A Game of Universe (7 page)

“And?”

“I saw one card blur on the last deal.”

“How can that be?” I inquired. “Cards don’t move by themselves.”

“That has me stumped. I thought it might be sleight of hand, but when I reviewed the recording of the game, it didn’t show up.” A coolant warning for the magic circle diverted her attention. She tapped the blinking amber light and it went dark, then she snapped her fingers and said, “Magic! It had to be magic. You’re a muse.”

Her guesses were getting better and better. She knew I was an assassin, now this. It made me uneasy. “I’m no muse,” I lied and left it at that.

“Now, if you have everything under control,” I said, “I must clean up and rest.”

“But the card. How did—”

“Trade secret.”

She pursed her lips, unsatisfied with my explanation, then turned her attention back to the ship’s wave function. “Impossible,” she whispered to herself.

In the captain’s quarters, I unpacked a new shadow skin, an armored vest, slacks, and a silk shirt. I removed the Grail database from my pocket, crumpled my old clothes into a ball and threw them into the corner. My eye caught a glowing cube on the reading desk.

It said: “Master, shall I have those cleaned for you?”

“My name is Germain, not Master.” I sat in the chair next to it, enjoying the sensation of the leather sticking to my back. “Summon me a glass of brandy, please.”

A snifter materialized next to the cube smelling of century-old cherries and pungent alcohol. I took a sip of the ruby liquid. It warmed me from the inside out.

“Shall I draw a bath for you, Master Germain? My olfactory sensors detect an unacceptable level of volatile amines and hydrogen sulfide on your person.”

I reeked of the sewers. “Please.” If I couldn’t have a sexual adventure with my pilot, I’d settle for a drink and a hot bath.

Celeste whispered,
The least you can do for me is masturbate. You have withheld pleasure too long. It’s dangerous to your health.

I didn’t dare. Even that slight indulgence would give Celeste the opportunity to slip into my flesh.
Sorry my dear, but you’re going to have to wait.

From the lavatory I heard a rush of water.

“Germain,” Setebos humbly said, “I offer you my most sincere gratitude for not erasing me. If there is anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask.”

I took the Grail database and set it on the table. “You can upload this.”

Three blue triangles in the cube flashed, then it replied, “Done.”

“Scan the records, correlate them, and give me your best guess of the present location of the Grail.”

“I shall require one day and six hours to correlate a rudimentary ‘best guess’ based on the quantity of data. I apologize for the lengthy time, but I was designed more for mathematics than literature. Do you wish me to continue?”

“Proceed.”

I peeled myself off the chair and went into the bathroom. The marble tub was two thirds full of steaming water, bubbles, and scented with lilacs. I eased in. It was two degrees above a comfortable temperature, which was perfect. A smaller version of the cube appeared at the foot of the tub, cradled between the breasts of an erotic mermaid.

“Show me the database please.”

The information flashed from the whale’s mouth near my head, painting the inner surface of my eye with an illuminated text. The database had opened at random, page four thousand thirty-five: an Earth legend of the origins of the Grail.

When Lucifer revolted against heaven, one third of the divine host remained loyal to God, while one third of the angels fell with their leader. The last third, however, remained neutral in this conflict. They were the ones who took the Grail to the mortal world.

The story was severely annotated; a footnote graced every line. One of the asides was T. S. Eliot’s
The Wasteland,
complete with its own set of footnotes. Erybus was crazy if he thought anyone could decipher this.

“Let’s start with something simple,” I told Setebos. “Give me the story of how the Grail quest began in King Arthur’s court. Suppress the annotation.”

A new tale flashed from the whale’s mouth.

I remembered reading about the Round Table when I was young. My Master was researching an incantation to summon spirits of nature, and believed a reference might be found therein. The epics captured my imagination, and I read as many of the stories as he had—a world of dragons and jousts, black knights and captive princesses.

The Grail quest began when Arthur’s knights assembled for a feast. Before any eating occurred however, there had to be an adventure. It was the King’s custom. The Grail then appeared, a floating chalice, covered by a cloth. His knights swore to see the Grail unveiled, and the quest commenced.

But that wasn’t the way I remembered it. Close, but something was missing. “Setebos, run a difference map. Compare this legend to all versions in the database.”

Characters danced a mazurka in my eyes while the AI shuffled through the sagas. I blocked the transmission so I wouldn’t get seasick.

“Finished,” Setebos said. “In the Old French translation of the tale, the knights specifically declared they must go on the Grail quest
alone.
To go in a group on the quest was considered dishonorable.”

I laughed. I’d never be alone—not with my collection of personalities. And even if I could go by myself, I wouldn’t. I needed Virginia, and I needed the little man on Needles colony who called himself Quilp, to make my thoughts invisible from the master-psychic.

Needles, like Golden City, was a free trade colony stuck between the borders of several empires. But unlike Golden City, it serviced another vice: drugs. Quilp took advantage of his tax-free, lawless home, both as a trader of technology and as an addict. He collected technology from all parts of the galaxy, then sold them off to support his one true love, stimulants. He stayed high and awake for weeks at a time, tinkering with his computers, building bombs for revolutionaries (as long as they could afford his price), and playing mathematical games with himself. “Forget sleep,” he once told me, “it’s the biggest evolutionary blunder Mother Nature ever made.” The last time I paid him, he went on a binge, and remained sleepless for nearly a month. I figured he had about a one in three chance to still be alive.

As for sleep, Quilp might not need it, but I had been up for thirty hours. My edge was dull. “Wake me fifteen minutes before we get to Needles,” I told Setebos.

Soft music resonated through the tub, Tchaikovsky’s
Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy
.

Setebos whispered to me, “Pleasant dreams, Master.”

My muscles unknotted. I relaxed my recently dislocated shoulder, then drifted. Worries stilled like the liquid in a cup, a blue stone goblet filled to the brim with the purest water. I slept.

Stuffed pigeon, roast lamb, and tender venison weighted the tables, making them groan nearly as loud as my stomach. Waiting for an adventure, what a ridiculous custom. A man could starve before adventure found him! Fresh off the spit, a roasted wild boar was set in front of me, its skin a cracked golden brown. The odor made my stomach roar with frustration.

The feasting hall doors parted and our candles dimmed. No, a light outside flooded the hall. It made our candles and braziers pale in comparison. In the center of this luminosity floated phantom hands that held a chalice aloft. The image was bright as the sun, yet blue like lapis, and covered with a delicate veil. I could not bear to watch it, but neither could I look away.

It hovered, while a thousand angels sang its praises—then it vanished.

The hall immediately went cold and dark. Our light seemed inadequate now to drive the shadows away. Only a blurred red afterimage remained to remember the beauty of this vision. Then the afterimage also faded.

“The Grail!” someone cried.

The cup of Christ? Had God chosen us to see it?

The members of the fellowship stood, and one by one pledged to find the sacred chalice, each going alone. The adventure had begun! I started to stand, compelled also to go and find glory, then stopped. I realized I could not, for I was King.

“Fifteen minutes,” Setebos chimed.

I was submerged to my lower lip, still tired but clean. I yawned and pulled myself out of the water. By the side of the tub was a thick cotton towel for my wrinkled body, and a mug of black coffee for my groggy mind.

I staggered into the bedroom, pulled on my clothes and armored vest, then selected my weapons. There would be no need for subtlety on Needles. So in addition to my blade, explosive ring, and sidearm, I chose a rifle version of my accelerator pistol. The weapon weighed five kilos, and could cut through three meters of steel in seconds, or spray a small army of men into oblivion. On full auto its charge lasted over a minute. I felt very safe carrying it.

Also I grabbed a blue shield, and slipped it into my pocket. Under the sapphire corporate caduceus logo the little robot surgeon had tentacles, probes, lasers, and drugs of all varieties to repair human flesh. I never liked to depend on them, having heard stories of malfunctions—accidentally rerouting an artery through a lung—especially when their monthly premiums weren’t paid.

I drained my coffee and stepped onto the bridge. Virginia’s hands danced over the controls, adding mass to the
Grail Angel,
bringing us back under the influence of Newtonian physics, and into a black sparkling star sea.

Needles colony floated in our displays, a silver orb in orbit about a planet with olive and coral clouds, an abstract of ribbons, curls, and whirlpools. The illusion of the colony’s smooth edges vanished when we approached. Docking gear and cannon stuck out at odd angles. A swarm of insects gathered here to sip dark nectar, a hundred ships buying contraband, smuggling it elsewhere, and multiplying their profits. There was no port authority, or if there was, they didn’t bother to hail us.

Everyone kept their noses out of each other’s business here.

The
Grail Angel
glided into an open bay, and settled in an empty slot.

“Still think this ship is haunted?” I asked Virginia.

She ran a hand over the inlaid briarwood. “One trip isn’t long enough to shake the bugs out of her. The mass-folding generators are impressive. I’ve never seen the likes of them before.”

“Is that a hint of approval I hear?”

“No. I’d prefer to see the AI purged. This ship is plenty fast without it.”

“Setebos is quirky for an AI, I admit, but it stays. I need the extra speed.”

“I don’t trust it.”

“Learn to.”

“It’s your ship.” She disentangled herself from the wraparound pilot’s chair. “It’s your life.”

“Setebos,” I said, “we’ll be gone for a few hours. Don’t let anyone in the ship except Virginia or me.”

“Yes sir, security procedures active. Magic circle energized and enhanced. Identification required for all functions.”

“Excellent.” I asked Virginia, “Are you armed?”

She removed a plasma cannon (just like the one Gilish tried on Gustave) from a pocket in her pilot’s suit. Her lucky four-leaf clover dangled on a chain from its handle. “I have a spare, if you need one.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant the weapon or the charm, but I hefted the accelerator rifle, and said, “This should cover me.”

Virginia double-checked the ship’s systems, then we disembarked.

A warm breeze blew through the hangar, bringing with it the scent of grease, ozone, and the smokes of opium and marijuana. Merchants loitered by the entrance of the colony, waiting for customers. Three of them immediately approached the
Grail Angel.
I shifted my rifle into a more threatening position.

“Dream?” inquired the first and waved a vial of viscous liquid before me.

“Perhaps some Samber juice, O worthy one?” queried the second. His lips and fingers were stained black from the hallucinogen, and his breath was the stuff of nightmares.

“Freeze?” the third asked, his eyes darting to Virginia then back to me.

Virginia kept walking, ignoring them. I halted. “You have Freeze? How much? What else do you have?”

“Metadexidrene, chlorozeneatol, Lightning, and Shazam,” the merchant said, digging through his backpack. His hands shook uncontrollably.

Virginia turned and came back to me.

“I’ll take a dozen hits of each,” I told him.

“You’re not—” she said.

“Kit,” I insisted.

The merchant removed a tester so I might gauge the purity of his goods.

“This is sixty-three percent. Do I look like a tourist?”