Deathstalker Honor (21 page)

Owen jerked his face out of her hand and glared at her, breathing hard. “I thought you at least would understand.”

“I do, Owen, I do. But this isn’t the time or the place.”

It had gone very quiet in the House. Everyone was waiting to see what the Deathstalker would do. The guards were careful to do nothing that might provoke him into action. Owen looked slowly about him and then some of the anger went out of him, and he let his hand drop away from the disrupter at his side. There was the sound of a great many people releasing held breaths. Owen nodded to Hazel.

“What are things coming to, when you have to lecture me on restraint? But you’re right; there’ll be a better time.”

He turned his back on Gutman and strode off to join the watching crowd in the appointed area. Hazel gave Gutman a hard look and then hurried after Owen, just in case. Not far away, Jack Random and Ruby Journey were applauding. A great many others looked as though they would have liked to. The guards lowered their weapons, picked up their two fallen fellows, and retreated as fast as honor would allow. Toby Shreck grinned from ear to ear, confident that Flynn had got it all on tape.

Elias Gutman waited a moment to be sure his voice was steady, and then opened the session’s proceedings with an emotional speech composed entirely of stirring sound bites. Everyone present applauded the speech for being short, and then Parliament finally got down to business. First on the agenda was a report from the cyberats currently investigating Golgotha’s Computer Matrix for signs of infiltration by the rogue AIs of Shub.

A viewscreen appeared before the assembled Parliament and audience, floating in midair. Vivid colors flashed across the screen, and then resolved into the head and shoulders of whoever was acting as spokesperson for the cyberats today. They tended to be rather relaxed about such matters, having little concern for the demands of the world outside their precious computers. The cyberats lived for the time they spent immersed in cyberspace, and never appeared in public if they could help it. Anyone who’d ever seen one knew why immediately. They had enough tech implants, add-ons, and cutting-edge options to technically qualify as cyborgs, and their personal habits occasionally bordered on disgusting. They cared only for tech and what it could do for them, and often forgot or disregarded the needs of the mere meat they lived in.

The current representative, who rejoiced in the code name of Wired Bunny, looked like he’d died several days ago and been dug up especially to make this report. His skin was a dusty gray, and his face was sharp and bony to the point of emaciation. A nutrient tube was plugged into a vein in his neck, and a computer jack disappeared into his empty right eye socket. He smiled vaguely at his audience, revealing a set of truly awful teeth.

“Like, wow, so many people in one place. I can dig the ambience from here. Greetings and salutations, meat people, this is the very heavy-metal dude Wired Bunny making nice with you. Hallelujah, let’s all speak in tongues! Power to the people who believe they’re real, and to those still thinking about it. To everyone else, the secret is to bang the neurons together, guys. Me and my totally buzzed-in associates have been surfing the silicon in the Matrix in search of those utterly bad metal mothers from the place we don’t mention, and so far I have to tell you we’ve found utterly squat. Zip, de nada, less than zero. Lots of signs that something mega’s been and gone, but don’t ask who or what or where, unless you want a lot of technical speak that even we don’t understand half the time, because we’re having to make it up as we go along. We’re the frontier, people, and it sure is strange out here.

“ ’Course, it hasn’t helped that large areas are marked off limits by the larger business constructs. Paranoia city, cousins. We’ll break through eventually, if only because we do so love a challenge, but it is slowing us down some. Don’t suppose you heavy business dudes would care to volunteer the entry codes? No? Didn’t think so. Damn, these negative vibes are freaking me out. Hold on while I boost my endorphins again. Oooh . . . groovy. You guys talk among yourselves for a bit. I think I’m going to have a little lie-down and fry a few brain cells I’m not currently using. Wow, the colors, man.”

“Wait!” said Elias Gutman. “Haven’t you anything useful you can tell us?”

“Oh, sure, large dude, I like entirely forgot. I wrote it on a post-it somewhere . . . ah. Beware the dragon’s teeth. Cool. Over and out and gone, man.”

The viewscreen disappeared, taking the cyberat with it. There was a long pause. Gutman looked at Owen. “As I recall, you recommended these . . . people, sir Deathstalker.”

Owen shrugged. “They’re weird, but they know their business. Spending enough time in the Matrix will drive anyone crazy, and these people go there for fun. If the AIs have left any trace of what they’ve been doing, these are the only people who have any chance of detecting them. And we have to know. The AIs said they’d infiltrated all the major human businesses, and have been manipulating our economy to their own ends. Now, they could have been just saying that for the panic it would cause, but we can’t take any chances. If it is true, we need to know how far the infiltration has gone, and how long it’s been going on, before we can even start to put things right.”

Gutman nodded reluctantly, his face impassive. “But your own . . . expert said none of the cyberats have been able to find any traces of outside meddling.”

“If there’s one thing Shub knows better than us, it’s computers. They’d have hidden their tracks in places normal humans wouldn’t even think to look. Luckily, the cyberats aren’t even remotely normal.”

“At last you’ve chanced upon something we can agree on,” said Gutman heavily. “I only wish I shared your confidence in these . . . people. Perhaps you could now enlighten this House with your best guesses as to what these
dragon’s teeth
are that we’re supposed to beware.”

“I would have thought that was obvious even to you, Gutman. The AIs also claimed they’d been ripping the minds out of people as they entered the Matrix and substituting their own thoughts. The dragon’s teeth are the people walking among us who are no longer people, wearing men’s faces but thinking Shub’s thoughts. The perfect spies, even less detectable than Furies. We have no way of knowing how many there may be out there, or how deeply our security has been penetrated.”

“Which brings us very neatly to my petition before the House,” said a harsh voice from the crowd. People looked around to see who it was, and then backed hastily away as they recognized the short blond with the eyes cold as death. Once her name had been Jenny Psycho, and she had been an avatar of the mysterious and enigmatic uber-esper Mater Mundi, Our Mother of All Souls. Power beyond hope and reason had burned in Jenny Psycho, and the air around her had crackled with potential. She was no longer all that she had been, abandoned by the Mater Mundi, and had now reverted to her old name of Diana Vertue, but she was still a power to be reckoned with, and most people had the good sense to be very nervous when she was around. These days she represented the esper underground in Parliament, mainly because everyone else in the underground was too worried by her to disagree. She made her way forward through the crowd, and people hurried to get out of her way. She stopped before Owen, who bowed politely to her. Truth be told, she worried him a little too, but he didn’t believe in letting people see things like that.

“Hello, Diana. You’re looking very normal. What petition might this be?”

“To have all the esp-blockers removed from Parliament so we can scan the minds of all present to find out if everyone is who they claim to be.” Diana’s voice was harsh and ragged, and utterly intimidating. She’d damaged her throat screaming in Golgotha’s prison cells, and it had never really recovered. “The esp-blockers must go. It’s not just Shub we have to worry about. Remember the shape-changing alien that turned up at Court? It mimicked a man so exactly that even his friends couldn’t tell the difference. The only way we can maintain real security in Parliament is by mass esp-screening, with no abstentions permitted. Seems a perfectly reasonable request to me.”

“That’s because you’re weird,” said Gutman, and practically everyone nodded in agreement. “What you suggest is totally unacceptable. Everyone is entitled to the inviolability of their own mind.”

“For once I have to agree,” said Owen. “We all have secrets that must be kept to ourselves. Even if they’re really only important to us. Or perhaps especially those. But I do see your point. Maybe we could work out some kind of voluntary system. . . .”

“Go right ahead,” said Gutman. “You first.”

Owen smiled slightly despite himself. “Let’s pass this one on to the Church. They have experience with confessionals.”

“We’ll take it under advisement,” said Gutman. “And if that doesn’t suit you, esper Vertue, feel free to take it up with the appropriate subcommittee. At some other time. However, this does lead neatly on to our next piece of business. As part of the deal Jack Random thrashed out with the Families, clones and espers are not longer property but citizens in their own right. Laudable and just as that may have been, it has led to certain unexpected problems. For centuries trade and industry throughout the Empire was based on the unlimited availability of clone and esper labor. They now have to be replaced by paid workers or new technology, both of which are proving extremely expensive. Change is always costly, and someone’s got to pay for it all.

“Since we’ve finally got the tax computers working again”—and here Gutman and everyone else paused to glare at those responsible for the computers’ destruction, namely Owen and Hazel, who smiled and nodded modestly—“our first thought was a rise in the basic rate of income tax. But the general mass of citizens quickly made it very clear that they regarded this as a very bad idea. They suggested the aristocracy, as the wealthiest among us, should shoulder the bill. The Clans not unreasonably pointed out that their loss of power and control through Random’s deal had already reduced many of them to near pauperism, and they really didn’t think it was fair that they should be punished any further. Dark hints were dropped about the collapse of Family industries if they were pressed any further, with all the mass unemployment that would cause. Extensive discussions, negotiations, and any number of committees have quite failed to reach any useful conclusions.”

“He makes even longer speeches than you do, Owen,” murmured Hazel. “I’m impressed.”

“And you needn’t look to the undergrounds either,” said Diana. “We’re already having to support the families of clones and espers thrown out of work by new technology. While they were property, the Clans supported their essential needs. Now they’re free citizens, the Clans have washed their hands of them. Freedom’s all very well, but it doesn’t put food on the table.”

Owen thought he’d never heard so many people being so ungrateful, and felt like saying so. But he didn’t, because he just knew they’d find some way of blaming it all on him. And because he didn’t know who should pay for it all either. Economics had never been his strong point. He was a warrior, not an accountant. He looked at Hazel, who shrugged.

“Don’t ask me. My only ideas for a fairer redistribution of wealth involved becoming a pirate and a clonelegger. Neither of which worked out particularly well.”

“The problem is the rate of change in the Empire,” said Diana Vertue. “It’s too slow.”

“The problem is it’s too fast,” said Gutman.

“You would say that,” said Diana. “It’s you and your kind who have the most to lose.”

“We’re just concerned about changing too rapidly from a system based on people to one based on tech. We don’t want to end up like Shub.”

Diana scowled intimidatingly. “That’s just a smoke screen, Gutman. The undergrounds don’t want clones and espers replaced by tech, just better working conditions and an equitable day’s pay. You’re just changing to tech to avoid that.”

“Which brings us neatly back to money,” said Gutman, leaning back in his chair and looking out over the assembled crowd. “With everything in turmoil, and our economy running wild with no one at the helm, inflation has shot through the roof. Prices are rising everywhere, even on the most stable planets. Savings have been wiped out. Banks have collapsed. The Families are doing all they can, but the only thing they all agree on is that things are bound to get worse before they get better. Whatever else you can say about the old order, it always maintained the value of credit. Even if the Empress had to hang a few bankers to make her point.”

“How about a tax on pompous windbags?” Hazel suggested sweetly. “Or a windfall tax on those who managed to profit very nicely from the changing situation? That ought to raise a fair amount of cash.”

A great many of those present growled and muttered among themselves, but no one had the nerve to demand Hazel retract her comment.

“Please let us all try to refrain from personal attacks,” said Gutman severely. “I think it might be best if we were to move on to the next order of business.”

“But nothing’s been decided about the last question!” Owen objected.

“I said, we’re moving on,” said Gutman. “As Speaker I am in charge of the agenda.”

“I told you,” said Owen, glaring about him. “I warned you this would happen.”

“I could have you removed,” said Gutman.

“You could try,” said Owen.

“Please,” said Hazel.

“We will now move on to the next order of business,” said Gutman. “General Beckett, officer in charge of the Imperial Fleet, is waiting most patiently to address us.”

A floating viewscreen appeared in midair almost immediately, as though it had just been waiting for its cue, and General Shaw Beckett scowled impartially out of the screen at one and all. His large, square head was set upon a pair of massive shoulders, though most of his intimidating bulk remained out of sight. His uniform was stretched tightly across his great frame, strewn with medals beyond counting. His wide mouth was set and stern, his dark eyes unwavering. As always, he was smoking a large cigar, and paused occasionally to blow smoke at the camera.