The Dreaming Void (56 page)

He stretched as best his thick limbs would allow and tried to get out of the chair. After two attempts that made him look like an overturned glagwi struggling to right itself, his u-shadow ordered the station to reduce the local gravity field. Now, when he pushed with his legs and back, he gave his body an impetus that propelled him right out of the clingy cushions. Gravity returned slowly, giving him time to straighten his legs before his feet touched the decking. He let out a wet belch as the falling sensation ended. His stomach still was churning, and his legs felt weak and stiff. He had a headache, too. The medical display in his exovision showed him that his sugar levels were all over the place. There was a load of crap about toxins and blood oxygen levels, too, which he canceled just as the nutrition and exercise recommendations came up.
Stupid anachronism in the age of biononics.

He set off to the saloon that the ultradrive team used as its social and business center. It had the best culinary units on the station. When he arrived, several of the tables along the curving wall were occupied by groups of people discussing various aspects of the project. He saw Neskia with a couple of technicians he recognized from the team handling the drive's hyperspace fluidity systems. They all stared at him as he sat down in the spare seat, wincing as his knees creaked. Both technicians registered mild disapproval. Neskia's long metallized neck curved sinuously so that her flat face was aligned perfectly on him. “Thank you,” she said to the technicians. “We'll go with that.”

They nodded thanks and left.

“Was there something you wanted?” she asked Troblum in a level voice.

“I need to change the design for the mass density modulator,” he said. A maidbot slid over with a tray of food his u-shadow had ordered from the culinary units. He started unloading the plates.

Neskia's face tipped down; her large circular eyes regarded the food without any trace of emotion. “I see. Do you have the proposed new design?”

“No,” he mumbled around a mouthful of spaghetti. “I want you to okay the change before I waste a week on it.”

“What's wrong with the existing modulator?”

“It's a pile of crap. Doesn't work. Your idiots didn't take the power control requirements into account.”

“Do you have an analysis of the problem?”

Troblum could only nod as he chewed his hot floratts bread with mozzarella and herbs. His u-shadow sent the file over.

“Thank you. The review team will examine this. You will have a reply in an hour. That is the procedure.”

“Sure. Good.” He sighed. It was great that the tech problem had been sorted out, but the spaghetti with its balls of jolmeat and attrato sauce could have done with more black pepper. He reached for his tankard, only to find Neskia's hand on top of his, preventing him from lifting the beer. Her skin shimmered between white and silver. He could not sense any temperature from her fingers, hot or cold. “What?”

Her eyes blinked slowly, turning the irises from black to deep indigo. “In future. In public. While you are here in my station. Please ensure that your social interaction program is running and that you follow its advice.”

“Oh. Okay.” He dipped his head toward the tankard.

“Thank you, Troblum.” She lifted her hand. “Was there anything else? The project seems to be absorbing most of your time.”

“Yeah, it's interesting. I might get some crossover into one of my own projects. Ultradrive is a fascinating reworking of quantum dimensional theory. Who came up with it?”

“I believe it was ANA: Governance. Is it important?”

“No.” He pushed the spaghetti plate aside and started on the rack of lamb.

Neskia had not stopped looking at him. She was about to speak again when two people came over to stand beside their table. Troblum finished chewing before he glanced up; he knew that was the kind of thing the social program counseled. Marius was looking down at him with his usual rarefied contempt, but it was his companion who turned Troblum immobile. His limbs would not move. Thankfully, neither did his mouth, which stopped him from opening his jaw and grunting in shock. He could not breathe, either, as something like frost ripped down through his lungs.

“I'd introduce you,” Marius said coldly. “But of all the people on this station, Troblum, you are the one who doesn't need it, now, do you?”

“Really,” the Cat said, and grinned. “Why's that?”

Troblum's very dark fascination kept his muscles locked tight. She was not easy to recognize; she did not have that trademark spiked hair out of all her history files. It was still short and dark, but today she wore it in a smooth swept-back style with a pair of slim copper shades perched above her forehead. She was dressed in a chic modern suit rather than the leather trousers and tight vest she used to favor. But that darkish complexion and wide amused grin veering on the crazy … There was no mistake. She was so much smaller than he imagined, it was confusing; she barely came up to his shoulders, yet he'd always visualized her as an Amazon.

“Troblum has a penchant for history,” Marius said. “He knows all sorts of odd facts.”

“What's my favorite food?” the Cat asked.

“Lemon risotto with asparagus,” Troblum stammered. “It was the specialty dish at the restaurant you waitressed in when you were fifteen.”

The Cat's grin sharpened. “What the fuck is he?” She turned to Marius for an explanation.

“An idiot savant with a fetish about the Starflyer War. He's useful to us.”

“Whatever turns you on.”

“You're in suspension,” Troblum said flatly; he couldn't help the words coming out even though he was afraid of her. “It was a five-thousand-year sentence.”

“Aww. He's quite sweet, actually,” the Cat told Marius. She gave Troblum a lewd wink. “I'll finish it one day. Promise.”

“If you have a moment, please,” Marius said to Neskia. “We need to sort a proper ship out for our guest.”

“Of course.” She stood up.

“Oh yes,” Marius added, as though it were of no consequence. “Is Troblum behaving himself?”

Neskia looked from Marius to Troblum. “So far, so good. He's been quite helpful.”

“Keep it up,” Marius said. He was not smiling.

Troblum bowed his head, unable to look at any of them. Too many people. Too close. Too intrusive.
And one of them is the Cat!
He wasn't prepared for that kind of encounter today—or any day. But she was out of suspension somehow, walking around.
She's in this station!

His medical display flashed blue symbols down the side of his exovision, telling him his biononics were engaging, reanimating his chest muscles, calming them into a steady rhythm. It hadn't registered with him the way he had started to suck his breath down as if his throat were constricted. A small cocktail of drugs was flushed out of macrocellular glands, bringing down his heart rate.

Troblum risked a glance up, his face pulled into a horrendously guilty expression. The three of them were gone, out of sight, out of the saloon. He was gathering an excessive number of curious looks from his colleagues who were still seated. He wanted to tell them, to shout:
It's not me you should be staring at.

Instead he felt the trembling start deep in his torso. He stood up fast, which made his head spin. Biononics reinforced his leg muscles, allowing him to hurry out of the saloon. In the corridor, his u-shadow diverted a trolleybot for him to sit on. It carried him all the way back to his quarters, where he flopped onto the bed. He loaded a nine-level certificate into the lock even though he knew how useless that was.

The Cat!

He lay on the bed with the cabin heating up, feeling the shock slowly ebbing. Release from the physical symptoms did nothing to alleviate the dread. Of all the megalomaniacs and psychopaths in history, the Accelerators had chosen to bring her back. Troblum lay in the warm darkness for hours, wondering what they were facing that was so terrible that they had no choice but to use her. He'd always been behind the whole Accelerator movement because it was such a logical one. They were nurturing an evolutionary lineage that had started with single-cell amoebas and would end with elevation to postphysical status—a necessity that could not be disputed. The other factions were wrong; it was that obvious—to him. Accelerator philosophy appealed to his physicist nature. That hurtful vicious bastard Marius was right: There was very little else in the way of personality.

Forget that. It's not relevant.

Because anything that has to use the Cat to make it work can't be right. It just can't.

Inigo's Fifth Dream

“… Thus, because the city is deemed to be a sole entity in its own right, no human can ‘own' their residence in the traditional legal sense. However, in the fifteenth year after Rah's arrival, the newly formed Upper Council passed the first Act of Registry. Essentially that means that any human can claim a residence within the city wall for their own usage. In order to register you simply have to find a house or maisonette or room which is unoccupied, stay in it for two days and two nights, then register your claim with the Board of Occupancy. This claim, once notarized, will allow you and your descendants to live there until such time as they choose to relinquish it. As there are no new buildings, and can never be, the most desirable and largest homes were claimed within ten years of Rah opening the first gate. These are now the palaces of our most ancient families, the District Masters, and as such can have up to five generations living in them, all of them first sons waiting to inherit the estate and seat on the Upper Council. The remaining available accommodation in the city today is small and badly configured for human occupation, and even this is diminishing rapidly. Thus, while districts such as Eyrie are basically uninhabitable …”

Edeard hoped he hadn't just groaned out loud from the terrible boredom. He was now as adept as any Makkathran citizen at veiling his emotions from casual farsight, but if Master Solarin from the Guild of Lawyers used the word “thus” one more time … It was a mystery how the old man could talk so long without a break. Rumor at the station was that Master Solarin was over two hundred fifty years old. Edeard would be surprised if that were true; he certainly didn't look that young. His white hair had receded so far that the top of his skull was completely bald, something Edeard had never seen before, though the remaining strands were long enough to reach down over his shoulders. And his limbs were horribly thin and frail, while his fingers had swollen to the point where he had trouble flexing them. His vocal chords, however, suffered no such malaise.

Along with his fellow probationary constables, Edeard was sitting at a bench in the small hall of the Jeavons station, listening to the weekly lecture on basic Makkathran law. In another two months they'd be facing a batch of exams on the subject, which they had to pass in order to graduate. Like all of them, he found Solarin a sore test of patience. A quick scan showed that Boyd was almost asleep. Macsen's eyes were unfocused as he longtalked the girls in the dressmaker shop at the end of the street. Kanseen appeared to be paying polite attention, but Edeard knew her well enough now to see that she was as bored as he was. Dinlay, though, was sitting up with rapt attention and even taking notes. Somehow Edeard could not quite laugh at that. Poor old Dinlay had so much to prove to his father and uncles, he undoubtedly would pass his exams with high grades. That presented the rest of them with the very real danger that once they graduated, Dinlay would be appointed their squad leader. It would be something he took
very
seriously.

“… thus the precedent was set for the lower ancillary court to hear any application to evict when a civil malfeasance is suspected of taking place within the property itself. In practice a full hearing is unnecessary, and you may request a provisional eviction notice from the duty magistrate who acts as de facto high council to the lower court. And that, I'm afraid, brings this session to its successful conclusion. We will deal with the criteria for such application next week. In the meantime I'd like you all to read
Sampsols Common Law,
Volume Three, Chapters Thirteen through Twenty-seven, by the time I return. It covers the main parameters of weapons usage within the city wall. I might even enliven our time together with a small test. How exciting that will be, eh? Until then, I thank you for your interest and bid you farewell.” Solarin gave them a vague smile and removed his gold-rimmed glasses before shutting the big book he had covered with annotations. His ge-monkey placed it carefully in a leather shoulder bag along with the other books the lawyer used for his lecture.

Dinlay stuck his hand up. “Sir?”

“Ah, my dear boy; sadly I am in something of a rush today. If you could possibly write your question down and submit it to my senior apprentice at the guild, I'd be most grateful.”

“Yes, sir.” Dinlay's hand came down, and his shoulders slumped with disappointment.

Edeard remained seated as the lawyer walked slowly out of the hall, assisted by two ge-monkeys, wondering what Solarin would actually look like rushing somewhere.

“Olovan's Eagle tonight?”

“Huh?” Edeard shook himself out of his absurd daydream.

Macsen was standing over his desk, a smug expression on his face. “Clemensa will be going. Evala said she's been asking about you. A lot!”

“Clemensa?”

“The one with the dark hair always tied up in a long tail. Big chest. Big legs, too, sadly, but hey, nobody's perfect.”

Edeard sighed. It was another of the girls from the dressmakers. Macsen spent most of his time sweet-talking them or trying to set them up with his friends. Once he even tried to match Kanseen with a carpentry apprentice; he would not be doing that again. “No. No, I can't. I am so far behind on my law texts, and you heard what Solarin said.”

“Remind me.”

“There's going to be a test,” Edeard said wearily.

“Oh, right. It's only the exam at the end which counts. Don't worry. Listen, I've got a friend in the Lawyer's Guild. A couple of gold shillings and he'll gift us the whole
Sampsols.
”

“That's cheating,” Dinlay said hotly.

Macsen put on a suitably wounded expression. “In what respect?”

“In all respects!”

“Dinlay, he's just putting you on,” Kanseen said as she got up to leave.

“I'm being perfectly serious,” Macsen said, his face as innocent as a newborn's.

“Ignore him,” she said, and gave Dinlay's shoulder a gentle shove. “Come on, let's find some lunch before we go out.”

Dinlay managed one last scowl before hurrying after Kanseen. He started to ask her something about the residency laws.

“Must be true love,” Macsen warbled cheerfully as they turned out of sight.

“You're evil,” Edeard decided. “Pure evil.”

“Only thanks to years of practice and dedication.”

“You know he's going to be our squad leader, don't you?”

“Yes. He'll get his appointment the day after the Eggshaper Guild announces its sculpted a ge-pig that can fly.”

“I'm serious. His grades will be way above ours, plus his father and a whole load of his family are already constables. Senior ones at that.”

“Chae isn't stupid. He knows that'll never work.”

Edeard wanted to believe that Macsen was right.

“Um, Edeard, are you really not interested in Clemensa?” Boyd asked.

“Ho, this is perfect,” Macsen said, rubbing his hands together. “Why, do you fancy your chances?”

“Actually, yes,” Boyd said with more courage than Edeard had credited him with.

“Good for you. She's a lovely girl. As randy as a drakken in a blood frenzy, I just happen to know.”

Boyd frowned. “How do you know?”

“Evala told me,” Macsen said smoothly. “Her last boyfriend was dumped for not having enough stamina.”

Boyd gave Macsen a suddenly entranced look. “I'll come with you tonight. But you have to get Evala to put in a good word for me.”

“Leave it to me, my fine friend. You're as good as shagged senseless already.”

Edeard rolled his eyes and promised the Lady he'd be good forevermore if she'd just stop Macsen from being … well, Macsen. “Come on, let's get something to eat before the constables grab it all again.”

“Oh, yes,” Boyd said. “Our helpful and welcoming colleagues. I hate the way they treat us.”

“Only for another two months, that's all,” Macsen said.

“You really think they'll show us any respect after we qualify? I don't.”

“No, they won't,” Macsen agreed. “But at least we can shovel shit onto the new probationers. I know it'll make me feel better.”

“We're not going to do that,” Edeard said. “We're going to talk to them, help them with problems, and make them feel appreciated.”

“Why?”

“Because that's what I would have liked to happen with us. That way more people might be encouraged to join up. Haven't you counted the numbers, not just at this station but citywide? There aren't enough constables in the city. People are starting to organize themselves into street associations to take on the gangs. That's going to undermine the rule of law.”

“Great Lady, you really mean it, don't you?” Macsen said.

“Yes,” Edeard said forcefully, and let them sense his mental tone so they knew he wasn't joking. “I know what happens when civil government means nothing. I've seen the violence that the barbarians use when a society leaves itself open to any bastard who knows how weak it is. And that's not going to happen here. Makkathran can't be allowed to tear itself apart from within.”

“I don't know why you're worried about Dinlay being squad leader,” Macsen said, equally serious. “You're the one. Sir!”

         

Edeard was still slightly self-conscious about wearing the constable uniform in public. Only the white epaulets distinguished probationers from regular constables. The rest of it was “actually real,” as Macsen put it: a smart dark-blue tunic with silver buttons up the front, matching trousers, and a wide regulation leather belt containing a truncheon, two pepper-gas phials, a pair of iron handcuffs with a fiendishly tricky six-lever lock that was just about impossible to pick with telekinesis, and a small first aid pack. Under the tunic was a white shirt that Sergeant Chae made very sure was indeed an unblemished white each morning. Boots were up to the individual, but they had to be black and at least ankle-high, though not over the knee; they also had to shine from polishing. The dome helmet was made from an epoxied drosilk mesh, with padding on the inside to protect the wearer's skull from a physical blow. Like the others, Edeard had bought his own drosilk waistcoat, which was supposedly tough enough to resist a bullet. Macsen had gone one step further and bought drosilk shorts.

In theory the cost was not too bad, but in practice every constable needed two tunics and at least three shirts. Then there was a constant supply of flaked soap for the dormitory's ge-chimps to wash everything. Edeard gained considerable kudos when the others found how good he was at instructing the ge-chimps with laundry tasks. After the first week Chae stopped trying to find fault when they turned out in immaculate uniforms each morning.

The daily routine hardly varied. In the morning they would have various physical and telepathic teamwork training sessions, followed by lectures. In the afternoon they would be taken out on patrol under the alarmingly vigilant eye of Chae. Sometimes their division captain, Ronark, would accompany them. Evenings were theoretically all their own. Study was advised at least during the week.

Edeard always hated it when Ronark did come out with them to “check on progress.” The man was in his eighties and was never going to rise any higher than his current position. His wife had left him decades before, and his children had disowned him. That left him only the constables, which he believed in with a religious fervor. Everything was done according to regulations; variations were not permitted, and such infringements were subject to severe fines, restrictions, and demotions. Jeavons station had one of the lowest recruitment rates in the city.

Nobody paid any attention to them when Chae led them out of the station at one o'clock precisely. Ronark was standing at his curving fish-eye window above the big double gate, observing the shift change, clocking the patrols in and out on his ancient pocket watch. Out on the narrow pavement, a squad was double-timing back to the station, its corporal red-faced and panting as they tried to minimize their delay. Three ge-dogs scampered along beside them, happy at the run.

Probationary constables were not permitted genistar support. Thankfully, Chae kept a discreet silence about Edeard's ge-eagle, which now lived with two others in the station's rooftop aviary.

Jeavons was a pleasant enough district. It even had a small park in the center that a team of city ge-monkeys kept in good horticultural order. There was a big freshwater pond in the middle with exotic scarlet fish measuring a good two feet long; they always seemed sinister to Edeard, who disliked their fangs and the way they looked up at everyone who stood by the rail watching them. But the park had a football pitch marked out, and he occasionally joined the games on weekends when the local lads ran a small league. He enjoyed the fact that Jeavons did not house many grand families; its buildings were on a relatively modest scale, though the mansions along Marble Canal were regal enough. The carpenters, jewel smiths, and physicians all had their guild headquarters there. It was also the home of the astronomical association, which had been fighting for guild status for seven centuries and was always blocked by the Pythia, who claimed the heavens were a supernatural realm and astronomy verged on the heretical. Boyd, of course, was full of gossipy facts like that as they walked the winding streets; he probably knew the layout better than Chae did.

Chae led them over Arrival Canal and into the smaller Silvarum district. The buildings there were oddly curved, as if they used to be clusters of bubbles that somehow had been compressed. Squeezed-up insect hives, Boyd called them. None of them were large enough to be palaces, but they all belonged to wealthy families: the smaller merchants and senior Masters of professional guilds. The shops all sold goods far beyond Edeard's dwindling coinage.

As they passed over the ornate wooden bridge, Edeard found himself walking with Kanseen.