Authors: Walter Jon Williams
“I suppose—” he smiled “—it would be pointless to ask whether you have the Shard with you.”
Her violet eyes sparkled. “I suppose it would,” she said.
He bowed easily, conceding the point. Geoff Fu George was a compact, assured man of forty. His long blond hair (some of it, by now, implanted) was held with diamond pins and trailed down his back. He had been on top of the burglars' ratings for six years, since the Affaire of the Mirrorglass BellBox had put him solidly on top. His hairstyle was almost trademarked. He had once been asked to join the Diadem, and he had declined. The resulting sensation had assured him more celebrity than he would have received had he accepted.
“Will you take my arm?” he asked. “I was about to head for the Casino.”
“With pleasure.”
“I noticed that the station network ran a history of the Eltdown Shard earlier this afternoon. I suppose that could be a coincidence.”
“I daresay.” Smiling.
Through his jacket, Roberta could feel the outline of his gun against her arm. The corridor to the Casino was covered in a deep carpet woven of Kharolton moth wings. The wallpaper was patterned on the Cerulean Corridor in the City of Seven Bright Rings. The molding was blanch-tree from Andover. Clearly Baron Silverside had spared no expense.
“I understand the customs people are unusually strict here on station,” Roberta said. “I hope you haven’t been inconvenienced.”
“Only slightly. Still, I thought they were more officious than necessary. I shall speak to Baron Silverside when I see him.”
A Cygnus robot passed them on its silent repellers. Its carapace gleamed in the subdued light.
“I understand you're racing tomorrow. I hope to watch, if circumstances permit.”
Roberta gave him a sidelong look. “You don’t want to take advantage of my being busy?”
He seemed off ended. “Your grace,” he said. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your debut.”
“Thank you.” Surprised. “That's a kind thought.”
“Just because I steal,” said Fu George stiffly, “doesn’t mean I’m a cad.”
*
“Robot,” said Gregor Norman. “I wonder if you could direct me to the Casino.”
“Certainly, sir. Follow this corridor to the main lounge. Take the third arch on the right. It’s marked with the ideogram for ‘luck’.”
“Thank you. Excuse me, but I think you have something on your carapace.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Only too.” Meaning, only too happy.
*
Gregor deftly inserted the programming needle, gave the carapace a pat, then slipped the needle out. He and the robot parted company. At the first turning, he met a man in a loud jacket. The man was holding a notebook and looking at something therein with apparent delight.
“Mr. Dolfuss,” Gregor said, and nodded.
“Mr. Norman.” Nodding back.
Both went on their way, smiling.
*
Zoot paced back and forth in his room, then stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. His ears twitched uncomfortably. His diaphragm throbbed in resignation, and he resumed his pacing.
What the hell should he wear? That was the difficulty.
All the Diadem's advance people were humans, that was the problem. They didn’t understand.
The advance people wanted him to wear his exploring togs. In the
lounge!
Before
dinner!
His conservative Khosali soul was appalled by the idea. Wearing the environment suit seemed like an insult to Silverside and all it stood for: restraint, elegance, High Custom. But yet the Diadem people had seemed so certain that the suit was what his public expected from him.
A leaden distress settled in his soul. He looked at himself in the mirror again, seeing the trademark dark-grey environment suit with its pockets, its analyzers, its force-field repellers. His nostrils flared; his ears turned back.
“Room,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Twenty-five thirteen Imperial Standard,” said the room.
Zoot growled happily. Dinner would begin in just over an hour: there wasn’t time to be seen in the lounge before he'd have to come back to the room to change. His hesitation had saved him.
“Room,” he said. “Send a robot to help me dress.”
He could have asked for one of the Diadem people, but they'd do nothing but set his nerves on edge.
*
The Casino featured the cool, respectful sound of money being lost. Not much money yet: the night was young and many guests had not yet arrived.
“Your grace,” said Geoff Fu George, “may I present Pearl Woman and Mr. Drake Maijstral. Sir and madam, the Duchess of Benn.”
“Your very obedient, your grace,” said Maijstral. Roberta thought she could see a gleam of interest in Maijstral’s hooded eyes before he sniffed her ears.
“Another man I’ve always expected to meet. My pleasure, sir.”
“Your grace.” Another set of sniffs. “May I present my companion, Advert.”
“Miss Advert.”
“Your very obedient, your grace.”
Pearl Woman gave Roberta a calculated look. “I understand you will be racing tomorrow.”
“Yes. A small amateur field.”
“Perhaps I will enter.”
Roberta smiled inwardly. A Diadem member would attract more attention to the race, hence to herself. The whole point of being here, after all, was to be noticed.
“I hope you shall. The company will be all the more distinguished by your presence.”
“Perhaps you might be interested in a small side wager?”
“If it wouldn’t compromise my amateur standing.”
“I’m sure it would not.”
“In that case, yes. Five novae?”
“Let's make it twenty.”
“If you like.”
Pearl Woman showed delicate incisors that matched her earring. “Done,” she said.
Maijstral and Geoff Fu George exchanged handclasps while Pearl Woman spoke with Roberta. Maijstral offered two fingers and got one in return. It was, he reflected, nothing more than what he had expected.
Both men smiled. Their smiles lacked warmth.
“Maijstral,” said Fu George, “have you heard the rumors coming out of the Constellation Practices Authority?”
“Referring to Allowed Burglary.”
“Yes. They're considering an outright condemnation.”
“That,” said Maijstral, “could be unfortunate.”
“They could put us in prison. Just for practicing our profession. We'd all have to move to the Empire. And I don’t know about
you,
Maijstral—” smiling, a bit more warmly “—but I
like
being a member of the majority species. Call me parochial if you like.”
“The Constellation suits my temperament as well, Fu George.”
“Then you'll join in the Burglars' Association? We're going to try to head this off before it gets out of committee.”
Maijstral sighed. “I suppose I must.”
“This is no time to be a maverick, Maijstral. Personal style is one thing; survival is quite another. Aldiss is holding the treasury. I hope we can count on a generous contribution, “ A thin smile. ' “The Sporting Commission has agreed to count it for points.”
Another sigh, this one purely internal. “A generous contribution. Yes.”
Geoff Fu George smiled again. Maijstral fancied he could feel its warmth on his skin. “I knew you would understand, once this was put to you in person. Aldiss told me he had the damndest time getting ahold of you by post. Even Very Private Letters seemed not to get through.”
“My life has been irregular, of late.”
Fu George glanced at Roberta. “I wonder if the Shard is on station?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“I am very interested in the answer to that question, Maijstral. Very.”
Maijstral gave him a look. His green eyes seemed less lazy than before. “Does that mean I am supposed to be uninterested?”
Fu George shook his head. “Not at all, old man. I was just talking to myself.” He stood on tiptoe and craned his head across the Casino. “Ah. I believe I see Miss Runciter. Have you met her? Oh. I forget. Sorry, Maijstral. Tactless of me.”
“No need to apologize.”
“I should join her. You will excuse me?”
“Certainly.” He offered Fu George his hand. One finger, as was no doubt proper.
*
Mr. Sun sat quietly in his blue heaven, awaiting information. He pictured himself as a spider in its lair, his fingers dancing on threads, each thread a monitor, a functionary.
The spider would never leave its home. Information would flow in, the spider would weigh it, judge it, define a response. Mr. Sun felt himself centered, ready, alive.
“Third ship's arriving, sir.
Viscount Cheng.”
Khamiss’s sharp Khosali face hovered holographically to one side of Mr. Sun's monitors. Mr. Sun turned to face his assistant. There was a congregation of thieves in the Casino, and he was reluctant to face away.
“The Drawmiikh is aboard this one, sir,” Khamiss said.
“I am aware of that, Miss Khamiss,” Sun snapped. His irritation was feigned: he really didn’t mind her reminding him of things he hadn’t actually forgotten, since this gave him a chance to impress listeners with the acuity of his memory.
“I want you to take charge of the Qlp party personally,” he said. “I don’t know what the creature is doing here, but I don’t want incidents.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take particular care, Khamiss.”
“Very well, sir.”
Her head vanished. Sun, with a happy sigh, returned to his monitors.
The burglars were talking as if they were old friends. Sun felt a grim satisfaction. If he had anything to say about it, talking was all they'd ever do.
Sun was on a mission, he considered, from God. Since the Rebellion, humanity had been asserting itself in the reaches, and had also been rediscovering its own suppressed heritage. Along with other rediscoveries—Shakspere, Congo Veiling, Sherlock Holmes, and so on—ancient philosophies had been recovered. Mr. Sun had absorbed two of these. Besides becoming an ardent Holmes fan—the Manichean duality of Holmes and Mortality appealed to him—Sun had become an adherent of a recently excavated creed called the New Puritanism.
Refined to its essence, the New Puritanism believed that every act had its cost, that everything had to be paid for. Sin was the occasion of a cosmic imbalance, and if the sinner didn’t commit some act to compensate, the Almighty would do it for him; and the Almighty didn’t care who got hurt in the process—God, according to the New Puritanism, didn’t much care who got squashed when the Sin Balance was sufficiently out of alignment: He’d flatten anybody, sinner and nonsinner alike.
Mr. Sun hoped, in the small matter of Allowed Burglary, to be the Almighty's instrument in the business of flattening the wicked. Fu George and Maijstral had been sinning far too long; it was time, Sun was certain, they paid for it before some innocent party did the paying for them.
Khamiss watched her superior's face fade away, replaced by a holographic ideogram meaning “may I be of assistance?” She told the machine that it couldn’t, and the ideogram disappeared.
Behind her, a woodwind quartet was setting up for the arrival of the next ship. Tuning, a bassoon bubbled away.
Khamiss straightened her uniform and squared her cap, awaiting the next ship and its cargo. She was young for the amount of responsibility she bore—she had just grown her fist nose-rings, which proclaimed her age as twenty-five— and she was acutely aware of the burden of Sun's trust. She was second-in-command of security at the most exclusive resort in the known universe, and she fully intended to prove worthy of the task.
She glanced down at her medal and brushed it lightly with her fingers. The Qwarism Order of Public Service (Second Class), awarded her when she had stopped a fleeing burglar and held her prisoner for the authorities.
Khamiss had been a student at the time, studying to follow her parents' footsteps as an insurance broker for the three-century-old firm of Lewis, Khotvinn, & Co. How could she have known, when she was strolling home from school and happened to notice a small hologram-shrouded figure ghosting over the wall of the Reed Jewelry building, that it was an incident that would change her life forever?
It was luck that she happened to be carrying a briefcase heavy with insurance forms. It was luck that her first swing caught the camouflaged burglar square on the head and knocked her unconscious. But still, it wasn’t the capture of just any thief that awarded her the Order of Public Service (Second Class).
Khamiss had caught (complete with a satchel full of gem-stones that included the famous Zenith Blue) none other than Alice Manderley, renowned Allowed Burglar listed third in the ratings, a burglar whom the security services of fifty worlds had been unable to apprehend. Khamiss suddenly found herself a civilization-wide celebrity. Offers of employment appeared, and some of them were too good to pass up.
The most interesting had come from Mr. Sun, who was assembling a top-notch crew of security people which would offer its combined expertise to the elite throughout the civilized stars. Sun promised quick advancement, that and commissions for some of the most exotic and influential people in the Human Constellation.
Khamiss had done well in Sun's employment, though she hadn’t caught any more top-ranked Allowed Burglars. But now, on Silverside Station, she had a very good chance.
Silverside Station had been designed partly as a deterrent to Allowed Burglary. Sun, who viewed Allowed Burglars with a particularly thoroughgoing aversion, had convinced Baron Silverside that Allowed Burglary ought to be abolished, and Silverside had given Mr. Sun a free hand in designing the station's security systems.
Sun was going after the burglars with all his cunning, all his intelligence, all the techniques he had created and savored over the years. Khamiss was going to help him.
But still, Khamiss couldn’t find it in her soul to pursue the matter with quite as much alacrity as her employer. Had she known it was Alice Manderley in the darksuit and not some local thug, she might, in fact, have passed the woman by. She bore the institution of Allowed Burglary no grudge, nor any of its members.
But still, duty called. And tracking the burglars, she admitted, might just be fun.
Holograms announced the
Viscount Cheng
’s successful docking. The woodwind quartet began to play. Khamiss nodded in time to the beat, and waited for the first wave of passengers.