Chemical reality.
The ba’alisti had taken hold. Corcey could feel its warm grip on the back of his neck, fiery fingers tracing his barbed body art.
Lüzür’s blood was so toxic with Overcrank that Corcey was getting high off the splashes that had touched his skin. Its most vivid effect was to make him want to find some more now.
Adrenaline had kicked in during the lethal intercourse with Lüzür and Wÿnÿr, and he was still pumped from it.
His wounded shoulder had stopped bleeding and started feeling like it was on fire. A sugar cube soaked in taiga sap helped douse the flames, but unfortunately numbed the rest of his body as well. He didn’t like it: made walking too awkward when you couldn’t feel your feet.
He was moving quickly because of the ammegaphs he’d popped. That was dried adrenal gland extract from a targ (cloven hooved and cud-chewing, so Corcey considered it Kosher if prepared properly.) Tasted as bad as you’d expect it to, but it was one of the most powerful non-synthetic amphetamines available. He’d taken two with an addict’s excuse: I need to get out of here as quickly as I can. But the speed rush put him on top of the situation. He was there, he was on it, and he was on it at supersonic speed.
There was also an endorphic elation from slaying two who did not have the light. Three, if Gorgo had partaken of his cyanide seed.
His own light was not chemical, but it did alter his reality.
...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
These seven chemicals made a mélange maelstrom his mind swam through as he made his way away from the airport. They combined with an eighth: a natural high from running ten kilometers.
Zigzagging his way past patrolling police, Corcey soon found himself prowling the winding, non-euclidian streets of the Old Quarter. By both law and tradition, everything was open around the clock (twenty hours, in this case,) but the would-be patrons seemed to be all at home sleeping, reproducing, or conspiring to break the law.
More likely they were just shunning the weather.
The clouds seemed to want to get up close and personal with the victims they intended to rain on, and Corcey was seeing faces in the fog. The mist was pregnant with precipitation, and Corcey walked quickly, hoping not to get caught in the storm’s birthing waters. He’d even taken his shades off—the lenses were slick with the thin drizzle, which only further distorted his ba’alisti-riddled vision. Occasional lightning flared overhead, offering glimpses of the quiet street he was on. At an intersection, he glanced at the signs. Qaterpillar Avenue and Rosewood Road. Silently he sang the Galaqommon Alphabet Song to himself (which even his his day was still to the tune of Mozart’s Twinkle Twinkle Little Star) and his swamped synapses deduced he either had two more blocks to go, or he’d overshot by two. Corcey went into a soft trot, and the bags by his side began to bump uncomfortably. The contents, he was certain, were appetizing bait for the hungry forks of fire that left thunder in their wake.
The wind was picking up, bringing the first drops from above. One hit his hand, and he almost lost the grip on his bag in repulsion.
...drip...
He looked up the street to the intersection as he heard the wet thunk on his collar. On the far corner was a five storey rise lit with a sign that began to hiss softly as raindrops boiled away on contact.
Corcey walked into the intersection, paused at the nexus, and looked around. The streets disappeared into a fog that was quickly becoming rain. Wet kernels of corn popped around him, and the wind funneled down the century-old shops lining the street. He turned to face the storm, studied the phantasms forming in the clouds. Gathering their shape, defining their purpose.
The constant motion of the clouds, their subtle whipowhirls and updrafts, gave the impression of gears, and that the storm was a giant siege engine. The rain was leaving trails in his vision, which came stutter-shudder from repeated blinking. Lightning left bright ghosts behind, and thunder echoed in his ears, eerily just out of synch with the thump.
He stared down the storm, or at least what he could sift out of the static from the buds boiling his brain juice. It had the Grip on him, and he couldn’t focus.
At the Frederick’s Star Perimeter many years ago, Corcey had served with a Hamaddi soldier known (for disappointingly mundane reasons) as Pinkie. Pinkie had gotten the wrong judge’s wife pregnant, and was sentenced to life in the Militia for this. He numbed himself to this death sentence—and the horrors of surviving it—with everything he could swallow, smoke, snort, or shoot. He’d even gotten ahold of some psychobud once. Admittedly he was already cranked, but half a bud jumped on top of him and put him in the Grip of the Fear. He couldn’t do anything except curl up in a crate and freak out. Remembering that vividly, Pinkie later asked Corcey, “how can you even function with a whole phuqing mouthful of that crap?”
The tripping Thune grabbed him by the snout, pulled him near, and snarled “Focus, Pinkie, Focus!”
Rain and hair flailing his eyes, Corcey focused on himself. His jihad. The storm that was coming.
Lightning struck a metal sculpture in a small park a few blocks away, and the crack of thunder actually vibrated his frame. Sounded like a lion’s roar. He blinked, looked at the boiling clouds.
...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
...focus...
Slowly, he turned around, and found the strength to wrestle the lion into submission. He checked his senses individually, starting with the last.
It is commonly accepted that there are five senses. Some suspect a sixth, though so little is known (or used) of this gnostic perception that it hasn’t even been named. The Thunes recognized eight senses; the last, qketthe, not only lacked a translatable name, but language to define its ability. He spent the shortest time tuning this—the transubstantiated toxins wreaking havoc on his other senses were what brought the qketthe into focus.
With some effort he shook himself of the sensation that the raindrops were crawling on him, and slowly got his sense of touch under control.
Although he could not rid himself of the thump, the thunder became recognizable and not deafening.
He found he couldn’t smell anything, and in fact was surprised to find he couldn’t breathe through whatever was plugging his nostrils.
He ended, and struggled longest, with his battle to focus his focus. With effort, he saw the glowing sign at the top of the building: Traveler Inn. A nicely hand-painted sign over the door said likewise.
He took a deep breath, and blew out air that was weeks old. He was back in command of himself, or at least as much as he was permitted to be by both the Bud and the Beings Beyond.
Up concrete steps to the alcove. On the side was an interqom vidifone, doubtless for ringing the front desk, but the screen had a large X taped over it, implying it was out of order. However, he noted the door was propped open slightly with a red chunk of cinderbloq. The wind helped him open the door, hindered him closing it. He bushed the cinderbloq aside with his boot and completely closed the door. By the time he got it shut, there was quite a puddle inside.
He stood there a moment, soaked and shivering.
...drip... ...drip... ...drip...
focus
With a temperature-shock shiver, he started up the stairs to a long hallway. The staircase continued in switchback fashion, and several people could be heard higher up, talking. Sounds of activity also came from down the hall, as did an accented voice directed at Corcey.
“You look like you need a room.”
In a small, strategically situated office sat a spry, wiry teenager. It took minimal imagination to see she was a young Laydee, clocked back three decades in age and as much stone in weight. But her mother’s smile was unmistakable, and it had the added bonus of youth amusement.
“Actually,” she amended, “you look like Doc Zogg!” Giggle. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
Corcey frowned. “Is ‘doczogg’ some New Ra’Mathian slang for ‘shit’? Because yeah, I hear that I look like shit all the time.”
The girl giggled again. “Doctor Zogg; he’s one of the drummers in Sonic Lobotomy.”
Straight faced and stoically, he intoned “Actually, I am Doc Zogg, but I’m traveling incognito.”
“I don’t doubt it, with all the paternity suits your last tour spawned.” After a pause, Ellse chuckled as her unintentional spawn double-pun sank in. She smiled: she’d made a funny.
Ellse sat at an expansive metal desk littered with loose paper and thick books. A small space had been haphazardly shifted to accommodate a tray full of hideous semi-edible confections, including a steaming bowl of rat rice soup. It smelled like you’d expect it would. She had a small slimy white stain from a spill on the front of her gray undershirt. Her whole clothing was the pajama-like loose layer that Human and Hamaddi astronauts usually wore between bare skin and space suit. Frizzy blonde hair was pony-tailed barely under control behind her.
“You into Sonic Lobotomy?” she asked.
“No. Don’t know ’em,” he admitted.
“Not many people do, except for us enlightened ones. They’re underground, out of Conning’s Star. Very tribal sounding. They’re not for everyone, but if you like that sort of thing, they deliver.”
“And I look like their drummer,” he lamented. Imperceptibly, he glided toward the desk.
“Kinda.” Sly smile. “It’s okay if you’re not Doc Zogg.”
“But I am Doc Zogg!” he reminded her with mild mock indignation. “I’m just incognito, remember?”
Ellse rolled in her chair to more comfortably face the Doctor, and her chair ergonomically adjusted to the new contours. Like many rebellious teenage confusion queens, Ellse had a fetishistic soft spot for what anthropologists called the rebel rock star look, so she appraised him favorably—not despite his disturbing, obvious oddity, but because of it. Plus his penumbral blurriness made him look a lot younger than he was. Drinking him in, she admitted “you do have that musician vibe to you.”
“Actually, yeah, I was once. Ages ago, maybe, but I haven’t played in a long time.” He allowed himself a grim snort of a laugh. “I would have been around your age.”
“What’d you play?”
“Kynor.”
Ellse had meant what kind of music, not what kind of instrument. She didn’t get a chance to re-ask her query as Corcey continued: “I needed a left-handed one, so my dad built one for me from a century-old piece of wood from our fireplace.”
“Wowi,” said Ellse, somewhat impressed.
“Yeah, my dad was always good at working wood.”
“Why’d you quit playing?”
Corcey thought about that. “I got interrupted, and I never got back to it.”
The Athenæum actually had a top-notch conservatory that would have been well respected and impressive, had anyone actually known about it. The Thunes had preserved the otherwise-lost knowledge of what the mysterious musical notations and directions at the beginning of the Psalms really meant, and they played them correctly: right and with reverence. The interruption Corcey referred to was the Mustavishad War; Corcey put down his kynor, picked up his rifle, and went off to slaughter Hammadi.
“Actually, I guess the band I was in had a minor hit on the local musical circuit. We did a trance jam based on the sem’yutah meditation pattern transposed to a phrygian mode, but the lyrics were Psalm Twenty-Two.”
“And this was a hit, huh?” Ellse seemed amusedly dubious, assuming it was a lywily the par of his Doc Zogg claim.
“Well, a minor one.” Pause, as he glanced around for Hammadi within earshot. “On Aridia,” he mumbled.
“Uh huh,” she said, obviously not buying it.
Corcey picked up her disbelief, and shrugged. “Hey, think what you want; I know it’s true.”
“Is it archived on The Chain? I could download it and check it out.”
“I’d be stunned if it was on The Chain; we mostly just performed it live with the choir. My school was kind of sensitive about letting stuff out beyond its walls.”
“Wowi, sounds like a cult,” she said as a joke. Only Ellse smiled, but quickly amended as an after-thought “Actually, maybe you are Doc Zogg! Cuz I’ve heard stories about Sonic Lobotomy in the studio...” A far-off glazed gaze for a brief moment as Ellse indulged in adolescent sex fantasies about alpha male musicians.
“Excuse me,” he said after a second, and indicated towards the bowl before her on the desk. Several long, spindly tails sprouted out of it and hung limply over the side. Eight: rather a lot, really. But beside it, toward which he pointed, was a plate with a half-nibbled pastry that would have passed for strawberry tart had it not a number of suspicious rodentoid appendages embedded in the crust. Indicating her dinner, he asked, “Is that rat tart?”
“Well,,, yes,” Ellse said, somewhat embarrassed.
In Greek, Corcey muttered “disgusting” under his breath.
Ellse recovered gracefully by resuming the flirtatious smile.
“So, before joining Sonic Lobotomy, you had a small hit with a house band.”
“If you want to call it that.”
“Where was this again?”
“Aridia: land of the free, home of depraved. Ever heard of it?”
“Kinda, I think,” Else said, trying to mask her ignorance as if the name at least sounded familiar.
“Not many people know about it, except for us enlightened ones. We’re underground, out of the Mustavia Cluster. Very tribal thinking. Not for everyone, but if you like that sort of thing, we deliver.”
“Oh, so it is a cult!” she repeated, again laughing and not noticing the stony-faced stare she got back. “What’s Aridia like?”
“Do you like sand?”
“Between my toes, yes. Between my teeth, no.”
“Well, if you ever get there, leave your shoes but pack a mask.”
“But I guess at least they got good music there. After all, you were a minor hit with... uh, what was the name of it, the trance thingie with the refrigeration mold?”
“Psalm 22,” he said, smiling. Pause, far off. Yeah, they got good music there.
“Psalm 22?!?” Ellse laughed aloud. “I know that!” Then she sang in some atonal melody, “Yea though I walk through the Valley of Cheddar, I shall fear no Etam, for Thou art Caerphilly.”
Corcey stared at her as if she were insane.
Excitedly, she explained: “Psalm 22, by Tainted Dairy!”
“Well,,, no...”
“Tainted Dairy did a song called Psalm 22 on Cheese Us Thrice, SuperTzar.”
“Cheese Us Thrice,,, SuperTzar,” he repeated incredulously.
“Yeah, it’s a concept opera,” she explained enthusiastically, “and it tells the same story in three acts from three different points of view.”
Shrug. “That’s nice, I guess. It’s always good to get a second perspective. Or even a third.”
“True.” Soft nodding, and she squirmed in her chair slightly. “So what do you listen to now?”
...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
“Nothing good, lately,” he managed to say.
“Are they that group that...”
“No,” he said quickly. He was frustrated that the girl had dominated the direction of the conversation; he needed to get control so he could get back to the quest. He should have been checked in and at his room by now, but Ellse was tenacious like a terrier when it came to puppy lust. It was a distraction magnet to his focus.
“Well,” she continued with youthful exuberance, and reworded her question: “who do you like to listen to?”
Corcey actually had to think about that, because not counting background static, he was just too busy to listen to music any more. He quickly picked an old favorite. “Paganini.”
Ellse shook her head, slightly sad that he didn’t listen to anything she knew—musical preference was one of her primary personality litmus tests.
“He was a violin virtuoso back on Earth,” he clarified.
She continued to shake her head, lost.
“Are you shaking your head because you don’t know what a violin is, or because you don’t know what Earth is?”
“Violin, silly!” This included a flutter of immature giggling. Slightly chastising: “I know what Earth is. What’s a violin?”
“It’s like a kynor, but with one less string and a slightly higher tuning.”
“That might be nice,” she opined, stretching in a slightly feline manner. Corcey saw a glint of gold from her waist. On her trim, thin tummy she had an “outie” belly-button, tied by Laydee herself, with a gold ring around it. “Be happy to have a music exchange with ya: I play you some Sonic Lobotomy, you play me some Paganini.”
“Well, I think your chances of finding a Paganini caprice on the Chain are much better than finding some audience bootleg of me doing Psalm 22.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” she decided, also deciding not to invest more than thirty seconds into it. “Where ya staying?” she asked, just in case she felt like actually following up.
“Room 225, but you gotta check me in first. I have it reserved.”
It took Ellse a moment to switch into hotel mode, but she did. “Oh,” she said, suddenly sitting up straight. “I didn’t see Doc Zogg on the guest list, but since you said you were traveling incognito, you must be the Mister Smith who reserved the penthouse suite.”
“That’s just for my entourage, as a distraction tactic to keep away jailbait groupie rooters. I’m really staying in suite 225, under the name Thaddaeus.”
Ellse showed a sliver of recognition reaction to the name, and her expression tangented to a new kind of amused look. “Did you qal The Mom a few hours ago? Something about stopping by for some case paperwork?”
Corcey nodded. “Yeah, and she booked me for room 225.” He was about to continue, but still shivering with cold, a sneeze stealthed up on him. His head made the jerking reflex, but nothing escaped past the blockage in his nostrils.
Ellse didn’t even notice, but quickly took up the silence. “Yeah, The Mom mentioned you’d be by.” A look of surprised enlightenment came on her face. She reached under her chair and brought up a flask of light green liquid. As she took several sips, her throat showing signs of parchment from prolonged talking, Corcey tried to get back on track.
“So, do you know if my room’s ready? I would like to check in.”
“Probably,” she shrugged, then “I guess I can check...” She recapped the flask, and then guiltily admitted, “The Mom told me that if you showed up I should send you back to her office.”
Corcey had already noticed the long corridor in back. “Yeah, well I just got here, and I’m still soaking wet.” He did indeed have a small pond puddled around him. “Mind if I check in and chill out first?”
“What kind of host would we be if we didn’t?” Ellse traded the juice flask for the qomputer remote, which was buried amid loose chattel of her fysiqs homework. The monitor had been awkwardly moved to the IN basket; she tilted her head to look at it. Three clicks later, she was on the registry page. Corcey observed the procedure closely as she hunt and pecked her way through the registration program. Although he wasn’t sure, it looked like she entered in the password as ‘rapid wombat.’
“225? Yep, here it is, and The Mom even put in a comment: ‘Send him to see me!!!’ ” Else looked slyly over at Corcey “Wowi, you rated a triple exclamation from The Mom. I guess you do deliver.”
“Why do people always doubt me?” he wondered aloud. “Anyway, she said a hundred a night, right?”
“Yeah, or five for a week.” She sounded hopeful. “You staying a week?” A brief fluttering flourish of eyelashes at him.
“Naw; just ’till it stops raining, I guess.”
Else’s eyes looked slightly disappointed. The Mom’ll get to him first, and he’ll be gone before I can make up my mind to forgive him for his age and shitty taste in music. Else firmly believed that any music made before she was born was rough draft crap. Besides, the comment about his playing the kynor when he was her age was slowly doing the math in the back of her head, and she guessed he was at least twice her age. She’d made that mistake losing her virginity two years ago, and added boys born before her to her List of Shunned Things.
Usually.
She finished filling in the screen, except the last string of financial fields.
“Sad to say, but ya gotta pay,” she said, then explained, “it won’t give me a qey until a valid transaction goes through.”
“Fair ’nuff, cuz I always cover m’debts.” Corcey handed over Thaddaeus Lebbaeus’s credit card. Else’s fingers brushed his when she took it.
The Beast recorded a 100 byte debit to his Beast ID, as well as numerical values for where, when, and why.
The final field positively auto-filled on the screen, and a card popped out of a machine with a loud ding. Ellse daintily retrieved it, and handed it to him. He made sure his fingers did not contact hers as he accepted.
“Thanks,” he said. He started to turn, but she regained his attention.
“You need a receipt, don’t you?”
Eager to leave, he was about to tell her he wasn’t worried about it, but she told him why he should be. “I mean, if you’re here cuz of some legal thing and they’re being document nazis about it, don’t you need one yourself?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, “I’ll need it eventually so I can get reimbursed and all, but...”
“Wowi,” she interrupted, then leaned forward and spoke lowly: “you can get Reimburstinol? That’s hard-core awesome! I hear that stuff’s like mixing Overcrank with Adreochrome.”
“Overcrank is bad medicine. I recommend against ever touching it.”
“Yeah, well I actually had Adrenochrome at a Läzerhead concert once. Heq, I’ve even gnoshed on raw adrenal gland.”
“You sound proud of that.”
She shrugged like it was no big deal. “It wasn’t bad; tasted like ginger.”
“Does The Mom know you go around gnawing on raw body parts?”
“It wasn’t a human gland, silly. Bort, and fresh, too. Chewy. I hear if they dry out, it’s like sucking on an unrefined diamond.”
“Well, the next time I’m craving a bort’s raw adrenal gland to snack on, I’ll keep that in mind. Am I all set?”
“Well, you tell me,” and a reprise of that playful grin.
“No qals, wake-up or otherwise.” He finally made direct eye contact with her, and silently emphasized “Do not disturb; got it?” He feigned a yawn, then hefted his bags for emphasis. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I feel like I’m melting, so I’m going to go get settled in.”
Still dripping, he turned to go.
“I’ll tell The Mom you stopped by.”
“Yeah,” he said, uneasily. “Uh, I’ll be back a little later and deal with all that when I’m ready.”
“She’ll be here, and so will I, unless The Dad actually shows up.”
Corcey had been wondering about him. “Oh? Where is your dad, anyway?”
Ellse frowned for effect. Technically, her biological father was killed in the Swarm, but she grudgingly called Laydee’s second husband The Dad for political convenience.
“Deyendesey,” she said, universal slang for Don’t Know, Don’t Care. Then, with unpleasant venom, said “What’s today, Freyday? I guess that means he’s with Freyday.” Corcey obviously did not understand his comment, so she contemptuously explained, “We have seven maids here, and The Mom and I are convinced they are also The Dad’s mistresses, and that he rotates them daily.”
“I heard King Solomon was the same way with his concubines, except he went on a yearly rotation. Surprised y’all put up with that, but it’s your house...”
“Combination of just playing proxy-ostrich and her just not having caught him. By definition: The Dad is a dick, The Mom is a pussy. But she gets her revenge in various ways.” She smiled knowingly at Corcey. “Despite the obvious mom problems, Laydee’s pretty awesome. It runs in the family,” she added, with an arch of eyebrows.
Corcey forced a smile, and finally found the momentum to make good an exit from the teenage temptress. He padded off and up the stairs and soon found his suite.
The door to Room 225 was heavily lacquered wood, cracked and chipped from decades of use. The doorgnob was tarnished iron, and there was even an ornamental qeyhole.
The real loq was wall-mounted next to it. Condescendingly, he observed the loq as of the old Hammadi style: a powerful magnet attracted the doorgnob until the qey card turned off the magnet, freeing the gnob to open. Archaic variation of the genre Gorgo had made short work of earlier. Corcey eyed the system disapprovingly. Thus his eyes became aware of a softly pulsing red light on the access panel.
...flash... ...flash... ...flash...
Above it was the Hamaddi ahten hechmeeytz syreh, roughly “you have missed a message (or sign/symbol/omen.)”
Corcey considered this as he placed the qey card in the slot. He could feel it vibrating ever so slightly, and as he waited, his fingertips began to numb. The jarring humm sent blood circulating unorthodoxly in his fingertips, and his delicate grip on the qey weakened as faint beads of lubrication seeped from the spiral prints of his pads.
Finally, the loq recognized the card and shut off. The quivering stopped, but Corcey’s fingers felt pins and needles, and with the card no longer vibrating, the pin punctures were painful. He slipped his fingers off the qey and turned his hand palm up.
At the end of each sinewy, stretched digit, smears became progressively brighter red as they drank in the oxygen. The pins and needles pricking him truly drew blood, and beads percolated from punctures between the thin swirls and folds unique only to him and one Other.
He curled his fingers inward. The flesh under the cuticles were a dull, unhealthy pink. The blood colouring them was still fighting its way out, and a bead fell haphazardly onto a crease in his palm that some called the Life Line, and quickly channeled to the floor. Slowly the acupuncture relented, and he saw his cuticles turn their more normative gray as the blood channeled into the inverted ducts under his ragged, uncut fingernails.
He turned his hand over, and snapped it. Five bloody projectiles flitted away, landing in an arc against the wall. The motion also seemed to shake free all the tiny tacks driven into his hand, and the sensation returned to its norm: dead.
Reaching forth, he pushed the door in.
The light was already on, showing a spartanly furnished room whose decorators were more concerned with budget than beauty. He walked in, looked around, and then dropped his bags on the bed. Over to the door, he wiped his hand against his fatigues to dry them of rain and blood. Corcey shut the door, then deftly took hold of the end of the qey that wasn’t bloody and inserted it into the loq. The magnet recognized the qey and switched to its opposite mode: on.
The moment it tripped over, Corcey plucked the qey out of the slot before the vibrating came again. This time he escaped the savage bite of the Hamaddi loq.
Corcey’s history with the Hamaddi as a whole was mixed, with some amiable recent encounters (Illania), and some hostile old ones (Arpaq Shad.) Hamaddi knowledgeable of such history knew who he was, and the emotions resultant were mixtures of the lower ends of the spectrums.
Now it seemed that even their loqs hated him.
Under the gnob was the latchloq, which he tried on the off-hand chance it wasn’t ornamental. The metal twisted like taffy and broke off. He opened his fingers, and the piece flew from the tips in magnetic attraction to the door. He reached out, pulled the piece off, and held it several inches away. Opening his fingers, the latch again flew to the gnob.
He repeated this several times, testing the limits of the magnet. He found two ways to interpret this as metaphor.
Even if you are separated you will be returned to the whole,
or,
You can try to get away, but you’ll be pulled back under control.
The latch landed his answer to which choice was correct: its shape and position formed a ligatured-letter word in a dead language Corcey knew. It translated, “Yes.”
A shiver ran down him, though it was mostly from his still being drenched. Leaving the loq, he explored his room again, this time more thoroughly.
Ten days too late. No traces of her: no nail clippings on the bathroom floor, no dropped ear rings under the bed.
Even her aura was gone.
In its place was the last occupant’s, who’d smoked fiberleaf and spilled wine on the carpet. Probably the maid.
But that was okay. He mostly wanted the room so he could continue his probe in private.
He went over to the window and pulled the blind on the thousands of wet fists pounding on the panes for entrance. Then he took peace out of his jacket and stripped completely. Nude, he went into the bathroom and found two towels and two proxyroaches. He ignored the insects, focusing on drying off. The towel quickly became cruddy with dirt, grease, and blood. Oddly, even a trained observer wouldn’t have noticed much of a change in his appearance when he finally dropped the towel in the tub, save that he was dry.
As an afterthought, he got a paper towel, and blew his nose thoroughly. With some effort, he built up exhale pressure, and suddenly large clumps of wet sand sneezed forth. The path clear, dry sand began to pour out. Very quickly it overflowed the towel, and Corcey began hemorrhaging sand onto the floor. Finally the silicate waterfall ended, followed by a blast of air that had been lurking in his lungs for over a month.
Corcey took a deep breath in through his nose, and smelled the familiar smell of Aridian sand. His hands were full of it, and it was warm. He left a sandy trail to the sink, where he dumped the mess and shook off is hands. A fine misty dust settled over the room.
He went out to the bed, which was now a soggy mass of blankets under his bags. His bags, unlike his clothes, were waterproof. He unzipped one, and fished around inside. The muscles in his right shoulder protested against their continued use, but he ignored the immense discomfort as he pulled out a small Black Box about the right size for a nice pair of shoes. It even had a lid top, which he removed to expose the controls.
Corcey had once had the pleasure to work for two slick con masters named Trevor and Ian. It was through them that he met Blade, as well as acquired many of his gadgets, including the Black Box he now held. It was originally the main-frame from a Pandrovian spy satellite. A friend of his named Ras'Ti saved all the espionage elements and replaced useless ones (life support, navigation) with additional options and toys.
In a zippered case were several attachments and auxiliaries; he selected one and plugged it into the side port. The other end of the coil had been soldered to an advanced version of a credit card.
Braced to both a small desk and the wall was a vidifone. When the screen was inactive, it was set to mirror mode. A small touch-sensitive panel was attached on rollers; he pulled it out and inserted the soldered id card into the fone’s slot. A moment later, the screen came on, and the touch pad lit up into his preferred type of qeyboard.
The first thing he did was check it for taps.
The fone itself was free of outside eavesdroppings, but the chain it transmitted on was full of them. He hooked up the Black Box and began to clear his way in, one linq at a time.
Two sets of options appeared on the fone’s screen: the hotel’s option menu, and the Black Box’s. He went over to the hotel’s, and selected Messages.
ahten hechmeeytz syreh
The screen blanked, except for the ghostly green of the superimposed Black Box’s prompts. Then, black and gray snow flashed and danced. From the speakers hissed static, and then keen ears detected a soft scraping sound in the background. The pixels of static actually seemed to expand outward for a moment, then migrated back in just as the image ended. As quickly as it had started, the hotel’s system informed him that the message was over. No listing of time or origin. Total time: one blink.
Frowning, he replayed it.
\ You have no messages.
The frown became complex.
Could have been anything: static burst, someone hanging up just as the connection was made...
You just keep telling yourself that.
Corcey snapped his head around. He was alone, the only sound coming from the aquatic assault on his window. The six words of skepticism still echoed in his head, and not finding their source outside, he turned inward, and for the second time that day recalled a conversation with Sophia.
She was giving a lecture on the necessity of angst during the quest for Answers, and the current illustration was the Parable of Iyyob. Corcey had observed that Iyyob endured his suffering, and although he did not get the answers he sought, at least came out for the better in the end.
Sophia smiled with condescending cuteness and said “you just keep telling yourself that.”
Outside, thunder roared voraciously, and even the rain seemed to cower in its wake before continuing its downfall with new vigour.
Corcey decided that, despite his native distrust of precipitation, the rain was a good model to emulate, and renewed his assault on the fone system with antiseptic enthusiasm.
The option to replay messages was last on the list. At the top was placing a qal, followed by paging the front desk. You could even access the hotel’s qomputer. Corcey did this, but did so via the Box.
After a moment the screen confirmed that he’d reached the hotel’s qompucel.
He asked the Black Box to find out who else was currently linqed to this loop in the chain. In Pandrovian, it told him:
three others are in this fence: }
registration hook-up is in the GAMES file. operator is playing Frogs of War. }
office hook-up is in BOOKKEEPING mode. station is idle. }
room 808 is in GUESTS routine. operator is selecting breakfast. }
all exits guarded. }
passive vidio monitor. }
}
Corcey expected the last, and was surprised there weren’t more. Within the confines of the hotel’s chain, he was safe so far. He had the Black Box explore.
REGISTRATION is restricted. }
password required. }
}
Corcey typed in ‘Rapid Wombat’.
invalid password. }
}
He tried again, just in case he had mistyped. Same result. He thought about how to approach this, then decided to have the Box take an X-Ray of the entire system.
The X-Ray program preamble scrolled on the screen: version, copyright, and a tirade of legal threats against unauthorized users. This was followed, in spiky Saladrin grafic fonts, if you can find me, baby—I'm the wind.
Corcey cracked a smile. He’d gotten the X-Ray program from Ras'Ti, who’d gotten it through some unknown enterprise of its own. The epitaph was from a Saladrin heretical philosopher Ras'Ti admired, which applied equally to the Saladrin haqer who spent most of its time in cyberspace. Corcey was one of the few people who actually had physically met Ras'Ti. At least half of Corcey’s qomputerized inventory had either been built or modified by the plucky Saladrin.
Below the cryptic quote was the message press any qey. He did so, and a soft grinding came from inside the Box, then a series of low, hollow taps came from inside the vidio fone.
...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
Almost instantly, Corcey’s vision began to black out as the Entire Universe receded to an increasingly faint speck of light. A new light filled his World. It was the mysterious red illumination that spotlit the murky image coming into view: the Body suspended limply over a lake of its own sangrial fluid. The ceiling, like the bloodpool beneath, seemed to have no confines. Its rotted wooden planking was pitted with tiny indentations, and every now and then a nail could be seen, still lodged in place. Some were rusted and corroded, most were twisted, all had maroon encrustments and shreds of decayed skin still attached. It seemed to be from just the other side of the ceiling that the pounding came from.
...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
Then the faint point of Real Light suddenly zoomed back in, swallowing the scene in a painful flash of pulsing green light.
}
Corcey blinked. The thumping receded, but the flashing green light was still there, jabbing his sensitive eyes. He stared numbly at it for a second, unsure of what it was. Indeed, it took concentration to comprehend who he was, where he was, and what he was doing. A slight shiver raked his lanky frame as the flashing light began to resolve itself into the cursor.
}
Corcey was not the only one affected by the x-ray. Ellse was so startled by the momentary flash that she lost her concentration and two bullfrog berserkers got the better of her, lashing her to death with their poisonous tongues. Laydee missed the flash, but did notice later that her accounts had suddenly, miraculously balanced. Which they actually had, if room 808 didn’t object to its breakfast bill.
}
He shook his head, trying to clear cobwebs. He shivered again; it was cold in the room, and he was still nude and slightly damp. However, he was too focused on the screen. Above the cursor was a message saying that the x-ray was complete.
Corcey now had a blueprint of all the information on the hotel’s qomputer. With some amusement, he noticed the password for the day was actually ‘rabid wombat.’ Following the x-ray, the Box looked into the history of Room 225.
Eden Marcom, it said, and an undoubtedly bogus address on Northern Streisor. Check-in and check-out times, method of payment (hard qash). No room service, no wake-up qals. She had been charged, however, for three outbound qals. And someone had left a message for her.
The times, lengths, fees, and recipients of the qals were listed. He committed them to short term memory, and then exited the system.
He’d learned all he could from the hotel’s system; now he had to leave it.
But unfortunately the exits had eyes.
The Box found the eyes were looking for specific people. Mandatory police installments: if one of the Most Wanted even walked by a vidifone, it’d be noticed. New Ra’Math law enforcement used to monitor audio as well for a series of key words, but evolving slang ultimately made it impractical.
The Box trawled the images the local law were looking for. All the writs had expired on Corcey’s previous visits, and Lebbaeus was not yet in the system, so he could qal without fear of triggering a sightward.
Finding a secure chain was another matter, and a science into itself that only the Black Box could best do.
Most of the problems, of course, would be at the places he qaled.
Twenty seconds later the Box had access to the qomputer network for Gilead Gershon Vidio Qommunications, Inc. (a subsidiary of the Pas'Qaal Intergalaqtiq Optiqommunications Qorporation.) Once safely in, Corcey put the Box on stand-by chameleon mode and got the carypaq.
A puff of stale, warm air rose as he opened the lid, and it soured his nose. Smells like that time Blade and I cleaned her aquarium. Inside was a green-gray Oval set in a foam base of growth agre. The Oval shivered, and ripples quivered down the veined sides. Maybe it was reacting to the temperature change. Maybe it was cringing from the light.
He had to work quickly, or it would die from exposure. From the trays on the lid, Corcey pulled out an adapter. One end was coldly metallic, the other was very phallic and was made of the same stuff as the Oval. Looking over the surface of the Oval, Corcey saw several orifices with Saladrin characters tattooed around them. Ras'Ti’s handwriting. Corcey fed the adapter into the appropriate hole, which began to mold itself snugly around the prong. By the time it was settled, Corcey had patched it to the lid, which closed with a self-sealing hiss as it began to refill the escaped methane. While it compensated, Corcey hooked it up to the Black Box.
By its very nature, the Box was outside of the qommunications system, and would be recognized and reacted to as such. But by its very nature, the Oval solved this problem.
Communication in Space was hampered by distance. Even at the speed of light, a message could take decades to get from one star to another. Fortunately, the Saladrin had discovered seventeen things faster than light (over a hundred, counting theoretical particles and c∞
i theory.) Best of all, one of them was perfectly suited for this type of information transfer.Thought.
Each fone was run by a biomeqanical brain, which was part of a collective whole. You give it stimulus (your qal), and it thinks the qal to a specific receptor. The delay, even galaxies apart, was quantumly negligible. The benefits of this were as acute as the problems, which the Rathgeans effectively exploited by introducing a virus into the system (the so called Darkness before The Swarm.) However, the Pas'Qaal Qorporation had gotten in on the ground floor and had a monopoly in no time, which to this day is still too powerful to break. In this case, that helped him. Since this fone used the Pas'Qaal biomeqanical teqnology, he could exploit a weakness he could not on other communications systems.
The Oval was grown and programmed by Ras'Ti itself. It’d cloned it from a remote repair unit, so it should be accepted by the whole and not immediately questioned in its inquisitive activities. Through the Black Box, he had the Oval probe into the inner workings of the system.
Inside the carypaq, the Oval moved slightly, and the receptor jack twitched.
Corcey watched the screen, waiting to see if he would be accepted. If not, there would be alarms in abundance and, depending on how fast they could trace his qal, ugly thugs with badges and billy-clubs. It was ten seconds of tension before he got results.
Three commands in three languages superimposed on the screen: Pas'Qal prompt, Black Box menu, and Oval options.
He selected the eighth of the Saladrin: Memory Dredge.
After each qal was thought, it would be forgotten. However, there were ways to recall those forgotten thoughts, if you didn’t mind wading through the clutter of an almost infinite number of others. Corcey had an advantage in this, though, as he knew the specific times and numbers involved. With these as its parameters, the Oval began trawling for matches.
It took three minutes, and the Oval found all three. Apparently still in good condition: after a while the memory fades or mutates into a nightmare.
Okay, thought Corcey, and he had the Box translate the memories to the screen.
After a moment, the mirror cleared, and relevant information ran as a trailer: the destination city and qal number, and the time the qal was made. In this case, the qal was to a number in Gilead Gershon, being made on 8.9.5088 at 11:24 Gershon Time. The fone number seemed familiar to Corcey, but since he had dialed so many earlier, he wasn’t sure why.
The screen split into dual vidio. On the left, Sophia’s distinctive face appeared. A slight smile; as usual, she seemed to be flirting with the qamera. On the right, the officious visage of Cerberus.
Corcey froze the image, and his right brain studied the left screen. She seemed to be alone in the room, and he could see her black bag on the bed. Nothing else.
She looked like she was in a good mood.
After a moment, he resumed play.
“Stensor Merchandizing...” came as the opening growl from Cerberus. His tone was clear: why dare you disturb me?
She flashed teeth as she replied, “Hi, I’m here in Gershon to check up on an order of mine. My invoice is, uh, MLR 32034.”
“I cannot confirm, deny or comment on our clients’ invoices,” Cerberus replied suspiciously.
“I’m the client,” she said patiently.
“Can you confirm that?”
“MLR 32034” Eden said smoothly.
Typing noises in the background.
Cerberus snorted: apparently she’d met his first challenge.
“Who do you claim to be?”
“Eden Marcom,” she said, holding up a foto and holo-id, as well as the letter Corcey and Gorgo had seen. “Tell me where to go and I’ll bring these in person.”
“Denied!” He glared at her triumphantly.
Both Sophia’s and Corcey’s eyes cocked at this.
“If you claim to be Eden Marcom of MLR 32034, why is your fone being billed to Miriam D’Magdaal?”
“I’m using her fone,” Sophia replied with a straight face, though Corcey smiled ghoulishly. D’Magdaal was the espionage alias she’d used in the Thunian QDC.
Sophia’s good mood dimmed at this. Perhaps she unconsciously picked up it was an omen that her past was pursuing her.
Cerberus was unaware of this, but seemed unconvinced of her explanation. Sophia pressed on.
“My invoice activation code is MLR 32034. Only the client and the server know that.”
“I cannot comment on our invoices and our servers. MLR 32034, were it to exist, is client classified.”
“Look,” she patiently tried to explain, “I am the client.” She waived the papers at the screen. “You guys told me my order was ready. It says to qal if I’m in town. Hi; I’m in town, and I’m qaling. I’m just trying to make an appointment, so can you tell me where my shit is so I can go get it?”
“The current location of your shit, were it to be your shit—if such shit does in fact exist, is known only to the server. I cannot confirm, deny, or comment on it.”
Sophia was losing mood to a brooding impatience.
“I need to make an appointment with my server. Can you do that for me?”
“Who do you claim your server to be?”
“It’s some long, funky Saladrin name.” She held her hands a meter apart in emphasis. “For me to pronounce it correctly I would first have to rip out your tongue.” Sophia looked at the paper and read off a long string of consonants. Cerberus compared these with off-qamera information.
“You mean, Dr. Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii.”
Nodding solemnly, “That’s the dude.”
Officiously, “Dr. Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii is not a dude.”
“Sorry, I know he isn’t.”
“It isn’t,” Cerberus politically corrected. Not being pc with Saladrin pronouns could get five to fifteen hard labor. Cerberus may have been an asshole, but he wasn’t an idiot. He was covering his asshole in case this qal was monitored by the pc police.[9]
“Can I have an appointment with hi—it?”
Cerberus glared out the screen at both her and Corcey.
“I am not Dr. Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii’s secretary,” he growled condescendingly.
“Can you tell me how to reach it?”
“I cannot confirm, deny of comment on Dr. Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii .”
“Who do I talk to that can?”
“Dr. Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii ,” Cerberus condescendingly sneered.
“You enjoy saying that, don’t you.”
“Immensely,” he said with a lot of tongue.
“If I say it three times fast,” she said with a smile, “will you tell me how to reach it?”
“Mmmmaybe,” Cerberus said with a slight smile of his own. Cerberus firmly believed that clients interfered with his qompany’s real work, which was why he was the PR Guardian.
“Doctor Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii Doctor Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii Doctor Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii ” she said smoothly.
Corcey could tell Cerberus was satisfied: he’d made her perform a humiliating trick for his amusement. Now she could pass.
“If you are truly the client of MLR 32034, bring the id’s you first showed me to Annex Amperstam 7 in Wilbram.”
“Where’s Wilbram? How do I get to it?”
Cerberus exhaled loudly, effectively conveying impatient frustration. “Wilbram is a northwestern suburb of Gilead Gershon. I don’t know how you get to it because I don’t know where Miriam D’Magdaal lives.”
“I’m in the Old Quarter.”
“Then I would suggest taking the Blue Line Monorail and head northwest until you reach Wilbram.”
“Then what?”
“Walk,” he said coldly.
“Tell them I’m on my way now.”
“I cannot confirm, deny, or comment on who and what is available at this moment, but they will be expecting you and your identification,” he said, and stared out.
“Ok,” said Tazza, and killed the qal.
The screen went blank, and Corcey saw his own blurry reflection on the dark glass as the next memory came up. Different number the next day.
Sophia reappeared on the left. She wasn’t wearing make-up, which was unusual. The bed was messed up, and on the stand was an uncorked bottle of wine. On the right was a Saladrin in an official atmosphere suit similar to Cerebus’s. An askew antenna poked out of the back, the end thickly wrapped in black masking tape.
"Stensor Merchandizing, can I help you?" the synthetic voice inquired.
“Extension 117, please.”
"Just a moment," it said, and did some typing. "Merchant id number?"
“MLR 32034,” she said sweetly. “Is the Doctor in?”
"Sure is, let me conference you in."
There was a long pause, and then an unkempt office came on. Camouflaged in the mess was a Saladrin in a very sophisticated atmosphere suit. It was difficult to determine the suit from the surroundings.
Corcey recognized the Saladrin immediately.
“Dr. Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii?” he said in amused disbelief.
Both Corcey and Blade usually called it Paq'Ratula, but when it had the munchies she called it Snaq'Ratula, and when it was stoned it was Paq'Roachula.
Ras'Ti called it Ch'ump, a Saladrin’s anatomical equivalent for anus. Their chain feud was legendary in such circles.
"Hello? Oh, hi! I'm just finishing it up now. If you can be here in about an hour, I can let you try them out."
“Sounds great; see you there.”
A short qal, but Corcey was becoming increasingly curious about what she was getting. As Blade would attest, Paq'Ratula did superior work, so Sophia had taste in teqnology. Must be something good.
He knew there was a good chance he’d find out, because he knew Extension 117 personally.
The third qal came on.
“Star Traveler Flight Connections, Gilead Gershon, New Ra’Math. How can I help you?”
“Hey, when does the next flight to Lesser Chaldea depart?”
Corcey smiled. Too easy.
There were sounds of typing, then “As a matter of fact, PanAstral 8832 is leaving tomorrow. Would you like reservations?”
“That’d be peachy.”
“Excuse me?” The uncertainty was understandable: peach trees had been extinct for almost a thousand years.
“Yes, please,” she amended at last. “One, and I’d like to reserve cargo space. About two meters by one by one.” She didn’t need to give the weight, of course, as it was irrelevant in space. “And I’d like first class for myself, of course.”
“Sure thing. Your name, please?”
“Miriam D’Magdaal.”
“Right, Ms. Magdoll, the ship departs from Etam at 18:30, Gershon Time. You can pick up and pay for your ticket at any Star Traveler office, including the one on the station. We recommend you have been acquitted and released on bail before you board. Anything else?”
“Uh, nope. Thanks a lot.”
The image flipped off, and all three option formats appeared, awaiting his instructions.
After some thought, he did another dredge. The search parameters were qals made to the room during her stay.
His clothes were dry by the time it was done. The wait was not without reward, though: it found two.
The first was from hotel reception, and there had been no answer. He noted the time, intending to trawl for it later. Then information about the second, completed qal came up. Again, it was a patch from the lobby.
He was expecting Paq'Ratula, but instead saw a man with short-cropped copper-coloured hair and a dress uniform. Sophia recognized him with a smile.
“Hey, Lucas.”
Miss Barbelo,” he said politely. “Are you free?”
“Not according to Sartre,” she replied with a laugh. He joined in politely, though clearly not getting the reference. After a moment, she said “Put him on.”
Lucas reached off to the side, pressed a button, and said “Sir?” Another pause, and he pressed another button. Lucas was replaced on screen by a man, about fifty, with short, steel gray hair. Everything about him looked groomed, and there was a definite aura of prestige and importance. There were almost no curves to his face; everything seemed to be sharp angles—especially his hawk nose.
Corcey didn’t recognize him.
Miss Barbelo clearly did, and her mood brightened. “Hey!” she purred in her usual, softly accented voice.
“How are you doing?” the man replied. His voice was low, authoritative. The tone reminded Corcey of a strict but loving parent inquiring into the activities of his favourite child. Or, perhaps, his favourite pet.
“Grrreat! I’m finishing up some business out here; everyone should be happy, and I should be able to make it on time with them.”
“Fine, that’s why I qaled.” The man oozed affectatious refinement and importance. It sickened Corcey.
Looking forward to seeing you,” he added.
She smiled coyly. “J.T.A.!” she almost whispered.
A whimsical smile touched his face, almost, but not quite softening it. “J.T.A.,” he replied, without as much enthusiasm.
Corcey replayed the memory, wondering what the acronym at the end of the dialogue stood for. Another of Sophia’s cryptic inside jokes, no doubt.
Just then he noticed that the painting on the wall of the room in the vidio was not the one on the wall behind him. Over Tazza’s shoulder was a framed caricature of some amateurish cross between a clown and a jester. Looking over his own shoulder, Corcey saw it had apparently been replaced with a landscape sunrise.
He turned back to the painting on the screen, and suddenly the jester there made the four signs of a master mason, as well as four more he did not recognize. Startled, Corcey quickly fumbled to replay the tape. Tazza and her qaler moved in reverse, but the jester moved not at all.
Deeply disturbed, he got up and went to the bed. Behind his back, the jester on the screen raised an arm and made a slashing motion across his throat, from ear to ear. The arm arced gracefully back into place as Corcey returned from his bags with a small printer. He plugged it into the Black Box, but found it was out of paper.
Corcey began scrounging the room for something to use. By the bed-stand, where the smell of wine was strongest, he found the compulsory and complementary copy of The Gospel of Giddeon Goat. It was the inspiring, feel-good story of a goat who wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time: an old man was about to kill his son on a rock, but Giddeon talked him into killing him instead. It was written in such ambiguous terms as to give the impression that it all worked out for the best, even for the poor goat.
The last pages were blank, so the reader could record impressions. Most were short one-liners, but several pages of this copy were filled with the draft of a letter from Clamlemmonnut to The’odour. Something about a crate of carps, running around naked except for a loincloth, and several quotes or paraphrases of Giddeon Goat. Corcey flipped past it, looking for printer fodder.
He ripped out a blank page, and while feeding it into the printer he noticed that something was written on the other side. A moment later the page slid out. On it was a colour reproduction of Tazza and her qaler, condensed to fit the margins of the leaflet. Corcey took it and studied it. Good enough. He flipped it over to see what was on the other side.
Eight short handwritten entries in Thunian.
Corcey dropped the paper in shock, scrambled to pick it up. A quick graphoanalasys showed it not to be similar to Sophia’s loopy swirls. This scribe was left-handed and jittery.
Failure to perceive wreaks havoc on the boundaries between what you subjectively perceive as real and what objectively is
Muse on this
If Giddeon is misperceiving the father and son, what does his sacrifice mean?
If the father and son are misperceiving Giddeon, what does his sacrifice mean?
...behold, behind him was a goat, caught in a thicket by his horns...
8Q8Gen 22:13
Giddeon was framed. Sacrificed and hung out on a wooden altar for burnt offering
Was the suffering servant a god, a goat, or a gnostic?
On cue, thunder cracked outside, rattling the windows.
Deeply disturbed, Corcey sat down amid thumping for tens of minutes, musing on the cryptic verso with mixed results.
He put his clothes back on and qaled Paq'Ratula.
"Stensor Merchandizing." It was the same Saladrin with the bent antenna Corcey had seen transfer Sophia to Extension 117 a few minutes earlier.
“Extension 117, please.”
"Hang on," the Saladrin said, Corcey’s screen morphed into the Stensor coat of arms as Chak'Gakk put him on hold. Just after dialing the transfer code, it realized it hadn’t asked the qaler to identify himself, and it could get reprimanded for blindly transferring in a client. But almost immediately the fone relay pinged a bounceback error message on fone console’s display. The Saladrin receptionist took Corcey off hold.
"117, correct?" it verified.
“Yep.”
"I'll try again," Chak'Gakk said with flat tone but apologetic intent, and qeyed the transfer code in. Just as it belatedly remembered it again forgot to ask who was qaling, it got the same ping and error.
"I'm not finding that extension, but I have an idea why. They're inoculating the relay brains in the qal center this week, maybe they're doing the one handling your... Hang on, I can check..." Chak'Gakk turned back to the fone console to check the inoculation progress. The ping error was still on the screen, and just before clearing the screen it noticed it had misread the error code. "Oh, I see..."
“Problem?” Corcey asked.
Chak'Gakk realized it’d forgotten to put the qaler on hold. Clearing the error from the screen, it told him "Actually, that extension's been discontinued; I'm finding out why," and proceeded to do so. "Let's see...," said the Saladrin, and its suit bobbed slightly as if nodding. The system was running slow; it’d been giving chain database connectivity errors all shift. Chak'Gakk fidgeted uncomfortably in it’s suit. The bent antenna protruding out of its suit was conducting a low volume of static electricity, just enough to cause its shell tingle in a decidedly unpleasant way. Think itch for the entire body and you can appreciate its discomfort. The whole antenna assembly needed to be replaced, but Chak'Gakk was too poor to afford the expensive new unit it needed.
Again Corcey reminded it that he wasn’t on hold. “Did the Extension change?”
"I don't think that's the problem," it replied. Chak'Gakk got a response from the main chain about Extension 117, and this time it was actually reading the text.
“Look,” said Corcey, “I’m just trying to reach Dr. Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii; can you get a lackey to run down there and physically tell it I’m qaling? It can qal me back.”
Corcey had said the Doctor’s name just as Chak'Gakk read it on the screen. "Actually," it said as it skimmed information, "Dr. Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii is not available." Pause as it continued to read. "In fact," it quickly amended, "it is no longer employed by Stensor Merchandising."
“Hmmm. Any way I can reach it?”
Still reading, this time paraphrasing aloud: "The Doctor has been arrested and is currently incommunicado pending trial."
“Damn, they got Doctor Drx?!?” Corcey cried indignantly. “That is so wrong!”
Chak'Gakk finally turned its attention back to the qaler on its main screen. "Was it your server?"
Recovering quickly from the outburst, Corcey soberly intoned “I cannot confirm, deny, or comment on that.”
"Given its current status, that’s probably wise."
“Out of curiosity, what’s the deal?”
"I am not certain."
“Who got it? For what?”
"Not sure. There's a reference to an internal reprimand, but no specific charges are listed. It's in indefinite detention up at Fort Paramoor."
“Alright, but what about me?” he whined. “My partners and I were very keen on working with Dr. Drx'chokk'Zikk'tii. Can you explain how its arrest affects our order?”
"In light of its arrest, Stensor Merchandizing is retroactively reviewing its relationship with the Doctor, and any projects it may have been working have been halted. By the way, I wish to complement you on your smooth pronunciation of its name."
“I learned from the master,” Corcey said with a lot of tongue. “Doc and I are tight. Anyway, can you give me a status if I give you the inventory number?”
This made the Saladrin fidget in its suit.
"Not over the fone."
“I understand. Let me talk to my people, and I’ll get back to you.”
"Not a problem. Anything else I can help you with?"
“Naw, I’m good” and he signed off.
[10]Corcey looked at the fading image of the Stensor logo, depressed. He had been looking forward to talking to Haq'Ratula. He’d wanted to find out what Sophia was up to.
He was also curious to know if it’d ever heard from Blade. Corcey had last seen her when they became separated from Trevor, Ian, and Penny during Münster’s avalanche ambush. Corcey never knew if any of them survived, Paq'Ratula had run into her.
Besides, he just enjoyed its company, and wanted to talk to a friend.
But his friend was incarcerated, and Corcey mulled over his chances of reaching it in jail.
They equaled his chances of joining it in jail.
Not worth it: his focus was on finding Sophia. Corcey now knew where he would travel next, and he had to get to Lesser Chaldea as quickly as possible to pick up her trail. Tracking down Paq'Ratula would have detoured into him a nasty subplot away from his objective.
But of course Paq' was a friend. He resolved to look into it only if he had time to do it right.
Playing patience poker with the rain, Corcey waited out the weather until the storm folded. He continued his interchain inquiries.
Chip would have been proud of the plagiarism: Corcey made a quick haq into Star Traveler records and found Miriam D’Magdaal’s flight plan. Corcey wondered if it would be worth it to try to see film footage of her exit interview. He was almost sorry for the almond surprise on his seed: perhaps Gorgo could have been recruited again. But perhaps cyanide didn’t phase him, and neither had the seed.
Best not to pursue it.
The storm continued for several hours, but finally passed into the distance. The sky was black hole black outside his window, but it no longer rained. Corcey had already packed up his belongings, and cleaned the room of the obvious incriminations. He disposed of the bloody towel he’d cleansed himself off. He washed the sand in the sink down the drain.
He didn’t intend to come back, but he didn’t check out. If he ran into difficulties leaving, he still had a haven of sort to return to, or maybe an alibi.
Reception was empty, but he saw Ellse emptying the spittoons in the lobby. From her desk, he could hear faint music in 7/8 time, with her singing along slightly off-key: “What’s the brie, tell me what’s havarti, what’s the brie, tell me what’s havarti—why should you provolone?”
He slyly breezed by her and was in the street before she even heard the door shut.
Corcey took the Blue Line Monorail northwest, out and away from Gilead Gershon. Between the suburbs and the city was the public airport that he’d originally come through. It was actually two of the stops on the line. Using the elevated view, he surveyed the long-term parking lots. He had a poor angle, but the distant tarmac still seemed to be nearly empty of the terrestrial chariots. No flashing police lights or other activity, on the outside at least. Either the crime scene hadn’t been discovered, or it was already mopped up and old news.
Or it was all a hallucination, except for the blown-out vidifone that was being replaced even as he rode by.
The next stop was Wilbram, a research lab disguised as a residential district. It was quiet there, too: everyone was still hiding from the storm. No one got off or on as the train left for the next stop.
Paramoor was a small village built fief-like around a castle. The castle was collectively more isolationist and paranoid than Corcey was, but it ranked a stop on public transportation because the village was home to several mercenary and bounty hunter guilds.
Corcey got off and looked around. On the other platform he could see a policeman with a bright red skirt and bright orange beard. He was packing a pipe, and seemingly paid no attention to Corcey as he walked down from the station and into the village.
The town square was empty, though he heard activity from inside several taverns. It was too early and too wet for anyone to be out. The cobblestone streets shone slickly under the xenon lights set in well-crafted replicas of archaic gas lamps.
Outside of the town, Corcey did his good deed for the day: he helped free a mule-drawn wagon stuck in a muddy rut. The owner was carrying in fresh produce grown in the fields surrounding the village to sell in the morning market. He offered Corcey some carrots and a head of fiberlettuce as reward, but Corcey only took complements as payment. He continued on to the castle.
Fort Paramoor had an Old Guard pedigree as the Gilead Gershon Militia back in the feudal days, but had evolved with the times and gone qorporately autonomous. They still retained friendly links with what they recognized of Gilead Gershon’s government, and still maintained a level of professionalism that was only corrupted from within. This self-serving non-bias made them highly sought-after or hated by various Ra’Mathian governments, qompanies, and crime syndicates.
Paramoors called themselves an anarcho-syndicalist commune.
Everyone else called them a clan of kilt-wearing, chain-guzzling, haggis-eating gits.
Rain had overflowed the moat, and the outer guard booth was several centimeters under water. Two guards stood at slack attention, resting against their sonic halberds.
Corcey already had James Thade’s Badge out, and showed it to the two sentries.
“You’ve got someone we want in custody,” Corcey told them. “I’m here to fill out expediting paperwork.”
That was an acceptable request for a Badge, so the drawbridge lowered, sending up a great splash as it hit the small lake surrounding the castle. Corcey crossed over, and made his way to the airfield in the back of the castle. This was where the Masthead Courts were convened.
Despite the early hour, he was not the first one there. He waited in line eight minutes for the next available Rent-A-Judge.
The Judge sat behind the overturned drum, flanked by two guards who just stood silently with their arms crossed menacingly, and a court clerk who fidgeted nervously.
Justice MacTeegle wore the black tartan of a Gilead Gershon Tribunal Judge, and the dress jacket of the Commander in Chief of all Militia Forces. His head was crowned with a red wig powdered white that extended into a thick, bushy beard spot-glued to his chin. The two guards’ beards were natural, but MacTeegle was too young to have such lush facial growth. The clerk was clean shaven, and his tartan didn’t fit: clearly an outside recruit. MacTeegle was using a pair of gavels as drumsticks, and between cases rapped out cadence on the metal drum before him. A drum to his side held a small portable qomputer and a credit transactor.
Atop the drum was a timer, which looked battered and abused. When Corcey approached the drum, MacTeegle hit the timer with a gavel, and began absently twirling his gavels in his fingers.
“Wotta yew wont?”
“I was arrested on Etam, and my trial’s coming up. I’m turning myself in for voluntary extradition.”
“So why dinna yew jus’ go an’ take the bloomin’ shuttle up from the airport li’errrybody else?!?” MacTeegle seem to take this waste of his time personally. “Och, grrreet! I’m supposed to maintain the Galaxy’s most sophisticated defense system against the invadin’ Rathgean hoards, an’ now here yew are, wontin’ us to give you a phuqin’ free taxi ride! Wont anything else with that, lad? Shine yer bewts an’ press yer pants for ya while we’re at it? Surprised ya ha’n’t asked me t’sock y’off...”
Corcey knew the judge would continue the diatribe to run up the clock; interruptions were expected, though not excessively encouraged.
“Hey, just bill Etam for it as an extraction fee.”
“Yeah, rrright, if we can ring it outta the tight-sphinctered bastards. Is easier a git blood from a stone!”
For emphasis he indicated the medals on his jacket, pointing to the Hamaddi MightStone. It was one of over one hundred awards, commendations, and ranks pinned to his uniform. Corcey recognized most of the contemporary ones and some of the ancient ones.
“I like your Iron Cross,” he told him. “Since that’s a W and not a swastika, it’s from the First World War, right?”
Frown wrinkles caused MacTeegle’s wig to shift. Caught off guard, he admitted “The receipt ’ad a certificate of authenticity onnit, but I kenna remember wot it said.”
“What’d you pay for it?”
“Entirely too much,” MacTeegle snapped. He did not feel it appropriate for anyone but the judge to ask questions. But it ran up the clock.
“I live over an antiques dealer. He has one with a swastika and wants five large for it.”
“Assa good price, actually. Where do you live?”
For a moment, Corcey stuck on Lebbaes’s identity.
“Conning’s Star.”
“Och, I think I know the shop! Chimera, right?”
Corcey shook his head. He had lived on Conning’s Star so long ago that he’d forgotten. Best just to bluff it. “No; he’s a private dealer. I could get you a catalogue next time I’m home. Of course, I need to finish up my legalities on this end first. So can I have a ride up to Etam?”
The discussion of his hobby had put MacTeegle in a good mood.
“Well, if it’ll help speed up justice an’ git me a catalogue, I kenna see why not.”
Corcey grinned: he now had back door access to Etam.
“Anything else, Misser Lebayss?” the Rent-A-Judge requested, preparing to end the session with a sharp rap on the timer while pondering what the catalogue might hold. The clerk was already preparing the bills, waiting only for the timer to stop.
“As a matter of fact, yeah,” Corcey said slyly. “If we’re settled on extradition, I’d like to file for a change of venue.”
MacTeegle’s daydream about decorations was derailed.
“Wot?”
“Here and now: let’s get it over with.”
That was fine with MacTeegle: if he played this right, the on-the-clock court charge would equal an entire month’s salary.
“Maurice,” MacTeegle said to his bespectacled clerk, “would ya file the motions?”
“Don’t call me Maurice in court,” he hissed under his breath while typing on his qomputer. MacTeegle tapped out a tritone cadence in 3/4 while they waited.
...tap... ...tap... ...tap...
In the interim of waiting, Corcey looked over MacTeegle’s decorations. Pure pretension, with a completion rate that suggested obsession. He had full sets of metals from several planets, qorporations, and both sides of wars.
“You after anything Hamaddi?” Corcey asked him.
“Wot ye got?” MacTeegle inquired, interested.
“Whatcha want?”
“Living Lotus?”
“That’s a civilian one. But they’re like MightStones: they give ’em out left and right. I’m sure I can get a bunch.”
“Ah only wants one,” he said. “Hey, kenya git the Pyramid clusters for muh Venutian Sphinx?”
“My stuff’s all modern,” Corcey liwilied. Although he would have been decorated many times, he disdained the trophy badges and never accepted them. “Mostly Hamaddi, too,” he said, drawing on his most knowledgeable inventory.
“Got an Iron Root?”
“I’ve got one. But it’s old, and it shows it.”
“If is brooken, ya want anything for it?”
“You paying in tin?”
“Aye.” MacTeegle said with a grin.
“I’ll think about it.”
“So, wotta yew collect?”
With a smile as thin as his answer, Corcey said “Barbed wire.”
This was true, or at least had been. Corcey used to have preserved pieces from Alcatraz, Auschwitz, Alamogordo, and Area 51.
[11]His most recent acquisition was the throat braid choker.
Eager to change the topic, Corcey inquired, “How’s it coming, Maurice?”
The clerk creep bristled at his name. He glared hatefully at Mr. Lebbaeus as he announced what he had found so far.
Of more importance was what he hadn’t found.
No one on Etam had as yet expressed any interest in the arrest request. The arresting Thugs could not be located on such short notice, though MacTeegle was willing to wait them out on the clock. Gorgo was listed as on sabbatical, and Corcey wondered in the poison hadn’t phazed him and he was truly on leave from his senses.
Actually, Ourgon had found Gorgo’s corpse only a few hours ago, but the data entry creep was drunk and detoxing when he filled in the forms and hit several wrong qey codes. Ourgon was simply unavailable, mourning the loss of his friend. He would not make the connection until the autopsy reports came in a week later. Likewise the forensix team at the airport.
“Forgive me for asking another question, but is it still customary that if the prosecution doesn’t show up, the defendant is automatically acquitted?”
MacTeegle smiled, looking at Maurice’s screen. “I see yer unner arrest for just bein’ an arsehole.” It was a tack-on charge that was more unusual not to appear. Usually too subjective to legally stand on its own.
“Yeah,” Corcey told him, “but if you think about it, everyone’s an asshole.”
“You are what you eat,” murmured Maurice.
“Ha ’ya been an arse t’anybody since yer arrival?” the judge drawled thickly.
“Nae,” said Corcey with a smile, successfully mimicking MacTeegle’s brogue, “I dinna do unto others as they ha’ din into me.”
MacTeegle matched Corcey’s smile.
“Well, Mister Lebbaeus, is normally proper t’wait for the arrestin’ guards t’present their case, but justice must be served an’we got a full doq behin’ya.” He pointed with both gavels to the queue of people waiting their turn. “Personally, I kin see no’a reason notta o’erturn yer arrest, especially since the bloody thugs are too busy boffin’ each other t’show up. If they ever come back from their bloody sabbatical, they can appeal m’decision, but for now I’m settin’ yer arrest aside an’ releasing ya on yer own recognizance. Bail will be set at one medal.”
Corcey was very pleased with the Paramoor precedent. All he had to do was pay up.
“I have nothing on me right now, but I’m going home so I can move here permanently. First thing I’ll unpack will be my collection; we’ll talk then.”
“Och, right,” MacTeegle sneered. “For all I know all ye’got’s is a box full of MightStones an’ a beat up Iron Rrrute”
“I’ve got a Mint Blossom, but hey, Hamaddi’s passé. Let’s talk Rathgean.”
That got MacTeegle’s attention.
“Ye’got anything other than these?” He tapped the two he already had. Only the Rathgeans knew what they truly were, though guesswork suggested the commendation Berserker and the rank Psionicist. Corcey admired MacTeegle’s gumption: anyone openly wearing Rathgean paraphernalia ran the risk be being shot as a spy, or at the very least beaten up by Swarm survivors.
“I’ve got a rank,” Corcey said truthfully. “I’m not sure what it is.”
At MacTeegle’s request, Maurice gave Corcey paper and pen. He drew from memory, and the Judge inspected the illustration carefully.
“Præder Diss,” MacTeegle identified. “Underlord, or Master Sergeant.”
“Sounds about right, considering who I got it from.”
Interested, MacTeegle asked, “How didye git it?”
“The hard way,” Corcey said with a grim grin. Then he clarified how he kept it. “I was part of a language analyses team. It didn’t have writing on it, so it was accidentally thrown out.”
“Did it break when it was thrown out?”
“No; I was very careful. I’ll bring it and a catalogue from my neighbour when I come back. However, I’ll be fair and tell you up front that I won’t take tin for it, but since you’re being way easy on my arrest, I’ll be way easy on my byte price.”
“I think atsa fair deal,” the judge told him, and did a roll on the drum barrel with his gavels. The finale accent was a sharp rap on the clock: “Case dismissed.”
Corcey smiled his thanks, and made a mental note that if he ever did get back to the Athenæum after all this, he would mail MacTeegle his Rathgean rank free of charge to atone for the fantastic amount of fibbing he had just done.
Since Corcey had petitioned for extradition before he changed venue, Maurice had the flight pass paperwork ready before the verdict was passed. He made sure to leave with an accurate bail bond certificate, and used the flight pass to take a private Paramoor shuttle up to Etam.
The Clerk Creep at Evidence Impound was a young Hamaddi, barely seventy cycles old named Steptujjin[12].
Corcey showed him his papers. Because the Etam Confederacy often hired Parmoor for its own internal security, the ruling was ostensibly honoured. Steptujjin checked to see if there had been a motion to appeal, but found none. Only then did he redeem Corcey’s receipts for his impounded items. Steptujjin was lengthy in returning, and Corcey double-checked his possessions.
His addition saw that he was missing a flash grenade. His trained eye saw that some of the primer powder had been scraped off of a CFM-50.
“All set?” Steptujjin asked.
“Am I free to go?” Corcey replied.
“If you’ve got a way out.”
“Then yes, I’m all set,” and left. He didn’t press about the flash or the powder for the convenience of leaving immediately with the rest of his inventory. Besides, Steptujjin was that most dangerous of breeds, the amateur armchair anarchist. Correctly, Corcey prophesied that Steptujjin would blow his own paw off mishandling the powder.
He found that the Ko’re Asaph had moved outside to one of the freefloating dry-doqs. He hopped on a commuter shuttle that made routine service of all the floaters, and saw the change in the YYZ even from a distance. Both engines had been completely space-stripped, and he could see crew working on it.
Inside, it became immediately evident that Illania had invested the ruby to good use.
“So, are you happy,” she asked him while pruning dead leaves off her zilladdi.
“Yes,” he told her. He had found what he was looking for, or at least enough information to move on.
“Me too,” she said, adjusting a growlite slightly. Outside in atmosphere suits, her crew did the shit work.
Obviously, the Ko’re Asaph was not going anywhere for a while, but Illania was nice enough to introduce him to Jaxx, the captain of a cargo runner two bays down. Jaxx had been contracted to pick up some cargo, which had been seized and impounded before he could receive it. Whether it would be cleared for him to carry was a matter for his contractors to haggle over, so while he waited his bills mounted.
Jaxx didn’t expect a court ruling on his contractor’s cargo any time soon, so he readily agreed to a quick detour to drop Corcey off on Lesser Chaldea.
They left within the hour.
He was seven days behind Sophia.
[10] Chak'Gakk hit the qey to submit the qal log, and the door to its cubicle whisked open. The QME patrol was already on it for that one. Auto-Zero for failing to id the qaler and improper ‘hold’ procedure, but it’d said just too much about a sensitive subject anyway, let alone to a complete stranger. Walking in with the QME goon was Stensor’s HR rep, and also a pretty blonde teenager in a business skirt that poorly concealed she was six months pregnant. The HR rep told the mom-to-be, “this’ll be your cubicle; I’ll get you set up with wardrobe after I get back from walking Mr. 'Gakk out.” The QME goon tapped Chak'Gakk on its broken antenna with an SLX-50, sending a static zap through both their bodies.
[11] He also had what he believed in good faith were pieces from the OK Corral, the Branch Davidian’s Mount Carmel complex, and the Martian Presidential Palace Bunker, but these were actually inauthentic.