Schismatrix plus (32 page)

Lindsay, despairing, was silent. Finally he said, "I wish you the best of luck here, sincerely. Protect the damaged, if you can. Maybe it'll come to something."

"There's a universe of potential, Lindsay, think of that. No rules, no limits."

"Not while he lives. Forgive me."

"You'll have to do that for yourself."

AN INVESTOR TRADE SHIP: 14-2-'86

"This is not the sort of transaction we prefer," the Investor said.

"Have we met before, Ensign?" said Lindsay.

"No. I knew one of your students once. Captain-Doctor Simon Afriel. A very accomplished gentleman."

"I remember Simon well."

"He died on embassy." The Investor stared, his dark eyeballs gleaming with hostility above the white rims of his nictitating membranes. "A pity. I always enjoyed his conversation. Still, he had that urge to meddle, to tamper. You call it curiosity. An urge to value useless data. A being with such a handicap runs a great many unnecessary risks."

"Without a doubt," Lindsay agreed. He had not heard of Afriel's death. The knowledge filled him with bitter pleasure: another fanatic gone, another gifted life wasted....

"Hatred is an easier motive to fathom. Strange that you should fall prey to it, Artist. It makes me doubt my judgment of your species."

"I regret being a source of confusion. Chancellor-General Constantine might explain it better."

"I'll speak to him. He and his party have just come aboard. He is not a fit model, though, for a judgment on human nature. Our scanning reveals that he favors severe alterations."

Many did these days, Lindsay thought. Even the very young. As if the existence of the Neotenic Republic, with its forced humanity, freed the other factions from a stifling pretense. "You find this odd in a spacegoing race?"

"No. Not at all. That's why there are so few of them left."

"Nineteen," Lindsay said.

"Yes. The number of vanished races within our trading realm is larger by an order of magnitude. Their artifacts persist, though, such as the one we plan to lease to you presently." The Investor showed his striated, peglike teeth, a sign of distaste and reluctance. "We'd hoped for truly long-term trade with your species, but we cannot dissuade you from aiming for breakthroughs in questions of metaphysics. We will soon have to put your solar system under quarantine for fear of being caught in your transmutations. In the meantime we must abandon a few scruples to make our local investments worthwhile."

"You alarm me," Lindsay said. He had heard this before: vague warnings from the Investors, intended to freeze humanity at its current level of development. It amused him that Investors should preach Preservationism.

"Surely the War is a greater threat."

"No," the Investor said. "We ourselves presented you with evidence. Our interstellar drive showed you that space-time is not what you thought. You must be aware of this, Artist. Consider recent breakthroughs in the mathematical treatment of what you call Hilbert space and the ur-space of the precontinuum. They can't have escaped your attention."

"Mathematics isn't my forte," Lindsay said.

"Nor ours. We only know that these discoveries are danger signs of an imminent transition to another mode of being."

"Imminent?"

"Yes. A matter of mere centuries."

Centuries, Lindsay thought. It was easy to forget how old the Investors were. Their deep disinterest in change gave them a wide but shallow field of view. They had no interest in their own history, no urge to contrast their own lives with those of their dead, because there was no assumption that their lives or motives varied in even the slightest degree. They had vague legends and garbled technical readouts concerning particularly prized objects of booty, but even these fragments of history were lost in a jackdaw scramble of loot.

"Not all the extinct races made the transition," the Ensign said, "and those who invented the Arena probably died violently. We have no data on that: only technical data on their modes of perception, allowing us to make the Arena comprehensible to the human nervous system. In this we had the assistance of the Department of Neurology from the Kosmosity of the Nysa Corporate Treaty State."

Constantine's recruits, Lindsay thought. The Nysa rogue wireheads, Mechanist defectors to the Shaper cause, combining Mech techniques with the fascist structure of the Shaper academic-military complex. "The very men—the very beings, rather, for the job."

"So said the Chancellor-General. His party has assembled now. Shall we join them?"

Constantine's group mingled with Lindsay's in one of the cavernous lounges of the Investor ship. The lounge was crowded with towering rococo furniture: dizzyingly overdecorated settees and slablike tables, supported on curved legs crusted with ribbed domes and stylized scrolls. It was all far too large to be of any conventional use to the score of human visitors, who crouched under the furniture warily, careful not to touch anything. Lindsay saw as he entered the lounge that the alien furnishings had been sprayed with a thick protective lacquer to guard them from oxygen.

He had never seen any of the young Constantine genetics. Constantine had brought ten of them: five women, five men. The Constantine siblings were taller than Constantine and had lighter hair, clearly a percentage cut from some other gene-line.

They had that peculiar Shaper magnetism, an acrobatic smoothness and fluidity. Yet something in the set of their shoulders, their slim, dextrous hands, ki-nesically displayed Constantine's genetic heritage. They wore outlandish finery: round velvet hats, ruby earrings, and gold-laced brocade coats. They dressed for the sake of Investors, who appreciated a prosperous look in their customers.

One woman had her back to Lindsay, examining the towering legs of the furniture. The others stood calmly, trading meaningless pleasantries with Lindsay's people, a motley group of acedemics and Investor specialists on leave from Czarina-Kluster. His wife Alexandrina was among them; she was talking to Constantine himself, with her usual perfect good breeding. Nothing showed that all of them were seconds at a duel, witnesses present to assure fairness.

It had been a two-year struggle, a matter of prolonged and delicate negotiation, to arrange a meeting between himself and Constantine. At last they had settled on the Investor starship as a suitable battleground, one where treachery would be counterproductive. The Arena itself had remained in Investor hands; the Nysa technicians had worked on data freely available to both parties. The costs were split equitably, with Constantine assuming most of the financing, on an option against possible technological spinoffs. Lindsay had received data through a double-blind in Czarina-Kluster and Dembowska, to confuse possible assassins. Constantine, to his credit, had sent no one.

The mechanics of their duel had been fraught with difficulty. Varying proposals had been debated by an ever-widening circle of those in the know. Physical combat was rejected at once as beneath the dignity of the estranged parties. Those familiar with the social gambling of the Shaper underworld favored a form of gambling for suicide. An appeal to chance, though, presumed equality between the parties, which neither was willing to grant. A proper duel should assure the triumph of the better man. It was argued that this required a test of alertness, will, and mental flexibility, qualities central to modern life. Objective tests were possible, but it was difficult to ensure that one party would not prepare himself ahead of time or influence the judges. Various forms of direct mind-to-mind struggle existed among the wirehead community, but these often lasted for decades and involved radical alteration of the faculties. They decided to consult the Investors. At first the Investors had difficulty grasping the concept. Later, characteristically, they suggested economic warfare, with each party granted a stake and offered the opportunity to increase it. After a stated period the poorer man was to be executed.

This was not satisfactory. Another Investor suggestion involved attempts by both parties to read the "literature of the (untranslatable)," but it was suggested that the survivor might repeat something of what he had read and become a hazard to the rest of humanity. At this point the Arena was rediscovered in one of the booty-crammed holds of an Investor craft present in circumsolar space.

Study quickly showed the Arena's advantages. Alien forms of experience challenged even the finest members of society: the emissaries to alien worlds. The extremely high casualty rate among this group proved that the Arena would be a test in itself. Within the Arena's simulated environment, the duelists would battle in two alien bodies of guaranteed equality, thus ensuring that victory would go to the superior strategist.

Constantine stood beneath one of the towering tables, sipping a self-chilling silver goblet of distilled water. Like his gaudily clad congenetics, he wore soft lace-cuffed trousers and a gold-threaded coat, its high collar studded with insignias of rank. His round, delicate eyes gleamed black with soft antiglare lenses. His face, like Lindsay's, was creased where years of habitual expression had worked their way into the muscles. Lindsay wore a dun-brown jumpsuit without markings. His face was oiled against the blue-white glare, and he wore dark sunshades.

He crossed the room to join Constantine. A hush fell, but Constantine gestured urbanely, and his fellow genetics picked up the tag-ends of their conversations.

"Hello, cousin," Constantine said.

Lindsay nodded. "A fine group of congenerics, Philip. Congratulations on your siblings."

"Good sound stock," Constantine agreed. "They handle the gravity well." He looked pointedly at Lindsay's wife, who had shuffled tactfully toward another group, visibly troubled by pain in her knees.

"I spent a lot of time on gene politics," Lindsay said. "In retrospect it seems like an aristocratic fetish."

Constantine's lids narrowed over the black adhesive lenses. "A little more work on the Mavrides production run might have been in order." Lindsay felt a surge of cold fury. "Their loyalties betrayed them." Constantine sighed. "The irony hasn't escaped me, Abelard. If you had only maintained your pledged faith to Vera Kelland years ago, none of these aberrations would have occurred."

"Aberrations?" Lindsay smiled icily. "Decent of you to mop up after me, cousin. To tie up my loose ends."

"Small wonder, when you left so many pernicious ones." Constantine sipped his water. "Appeasement policy, for instance. Detente. It was typical of you to fast-talk a population into disaster and then sundog off when it came tc the crunch."

Lindsay showed interest. "Is that the new party line? To blame me for the Investor Peace? How flattering. But is it wise to bring up the past? Why remind them that you lost the Republic?"

Constantine's knuckles whitened on the goblet. "I see that you're still an antiquarian. Odd that you should embrace Wellspring and his cadre of anarchists."

Lindsay nodded. "I know that you'll attack Czarina-Kluster if you have the chance. Your hypocrisy astounds me. You're no Shaper. Not only are you unplanned, but your use of Mech techniques is notorious. You're a living demonstration of the power of detente. You seize advantage wherever you find it but deny it to anyone else."

Constantine smiled. "I'm no Shaper. I'm their guardian. It's been my fate, and I've accepted it. I've been alone all my life, except for you and Vera. We were fools then."

"I was the fool," Lindsay said. "I killed Vera for nothing. You killed her to prove your own power."

"The price was bitter, but the proof was worth it. I've made amends since then." He drained his goblet and stretched out his arm. Vera Kelland took the cup. Around her neck she wore the gold filigree locket she had worn in the crash, the locket that was meant to guarantee his death.

Lindsay was dumbstruck. He had not seen the girl's face when her back was turned.

She did not meet his eyes.

Lindsay stared at her in icy fascination. The resemblance was strong but not perfect. The girl turned and left. Lindsay forced the words. "She's not a full clone."

"Of course not. Vera Kelland was unplanned."

"You used her genetics?"

"Do I hear envy, cousin? Are you claiming her cells loved you and not me?" Constantine laughed.

Lindsay tore his gaze from the woman. Her grace and beauty wounded him. He felt shell-shocked, panicky. "What will happen to her, when you die here?" Constantine smiled quietly. "Why not mull that over, while we fight?"

"I'll make you a pledge," Lindsay said. "I swear that if I win I'll spare your congenetics in the years to come."

"My people are loyal to the Ring Council. Your Czarina-Kluster rabble are their enemies. They're bound to come in conflict."

"Surely that will be grim enough without our adding to it."

"You're naive, Abelard. Czarina-Kluster must fall." Lindsay looked aside, studying Constantine's group. "They don't look stupid, Philip. I wonder if they won't rejoice at your death. They might be swept away in the general celebration."

"Idle speculation always bores me," Constantine said. Lindsay glared. "Then it's time we put the matter to the proof." Heavy curtains were spread over one of the huge alien tables, falling to the floor. Beneath the table's sheltering expanse the blazing light was dimmer, and a pair of supportive waterbeds were brought in to combat Investor gravity.

The Arena itself was tiny, a fist-sized dodecahedron, its triangular sides so glossily black that they shimmered with faint pastels. Wire trailed from metal-bound sockets in two opposing poles of the structure. The wires led to two goggle-equipped helmets with flexible neck extensions. The helmets had the blunt utilitarian look of Mechanist manufacture.

Constantine won the toss and took the right-hand helmet. He produced a flat curved lozenge of beige plastic from his gold-threaded coat and hooked an elastic strap to its anchor loops. "A spatial analyzer," he explained. "One of my routines. Permitted?"

"Yes." Lindsay pulled a flesh-colored strip of dotted adhesive disks from his breast pocket. "PDKL Ninety-five," he said. "In doses of two hundred micro-grams."