Paradise Drift

  “Alphyra Kodos,” he responded. “I am ready for the transfer when you are.”

  She straightened her head, the long column of her throat tightening. Ah, trouble, then. She did not have the control she thought she did.

  Ought to have—no. That was the Nietzschean point of view. Tokugawa never underestimated the labyrinthine thinking that lesser sentients struggled with; to do so was clumsy, and to use force when suggestion, perhaps a mere hint of force, controlled them, harnessed them to his will, preferably against their own, was so very much more exquisite. The mark of the artist.

  From the other end of the communication link Alphyra watched him, having forgotten how he used silence. She had brought them here, it was up to her to speak first, or he would perceive her as weak. She said, “I am certain you know the Andromeda Ascendant is here. That is, it has removed into space somewhere.”

  “We know,” he said, looking amused.

  “We have Captain Hunt here.”

  The slanted eyes mocked her. “Do you,” he said appreciatively, not quite a question. “By his will, or against it?”

  “That… is being established,” she said, in her coolest voice.

  And won a laugh from him, a short, soft sound. She’d heard him laugh very rarely: once in the museum, where they first met, when surprised by an eight-thousand-year-old panel depicting a samurai battle in the snows of ancient Japan. The second time was her accidental second encounter, watching illegal blood sports on Vedra-Shin’s moon, by exclusive invitation.

  “Who is in command of his warship, then?” he asked.

  “That I do not know. We have only received relays from their Communications Deck.”

  “Ah. And so…your offer?”

  “Still stands. The data. In trade for control of the planet as well as the Drift. As for what you want aboard the Andromeda Ascendant, you will have to take that yourself, unless Captain Hunt…changes his mind.”

  “That is your affair,” Tokugawa warned. “I have no need of your captain—or his warship. Once I get what I want from its confines, I will destroy them both.”

  He saw her pupils dilate. She was curious—What does he want from the Andromeda?—and failing to disguise it. Perhaps realizing this, she opened her hands with a graceful movement.

  He smiled. “A competition, then. Is that what you envisioned? Which of us would win you and your data first?”

  “Is that not the Nietzschean way?”

  “But then you are not Nietzschean,” he said gently.

  She shrugged. “Immaterial. Those I have…bred…leave Nietzscheans behind.”

  “Yes, so you said initially. I believe I will have proof of that before I move.”

  “You shall have it,” she said. “I will arrange it.” She smiled, and reached.

  He cut the connection without moving, while she was still in motion.

  On the third hail from the Andromeda, Tokugawa motioned with one finger; his com officer answered at last. He did not expect what he saw when the screen cleared to reveal Tyr’s dark, sardonic gaze as he lounged back in the captain’s pod, his eyes steady, as though there were only the two of them present.

  Surprised, Tokugawa laughed. “Have you risen so high in the High Guard, then, Tyr Anasazi of Kodiak Pride?” Did he deliver Hunt to Alphyra in exchange for the Andromeda? What of the AI said to be the ship’s alter-ego? Tokugawa felt the unexpected warmth of anticipation: this exercise, regarded as mere necessity before arrival, now glimmered with possible interest.

  Behind him he heard his son Minamoto shift slightly, doubtless displeased that Anasazi was so completely ignoring him.

  “If it comforts you to think so,” Tyr retorted in his soft voice.

  “My comfort, young Kodiak, will be complete when I have the Ancestor’s bones on my flagship. Yes, I know you have them—and how you got them. And that the Drago-Kazov Pride has been singularly inept at retrieving them. But then their leadership has noticeably weakened over the past few years.”

  Tyr said nothing.

  “Now, the question is, do you join me or do I take them from you?”

  Tyr’s teeth showed. “You might,” he said, “apply to the Ursa Pride for an account of my last alliance with my own kind.”

  “Augustus was a fool,” Tokugawa said. “Losing his life as well as a planet.”

  Tyr made a gesture that could have meant anything.

  Tokugawa lifted his gaze toward the screens above, knowing that Tyr had the twin view in his own command center. “This Drift is reputed to contain all manner of games to entertain kludges. The only true game worth playing is about to commence.”

  Tyr’s teeth showed again. “Yes,” he said, and the screen blanked.

  Minamoto turned to his father. “I’ll command a wing of slip-fighters. We can take that ship.”

  “I want the bones of the Ancestor unharmed,” Tokugawa warned.

  The door hissed open behind them.

  “And I,” Pimiko, First Daughter, spoke behind them. “I want him”

  She glared in challenge at her brother, who glared back.

  Tokugawa lifted a hand. “Settle it between yourselves,” he said, rising from the command chair.

  As the arrows sing overhead

  I hear only your cries of grief….

  He had his first two lines. Now to be alone with his brushes, and consider the matters unfolding now with such pleasing rapidity.

  Just before he left he gestured toward Daimyo Rommel, turning command of the flagship, and the fleet, to him. “You will support Minamoto. I do not wish him distracted.”

  Minamoto flushed and strode out the other door; they heard him snapping out orders to scramble the elite Bushi, the best-trained fighters in the fleet.

  Pimiko withdrew back to her cabin and reviewed the vid recording of the conversation with Tyr Anasazi, once, twice. Sharpening her knife the while.

  Then she turned it off.

  TWENTY-TWO

  One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.

  —JANE AUSTEN, EMMA, 1816 C.E.

  ALL SYSTEMS UNIVERSITY, SPECIAL COLLECTIONS

  The room Beka, Harper, and Cyn explored cautiously and slowly was square, the furnishings the slightly curved, carved wooden tables, chairs, and buffets they recognized from museums. The lighting was mellow, apparently from candles placed in crystal holders, but the light from them was far brighter than real candles ever would have afforded, though they flickered realistically—and Cyn suspected if she touched one, her fingers might singe.

  There were upholstered chairs with gracefully curving legs set round the perimeter of the room; at one end a fireplace containing a cheery, snapping fire and at the other, a lovely table with a huge silver tea urn. Lined neatly besides the urn were porcelain cups and saucers.

  The three felt the hum of the costumebots, and when they glanced down they were not surprised to discover that they were garbed like the others seated upright in those chairs around the perimeter of the drawing room: women in light-colored gowns bound high under their busts, ending in flounces, the men in tight biscuit-colored breeches, tighter coats, with complicated white cloth round their necks.

  Harper tugged at his cravat. “I’d rather have the greasy pants back,” he muttered.

  “Please.” A woman with a profusion of curly hair topped by a lacy cap came round from behind the urn. This was obviously their hostess. She extended a gloved hand. “Welcome to Longbourne—pray take a chair.”

  Everybody wore gloves, Beka noted; Cyn noticed it also, and frowned slightly, sure that wasn’t right—but when she walked past some of the people sitting so upright on their pretty chairs, saucers in their laps, fingers holding delicate cups, she realized the costume-bots had not just created clothes but masks: she heard faint stridulations twice, as if insectoids were disguised as humans, but also she saw female forms in the tight jackets and trousers, and male forms in the gowns.

  Well, that was pretty much like home, and
she shrugged it off. If this bontemps was just dressing up like early nineteenth-century Earth English people and playing around with teacups and chatter, well, she could use a moment or two to breathe—

  “Lady Lucas,” cried one of the women. “Did you not say that Mr. Collins would call?”

  “Why, so my dear Charlotte informs me,” said another of the ladies.

  “We must ascertain whether the claims of his patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, will permit him to attend the Longbourne ball….”

  At once most of the people began talking in slow, peculiarly accented drawls.

  “A ball!”

  “When shall it be?”

  “Shall you hire an orchestra from London?”

  Harper rolled his eyes in Cyn’s direction. “Is it all going to be like this?” He mouthed the words.

  A signal from Rommie brought both Beka and Harper’s attention to their links. “Let this be our escape words,” Beka muttered.

  “Nietzscheans have just emerged from the Slipstream,” Rommie said shortly. “Andromeda preparing to leave the docking bay.”

  “Oh, Mr. Collins, Mr. Collins!” several shrill female voices cried.

  A new man entered, his coat long and black, his demeanor portentous.

  “My very dear ladies,” he pronounced in a pompous voice. “If I may be permitted a little bon mot of the sort with which I often grace the drawing room at Rosings, the estate of my esteemed patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh, you are all jewels fit for the crown of society.”

  He went on much in that strain, and Harper, Cyn, and Beka wondered if they’d stumbled into some kind of comedy bontemps until this man’s glance swept past them, and they saw a gleam, just for a moment, of red in his eyes.

  “Did you—” Beka shook her head. As the man strode down the room with a heavy tread, now treating everyone to his views of the healthful benefits of dancing, she leaned toward Harper. “Never mind. Listen, how are we going to get off the Drift now?”

  Another outcry interrupted them.

  “Mr. Collins! Charlotte!”

  And the three looked up in time to see Mr. Collins escort one of the ladies, who simpered behind her fan, through the door.

  Cyn opened her mouth, but was forestalled by a sudden rush on the part of all the ladies and gentleman to the windows, where they crowded around, oohing and ahhhing.

  Beka just rolled her eyes, Harper sighed, trying to insert a finger within the white cravat to scratch his neck.

  Cyn, remembering from some vid she’d seen once long ago, that there was something about Mr. Collins and Charlotte…got up and peered over someone’s shoulder, expecting to see anything but what she saw: Mr. Collins grabbed Charlotte, bent her over backwards, and opened his mouth.

  “Oooh!” the watchers cooed as long fangs appeared—

  And he bit her neck!

  Charlotte and Mr. Collins struggled a little, and then they thumped to the grassy sward, vanishing behind a hedgerow.

  “Oooh,” sighed some of the spectators, as they reluctantly returned to their chairs.

  And as the stout lady busied herself with pouring out more tea, and people passed along the clattering cups and saucers, Harper muttered, “What was that?”

  Cyn plunked down into her seat. “Vampires.”

  “What?” Harper squeaked.

  Some of the guests turned their masks his way, but Harper sat up unnaturally straight, a teacup rattling in its saucer on one knee, and gradually the people returned to their whispered conversations, all about the colonel’s ball, and whether or not Mr. Wickham would be there.

  As soon as attention was safely away, Harper and Beka both turned on Cyn. “What did you say?” Beka asked.

  “Vampires,” Cyn repeated.

  Beka and Harper sprang up, both of them recollected themselves, and with stately step trod to the window.

  “Is that real blood?” he asked in a faint voice.

  “I don’t think I want to know,” Beka muttered as they returned.

  She sat down again and gripped Cyn’s arm, but when she saw Cyn wince, let go. “Listen. If we go to your ship first, will you drop me, at least, by the Andromeda—that is, if we can find it?”

  Cyn hesitated, then turned Harper’s way. He gazed back at her, his face, so rarely serious, utterly serious now. “Yes,” she heard herself promise.

  Beka gave a short nod. “So let’s just move, nice and slow and unobtrusive, out of here, until we can get the safe words.”

  At that moment the ladies and gentlemen ceased their private conversations on some unseen cue.

  The woman behind the urn said, “I do wonder where Mr. Darcy might be?”

  “He rode out with Mr. Bingley, I believe, Mrs. Bennet, but Miss Bingley said they were to proceed here.”

  “I thank you, Lady Lucas—”

  Beka, Harper, and Cyn got up and walked sedately across the room. There was a nice paneled door. Good.

  “Oh, Mary, perhaps, while we await the gentlemen, you might perform upon the pianoforte.”

  One by one, as the guests made well-bred noises of approval behind them, they eased through one of the paneled doors—to discover another room exactly like the one before, with a new collection of prettily dressed ladies and gentlemen. As they entered, they almost collided with a tall, handsome man wearing black and white; again, a glimpse of red in his eyes startled them by the sheer contrast with the elegant, old-fashioned clothes.

  He was just in the act of bowing before a young female. When he rose, he gripped her wrist in his gloved hand, and pulled her to her feet, and started toward the door.

  Beka and Harper glanced around, but the guests all seemed busy with teacups and gossip, paying no attention.

  “Right,” Harper said, exchanged nods with Beka, and both leaped to the lady’s defense.

  Beka brought both fists down on his arm as Harper gave him a side kick, upsetting his balance.

  The fellow in black was a whole lot stronger than he looked; he gave them each a smart blow, but then turned abruptly and vanished back through the door.

  “You slime!” the lady said, gazing at them in rage. “I paid so much extra for time with Mr. Darcy—”

  “You mean you wanted him to attack you?” Cyn squeaked.

  The woman stomped her silk-and-ribbon-slippered foot, sending her flounces dancing. “Of course, you idiot! Why do you think I’m here?” She sniffed, started to sashay away, then turned and gave them an unpleasant smile. “At least I know he’ll be back. And he’ll probably bring friends.”

  Harper and Cyn dropped weakly into chairs. Harper put his head in his hands. “Cyn, why didn’t you just shoot me? Stab me? Anything would be better than going mad.”

  “But I heard it too,” she said. “She really paid money to have some guy attack her.”

  “If he’s really a vampire, well, that’s just disgusting.” Beka stood before them, arms crossed. “That is, not him, if that’s the creature’s nature. But what scrambles my guts is any human wanting to act out Beauty and the Beast fantasies.”

  The other two looked up mutely. “Maybe she’s not human either?” Cyn said.

  “Vampires? Pretty ones? Girls obsessed with them? Cyn, you came from Earth! You must have seen some of the thousands of vid variations on that theme that spewed across the galaxy. Half my CD collection is music from some of that stuff—”

  They had no time to speak, for a moment later all the doors opened, and vampires entered, elegantly dressed in snowy cravats and curling hair and polished riding boots, their fangs gleaming as they grinned. The three eased into the middle of the room, standing back to back—

  And then the wallpaper just under a supercilious portrait of a duchess ripped open as a long, straight sword blade slashed down through it.

  And Ujio Steelblade stepped through.

  TWENTY-THREE

  And a sigh is the Sword of an Angel King.

  WILLIAM BLAKE, 1815 C.E.

  FROM THE MUSEVENI COLLECTED
PROVERBS

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, nothing stops this guy,” Harper muttered as they stared at Ujio, who was momentarily distracted when the vampires all turned as one and started stalking toward him.

  Cyn swallowed, not sure whether to be relieved or worried. She itched all over now, as if her skin crawled with a thousand insect feet. If she scratched, her nails sent glass shards of fiery pain stabbing straight through her nervous system.

  Beka motioned to Harper, and together they upended the fine Chippendale tea table, flinging it at Ujio and the vampires, who all recoiled into a mass, but not before the tea urn toppled, sending a tidal wave of tea indiscriminately splashing them all.

  The three did not stop to see what happened; other participants were muttering, some in fear, and scurrying in their frilly clothes for doors and even windows. The three followed through a pair of French doors, and Rommie’s voice was heard at last”—Your safe word here is ‘Persuasion!’”

  All three of them shouted the safe word, and a third door painted itself over as a full-length portrait of Lord Byron as the Giaour—they forced their way through—and everyone’s Regency clothing vanished.

  Outside they stopped and scanned again. They were near one of those beautiful fountain things that Trance had liked so much. Beka thought tiredly of Trance, hoped she was all right.

  The crowd had thinned somewhat, probably because of the news about Nietzscheans arriving in-system.

  Nietzscheans! Beka realized they hadn’t had a moment to even process that fact. She looked up, to meet Harper’s gaze—his eyes bleary, but his expression alert. “Funny. We haven’t heard from Dylan, have we.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny at all,” Beka said. “Let’s get out of here. Rommie? What’s going on?”

  No answer.

  Either people were withdrawing to their ships or else trying to forget about the threat altogether; from the sound of laughter, singing, and roaring emanating from the row of bars across the concourse, there were plenty who had chosen the second alternative.