Paradise Drift

  “What was that?” she yelled, backing up to the rail.

  “A cannonball, I think,” Cyn said. “We watched these things on old vids all the time, when we snuck into the museum.”

  “Museum?” Beka asked, as they watched Harper plunging the brush down into the cannon, and then crew members forcing in a wad, and then a round, hand-chipped ball of iron.

  “Boston,” Cyn said in a low voice.

  “Oh! So you come from Harper’s old world, is that right?” Beka asked.

  Cyn turned to face her. Beka was taller, her beautiful face both wary and mistrusting.

  “What is it?” Beka asked, seeing the guilt in Cyn’s averted eyes, her compressed lips.

  “I poisoned him,” Cyn admitted, her chin coming up. “But he’ll live if he returns with us, and takes up the fight against the—”

  An enormous roar from close at hand caused them both to jump. Beka, standing at the rail between strange wooden protrusions, some of which had thick twisted rope attached, sneezed from the hot gust of iron-smelling smoke, and felt her hand shift, then tiny arrows of pain forced her back. She glared down in disbelief at her palm, over which there were tiny splinters sticking up.

  A distant pop, the puff of air, presaged another cannonball. This time the women both ducked, Beka angrily plucking out those splinters. The crew members around laughed, and the cannonball ripped, with a loud hiss, through the billowing sail far overhead.

  “Hey! Get aloft, you! Bring down that topgallant,” snarled another man, this one wearing a faded blue jacket, his face scowling and weather-beaten under his jaunty hat. He had a length of rope in one hand; the other held a tube—a megaphone, Beka realized—that motioned up at the network of ropes stretching upward from the railing.

  Beka and Cyn both turned their attention to the crosshatching of ropes, which narrowed as they extended upward to the mast.

  Beka gasped. “You want me to climb that? Like hell!”

  A gout of pain snapped through her, and she realized the man had hit her with the knotted end of the rope.

  “Get aloft!” He didn’t wait for an answer, just dashed across the deck to more people standing around, and belabored them with the rope, shouting into the megaphone and pointing upward.

  Another cannonball whizzed past Beka’s ear; some of the people began climbing up the crosshatched ropes on the other side of the ship, and one missed his footing, falling with a long wail to plunge into the sea.

  Cyn already had her hands on the first level. With a look of despair in Harper’s direction (he seemed to be delighted with the cannon, and was busy helping to reload) she hoisted her weight to the rail.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Beka muttered. “Swordfish! Swordfish!”

  For a moment nobody moved except for the ship, which was constantly rocking from side to side, then from far overhead some unseen person shouted, “Sail ho! Right on the beam!”

  “Another pirate,” shouted the man with the hat. “Bosun!”

  “Sir!” roared the one with the rope and megaphone.

  “Conduct these rats to the brig!”

  Big, hairy sailors with greasy pigtails promptly grabbed Beka and Cyn, muscling them to a square hole in the middle of the deck. Beka squirmed, trying to get a grip on the huge fist holding her scruff; she coughed as she was forced down a ladder into a low, dim room in which not much could be made out, except throat-clawing smells of brine, sewage, and spoiling food. Oh, and ancient sweat.

  Down yet another hole, Cyn right behind her, silent and white-faced in the yellow light of swinging lanterns, and then they were thrust through a low door into a dark room, lit only by a tiny guttering candle, sitting out open on a barrel. This room smelled only marginally less evil.

  “Dammit,” Beka snarled, jabbing at her comlink. “Rommie! Rommie!”

  No answer.

  Moments later noises—scuffles, thumps, an inarticulate shout or two—heralded arrivals. The small door opened and Harper was thrust in. “I decked that megaphone guy,” he said cheerfully, and then paused. “Is that where that word comes from, decked? As in a ship’s—”

  “Never mind,” Cyn snapped. “Look!” She pointed beyond the faint glare of the candle, and they saw what they had missed before: the outline of another door.

  A door, in the side of a ship, against whose wooden walls the water could be heard splashing?

  Beka shouldered it open, the three of them crowded through—

  And the steady floor almost sent them tumbling.

  Behind, the small door shut, vanishing seamlessly into a plain gray wall.

  Before them was a semicircular wall, into which were set six doors. Images flickered above each door. In the first one, there seemed to be beings writhing with wormy things crawling all over them.

  Beka turned to Harper, who gestured, palm flat and downward. “I’m on it—Rommie?”

  “Pick the End of the Republic. Use: The Ides of March,” Rommie said. “Safe words: ‘Et tu, Curly,’ ‘Weweese Wodewick,’ and ‘Methinks he has a lean and hungry look.’”

  They all looked at the images, Cyn wincing away from the worm one. Harper was distracted by one with what seemed to be winged women flying around—until one flew close to the vid and he glimpsed long, red-tipped teeth.

  “Bedsheet people,” Beka said, pointing upward.

  “Togas, ancient Rome, I think,” Cyn said. “At least, in the cartoons we used to—”

  “Later. Let’s go. At least it’s bedsheets, and not worms or vampires. Right now I’ll take boring.”

  They used their chits to activate the door, and passed in.

  FIFTEEN

  In trust I have found treason.

  —QUEEN ELIZABETH I OF ENGLAND, 1586

  FROM THE MUSEVENI COLLECTED PROVERBS

  From game to game Dylan moved, until his head seemed filled with flashing, spinning, sparkling lights. Reflections of light in human, Than, Perseid eyes, the compressed breathing of tension, the brittle smiles of defeat and burst of triumphant laughter at wins, it felt unreal—as if he moved in a dream.

  “Remember you haven’t eaten,” Rommie said privately over the comlink, as he watched a new species coalesce amid the excited chitter of upper-hierarchy Than, who watched with the avidity Dylan was used to seeing in, say, Harper, when a beautiful woman danced.

  “Should I halt?” Dylan whispered, turning away when the lights indicated the winners—he not among them.

  “Of course not. Have fun. Alphyra is having fun watching you lose. But watch what you say afterward.”

  “Check,” Dylan said, not bothering to hide his wry smile as he approached yet another game, this one elegant, simple, on a flat surface.

  “Old Earth.” That enticing perfume reached his nose, and Dylan turned his head to see Alphyra next to him, the faux stars overhead reflecting in her beautiful dark eyes. “Of course we would have to have games from old Earth. Do you recognize this one?”

  “Blackjack,” Dylan said. “And there, a roulette wheel. And over there, 2001—no doubt with a Hal the Computer to play against.”

  “All true. Shall you try at all three?” Alphyra asked, sliding her arm in his.

  Dylan shrugged. “Why not?” He grinned down into those lustrous, smiling eyes. “It’s only diplomatic money.”

  And she just laughed.

  Time spun away as Dylan played through games at each station, losing heavily. After each game, he looked up to see fewer gamblers. It was late even by gambling standards; he felt the tug of exhaustion at eyes, spine, mind.

  But Alphyra seemed tireless, hovering at his side. When there were half a dozen people left, Dylan felt a dangerous glitter at the corners of his vision.

  “That’s it,” he said. “I’m finished.”

  “I can show you to your chambers,” Alphyra said, smiling, smiling, “But first you’ll need to sign for tonight’s pleasures. Don’t worry,” she added. “There is always tomorrow to recoup, after the meetings have been gotten
over.”

  She held out her hand and Delta came forward, sober, clear-eyed, Rommie just behind. Silently Delta held out her flexi.

  Dylan stared down in incomprehension at the vast sum listed there. Rommie saw him blanch, then frown and give his head a shake. His physical signs indicated exhaustion and stress. But his eyes were alert when he glanced her way, his brows lifted faintly in question, and she gave a little nod.

  He signed with a flourish, and Alphyra’s sudden smile startled even her sister, who gazed at her in weary question. But the smugness, the triumph, was gone in a moment.

  “Come along,” she said.

  “It’s too much,” Dylan murmured.

  “You can always try again,” Alphyra said soothingly.

  “What happens if I don’t recoup?” he asked, as they crossed the gambling chamber toward the far doors, trailed by Delta and Rommie.

  Alphyra shrugged. “What happens to anyone who owes a debt, of high or low degree, the debt large or small?”

  Dylan said, “The good news is, my bank was on Tarn-Vedra, and after three hundred years, I suppose the sum has managed to accumulate to an impressive state. But the bad news is, no one knows where Tarn-Vedra is, or if the bank still exists.”

  Alphyra laughed. “There are ways and ways of discharging debts.”

  “Such as?” he asked, smiling down at her.

  Rommie watched Delta now, who was whispering into her corn-link, then tapping her flexi; she looked up, frowning again.

  “Problem?” Rommie asked.

  Delta gave her a quick, distracted look. “I—I have to admit I do not understand—but then I know my responsibilities,” she breathed.

  Rommie realized then why Dylan was forcing the issue now, instead of waiting: if he was tired, the others had to be equally tired. He knew his limits, and though he was near them, he was not past.

  “Such as your ship,” Alphyra was saying.

  Dylan laughed as they passed through a short hall into a parlor with a comfortable low ceiling, round in shape, the walls a soothing pale blue with subtle patterns of stylized egrets in flight. Set into the floor were smaller circles, couches with inviting cushions. Alphyra led the way into one of these, and disposed herself and her skirts, then she looked up. “Delta, you seem tired, my dear. Why don’t you show our guest where she can retire?”

  Delta’s lips parted, then she nodded, almost a bow, and backed away.

  Rommie followed, as behind she heard Dylan say, “Starship captains never joke about their ships. Nor do they stake them.”

  Alphyra’s musical laugh followed them out the doors. “Of course! Of course. But your ship can be used, for oh so many purposes….”

  The doors slid silently shut.

  Delta turned round, her eyes sightlessly wandering the hallway. Rommie said gently, “What is it? My captain would never stake his ship. And we are on a mission of peace.”

  Delta said softly, “I know. That’s just it. Why is she not going over the negotiation points agreed on by all three directors?” She lifted a hand, rubbed her temple, and Rommie scanned her. Heart rate high, sharp increase in physical signs of stress. Almost at once Delta murmured, her eyes closing, “Oh, but their talk might be the banter of flirtation.” She opened her eyes. “She has expressed her desire to tour a star ship, especially one from the historical era she admires so much. That must be it.”

  “You think they are flirting?” Rommie asked.

  “It must be,” Delta stated firmly, and her stress signs lessened, plateauing.

  “Have you ever flirted?” Rommie asked, careful to keep her voice light.

  The honest brown eyes flicked her way in surprise and question, quickly followed by a quick contraction of pain. “I—I have duties,” she said slowly, and again her stress signals rose, and she rubbed her forehead. “I should not be talking so much. There is work to be done.”

  “Even dutiful aides deserve time off,” Rommie said. “And we were dismissed.”

  Delta’s head jerked a little, her lips parted, then her eyes unfocused: message, through her datalink.

  She looked up, startled, then worried. Instead of speaking she whirled around and sped through the opposite door. She never faltered, but almost ran down a short hall, doors sliding open and shut behind them, for Rommie followed unbidden. Delta might not even be aware of her.

  As she ran behind the woman, Rommie activated one of her scans, and discovered a spike in traffic over the Than links. So at least she was prepared, though Delta was not, when they emerged into a brightly lit room that, despite the high-intensity air filtering and cooling system, was charged with EM: this was the nerve center of the Drift, Rommie realized, looking round at the soberly clad beings—human, Than, and Perseid—who sat at monitoring stations, complicated displays changing rapidly on the boards before them. Overhead was a circular bank of screens in several rows, showing various views of the Drift. Rommie detailed a part of her scan system to monitor those swiftly altering views.

  Doors opposite them opened, and through them scurried the two Than directors, Blossoms on the Wind and Reflections of the Sun, both of them clearly agitated.

  “You! You must leave this place!” the Than with the emerald carapace exclaimed, pointing to Rommie.

  “Why? What is amiss?” Delta exclaimed.

  The Than with the crimson carapace, Reflections of the Sun, seemed to be trying to block the consoles from view with his body. “There is much amiss!” he insisted. “Much! We do not know if this Andromeda Ascendant is yet a part of it. There must be investigation forthwith!”

  “Where is Director Kodos?” Blossoms on the Wind demanded, ranging up next to the tech director.

  Delta said, “In her chambers. We are off-duty—”

  “We will summon her,” Blossoms on the Wind demanded. “At once. We must demand an explanation.”

  “For what?” Delta asked, looking from one to the other.

  The door behind Rommie opened, silent, but she felt the air currents alter, and shifted her stance.

  In glided Director Vandat, his light smooth voice rougher than usual as he said, “I very much fear we all require an explanation. Our security monitors tagged an outgoing message before the Andromeda Ascendant was due to emerge from the Slipstream. It went out over Director Kodos’s signature, but only now were its protocols decoded and recognized.”

  “But so much mail goes out over her signature,” Delta said, backing up. “Much of it is sent by me, and others by her staff.”

  “We need to know, then, who on her staff would send something using Nietzschean protocols, and such as indicate a high priority,” Vandat said.

  “Nietzscheans?” Delta breathed, her face blanching.

  Nietzschean protocols? Rommie budded off some more seekers into the Drift system.

  Blossoms on the Wind motioned, and several of her warrior-caste Than entered, surrounding Delta. “We require you to stay in mandated areas. We shall confront Director Kodos forthwith.”

  Rommie by now had an accurate map of the entire Drift, and the comlinks gave her the locations of all her crew. And yes, there where no one would ever expect her to be, was Trance. Why?

  Delta meanwhile looked around helplessly, her flexi trembling in her tightly gripped fingers.

  Rommie said with a smile, “Now might be a good time to give me a tour of your Art and Engineering Department.”

  “My art? You wish to see my art?” Delta repeated, her lips pale. She turned to the Than, who indicated assent.

  “That would constitute a mandated area,” Blossoms on the Wind said in what, in a human, would have been perceived as a voice of kindness. “It is your own project. Go, take this human with you.”

  Delta led the way out, Rommie following as she internally accessed one area after another.

  The Than guards closed in behind them.

  SIXTEEN

  Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

&
nbsp; JULIUS CAESAR

  As Beka, Cyn, and Harper passed into the End of the Roman Republic bontemps, they felt their nautical costumes dissolve.

  Again bots painted them, and Beka and Cyn found themselves wearing long, flowing white gowns tied below the bosom and at the hips, the gown loose enough to fit over their regular clothing.

  When they looked at Harper, they laughed. He was turning around in a circle, trying to get a wide swath of draped fabric that covered one arm and hung down over his back to drape better, but the bots wouldn’t let him.

  Finally he sighed, shrugged, and gave up.

  They stepped into a city of white marble dazzling in the hot sun, lofty monuments and statues everywhere, the buildings enormous, columned, with archways leading into shadowy spaces with mostly marble flooring. Dust hung in the bright air, smelling of horse and hot olive oil and sweat. All three rubbed their noses, trying to filter their breathing; Beka muttered, “I hate planets. Even fake planets.”

  A man accompanied by two enforcer types carrying what looked like thick-handled axes strode by. Harper indicated them, his brows raised. Beka shrugged, Cyn sighed. They followed him into a huge square before some sort of temple.

  “We’re not going to be listening to speeches?” Harper asked, aghast.

  “Looks like,” Cyn said.

  “We aren’t staying,” Beka reminded him. “Move through the crowd, and vanish to the next. We can hope, if Ujio does manage to find his way here, he gets stuck in the crowd.”

  “Listening to speeches,” Harper chortled, scratching vigorously at his neck, and when his toga nearly fell off, he hastily squirmed back into it.

  “Isn’t that a theater?” Cyn asked, pointing.

  Tall letters proclaimed something—they glanced at their chits, and saw Theater of Pompeii.

  “Oh, well, maybe it won’t be so bad, then,” Harper said. “If they have some lovely babes without ship suits under those flimsy dresses doing the acting.”