The Timeweb Chronicles: Timeweb Trilogy Omnibus (6 page)

Chapter Ten

It is said of merchant prince schooners that they are as numerous as raindrops from a cloudburst. The small red-and-gold vessels, filled with the most wondrous products imaginable, are transported by podship to all sectors of the galaxy.

—Jannero’s Starships, Tenth edition

On Timian One, the stocky, gray-haired Doge Lorenzo del Velli sat upon his great throne, perusing a folio that his Cipher Secretary had just delivered to him, the translation of an intercepted Mutati communiqué. The gangly secretary, Triphon Soro, stood at the foot of the dais, awaiting instructions.

Such messages (which the Mutati Kingdom sent by courier since they did not have nehrcom transceivers) were of interest to Lorenzo, but he always eyed them suspiciously. The shapeshifters were tricky, and had been known to plant false information.

The missive was brief, and he reread it several times, then spoke it aloud with a query in his voice, “‘
Demolio is almost ready
.’” Leaning forward a little, he handed it back to Soro. “What in the inferno does this mean?”

Shrugging, the lanky man responded, “No one knows. It is the first time I have ever heard the word, but it might be a code name for something. Perhaps the letters:
d-e-m-o-l-i-o,
represent a deeper cipher, or an acronym. We are working on it.”

“Well get on with it,” the Doge snapped. He waved a hand dismissively, causing the royal functionary to scurry away.

With a sigh, the aged leader retrieved a rolled parchment from a golden receiving tray at his elbow. He opened the document and let it roll out so that it stretched all the way to the plush crimson carpet at his feet.

The immense chair on which he sat, the legendary Aquastar Throne, had been cut in the shape of a merchant schooner. Presented to Lorenzo the Magnificent by a wealthy nobleman in exchange for the granting of a lucrative trade route, it was the largest piece of blue aquastar ever found, and one of the Wonders of the Galaxy.

At the side of the royal dais and only peripherally noticed by the Doge, his Royal Attaché fidgeted, having signaled that he needed to speak with his superior … an entreaty that had been ignored. Dressed in an oversized gold and platinum robe, Pimyt was a Hibbil, a soft-fleshed creature with black-and-white fur that made him look somewhat like an Earthian panda bear. Despite the cuddly appearance of his galactic race, they were vicious fighters, and extremely fast; no one could outrun them. Over the course of centuries, they had formed political and business alliances with Humans, and were most renowned for their innovative machines, which they manufactured on their Cluster Worlds and provided to Human allies at reasonable costs.

Pimyt was an extraordinary individual. Even though he was not Human, he was so trusted that he had been made the Regent of the Merchant Prince Alliance decades ago, when the princes on the Council of Forty could not agree on the election of a new leader. The aging Hibbil had flecks of gray fur and a thick, salt-and-pepper beard. His red eyes still remained bright and youthful, and at the moment they flashed impatiently as he moved around restlessly. He did not like to be kept waiting, but Doge Lorenzo sometimes made him do so anyway, just to remind him who was in charge.

“Your Magnificence,” Pimyt said, “if you could just … “ He paused, as Lorenzo raised a hand to quiet him, and read the long parchment.

The document was a long list of “requests” from the Princess Meghina of Siriki, whom he had married after divorcing three of his previous five wives and executing two others. He had married all of them for political reasons, to cement alliances between the noble houses and to gain assets. Everything was a business proposition for him, and the current spouse was the most expensive of all. Still, Meghina had undeniable physical talents to go with her excellent pedigree, and he intended to keep her around. This did not mean that he was faithful to her, or that he expected her to be, either. She was, after all, a celebrated courtesan … and they had reached an understanding in the beginning of their relationship that neither of them would ever be tethered. For his own part, Lorenzo had always liked to “dabble” with the females of the various galactic races.

In her mid-thirties, the Royal Consort was much younger than her husband, and he had given her virtually everything. On their wedding day Meghina had asked for her own golden palace, and he had commissioned one for her on the Human-ruled planet of Siriki, complete with two hundred servants and a private zoo of exotic, laboratory-bred animals.

Now she was pressing him for a larger ballroom and a royal hall to entertain important guests. The new construction would require adding another wing onto her palace. She also wanted a more modern stable for her thoroughbred tigerhorses, and sculpted carriages to be pulled by those powerful animals. This would require new access gates for the coaches to enter and leave the grounds, and a spiral ramp to traverse a steep incline down to the cobblestone streets of the village below.

Lorenzo fiddled with the gold medallion that hung from his neck. He was not feeling well this morning, from an attack of the gout. Within the hour his physician had administered a kaser injection, which had dulled, but not eliminated, the pain and swelling in his feet. He took a deep, exasperated breath and continued reading.

Meghina’s document included a construction cost estimate, which he presumed she had inflated grossly—one of her many tricks to extract extra money from him. Adding to the expense, she wanted a fast-paced construction schedule, requiring some of the highest paid artisans in the galaxy. Fortunately, Doge Lorenzo had no shortage of funds. In his position at the top of the merchant prince food chain, he had an efficient tax collection network that brought in a massive flow of money. All of it was managed by his Finance Minister, but the Doge—ever cautious and suspicious—had an elaborate system of checks and balances to prevent embezzlement.

In her transmittal, the Princess explained why it all had to be done quickly. She had given birth to the first of seven daughters for the Doge when she was only fifteen, and now Annyette—the eldest—was making her society debut. The party for her would be a grand affair, with guests invited from most of the galactic races … with the exception of the Mutatis and their allies, of course.

With a sigh of acceptance, Lorenzo signed the parchment and instructed Pimyt to attend to the necessary details. As the Doge gave his orders, it amused him slightly to see the Hibbil twitching and clearing his throat, wishing to say whatever was on his mind but having to wait.

“Yes, yes,” Pimyt said when he had heard the commands. “I will attend to all of them.”

“
Immediately
.”

Confusion reigned in his expression. “Yes, of course, but don’t you wish to hear … “

“One matter at a time. I don’t want anything to be forgotten. You would not wish to displease me or the Princess Meghina, would you?”

Stammering, he replied in a voice that squeaked with agitation: “N-no.”

“Go then, and come back.”

The furry man bowed and scurried away.

When he finally returned, it was nearly lunch time and the Doge could have put him off again. But he did not, and instructed him to speak.

“My Lord, I am sorry to report that Prince Saito Watanabe has been seriously injured and clings to life. He is the victim of an attack on CorpOne by a force of Guardians.”

“Guardians?”

“They call themselves environmental warriors, Sire. They also use the term eco-warriors.”

“Oh yes, now I remember. We only permit them to operate because they are led by Prince Saito’s son. But why would they attack him?”

“No one knows. They have never done anything this rash before. Most of their efforts have been confined to political maneuvering and to ecological restoration projects on distant worlds. On a couple of occasions they have attempted to block certain industrial efforts, demanding changes in corporate practices … but it was our understanding that the Prince was keeping them under rein.”

“Obviously that understanding is wrong.” Lorenzo scowled, and listened as Pimyt provided details on Prince Saito’s medical condition. The corpulent industrialist was an important business and political associate of the Doge, one of the most trusted men in the Merchant Prince Alliance. This was a crisis situation that would require action at the highest level. He knew only too well how fragile allegiances could be.

Shifting on his throne, Lorenzo gazed out a stained glass window high on one wall, through which he could see dark gray clouds hovering. “I need accurate intelligence reports,” he said in a sharp, urgent tone. “Important decisions must be made.”

Chapter Eleven

In the final days of the galaxy, there will be many clever schemes and designs for power.

—Tulyan Prophecy

The Citadel of Paradij was not one of the Wonders of the Galaxy, but only for political reasons that the Zultan resented deeply. The quintessential example of neoclassical Mutati workmanship, the breathtaking structure seemed to float above the rugged surrounding plateau, with slender, glittering spires rising to impossible heights … more ornamentation, it seemed, than practicality. Ordinary Mutati citizens never knew what really went on inside the palatial fortress, where Abal Meshdi kept some of the most remarkable technological devices ever developed. The people could only whisper among themselves, and imagine.

He stood inside a spire on one of the highest levels of the Citadel now, and peered through a window slit at the distant horizon. Silvery gray clouds and the pastel oranges of sunset were darkening, becoming the homogeneous indigo of night. Abal Meshdi liked to watch this transitional process of light into darkness, and the reverse as well, at dawn. It was a cosmic, eternal march of illumination and color. Sometimes he equated his interest with the fact that he was a changeling himself, a Mutati who could metamorphose into a panoply of shapes and functions.

He held the fleshy palm of his third hand against the window, and for several moments felt subtle temperature variations in the clearglax as it grew cooler, despite the warmth of his touch. Intrigued by change in its variety of forms, he had included this as a design feature of the fortress, with tiny sensors in the glax that transmitted data to him.

It was rumored among the common citizens that the spires of the Citadel contained electronic signaling or receiving units, for communicating across the entire galaxy. After all, Humans had the nehrcom instantaneous communication system … and weren’t Mutatis every bit as good as Humans when it came to the latest technological advancements? Hadn’t the Mutati High Command halted the earlier flow of Human military victories, leading to the present stalemate?

He sighed at the questions, knowing there were still doubters among his people, despite his impassioned speeches. At least he had a refuge here from the problems of leadership.

The totality of secrets within the Citadel were known only to the Zultan himself. His closest advisers, as well as the scientists, architects, and builders they employed, knew some of the mysteries, but nowhere near all of them. Ever-wary, the Zultan liked to compartmentalize important information, letting it out piecemeal to those few aides that he trusted the most. In addition, his special police, the Dubak, had surveillance methods that provided him with reports on even the tiniest nooks and crannies of his empire.

Reports, reports, and more reports.

They arrived in a variety of forms, and for decades he had been thriving on the details contained within them. His grandfather once told him, “A ruler is only as good as the information he receives, and only as strong as the organization that supports his power.” It had been excellent advice, and Abal Meshdi had never forgotten it.

This morning, however, he didn’t feel like reading innocuous reports, or even receiving holosummaries of them. Normally he studied information from all over his realm during breakfast, and by midday he decided what to do about most of the matters. He was a leader who made many decisions, but at the moment he didn’t feel like dealing with ordinary activities of state. He almost felt like canceling all of his appointments for the entire day with the exception of the Adurian ambassador who was calling on him … hopefully with progress information on the new doomsday weapon, their joint project.

With a little time available before the arrival of the foreign dignitary, Meshdi strolled around the Citadel and rode the lifts inside the spires to high vantage points, each of which provided him with a slightly different view of the fortress and the surrounding ornamental gardens. Sometimes he needed a break from the flow of information, curtailing its steady inward current. Especially now, after all the time he had spent in coordinating development of the ferocious weapon that would destroy humankind. He did not consider such breaks wasted time; far from it. They restored his mental capacities.

Dressed in a white-and-purple royal cloak, tunic, and matching beret, the Zultan had eight chins of fat beneath a puckish little mouth, a snout, and two oval, bright black eyes. His body, among the largest in the realm, was a lumpy mass of salmon-colored flesh with a broad hump across the shoulders. It had the traditional complement of three slender Mutati arms, along with six stout legs.

Often when he scuttled around the Citadel, he liked to make subtle alterations in his appearance, since it was so pleasurable for a Mutati to shapeshift. Large changes were extremely gratifying while small ones were lesser, but still sensual, joys. A complete transformation in the way he looked, however, could send a Mutati into waves of hedonistic ecstasy, from which he might not emerge for hours or even days on end. The Zultan, ever conscious of this and of the priorities required of his position, could not afford such a diversion now, not with the important visitor about to arrive.

As Meshdi exited the lift at the base of a spire, he scurried through a wide corridor. Set up on a grand scale, the main passageways of the Citadel of Paradij were as wide as boulevards. Commensurately, the ceilings in the great rooms were as high as government buildings, and were adorned with frescoes, lacy platinum filigrees, and even necropaintings, a macabre Mutati art style in which the artists prepared their pigments from the bone powders of Human corpses.

As the royal personage rounded a corner, he used his Mutati mental powers to shift his facial appearance slightly, adding one more fatty chin … so that he now had nine of them instead of eight. Just ahead, a black-uniformed guard noticed the alteration, and stared more closely than usual when the immense leader passed by, so that the guard saw beyond the outer shell of the Mutati leader and analyzed the spectral aura beneath.

Satisfied at the identity of his superior, the guard nodded stiffly and looked away.

On a whim, Abal Meshdi whirled and returned. He stood in front of the guard and studied him closely, peering all the way to the glowing yellow aura beyond the skin. “Is that really you in there, Beaustan?”

“I am here, Sire,” the guard said, with the faintest hint of a smile. He tapped the butt of his jolong rifle once on the floor, a gesture of respect. For a Mutati, Beaustan was small, weighing only around one hundred and fifty kilograms. He had obtained his position by family connections, and was descended from a long line of loyal guards.

“I have a better idea,” the Zultan said. “I don’t feel much like attending to my duties today, so let’s trade places.” As he said this, he began unsnapping the golden clasps of his royal cloak.

“You want me to meet with the ambassador, too, Sire?” The guard looked shocked and frightened.

“Yes, he’s scheduled to arrive at any moment. I think you’ll do a fine job.”

“But Sire, I am a much smaller terramutati than you are. Even if I shapeshifted to look like you to an outsider, I would not have the requisite mass.”

“You aren’t proficient at puffing up, expanding your cells? No? Well then, just tell him you’ve been on a diet. He can’t see your aura, won’t know the difference. It will be a good test to determine how smart he is, to see if he really believes it.”

“Sire, I am not trained in diplomatic matters. I do not have your consummate interpersonal skills, and I do not wish to cause a galactic incident by making a major faux pas.”

“You are much too intelligent to be a guard,” Abal Meshdi said, nodding. “I have known that for some time. Perhaps I can find some more suitable job for you in my administration.”

“I am happy wherever you assign me, Sire.” He smiled nervously. “With certain exceptions, of course.”

At that moment a white-uniformed aide ran through the corridor. Stopping in front of the Zultan he saluted and said, “The Adurian ambassador has arrived, Sire.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Meshdi said.

When the aide was out of earshot, the Zultan re-secured his tunic and said, “Perhaps you are right, Beaustan. We wouldn’t want to create an embarrassing incident.”

With a noticeable sigh of relief, the guard nodded, and stood even more rigidly at attention than before.

Actually, the Zultan had not intended to trade places with an underling. He had simply made the ludicrous suggestion on impulse, using absurdity to relieve (albeit only slightly) the matters that weighed so heavily on his mind. The Mutati leader was not known to have a sense of humor, which undoubtedly contributed to the confusion of the guard.

Meshdi shrugged his entire body in the way he had been trained to do by his dancée master, a spiritual counselor who taught him time-honored ways of controlling the mind and body. But even the most skilled dancée instructor could only do so much.

In his position, the Zultan needed more, and his magnificent gyrodome usually provided what he needed. He would reenter it later this evening.

* * * * *

In Abal Meshdi’s opulent Salutation Chamber he greeted Ambassador VV Uncel of the Adurian Nebula, a region of spiral arm star systems. This large room in the west wing of the Citadel featured a mosaic dome, with rabesk designs on eight interior columns that supported the dome’s weight. Statues of great Mutati statesmen filled alcoves around the perimeter of the room, next to high-backed merchant prince chairs that had been taken from the Humans in one of the Mutati military victories. Even the most petite Mutatis were too big to sit on these exquisitely-carved articles of furniture, but Meshdi liked to keep them around for display anyway, as reminders of past successes.

Larger, more practical chairs stood on an orange-carpeted section at the center of the chamber, furniture that had deep cushions bearing the likenesses of legendary Mutati rulers. The Zultan pointed in that direction, and led the way.

The Adurian diplomat had arrived with two attendants, who waited off to one side with a heavy gold and crystal chest, which they held by the handles with considerable difficulty. Like his assistants, Uncel was a hairless homopod, a mixture of mammalian and insectoid features with a small head, bulbous eyes, and no bodily hair. Dressed in a tight black suit and long white cape, the Ambassador’s skin was, in contrast, a bright patchwork of pink, blue, green and red caste markings. The intense colors and arrangements symbolized his high social status, but the large chair made him look very small.

VV Uncel waited while a servant brought two trays filled with tiny ceramic cups of irdol, an imported wine that was reputed to enhance virility. One tray was placed in front of each of the dignitaries. Quickly, the Zultan quaffed a cup of the bright orange liquid, then hurled it to the floor with a small crash, grabbed another and drank it too, before his visitor had even reached for one.

The Adurian dignitary rubbed his wiry fingers together, making a grating sound, as if a microphone had been placed next to an insect. “I shall partake of your fine wine,” he said in his whiny alien accent, “but first allow me to present you with a gift.” He nodded toward his two attendants.

At his signal the homopods stepped forward, carrying the heavy chest. They set it down on the thick carpeting in front of Abal Meshdi and swung open the lid.

After discarding his irdol cup, the Zultan leaned forward expectantly and looked inside. Seeing a pale blue polyplax bubble sitting on black velvmink, he wondered if this was a prototype of the terrible weapon. He had been told that the device was easily transportable, but had no idea what it actually looked like. The Adurians, with their inventive and manufacturing skills, were building it on one of their industrial planets, using funds provided by the Mutatis.

“Is this a Demolio?” Abal Meshdi whispered. His ring-bedecked fingers danced over the top of the box. He wanted to touch the object, but was not entirely certain if it was a prototype.

Uncel laughed with an abruptness that startled the Zultan, causing him to recoil, and then to scowl.

“Certainly not,” the diplomat said, in a squeaky voice. “This is a portable version of the full-size gyrodome that we gave you earlier. We call it a minigyro, and soon it will be the most prized thought-enhancement device in the entire galaxy. Everyone will want one, but few will be able to afford them. The gold and crystal chest is yours as well, with my personal compliments.”

“But I thought you were bringing me news of my Demolio program.”

“My apologies, Zultan. Did someone say I was?”

“No, but I assumed … the last reports I received said that it was very close to completion, requiring only a few more tests and some fine tuning. I thought you were bringing me the good news that it is ready.”

“I am not a scientist, but I can report that I too have heard the same thing. I would be happy to check immediately upon my return and get right back to you. Will that be satisfactory?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Meshdi felt flush in the face, from embarrassment. He reached into the box and brought forth the polyplax bubble, which was lightweight.

“Here, permit me to show you how it works,” Uncel said. “It is a minigyro, a small version of the gyro we gave you earlier.”

“I can do it myself,” the Zultan responded, for he was quite proud of his ability to figure things out. Soon, however, he gave up the effort. With an awkward grin, he shrugged and waved all three of his arms.

The Adurians were always creating new, wondrous objects from their marvelous collective imagination, often involving biological and biotech products. Like a small child, Meshdi was intrigued by the polyplax bubble. He felt a rush of excitement, and his pulse quickened.

“You wear it like this,” the Adurian explained, as he placed the minigyro high on the Zultan’s forehead, where it stuck to the skin with suction. When the device made contact it flashed on, bathing the Zultan’s flesh-fat face in spinning circles of multicolored light.