Authors: C J Cherryh
There was similar disturbance on Andra, and Raen was there…attempted last of all to contact blue-hive directly, but it evaded her, and sealed itself in, while other hives walked Andran streets with impunity.
She was thirty-four. It had been nineteen years since Kethiuy, since Cerdin.
She began, obsessively, to practice certain skills she had let fall in recent years. She withdrew entirely unto herself, and ceased to mourn for the past.
Even for Kethiuy, which was the last thing she had loved.
She was utterly Kontrin, as Moth was, as Lian had been, as all her elders were. She had come of age.
“She’s on Kalind,” Pol said.
Moth regarded him and his two kinsmen with placid eyes.
“She can be removed,” Morn said.
Moth shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Eldest—” Tand leaned on her desk, facing her with a lack of respect not uncommon in Halds, not uncommon in his generation. “Blue-hive has been astir on Meron; she was there; and on Andra; she was there; and on Kalind; she is there now. The indications are that she’s directly involved, contrary to all conditions and advice. She’s broken with all her old contacts.”
“She’s learned good taste,” said Pol. He smiled lazily, leaned back in his chair, folded his slim hands on his belly. “And about time.”
Morn fixed him with a burning look. Pol shrugged, made a loose gesture, rose and bowed an ironic goodbye. The door closed behind him.
“She’s involved,” Tand said.
Moth failed to be excited. Tand finally took the point and stood back, folded his hands behind him, silent as Morn.
“You are trying to urge me to something,” Moth said.
“We had thought in your good interests, in those of the Family—there was some urgency.”
“You are called here simply to inform me, Tand Hald. Your advice is occasionally of great value. I do listen.”
Tand bowed his head, courtesy.
Bastard
, she thought.
Eager for advancement however It comes fastest and safest. You hate my guts. And, Morn—yours too
.
“Other observations?” she asked.
“We’re waiting;” Morn said, “for instructions in the case.”
Moth shrugged. “Simply observe. That’s all I want.”
“Why so much patience with this one?”
Moth shrugged a second time. “She’s the last of a House; the daughter of an old, old friend. Maybe it’s sentiment.”
Morn took that for the irony it was and stopped asking questions.
“Simply watch,” she said. “And, Tand—don’t provoke anything. Don’t create a situation.”
Tand took his leave, quietly. Morn followed.
Moth settled in her chair, hands folded, dreaming into the coloured lights that flowed in the table surface.
There was, in the salon of the
Andra’s Jewel
, an unaccustomed silence. Normally the first main-evening of a voyage would have seen the salon crowded with wealthy beta passengers, each smartly turned out in expensive innerworld fashions, tongues soon loosened with drink and the nervousness with which these folk, the wealthy of several worlds, greeted their departure from Kalind station. There were corporation executives and higher supervisors, and a scattering of professionals of various fields dressed to mingle with the rich and idle, estate-holders, of whom there were several.
This night there were drinks poured: azi servants passed busily from table to table, the only movement made. The fashionable people sat fixed in their places, venturing furtive glances across the salon.
They were the elite, the powers and movers of beta society, these folk. But they found themselves suddenly in the regard of another aristocracy altogether.
She was Kontrin. The aquiline face was the type of all the inbred line, male or female, in one of its infinite variations. Her grey cloak and bodysuit and boots were for the street, not the society of the salon, elegant as they were. It was possible that they masked armour…more than possible that they concealed weapons. The chitinous implants which covered the back of her right hand were identification beyond any doubt, and the pattern held unlimited credit in intercomp, in any system of the Reach…unlimited credit: the money for which wealthy betas strove was only a shadow of such entitlement.
She smiled at them across the room, a cold and cynical gesture, and the elite of the salon of
Andra’s Jewel
tried to look elsewhere, tried to pursue their important conversations in low voices and to ignore the reality which sat in that corner of empty tables. Suddenly they were uncomfortable even with the azi servants who passed among them bearing drinks…cloned men, decorative creations of their own labs, as they themselves had been spawned wholesale out of the Kontrin’s, seven hundred years past. Proximity to the azi became suddenly…
comparison
.
The party died early. Couples and groups drifted out, which movement became a general and hasty flow toward the doors.
Kont’ Raen a Sul watched them go, and in cynical humour, turned and met the eyes of the azi servant who stood nearest. Slowly all movement of the azi in the salon ceased. The servant stood, held in that gaze.
“Do you play Sej?” she asked.
The azi nodded fearfully. Sej was an amusement common throughout the Reach, in lower and rougher places. It was a dicing game, half chance and some part skill.
“Find the pieces.”
The azi, pale of face, went among his companions and found one who had the set. He activated the gaming function of the table for score-keeping, and laid the three wands and the pair of dice on the table.
“Sit down,” said Kont’ Raen.
He did so, sweating. He was young, several years advanced into the service for which he existed. He had been engineered for pleasing appearance and for intelligence, to serve the passengers. He had no education beyond that duty, save what rumour fed him and what he observed of the betas who passed through the salon. The smooth courtesy which he had deepstudied in his training gave him now the means to function. Other azi stood about, stricken by his misfortune, morbidly curious.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jim,” he said. It was the one choice of his life, the one thing he had personally decided, out of a range of names which belonged to azi. Only azi used it, and a few of the crew. He was vastly disturbed at his loss of anonymity.
“What stakes?” she asked, gathering up the wands.
He stared at her. He had nothing, being property of the line, but his name and his existence.
She looked down and rolled the wands between her hands, the one glittering with chitin, and infinite power. “It will be a long voyage. I shall be bored. Suppose that we make wager not on one game, but on the tally of games.” She laid the wands down under her right hand. “If you win, I’ll buy you free of Andra Lines and give you ten thousand credits for every game you’ve won. Ten rounds an evening, as many evenings as there are in my voyage. But you must win the series to collect: it’s only on the total of games, our wager.”
He blinked, the sweat running into his eyes. Freedom and wealth: he could live out his life unthreatened, even in idleness. It was a prize beyond calculation, and not the sort of luck any azi had. He swallowed hard and reckoned what kind of wager he might have to return.
“But if I win,” she continued, “I shall buy your contract for myself.” She smiled suddenly, a bleak and dead smile. “Play to win, Jim.”
She offered him first cast. He took up the wands. The azi in the salon settled silently, watching.
He lost the first evening, four to six.
A small, tense company gathered in the stateroom of the ISPAK Corporation executive. There were other such gatherings, private parties. The salon was still under occupation on this third evening. No one ventured there any longer save during the day. There remained available of course the lower deck lounge, where the second-class passengers gathered; but they were not willing to descend to that society, not under the circumstances. Their collective pride had suffered enough.
“Maybe she’s going to Andra,” someone suggested. “A short trip…perhaps some bizarre humour…”
The Andran executive looked distressed at that idea. Kontrin never travelled commercial; they engaged ships of their own, a class of luxury unimaginable to the society of
Andra’s Jewel,
and separate. Impatience, near destination…even the possibility of assassins and the need to get offworld by the first available ship: the surmise made sense. But Andran affairs did not want a Kontrin feud: there was trouble enough without that. This one…this Kontrin, did things no Kontrin had ever done, and might do others as unpredictable. Worse, the name Raen a Sul stirred at some vague memory, seldom as names were ever exchanged between Kontrin and men…
Men
…
Beta
was not a term men used of themselves.
This one had been on Andra, and might be returning. Majat were where they ought not to be, and suddenly Kontrin were among them. Until lately it had been possible to ignore Kontrin doings entirely; a man could live years and not so much as see one; and now one came into their midst.
“There’s a rumour—” someone else said, and cleared her throat, “there’s a rumour there’s a majat aboard.”
Another swore, and there was a moment’s silence, nervous glances. It was possible. Majat travelled, rarely, but they travelled. If it were so, it would be somewhere isolate, sinking into dormancy for the duration of the flight. Majat parted from the hive became disoriented, dangerous: this one would have awakened long enough to have performed its mission, whatever it was, and to secure passage home—function assigned it by the hive. So long, it might remain sane, having clear purpose and a goal in sight. Thereafter, it must sleep, awakening only in proximity to its hive.
There were horror tales of majat awakening prematurely on a ship; and majat horror tales were current on Andra, on Kalind, on Meron, unreasoning actions, killings of humans. But the commercial lines could no more refuse a majat than they could have refused the Kontrin. It was a question of ownership, of the origins of power in the Reach, and some questions it was not good to raise.
Silence rested heavily on the gathering, which sat uncomfortably on thinly padded furniture in an anteroom designed for smaller companies. Ice rattled in glasses. The executive cleared his throat.
“Kontrin don’t travel alone,” he said. “There are always bodyguards. Where are they?”
“Maybe they’re…some of us,” a Kalinder suggested. “I’d be careful what I said.”
No one moved. No one looked at anyone else. No Kontrin had ever done such a thing as this one had done: they feared assassination obsessively, guarding the immortality which distinguished their class as surely as did the chitin-patterns. That was another cause by which men found it difficult to accept the presence of a Kontrin, for her lifespan was to theirs far longer than theirs was to that of the azi they created. Men were likewise designated for mortality, as surely as the Kontrin had engineered themselves otherwise, and kept that gift from others. It was the calculated economy of the Reach. Only the owners continued. Men were to the Kontrin…a renewable resource.
Someone proposed more drinks, They played loud music and talked in whispers, only to those they knew well, and eventually this party too died.
There were other gatherings in days after, in small number, by twos and by threes. Some stayed entirely in their staterooms, fearing the nameless threat of meetings in the corridors, unnerved by what was happening on worlds throughout the Reach. If there was a majat aboard, no one wanted to find it.
The game continued in the salon. Jim’s luck improved. He was winning, thirty-seven to thirty-three. The other azi’s eyes followed the fall of the wands and the dice as if their own fortunes were hazarded there.
The next evening the balance tilted again, forty to forty.
Andra’s Jewel
jumped and made slow progress to Andra station. Ten grateful first-class passengers disembarked and the Kontrin did not. The majority of lower-deck passengers left; more arrived, short-termers, for Jim, and three first-class, bound for Meron. The game in the salon stood at eighty-four and eighty-six.
The
Jewel
crept outward in real-space, for Jim; again for Sitan and the barrenness of Orthan’s moons; made jump, for glittering Meron. Such passengers who remained, initiates of the original company, were dismayed that the Kontrin did not leave at Meron: there had even been wagers on it. The occupation of the salon continued uninterrupted.
The score stood at two hundred forty-two to two hundred forty-eight.
“Do you want to retire?” Kont’ Raen asked when the game stood even. “I’ve had my enjoyment of this. I give you the chance.”
Jim shook big head. He had fought his way this far. Hope existed in him; he had never held much hope, until now.
Kont’ Raen laughed and won tine next hand.
“You should have taken it,” an azi said to Jim that night. “Kontrin don’t sell their azi when they’re done with them. They terminate them, whatever their age. It’s their law.”
Jim shrugged. He had heard so already. Everyone had had, to tell him so. He worked the dice in his clenched hand. and sat down on the matting of the azi quarters. He cast them again and again obsessively, trying the combinations as if some magic could change them. He no longer had duties on the ship. The Kontrin had marked his fatigue and bought him free of duties. He was no longer subject to ration: if he wanted more than his meals, he did not have to rely on tips to buy that extra He seldom chose to go beyond ration, all the same, gave once or twice when he had been far ahead and his appetite improved. He cast the dice now, against some vague superstition formed of these empty days. He played himself, to test his run of luck.
He could not have quit, the game unfinished, could not go back to the others, to being one of them, and exist without knowing what he had given up. He would always think that he might have been free and rich. That would always torment him. The Kontrin had sensed this, and therefore she had laughed. Even he could understand the irony.