Primary Inversion (8 page)

      
The grid rose in front of me into a cobalt mountain of polished metal.
You have reached A5a.mil. Unauthorized access of this node is punishable by execution.

      
Well, that was lovely.
My clearance is in M-16.

      
Clearance verified. State purpose.

      
To use Comtrace. 

      
The cobalt node shifted me to a white grid in a sea of painfully bright light. Comtrace’s response came into my mind like ice, deep, strong, mechanical.
ATTENDING.

      
Comtrace, access my optic nerve,
I thought.
Alter my perception to highlight my physical surroundings.

      
DONE.

      
My awareness of Kyle space faded into a translucent image that overlaid my view of the room. I saw Rex leaning over to peer at the console. Helda stood next to him, waiting with her massive arms crossed, and Taas was sitting on the bed glancing through the book Tiller had given me. None of my interactions with the Mesh showed on the screen: the printing had stopped with my last response to Homer.

      
Activate audio,
I thought.

      
“Audio activated,” Comtrace said. Although it used Homer’s speakers, the icy cadence of its speech was a jarring contrast to Homer’s friendly tones.

      
Taas looked up from the book. “Set up?”

      
“Done,” I said. “I’m giving it my file on the Aristo.” Then I thought,
Comtrace, upload the file M-86, D-4427, F-1 from my spinal node.

      
UPLOADED.

      
I’m going to detach the psiphon. Keep your end of the link open.

      
UNDERSTOOD.

      
I unplugged the prong and handed it to Rex. “Your turn.”

      
It only took him a few seconds to upload his memory of the Aristo into Comtrace. Helda went next and then Taas. When they finished, I linked back in. “Comtrace, produce a visual image of the subject based on our memories of him.”

      
“Working,” Comtrace said. A holo formed above a horizontal screen on the desk showing the Aristo we had seen in the bar. He just stood there, about one handspan tall.

      
“He wasn’t that harsh,” Rex said.

      
The console remained quiet, the holo unchanged.

      
Comtrace,
I thought.
Respond to voice input from the three units listed in my security file.

      
BLACKSTONE, REX: VERIFYING. BJORSTAD, HELDAGAARD: VERIFYING. MOROTO, TAAS-KO-MAR: VERIFYING.

      
I waited restlessly for it to finish verifying that it could respond to them. Their names was like a microcosm of Skolia. Blackstone was the modern translation of an ancient name from the planet Raylicon. Like Rex, it was pure Raylican, dark and powerful. Helda’s was the Skolianized version of an Earth name; her parents were an Allied couple who had immigrated to one of our colonies. Taas’s name was a mix: some of his family had come from Skolian colonies and some from a place on Earth called Japan. My name—Valdoria Skolia—was a different sort of mix. Although my maternal grandmother had been born in a genetics lab, her lineage went back to the Ruby Dynasty. My father and maternal grandfather came from rediscovered Skolian colonies.

      
UNITS VERIFIED,
Comtrace thought.
RESPONDING TO BLACKSTONE.

      
The Aristo’s features softened, making him look sixteen years old.

      
“Too young,” Taas said. Comtrace aged the man about three years.

      
“Still too young,” Helda said. Comtrace added another three years.

      
“His hair was a little longer,” Helda said. Comtrace added a few inches.

      
They studied the image. Finally Rex said, “Looks about right.” Taas and Helda nodded.

      
“Comtrace, run an ID check on this image,” I said. “Compare it to every file available on the current Highton Aristo caste.”

      
“Working.” After a pause Comtrace said, “No record exists that matches this image with sufficient accuracy to provide verifiable identification.”

      
I frowned. “You checked
every
living Highton?”

      
“Yes.”

      
“Maybe we don’t have files on them all,” Taas said.

      
“We thought we did,” I said. “There are only a few hundred Hightons.”

      
“We maybe guessed the wrong caste,” Helda said.

      
It might be possible. Although Hightons were uppermost among the Aristos, two other castes existed, enough to bring their number into several thousand. “Comtrace, what do you estimate is the probability this man is a Highton?”

      
“Checking.”

      
I glanced at Rex. “Something about that Aristo looks familiar. I can’t place it.”

      
Rex nodded. “I thought so too.”

      
When I glanced at Helda and Taas, they both shook their heads. “He has the look of a Highton,” Helda said. “That’s all I see.”

      
“Run complete,” Comtrace said. “Based on your reports of his appearance, mannerisms, speech and retinue, I estimate a ninety-eight percent probability that the man is Highton. Based on your conversation with him, Primary Valdoria, I estimate eight percent.”

      
Rex whistled. “That’s bizarre.”

      
“That 8 percent depends on my memory of him,” I said. “Maybe it was skewed.”

      
“Given your experiences,” Rex said, “I would hardly think you’d see him as
less
threatening.”

      
Comtrace spoke. “My analysis includes correlation of your reports with previous reports the four of you have made on Aristos, the consistency of those reports with other peoples’ reports on the same Aristos, all reports made on Aristos by other officers, the consistency of those reports, and the consistency of your reports on other matters. Based on those calculations, I estimate ninety-one percent accuracy to your observations.”

      
I smiled. “You’ve been busy.”

      
“Can you figure out why the Aristo is here?” Taas asked.

      
“I estimate a fifty percent probability he wants an unusual provider,” Comtrace said. “Thirty percent he is curious about Delos, nine percent he is spying on the Allieds, and six percent that his ship needed repairs.”

      
“You think he was trying to trick me into going with him?” I asked.

      
“Not likely. Your military status was obvious. To believe you would be deceived by such a trick would require a naiveté unlikely for an Aristo.”

      
“What do you think is the chance he told the truth, that he just wanted a date with me?”

      
“Essentially zero.” Comtrace paused. “If he is searching for providers, however, I calculate a ninety-three percent probability he was practicing on you.”

      
It sounded plausible. Except I didn’t believe it. I had no justification for my doubt, but it persisted just the same.

      
Rex leaned over the console. “Why such a low probability for his being a spy?”

      
“It is considered beneath a Highton to engage in covert operations,” Comtrace said. “Unless those operations relate directly to the acquisition of power. However, given the close proximity of Delos to Tams Station and the current crisis on Tams, it is conceivable that a Highton might come here to discover if the Allieds have any connection to the situation.”

      
So. It was ironic that Tams, a small mining station, had come to prominence. Six hundred million people lived there, descendents of an ancient Raylican colony that had doggedly struggled to keep their independence from all of us, Skolian, Trader, and Allied alike. Fifteen years ago the Traders had claimed the planet. They managed to manipulate the political situation so any response on our part would put us in violation of our tenuous treaties with them. At least, any
overt
response.

      
“Comtrace, what is your latest information on Tams?” I asked.

      
“IMIN reports indicate the rebels have captured the planet’s ground based defenses.”

      
It didn’t surprise me. Although we couldn’t offer aid openly, we had other means. It wasn’t luck that the civilian leaders of the Tams rebellion had captured and held the sophisticated Eubian military installations on their planet.

      
“How have the Aristos responded?” I asked.

      
“Their saboteurs destroyed the Red Hills factories,” Comtrace said. “Also the warehouses in the Sandrise, Docker, and Metalworks districts. They gutted the stardrives and Evolving Intelligence pilots of all space worthy ships in both Tams starports.”

      
Rex swore under his breath. “That’s too damn effective.”

      
“Why?” Taas asked. “What are the Red Hills factories?”

      
“They were the only factories on the planet equipped to build replacement parts for starship drives,” I said. “The warehouses are where completed parts were stored.”

      
“If the rebels control the planetary defenses,” Helda said, “they can bring in ships with new EI’s and engine parts.”

      
“Not if the Traders control the orbital defenses,” Rex said. “They and the rebels may be at a standoff.”

      
“Comtrace,” I said, “what is the official Trader position on the situation?”

      
“That the uprising no longer exists,” Comtrace said.

      
Helda spoke dryly. “Why do I have no surprise at this?”

      
“A recording of Ur Qox’s last speech is available,” Comtrace said. “Shall I display?”

      
I had no desire to see the Trader Emperor give a speech. His name was actually U’jjr Qox, but we pronounced it Ur Cox. The apostrophe indicated he was a Highton. The highest Highton. Regardless of how I felt about the him, though, we needed to know what he had to say.

      
“Yes,” I said. “Display the recording.”

      
The mystery Aristo disappeared, replaced by a lean man at a crystal podium. He was in his late forties, with shimmering black hair and red eyes. His Highton accent chilled. Tarque had also been Highton, with that same unremitting arrogance in his voice, that same look of it in his too-perfect face.

      
Qox spent most of the speech lauding the Trader army. He painted the rebels as less than human and the Trader soldiers as heroes. The speech didn’t contain a whit of useful information. He went on and on, invoking the glory of his empire and the Aristos and himself and his father’s purportedly esteemed name.

      
“At least his father’s dead,” Rex muttered.

      
At least. The previous Emperor had been even worse. J’briol Qox, the man we called Jaibriol, had conquered nearly a thousand worlds. And he had hated my family. Gods, he hated us. It infuriated him that we, the ultimate providers, not only lived free from his power but had the audacity to build a civilization rivaling his own.

      
In English, Jaibriol translated into Gabriel. The Allieds, however, used our spelling and the soft “J.” I once asked a receptionist in an Earth embassy why they avoided their own translation. She told me the name Gabriel came from one of their holy books, that he was an archangel whose name meant “God is my strength.” She thought Jaibriol Qox should have been called Lucifer instead, after the fallen angel who had sunk from heaven to hell. It made a lot of sense to me.

      
“At least this Qox has a redeeming quality,” Taas said.

      
Helda snorted. “His only redeeming quality would be to fill a coffin.”
 
      
“He has no heir,” Taas said. “Twenty-five years of marriage and no children.”

      
“You would think he would divorce the Empress for a more fertile wife,” Rex said.

      
“Why?” Taas said. “All the Hightons need are her eggs and his sperm to make a baby.”

      
“They are not allowed divorce anyway,” Helda said.

      
“Actually, he could divorce her if she’s refusing him an heir,” I said. “Deliberate infertility is grounds for dissolving the royal marriage. The only grounds, in fact, except for adultery.”

      
“You think he actually loves her?” Taas asked.

      
“Am I wearing a ballet tutu?” Helda asked.

      
Rex smirked at her. “I’d like to see that. A pink tutu.”

      
Helda crossed her arms, her bulky muscles rippling under her regulation pullover. “Pah.”

      
I smiled at my image of Helda in pink. “He needs a Highton as his heir.” Hightons were fanatical about keeping their bloodlines “unpolluted.” No child could be recognized as part of their caste unless numerous genetic tests verified his parentage. Of course the Qox line had to be the purest of all. If Ur Qox didn’t soon produce an acceptable heir, he risked losing his claim to the throne.

      
“At least our people don’t have to worry about that,” Taas said.

      
“We don’t?” I asked.

      
“I mean, the Assembly is elected,” he said. “It doesn’t depend on heritage.”