—JANEAU STEN,
CAPTAIN, HIGH GUARD WARSHIP NORTHANGER ABBRAXIS,
CY 9783
“I hate politics.”
Dylan Hunt muttered the words beneath his breath as he gave a final tug to the flawless fit of his dress uniform; next to him Rommie stood, her manner the neutral deference of the captain’s aide.
A quiet hiss like an indrawn breath, and the doors to Paradise Drift’s reception room slid open. Dylan and Rommie gazed in at what seemed at first glance to be the emptiness of space. Overhead glimmered, sparkled, and gleamed thousands of pinpoints of light, most of them colored.
It was a spectacular replica of this arm of the galaxy—and quite exact, Rommie noticed, a portion of her attention correlating what she saw with the star map in her databank. Below the galaxy of lights waited a formidable array of beings. The nanopowered stars reflected in the huge clustered eyes of waiting Than, their glow highlighted the rich weave of the ceremonial robes of Perseids. Humans were scattered throughout the gathering, all in expensive formal clothing, but central, posed directly under the golden replica of Sol, stood a tall woman in an old-fashioned evening gown that harkened straight back to the days of Tarn-Vedra’s imperial court.
Dylan drew in a deep breath; the air was, of course, nano-scrubbed and controlled, but he was used to the huge, mostly empty Andromeda. Here his hindbrain registered faint whiffs of alien body chemistry, and expensive scents.
Alluring scents, he thought, his attention on the shapely woman standing there under the flaring model of Sol.
Rommie gave him a fast glance, noting the dilated eyes, hearing the race of his heartbeat.
Then she faced the gathering, and saw Dylan react to countless pairs of eyes looking back at him. He looked impassive, but she knew from long experience just how much he detested such moments.
I hate politics, Dylan thought, stepping forward.
He was greeted first by a Perseid in a robe of very complicated weave, highlighted discreetly by superfine gold thread. “Permit me, Captain Hunt, to be the first to welcome you to Paradise Drift. I am Director Vandat.”
Dylan murmured the proper response, and then Vandat turned to introduce a pair of Than. Again, polite nothings, and then they all made way for the tall woman who was wearing a dress that reminded him forcibly of the sort of gown his beloved Sarah wore, three hundred years ago.
“… Director Kodos,” the Perseid was finishing.
Dylan forced his attention back to the present, and to Director Kodos’s smooth, beautiful face.
“Call me Alphyra,” she said in a low, slightly husky voice.
They shook hands. Hers was cool, strong, her grip firm, but as she withdrew her hand her fingertips just touched his palm. It was so brief, so elusive a touch he was not certain it had been meant as anything—even though the nerves at the back of his neck sent a shockwave through his body.
She had already turned away, gesturing with that same hand toward several expensively dressed humans all waiting with diplomatic smiles to be introduced.
Dylan turned his attention to memorizing names, faces, and job titles, because this, he’d learned, was as much a part of successful politics as knowing the weapons and engine specs of the warships that your enemy was sending at you was a part of successful warfare.
Rommie stepped back slightly, standing quite properly at his elbow. As Alphyra Kodos’s smoothly modulated voice went on with the list of names, Rommie observed, knowing Dylan would need her observations later. She expected to remain invisible, as aides usually were, so she was surprised to discover herself being studied by a pair of dark eyes that resembled Director Kodos’s, in an otherwise unremarkable face.
Rommie took in the rest of the woman: expensive fabric, ordinary clothing, one hand holding a flexi-board. When the woman briefly turned her head, Rommie spotted the data port at the back of her neck, a discreet one, with a tiny jeweled datalink set into it. Ah, of course, another aide. A high-powered one, then, to be linked to the neural net even at a reception.
The woman spoke. “I am Delta Kodos, general secretary to Director Kodos.”
Rommie said, smiling, “Just call me Rommie.”
“Delta.” A quick grin, followed by a flicker of a glance toward Alphyra. “In case they overlook you, just come to me. I’ll make certain you get whatever you need.” She motioned with her flexi-board toward Dylan and Alphyra, who were just then leading the way toward the refreshments that had quietly and discreetly appeared from otherwise invisible partitions in the deeply carpeted floor.
As everyone fell in behind, all maintaining strict order of precedence, Delta waited to go last, and Rommie waited with her. Delta would be the interface with the Drift’s databanks: she was the one to cultivate.
The lighting changed as the party moved to the food and drink. The galaxy overhead muted subtly into mere background, and cozy lighting revealed low little tables of matte black, surrounded by comfortable chairs, that had also silently emerged from the flooring. What appeared to be hanging plants drifted down: those beautiful falls of green leaves, studded with tiny silvery blossoms, were most certainly sound baffles, and probably sound pickups as well.
“I have so many questions for you, if you will permit,” Delta began. Again she glanced toward Alphyra, to meet a summoning glance. “But I am on duty,” Delta murmured.
Rommie gestured. “Don’t let me keep you. We can always meet another time. Before then, if I may in turn make a request: it’s standard procedure for my captain to want to track his crew through the database. That includes notification of any searches on their names.”
Delta’s brows lifted. She turned her head toward her sister, an abrupt, automatic glance—the neural port winking at the back of her neck—that revealed to Rommie a lot about Delta’s and Alpha’s roles, then she said, “I believe I might be able to accommodate you. Just a moment, please.”
Rommie watched her move with quiet, speedy steps around the perimeter to take up a station behind the elegant form of a Alphyra Kodos, who definitely shared the same genetic makeup, Rommie realized, as she studied both faces. Either sister, daughter, or clone. Curious that neither mentioned the fact—and that Delta had not been included in the introductions.
She watched Delta wait patiently, as an ensign might when stationed behind a captain, using a pause in the conversation to lean forward and whisper something.
Alphyra lifted a careless hand, shrugged, and Delta raised her eyes, giving Rommie a small nod. Then she withdrew to a side table, quietly touching a connector from her neural jack to a port, and Rommie, with one part of her attention linked to the portals she’d established to the Drift’s data, sensed Delta’s presence diving down into the database to set up a new link.
Rommie’s internal monitor followed Delta’s digital presence at the same time as she strolled around the room, as if to deflect any possible awareness of what she was doing in cyberspace. At each of the first two deeper levels she was able to establish a new portal, but the Drift system was very well designed, better protected than she’d expected. At the third level Rommie pulled back, wary that she might trigger an alert, and merely recorded Delta’s access, budding off a thinker subroutine on the Andromeda Ascendant to try to find the key, and a little seeker subroutine here on the Drift to wait for the next opportunity to flash through and look around. She didn’t let any sign of triumph show, but even those two additional levels gave her the foothold she needed to hack the locator protocols. She budded off another set of seekers to find them all and pass the needed data back to the decryption routines on the Andromeda. Later, when she was more sure of the security protocols, she’d bud off parasitic thinkers that would use the Drift’s own computers, but in these higher levels, it was easy enough to use the ship’s computers.
In the real world she heightened her sensors to take in the various conversations going on around, including Dylan’s conversation with the directors. It was all diplomatic talk at this point, to be filed away for later analy
sis if necessary.
Meanwhile, Dylan was trying to focus on the flow of chatter offered by the leaders from all three species. His part was to eat, drink, nod, smile, and promise nothing—if anyone were to be so rude as to actually ask a meaningful question. Even so, he could not keep his eyes away from Alphyra Kodos, who sat there so cool and attractive in that dress so different from the complicated, overly decorated outfits of all the other human women—a dress evoking a time when Dylan was young, happy, with every expectation of a steady, pleasant life with Sarah, both of them on the fast track to the admiralty.
Something was pressed into his hand, recalling his attention. “… and of course, Captain Hunt, we will extend to you an open invitation to visit the Star Chamber whenever you wish. As we explained to your crew members, the chits have been given diplomatic clearance: your chit, as appropriate for the head of mission, gives you entrée to all the exclusive clubs.”
‘Clubs’—exclusive gambling dens. Not play paradises, or bontemps.
Dylan looked up from the chit. “Of course,” he said, trying to remember what the Star Chamber was. Oh yes, the most exclusive of those exclusive clubs.
Alphyra leaned forward. Her perfume was distracting. “If you enjoy the occasional game of chance, I will escort you myself.”
“Oh. Thank you,” he said, repressing the automatic response, The only gambling I do is in battle, and that’s when I can stack the odds. Diplomat. Not warship captain. He remembered to smile.
A high-ranking Than stepped forward to address Alphyra. Dylan used the opportunity to check up on what Rommie was up to. He spotted her on the opposite side of the room, studying the planet through the fabulous bank of windows.
“… like to have a tour of the facilities, Captain?” the Perseid was saying.
Dylan forced himself to nod. Smile. Agree.
Tours, smiles, piles of food he didn’t want, and hours of talk not worth listening to.
I hate politics.
FIVE
We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.
—HENRY JAMES,
CY 1893,
FROM THE MUSEVENI COLLECTED PROVERBS
Beka and Trance did not abandon their noisy spacers until after they jumped into one of the long null-g tubes leading to another level, the drunks howling with delight as they were bumped along the transparent tubes between various domes by bursts of air. Tantalizing glimpses of some of the paradise scenarios streamed past, and then the spacers grabbed the handholds and swung themselves out of the tube onto the landing platform, followed by Beka and Trance.
The spacers, bouncing a little in the low-g platform, started arguing in an odd gargling language, apparently seeking another bar. She didn’t recognize it, but that was no surprise. Perhaps Rommie had enough data space for all the odd dialects of the Known Worlds, but why bother when translation interfaces were so common?
“Time for a little disguise,” Beka murmured, pulling her chit momentarily out of the faraday pocket. They stepped through the grav interface that smoothed their transition to the lower gravity of this new concourse. It was maybe .75, Beka guessed, testing it by walking on her toes with tiny bounces: enough to keep feet well on the ground so that one could still run, but light enough to make the sports advertised all along the concourse more exciting.
“Oh, what fun!” Trance exclaimed, turning all the way around to stare at a Perseid woman in a gown with floor-length sleeves and a tall pointed hat with a floating veil. “One of those?”
“No,” Beka said grimly. “Can’t run in those.”
“Oh.” Trance gave a small sigh. But she did not argue.
While Trance wistfully watched the Perseid woman and her trailing gown make her stately way down the concourse, Beka used her chit to do another search, this time locating one of the many shops offering cosmetic enhancements.
“This way,” she said.
Trance grinned. “I love shopping.”
This time they used a lift. Beka put her chit away experimentally, and found, as she’d half expected, that some of the numbers on the lift disappeared. She left the chit out of the faraday pocket and selected one of the otherwise invisible buttons. Trance looked a question at her.
“I want a level where you have to use the chit to know what’s in the shops. Means stronger law enforcement—and less likelihood of seeing Steelblade.” Beka grinned, savoring the irony of actually desiring having security thugs around.
They moved just a couple of levels, and entered a wide concourse with discreet shop openings. Their chits displayed a dizzying range of goods, just about everything from real or fake carapace jewels and toe rings for humans to elaborate costumes.
“Oooh,” Trance said, pointing to a fabulous gown that seemed to be made entirely of tiny silken butterflies. Nanobots made the fabric change color, giving an amazing scintillate look to the gown.
Beka felt like Big Sister towing Little Sister. “You couldn’t even sit in that. Come on” she said with grim humor. At least Trance didn’t argue. She seemed to be enthralled with everything she saw.
Beka confined herself to a small shop that specialized in cosmetic enhancements aimed at the human market. The proprietor, a lanky creature resembling a cross between a lizard and a broccoli stalk, opened its mouth and flicked its tongue when she rested her hands on the counter, a roll of colorful Rigosian cash currency plus several varieties of cash that were common among the drifts barely visible under one.
“Come this way,” it said, its translated voice coming from all around her, and gestured towards a small alcove away from the windows.
Resisting the impulse for some nanoenhancements like eyeblink-activated eye-color changes, automatic perfume alterations, and so forth, she chose a skin-darkening agent that ought to last until they lifted off. When she was done, her skin was a shade closer to Ujio Steelblade’s own—that was accidental—and she flipped her hair into a shade of dark, dark red that she’d seldom worn, as it didn’t go with her real skin tones.
Trance, who had been hovering near a display of body jewelry, turned around and gasped. “You look—completely different.”
“That’s the idea. Won’t help against some things he can do, but it’s a start, and may slow him down. Last thing: eyes.”
She blinked as the nanodrops settled into her eyes, their color morphing to dark brown as she watched in the mirror. Satisfied that no one would recognize Beka Valentine with even a searching stare, she led the way out.
“Oh, can’t we buy just a few things?” Trance asked, looking at an alcove in which were displayed amazing scarves in overlapping patterns, like firebird feathers.
“I don’t think so,” Beka said. “I haven’t got much Drift cash, and using the chits…well, look: Kalad said we had diplomatic clearance. I’ll be the first to admit that until now nobody has seen fit to make me a diplomat, but in my experience there are always layers to anything labeled ‘clearance.’”
Trance nodded slowly, and Beka realized that in all their time together, she’d never really seen Trance handling money. She just seemed to float along, somehow acquiring whatever she needed by invisible means.
Beka said, “I can tell you this much: even the word ‘diplomat’ means different things depending on where you are in the Known Worlds. About the only constant, I discovered during the bad old days with my father and Rafe, is that there aren’t any constants.”
Trance nodded. “That is the chaos Dylan talks about, in the post-Commonwealth world.” She lowered her voice, saying softly, “The chaos I feel at times.” And fight against, Trance added to herself.
“Chaos or a cold sense of reality. No use wasting time debating meaning, just what we find. And what we find here on Paradise is that it is first and foremost a business establishment, and a very expensive one at that.”
Trance nodded again, then said, “So will they tell us what limits they p
lace?”
Beka smiled. “Depends on their debt laws. They may not want us to know until it’s too late.”
These helpful Paradise owners, no doubt with an overhead that would beggar some planetary budgets, probably would just love it if Dylan Hunt’s crew blithely ran up an enormous debt while thinking everything was free. So she should—
Trance let out a long, slow “Ohhhhh!” of pique and surprise.
Beka yanked her attention away from the chit and turned her head in the direction Trance faced.
At first glance she saw just a park, bordered by living trees with foliage of a variety of bright hues, ranging from light spring green to the blazing crimson of autumn, all of it controlled by discreetly set lights above each tree. In the center there seemed to be some kind of statuary.
Her attention, always attuned first to danger, turned to the watchers. There were two rows of Than, the overhead lights glittering in their huge eyes as they sat, still as statuary themselves. Beyond them a group of spacers stood—the same spacers Beka had used as cover earlier, only now they were quiet, some of them staring with mouths open.
Beings of all kinds watched with attitudes ranging from intense focus to an almost sleepy peace, and Beka turned back, this time to study the statue more closely.
Before she could quite assimilate the shape, she was startled and then intrigued when its component parts disassembled and swarmed around in dizzying patterns, then reassembled, this time into a tall, outward branching form resembling one of the trees nearby.
Beka felt her sense of urgency withdraw to a remote part of her mind. Peace, expectation, even delight were her foremost emotions. Trance was stepping slowly closer, until she reached the trees.
Beka followed. The medium of this art was mostly black, but a highly polished black that gleamed with subtle rainbow glints. As she watched the glimmering tree evolved slowly, changing from barren branches that glinted with reflected light to tiny buds that sparked, just once, with a green glow; a kind of foliage blossomed out, and then, quite suddenly, the components exploded into a geometric shape, then recoalesced into a tall, woven form that caused a gasp in some watching Perseids.