Timeweb Trilogy Omnibus (9 page)

Timeweb.

Even after the seven-plus centuries of her life, the thought of the gossamer connective tissue between star systems never failed to amaze and confound her. The web meant so many things beyond its physical reality.

A shout startled Tesh to awareness. It was the deep voice of Dr. Bichette, and she saw him shove Glavine in the chest. The younger man, much stronger than his feisty, smaller aggressor, hardly moved backward at all. Enraged, Bichette took a wild punch, which Glavine eluded with athletic ease, and then grabbed both arms of his boss to restrain him.

“Let go of me!” Bichette demanded, as he struggled unsuccessfully against the stronger man. “If you value your job, take your filthy hands off me!”

Instead, Glavine spun him around and forced him toward a wrought-alloy bench on one side of the patio. “Our relationship is no longer employer and employee,” Glavine said in a flat tone. He glanced at Tesh, and then looked away as he shoved the doctor onto the bench. “Sit there until you’re ready to talk reasonably.”

“Nothing happened between you two?” Bichette looked first at her, then back at him.

In response, both of them shook their heads. But Tesh knew it was a lie; there
had
been sparks between her and the young maintenance man, a mutual attraction that they had not acted upon. Not yet. Parvii women, like their Human counterparts, knew such things intuitively.

With a sudden, startling clang, a heavy metal door slammed open on the perimeter of the courtyard, and a heavyset man in a purple uniform burst through. Wearing a frilly white shirt with lace at the collar and sleeves, he was a
messagèro,
one of the bonded couriers who worked for the Merchant Prince Alliance. Breathing heavily and perspiring, although his run had not been far from the circular parking area outside, he bowed as he reached Bichette.

“Doctor Sir,” he gasped, “Most urgent news. A car awaits you.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bichette accepted a pyruz from him, a rolled sheet of white ishay bark on which matters of life and death were written. The doctor touched an identity plate on the seal, causing the pyruz to unfurl and become rigid. He read it, then rose to his feet.

“We must continue this later,” Bichette said to Glavine. “I am certain we can resolve it.” Without another word, he handed the pyruz to Tesh and strode out of the courtyard, behind the sweating
messagèro
.

Tesh read the communication.

“Prince Saito has been gravely injured,” she said to Anton Glavine. But as their gazes met, she knew they were thinking of something else, with each of them wondering where their relationship would go from there.

They stood near each other, and drew closer, with almost imperceptible movements. Out at the front entrance, the maglev car hummed. Then, with a high-pitched whine, the vehicle left.

Anton took Tesh in his arms and drew her to him. She had been waiting for this moment, expecting it. However, she had learned that one of the interesting things about physical relationships was that neither the timing nor the exact circumstances were ever known in advance. Of course, Tesh reminded herself, it was that way with the rest of life as well. But she had never anticipated anything quite as much as this particular first kiss, had never wondered about anything so much.

As Anton held her tightly, the Parvii woman had the pleasurable sensation of floating away, on a journey to a far-off place.

Chapter Ten

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

—Jannero’s Starships, Tenth edition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“
Immediately
.”

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

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

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

“Go then, and come back.”

The furry man bowed and scurried away.

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

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

“Guardians?”

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Eleven

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

—Tulyan Prophecy

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

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

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

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