In the Hall of the Martian King (11 page)

“I think so, sir,” Jak said, facing the camera and talking to his superior’s projected image on the wall.

“Well, you’ve got some resources and strength that you probably don’t know you have.”

“Sir, just to make sure—if I succeed at all my assignments—”

“The deal remains in place, Jak. Get the Nakasen lifelog for Hive Intel, make sure that Clarbo Waynong gets the credit, and
we will have you deconditioned from Princess Shyf and give you a full, regular appointment with Hive Intel. It’s a tough job,
but if you can pull it off, you’re in out of the cold. Good luck.”

T
he next morning was taken up with the ceremonial preliminaries. King Witerio was a pleasant-enough-looking man, built like
a weight lifter, with a waist-length thick iron-gray beard that was combed, clean, and smooth, deep warm brown eyes, and surprisingly
delicate brows and nose. He performed his parts in the ceremonies like a meditative exercise.

Prince Cyx’s skin was smooth, soft dark mocha, and his short curly hair and wide-set eyes were jet-black. His forehead was
high rather than broad, and his clean-shaven jaw formed a strong, hard, angular line. Witerio’s court robes reminded Jak of
old theater curtains; Cyx wore a conservative version of the clash-splash-and-smash style of a few years ago, what a well-groomed
but not fashionable student might have worn to a school dance on the Hive. He looked eager, bright, focused, and excited,
but during breaks he talked only about clothing, viv, and sports.

Jak was glad to have his purse supplying him with continual coaching via earpiece; the ceremonies were complicated. They took
tea in four different pourings (the first and fourth with food, the second and third refusing food; the second and fourth
from tall narrow porcelain cups, the first and third from wide shallow glass cups). They gave the King a Hive-certified copy
of the Principles, and received in exchange his scholars’ annotations on the Suggestions. They presented him with a palladium
tiara (he surely must have had a hundred of those already) and he offered them a crown, which as citizens of the Republic
of the Hive they were required to refuse, accepting instead the King’s embrace and handshake. They inspected each other’s
weapons.

They broke from all that intense work for a midmorning meal: yogurt, figs, and pomegranate with lemon. They were required
to eat three small portions, refusing twice before each acceptance. Then the King and Prince went off to change into their
military uniforms.

The costume change was followed by frank but entirely ceremonial statements of the strength of each nation. The very disparity
of power made the ceremonial gestures of respect all the more important, Jak reminded himself. He declared, seriously and
forthrightly, that his nation, the largest in the solar system and the greatest military power in human history, with fourteen
battlespheres and five million troops in active service, felt fear and dread at Red Amber Magenta Green’s nine hundred light
infantry and single museum-piece warshuttle.

For lunch break, the Hive negotiation team went back to the pavilion, bugswept a conference room, and ordered sandwiches in.
Everyone agreed that it was going well and no one had perceived anything unusual. Jak called Shadow, who said he had not yet
seen any sign of Clarbo Waynong.

When they reconvened, they at last began the process of talking about how the Hive would get Nakasen’s lifelog. Over the course
of about an hour and a half, the Hive delegation—mostly Dujuv and Xlini Copermisr, with Jak occasionally agreeing that yes,
that was right, and yes, that was important—managed to communicate many things that both sides already knew: That the Hive
wanted that lifelog. That the Hive wanted the Splendor to be happy with the deal. That title to the lifelog and official credit
for its discovery were fully negotiable (Teacher Copermisr had explained to Jak, at lunch, that every archaeologist who mattered
would know that the find had been her work; therefore the official credit could go to Prince Cyx, or to whomever it did the
most good).

Then it was the turn of the royalty of the Splendor to communicate: That the spot on which Nakasen’s lifelog had been found
was unquestionably within the rightful territory of the Splendor. That ancient artifacts belonged to the state in whose territory
they fell. That this rule was important. That Witerio and Cyx knew that they did not have, and could not afford to hire, adequate
facilities to care for such a find.

Both sides agreed that the lifelog, being as yet unread, might include material that might be seized upon for misinterpretation,
and therefore any scientific, philosophic, or philological project—really, any analytic project of any kind including methods
of analysis not yet devised—must be subject to a thorough scrutiny of its results, by responsible and competent political
authorities of both governments, prior to any sort of publication.

Half an hour after the meetings resumed, the moment came when all ceremonies were exhausted, and it was not yet time for a
break: the moment for actual negotiation. “Well,” King Witerio said, “let’s begin by stating the obvious. I have in my possession
an extraordinarily valuable artifact, but the lifelog of Paj Nakasen does not add to the glory of the Splendor, sitting under
guard in my palace.”

Jak nodded. “We need to find a way for the Hive to properly show the deep respect and gratitude we feel toward the Splendor,
and to bring the lifelog into its full and proper place in the history of human beings in the solar system.”

Witerio inclined his head in agreement. “The difficulty is that because the Hive’s generosity is so well known, my political
enemies will say that I
sold
the lifelog. So it must be clear that we do not give up the lifelog permanently.”

“Exactly,” Jak said. “And let me express here and now, for the record, that the confidence of the Hive in your ability to
care for the lifelog is total. Our regard for the honor of a friendly power is such that we would in no circumstances ask
you to transfer title to the lifelog in any permanent way. We do have the finest laboratories and facilities in the solar
system, on the Hive itself, and therefore we think the Hive is a suitable location for analysis and copying of the lifelog.
We should therefore very much like to arrange access to the lifelog so that it may be open-ended with regard to time because
we cannot possibly know how long it will take the large group of scholars, sure to be involved, to fully analyze and understand
anything of this consequence—let alone the fact that eighty-nine years of diary entries, together with multiple drafts of
several important works, all in Early Postwar Standard, will take considerable time to be fully understood and appreciated.”

Witerio smiled slightly. “That consideration is well thought of. Though should it prove politically desirable to set a fixed
term for the period in which the lifelog will be on loan to the Hive, there should be no problem so long as the fixed term
is indefinitely renewable. I do not see that this is a matter which we must dispute.”

Jak held up his hands in the ancient gesture of concession. “An indefinitely renewable fixed term would be acceptable to the
Hive, of course, as would any other term you choose to set. But of course we will seek an open-ended loan because we know
that politics and government are an uncertain business; our thoughts are that while we can rely upon King Witerio, and upon
King Cyx after him, the fortunes of war or treachery might someday cause a nonrenewal. But let us not speak of such unhappy
things. If the renewable term is necessary, we shall feel perfect confidence all the same.”

“Well, then,” the King said, “I think that the compromise is that renewals be automatic, and the term be as long as honor
will comfortably bear. That can be worked out by our people meeting together to draft details. Shall we move on to the next
point?”

“Let us do so, Your Splendor.”

“Well, then,” the King said, “we should discuss whether any part of the lifelog actually is intellectual property—”

The door swooshed open. A court guard leapt through, came to attention, and shouted, “Mister Clarbo Way—”

But by that point Clarbo Waynong was already advancing on the negotiation table, having paid no attention. Jak heard a soft
ululating hoot, like a dying bassoon audiomixed with the bibby-bibby finger to the lips sound—a frustrated-to-the-point-of-exasperation
Rubahy. Shadow came through the door and came to attention.

“Hi, I’m Clarbo Waynong, Hive Intelligence. Which one of you is the King?”

Only Witerio was wearing a crown.

“Well, which one’s the King?” Waynong came to a halt at the edge of the table. He was a breathtakingly handsome young man.
If you had been looking for a model for the cover of an intrigue-and-adventure viv, clutching his best girl with one hand
and his weapon with the other, this was the heet you would have photographed. He had café-au-lait skin tanpatterned in this
year’s heliopause of clash-splash-and-smash, Fractal Leopard Remix. His hair was a rich yellowish blond, his eyes deep ocean
blue, and one sight of the jaw told Jak that this was a true patrician. Centuries of genetic sculpting, crossbreeding, and
trying again had created the chin that anyone from the Hive could recognize—the chin that was on every poster at every election,
the sort of chin you would trust to tell you that war had broken out or that economic productivity was falling off.

Jak drew a slow breath through his teeth, glared, and said, “Yes, you are Clarbo Waynong. And your ill manners and aggressive
rudeness clearly indicate that you are a member of Hive Intelligence. I am Jak Jinnaka. Your orders are that I am the commander
of this mission. Therefore—this is a direct order, Clarbo Waynong—sit down at this table immediately and remain quiet.”

Waynong remained standing and said, “Oh, yeah, weehu, I know, I know, they told me that you were supposed to be the person
in charge and all that, but you know and I know that as soon as they can Hive Intel is going to take this away from you, and
they’ve got some big-deal agent coming out to take care of that, and if I’m going to get anything good on my record then we
need to get this deal wrapped up. We can do all that respecting and bureaucratic stuff later, after we get that Nakasen thing
bought and paid for, Mister-Bureaucrat-Sir. Now, which one of these heets is the King?”

There was the sort of silence that occurs when a four-year-old describes his latest bowel movement, loudly, in public.

“Shadow,” Jak said firmly, “thank you for bringing Mister Waynong here, per your instructions, and please stand by in case
I need him removed. Article Eighty-eight, conduct in diplomatic settings. Section Ten, overt misbehavior, and Section Seventeen,
open defiance of a superior, are relevant here.” Still ignoring Waynong, Jak turned to address the rest of his delegation.
“I’m sorry to cut into your time off this evening, but it may be necessary for us to hold a formal conference about Mister
Waynong’s behavior—”

“Cyxy! Weehu, hey, Cyxy!” Waynong whooped.

Prince Cyx had bound out of his chair—about head high, in the Martian gravity—and leapt across the table to embrace the Hive
Intel agent. The two of them pounded each other’s backs, then stepped back and formally grasped each other’s forearms.

“You know this … man?” King Witerio asked.

“Know him? We were roommates and toktru toves, Dad! Clarbo was the lightest of the light! He taught me everything I needed
to know to come back here and get fashion turned around. (Not that some people get it—look at these robes! But we’ve argued
about that before.)”

Witerio glanced sideways at Jak; Jak raised an eyebrow, not sure how to express the sympathy he felt.

Xlini Copermisr’s hand was plastered across her face as if it were an octopus trying to eat her nose. Pikia appeared to have
only just discovered that the wall was vertical, and was rapt in the implications.

Prince Cyx burbled on. “You remember that wonderful, incredible vacation on the moon, during Long Break of junior year, when
I got to try big-slow-wave surfing in the aquadomes? Remember how excited I was about it and what a long message I sent you
about it? Well, I went on that trip with Clarbo’s family. This is the Clarbo that I’m always mentioning for maybe someone
to marry Kayadi, if you ever decide you do want to mix some commoner blood into the line, because even though his pedigree
is commoner, he’s just—well, look at him, Dad, a natural aristocrat.”

He does have a light smile,
Jak thought.
What was the name of that ancient heet, one of the Al-fredis? Al-fredi-Packer? Al-fredi-Boom-Boom-Cannon? Al-fredi-Nomen,
that was it. Anyway, it’s the same smile. No wonder people will vote for anything named Waynong.

Cyx turned back to Clarbo and said, “So how have you been?”

“Oh, you know, you know. Have to work a job, get some of that experience and those credentials before they pick out a seat
for me in the Hive Assembly or appoint me to a cabinet post. That earning your privileges thing, Principle 133, you know.
Doing things for Hive Intel since graduation. A little work here, a little work there, just haven’t quite found a place where
I fit in yet, you know. Lots of misunderstandings. Need to find some toktru sympatico toves in the leadership, haven’t quite
done that. Always having to deal with these petty bureaucrats and all these officious formalities.” He nodded in a way that
he doubtless thought was subtle, directly at Jak. “So here’s my big chance, you know, to get something worthwhile done for
Hive Intel. We know you have that wonderful book or tape or whatever it is, and here we are with a lot of money, and here
you are, a little tiny nation on a dumpy old poor planet, and it isn’t the kind of thing that you folks ought to have—it could
fall into the wrong hands, masen? The wrong sort of people could read it and get ideas. And with your feeble little army,
who’s going to guard it? So it’s time for me to make you the offer and for you to accept and then we’ll be leaving with this
Nakasen thing. Now how much do you want for it, old tove? The treasury’s loaded; don’t be shy about naming a big number.”