcontents tried to imitate it. The peace and safety of every free, affluent citizen, of all the people Jak had grown up among, depended on Mercurial metal staying cheap.
Resources from Mercury were cheap because it had no government to impose taxes or regulate production; every mine and quacco on Mercury bid against every other, with the banks against all. Four thousand years of well-recorded history showed that people didn’t rise up until conditions improved; misery meant no revolution on Mercury, no revolution meant no government, no government meant that the solar system would continue to be the pleasant place it was for most of its eleven billion citizens.
Compared to that, the unhappiness of a mere seventy million Mercurials was nothing. Besides, Mercury was where the human race dumped its chronic criminals, debtors, wastrels, and all the other sludge off the bottom of the genetic pool. Mercurials were a small minority of worthless people who suffered, so that the great majority of the solar system could live in a garden. No doubt it was bad for the few, but who could demand that the gre
at majority sacrifice the best standard of living ever achieved?
It had taken Jak only a few days to dak that.
Dujuv, however, was incapable of realism. He had bonded to the Mercurials as only a panth could bond, and stayed on for two more oppositions—230 days—after Jak and Shadow had left, helping the Mercurials to deal with all sorts of legal repercussions from Bex Riveroma’s brief coup and to collect what the insurance companies owed to them. He had lived and worked among them for a long time, coached their children in slamball, attended group sings in dozens of kriljs, visited mines and processing plants everywhere, and he identified utterly with that impoverished mob of irradiated and poisoned convict-spawn.
Tonight, when they were visiting for the first time, face-to-face, in more than a year, Jak didn’t want to hear about kids with dental caries or young women sterile before they were thirty or any of Dujuv’s favorite horror stories. “Are you still getting calls from slamball recruiters?” Jak asked, in a complete non sequitur.
“Yeah. On days when being a Roving Consul really, really stinks, I think about taking them up on it. I was a higher draft pick for slamball than I was for the bureaucracy, after all, and I know, deep down, I could be one of the great goalies of all time. Call me crazy but sometimes I would rather get rich playing a kid’s game that I love than listen to a petty king explain that five generations ago the king over the next hill stole the sacred water buffalo statue and that that’s why they have to go to war and kill fifty young men.”
The evening went late, with much to remember, much to laugh at, many absent friends to salute, many gossipy stories to share. As Jak finally said good-bye to Dujuv and Shadow at the door, he knew he would be a bit short on sleep tomorrow, but at least the first day of the negotiations would be mostly ceremonies.
“Get me Mejitarian,” he told his purse as soon as the door contracted after his toves.
Hive Intel’s doctor actually looked as if he might really be sympathetic this time. “Well, that was quite a message she aimed at you. Your purse tells me you functioned through the whole meeting afterward just fine, though.”
“I think so, sir,” Jak said, facing the camera and talking to his superior’s projected image on the wall.
“Well, you’ve got some resources and strength that you probably don’t know you have.”
“Sir, just to make sure—if I succeed at all my assignments—”
“The deal remains in place, Jak. Get the Nakasen lifelog for Hive Intel, make sure that Clarbo Waynong gets the credit, and we will have you deconditioned from Princess Shyf and give you a full, regular appointment with Hive Intel. It’s a tough job, but if you can pull it off, you’re in out of the cold. Good luck.”
CHAPTER 6
Don’t Expect My Call Anytime Soon
The next morning was taken up with the ceremonial preliminaries. King Witerio was a pleasant-enough-looking man, built like a weight lifter, with a waist-length thick iron-gray beard that was combed, clean, and smooth, deep warm brown eyes, and surprisingly delicate brows and nose. He performed his parts in the ceremonies like a meditative exercise.
Prince Cyx’s skin was smooth, soft dark mocha, and his short curly hair and wide-set eyes were jet-black. His forehead was high rather than broad, and his clean-shaven jaw formed a strong, hard, angular line. Witerio’s court robes reminded Jak of old theater curtains; Cyx wore a conservative version of the clash-splash-and-smash style of a few years ago, what a well-groomed but not fashionable student might have worn to a school dance on the Hive. He looked eager, bright, focused, and excited, but during breaks he talked only about clothing, viv, and sports.
Jak was glad to have his purse supplying him with continual coaching via earpiece; the ceremonies were complicated. They took tea in four different pourings (the first and fourth with food, the second and third refusing food; the second and fourth from tall narrow porcelain cups, the first and third from wide shallow glass cups). They gave the King a Hive-certified copy of the Principles, and received in exchange his scholars’ annotations on the Suggestions. They presented him with a palladium tiara (he surely must have had a hundred of those already) and he offered them a crown, which as citizens of the Republic of the Hive they were required to refuse, accepting instead the King’s embrace and handshake. They inspected each other’s weapons.
They broke from all that intense work for a midmorning meal: yogurt, figs, and pomegranate with lemon. They were required to eat three small portions, refusing twice before each acceptance. Then the King and Prince went off to change into their military uniforms.
The costume change was followed by frank but entirely ceremonial statements of the strength of each nation. The very disparity of power made the ceremonial gestures of respect all the more important, Jak reminded himself. He declared, seriously and forthrightly, that his nation, the largest in the solar system and the greatest military power in human history, with fourteen battlespheres and five million troops in active service, felt fear and dread at Red Amber Magenta Green’s nine hundred light infantry and single museum-piece warshuttle.
For lunch break, the Hive negotiation team went back to the pavilion, bugswept a conference room, and ordered sandwiches in. Everyone agreed that it was going well and no one had perceived anything unusual. Jak called Shadow, who said he had not yet seen any sign of Clarbo Waynong.
When they reconvened, they at last began the process of talking about how the Hive would get Nakasen’s lifelog. Over the course of about an hour and a half, the Hive delegation—mostly Dujuv and Xlini Copermisr, with Jak occasionally agreeing that yes, that was right, and yes, that was important—managed to communicate many things that both sides already knew: That the Hive wanted that lifelog. That the Hive wanted the Splendor to be happy with the deal. That title to the lifelog and official credit for its discovery were fully negotiable (Teacher Copermisr had explained to Jak, at lunch, that every archaeologist who mattered would know that the find had been her work; therefore the official credit could go to Prince Cyx, or to whomever it did the most good).
Then it was the turn of the royalty of the Splendor to communicate: That the spot on which Nakasen’s lifelog had been found was unquestionably within the rightful territory of the Splendor. That ancient artifacts belonged to the state in whose territory they fell. That this rule was important. That Witerio and Cyx knew that they did not have, and could not afford to hire, adequate facilities to care for such a find.
Both sides agreed that the lifelog, being as yet unread, might include material that might be seized upon for misinterpretation, and therefore any scientific, philosophic, or philological project—really, any analytic project of any kind including methods of analysis not yet devised—must be subject to a thorough scrutiny of its results, by responsible and competent political authorities of both governments, prior to any sort of publication.
Half an hour after the meetings resumed, the moment came when all ceremonies were exhausted, and it was not yet time for a break: the moment for actual negotiation. “Well,” King Witerio said, “let’s begin by stating the obvious. I have in my possession an extraordinarily valuable artifact, but the lifelog of Paj Nakasen does not add to the glory of the Splendor, sitting under guard in my palace.”
Jak nodded. “We need to find a way for the Hive to properly show the deep respect and gratitude we feel toward the Splendor, and to bring the lifelog into its full and proper place in the history of human beings in the solar system.”
Witerio inclined his head in agreement. “The difficulty is that because the Hive’s generosity is so well known, my political enemies will say that I sold the lifelog. So it must be clear that we do not give up the lifelog permanently.”
“Exactly,” Jak said. “And let me express here and now, for the record, that the confidence of the Hive in your ability to care for the lifelog is total. Our regard for the honor of a friendly power is such that we would in no circumstances ask you to transfer title to the lifelog in any permanent wa
y. We do have the finest laboratories and facilities in the solar system, on the Hive itself, and therefore we think the Hive is a suitable location for analysis and copying of the lifelog. We should therefore very much like to arrange access to the lifelog so that it may be open-ended with regard to time because we cannot possibly know how long it will take the large group of scholars, sure to be involved, to fully analyze and understand anything of this consequence—let alone the fact that eighty-nine years of diary entries, together with multiple drafts of several important works, all in Early Postwar Standard, will take considerable time to be fully understood and appreciated.”
Witerio smiled slightly. “That consideration is well thought of. Though should it prove politically desirable to set a fixed term for the period in which the lifelog will be on loan to the Hive, there should be no problem so long as the fixed term is indefinitely renewable. I do not see that this is a matter which we must dispute.”
Jak held up his hands in the ancient gesture of concession. “An indefinitely renewable fixed term would be acceptable to the Hive, of course, as would any other term you choose to set. But of course we will seek an open-ended loan because we know that politics and government are an uncertain business; our thoughts are that while we can rely upon King Witerio, and upon King Cyx after him, the fortunes of war or treachery might someday cause a nonrenewal. But let us not speak of such unhappy things. If the renewable term is necessary, we shall feel perfect confidence all the same.”
“Well, then,” the King said, “I think that the compromise is that renewals be automatic, and the term be as long as honor will comfortably bear. That can be worked out by our people meeting together to draft details. Shall we move on to the next point?”
“Let us do so, Your Splendor.”
“Well, then,” the King said, “we should discuss whether any part of the lifelog actually is intellectual property—”
The door swooshed open. A court guard leapt through, came to attention, and shouted, “Mister Clarbo Way—”