The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction MEGAPACK® (32 page)

Benjin indicated a black metal doorway to their left. “We go in here,” he said. He touched his full hand to the metal of the door, and it jerked upward and out of sight. He stepped through.

Herndon followed, and it was as if a great hand had appeared and wrapped itself about him. He struggled for a moment against the stasis field.

“Damn you, Benjin, unwrap me!”

The stasis field held; calmly the little man bustled about Herndon, removing his needier, his four-chambered blaster, and the ceremonial sword at his side.

“Are you weaponless?” Benjin asked. “Yes; you must be. The field subsides.”

Herndon scowled. “You might have warned me. When do I get my weapons back?”

“Later,” Benjin said. “Restrain your temper and come within.”

He was led to an inner room where three men and a woman sat around a wooden table. He eyed the four-some curiously. The men comprised an odd mixture: One had the unmistakable stamp of noble birth on his face, while the other two had the coarseness of clay. As for the woman, she was hardly worth a second look: Slovenly, big-breasted, and raw-faced, she was undoubtedly the mistress of one or more of the others.

Herndon stepped toward them.

Benjin said, “This is Barr Herndon, free spacerogue. I met him at the market. He had just bought a proteus at auction for nearly a thousand stellors. I watched him order the creature toward the sea wall and put a needle in its back.”

“If he’s that free with his money,” remarked the noble-seeming one in a rich bass voice, “what need does he have of our employ?”

“Tell us why you killed your slave,” Benjin said.

Herndon smiled grimly. “It pleased me to do so.”

One of the leather-jerkined commoners shrugged and said, “These spacerogues don’t act like normal men. Benjin, I’m not in favor of hiring him.”

“We need him,” the withered man retorted. To Herndon he said, “Was your act an advertisement, perhaps? To demonstrate your willingness to kill and your indifference to the moral codes of humanity?”

“Yes,” Herndon lied. It would only hurt his own cause to explain that he had bought and then killed the proteus only to save it from a century-long life of endless agony. “It pleased me to kill the creature. And it served to draw your attention to me.”

Benjin smiled and said, “Good. Let me explain who we are, then. First, names: This is Heitman Oversk, younger brother of the Lord Moaris.”

Herndon stared at the noble. A second son—ah, yes. A familiar pattern. Second sons, propertyless but bearing within themselves the spark of nobility, frequently deviated into shadowy paths. “I had the pleasure of outbidding your brother this morning,” he said.

“Outbidding Moaris? Impossible!”

Herndon shrugged. “His lady beckoned him in the middle of the auction, and he left. Otherwise the proteus would have been his, and I’d have nine hundred stellors more in my pocket right now.”

“These two,” Benjin said, indicating the commoners, “are named Dorgel and Razumod. They have full voice in our organization; we know no social distinctions. And this—” gesturing to the girl—“is Marya. She belongs to Dorgel, who does not object to making short-term loans.”

Herndon said,
“I
object. But state your business with me, Benjin.”

The dried little man said, “Fetch a sample, Razumod.”

The burly commoner rose from his seat and moved into a dark corner of the poorly lit room; he fumbled at a drawer for a moment, then returned with a gem that sparkled brightly even through his fisted fingers. He tossed it down on the table where it gleamed coldly. Herndon noticed that neither Heitman Oversk nor Dorgel let their glance linger on the jewel more than a second, and he likewise turned his head aside.

“Pick it up,” Benjin said.

The jewel was ice-cold. Herndon held it lightly and waited.

“Go ahead,” Benjin urged. “Study it. Examine its depths. It’s a lovely piece, believe me.”

Hesitantly Herndon opened his cupped palm and stared at the gem. It was broad-faceted, with a luminous inner light and—he gasped—a face within the stone. A woman’s face, languorous, beckoning, seeming to call to him as from the depths of the sea—

Sweat burst out all over him. With an effort he wrenched his gaze from the stone and cocked his arm; a moment later he had hurled the gem with all his force into the farthest corner of the room. He whirled, glared at Benjin, and leaped for him.

“Cheat! Betrayer!”

His hands sought Benjin’s throat, but the little man jumped lithely back, and Dorgel and Razumod interposed themselves hastily between them. Herndon stared at Razumod’s sweaty bulk a moment and gave ground, quivering with tension.

“You might have warned me,” he said.

Benjin smiled apologetically. “It would have ruined the test. We must have strong men in our organization. Oversk, what do you think?”

“He threw down the stone,” Heitman Oversk said heavily. “It’s a good sign. I think I like him.”

“Razumod?”

The commoner gave an assenting grunt, as did Dorgel. Herndon tapped the table and said, “So you’re dealing in starstones? And you gave me one without warning? What if I’d succumbed?”

“We would have sold you the stone and let you leave,” Benjin said.

“What sort of work would you have me do?”

Heitman Oversk said, “Our trade is to bring starstones in from the Rim worlds where they are mined and sell them to those who can afford our price. The price, incidentally, is fifty thousand stellors. We pay eight thousand for them and are responsible for shipping them ourselves. We need a supervisor to control the flow of starstones from our source world to Borlaam. We can handle the rest at this end.”

“It pays well,” Benjin added. “Your wage would be five thousand stellors per month, plus a full voice in the organization.”

Herndon considered. The starstone trade was the most vicious in the galaxy; the hypnotic gems rapidly became compulsive, and within a year after being exposed to one constantly, a man lost his mind and became a drooling idiot, able only to contemplate the kaleidoscopic wonders locked within his stone.

The way to addiction was easy. Only a strong man could voluntarily rip his eyes from a starstone, once he had glimpsed it. Herndon had proved himself strong. The sort of man who could slay a newly purchased slave could look up from a starstone.

He said, “What are the terms?”

“Full bonding,” Benjin said. “Including surgical implantation of a safety device.”

“I don’t like that.”

“We all wear them,” Oversk said. “Even myself.”

“If all of you wear them,” Herndon said, “to whom are you responsible?”

“There is joint control. I handle the out-world contacts; Oversk, here, locates prospective patrons. Dorgel and Razumod are expediters who deal in collection problems and protection. We control each other.”

“But there must be somebody who has the master control for the safety devices,” Herndon protested. “Who is that?”

“It rotates from month to month. I hold them this month,” Benjin said. “Next month it is Oversk’s turn.”

Herndon paced agitatedly up and down in the darkened room. It was a tempting offer; five thousand a month could allow him to live on high scales. And Oversk was the brother of Lord Moaris, who was known to be the Seigneur’s confidante.

And Lord Moaris’ lady controlled Lord Moaris. Herndon saw a pattern taking shape, one that would ultimately put the Seigneur Krellig within his reach.

But he did not care to have his body invaded by safety devices. He knew how those worked; if he were to cheat the organization, betray it, attempt to leave it without due cause, whoever operated the master control could reduce him to a groveling pain-racked slave instantly. The safety device could only be removed by the surgeon who had installed it.

It meant accepting the yoke of this group of starstone smugglers. But there was a higher purpose in mind for Herndon.

“I conditionally accept,” he said. “Tell me specifically what my duties will be.”

Benjin said, “A consignment of starstones has been mined for us on our source world and is soon to be shipped. We want you to travel to that world and accompany the shipment through space to Borlaam. We lose much by way of thievery on each shipment—and there is no way of insuring starstones against loss.”

“We know who, our thief is,” Oversk said. “You would be responsible for finding him in the act and killing him.”

“I’m not a murderer,” Herndon said quietly.

“You wear the garb of a spacerogue. That doesn’t speak of a very high moral caliber,” Oversk said.

“Besides, no one mentions murder,” said Benjin. “Merely execution. Yes: execution.”

Herndon locked his hands together before him and said, “I want two months’ salary in advance. I want to see evidence that all of you are wearing neuronic mesh under your skins before I let the surgeon touch me.”

“Agreed,” Benjin said after a questioning glance around the room.

“Furthermore, I want as an outright gift the sum of nine hundred thirty golden stellors, which I spent this morning to attract the attention of a potential employer.”

It was a lie, but there was cause for it. It made sense to establish a dominating relationship with these people as soon as possible. Then later concessions on their part would come easier.

“Agreed,” Benjin said again, more reluctantly.

“In that case,” Herndon said, “I consider myself in your employ. I’m ready to leave tonight. As soon as the conditions I state have been fulfilled to my complete satisfaction, I will submit my body to the hands of your surgeon.”

Chapter Three

He bound himself over to the surgeon later that afternoon after money to the amount of ten thousand, nine hundred and thirty golden stellors had been deposited to his name in the Royal Borlaam Bank in Galaxy Square and after he had seen the neuronic mesh that was embedded in the bodies of Benjin, Oversk, Dorgel, and Razumod. Greater assurance of good faith than this he could not demand; he would have to risk the rest.

The surgeon’s quarters were farther along the Avenue of Bronze, in a dilapidated old house that had no doubt been built in Third Empire days. The surgeon himself was a wiry fellow with a puckered ray slash across one cheek and a foreshortened left leg. A retired pirate-vessel medic, Herndon realized. No one else would perform such an operation unquestioningly. He hoped the man had skill.

The operation itself took an hour, during which time Herndon was under total anesthesia. He woke to find the copper operating dome lifting off him. He felt no different, even though he knew a network of metal had been blasted into his body on the submolecular level.

“Well? Is it finished?”

“It is,” the surgeon said.

Herndon glanced at Benjin. The little man held a glinting metal object on his palm. “This is the control, Herndon. Let me demonstrate.”

His hand closed, and instantaneously Herndon felt a bright bolt of pain shiver through the calf of his leg. A twitch of Benjin’s finger and an arrow of red heat lanced Herndon’s shoulder. Another twitch and a clammy hand seemed to squeeze his heart.

“Enough!” Herndon shouted. He realized he had signed away his liberty forever, if Benjin chose to exert control. But it did not matter to him. He had actually signed away his liberty the day he had vowed to watch the death of Seigneur Krellig.

Benjin reached into his tunic pocket and drew forth a little leather portfolio. “Your passport and other traveling necessities,” he explained.

“I have my own passport,” Herndon said.

Benjin shook his head. “This is a better one. It comes with a visa to Vyapore.” To the surgeon he said, “How soon can he travel?”

“Tonight, if necessary.”

“Good. Herndon, you’ll leave tonight.”

The ship was the
Lord Nathiir
, a magnificent superliner bound on a thousand-light-year cruise to the Rim stars. Benjin had arranged for Herndon to travel outward on a luxury liner without cost as part of the entourage of Lord and Lady Moaris. Oversk had obtained the job for him—second steward to the noble couple, who were vacationing on the Rim pleasure planet of Molleccogg. Herndon had not objected when he learned that he was to travel in the company of Lord—and especially Lady—Moaris.

The ship was the greatest of the Borlaam luxury fleet. Even on Deck C, in his steward’s quarters, Herndon rated a full-grav room with synthik drapery and built-in chromichron; he had never lived so well even at his parents’ home, and they had been among the first people of Zonnigog at one time.

His duties called for him to pay court upon the nobles each evening so that they might seem more resplendent in comparison with the other aristocrats traveling aboard. The Moarises had brought the largest entourage with them, over a hundred people, including valets, stewards, cooks, and paid sycophants.

Alone in his room during the hour of blastoff, Herndon studied his papers. A visa to Vyapore.
So that
was where the starstones came from—! Vyapore, the jungle planet of the Rim where civilization barely had a toehold. No wonder the starstone trade was so difficult to control.

When the ship was safely aloft and the stasis generators had caused the translation into nullspace, Herndon dressed in the formal black and red court garments of Lord Moaris’ entourage. Then, making his way up the broad companionway, he headed for the Grand Ballroom where Lord Moaris and his lady were holding court for the first night of the voyage outward.

The ballroom was festooned with ropes of living light. A dancing bear from Albireo XII cavorted clumsily near the entrance as Herndon entered. Borlaamese in uniforms identical to his own stood watch at the door and nodded to him when he identified himself as Second Steward.

He stood for a moment alone at the threshold of the ballroom watching the glittering display. The
Lord Nathiir
was the playground of the wealthy, and a goodly number of Borlaam’s wealthiest were here, vying with the ranking nobles, the Moarises, for splendor.

Herndon felt a twinge of bitterness. His people were from beyond the sea, but by rank and preference he belonged in the bright lights of the ballroom, not standing here in the garment of a steward. He moved forward.

The noble couple sat on raised thrones at the far end, presiding over a dancing area in which the grav had been turned down; the dancers drifted gracefully, like figures out of fable, feet touching the ground only at intervals.

Herndon recognized Lord Moaris from the auction. A dour, short, thick-bodied individual he was, resplendent in his court robes, with a fierce little beard stained bright red after the current fashion. He sat stiffly upright on his throne, gripping the armrests of the carved chair as if he were afraid of floating off toward the ceiling. In the air before him shimmered the barely perceptible haze of a neutralizer field designed to protect him from the shots of a possible assassin.

By his side sat his Lady, supremely self-possessed and lovely. Herndon was astonished by her youth. No doubt the nobles had means of restoring lost freshness to a woman’s face, but there was no way of recreating the youthful bloom so convincingly. The Lady Moaris could not have been more than twenty-three or twenty-five.

Her husband was several decades older. It was small wonder that he guarded her so jealously.