Acts of Conscience (39 page)

The library whispered, We’ve also completed a reference search through the law codes of the Compact Cities, with special focus on the government of Orikhalkos.

Yes?

Gaetan, we think this will be a fruitless endeavor.

So? Most endeavors are.

Disquiet from the clustered AIs. What? Worried about me? Why?

No answer.

Hell. Maybe it’s their job, I...

Thought about the things I’d seen and done. God damn it, not just the killpit and the dollhouse dancers. Not just the womfrogs killed by so-called sportsmen, by hunters, by poachers, if that term has any meaning here. My own fucking memories as well. Memories of lovers lost and whores loved. Lara, Jayanne, Layla Garstang, even Rua Mater. Even a briefly recalled memory of that poor little bastard in the park on Mars, getting the shit kicked out of him for God knows what reason. Did he deserve it? Does anyone? Obviously, those kids beating on him thought he did.

I’ll never know. I walked away.

Jayanne’s cunt seemed more important, at the time. Maybe it was.

What would’ve happened had I backed out of that dark alley in Orikhalkos, on a clammy, unpleasant night, not so long ago? Would I be lying here now anyway, wondering what the fuck I should do next?

I felt a sudden, fleeting pang, thinking of the Kapellmeister lying in the dark alleyway, alone, memories slipping away, no one to... listen. Listen as he called out his name.

You have that at least, Gaetan du Cheyne.

Is it worth anything to you?

I said, “I know. It’s just... something I want to do.”

Voice making a flat echo, merged with its own sound, on the flat walls of my room. No one here but me. And, of course, my little AI... friends? Christ. I got up then and took a shower, got dressed and was on my way, distracted, unable to stop thinking about what I’d just said.

o0o

Hours later, Tau Ceti was high in the sky, filtered rays burning on in through Mr. Patrocles’ tinted window, shining in my face, robbed of ultraviolet and infrared alike, light without substance.

He smiled at me for the hundredth time in our conversation, that same vapid smile he seemed able to switch on and off like a lightbulb, and said, “Look, I’m sure this is all very upsetting to you, being an offworld tourist and all, but... well, you’ve just got to understand: Green Heaven is
not
like Earth. Not wealthy. Not populous. We don’t need all those rules and regulations you have, especially away from the urban centers. People here want to be... free.”

Brutus to Britannicus: Don’t be a provincial sap. The customs of your own little island... when in Rome... et fucking cetera.

When I didn’t say anything, he went on, “In any case, there’s nothing we can do about things that happen away out on the veldt. Compact law doesn’t extend to the Groenteboeren, you know.”

I nodded and said, “But it does extend to the things happening here in your city, doesn’t it?”

He sighed and laid his hand on the little terminal embedded in the desk. “I’ve checked up on the activities you mentioned, Mr. du Cheyne. The so-called ‘wolfen killpit’ you describe is enrolled as a licensed private gambling club. What they bet on is none of our business, so long as no other laws are broken.”

“And this business with the wolfen...”

He rolled his eyes, classic exasperation. “Mr. du Cheyne, there are more than eight-hundred licensed gambling clubs in Orikhalkos alone. More than
sixty
of those,” he tapped the terminal screen for emphasis, “involve betting on some kind of combat sport. Boxing, wrestling, fencing... so long as the gambling records are ethically handled, so long as nobody gets killed, what business is it of
ours
...”

“The wolfen get killed.”

A snippet of involuntary laugher popped out of him before he could stop it. “Mr. du Cheyne. Wolfen are
animals
.”

Right. I sat silent for so long he started to turn away, apparently figuring I’d come to the end of my business. “Mr. Patrocles.”

Raised eyebrow: “Yes?”

“What about the dollhouse?”

He turned back, folded his hands on the desktop, frowned. “Mr. du Cheyne, there are no licensed ‘dollhouses,” as you so quaintly call them, in the city of Orikhalkos.”

“Really. I know of at least two.”

He stared at me then, eyes quite empty. Finally, “One of the places you mention is listed as the site of a private social club. None of our business.”

“No one here cares about things like that?”

A shrug. “Mr. du Cheyne, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, prostitution is legal in Orikhalkos. It is no business of this city if a woman chooses, through her own free will, to rent out her vagina as a prostitute, any more than it would be our business if she chose to rent out her voice as a nightclub singer. So long as the proper taxes are paid...”

Taxes. Splendid. I said, “What about the other one?”

He brightened visibly, smile flicking on like magic. “Well, Mr. du Cheyne, the property at the site you describe is registered as a warehouse. We’ll send a man to investigate this very day. If it turns out to be an unlicensed social club... well. All appropriate fines will certainly be levied!”

Fines. Great.

I got up and said, “Sorry I wasted your time.”

Mr. Patrocles smiled merrily, and said, “That’s what I’m here for, Mr. du Cheyne.”

o0o

By sunset, Tau Ceti an improbable crimson dome on the edge of a deep indigo sky, upper part separated from the lower by a single black band of cloud, I’d retrieved the camper from the lot and driven back out into the countryside, following the course of the Krijgsgevangene River westward across the Koperveldt toward the setting sun.

Nothing really out here, but... well-rutted dirt roads, occasional run down fences, boerderij houses visible against this vista or that, beneath faraway mountains and hills crowned with clouds. This place is not a wilderness. Hasn’t been for a long damned time. No wolfen left this far north on the Koperveldt. Womfrogs reduced to pitiful, isolated bands. Dollies...

I wonder if the Groenteboeren keep them in their homes? Easily trained, they’d make splendid servants. Vash de dishes, dollie. Polish mijn boots, dollie. Suck mijn dick, dollie. I grinned in the growing darkness. That last’d piss off the
vrowvelijk
Groenteboeren no end! Or maybe not. Maybe it’d be worthwhile, considering the rest. Hell, maybe your average
vrouw
wouldn’t mind at all. You want your dick sucked, Hans? Just a minute, I’ll get the dollie for you.

At a bend in the river, hardly a creek compared to the Opveldt’s Somber, I pulled up in front of a big, barn-like building, broad parking lot filled with dozens of ground cars, cheery yellow light streaming from its broad windows, and killed the engine.

Well. Here I am in front of the largest, most influential grange hall on all of Green Heaven. No, sir, the freedom-loving Groenteboeren won’t have anything to do with a nasty old government, like those absurd little weasels in their Compact Cities. Still, no one likes anarchy, no one with property anyway. I got out of the camper and walked across the parking lot, boots crunching softly on the loose gravel.

Inside, it didn’t take long to attract attention, to introduce myself, find the fellow in charge, talk them into letting me be the night’s entertainment. A few drinks, priming myself as well as my hosts. Then, up on the little stage.

I’d planned what to say, of course, composed an impassioned little speech in my head, tried it out on my tongue during the drive, spooling it off into the library so it could be played back, corrected for grammar and pacing, at need.

Felt the AI get ready.

Opened my mouth...

Christ. Look at them out there. Fat little men and women, old-stock Groenteboeren so satisfied with their lives, with their... I felt the passion flow away like water, replaced by... I don’t know. Not fear, really. Just a wish that I hadn’t come here.

With the passion went all knowledge of just
why
I’d come.

Room full of expectant eyes.

I started to talk, telling them whatever popped into my head, watching individual reactions, pretending I was talking to each person in turn, the rest of the audience vanished. After a while, my voice and breathing steadied.

Hello there, friends. Here I am, this rich man from faraway Earth, remote world of your ancestors, come here to the fairest planet in all the firmament. See them beaming with pride? As though
they
made the planet, with their own hands. Fine. Tell them a little bit of your life, tell them you’re a working man after all, just like them...

Just like
us
, Hans?

Well, no, Gerrit.
Our
work is the management of our proud estates, the stewardship of the wilderness veldt, you see. He seems to be talking about a
job
, like some kind of omganger drudge...

Talked about my visit to the Blondinkruis boerderij, of how much I’d liked Vrouw Gretel, my hostess... not many hostile looks. Every man likes a pretty girl, and most pretty girls understand the value of male admiration, you see. Told them about the womfrog hunt, here on the Koperveldt. Saw them nod and smile at that, yessirree, good for the tourist trade, you see, and...

I told them about that other hunt I’d seen, away on the Opveldt. Watched them frown. Then I told them about life in the big city. Wolfen in the killpits, relating to wolfen out on the great plains. Started to tell them about the dollhouses of Orikhalkos...

Someone from the audience, a gruff-voiced man, shouted, “What the hell are you getting at, foreigner?” Angry, angry voice.

Translator AI saying, This is no good, Gaetan. Worse than the speech you originally planned. They think you tricked them.

Tricked? I shrugged, and started telling them about the wolfen and dollies, about what I’d seen, about what I thought it all meant.

A different man shouted, “Shut the fuck up, asshole! We don’t need God-damned outsiders telling us how to run our world!”

I tried to keep on talking, telling them what they needed to hear, but a woman in the front row of tables threw food on me, some kind of savory pudding splattering on the front of my shirt, leaving a dark, greasy stain behind as it fell away, and she called out, “Get off the fucking stage! Go on back where you came from if you don’t like it here!”

I stood still for a bit, less than a minute really, staring at them all, a room full of dark, hostile eyes now, then I shrugged and walked away, going out the door and back to the camper. By the time I got the engine started, the door had opened behind me, a handful of men coming out into the night, walking across the parking lot in my direction. I gunned the motor, lifting off and leaving them behind.

o0o

I drove southward then, giving up the path by the river, pulling up into the star-freckled sky, speeding in the direction of the low, dark hills of the Koudloft, where I knew the Kapellmeister and his Arousians would be waiting. Kapellmeister, Arousians, wolfen and dollies...

The thought raised a crawling sensation between my legs. You’d like to be a nice, fat Groeteboeren, living in a nice, fat boerderij estate, all rustic logs and simple pleasures, wouldn’t you, Gaetan? Imagining a wife? No. Imagining myself with a dollie servant, who’d do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and never complain, never ask for anything in return.

Wish I’d taken time for a whore in Orikhalkos.

What a waste.

Well. I’ve done my bit, I guess. Nobody can say I didn’t try. That’s it. Nobody can say I didn’t try.

Te absolvo, Gaetan du Cheyne
.

Fifteen: Just at sunrise

Just at sunrise, eyes vaguely grainy from a night without sleep, I pulled over a familiar rim of metallic green forest and slid down into an irregular bowl of valley, my appointed rendezvous at the edge of the Koudloft, whose white hills rolled to the horizon beyond. I dropped the camper in a swirl of loose debris, not far from the Arousians’ cluster of tents, killed the drive, punched the popup awake, and sat back, watching Tau Ceti pull free of the forest.

I really ought to go in back and get some sleep. Really. Blood symbiotes can compensate for as long as it takes, but sleep is a cultural and physical... shit.

I got out of the cab and stood beside the camper, stretching, feeling an odd, pleasant lassitude in my back, watching the Arousians come out of their tents, one by one, greet each other with a distant creaking of rusty hinges, touching each other, at limbs and faces, then going about the business of getting ready for the day.

Just now, I wish I were one of them. There. Red wolfen peering at me from the nearby vegetation, bronze-colored stuff like tall, thick-bladed grass. There’ll be dollies somewhere close.

Kapellmeister’s voice at my side: “Welcome back.”

I looked down at it, reading welcome in drifting ping-pong ball eyes. Felt a quick surge of pleasure. Felt myself smile, knowing the Kapellmeister would understand. “I might just as well not have gone.”

“Mr. Patrocles posted the minutes of your interview in the city archives.”

I nodded. Turned back to the tent village. Fires burning now, splendidly primitive, red wolfen gathering round, as though enthralled. No dollies yet. I said, “I guess I’d better do something about breakfast.” One of the Kapellmeister’s eyes, the lone aft one, most directly connected to the more primitive portions of its brain, dipped in subtle assent as it turned away, the other six, paired, focusing for the hunt.

I went inside and stood in front of the refrigerator for a while, contemplating the fresh junk food I’d bought in Orikhalkos. Finally realized I wasn’t interested, threw myself down at the bed, awareness drifting back and forth between the square of blue-green sky framed by the window and shadows blending on the ceiling.

Always this formless longing, built up from physical reality, and culture made in reality’s image. I wish that I too had some reason to... rise up and
do
. Something. Anything. Anything important. Compelling. That whole worthless business now spilling over into my desire for... what? Is it a lover I want, someone who at least pretends... or just an inert female body in which to...