The View from the Imperium (48 page)

The guards bundled the silently protesting Zembke back into the cells. The door slid shut on him. He had time to turn a beseeching face toward DeKarn. She knew what he feared. She had to find a way to ensure the safety of his family. She would do that, no matter what happened to her. In the meantime, she had to follow her instructions. The guards restored her pocket screen to her. A message scroll in the center of the window immediately blinked for attention.

She tilted it against her body so she could just see it. A green message window opened. In it, a flicker became an image. Colm! It was gone again in a split second, but she was certain it was he. She hoped that the TU people had not seen it. By their faces, they had not.

Colm! Bless him. He was there somewhere, very close by. She felt comforted. Was it he who had sent the message?
Help was coming
. Where from? In what form? Had he made it to the Imperium and back again? Was this envoy the help?

Everyone’s communicators buzzed. Another green-flagged message opened. It was Sgarthad. He smiled unctuously.

“It is my pleasure to invite you all to the spaceport to meet a distinguished visitor. I know you will all be on your best behavior. He should experience only the serenity that has been the hallmark of this splendid world for the last four months. Please be here in twenty minutes.”

Marden looked up from his screen, outraged.

“We will not!”

“You want to go back in your cell?” the burly man asked, bored. “Don’t you want a chance to have a decent meal?”

“What choice do we have?” Nineteen asked, her eyes flashing.

“None,” the man said. Their anger amused him.

“Wait a moment,” DeKarn said, coming to look the chief guard in the eyes. “I want to see the ambassador. I know you must have her imprisoned here, too. I want to make certain she is well.”

“What you want don’t matter. Move it. We’re gonna be late.” He gestured to the guards, who each took one of the councillors by the arm and shoved them toward the door. DeKarn marched grimly forward.

Chapter 29

Crowds gathered upon the curbs shouted and cheered as we passed by in open-topped cars. I smiled and waved to everyone, reveling in the acclaim. We made quite a parade, a tail of eight vehicles the size of goods transports. Parsons stood tall and forbidding just behind me, unmoving even when the car hit bumps in the ancient stone roads. The rest of my staff was in cars following ours. All of them, especially Nesbitt, were enjoying themselves as much as I was, making encouraging gestures to the happy people who had come to see us. To be the sinecure of all eyes was a pleasant experience. I could not help but find pleasure in a new world, with new landscape and colors and customs. Every face beaming at us from the edge of the road was covered in etchings of color in patterns ranging from a simple stripe over the nose of a baby in arms to full-face tattoos in rainbow hues. It was rather like looking at a catalog of wallpaper samples with eyes and cheering mouths.

It was not all adulation, of course. I had to pay attention as my hosts, the five councillors of the planet Boske, remarked upon every single feature that ran between the spaceport and the center of Pthohannix, a tongue-twister of a name. I could have done without the travelogue, but they seemed desperate to make a good impression with me. We passed through echoing canyons of tall, glass-sided buildings. It seemed curiously old-fashioned to me. Most of the architecture harkened back to Imperium designs, but the newest structures had a less coherent style than the older ones, as if the most recent builders were attempting to make a statement but were uncertain as to its reception with the public. Open spaces were laid out at major crossroads and tucked in between high buildings.

“We pride ourselves on our community gardens,” the young man known as Five said, pointing to one of the larger areas. “It’s a little late for the roses, but you should see them when they’re in bloom.”

I surveyed bare thorns and gave him a weak smile. I was not terribly impressed with the streets of Boske. Backwater was the first word that sprang to mind, though not to tongue. I would not have dared. My training as a scion of the Imperial house would have prevented it, if not the withering glance of Parsons that would have struck me dead. But everything was so desperately old-fashioned I felt as though I should revert to ancient forms of our standard tongue and use the appropriate antique pronoun forms. But our hosts did not speak that way, so I restrained myself.

Four, a pop-eyed woman in her middle years wearing curlicues of orange over her cheeks, pointed out the well-kept transportation system with pride. I nodded as she described how the light rail systems ran in tracks that had been slagged out of native bedrock a millennium ago. We in the Core Worlds had stopped using slot trains ages back when magnetic impulse tracks were perfected that could be virtually painted upon any surface, and the car systems would follow, traveling upon them with no trouble. They were safe to walk upon, even to touch one’s tongue to—not that I would admit to a living soul I had ever done that on a bet, though I had. I’d won ten credits from Xan for doing it. It hadn’t hurt at all, however foul it had tasted.

For the sake of my hosts I was as encouraging and fascinated as I could manage. The people were kind and welcoming, though I also sensed an underlying hostility like an itchy undergarment impinging upon me in many uncomfortable ways from a handful of the councillors. Parsons had warned me about that as well. I’d never been anywhere that the emperor’s name was not met with a smile and often a sigh of pleasure. Now that I knew the reason, or one of the reasons, why, I wondered if the genetic changes had been bred out of the Cluster population over the two centuries, or if the festering resentment overpowered the artificial biological imperative. Most of the anger in our ground car came from the First Councillor, a mild-looking older woman with blue tattoos in an almost floral pattern over a curiously pasty complexion. When she spoke, she was warm and kindly, but as soon as silence fell, so did the curtain of anger.

The hostility was even more palapable when we joined the rest of the council in the grand room at the governor’s palace which had been tricked out for an elaborate ceremony of welcome. Round tables for six were laid with brilliant white tablecloths and gleaming silver and crystal. Hangings from the ceilings, divisible by eight, depicted the flags of each of the Cluster systems. I knew them all from my studies. Parsons had been nothing if not thorough. At one end of the room, a podium upon a dais backed by pennants of blue silk was lit by two enormous projection lamps.

“I hoped I will not be called upon to make a speech,” I whispered to Parsons.

“It is customary, sir. You have your notes.”

I did, of course. I had worked upon them cursorily during our journey, but having prepared them I counted on not having to make use of them, in much the same fashion as carrying an umbrella ensured that it would not rain.

Parsons made introductions, and I did my best to recall all the names and/or numbers as they were given to me by wave after wave of notables, including the rest of the council who had been in the cars behind mine. I paid small compliments as I could. How I wished I had had access to the military codes that allowed me to unlock Infogrid files! That is, if they also opened Cluster Grid entries. It had worked so well on Smithereen, allowing me to connect to my new acquaintances as if they were friends. I kept the memory of that warm glow in mind as I shook cold hands, paws and claws. Plet, somewhere in the crowd, was on the job, seeking to find her way past the safeguards and firewalls of the local system. Her most important task, of course, was to discover the whereabouts of our missing ambassador. I tried to behave as if I was not desperately curious about what she had found every time her right eyebrow went up. I met humans by the score, a few Wichus and Uctus, but the most fascinating beings were the Cocomons, human-sized insects with bright blue carapaces and eyes. They were startlingly beautiful. I ordered my cameras to take as many exposures of them as they could without being too obvious.

There was nothing particularly exotic about the cluster. The most notable thing about the human population was the tattoos. Since the noble house was not permitted to make facial alterations of any kind (for reasons I now knew), I found it startling to see perfectly normal eyes looking at me out of wildly colorful masks. Most were just a design on the apples of the cheeks and over the bridge of the nose, but some covered every morsel of facial flesh. I had to pretend that I was at a costume ball, so I would not make a rude remark. I was made known to the governor, a prosperous and intelligent-looking man whose dark eyes peered out of a nest of red and black slashes. I took dozens of images so I could study them later on.

A handful of the forty councillors, including the woman in blue, spoke to me as little as possible. Most of the ruling body adored me on sight, which though I now knew would happen I found both gratifying and unsettling. Most of them paid compliments on my tunic, giving me an excuse to describe my home city and the beauties therein.

“I have many files of pictures and video from Taino that you will enjoy. I will show you all later on,” I promised. They expressed themselves delighted for the upcoming treat.

Most of the underlying anger flared when a tall, broad-shouldered man in the uniform of the Trade Union entered the room. He looked as grand as the surroundings. Those members of the council who had shown me friendliness went straight to him like dogs to their master. He greeted them briefly but with warmth, then broke loose to approach me.

“Lord Thomas, this is a pleasure,” he boomed. “I am Captain Emile Sgarthad. Welcome to the Castaway Cluster!”

My new friend was a big, handsome man with blue eyes, straight brows, a mighty jaw and a face as devoid of decoration as my own. The way he grasped my hand told me he had all the self-confidence in the world. He stared deeply into my eyes as if searching for something there. I regarded him affably. He frowned.

“I am pleased to meet you,” I said. “May I introduce my staff?”

“Of course,” Sgarthad said, beaming at them. “But I know them already from your manifest. Lieutenant Plet, Ensign Redius, Spacer First Class Oskelev, Ensign Nesbitt, Ensign Anstruther, and Commander Parsons.”

“Indeed, sir,” Parsons said, giving him a more austere look than I thought appropriate. I almost nudged him. My staff saluted him politely. He seemed to expect more. He turned back to me.

“I hear you are an accomplished tri-tennis player,” he said, slapping me companionably on the back. “So am I. We must have a match while you are here!”

“It would be my pleasure,” I said, feeling cheered.

“And a wit with a story, I hear, too?” An elbow found its way to my ribs. Sgarthad barked out laughter.

“Modesty forbids me . . .” I said, lowering my eyes so as not to seem too forward.

“Don’t let it, sir. I look forward to hearing some of your stories. If you will pardon me, I have some preparations to make before we begin.”

“Of course, Captain,” I said, with a graceful bow. I did not understand why some of the people here disliked him. He seemed very friendly.

“No tattoos, he,” Redius whispered.

“No,” Plet said. “He is not concealing at all that he is not one of them. Nor are those guards.”

“Very likeable fellow,” I said. “Quite a winning way about him. We seem to have all the same interests.”

Plet looked long-suffering. “He went through your Infogrid file, sir. I checked for hits on it since you offered your credentials.”

My companions grinned at me.

“Oh.” I turned to Parsons. “What is your impression of him, Parsons?”

“He seems born to command, sir,” Parsons replied. “I believe you asked so I would repeat the question to you, sir. What is
your
impression?”

“He looks,” I said ruefully, “exactly like my cousin Xan. Girls must fall all over him.”

“Indeed, sir,” Parsons said. “It is not a matter to bring up to a fellow diplomat.”

“Not before casual drinks, at any rate,” I mused. Parsons raised an eyebrow. “I see. I’ll wait for him to bring it up himself, shall I?”

“That would be tactful, my lord.”

I waxed thoughtful, thinking of our exchange. “He hasn’t got Xan’s inner poise, though,” I said. “He is trying too hard. I wonder why.”

“Perhaps you make him nervous, sir,” Parsons said. He tilted his head a micron to indicate a Cocomon in formal attire who was waving his claw-hands in the air. “The master of ceremonies is signaling to us. We should take our places, sir.”

I followed my aide-de-camp to a prominent position on the lit dais. We stood at the fore of the round stage beside Sgarthad and the governor in front of the rows of councillors.

My good mood lasted perhaps another four minutes. Then the banners at the rear of the stage went up, revealing a full orchestra in formal attire. They struck up the first anthem.

Anthems, I firmly believe, are written as instruments of torture. They are pieces of music like terrible, painful worms that insinuate themselves and wind painfully through one’s internal organs, rending nerve tissue as they go. I find them acutely uncomfortable to listen to, as would all normal, right-thinking people. Once the orchestra had played the “Glory of the Imperium,” I felt the relief that a prisoner must experience upon being released from a long and unfair incarceration. I was about to move toward my hosts to offer the elaborate compliments incumbent upon me as representative of His Imperiality, when another blaring chord issued from the speakers. I shot a look of horror at Parsons. He shook his head a millimeter to either side, warning me not to move.

“It is the Castaway Cluster’s theme, ‘Frontier of the Unknown,’ ” he said. “You listened to it on our journey here.” I put my ear to the test. After a screeching bar or two, I did recognize it. It possessed even fewer of the soaring crescendos that made “Glory of the Imperium” unsingable by any human who had not been trained in opera, but it was still awful. Then followed one after another eight more shards of music so terrifying that I assumed they had been written as part of a bet to see who could insult the audience the most. Tears filled my eyes with every fresh shriek.