Symbiography (7 page)

Authors: William Hjortsberg

BOOK: Symbiography

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Upended cinders, scorned even as carrion, the mortal remains of this doleful trio endured longer than the Grand Dragon or his fortress: a fire started mysteriously, deep within the inner chambers of the central keep, and spread with demonic ferocity, igniting the powder-magazines even as the first alarm gongs were sounding. For months afterwards, mothers pointed the three burned bodies out to their children as clear evidence of prophecy, a sign of unspeakable evil harbored within the massive smoke-blackened walls.

The picture-wall in Omar Tarquille’s office throbbed with the programmed chaotics of Lazalo Kingsolving’s
Sidereal Motion Series: Apparition 4.
On a pedestal in the center of the room stood one of the prizes of the Syndicate collection: Brancusi’s
Bird in Space.
It was a large office in a world where status could be measured in square meters: the extent of one’s wall-to-wall privacy. The view through the bubble-window opposite the entrance showed sergeant majors and queen angelfish gliding through a spiky forest of elkhorn coral. In the subsurface City, most of the population lived and worked at depths where, if they were fortunate enough to have an outer room, the only view was a hundred meters of dismal artificially lighted murk. His sunlit vista of the coral reef and the fact that he worked at home were other indications of Omar Tarquille’s considerable power. The Security Agent on the dream-table had been impressed. Tarquille guessed it was his first assignment upstairs.

A tiny, tuning-fork hum woke the Agent. “Nomads?” he muttered. “Where’d you ever come up with an idea like that? You stand to make big points on this one, Mr. Tarquille.”

The Executive dismissed the notion of personal gain with a careless wiggle of his fingers. “Hardly matters at the moment, I think. When I saw the report of Par’s death I was astonished by the coincidence that it was precisely the same instant as the shooting of our Nomad. Precisely. That’s why I got in touch with your Agency. “

“And you say Mr. Sondak would sometimes monitor this transmission?”

“Frequently, I’m afraid. His own work wasn’t going too well recently.”

“I know, I had to sleep through all that unfinished stuff of his: pretty sad. We had it marked down as suicide; you knew his credit-rating was shot to hell, of course. We figured he’d worked out some tricky way of using the studio to have it look like a natural death. But, your theory makes just as much sense, Mr. Tarquille.”

“That’s very gratifying to hear, especially if it clears up any clouds which have gathered around my friend’s name. Par Sondak was a great artist and should be remembered as such.”

“I understand the Committee is having his library moved intact to the Public Reading Room as a memorial.”

“Yes, except the Velazquez and the Turner watercolors go to the Committee Board Room.” Omar Tarquille had looked into the angles involved, but the regulations were clear: all of a dead man’s remaining credit and assets revert to the common trust. Committee members always plucked the choicest plums in the name of civic improvement. “I don’t know what the plans for the house are,” he said, “but it will be a long time before anyone has enough credit for a place like that again.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Tarquille,” the Security Agent said with a smile like a piece of bread buttered on both sides. “I expect you’ll be moving in yourself after you release these Nomad modes.”

Again, the shrug of wiggled fingers. “Not a chance. You won’t catch me out in that wilderness, I’m too fond of people.”

“Anyone with eyes can see that you are, Mr. Tarquille.” The Agent’s amiable chuckle resembled the eager panting of a poodle playing fetch. “You like people and people like you, and that’s a plain fact if there ever was one.”

The Executive’s answering smile was a masterpiece of facial engineering. He pressed a sensor on the control panel and a pretty Syndicate hostess appeared to show the Security Agent to the door.

END

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

cover design by Michel Vrana

978-1-4532-4661-0

This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media

180 Varick Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com