Authors: Walter Jon Williams
She took a breath and gazed into the awful loupe over Kyoko’s eye. Terror touched her nerves with its delicate sable brush. “My pleasure, Miss Asperson. Shall we walk toward the lounge?”
“As you like.”
Never, Advert thought, had a provincial accent sounded so ominous.
*
“Zoot! I hardly recognized you.”
A surprised reply. “Sir?”
“Without your jacket, I mean.”
“Oh. It’s not really suitable for this lounge, I thought.”
“I suppose. But I really expected to see you in it. My name's Dolfuss, by the way. Your obedient.“Yours.”
“Could I have your autograph?”
“Honored, sir.”
“I was very disappointed Nichole isn’t going to be here. She's one of my biggest fans. I mean—well, you know what I mean.”
“I liked her last play very much.”
“Saw that. Didn’t care for it myself. Didn’t seem to be the real
Nichole.”
A short beat's pause. “Rather thought that was the point.”
“Well. Shouldn’t keep you. Thanks so much.”
Zoot watched the man bustling away. His ears were down, and his diaphragm spasmed twice in resignation. Were his public
all
like this?
Perhaps, he thought guiltily, his advance people were right, and he should have worn the jacket.
Too late now. He adjusted the laces on his (perfectly conventional) dinner jacket and strolled toward the lounge.
*
“Don’t alter your arrangements in any way,” Maijstral said. “Just keep me informed of what they are.”
“At present,” said Roberta Altunin, the Duchess of Benn, “my arrangements consist of six very large Khosali with guns.”
“Presumably they will not be on duty tomorrow night.”
“No. They won’t,” She looked at him with a smile and clicked a pair of tiles together. “This is fun, you know.”
Maijstral’s expression was opaque. “Sixteen, your grace,” he said, and placed a tile.
Roberta’s smile broadened. “I was waiting for that.” She turned over tiles. “There's thirty-two, and forty-eight, and sixty-four. And here's the Pierrot, so that's doubled to a hundred twenty-eight.”
Maijstral surveyed the table and let out a long breath.
“I’m afraid that's consummation.” He turned over his remaining tiles. Resigned to his loss, he picked up a polychip from its rack, then touched to its smooth black surface a stylus that permanently rearranged its molecules. He wrote the amount, an ideogram that stood for “I.O.U.,” then pressed his thumbprint to the back.
“Your grace,” he said, offering it.
She accepted it. “I’m very good at things I care about,” she said. “One of them is winning.”
“I am beginning to understand that.”
“Another game?”
Maijstral smiled thinly. “I think not, your grace. People in my profession shouldn’t use up their quota of luck in games of chance.”
She laughed. “I suppose not. Good lord. What's that smell?”
People in the Casino began exclaiming and pointing. Maijstral leaned back in surprise at what he saw over Roberta’s right shoulder. Roberta turned around to observe the astonishing sight of Lord Qlp oozing toward her, accompanied by two Khosali, a tall, expressionless female with a translation stud and a small female in the uniform of station security. The smaller of the pair was craning her head, turning left and right. An expression of relief entered her face. “Robot!” she called, and waved a hand.
Lord Qlp undulated to Roberta’s side and made a squelching noise. She tried not to shrink back from the appalling smell.
“Your grace,” said the tall Khosalikh, “allow me to present Lord Qlp.” She was speaking High Khosali.
“Your servant,” returned Roberta, denasal. She looked for ears to sniff and found none. She made an approximation and dipped her head twice. To inhale at all required a steely act of will that excited Maijstral’s admiration.
The tall Khosalikh spoke. “I am Lady Dosvidern, Lord Qlp’s translator and companion.”
“My lady.”
Lord Qlp lifted its forward half and burbled briefly. Lady Dosvidern folded her hands and translated. “The Protocols are in accord. Movement is propitious. The time of delivery has arrived.”
Roberta looked at Maijstral for help. His ears flicked back and forth, indicating his own bafflement. “How nice,” Roberta finally said.
Lord Qlp lowered its end to the floor and made loud, moist noises. Roberta felt warm breath on her ankles and drew them back. The Khosalikh in the security uniform, thankfully standing away, was lighting a cigar with a relieved expression.
Something thudded onto the carpet. “Oh,” said Roberta.
Lord Qlp had just disgorged a hard, moist, glistening lump, about the size of two fists placed side-by-side.
Roberta stared at it. Lord Qlp reared up again and made a loud bellowing noise which Lady Dosvidern declined to translate.
There was a long pause. Maijstral observed a general movement toward the Casino's exits. He longed to join the crowd, but knew it would seem impolite to leave Roberta in the lurch.
It apparently occurred to Roberta that Lord Qlp was waiting for something. She looked up at it.
“Thank you,” she said.
Without saying anything further, Lord Qlp turned and began to move toward the exit. It was followed by Lady Dosvidern and the security guard, puffing smoke.
Roberta called to a robot. “Please have this . . . object . . . delivered to my room,” she said. The robot lifted the thing in its beams and moved toward an exit.
Maijstral stood and offered an arm. “Perhaps,” he said, “we might look for some fresh air.”
Roberta rose. “Thank you,” she said.
“You handled that very well, your grace.”
Roberta was surprised. “You think so? I just ... reacted.”
“Your instincts, if you don’t mind my saying so, were impeccable.”
“Well,” she said, putting her arm through his, “let's hope this sort of thing doesn’t go on all the rest of my stay.”
*
The Cygnus delivered its burden into the reluctant hands of Roberta’s lady's maid, and then began its return to the Casino.
On the way, it suddenly stopped, turned toward the wall, and used its beams to manipulate several hidden catches. The wall swung open, revealing a passage. The robot entered.
*
Alarms called urgently from Mr. Sun's console. He scanned his board and noticed that both Maijstral and Geoff Fu George had left the areas covered by his monitors. A tight smile moved across Mr. Sun's countenance. He pressed the ideogram for “general announcement.” It was time for the Almighty to get a little of His own back.
“Strawberry Section, Access Tunnel Twelve.” His voice was triumphant. “Watsons,” he said, “the game's afoot!”
CHAPTER 2
Khosali High Custom allows people, within certain well-defined limits, to steal for a living; and the societies of the Human Constellation, for lack of anything better after several thousand years of Khosali rule, follow High Custom. The Constellation Practices Authority exists for the purpose of altering High Custom in the image of redefined humanity, and the reason the Authority is necessary is that the Human Constellation lacks the self-generating regulatory apparatus possessed by Khosali custom.
The Empire's regulatory apparatus is, in fact, the Imperial family. Whatever is done by the Pendjalli, and in particular by the Pendjalli Emperor, exists de jure and exclusively within the context of High Custom. The Emperor himself can do no other: his behavior dictates High Custom.
The accepted reason for Allowed Burglary is that High Custom, besides reflecting the Khosali reverence for tradition, high-mindedness, and idealism, should also reflect another, more occult aspect of Khosali character, namely their (largely unacknowledged) admiration for individuals of low repute: thieves, charlatans, murderers, adulterers, self-slaughterers, drunks. Social xenologists have noted that High Custom not only allows these individuals to exist within the context of accepted society, but regulates their behavior, thus minimizing its negative effect upon society at large. Thus is a killer transformed into a duellist, a depressive into an idealistic suicide, an adulterer into an adventurer, a charlatan into an entertainer, and a burglar into a sportsman.
The regrettable truth is that these acknowledged reasons for Allowed Burglary are either window dressing or post facto rationalization. The real reason for this one particular aspect of High Custom is that Differs XXIII, the last Montiyy Emperor, was a kleptomaniac, driven by some inner compulsion to lift small, valuable objects from the apartments of his friends and ministers. Once this was observed, kleptomania and the Imperial ideal had to somehow be reconciled in the minds of his subjects: somehow Montiyy honor had to be preserved. The result was Allowed Burglary, permitted and regulated through the Imperial Sporting Commission under the benevolent sponsorship of His Imperial Majesty. Differs graciously withdrew his name from consideration in the rankings; and after knowledge of his thievery became semipublic (though never officially acknowledged), the negative effects of a breach of Imperial honor were buffered. In another victory for High Custom and the Imperial bureaucracy, an Imperial embarrassment had become, instead, a new fashion, and in time an industry.
One wonders if Differs' functionaries could have anticipated the results of their little effort at damage control: burglars recording their crimes so as to sell the recordings to the media; thieves making endorsements of alarm systems, shoes, jewelry, and nightwear; the rise of theft as a popular entertainment comparable to portball or hand volleys.
But that is a fact of existence: minor actions can have major consequences. An offhand remark at a party can end in two people facing each other with pistols, Imperial idiosyncrasy can result in the expansion of bureaucracy and the rise of a minor industry, the abstraction of a bit of nacre dangling from a chain can change the lives of everyone involved. Just watch.
*
“Mr. Maijstral.”
“Mr. Dolfuss.”
Dolfuss straightened, adjusted his appalling jacket. In spite of the jacket he now seemed dignified, poised, almost elegant. He even gave an impression of being thinner. “Thus far It’s been a delight, sir,” he said. “I’ve no idea when I’ve enjoyed myself more. Oh.” He reached into a pocket. “My room key,” he said. “The doorplate's keyed to my prints, but I suppose you won’t want it to register your own.”
“No. I rather suppose not.” Maijstral pocketed the key. “Thank you, sir.”
“See you later, Mr. Maijstral.”
“Mr. Dolfuss.”
Maijstral walked to Dolfuss's room, picked up the sample case that waited in the closet, then continued down the corridor to his own room. He declined to thumb-print open the lock—such things could be used by station security to keep track of people—and instead used his own key.
Maijstral’s four-room suite was decorated in shades of brown. A holographic waterfall, silver and gold and bright diamond, cascaded down the center of the front room. Gregor Norman sat behind it, his feet on a small table, a hi-stick in his mouth. His hands beat a complex rhythm on his thighs. He straightened as Maijstral came in, looked at the case in Maijstral’s hand, and grinned.
Maijstral put the case on the table. “I hope you won’t mind opening this,” he said.
“Only too.” Meaning, only too pleased. Gregor touched the locks, then opened the case. He began unloading black boxes, alarm disrupters, dark suits, communication equipment, holographic projectors.
Gregor told the room to play a Vivaldi woodwind concerto adapted for Khosali instruments. Though baroque music was a passion with him, and he listened to it whenever possible, the concerto now had another function: Gregor wanted a lot of background noise in case Maijstral wanted to talk business. Sometimes, he had discovered, people were crude enough to put listening devices in their rooms.
Roman, Maijstral’s Khosali servant, appeared on silent feet. He was tall for a Khosali—had he been human, he would have been a giant. He was forty-six years old, and his family had served Maijstral’s for generations.
Maijstral looked happily at Roman. Roman was the only constant in his inconstant life. Roman combined the benevolent functions of parent, cook, valet, and (when necessary) leg breaker. In short, Roman was home. Life without Roman was unthinkable.
Roman took Maijstral’s guns and knife, then unlaced his jacket and trousers. High Custom insisted on clothing that was difficult of access: it demonstrated the need for servants, or at least for cleverly programmed robots. Roman took the jacket and placed it on a hanger. Maijstral flexed his arms, rotated them, then stripped off his empty shoulder holster, sat down on a chair, and held up his feet. Roman drew off his buskins and trousers.
“We shall have to alter our schedule, gentlemen,” Maijstral said. He planted his feet on the floor, dug his toes into the carpet. “Tonight's plan may proceed, but we should postpone our plans for tomorrow.”
Gregor had strapped on goggles that allowed him to perceive energy field formations. He looked up at Maijstral with silver insect eyes. “Something has come up, sir?” The hi-stick bobbled in his mouth as he spoke.
Maijstral paused, enjoying the suspense. “The Eltdown Shard is onstation,” he said. “Tomorrow night we're going to steal it.”
There was a moment of silence, filled only by the whisper of air through the vents.
Roman folded Maijstral’s trousers, the creases sharp as a knife. He put the trousers on a hanger.
“Very good, sir,” he said. Which was Roman all over.
*
“With both of them in this small a place, what do you think of the possibility of a duel?”
“Miss Asperson, I hope they blow their brains out.”
*
Paavo Kuusinen, pursuing the scent of mystery, followed Geoff Fu George and Vanessa Runciter to their suite. He walked past their door, stepped down a side corridor, and paused a moment, frowning. His cane tapped in time to his thoughts.
The period immediately following a theft by a registered burglar was the most dangerous for the thief: if he could hang onto his loot past midnight of the second day, it became his legal property; but in the interim he could be arrested for stealing. Furthermore, he had to keep the take in his possession, at his residence or on his person.