Trickster (33 page)

 
Bedj-ka checked the computer. It said Mom was working down among the engines. He hesitated for a moment, then told the intercom system to page her.

 
"Yes, Bedj-ka?"
came her voice.

 
"I'm off the sims," he said.

 
"Did you do your lessons?"

 
" 'Course I did. The computer won't let me play until I'm done." He paused, suddenly uncertain again. The cough came back, and he suppressed it.

 
"Is something wrong? I'm nearly done down here and will be up soon."

 
"No," Bedj-ka said. "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to see what you were doing."

 
"I am resetting the gravity generators. If you get bored, you may come down here and help me, if you like,"
she said.

 
He didn't like, though he only said, "Okay. Myra, close channel."

 
Bedj-ka coughed again, then wandered aimlessly around the quarters for a while, not quite sure what he wanted to do. He didn't really
feel
sick--he was just coughing--and he wasn't tired enough to lay down. If Mom treated him like Mater and Pater had done at the Enclave, he'd be stuck in bed soon enough, so he decided to wander around and enjoy a little freedom.

 
The ship's corridors seemed to be empty. Where was everyone? Probably out scouting the Collection again or something. Bedj-ka only had a hazy idea of what Father Kendi, Mom, and the others were up to. Mom had told him he didn't need to worry about it, and eventually he had given up pestering her for information.

 
Bedj-ka continued to wander, stopping to look out the occasional window at the ships coming and going from SA Station. A few minutes later, he found himself outside the Forbidden Door. He passed it without stopping, then, when no one appeared in the corridor, reversed direction and passed it again. Stopping outside the door was disobedient, but no one had forbidden him to just walk past it.

 
Curiosity burned. Someone was in there, that he knew. Ms. Lucia made food for whoever it was, and Sister Gretchen delivered it. Twice Bedj-ka had arranged to be in the vicinity when Sister Gretchen opened the door, and both times she had noticed him lurking and ordered him away. When he had asked Mom about it, she had gone quiet and her mouth tightened in an expression that meant he'd get no answer.

 
Mom. Bedj-ka put his arms out on either side of him and pretended to tightrope-walk along a carpet seam. It still felt strange knowing he had a real mom. And not only was she a real mom, she was a totally
rigid
mom who traveled on a space ship and played sneaky tricks on bad people and rescued slaves. Slaves like him.

 
Bedj-ka wobbled a bit, then coughed and had to windmill his arms to keep his balance. The Forbidden Door remained stubbornly shut. Mom thought he didn't know she checked on him every night. Bedj-ka, however, was a light sleeper, and she always woke him up when she looked in. It made him feel secure, knowing she always checked. At first he had been afraid that she might take him back to the cacao farm, or sell him to someone else. And then he had been afraid it would all turn out to be a hallucination, or maybe that he had gotten into the Dream after all and was making it all up for himself. As a result, he had been afraid to let Mom out of his sight. By the time the
Poltergeist
got to Drim, however, Bedj-ka had begun to feel secure enough to let someone else watch him, and on the ship, he didn't need much direct supervision. Bedj-ka liked Ms. Lucia best. She told him stories about Irfan Qasad and her adventures back in the days before slipspace. It was because of her that Bedj-ka had tracked down the historical sim games.

 
But now he was lurking outside the Forbidden Door again. Bedj-ka glanced up and down the blue hallway. No one was around. He dashed up to the door and pressed an ear against the cool surface. Nothing but the faint hum of ship machinery. He concentrated, trying to tune out the noises of the ship and catch even a tiny sound from within.

 
"Hey, shortie," came a gruff voice. "Move it!"

 
Bedj-ka jumped away from the door. Sister Gretchen had moved up behind him, carrying a covered food tray. Bedj-ka blushed and tried to think of something to say. Sister Gretchen saved him the trouble.

 
"I told you to stay away from this door," she snapped. "You've got no business in this part of the ship. You want me to tell your mom what you're doing?"

 
"No," Bedj-ka said with a touch of belligerence. Sister Gretchen wasn't his mother and she couldn't tell him what to do. Besides, she was a real bitch, no matter what Mom said about her.

 
Sister Gretchen shifted the tray to one hip. "Listen, kid, I'm only going to tell you this one more time. There is a very dangerous man behind this door. He's a real son of bitch, and he'd happily slit your little throat if it gave him a chance to get away." She took a step toward him and he backed away. "You ever feel a knife slice through you, kid? Ever watch your own blood pour through your hands and make a puddle on the ground?"

 
Bedj-ka didn't answer, though his hand stole unconsciously to his neck.

 
"I didn't think so," Sister Gretchen said. "That's what'll happen if you ever open this door. And if I ever,
ever
catch you lurking around here again, I'm going to have Lucia fit you up with a pair of slave shackles that'll shock the living piss out of you if you come within ten meters of this door. You got that?"

 
"You can't put shackles on me," Bedj-ka said, anger rising again. "I'm free now."

 
"You'll be dead if you come near this door again," Sister Gretchen shot back. "Now get the hell out of here."

 
Bedj-ka turned and marched away with all the dignity he could muster, though his heart was pounding hard enough to make his neck muscles pulse. Yet another coughing fit struck him, and he was starting to feel warm now. He thought about telling Mom about what Sister Gretchen had said, then realized that would involve telling her why she had said it. Best to keep his mouth shut and hope Sister Gretchen did the same.

 
And then, sin or not, he'd have to find a way to talk to the person behind that door.

 
"Are you looking for something in particular, good gentle?"

 
Kendi turned. A tall, willowy being with red skin and enormous yellow eyes had approached him from behind. He--the voice was deep enough to make Kendi think of the creature as male--had long, graceful limbs and topped Kendi by almost a meter.

 
"I'm always looking for something unique to add to my collection," Kendi said with a small smile. "This one isn't quite to my taste--" he gestured at a messy blob of colors titled
Circus Day
"--but I'm sure you have better." He sniffed. "You certainly couldn't have worse."

 
"What sort of work is to your taste?"

 
"Realistic paintings and sculptures, especially of circus animals."

 
"Then you should follow me, fine gentle, and I will guide your steps to something more to your liking. I am Pnebran, and this is my gallery."

 
Pnebran turned and walked away, swaying like a sapling in the wind. Kendi followed, trying not to bounce in the lighter gravity of the gallery. The place was built on a spiral. A large open space opened all the way up to the ceiling, and a single wide balcony wound its way around the wall, corkscrewing a path to the top. Occasional staircases and lift platforms provided shortcuts. Floors, walls, and ceilings were white so as not to detract from the artwork displays which lined the walls. Statues, paintings, holograms both static and mobile, living sculptures, and sound symphonies each had a niche. Creatures of many shapes and species moved slowly among the pieces. Every work had a price discretely displayed somewhere on it, reminding the viewer that this was not a museum.

 
"You have arrived at an appropriate time," Pnebran continued. "I am displaying my annual exhibit of circus pieces."

 
"I know," Kendi said. "That's why I'm here."

 
Pnebran made a languid gesture, and Kendi wondered if his bones would break under the full gravity of the rest of the station. Was Pnebran a prisoner in his own gallery? If so, why did he stay on SA Station?

 
"The first three tiers are all circus artwork," Pnebran said. "Here we have a lovely display of Pallingram's early work. The colors are carefully muted and almost hypnotic. You're familiar, I'm sure, with the fact that his work always has a dark edge to it."

 
Kendi looked with pretended interest at the four paintings. They did indeed hold a dark quality to them. The clowns creating a living pyramid in the first painting looked ready to leap onto the audience and devour them. A tiger in the second was clearly about to slip its leash and attack the red-clad ringleader.

 
"Fine examples," Kendi said. "What else do you have? I'm especially interested in the rarer works."

 
"Would you like to touch my Koochi?"

 
Kendi bit back a reply that would probably have gotten him ejected from the gallery and simply nodded instead. Pnebran lead him to a blank section of white wall. "There," Pnebran said with another gesture. Kendi laid his palm on the wall. Crowd noise instantly crashed over him and he smelled roasted peanuts.

 
Preeeeesenting the Amazing Gambolini Brothers!
boomed a voice. More cheering thundered through the air and an elephant trumpeted. Smells of cotton candy and caramel apples wafted by. Then sounds and smells abruptly vanished. Kendi took his hand from the wall in amazement.

 
"Olfactory and auditory neural interface," Pnebran said proudly. "I have heard rumors of a Koochi that combines three senses but have been unable to find such."

 
"Breathtaking," Kendi said, meaning it. "What is the price?"

 
"Eight hundred thousand freemarks," Pnebran replied.

 
"A steal," Kendi said, barely managing not to choke. "What else do you have?"

 
Pnebran showed Kendi several other pieces, and Kendi pretended polite interest in each. Other guides of Pnebran's species shepherded other customers through the gallery around them.

 
"Have you sold many pieces during this exhibition?" Kendi asked casually.

 
"We just opened it yesterday, gentle, so not yet. It is a popular exhibition, however. The idea of a traveling group of performers appears in so many cultures that it is nearly universal, as is the artwork that springs from the concept, so we have people of many species who wish to visit."

 
Kendi nodded. "I'm especially interested in pieces with elephants in them. I had heard there were a few here."

 
"We sold one such just today," Pnebran said. "
Gray Elephants on Parade
by Wimpale."

 
Kendi seemed to grow excited. "Do you have more Wimpale?"

 
"I am afraid I do not."

 
"Dammit! Who bought the piece? No, let me guess--Edsard Roon."

 
"You know him," Pnebran observed.

 
"I know who he is," Kendi replied ruefully. "Does he often buy from you?"

 
"He is one of our favored customers. He has, in fact, one of the finest collections of circus art I have ever seen. And his memorabilia collection goes beyond the status of mere treasure."

 
"I've never seen his collection," Kendi said absently. Something stirred in his head.

 
Pnebran, meanwhile, lead Kendi to another painting. A group of human circus folk were gathered around a downed elephant. "Yemark's work is not so much dark as delightfully depressing. This is one of his earlier ones. The elephant is diseased and soon to be put out of misery."

 
Diseased. The word froze Kendi's world. He stared at the painting for a long moment. Ideas and possibilities rushed through his mind. Abruptly, one idea crystallized, and excitement surged through him. It took him a moment to realize Pnebran was speaking to him.

 
". . . you well, gentle?" Pnebran asked. "Do you like the painting? The price is--"

 
"I'm fine," Kendi interrupted, wishing the curator would shut up. "I just . . . I'm receiving a call. Excuse me?" He turned away and pressed a hand to the side of his head, as if listening to someone on his earpiece, and he used the time to examine his idea from several sides. Disease. A ship. Roon's key. Elephants. It would work. He was sure of it. Excitement jumped around Kendi's head and made him want to leap up and slap the ceiling. In this gravity, he might be able to pull it off.

 
Instead, he turned back to Pnebran. "I have to leave, sir. How long will your exhibit be open? There are some pieces I want to look at more closely."

 
Pnebran made a graceful gesture Kendi took for a slight bow. "We close in twelve more days."

 
Kendi thanked him and rushed away.

 
Ben glared down at the pile of rubble beneath his feet, then lifted his plexiglass face mask and swiped at his sweaty face with one sleeve. The little sledgehammer pulled with substantial weight at his other arm. It wasn't working anymore. Smashing Padric Sufur flat with a hammer used to give him a certain amount of satisfaction, but lately it hadn't done much for him. Maybe he needed to try something else. But what?

 
He wished he could create the real thing, a Dream simulacrum that would move and talk. And bleed. But Mom had always said that no one could create people in the Dream.