Trickster. Part 23

"Sure. I'll even throw in a subroutine to weed out repeat info."

"Great. But you'll have to hack it out of SA's library databases. I don't want there to be a record of what I'm reading just in case someone starts sniffing around. It'll also be cheaper, and I'm starting to worry about money."

"Shouldn't be hard. It's not like the library computers guard station secrets or anything, and they won't be that well guarded."

"Thanks, Ben. I owe you."

"What? I don't keep track. You know that."

"Sorry. Sometimes I get into favor-cas.h.i.+ng mode and don't get out. But I'll still pay you back. There are lots of . . . favors I'd love to owe you. Think creatively about what I could do."

"Not if you want me to hack the SA library without getting caught."

Edsard Roon logged off the computer terminal, pulled his key from the receptor, and dropped the chain around his neck as the screen vanished. Enough work for now. These days he too-often found himself arriving home after a fourteen-hour workday only to spend another hour at his home terminal. Time for a break.

He kicked off his shoes, took a deep, cold pull from the frosted gla.s.s that hovered at his elbow, and sank into a supremely comfortable easy chair with a sigh. Caffeine, his one weakness. Edsard didn't allow himself alcohol or any other recreational drug. The mind had to stay clear, be precise, firm. Even caffeine had an impact on the thought processes, but, he supposed, everyone needed at least one bad habit. Bad habits, in moderation, relieved stress.

Relieved N-waves.

Edsard snorted. He was a dark-haired man, tall and rangy, with a long, sad face. Work, it seemed, was never far from his mind. He supposed it was his own fault. After overriding Elena Papagos-Faye and ordering a dedicated terminal installed in his den at home, he found himself spending more and more of his minuscule free time at the computer doing Collection business. Papagos-Faye had protested the practice, but Edsard had known there would be times when he would need the access at home. Besides, no one except Elena even knew the terminal existed--or what it was for. There was no danger it would be hacked.

After another long drink, Edsard set the gla.s.s down in mid-air beside him. The house computer caught the movement and adjusted local gravity generators. Edsard's gla.s.s hovered in place at hand level. Edsard wiggled tired toes and sank deeper into the chair. Did enjoying comfortable furniture count as a bad habit? Perhaps it did, and he had two bad habits.

The study was enormous, large enough to house three families in some sectors of SA Station. Persian rugs imported all the way from Earth covered the polished wood floors. Gla.s.s-topped tables with wooden borders vied for floor s.p.a.ce with several couches and overstuffed chair. The ceiling was two stories away, and the walls were all but hidden by display cases. Each case was crammed with pieces from Edsard's collection, as if someone had torn pieces from a thousand different circuses and trapped them under gla.s.s. Tom Thumb's skeleton. P.T. Barnum's hat. A set of tights worn by Ernie Clark, the first human trapeze artist to perform the triple somersault. A lock of Mario Santelli's hair. Tommy Zane's chess set. A scale reproduction of the railway accident that had killed Jumbo the elephant. The third eye of Vrilkari no Sencmok, ringleader of the very first interplanetary circus.

Seeded among them all were the elephants. Statues of elephants, paintings of elephants, holograms of elephants. Toys, blankets, tapestries, signs, hides, and tusks. Everywhere one looked, an elephant looked back. Edsard's newest acquisition, a Wimpale painting called Gray Elephants on Parade Gray Elephants on Parade, hung in a place of honor lit by a special spotlight. He looked at it contentedly. There were only eight surviving Wimpales left, though rumor spoke of a ninth in the vaults owned by Padric Sufur. Edsard possessed three Wimpales. Parade Parade now made four. The work had cost over three million freemarks, and it was worth every single one. now made four. The work had cost over three million freemarks, and it was worth every single one.

Edsard took back his gla.s.s and raised it at the Wimpale in silent toast. A salute to his collection. And, as always, his mind wandered back toward work--his other Collection.

The Collection. His best idea ever, despite its simplicity. Use the same indoctrination methods that human cults had perfected over centuries of practice to create an army of working Silent who were slavishly devoted to him--and to Silent Acquisitions. With working Silent still terrifyingly rare, a stable of Silent that wouldn't run away even if they could was essential to SA's financial future. And SA had had to survive. The collapse of Silent Acquisitions would be equivalent to the collapse of a multi-system government, with millions of people thrown out of work and thousands of slaves left without owners. Also, no fewer than five major economies were tied in with SA's future, and if SA sank, it would doubtless drag those governments down with it. No, SA had to continue, and gaining monopolistic control over the remaining Silent in the galaxy was the best way to guarantee that. Carinna Mogarr, the company's CEO, had been slaveringly appreciative when Edsard brought her the idea, though now she was pressuring him to put some of the Collection to work and find out if similar methods would work on non-human species. to survive. The collapse of Silent Acquisitions would be equivalent to the collapse of a multi-system government, with millions of people thrown out of work and thousands of slaves left without owners. Also, no fewer than five major economies were tied in with SA's future, and if SA sank, it would doubtless drag those governments down with it. No, SA had to continue, and gaining monopolistic control over the remaining Silent in the galaxy was the best way to guarantee that. Carinna Mogarr, the company's CEO, had been slaveringly appreciative when Edsard brought her the idea, though now she was pressuring him to put some of the Collection to work and find out if similar methods would work on non-human species.

It was all stopgap, of course. When the current crop of Silent died, Silent Acquisitions would follow them. But that was still several decades away, and someone, Roon was sure, would find a solution.

Meanwhile, between overseeing the Collection's day-to-day operations and playing the part of Dreamer Roon, he was finding precious little time to admire his circus collection. The outing to the circus exhibit had been his first major treat in months. Ah well. Eventually the Collection would run itself, and Edsard would have more spare time. Several of the Alphas had already been promoted to Beta, and when they reached Delta status, they would take over the training of new Alphas, replacing the current Deltas, who were played by actors. This absolutely loyal base of workers would "recruit" and train more workers, who would, in turn, indoctrinate yet another generation. It was perfect. It was brilliant. And it had been all his idea.

Edsard grinned. Once the Alphas were all nicely pliable Betas, he would start the next phase of the operation. He toyed with the computer key on its chain around his neck as his mind filled with pleasant plans.

"Mr. Roon?"

Edsard glanced up. His wife Annalies Roon, a soft, pale woman with white-blond hair and gray eyes, was standing in the door. He gave her a quizzical look.

"There's someone here to see you. A Mr. Evan Qiwele. He was insistent but not rude."

"What does he want to see me about, Mrs. Roon?"

She gestured at the displays. "He says he a circus enthusiast and he's hoping to see your collection, especially your Wimpales."

Edsard's first instinct was to tell Mrs. Roon to send him away. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to some time alone. Mrs. Roon would keep the children, and he could spend a quiet hour or two.

On the other hand, it was no fun having a collection if you didn't get to show it off. Edsard's few friends didn't share his enthusiasm, and it would be nice to have a new audience, even one that arrived unexpectedly.

"Show him in, Mrs. Roon," he ordered.

She nodded and vanished. A few moments later, a tall, dark-skinned man wearing blue silk, white gloves, and a red turban entered the room. A smile wide as a crescent moon split the man's face in half.

"Mr. Roon?" He extended a hand and Edsard shook it. "I'm Evan Qiwele. Sorry to drop in on you unannounced, but I was down at a certain gallery today and learned that you beat me to a Wimpale. I had to see if you would allow me to view it."

"Mr. Qiwele," Edsard said politely. "Can I offer you something to drink?"

"Thank you. Scotch and soda?"

Mrs. Roon had already taken up her position behind the bar. Ice clinked and soda hissed. Roon reached for his floating tea gla.s.s and gestured for Qiwele to sit on one of the sofas. He accepted the drink when Mrs. Roon brought it, sipped, and looked at the gla.s.s appreciatively.

"The scotch is twenty years old," Edsard said. "I keep it especially for guests."

Qiwele nodded and set the gla.s.s down in the air beside him with a restless air. The computer caught the gla.s.s and set it to hover.

"I apologize again if I seem rude," Qiwele said, hands tapping on his knees, "but I couldn't help myself. I've been looking for a Wimpale for ages, and just when I think I've gotten a solid lead on one, I learn that someone has whisked it out from under my nose. I congratulate you, Mr. Roon, though I have to say I'm not above trying to convince you to sell it to me. Or perhaps we could arrange a trade? Something in my collection for something in yours?"

Edsard shook his head with a smile. "I doubt that very much. The Wimpales are the jewel of my collection. Have you been a circus enthusiast for long?"

"All my life." Qiwele continued tapping his hands on his knees. "My wife thinks I'm insane. I literally snuck through a war zone for the chance to examine a Debsi sculpture once. Turned out to be a forgery, I'm sorry to say."

"Debsi isn't really my thing," Edsard said with a smile. "Shall I show you my collection, then?"

"That would be a delight, sir," Qiwele cried with palpable enthusiasm. "Do you still have Lupino's makeup case? I would give a great deal to see that."

"I have it," Edsard told him, surprised and pleased. "How did you--"

"Please." Qiwele held up a hand. "I've heard a great deal about your collection, Mr. Roon, and I've been eager to get a look at it for a long, long time."

Feeling flattered, Edsard got to his feet. Mrs. Roon stayed behind the bar as he lead Qiwele to the first display case. They chatted circus as Qiwele examined with happy exclamations each piece Edsard showed him. Qiwele clearly knew what he was talking about, and Edsard found himself glowing with pride as he saw his prizes anew through the eyes of his visitor. A fine man, this Mr. Qiwele.

Despite the growing lateness of the hour, Edsard saved the Wimpales for last, and when Qiwele at last reached them, he let out a long sigh of contentment.

"Let me simply feast my eyes," he said. "No one captures the spirit of the circus elephant like Wimpale."

"Agreed," Edsard said. "His work takes me back to my childhood. I wanted to be a circus performer for the longest time."

"I wanted to be a lion tamer," Qiwele confessed with a wry grin. "I even made a whip. The first time I used it, I broke an antique lamp and my mother banished me to the garden."

"I wanted to be a clown," Edsard said. "Whenever there was a costume party, you would find me dressed in floppy shoes and white makeup."

Qiwele looked him up and down. "That's hard to picture," he said.

"Truth." Edsard held up his right hand, though his eyes took on a faraway look. He remembered the smell of real greasepaint, the ridiculous flapping of overlarge shoes, making silly faces, eliciting bright laughter from other partygoers. The only thing missing was the ring and the roar of an audience. He came to himself a moment later and realized Qiwele was staring at him.

"What?" he asked, suddenly uncomfortable.

Qiwele made his wide, white smile again. "Just trying to imagine you as a clown. It still doesn't fit." He gave an abrupt yawn that nearly split his head in two, and Roon, finding the gesture contagious, followed suit. "Heavens, it's late. I've intruded on you long enough, sir. Your lovely wife abandoned us ages ago."

He leaned against Edsard's desk, the one with the Collection terminal on it. Edsard quickly gestured him over to a pair of armchairs and they sat despite Qiwele's observation of the hour.

"I trust I'll see you at the Emporium next week," Qiwele said.

"The Emporium?" Edsard echoed, confused.

"The Kalopolis Intergalactic Traveling Emporium of Wonders."

"I know what it is. What do you mean by mentioning it?"

Qiwele scratched his ear. "You hadn't heard?"

"Heard what?" Roon asked with a hint of impatience.

"The Emporium is coming here next week for a short engagement. Three performances only."

Edsard sat bolt upright. "The Emporium is coming here? here? To SA Station? Why didn't I hear about it?" To SA Station? Why didn't I hear about it?"

"Tickets are already sold out, my good man. You really hadn't heard?"

Anxiety mixed with disappointment. The Emporium was the greatest circus in all history. No other even came close. Roon had only seen the Emporium's show twice his life, and both times he had come away burning to see more. He would happily travel slips.p.a.ce for a month to catch it, but his schedule was so insane these days, such things were out of the question. Now the Emporium was coming here, right into his own neighborhood, and tickets were already gone. Well, he would see about that. What was the point of having money and power if you didn't use it?

"You must come," Qiwele was saying. He lowered his voice, though they were patently alone. "I'm good friends with the ringleader, and--"

It was Edsard's turn to be impressed. "You know Valeta Kalopolis?"

"I didn't mention that? Our families have been friends for a long time. I'm sure I can arrange tickets for you and your family at the opening performance. They'll be waiting at the box office for you. I insist!"

Relief and excitement flooded over Edsard. The Emporium! "That would be marvelous, Mr. Qiwele. I'm in your debt."

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Roon. In fact . . . " Qiwele's voice trailed off for a moment, and Edsard leaned forward, eager to hear what might come next. "You know the Emporium uses bleachers? With no reserved seats?"

"Yes," Edsard said. "Part of the charm."

"You've been so kind," Qiwele murmured. "And for a fellow enthusiast of your caliber, I might be able to arrange . . . well, perhaps I shouldn't say, in case it can't be done."

Edsard tried not to squirm. "What? You can't leave me hanging like that. Tell me!"

"No, no. I shouldn't get your hopes up."

It was on the tip of Edsard's tongue to shout, to order Qiwele to tell. This was the Emporium Emporium, for G.o.d's sake. Who did Qiwele think he was, jerking him, Edsard Roon, around like this? But he bit the inside of his cheek. Shouting orders at a guest was not only rude, it probably wouldn't work. He forced himself to keep his voice calm.

"Tell," he said. "After all, I showed you my Wimpale."

Qiwele paused for an agonizingly long time. "I just don't want to make you think this is a guarantee when I can only promise to do my best."

"What? What?" Edsard demanded.

"I'm thinking," Qiwele said slowly, "that I could have a word with Valeta. Arrange something special." Qiwele rubbed his nose. "Tell you what. As I said, I will arrange for tickets to be left at the box office. When you and your family arrive, be sure you sit in seat A7. Your wife and children may sit where they like, but you you, my friend, must sit in seat A7. I will try to ensure it remains vacant, but I can't control everything, so you'll want to arrive in plenty of time."

"What exactly are you arranging, Mr. Qiwele?"

Qiwele gave a maddening smile. "A surprise, Mr. Roon. And nothing in the world will make me spoil it for you. The opening performance is in three days, and seating starts at seven o'clock. Seat A7. It'll be a dream come true, Mr. Roon. An absolute dream."

After a hearty handshake and a polite good-bye, Qiwele left. Roon stared after him feeling like a child who has been handed an enormous present and told he couldn't open it for three days.

Then his com-link chimed.

One, two, three, four, five, six, and turn. One, two, three, four, five, six, and turn. Isaac Todd paced and paced and paced again. There was frigging nothing to do do. He was tired of reading, bored with the mini-sim games, and sick, sick, sick of being in these tiny quarters with no frigging windows. He had nothing but a bed, a chair, a tiny bathroom, and a combination bookdisk reader and mini-sim player. That was it. He didn't even have a change of clothes, had to stand around naked while he washed out his stuff in the sink and hung it up to dry. Who the h.e.l.l did Harenn think she was, anyway? She had no right, no right right to keep him here, let alone stick him with needles. to keep him here, let alone stick him with needles.

Todd shuddered and paused in his pacing. The needles. Just thinking about them made him sweat. And then there were the nightmares. He could never remember exactly what they were, or even actually having them, for that matter. All he knew was that three times in four when he woke up in the morning, he was shaking with the memory of fear, the sheets soaked and cold. Harenn was doing it to him somehow, he was sure of it.

At least the vomiting thing had stopped.

Harenn. d.a.m.ned b.i.t.c.h. He hadn't done anything illegal to her. The kids he had made were his, his to keep or to sell. Besides, Harenn and the other women should have been glad glad for what he did. The kids were all genetic freaks. He had disposed of each one of them, ensuring their mothers didn't have to raise them and earning a tidy profit for himself. In the meantime, the freaks were put to good use. Everybody won. Especially Isaac, who got a steady stream of new s.e.x partners, a good income from the results, and the thrill of outsmarting a bunch of women stupid enough to fall for him. for what he did. The kids were all genetic freaks. He had disposed of each one of them, ensuring their mothers didn't have to raise them and earning a tidy profit for himself. In the meantime, the freaks were put to good use. Everybody won. Especially Isaac, who got a steady stream of new s.e.x partners, a good income from the results, and the thrill of outsmarting a bunch of women stupid enough to fall for him.

But now he sat in an inhumanly tiny cell with nothing to do, and that burned him. Inactivity chafed like sand in his clothes. He wanted to act, get out there and do something. Anything.

Well, not quite anything. He had been putting off the one thing he could do, setting it aside until he could work out some details. Said details had come together yesterday afternoon, but still Todd had avoided acting. So much would depend on how fast he could talk.

With a deep breath, Isaac Todd twisted his left ring finger. It came off. From the base of the finger he pulled a short antenna. Then he pressed the nail. A tiny holographic display popped up. Todd swallowed, then whispered a command to it. A few moments later, the display morphed into a head-and-shoulders view of a man.

"Isaac Todd," he said, mouth almost completely dry. "Reporting in, Mr. Roon."

"It's been over two weeks, Mr. Todd. Where are you? I was just about to go to bed."

"I've been captured by the Children of Irfan."

Mr. Roon's expression didn't change, but Todd noticed his neck muscles stiffen. "The Children? Are you on Belleroph--no, you can't be. What is your location?"

"I'm on a s.h.i.+p docked at SA Station. I don't know the name of it--they haven't mentioned it within my hearing."

"Start from the beginning, Mr. Todd," Mr. Roon said tensely, "and tell me everything."

Todd explained and Mr. Roon listened.

"So you allowed yourself to be captured, is that it?" Mr. Roon said when he was done. "And then you let them drug you and make you blab everything you know."

"We can turn this into an advantage, sir," Todd said. He thrust the hand that wasn't holding the communicator into his pocket so it wouldn't shake. "The Father in charge--I haven't caught his name, either--said he wants to steal away his family. Mr. Roon, he's still Silent."