Analog Science Fiction And Fact - June 2014 (10 page)

That, he had to admit, was making him uncomfortable. Terrans were never out of touch. They had handhelds, comtotes, uttermosts, powwow pods, and so on. Some of them even had surgical implants—com units that were essentially extensions of their brains. Baldwin had never before realized how acclimated he was to a society in which he could contact anyone he knew almost instantaneously. The inability to do so was an unscratchable itch—a constant abrasion disrupting his peace of mind. Only one consideration kept him from bidding Tumanzu farewell and boarding the next ship that was Izmir-bound. Curiosity. Baldwin had more than his share of it. That was why he'd become a journalist in the first place, and that was why he'd decided to delay his departure. His reporter's curiosity had been aroused.

Tumanzu had gone to considerable trouble to shame and belittle his sugami while Tajok was still alive, but that—apparently—wasn't enough for Tumanzu. His lust for vengeance hadn't died with Tajok. Now Tumanzu was seeking revenge on Tajok's lifeless body.

Would he succeed?

That remained to be seen, and Baldwin would remain long enough to see it.

Tumanzu went to the Genjuko—the council of magistrates—and filed a formal protest.

He was told to get in line.

Tumanzu was merely adding one more voice to an outcry that was already echoing throughout the halls of government.

Tajok had made his own funeral arrangements. Fifty-six days ago, the keepers of the cemetery—the mizuni—had received written instructions and payment in advance from Tajok himself. Ordinarily, such a request was routine, but—for obvious reasons—this request was considered neither ordinary nor routine. Tajok's name was a curse in Dokharan mouths. It had become a synonym for "atrocity." The mizuni didn't want the mortal remains of such a monster polluting their graveyard, but they had no right to reject an applicant just because he'd been an evildoer—not even an evildoer of epic stature. They had petitioned the Genjuko for permission to refuse.

The legalities involved had nothing to do with Tajok's ethical behavior. Or lack of it. The makeeva awaiting Tajok was planted in soil that belonged to Tajok. It was one of four plots that Tajok's great-grandfather had purchased—a quadruple gravesite that had been owned by the family ever since. Technically, it was Tajok's personal property. He could do with it as he pleased.

No one on either side of this argument favored accommodating Tajok, but revoking title to a parcel of real estate just because the owner was unpopular...
that
wasn't a precedent anybody advocated. The debate continued to rage.

But quietly. Behind closed doors. Every effort had been made to keep the dispute under wraps—successfully, so far. The general public was not as yet aware of it.

Meanwhile, the
Izanumi's
sister ship—the
Izanugi
—was expected soon. Tajok's corpse was presumably on board. If the issue couldn't be resolved prior to the
Izanugi's
arrival, a storm of controversy was sure to break.

As it happened, the storm broke sooner than that.

On the afternoon of Baldwin's third day in Kazunori, Tumanzu returned home, handed Baldwin a bulky sheaf of papers, and exclaimed: "What do you make of that?"

Badlwin examined the bundle with interest that was not feigned. He knew what it was but had never before seen one. For the first time in his life, the professional newspaperman was holding an actual newspaper.

The Bukkaran counterpart of the
New York Times
bore scant resemblance to it. The
Hoyabusa
or
News of the Day
was formatted more like a tabloid than a broadsheet, the texture of the pages was closer to cloth than paper, and the ink had been transferred from wooden stencils that didn't make as clear an impression as metallic type. In addition, the text was read back-to-front and was set in alternating lines that went top-to-bottom, then the reverse, and so on. None of this bothered Baldwin. He was accustomed to it. The
Izmir Herald
was broadcast in Terran Standard, Menduli, and several other Bukkaran dialects, but the
Herald
did have headlines, and the
Hoyabusa
didn't. Lack of them was, to Baldwin's eye, a conspicuous shortcoming.

Baldwin didn't need a headline to identify the article that had ruffled Tumanzu's fur. Tumanzu had drawn a big, black circle around it. "An Offended Patriot"—otherwise anonymous—had submitted an editorial expressing outrage at Tajok's homecoming. The facts were succinctly and accurately summarized. Tajok's betrayal of Dokhara and his subsequent crimes against Dokharans were recapitulated. The writer stated—correctly—that Izmirite stubbornness was all that had kept Tajok from being tried for treason and executed. "If Tajok had returned to Dokhara alive, he would have remained alive only long enough for a verdict to be reached. The issue of makeevasukku wouldn't have been raised. Disposal of his body would have been left to the garbage collectors. And rightly so. Why should he be treated any differently just because he happens to be dead? If his life had been praiseworthy, we would continue to commend him for it. Why shouldn't we continue to condemn him for a life of ignominy?"

Baldwin gave Tumanzu a glance of inquiry. "You have much in common with the Offended Patriot," he observed. "Did you, by any chance, write this?"

Tumanzu responded with a throwaway gesture of denial. "I did not," he said. "But I could have. You showed me Tajok's obiturary. I've known the exact date of his death ever since. The editorial makes mention of it. See? Third column, middle of the page."

"Yes. So it does."

"Thanks to you, that tidbit of information had been revealed to me." He pointed to himself and then to Baldwin. "Me and you. I could have written it. And so could you. And no one else. We are the only two people in Dokhara who knew that."

"Evidently not."

"Do the math. The
Izanumi
sailed before Tajok died. The
Izanugi
is making the crossing now. None of the other ships currently in port stopped at Izmir. I'm sure. I checked." A dramatic pause while Tumanzu waited for Baldwin to connect the dots. When Baldwin failed to do so, Tumanzu did it for him. "The author of that editorial knew when Tajok was going to die. He knew
in advance.
Do you see?"

Baldwin squinted in concentration. "The editors of the
Hoyabusa,"
he said. "Let's get in touch with them. Maybe they can tell us who the Offended Patriot really is."

"They can't. I already inquired. What they
can
tell us is that the Offended Patriot not only knew in advance but knew a long time in advance. The text of this editorial was delivered to them by courier fifty-nine days ago. It came in a sealed envelope with instructions specifying that it was to remain sealed for fifty seven days. They opened it on schedule. They spent a day fact-checking."

"And they published it today."

"Yes—almost as if they were puppets whose strings are being pulled by the Offended Patriot."

When the
Izanugi
docked, the ship was greeted by an angry mob.

The potential for civil unrest had been foreseen—no oracle had been needed to make
that
prediction—and the riot squad had been dispatched to keep the peace. That was what their name meant—"awoji" equaled "peacekeepers"—but nobody called them that. The slang expression for them was "nugakude"— an impolite term difficult to translate, but "asskickers" wouldn't be far from the mark. Rebels confronted by the nugakude had a simple choice. They could depart in peace or depart in pieces.

Interment of the dead wasn't a Dokharan tradition, but Dokharans knew what a coffin was, Tajok's body had been put in a coffin for transport, and when Tajok's coffin was offloaded, a spiteful susurrous like escaping steam rose from the crowd. If all of the protestors assembled on the waterfront had been miraculously transformed into hissing serpents, they would have made a noise like that. It was hatred made audible, and Baldwin shuddered at the sound of it.

Luhor had disembarked with the other passengers. No one had accosted him or attempted to molest him. That was because no one except Baldwin knew who he was. Tumanzu could have identif ied him, but Tumanzu hadn't met the ship. He had been summoned to give testimony before a special session of the Genjuko. Luhor strolled down the quay, calm and unhurried, flanked on both sides by demonstrators who would have torn him limb from limb if the purpose of his visit had been revealed to them.

Baldwin and Tumanzu had been breakfasting when Baldwin announced his intention to join the throng that was gathering on the wharf. "The
Izanugi
will get a lively reception," he said. "I'd like to see that for myself."

Tumanzu swallowed a mouthful of toasted akicki and wagged an admonitory finger at Baldwin. "I'll expect a full report." He sounded like a schoolteacher assigning homework. "That's what you do, isn't it? Reporting? How about doing a little of it for me?"

Baldwin was willing to accommodate him. He used Minerva to make a photographic record of the day's events. The comtote's built-in camera couldn't compete with Escoli's pix-shooter for high contrast, sharply defined images, but that degree of professionalism wasn't required for this task. The shots he got of the ship, the crowd, the nugakude, Luhor, and the coffin would be more than adequate to give Tumanzu a thorough briefing.

Foreigners entering Dokhara didn't have to go through customs—to the best of Baldwin's knowledge, customs inspections weren't a Bukkaran custom—but there were still formalities to be observed. Luhor had to take charge of Tajok's coffin. Arrangements to have it transported to the cemetery needed to be made.

When Luhor had attended to these details, he emerged from the offices of the shipping firm and found Baldwin waiting for him. Luhor's face remained emotionless, but his tone of voice betrayed surprise. "Mr. Baldwin! I didn't realize that you and I were fellow travelers. You should have sought me out aboard ship. We could have become better acquainted."

Luhor's assumption that Baldwin had made the crossing on the
Izanugi
was incorrect but understandable. How else could Baldwin have gotten here? Luhor's presumption that Baldwin wanted to become better acquainted was equally incorrect and less understandable. Their previous encounter hadn't exactly been cordial. Why would Baldwin want to become better acquainted?

"I see you decided to come," said Baldwin, stating the blatantly self-evident as though he were a soothsayer dispensing wisdom.

Luhor was unprepared for the abrupt change of subject. He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"To Tajok's funeral. You weren't sure you'd come. I see that you have."

Shifting mental gears, Luhor replied: "Yes. I realized that trouble was brewing. It seemed to me that... well, that I owed it to my yuriki. He made his wishes very clear, but he can no longer speak for himself. I must speak for him, make sure that the obstructionists do not prevail."

"That might be easier said than done." Baldwin gestured, indicating the harbor and the swarm of irate protestors congregated there. "It's not only them and others like them. The Genjuko has been convened to consider this issue."

Luhor gave the office he'd just left a backward glance. "So I've been informed. It seems that my yuriki's coffin must remain here—in cold storage—until the Genjuko renders a verdict."

"The delay could be prolonged. Tumanzu tells me that the debates before the Genjuko have been heated."

"Tumanzu?"

"Yes. That's where he is now. He, too, is testifying."

Luhor's scowl could have soured milk. "No need to ask what recommendation he'll make. Is there?"

"He's only one of thousands of like-minded Dokharans. The preponderance of public opinion is not in doubt. It never was. But the popular choice may not be lawful."

"So the decision hangs on a legal technicality?"

"That is my understanding. Yes."

Luhor brisked his hands together. "Then I'd better hire myself a jikyu, hadn't I?"

A Dokharan jikyu wasn't an attorney so much as a counselor. He didn't plead cases in court or before panels of magistrates. His clients were required to do that for themselves. His primary responsibility was teaching them how to do it. He gave them legal advice, helped them to strategize, coached them, guided them, told them what to say and what not to say, drafted documents and submitted them to the proper authorities, and attended to all of the opening gambits, preliminaries, and overtures that preceded the performances he was training his clients to deliver.

Nishizuki had a well-deserved reputation as a sly, serpent-tongued jikyu who could convince even the most stubborn skeptics that up was down, in was out, black was white, and night was day. What's more, his powers of persuasion were contagious. He could take an ordinary, comparatively inarticulate Dokharan and convert him into a compelling debator whose judges would not only rule in his favor but apologize to him for having the temerity to sit in judgment on him.

If anybody could devise a winning ploy for Luhor, it was Nishizuki, but his first act as Luhor's jikyu was to concede that he hadn't done so—at least not yet. He applied for and was granted an extension to confer with his client and consider his options. The Genjuko continued to conduct hearings, but they were mere formalities. Everyone understood that a final decision had been deferred until Luhor was ready to address the council.

Meanwhile...

Luhor had vanished. Three days had passed. He had made no public appearances, issued no public statements, did not seem to be lodged at any of the various establishments that were open to the public. He was registered at none of the hotels, inns, or rooming houses scattered throughout the city.

"That proves nothing, of course," Tumanzu grouched. "He could be using an alias." He shook his head, disagreeing with his own assessment. "I doubt it, though. I think Nishizuki's taken him to some hideaway and is desperately trying to bestow the gift of eloquence on him. I don't envy Nishizuki
that
task! Luhor's croak is by no means the voice of an orator."