Taking the Skaldak through the blockade was a challenge. Evading the Council's patrols in-system, and even the inept picket forces of the Grand Imperium itself, remains a constant and ongoing challenge. I am over-supplied with challenges, and seriously short on resources.
Fortunately, I am short, not destitute. I am using one resource now, and she is proving useful.
I am standing in a hotel apartment in Caesar City, the capital of the Grand Imperium. I would, of course, stand out, were I to reserve an apartment of this kind for myself. However, I am blessed - if that is the word - with one officer who can blend seamlessly into a human society of this type.
"There's definitely something going on at the Palace," Oschmann says. She is dressed in the fashion of a minor Imperial aristocrat: a thigh-length scarlet jacket, tight-fitting white trousers that flare out over the thighs, and highly polished black riding boots. It is, I believe, an adaptation of a hunting costume from Earth's past, presumably from an Earth culture that did not believe in camouflage.
"The nature of this 'something'?" I ask. I sit down on the bed. The apartment is large, but sparsely furnished and starkly decorated. I understand that it is described as a "Spartan aesthetic", though I suspect the empty and functional look is simply due to lack of resources. The Grand Imperium is not economically efficient.
"There have been meetings with High Council representatives," Oschmann says. "At least, the descriptions I'm getting from my tame Baron tally with Council insignia. There have been talks with the Galactic Proconsul and the Lord Privy Seal."
"So, the titles are grandiose. What do they mean?"
"The Galactic Proconsul," Oschmann says with a slight smile, "is responsible for relations between the Imperium and the outer hinterlands - meaning, the rest of the galaxy. Essentially, their foreign minister. The Lord Privy Seal is a formal representative of the Emperor himself. Senior figures in the government. It sounds very much like the High Council is negotiating some formal agreement with the Imperium. Probably not a military agreement, given that the Grand Admiral isn't involved."
"The Imperial military is a negligible force in any event," I mutter.
"Possibly. Well, probably. Though there are reports I've heard about some hotshot new Baron with a first-rate ship... but first-rate might not mean much, in Imperial terms." Oschmann grimaces. "Problem is, these people have a screwed-up gender-biased society. They don't talk about - quote-unquote - serious stuff with mere women. So I'm finding it harder than I'd like to get solid facts about -"
We are interrupted by a fanfare of brassy notes from the apartment's door intercom. "Attention!" a synthesized voice cries. "Prepare for the ingress of the noble Baron Josef Chaka Guevara Foch, who honours you with his presence!"
Oschmann swears under her breath. "My tame Baron, paying a call. Damn it. We'll have to transport you out -"
"Skaldak is out of transporter range," I say. "She will not return for thirty more minutes - unless we recall her, but that will take her into the Council's tachyon detection pattern -"
Oschmann swears, more loudly this time. I look around. There is a sonic shower in one corner of the room, but its doorway is translucent. There is no wardrobe, only a free-standing clothing replicator. The storage cupboards are too small -
A light flashes in Oschmann's mind. I catch peculiar overtones, of both fear and - amusement. "He'll be here in a couple of minutes," she says. "Sir - can you strip, and get on all fours?"
For an instant, I am left boggling and outraged, and then I grasp her meaning. "This had better work," I hiss at her, as I tug at the straps of my uniform.
"If you have any better ideas," Oschmann mutters, "I'd love to hear them. Sir."
I growl. Oschmann kicks my discarded clothing under the bed, as I crouch down and try to look feral. I concentrate on animal thoughts. It is, unsurprisingly, easy.
There is no discreet knock on the door, no asking of permission - the door simply slides open, and the Baron enters. He is a tall, heavily built human, running to fat, with a pale face and a mop of thinning blond hair in what might be intended as an artful arrangement. He wears a long blue coat with extravagant golden braiding, buttons and epaulettes, a white ruffled shirt, and boots and trousers similar to Oschmann's. "Lady Cynthia," he says in a strange braying accent, and then spots me, and blinks. "'pon my word," he says. "Remarkable beast, what?"
"A bio-engineered hunting cat," Oschmann replies in the same overly mannered tones. "They breed them for neo-rhinoceros hunting on the New Assyrian Plains, you know. Bred for size and strength, naturally, with game like that."
"Certainly looks like it could take on a neo-rhino, what?" The man's mind is... worthless; a shallow puddle, muddied with self-indulgence and rippling with inconsequential desires. I regard him through slitted eyes. "What's all those things in its ears, though?"
"Oh," Oschmann says, stepping over to pat my head, "just her tags, to show she's had all her shots and things. I'm thinking of having her bred, though she might be getting a little long in the tooth for that."
I hiss in perfectly genuine exasperation. "I say, spirited beast, what?" says the vacuous Baron.
"Oh, she's an old softie, once she gets to know you," Oschmann says with a laugh. I repress the impulse to disembowel her. "I'd stay a little bit away from her, though, until then." She fingers one of my earrings. "I think all her shots are up to date, but I imagine a bite would still turn septic."
"Oh, quite, no fun at all, that," says the Baron with a forced laugh. "I just dropped by, you know, on the off-chance.... Do you have any plans for tomorrow afternoon?"
"Nothing I couldn't cancel, my lord. Why, do you have some devilishly clever entertainment planned?" I can feel expectancy rising in Oschmann's mind.
"Well, not so much me, more our up-and-coming newcomer chappie. The word is, the challenge floor at the Palace will be in use. You know, of course, we have this rising star in the wargames?"
"I'd heard something of the sort."
"Quite. Some of the chaps think it's unfair of him, coming to the game with that big flashy ship of his... but, well, all's fair in love and war, really, isn't it?" Braying moronic laugh. "Anyway, our parvenu Baron of the New Balearic Islands has been pushing for a challenge for some time, now, and he's finally got his chance. Some rule about points scores in the space battles, and then some other technicality about him winning his title in trial by combat - the lawyer chappies have all the details, I won't bore you with them, don't understand half of them m'self, come to think of it. But anyway, he'll be fighting the Duke of the Napoleonic Sector for the title. His Grace has chosen the weapons - rather, no weapons, unarmed hand-to-hand combat, winner takes all. Should be quite a show, what?"
"His Grace the Duke has skills in combat?" asks Oschmann.
"Oh, rather. Probably the best wrestler in the Imperium, I'd say. But the new chappie seems quite a tough customer, himself, so it's got the makings of a damned good show. Damned good. So, would you care to be an official witness? I can get jolly good seats, you know."
An image is forming in the foetid puddle of the Baron's mind. A face. I strive to control myself, to appear only the unintelligent animal I am feigning to be -
"Two big sweaty chaps locked together in mortal combat?" says Oschmann. "Oh, by all means, count me in!"
"Thought you'd probably say that. Delighted. Pick you up around three pip emma, then? And maybe dinner and a show afterwards?" The Baron purses his lips and glances at me. "Better leave your pet, though - don't think they allow them in the best restaurants."
"She's happier with a chunk of raw neo-rhino, anyway!" says Oschmann with a mannered laugh. "It will be a pleasure, my lord."
"Oh, I do hope so." The image in the Baron's mind now is... best not described. "Anyway, must dash, now, some tiresome old business things to see to. But tomorrow, definitely, it's a date, then?"
"Absolutely, my lord."
The Baron turns, goes to the door, then turns back to give a smile and a silly little wave. Oschmann blows him a kiss. The Baron's smile grows broader as he takes his leave. I feel his sordid little mind diminish in the distance.... I stand up.
"Rrueo is not sure," I say, "whether to commend your initiative, or execute you for your insolence."
"I figured he was too ignorant to recognize a Ferasan." Oschmann kneels down and starts to fish my clothes out from under the bed. "This new Baron of the New Balearics," she says, "seems to be a player of some kind. If I can get to see him in action -"
"You will confirm what Rrueo already knows," I say. "Rrueo saw an image in what passes for your Baron's mind. A foreign adventurer, rising rapidly in the Imperial nobility? Who does that sound like, to you?"
Oschmann's cold eyes widen. "The face fits -?"
"Closely enough. Telepathy is still not an exact science, but it is a face Rrueo has seen in a man's mind before. If you seek to rise in this absurd culture, you will need more of its currency." I start to pull my clothes over my sleek blue fur. "You can obtain this, I think, by placing a large wager on the winner of tomorrow's contest... the current Baron Kalevar Thrang."
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