House of Shards (11 page)

“Keep fighting the good fight,” Sun said. He broke into a rare smile. “You and your men are to be congratulated. You're doing very well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Lord bless you.”

The hologram vanished.

The blue command center hummed on. Three more alarms went off in swift succession.

Very well, Sun thought. Prioritize. Everything fits into a category, and some of these alarms must seem more suspicious than others.

If this weren’t someone else's idea, he'd implement it immediately.

*

Khamiss leaned wearily against the wall. Her crew echoed her posture. “Right,” she said. “I hereby declare that the burglars have won.”

One of her troopers, a young human, looked at her with an insubordinate grin. “Does this mean we fall on our swords, ma’am?”

“No. It means we go to the employees' lounge and get something to eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am.” Another human, a blonde named Gretchen. “I have a bottle of hross in my room. It’s only a few corridors down.”

“By all means fetch it.”

Khamiss smiled. For the first time in hours, her security division was moving with alacrity.

Leadership, she thought. There was nothing like it.

*

Geoff Fu George stepped back from the closet door and admired his handiwork. His blind looked exactly like the top of the closet, and no one could see the jewelry concealed above the false ceiling.

Moving in confident silence, Fu George let himself out of the Waltz twins’ room and locked the door behind him. Mentally, using the proximity wire in his collar, he checked his darksuit’s chronometers, turned off the holographic camouflage, and retrieved his hovering media globe, which he put in his pocket. He began moving briskly toward the ballroom.

Allowed Burglars are most vulnerable during the period immediately following their crime: the rules of their profession demand that they keep the swag in their residence, or on their person, until midnight following the day of the crime. Usually they accomplish this by renting another residence under a false name, simply hiding out for the day following the theft.

On Silverside Station, hiding out was impossible. Fu George knew for a certainty that his room would be searched if a theft was committed, and that his person would be at least scrutinized. He had therefore decided not to steal the Waltz twins' jewelry, at least not for the present—he merely made it appear that the jewels had been stolen, by hiding them above the false ceiling in the closet. He'd enter the room later and perform a genuine theft, but by that time the authorities would assume the one-day deadline had passed, and he'd be safe with the stuff in his rooms.

Idly, he wondered how Maijstral was coping with the problem.

Strains of music wafted up the corridor. It was the same dance he'd just ducked out of; his work was adhering to schedule.

Scheduling was important tonight: he planned to strike at least once more.

*

“The Colonial Service cannot be as dull as you say, madam,” Zoot said. “After all, how dull can it be to engage in important Imperial business? Interact with subject species? Conduct important treaty negotiations?” He and Lady Dosvidern were walking to the buffet following the conclusion of the last dance.

Lady Dosvidern smiled, her tongue lolling. “On Zynzlyp? With the Drawmii?”

Zoot considered this. “Well, my lady,” he said, “perhaps Zynzlyp is an exceptional case.”

“The Drawmii are a bit more entertaining than the average subject, to be sure. Entertaining,” she qualified, “by virtue of their unpredictability. But even that can grow tedious—and as for my posts previous to Zynzlyp, the most exciting treaty negotiation I can recall had to do with a last will and testament that divided an estate contrary to local custom, and which had taken two centuries to move through the Imperial courts to the point where someone in the Service had to deal with it.”

“The details,” stoutly, “must have been fascinating.”

“
I
somehow avoided fascination. Thank you. The champagne, if you please.” She lapped daintily in the wide glass, then looked up. “And while I was thus avoiding fascination,
you,
sir, were off making a hero of yourself in the Pioneer Corps, and have now gone on to greater celebrity in the Diadem. Your health, sir.” She raised her glass.

“Life in the Diadem is not as you suppose,” Zoot said.

“Please,” she said, taking his arm again, “do not disillusion me. On a place as barren as Zynzlyp, I found the Diadem my only solace and recreation. Tell me, if you please, only the exciting parts.”

“If you like, my lady.”

Zoot was, after all, used to this by now.

*

“Fu George.” Grinning. “Perhaps you'll give me this dance.”

“Honored, Pearl Woman.” Careful not to look at what dangled from her ear. “You look very stylish this evening.”

“Thank you.” Her grin broadened. “You look a bit out of sorts, yourself.”

“Really? I can’t think why.”

He sniffed her carefully and offered her two fingers. She gave him three in return. No doubt his theft of her property had made them, in Pearl’s estimation at least, intimates.

Fu George noticed that she tossed her head after the sniff, to know whether the pearl was still present. Intrigued, he stepped onto the dance floor.

Perhaps, he thought, he could hold a substitute pearl under his tongue. Make the bite, and somehow switch pearls on her.

She might not notice the absence of the real one for hours, even days. And he'd arrange for his own, substitute pearl to dissolve after a day or so, just so she'd know it was gone.

But how to make the switch? And how to fuse the new pearl to the old chain? And would this all require new dentistry?

Perhaps the long months he'd spent practicing this stunt weren’t lost, after all.

Fu George began the dance, his mind abuzz with speculation.

Pearl Woman, for her part, was disappointed in his lack of reaction to the reappearance of her trademark. She'd hoped for at least a little jolt of surprise, perhaps even a double take. Instead, the only difference in his usual manner was that he seemed a little abstracted.

Oh well, at least she had her coup planned for the morrow.

That
was
going to be fun.

*

A cheeping noise began to sound somewhere in Lady Dosvidern's pocket. Her nostrils flickered, and she halted her dance in midcaper.

“You will excuse me, I hope,” she said. “Lord Qlp has come out of his crosstalk, and my attendance is required.”

Zoot offered his arm. “Will you allow me to take you to your suite?”

“That won’t be necessary, but I thank you. You'd best keep our place in the set major, otherwise our neighbors will be put out.

“I hope I shall see you again.”

“I will be looking forward, sir. Your servant.” She sniffed him and walked quickly toward the exit.

There was nothing to do but continue the dance. Zoot, feeling foolish, raised his arm and tried very hard to pretend Lady Dosvidern was turning under it. He was surprised when a hand took his, and he looked down to see a woman dressed in a patchwork motley of green and purple.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Kyoko Asperson. “But I’m tired of standing on the sidelines and waiting for someone to do something exciting.”

“The night is young, Miss Asperson. Excitement may yet manifest.” He looked down at her. The loupe was off her eye: apparently she had put her media globes on autopilot.

“Only too.” Meaning, only too right. She glanced at him and brightened. “I hope you and Lady Dosvidern haven’t quarreled. She left in a hurry.” She and Zoot circled the couple on their right in stately fashion.

“Not at all, Miss Asperson,” Zoot said. “Her attendance was required on Lord Qlp.”

“Odd, don’t you think?”

“How so? It is her duty.”

“Not that, Zoot. Just that a Drawmiikh is here at all.”

“The Drawmii are not given to explaining themselves. I’m sure its lordship has a reason.”

“I’m sure it does. I'd just like to know what it is.”

“I suppose that will become clear later.”

“Maybe.”

He gave her a sharp glance. The word
maybe
was bad tone.
Perhaps
was far more suitable.

These humans, he thought. One never knew what they’d say next.

*

The orchestra was finishing the dance when Gregor Norman, hi-stick in his mouth, was observed to return to the ballroom.

He stepped behind the screen that cut off the private salon from the main room and gave a cheery wave to the figure of Drake Maijstral that waited for him on a severe, straight-backed
Louis Quinze
chair.

The hologram of Maijstral dissolved and became Gregor. “You're late, boss,” he said. “Run into any trouble?”

The hologram of Gregor dissolved and became Maijstral. “Geoff Fu George was already in the Waltz twins' room when I arrived,” he said. “I went on to the next target.”

Gregor looked dubious. “That was a risk. Roman wasn’t covering you in that direction. You should have got at least one of us to help you carry the swag. There must have been a lot of it.”

“There was. But I wanted to get to it before Fu George showed up, and I was able to hustle it down the corridor on a-grav.”

“You’ve been gone for two dances. You'll have been missed.”

“I’ll stay for the rest of the ball and make up for it.”

Maijstral pressed the proper ideograph on the service plate and asked the room to give him a holograph-mirror, and a perfect three-dimensional image of himself appeared in the middle of the salon. He removed the silver pins that held back his hair, let it fall to his shoulders, and straightened his jacket. Gregor rose from his chair and looked in his pocket for a hi-stick.

“So now we just have fun, eh, boss?”

Maijstral smiled. “We have good reason to feel pleased with ourselves.” He told the room to remove the opaque screen. Sights and sounds of the dance filled the doorway.

Maijstral noticed one figure standing apart from the others and frowned.

“D’you see that man, Gregor?”

“You mean Kuusinen? He helped us out on Peleng.”

“He spoke to me earlier. I found his converse alarming, in a quiet sort of way. I think he's some kind of policeman.”

“Really?” Gregor looked interested. “Are you sure?”

“No, but let's not take chances. Be careful around him. Don’t give anything away.”

“Right, boss.” Gregor peered past Maijstral toward the dancers. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

There was a moment of mutual embarrassment as Khamiss and her squad entered the employees’ kitchen and encountered Kingston and his squad returning from the buffet with laden trays. But then grins and bottles broke out, and beneath the spectacle of one sun devouring another a spontaneous party began. Sore feet were elevated on cushions, groaning bellies were silenced by first-rate food, palates soothed by drink.

Every so often, Khamiss and Kingston would leave the party and report that they'd just scouted another corridor and found nothing out of the ordinary. Each time they did this, the false report seemed more and more hilarious. Sun, as was his wont, seemed not to notice anything amiss.

Khamiss raised her glass. “To leadership,” she said.

“Leadership,” Kingston echoed, and touched his rim to hers.

Another few hours and their shift would be over.

*

“My lord Silverside.”

“Fu George. I hope you are finding your accommodations to your taste.”

“The rooms and much else, my lord. I have been inconvenienced by one thing only.”

Baron Silverside raised his brows. “Yes? Pray tell me, sir.”

“Your security service, my lord. They seem . . . excessively zealous.”

“They are zealous on my express instructions.”

Fu George feigned shock. “I am dismayed, sir.”

Silverside fluffed his burnsides. “This is
my
station, sir. I intend that it be run by
my
custom.”

“No one disputes your right, my lord.”

“I intend that my guests should be entirely at their ease, and the prospect of one's property vanishing can make one uneasy. I feel it my duty as host to relieve any source of perturbation.”

“But, with all respect, my lord, my profession is sanctioned by High Custom and by both Imperial and Constellation law.”

“They can sanction it all they wish, sir. There is nothing in law or custom, however, that says your profession must be made easy.”

“Sir!”

“There are many professions difficult to practice on Silverside. Range-drover, say, or quellsider.' Yours is simply among them.”

“Come, sir. Can you compare a quellsider with a profession sanctioned by High Custom?”

Fu George, truth to tell, was enjoying this. He knew one fatuous nobleman who was going to pay for this, and soon.

Silverside fluffed his whiskers again and gazed self-importantly at the orchestra. “Merely an instance, Fu George. If you will pardon me for a moment . . . ?”

“Your servant, sir.”

As Fu George stepped toward the buffet, Vanessa Run-citer took his arm. “I’ve been watching Maijstral,” he said. “I think he and Gregor pulled a Lugar switch.”

“Yes, so I discovered. I encountered him a short while ago, in the Waltz twins’ room. I got there first.”

A pleased smile drifted across Vanessa’s features. “Very good, Geoff.”

“The least I can do to him, considering his behavior this afternoon.”

She gave him a look. Vanessa had not been at all happy when Fu George informed her that she'd lost an earlobe for nothing.

“I’ve been thinking about that, Geoff. Where do you suppose he's going to hide his take?”

“I don’t suppose he could have hit upon the same device we're using, do you?”

“It might be worthy of investigation. If we could preempt him everywhere ...”

Geoff Fu George began to smile. “It would only be what he deserved.”

She patted his arm. “My thoughts exactly.”

“Hello. You’re Gregor Norman, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Your servant, Miss Asperson.”

“Likewise. Had a good and profitable evening?”

Gregor grinned. “Had a nice dinner. I’m not much good at dancing, though.”