Juggler of Worlds (14 page)

“A moment, please.” Nike’s side of the link froze, muted, and Achilles imagined urgent consultation. “My advisors here concur with your well-reasoned assessment. As do I.”

Achilles trembled with pride and relief. “Then the matter is—”

“I have one reservation,” Nike interrupted. “Agreed, the threat appears short-term. If a human government became involved, however—they might surprise us.

“We must keep an eye on Pelton and Shaeffer.”

Singly and in small groups, Citizens strolled, trotted, and cantered across the display walls of
Gamboler
. The clatter of hooves. The harmonies of fellowship. Well-known faces. Well-remembered mannerisms. Comforting presences.

All gone.

The merest intimation of the looped recording penetrated Nessus’ consciousness. If he could, he might never unclench from the limbless ball of flesh he had become. When the air within grew unbearably stale, he loosened just a little, and the sights and sounds briefly returned. Did they console him? Chastise him for having deserted them? Both, perhaps, in equal measure.

All Nessus knew for certain was he could not bear to turn them off.

The evacuation ship was long overdue at Hearth. There was no message. No emergency buoy. No hope. Everyone assumed a pilot too eager for home, or too numbed by the horror of the core explosion, had delayed a moment too long to drop from hyperspace. One more vessel—with all his friends and colleagues—presumed sacrificed to the hungry maw of a singularity.

From the universe outside his belly came Puck’s voices, wry and wise. With a wail of despair, Nessus pulled his flesh tight over his heads.

ABANDONMENT
HURT
.

The first time came long before he took on the name Nessus. Did he even know so young that other worlds existed? Other intelligent species? Probably not. He was but three years old then, and scarcely withers high to an adult. He remembered idly peeling the bark from a fallen twig, rolling the crumbs of husk between lip nodes.

“You’re odd,” someone warbled from the depths of the herd. He couldn’t see who. “Odd,” echoed another unidentifiable voice. More joined in, “Odd. Odd. Odd.” Chanting filled the air. It echoed from the high walls that surrounded the playfield. “Odd. Odd. Odd.”

In the distance, adults watched, lips curled in disdain.

“I’m
not
odd,” he insisted, unsure of the word. He could not help but
understand the herd posture. In all directions, the group receded. Emptiness formed around him. He lowered his heads submissively. “I’m not odd,” he gurgled softly, knowing that he must be.

Still the adults did nothing.
Odd
must be a bad thing.

His heads sank lower. He noticed more things than his playmates. Was that bad? He still craved their company. He still needed to belong.

He edged toward flockmates he thought were his friends. “Let’s play,” he sang.

They whistled dismay and sidled away.

In despair, he fell to the ground. His necks drooped, aching to wrap themselves tightly against his belly.

He had once cut himself on a broken toy. The gash had hurt, but not nearly so much as his parents’ paralyzed expressions of horror.

Banishment hurt
far
worse.

Then, with a random glance, his life had changed forever. Through meadowplant tattered by a thousand little hooves, a bit of stone poked. A vein in the rock sparkled. He shifted a head this way and that, studying it. He’d never seen anything like it. “Why does it shine so?” he asked aloud. He ripped at the turf, fascinated, prying the stone free of the entangling roots.

When did the taunts fade to silence? He did not notice. Eventually, he became aware of younglings huddled around him, necks craned to discern why he ignored their shunning.

He learned that day that he would never fit in. And something else: to take solace in the wonders of the world around him. It was, although it would be years before he knew it, the first step toward becoming a scout.

Nessus wasn’t yet ready to deal with the world, but he knew: When the time came, salvation must again come from somewhere outside himself.

SCREAMS OF TERROR YANKED NESSUS, flanks heaving in fear and shock, from the depths of catatonia. His heads darted about, seeking peril.

The message light flickered on his main console. His failure to acknowledge it had set off the shrieking alarm. How overdue was his response? “Alarm off. Play the message.”

A hologram appeared. Nike, he noted apathetically. Nike, the leader of Clandestine Directorate. Nike, the rising star of the Experimentalist party. Nike, the charismatic. Nike, for whose notice Nessus had, so far without success, volunteered for one dangerous assignment after another.

That he could be so indifferent shocked Nessus. He forced himself to replay the recording.

The holographic Nike said, “An urgent matter has arisen. Its resolution must be your top priority.”

In growing horror, Nessus listened. Limitless quantities of antimatter, the location known only to two humans, now on their way to Earth.
He
needed, somehow, to watch the humans.

The Outsiders also knew the coordinates, of course. They wanted an exorbitant payment to reveal the information. There was no reason to pay them, unless—

“This is most critical, Nessus,” Nike stressed. “We
must
know if the humans attempt to return. A repeat expedition would almost surely fail, like the first. And yet… my experts believe it is possible, given enough resources, for the humans to return with dangerous amounts of antimatter. We
must
know if that becomes a risk, at least until the antimatter system moves beyond the humans’ possible reach. Everyone on Hearth is depending on you.”

Damning him to stay here and keep watch, alone, for years.

“YOUR CREDENTIALS are satisfactory,” the woman called Irina Gorychka told Nessus. As much of her skin as Nessus could see was dyed red and white. Her stripes reminded him of a candy cane. Her companion, the man introduced as Gerald Hauss, had covered his cheeks in stylized yellow stars. Both had shaved their heads.

So General Products’ payment, circuitously routed, had cleared. Nessus studied his callers, at once fascinated and appalled. Dealings with aliens always involved stress.
These
were renegades among aliens. How much less trustworthy did that make them?

These were avatars he viewed, not people. Those who might provide the services he sought did not reveal themselves to strangers—especially strangers who refused to reveal themselves.

Nor was Nessus about to disclose himself. He presented only one face now, and it was human. Almost certainly the faces and voices presented to him were as illusory as those he offered. On the other side of the call, they might be two or ten, men or women.

Nessus’ human avatar, all the while, stared impassively. “I assured you that I had adequate funds.”

“You’ll need them,” Hauss said. “These are well-connected people. Pelton himself
cannot
be monitored directly. He can afford every kind of protection. From our initial survey, it appears he uses them all. Sentries. Alarm systems: home, office, and on his person. Jammers. Top-notch
encryption. AI data sniffers on the prowl for anyone like us. We can only watch associates, and associates of associates, and then try to piece together what Pelton is doing.”

Gorychka cleared her throat. “Just so you know, Nessus, this isn’t a onetime process. We must constantly track who becomes how close to Pelton. Some people’s privacy is protected, or will get that way, by proximity to him. We’ll keep adjusting who and how we monitor.”

In other words, expect to keep paying.

Somehow, Nessus managed to function. He found it hard to
care
.

Only his friends’ deaths mattered. Withdrawal, denial, depression, reunification with the living—those were the stages of grief. Duty had cruelly short-circuited the process. Now he was in some nether state, distant and numb, his inner self in tatters. And if his spirit somehow healed sufficiently to make the attempt, with whom could he bond? Humans?

Maybe. At times he could identify more closely with them than with his own. Except for his fellow scouts, and they—

“I will expect a full accounting,” Nessus said. Forcing himself to interact was hard enough; he could not muster the interest to care what the surveillance cost. All he wanted to do was roll up again and hide. “And I demand utter discretion.”

The summons was all the more peculiar for the manner of its delivery.

Max Addeo strode into Sigmund’s office. Addeo was Sigmund’s boss, the ARM Director of Investigations. He was lean and perpetually tanned, with an easy manner, and Sigmund liked him—except as a superior. The man didn’t worry enough for Sigmund’s taste.

Andrea excused herself, and Addeo shut Sigmund’s office door behind her. “You’re expected now, Sigmund.”

“That’s rather vague, Max.” And rather short notice.

“Nonetheless.” Addeo handed over a folded sheet of paper. It bore only a booth address. The prefix indicated midtown Manhattan. “I received a message for you. This address and one word:
now.”

“Received from whom?” Sigmund asked.

“It will be clear soon enough.” Addeo managed a wan smile. “You
went alone to meet the world’s last Puppeteer. I think you can manage midtown in midafternoon.”

Addeo opened the door. His parting words were, “Now, Sigmund.”

Sigmund flicked from the ARM HQ lobby. He stepped from the destination booth and looked around. Snack stands. Milling crowds. Towering buildings.

Directly before him was an ancient redbrick structure a mere seven stories high. The land beneath it, if used for a modern skyscraper, would be worth billions. This building’s very existence made a statement.

Sigmund climbed the broad granite stairs. The liveried doorman held open the brass-and-glass door for him.

The concierge ignored the ident Sigmund offered. “That isn’t necessary, sir. You are expected. Please follow me.”

Across the three-story-tall Common Room, formally suited men and women sipped brandy or coffee, read, and engaged in intimate conversation. It seemed like everyone spoke in whispers, although that might be the acoustics. Huge Oriental rugs covered the age-darkened hardwood floor. Leather-bound books lined the walls to a height of about two meters. From the mahogany paneling above the bookcases stern faces glowered, oil paintings in ornate gilded frames. The occasional squeak sounded as people shifted in their red leather wing chairs. An actual log fire burned in the man-tall masonry fireplace.

In this most exclusive of private, moneyed establishments, Sigmund didn’t see a single vid phone or pocket comp in use. No one had asked for his. The members would never tolerate being asked for their comm gear. Instead, there would be suppressors here, banning the distractions and interruptions of ubiquitous networks—and, with them, all bugs and recorders.

“This way, sir,” the concierge said. He gestured Sigmund inside a meeting room, appointed like a miniature version of the Common Room.

Beyond the massive claw-footed oak table, a man and woman stood with their backs to Sigmund. He couldn’t make out their conversation. The man was short and broad shouldered, almost Jinxian. Gregory Pelton, Sigmund guessed. They had yet to meet, but Sigmund had seen plenty of file images.

The woman was wispy, especially by comparison. Her hair spiraled in alternating braids of gold and platinum. More than eye-poppingly vivid, the turquoise of her bodysuit was a signature color.

Calista Melenkamp, the Secretary-General of the United Nations.

The door closed behind Sigmund with a soft whoosh. The two turned at the sound; the man
was
Pelton. Melenkamp fixed Sigmund with a
penetrating stare, then left by another exit without speaking. She didn’t need to say a word. Pelton held her confidence. That she delivered that message here, personally, and yet so deniably, said even more.

Pelton glared, his forehead furrowed. Even the close-cropping of his black beard seemed somehow angry. “Agent Ausfaller, your interest in my affairs has become intolerable.”