House of Shards (10 page)

“The point is, Pearl,” Advert said, “that sixty set me back a lot. When we consider how much it cost just to
stay
here ...”

Pearl Woman gave her a casual glance. “You know I don’t have that kind of money, Advert. After what I paid for the yacht, I’m completely skinned.”

“But Pearl. You must have—”

“I’ll get some royalties in a few months, of course. And if I win some races, well, things will get better.” She gave Advert a sidelong look. “You know, Advert, one shouldn’t become so dependent on the material aspects of existence.”

“You're about to sign a contract with—”

“Until then”—Pearl Woman smiled at Advert—“I’m entirely dependent on the goodwill of my friends.” She put her arm in Advert's.

Advert let herself be drawn toward the ballroom floor. Her face was growing pale.

Pearl Woman glanced over the room, looking for Fu George. Inwardly, she was entirely satisfied.

If one was to have protégées, she thought, one ought at least to get some use out of them.

*

Roman, walking slowly down the corridor, observed an acquaintance walking in the opposite direction.

“Mr. Chalice.” He nodded.

“Mr. Roman.”

Ten novae,
Roman thought, and smiled.

*

“Lady Dosvidern.”

“Your grace.”

“I wonder if you might walk with me.”

“Happily, your grace.” She took Roberta’s arm and began to promenade.

“I’m afraid, my lady, that I have to confess to you my ignorance,” Roberta said.

Lady Dosvidern's ears pricked toward her. “Is that so, your grace? I can’t imagine your grace's ignorance including anything of importance.”

“You're very kind. But no, I’m afraid I have a most embarrassing confession.” She gave Lady Dosvidern a warm smile. “I must confess ignorance, my lady, as to the precise meaning of the honor, and the object, which Lord Qlp bestowed upon me this afternoon.”

“Ah. That.” Lady Dosvidern seemed bemused. “I’m afraid, your grace, my ignorance but only equals yours.”

Roberta stopped. Her ears flattened in disbelief. “Truly?” she said.

“I know only that Lord Qlp insisted that it and your grace had to meet. I had no idea it was going to make you a gift, or what that gift was going to be.”

“You have no notion of the significance of the object?”

“Not only have I no knowledge of its significance, your grace, I’m afraid I must confess I have never seen an object of that nature before.”

Roberta frowned. “Drawmii do not . . . disgorge such objects regularly?”

“Not to my knowledge, your grace. And I have lived on Zynzlyp and in Lord Qlp’s company for almost four years.”

“How strange.”

“Strange. That is Zynzlyp and the Drawmii in sum.”

“My lady.” Zoot bowed toward them. “Your grace.”

Zoot.” Lady Dosvidern was smiling. “Such a pleasure to see you again. Please join us.”

The two sniffed the newcomer, and linked arms, one on either side him.

“I was hoping, Lady Dosvidern, to ask for the honor of the next dance.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Roberta looked at the adventurer. “I enjoyed your last play, Zoot,” she said.

“Thank you, your grace.”

“I thought the critics were most unfair. The play didn’t quite have the exotic appeal of the earlier series, but it seemed solidly done.”

Zoot’s nostrils flickered. “That seems to be the general opinion, your grace.”

“I suspect the writers did not have as thorough a grasp of the material as on the earlier plays.”

“I confess that's true, your grace. I have had some discussions with them on that matter. But it’s difficult to find people who are at once writers and xenobiologists.”

“I can imagine.”

“I offered to advise them on Pioneer Corps procedure, but they were not receptive. They kept referring to their dramatic license. Unfortunately,” he huffed, “I suspect their licenses had long expired.”

A trumpet spoke, calling with perfect synchronicity at the precise moment of a particularly bright solar flare. Lady Dosvidern’s eyes gleamed, briefly, red.

“Your grace,” she said. “I hope you will excuse us. Our dance beckons.”

“Certainly. My lady. Zoot.”

“Your grace.”

Roberta turned, looking for a partner, and smiled. Paavo Kuusinen was approaching.

*

“Marchioness Kotani?”

The Marchioness blinked. “Yes?”

“My name is Dolfuss, ma’am. I’ve always been an admirer of your husband. May I have the honor of this dance?”

The Marchioness looked left and right, seeking aid. There was none. She turned her eyes to Dolfuss and forced a smile.

“Certainly sir.”

Grinning, Dolfuss offered an arm.

*

Consider the magic inherent even in modern life. One is at a resort hotel. One but touches ideograms on a service plate, and lights come on, breakfast is delivered, music floats on the air as if played by an invisible orchestra. Fresh water gushes from taps, robots appear to help you dress, the room is warmed or cooled at your command.

One might well picture a horde of bustling spirits dancing attendance, Ariels sweating manfully in service to their Prosperos. A first-class resort will strive to maintain this image: the omnipotence of their guests is a happy illusion shared, ideally, both by guests and management.

The reality, of course, is more prosaic, but the element of magic is not entirely absent. To demonstrate:

An artificial environment such as an asteroid resort inevitably poses unique problems in architecture. Water, power, air, and gravity must be created and delivered to where they are needed, and conduits for these resources, like the conduits for people, needs must be drilled through solid rock. And, should anything go wrong with the necessary deliveries, the conduits must be easy of access to persons charged with their repair.

One could create separate utility tunnels, but why bother? The utility tunnels would only be delivering their necessities to the same places to which the personnel tunnels would be delivering people. The creators of Silverside Station built their tunnels in parallel—one set for people, appropriately paneled and carpeted and papered in the finest taste. Marching alongside is another, secret set, built to carry the utility mains, and of immediate access behind false walls. Utilities can thus be maintained and repaired by people moving behind the walls, who can work without the distracting necessity of having to rip up floors or ceilings, disturbing people in the coridors, or (even worse) interfering with the residents' illusion that a host of Ariels is really at work, delivering all conveniences without human effort.

The utility tunnels are tall, narrow, and cramped. Movement is necessarily restricted.

But movement there is. Water, power, gravity, sewage . . . and other things.

Not Ariel or Caliban, not exactly. But something a bit more magical than anything the designers intended.

*

Drake Maijstral reached for a control on his belt and turned off the hologram that made him look like Gregor Norman. He took the hi-stick from his mouth and put it in his pocket—a nice touch, he'd thought, a magician’s touch, insisting Gregor have a stick in his mouth when he entered the private salon. It made the illusion of the false Gregor all that much more convincing.

A micromedia globe hovered overhead, recording everything for posterity and Maijstral’s eventual enrichment. Maijstral paused outside the Waltz twins' suite, took a tool from his pocket, and opened the wall. He donned a pair of goggles that would allow him to detect energy sources and see in the dark.

The utility tunnel smelled of fresh paint. Fingers moving nimbly, Maijstral disconnected the lock on the Waltz twins' door and then stepped out of the tunnel.

He had probably tripped at least one alarm in the tunnel, but it would be indistinguishable from the other alarms his reprogrammed robots were creating everywhere onstation. He could safely assume that the alarm would be ignored, or if answered, answered far too late.

Back in the main corridor, Maijstral stepped to the Waltz twins' door. It was already open.

Frowning, soundless, Maijstral pushed the door open. Moments before, he'd seen the elderly Waltz twins step onto the dance floor and engage in a dance far more vigorous than would seem safe for ladies of their age.

A pattern of energy displayed itself across Maijstral’s goggles. The pattern of energy appeared to be dumping heavy, old-fashioned jewelry into a flat case.

“Sorry, Maijstral,” said Geoff Fu George. “You’re a little late.”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Maijstral said, and closed the door.

He glanced at his chronometer. Time, he thought, for Plan Two.

He retrieved his gear from the tunnel and, looking fore and aft to make certain he was unobserved, began to run. His low-heeled buskins made no sound.

*

Paavo Kuusinen turned the Duchess of Benn under his right arm. She spun to her place and smiled.

“You're a smooth dancer, Kuusinen,” she said.

“I thank your grace.” Properly.

Roberta looked at Kuusinen thoughtfully. “You have that secret look, Kuusinen.”

“Do I?” His face disclosed a quiet smile as he danced a brief jig about her.

“What are you involved with?”

“I have engaged in a slight intrigue, my lady,” he said. “Raising Maijstral’s stock, as against that of Geoff Fu George.”

“Very good, Kuusinen.”

Kuusinen gave her a pensive look. “I’m having second thoughts, I’m afraid.” Roberta danced in place, her heels flashing. “I’m afraid I’ve just heightened the rivalry.”

“The better for us, then.”

“Possibly, your grace. If it doesn’t get out of control.”

They touched hands, moved three vigorous, hopping steps to the right. Down the set, one of the Waltz twins gave a whoop.

Roberta retired a pace. Kuusinen made a flourishing bow. She smiled at him as they passed right, then left. “There’s another mystery to which you might address your talents, if you're not feeling overstrained.”

“Your grace?”

“The object that Lord Qlp gave me this afternoon.”

“Ah. I heard about that.”

“It looked at first like a wet lump. But now it’s dried off, and it’s looking more . . . interesting.”

“How so, your grace?”

“There are . . . colors in it. Patterns. And the patterns change. It seems to have some form of internal life. I asked Lady Dosvidern about it, but she affects to be as baffled as I.”

“Perhaps you ought to have it checked, your grace. It might be unhealthy in some way.”

Roberta laughed. “The least of my worries, sir. But still, I'd like you to see the thing.”

“Happily, your grace.”

She regarded him carefully. “You still have that secret look, Kuusinen.”

“Have I, your grace?” Touching hands again, and hopping to the left. Still holding hands (his left, her right), they turned up the set and began to perform an intricate series of steps while maintaining forward motion. Roberta sighed.

“Very well, Kuusinen. I won’t insist. But I hope you'll let me know when something is about to happen.”

“I will, your grace.” He caught her eye and smiled. “You may depend on it.”

*

Mr. Sun sat fidgeting in his cool blue heaven, possessed of a growing conviction that Lucifer had somehow got in amongst the angels and all PanDaemonium was going to break loose at any instant.

Alarms were still going off with dismal regularity. There were thirty lights on his board, and more appearing every minute. His people were an hour late in answering them.

Perhaps, he thought, something in the unique character of Silverside's star had wildly increased the local rate of entropic decay. The security system on which Sun had labored for the better part of two years was falling apart at the first crisis, and Sun found himself helpless to cope with the shock.

He knew he had to deal with the situation somehow, take command. He had no idea how.

A light winked into existence on his console. He pressed an ideogram, said, “Yes.”

“Khamiss, sir.” Which Sun could see perfectly well, as a hologram of Khamiss’s head had just appeared in the control room. Khamiss was looking weary about the eyes.

“Yes, Khamiss?”

“We've finished on Azure Corridor. No sign of anything out of the ordinary.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Sun. He reset the alarm on Azure Corridor. “Peach Division next, eighth deep.”

“Sir.” Speaking very carefully. “I think It’s time for a command decision. My people are growing tired, and we haven’t found a single intrusion.”

Sun frowned. Entropic decay, it appeared, was beginning to spread to his minions. The Sin Balance was tilting in a ominous way. Sun needed to restore order to the universe, and do it immediately. “We cannot concede the battlefield to the enemy,” he said. “If we do, we'll be allowing all manner of mischief to take place.”

“With all respect, sir, we’re not halting mischief now. We’re doing precisely what our opponents want us to do— running ourselves ragged chasing false alarms.”

Sun drew himself up. “Do you have any concrete suggestions, Khamiss?” he demanded. “Or are you just asking to be taken off the detail?”

“Perhaps we can have our computer experts review the alarm systems. Perhaps the programming has been interfered with.”

“I’ve done that. They haven’t found anything yet.”

“In that case, sir, may I suggest that we make some attempt to categorize these alarms and respond only to those with high priority. I think we can safely ignore all alarms in remote parts of the station, or alarms that go off when our principal burglars are known to be somewhere else, and concentrate our forces on recent alarms that go off in the dead of night, or other prime thieving times.”

Sun glared stonily at Khamiss’s hologram. Khamiss’s suggestions made perfect sense, but still it seemed to Sun that this constituted a challenge to his authority.

“I will consider the suggestion, Khamiss,” he said. “In the meantime, you’re due in Peach Division.”

The weariness around Khamiss’s eyes became more apparent. “Very well, sir.”

Good, Sun thought. The incipient mutiny was quelled. Time for a bit of encouragement from the generalissimo. He would raise the level of morale and return to his troops their sharp combative edge.