The Rosetta Codex (22 page)

Cale walked with Sidonie among the phosphor-lit trees and the pulsing lights of bioluminescent nightflies as the building's interior and exterior switched places and melded with each other, confusing him. He half expected night to become day with a similar caprice, but night remained night whether viewed directly in the open sky above him with its stars and the occasional cloud infused with the lights of Lagrima, or viewed through the high and wide windows of the Titan Consortium Garden Pavilion. The ceiling with its faint halo lamps seemed to appear and disappear at random, much like the people who stepped out from the trees and greeted them in passing, many of whom were complete strangers but some of whom had over time become familiar
and, with each event like this, more friendly and open . . . and willing to do business. Which was, Sidonie continually reminded him, the purpose of being invited to and attending these affairs.

As though sensing his discomfort, Sidonie put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When he turned to look at her, he was again taken aback by the transformation of her face: a complete reconstruction, with rebuilt bone structure, newly grown skin, even a prosthetic eye, though it functioned only marginally better than the damaged eye had. The only remaining evidence of the old injuries was the inch-wide band of white hair on the opposite side of her head, and a tiny crooked scar on her upper cheek that she'd insisted be retained—she wanted a reminder every time she looked in the mirror, she'd told him.

“You're doing just fine,” she said.

He didn't feel fine, but kept on as if he did. An androgynous figure in a black body suit approached and wordlessly held out a tray of drinks in variously shaped glasses. Cale had learned enough by now to know what most of them were, and he picked up a tall fluted glass filled with dark brown ale while Sidonie took a glass of golden wine.

A slight change in the Family's status had occurred almost immediately upon Cale's assumption of the Consortium leadership and role of primary decision-maker for all commercial and financial matters. In the months since, the actuality of a Family member in charge after so many years of his mother's indifference and neglect changed Lagrima's perception of the Alexandros Family, and the Family was taken at least
somewhat
seriously again. Profitable business transactions were once again possible, agreements
and contracts could be made, and invitations to some of the more prestigious social occasions, like tonight's
SolsticeEve Fete,
began to materialize.

Of course, Cale depended heavily on the advice and counsel of the Family brokers and managers, comptrollers and financiers, all the other professionals on retainer. But he also discovered that his own intuition and common sense, along with Sidonie's, were more valuable than anyone expected. He was a fast learner, yet unafraid to admit his ignorance. Little by little, the Family was slowing its financial slide.

An elderly gray-haired woman in a long simple black robe approached them and put out her hand, eyes on Cale. Her face was heavily wrinkled, either from extreme age or because she'd chosen not to have standard re-gen treatments.

“We haven't met,” she said, “but I've wanted to for some time, Cale Alexandros. I'm Indira Youssaf.”

Cale took her hand in his; it was warm and dry, and though her grip was strong he felt as if her bones would snap if he twisted her hand with any force. “I'm glad to meet you,” he said. “I know of you, I think.”

“I'm the Jericho Family matriarch,” she said with a wry smile. “I knew your father quite well. Our families executed innumerable mutually beneficial commercial transactions over the years, although they unfortunately came to a halt some time ago. I think a resumption of that relationship might now be quite workable. Perhaps we can discuss the possibilities.”

“Of course,” Cale said uncertainly. “Maybe in the next few days we can get together . . .”

“I was thinking of
now,
” she said, and with that she
moved to his side and turned and hooked her arm through his. “There's a privacy grove not far from here,” she added. She stepped toward a shadowed path leading into the trees, gently but firmly pulling him.

Cale held back and looked around for Sidonie, but she was nowhere in sight. He imagined her voice whispering in his ear, saying
“Go with her . . . this is an opportunity not to be missed.”
He turned back to Indira Youssaf, and let her guide him forward.

 

A year later, when the personal invitations began to come to Cale from the daughters and younger widows or divorcees of some of the more prominent families and consortiums, Sidonie knew they had begun to turn things around, at least in the eyes of Lagrima's upper echelons. Cale, however, turned them all down as politely as possible, and Sidonie suggested he accept at least some of them.

“I'm not interested,” he told her.

“Not in any of them?” she asked. “You're not making any commitments by accepting, Cale. You're just opening doors. You must find some of them attractive. Enjoy yourself. It's expected. You might even be able to conduct business with one or two of them, put together a more profitable transaction. That's the way it works here.”

Cale shook his head. “That's not me,” he said, then repeated, “I'm just not interested.”

“I know,” she said. “That's why you worry me, sometimes, Cale.”

“There's no reason to worry, Sidonie.”

“There are always plenty of reasons for me to worry.” She
hesitated, then asked, “Is it Karimah?” When he didn't answer, she said, “That was a long time ago, Cale. You need to—”

“You don't know,” he said sharply, cutting her off. He regarded her with defiance, daring her to contradict him.

She returned his gaze, unwavering, then nodded once. “You're right, Cale. I don't know. I'm sorry.” She sighed deeply, turned, and walked away, leaving him alone with his enduring pain.

 

Cale hired Donello Brazzi, the premiere transport broker on Lagrima, to find a ship for them, but even after months of inquiries and offers and bribes, none of the working interstellar ships were available for purchase. He hadn't given up, however, and now Cale and Sidonie were with Brazzi in orbit around Lagrima's moon Santa Maria, approaching a starship freighter that had been out of service for several decades and orbiting Santa Maria ever since. Brazzi piloted the shuttle, and he pointed at a small dot of light on the view screen.

“There she is,” Brazzi said. “We're lucky this ship even exists. Lucky twice that it's
here,
in this system. I don't know if they're being built anywhere right now.” Brazzi shrugged. “A hundred years ago, a manufacturing combine on Thrax built them, putting out one every six or seven years, and another combine back on Earth did the same. What I know, they've both been shut down for decades.”

He made a slight adjustment to the shuttle controls, then resumed speaking. “You know the Huckel Family?” He went on without waiting for a response. “Loanda Huckel's the
head of the Family, near to a hundred years old and looks every bit of it. Small Family, big ambitions. They bought this ship to go into the interstellar transport business, hoping to get very rich very quickly.” Brazzi laughed unpleasantly. “They got very
broke
very quickly. Loanda Huckel made some lousy decisions on what to buy and sell. Didn't quite bankrupt the Family, but close enough. They still own this thing, hoping for who knows what, but I think they've about given up.”

“And you've inspected it?” Cale said.

Brazzi nodded. “Inside and out, one end to the other. Spent several days with a team of engineers going over every bit of it.”

“Will it serve?” Cale asked.

Brazzi gave a sort of swaying half-nod, turning down his mouth. “Not like she is right now. She's structurally sound, but near to half obsolete. With the time and money, though, you can make her right. Maybe two years to retrofit her. Expensive, but a lot cheaper and faster than going to Thrax or wherever and ordering up a new one.”

They talked finances for the next several minutes—estimates on the cost of retrofitting the ship and hiring a crew, and what it would take to convince the Huckels to sell. Brazzi grinned. “That's what negotiating's all about, isn't it?” Then he gave a confident nod. “We'll be able to work something out.” Then he cocked his head at them. “But I hope you make better decisions than Huckel made.” He made another minor course adjustment, and they closed in on the derelict ship.

 

Three months later, the Alexandros Family Consortium took ownership of an obsolete but “structurally sound”
interstellar freighter. It had been previously, and pretentiously, christened the
Star of Destiny
, but Cale and Sidonie renamed it, and had decided on the
Night Traveler
. It seemed a neutral enough name to Cale, which was important. He wanted nothing to do with signs or omens, portentous names, horoscopers, or discussions of fate or predictions of the future.

Tugs moved the ship into orbit around Lagrima, and the long months of work began.

 

Cale sat with Sidonie in the abandoned greenhouse, drinking coffee and listening to the morning rain on the recently repaired glass roof. He gazed out into the gray gardens, almost afraid to look at her. “This is going to be hard, but it's important.”

There must have been something in his voice—how could there not be, he had to admit—because he sensed her stiffen beside him, sensed held breath and suspended movement. He finally turned to her, and it was obvious she was not going to ask him, she was going to wait in silence. She still looked strange to him when they were alone together, like someone else, or as if she were wearing a mask. He'd become accustomed to her reconstructed face when they were among others, but when they were alone he forgot, or somehow expected her face to revert to what he had known since their reunion in Morningstar.

“I want you to go back to Conrad's World,” he told her. “I can't go myself, or I would. I've got to stay here and continue rebuilding our business assets. I can't stop now.”

“Agreed,” Sidonie said. “You can't.” She sighed heavily. “What do you need me to do?”

“Find the Resurrectionists, those still remaining, and bring them here.”

“All of them?”

“No. There's a man named Cicero. Tell him what we're doing, and he'll know who to bring.”

“And if Cicero's dead?”

Cale shook his head. “He's not. Or at least he wasn't a few months ago—I got a message cube from him. But if something happens to him before you get there, then you'll find a woman named Beatt. If not Beatt, then a woman called Springer.”

“They're going with us?” Sidonie asked.

“Yes.”

“When do you want me to go?”

“As soon as we can arrange passage.”

“I'll be gone a long time,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied. “Probably more than a year. I think I can do okay with the social events on my own now.”

A subtle smile appeared. “Yes, Cale, you can.” Then the smile was gone. “Why?”

“Why the Resurrectionists, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I owe it to them.”

She nodded as though she understood, or at least understood its importance to him.

“I'll go,” she said.

The only sounds were the rustle of creatures crawling among the dead plants and the clatter of rain on glass.

A river in midair carved its way around the corner of a green obelisk-shaped building of glass and flowed past high above Cale, several meters deep and twice as wide, nearly as wide as the thoroughfare he strode along. He slowed and stopped to stare at the clean flowing river overhead. Vague shapes undulated within the dark blue water, aquatic creatures, perhaps, or shadows of flying animals above. Two women sat drinking on a balcony ten or twelve stories above the street with fishing rods, and cast baited lines into the water; a chain dangled from the balcony rail, and hooked by the mouth at the end of the chain was a mottled, shiny-skinned four-legged creature with limp fins and a stubby mass of a vestigial tail.

After nearly three years here, Cale was still struck with wonder at seemingly impossible phenomena like a river appearing in the air above him, unlike the people around him who continued on their way hardly noticing this manifestation, or not noticing it at all. Cale still felt that wonder . . . but also unease and unreality and a sense of displacement.

Cale left the main thoroughfare, crossed a cluster of bubbling hot springs, then climbed a low grass rise. He descended the slope on the other side and stopped at the edge of an animal park, leaning against the vine-covered railing. Horned marboks sprinted past him in both directions across the rocky trails, as if they were fleeing from some unseen or imagined predators.

Someone to his right leaned against the rail, a large and dynamic presence, and a familiar voice said, “Hello, young Cale.”

Cale didn't turn, but he stared at Blackburn's shadow stretching out before them, at the familiar outline of the hat he'd worn on Conrad's World.

“You never told me you came from a famous family,” Blackburn said.

Still not looking at him, Cale said, “You never asked,” trying to keep his voice under control. His stomach and chest and throat strained with the tension.

“Not true, Cale. When we met, I asked if you had a last name, and you told me you couldn't remember.”

Cale nodded deliberately, recalling the first time he'd seen Blackburn: a powerful figure riding into the village atop Morrigan in the pouring rain, tipping his hat to Cale in greeting. Then Cale recalled the last time he'd seen Blackburn, the big man walking out of the building in the
abandoned town at the edge of the dry lake bed while Cale and Sidonie remained bound and helpless inside.

“You also never told me you'd found the codex.”

Cale slowly turned to him, furrowing his brow. “Codex?”

Blackburn smiled. He wore black and gray clothes, and heavy black boots, dressed more for Conrad's World than for Lagrima. “No, I don't imagine you'll admit to that, will you?”

“What are you talking about?”

He put his hand on Cale's shoulder. “You've been struggling to keep the Family Consortium solvent. You've done well to prevent a complete collapse, but it's always going to be a struggle, and you may still lose it all in the end. I have an offer for you. The
Sarakheen
have an offer for you. For the codex. Enough wealth to guarantee the Alexandros Family will never worry about its finances again.”

“I still don't know what you're talking about,” Cale said. “There's nothing the Family has that you or the Sarakheen would want that much.”

“You've acquired an interstellar freighter,” Blackburn said.

Cale kept his expression fixed, surprised once again at what Blackburn knew and afraid of what Blackburn might guess. What was he getting at? Cale was almost afraid to speak, but with steady voice he replied, “Yes, we have.”

“Expensive,” Blackburn said, releasing Cale's shoulder and taking a step back. “A small fortune to acquire, months and another small fortune to retrofit, and a third small fortune to stock it with worthwhile cargo. Three small fortunes, only one of which you have—or I should say
had,
since you've spent it to acquire the ship. You've been doing
better with the Family's commerce, but you're overleveraging it and you're in the process of mortgaging most or all of the Family's assets to finance this venture. An enormous risk.”

Cale felt a calm spreading through him, relief that Blackburn misunderstood. “With enormous potential rewards,” Cale answered. “We used to own and operate interstellar freighters directly, several generations back. That's how the Family originally built up its wealth and power. But you know that, since you seem to know so damn much about my family.”

“Yes, I know that, and I know they divested the line once they'd acquired the bulk of their wealth so they wouldn't have to take those risks.”

“Now we have to again,” Cale said with a shrug.

Blackburn shook his head. “But you don't, young Cale.” He stepped toward Cale and gripped his shoulder once more. “Sell the codex to the Sarakheen, and you won't have to take the risk. You won't have to risk everything, which is what you're doing now.”

“I don't have a choice,” Cale told him firmly. “I don't have this codex you keep talking about.”

A smile slowly worked its way onto Blackburn's face, but there was no smile in his eyes, no friendliness in the way his fingers gripped Cale's shoulder.

“All right,” Blackburn said. “I hope you don't have any plans for the next few hours, because I'm going to take you with me. We're going to see a performance of sorts.”

Cale pushed back from the railing. “I'm not going anywhere with you.”

“Yes,” Blackburn insisted.

Cale heard someone approach from his left and turned to
see the nameless Sarakheen he'd met on Conrad's World, the Sarakheen he'd last seen standing on the street as the Resurrectionists' tunnels flooded and Karimah drowned. The Sarakheen's face held no expression, but his eyes radiated a disturbing intensity in their hard shine. He wore a black single-piece, and gloves that hid his mek arm and hand.

“No.” Cale stared at the Sarakheen. A cold and hard anger knotted up inside him, seared through with a pain he had thought long forgotten.

“Yes,” Blackburn said once more, pressing something warm and metallic against Cale's neck. Cale felt an electric jolt arcing into his skull, his vision became a wash of silver, and he collapsed.

 

When he came to, he found himself strapped into a seat inside a dragoncub, the engine thrumming. Blackburn sat relaxed in the seat beside him, while the Sarakheen piloted the craft, his metal hand and arm embedded in the control console. Cale sat up, the seat restraints flexing to allow the movement. Blackburn glanced at him, said, “Awake, are you?”

Cale's neck was stiff and painful, and he rubbed it, tried to stretch it out. “What
was
that?”

“Neural disruptor.” Blackburn paused. “Multiple charges can cause permanent damage, so I'd rather not have to use it on you again.”

Cale shook his head. “You won't have to.” He looked out through the dragoncub's window and saw they were above the northern edge of Lagrima, where the industrial and
warehouse district began. Rectangular buildings of all sizes spread out below them, set within a grid of transport lines that eventually curved and converged as they headed toward the ports. Steam rose in columns from some of the buildings, dark smoke from others, while still others seemed abandoned.

The dragoncub slowed, then dropped toward one of the taller buildings that appeared deserted: rusting metal stairways clung to its outer walls, windows had been boarded over, pieces of twisted metal and broken machinery lay scattered about the roof. They veered toward a clearing amid the debris and settled to the rough surface with surprising gentleness.

Cale was still shaky as he stepped down from the dragoncub and onto the rooftop. They were outside Lagrima's climate-controlled zone and the heat was intense. Blackburn led the way to a rooftop shed and pulled the door open, revealing a shadowed stairway descending into the building. He started down first, followed by Cale, then the Sarakheen.

They descended two long flights in near total darkness, more by feel than by sight, then emerged onto a landing about thirty feet above the floor. A warehouse, Cale thought, nearly empty and dimly lit by a few lights that hung from crossbeams several feet below them. The lights were shielded and directed toward the ground so that Cale and the others remained in darkness. Any windows or other openings were boarded over or covered so no light entered from the outside. The air was hot and stifling and smelled of dust and stale smoke.

They stood at the landing rail and looked down on a circular section of the dirt floor that Cale now realized was the
focus of the lights. This circular area was swept smooth and surrounded by piles of sawdust. Farther back were two sets of raised seats, five on one side of the circle and six on the other. Like the rest of the warehouse, the seats were empty.

“The audience will arrive shortly,” Blackburn said.

A few minutes later a man in dark coveralls appeared and walked about the cleared circle, looking at the sawdust piles, counting the seats. Apparently satisfied, he left.

Finally a few people began to silently appear, escorted by the man in the coveralls who directed them toward the seats. Cale recognized one of the men—Enol Darfunslaar, one of the top executives of the Saar Family Consortium—and the woman—Kati Shinchosha, an independent trade broker he'd negotiated several deals with during the past two years.

Over the next few minutes the rest of the “audience” came in and took their seats. Cale recognized more than half of them, all top executives or other elites in Lagrima's business and social circles.

“Friends of yours,” Blackburn said. “Some of them.”

Cale shook his head and whispered, afraid to be heard by those below. “I just know a few, that's all.”

“They can't hear us,” Blackburn assured him. He gestured vaguely below them. “One-way sound baffles. They won't have any idea we're up here watching.”

When everyone was seated, the coveralled man left again, then returned shortly carrying a large coil of rope and a bundle of metal blades, followed by three men barefoot and otherwise dressed only in calf-length trousers. One of the men was tall and bulky with weathered skin, while the other two were thinner, lanky, both with much darker skin. All three were already sweating.

The coveralled man pointed, positioning the three men around the circle's perimeter, then dropped the blades to the ground and uncoiled the rope. It was actually three lengths joined so they looked like the arms of a sea-creature, with leather bands at their free ends. He strapped one band around the right wrist of each man so that all three were now connected to each other by the rope. Then he picked up the long and heavy knives like miniature swords, and placed one each into the men's left hands.

“What the hell is this?” Cale finally asked, turning to Blackburn.

The big man gave him a grim smile. “A competition. The winner's prize is a huge amount of money, a home in Lagrima, and a job.”

“The
winner
?”

“The one who can walk out of that circle alive.”

“I'm not watching this,” Cale said, and stepped back from the railing.

Blackburn grabbed his arm and squeezed, then pulled him back, forcing his chest painfully against the railing. “You are.”

Cale turned his gaze back to the scene below. The three men were now on their own in the circle, eyeing each other, taking cautious sliding steps, pulling tentatively at the rope, testing the strength of their opponents. Their awkward left-handed swings and jabs with the knives confirmed that all three were probably right-handed, which somehow added to the horror in Cale's mind.

For the first couple of minutes there was mostly tugging and feinting and sidestepping, and an occasional all-out lunge that caught empty air. Shallow slices appeared on all
three men, seeping blood, but no one appeared seriously wounded yet. The bigger man began to yank and tug more forcefully at the rope, using his bulk and strength, twice nearly pulling one of the other men off his feet. He stepped up his efforts, gaining confidence.

Too much confidence, perhaps, for he took to swinging his right arm back and forth as he leaned back, trying to jerk one or both of the other men off their feet. He lost his own balance, tried to adjust, then his left foot slipped on the dirt and he fell onto his side with a pained grunt. His fall pulled the other men toward him, and they each swung their blades as they stumbled closer, one nearly severing the large man's arm at the shoulder, the other slicing across the man's thigh.

The large man howled and twisted on the ground, driving his face into the dirt as if that might take away the pain. The two smaller men eyed each other in a brief but silent communication. At nearly the same time they launched themselves at the fallen man and began hacking and slashing away at him with their knives. Blood spattered and sprayed with each stroke and poured onto the dirt, pooling and thickening. The larger man lay still, dark gashes bleeding heavily, pieces of flesh and guts scattered about.

The other two men staggered to their feet, panting heavily and bleeding from their own fresh wounds—they'd each taken a few swings at each other while slaughtering the man who now lay at their feet. They tried to step back, but both were brought up short after only a couple of steps by the rope still strapped to the dead man's wrist; the wrist and fingers now flapped grotesquely a few inches above the blood-soaked earth as the two men pulled at their own ropes, trying to maintain a safe distance from one another.