Accepting the lance, p.20
Accepting the Lance, page 20
part #22 of Liaden Universe Series
“We are, of course, delighted to assist the guest,” Miri said. “May I know your requests?”
“Yes. First, I would like maps of Surebleak. Especially of the more sparsely populated areas. This will assist me in choosing sites to visit in anticipation of the arrival of the technicians. Their work will be delicate in the extreme, and they will wish to have a base that is not subject to the bustle and busyness of the cluster-dwellings.”
Miri frowned.
“The Scouts have been exploring and cataloging the outback land, as it has been called,” she said. “I will make a call and find if the survey maps can be shared with you. Given the nature of your mission, I am certain that there will not be a problem. What else may I be pleased to do for you?”
“I will require a vehicle. It will be necessary for me to visit those areas which I identify on the map, to take measurements and assure myself of the suitability of each.”
A vehicle.
Miri considered the picture in her head of a smallish, but still hefty Clutch Turtle driving a battered all-terrain across Surebleak’s outback, and winced.
“While I am speaking with the Scouts, I will inquire for one who may serve as your escort, perhaps conveying you to the areas you have identified in one of the survey craft.”
Emissary Twelve blinked slowly.
“That would be an acceptable arrangement,” she said, after a longish pause. “If such a one could be found, I would be grateful.”
“Do you have a comm at Yulie’s?”
“The House has been generous. I have everything that is required for my work.”
“Excellent. I will call you after I have spoken with the Scouts. Is there anything else the House may provide at the moment?”
“I believe I am well provisioned. Also, I am informed that there is a Tree—young, yet worthy of conversation—at Yulie Shaper’s farm. It has been given some education from the Elder Tree, so that it might more quickly begin to shape its nature as this world requires. I will be most interested to make this Tree’s acquaintance, and to hear what thoughts it has.”
The affinity between Clutch and Tree was, Miri thought, unsettling, but not as unsettling as the thought that just occurred to her.
“Before you go,” she said, “I will make you aware of a developing situation. It may be that the delm of Korval will…live less long than we had anticipated. Will you, and your technicians, be able to continue with your work in the event that there is a different delm of Korval? Or none at all?”
Another slow blink of yellow eyes.
“It is understood that the scope of the project necessitates that the technical team will interface with several delms of Korval,” she said, and Miri had the impression that Emissary Twelve was trying to phrase her answer as gently as possible. “It is well known that those of the Clans of Men are not long-lived. While we regret this fact of nature, still we cannot allow it to impede us in this critical work. It may be, as event moves forward, that it will become, from the perspective of continuity, more efficient for all to interface with the Elder Tree or its offspring.
“But that,” she said, standing up, her weather tent rustling about her, “is also for later. We will do one thing, then another thing, in order, until the task is done. We have found this to be the best way to proceed.”
Miri smiled slightly.
“So have we.”
Blair Road
Boss Conrad’s House
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The Bosses of Surebleak greet Boss Surebleak. We are in receipt of your message, and we invite you to meet with us in order that we may discuss our various plans for Surebleak’s prosperity. We will be meeting on Graupelday at the fourteenth hour, in the Council Meeting Room inside the Mercantile Building. We wish very much to find you seated with us there at that time.
Pat Rin considered this notice with some amount of satisfaction as he drank his tea. This morning’s breakfast was a nut-butter sandwich with poizinberry jam, which despite the infelicitous name, was apparently not a poison at all. It was, in fact, quite delicious.
Natesa, who was watching him over her bowl of hot grains, asked softly, “Is it well, the letter to the void?”
“I flatter myself that it is extremely handsome,” he answered, placing the paper on the table before her.
She glanced at it and spooned up more cereal.
“Do you think Boss Surebleak is likely to attend?” she asked.
“More likely to just hire a gun to sit on the roof across from the doorway and pick off Bosses when they go in,” said Cheever McFarland, who had just come into the room. He stood at the end of the table and glared down at Pat Rin. “You really think all the Bosses of Surebleak’ll even make a dent in this guy’s plan?”
“Good morning, Mr. McFarland,” Pat Rin said softly. “You appear to be somewhat out of sorts. I suggest that your mood will improve after you have had some breakfast.”
The big man turned to Natesa. “Does he think Boss Surebleak is any kind of innerested in a meetin’ of the minds?”
Natesa reached for her teacup.
“I believe not,” she said thoughtfully. “However, the consensus of the Bosses of Surebleak was that they are, as the ruling body, committed to improving the lot of the planet entire. They are therefore constrained to produce a new way to deal with such persons as Boss Surebleak, since we are able to see what long-term success the old way produced.”
Cheever stared at her.
“The coffee was brought out only a few minutes ago,” she said, returning her attention to her bowl.
“The jam tarts are also just out,” Pat Rin said. “Do serve yourself and join us.”
“The pair of you…” Cheever muttered, but he did cross the room to the buffet, poured coffee, and put a pair of jam tarts on a small plate.
Pat Rin had finished his sandwich and put the plate aside. He sipped tea and waited until the big man had eaten one whole tart and drunk half of his coffee.
“We are not quite idiots,” he said. “We are making arrangements for increased security at the Mercantile Building, the approaches to the building, and the room itself. Joey Valish has been talking to the Watch regarding appropriate coverage. It would please me if you would approach the Mercenary Hall with the logistics and see what they might do for us.
“We will, of course, wish to be discreet. It is no part of this to frighten our invited guest or to make her anxious for her safety.”
“I will be speaking to the Scouts this morning,” Natesa said, putting her bowl to one side and reaching for her cup.
Cheever sighed, drained his mug, crossed the room, refilled it, and resumed his chair.
“Do you actually expect Boss Surebleak to attend this meeting…in good faith, is what I’m askin’ now, not just to shoot the place up.”
Pat Rin frowned slightly.
“Do you know? I can quite easily convince myself that she will do no such thing, and then five minutes later become just as convinced that she will attend,” he said. “In truth, we cannot know what she will do. If she were a…traditional Surebleak Boss, we might be able to predict her probable answer with some accuracy. However, she has already shown more…shall we say, creativity than a traditional Boss, though she has taken on some of the trappings in order, so I feel, to appeal to that percentage of the population which is disaffected and wishes for a return to the old ways.”
Cheever looked thoughtful.
“So, she’s something new, is she? Or she’s got a sophisticated advisor.”
“I lean toward the second theory myself. In which case, it is imperative that we find who that advisor is and neutralize them, unless we wish to entertain a limitless parade of Boss Surebleaks.”
“I think,” said Natesa, “that Boss Surebleak has time constraints.”
Pat Rin looked to her. “More levels?”
“Why stint herself?”
“And, here’s the question that’s gotta be asked: what’s an outworlder—are we thinking Liaden?—want with Surebleak?”
“There is timonium here,” said Pat Rin mildly. “The Gilmour Agency found it too much effort for too little return, but that may not apply to—a pirate operation, let us say.”
“Pirates wouldn’t need a port upgrade,” Cheever said slowly. “Might be cozy to have one, but not at the cost of being free to operate openly.”
“Miri’s theory,” Natesa said, “is that the Department of the Interior is behind this—which possibility also cannot be ignored.”
“In which case, you gotta wonder about that time constraint you mentioned,” Cheever said, “and what’s standing as Boss Surebleak’s backup.”
“Speaking of Miri and Val Con,” Pat Rin said, changing the subject ruthlessly, “you will wish to know that they have spoken with Emissary Twelve, our Clutch visitor. She brings news that the planet is flawed at core—perhaps as a result of the Gilmour Agency’s approach to mining. There is a strong probability that Surebleak will break apart in twelve thousand Standard Years.”
Cheever started to laugh—and changed his mind.
“So, are we evacuating?”
“Not at all. Emissary Twelve is in search of a reasonable place to establish a team of Clutch technicians who will be working to repair the flaw.”
“We’re going to have a team of Clutch Turtles on Surebleak?”
“That would seem to be the case. Surebleak will set the precedent. Can you think of another mixed human and Clutch world?”
“I can’t. And my gut says it’s a bad idea.”
“Perhaps it won’t be so much of a tragedy. I should have added that Korval’s Tree quite likes Clutch Turtles.”
Cheever drained his mug. “Terrific.”
Blair Road
Boss Conrad’s House
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Pat Rin had spoken to his mother, Lady Kareen, who had received a request from the TerraTrade survey team for documentation illustrating Surebleak’s social and economic situations during the Gilmour Agency years, under the Old Bosses, and under the care of Conrad and the so-called New Bosses.
Scout Historian vey’Loffit, so Pat Rin’s mother assured him, was competent and willing to review and certify the requested documentation. She, herself, was as excited and pleased as he ever remembered hearing her, in all his life.
“For I tell you, we have treasure to place into the survey team’s hands,” she said crisply. “The very manual from the Gilmour Agency’s employee management department, in which each of the rules that was amended by the Board of Directors was notated, the new rule affixed on the page next to the one it supplanted.
“It is clear from this account of the proceedings that the directors deliberately created a structure that would allow them to abandon those listed as lower grade. The money they saved on transportation and relocation costs ensured that they would retain a place in the larger company, rather than being shut down as unprofitable.”
She’d paused and glanced down at her desk.
“We also have letters from the grandmothers, as the Boss system began to take shape, and personal accounts from people who had been living on the turfs of each Boss who was in power immediately before Boss Conrad began his project of consolidation.”
Glancing up, she smiled. “I think you need have no fear that the survey team will rule against your agenda.”
“We may hope that is the outcome, but the survey team only recommends. It is TerraTrade that must be convinced.”
“Very true; I merely wish you to know that the history of Surebleak testifies to the benevolence of Boss Conrad’s subjugation of a sovereign world.”
“I am grateful for the reassurance,” he told her, which was true.
She inclined her head and broke the connection.
Pat Rin leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He ought to call Penn Kalhoon, though the lack of contact from his second would indicate that—
“Master Pat Rin.”
Mr. pel’Tolian stood at the door to his study.
“Yes?”
“Security requests that you come to them. There is something on their screens which they feel will interest you.”
“Of course; I’ll go at once.”
He rose, trying not to think what might interest him on Security’s screens. Anything from a corpse on the front sidewalk—recognizable as one of his own residents—or several such. Swallowing hard, he moved more quickly along the hallway to the front of the house.
Gwince was on the screens, as Quin was off-world, gaining flight time.
“Boss,” she said, shifting to make room for him at the console. “Take a look at this.”
Bodies crowded the street in front of his house: live bodies, people—his people. He recognized many faces, but not all—
People were holding signs—large, crude, hand-lettered signs. Gwince had muted the feed, but he could still hear a faint roar of voices.
“Conrad! Conrad! Conrad!”
The signs—the signs bore several messages: NO MORE RETIREMENTS; NO MORE INSURANCE; BOSS SUREBLEAK AIN’T THE BOSS OF ME.
There were also, Pat Rin saw, other signs here and there, perhaps not being held as high, but visible nonetheless.
TAKE BACK SUREBLEAK!
“What is this?” he asked Gwince softly, as if they might hear him out on the noisy, crowded street.
“Dif’rence of opinions, I’m guessing,” she said. “So far, nobody’s swung at anybody else’s nose. Got a call from Valish a little o’er minute ago; they got the same thing out front o’Boss Kalhoon’s place. We split the rest o’the Bosses between us to call and find did they have anything like, but I thought you should know first.”
“Thank you, Gwince. Has the Watch been alerted?”
“Figured it was house security, sir. Valish is treatin’ it the same way.”
“Very well. Please send that feed to my desk sc— Wait. What is this?”
This was an odd couple indeed. Walking side by side, with identical purposeful strides, he adapting his to hers: a lanky male in Surebleak motley, his hair a grey fog around his head, and a Liaden woman in sober business dress, sleek dark hair liberally striped with grey. She was carrying a briefcase.
The crowd—sign-bearers of both opinions—gave way before them as they continued, looking neither to the left nor the right, directly up the front steps to the door.
The male extended a hand and pressed the call button. A bell rang in the hallway, closely followed by Mr. pel’Tolian’s brisk footsteps.
Pat Rin stepped out into the hallway, arriving at the vestibule in time to hear the woman speak in clipped, accented Terran.
“I am kaz’Ineo. I come with my apprentice to speak with Boss Conrad on the matter of Boss Surebleak.”
“Mrs. kaz’Ineo,” Pat Rin said, walking forward before Mr. pel’Tolian could speak, “and Mr. Hufstead. Be welcome in my house.”
The two of them were the first successful pairing to come out of Miri’s “storefront qe’andra” project. Mrs. kaz’Ineo was of a respected Line of Liaden qe’andra; Jorish Hufstead had for many years been a so-called cornerman—a dispenser of rough Balance—on Penn Kalhoon’s turf. They had previously assisted the Road Boss in untangling a knotty Liaden-Surebleakean ethical issue, and had been tireless in tutoring other nascent teams.
“Boss Conrad.” Mrs. kaz’Ineo inclined her head, not quite a bow, which was proper Surebleak manners.
“Boss.” Jorish Hufstead also nodded, being Surebleakean.
“I would be pleased to hear your insights regarding Boss Surebleak. If you will just step down to my office, we may be comfortable. Mr. pel’Tolian, please bring a tray.”
“Certainly, sir.”
* * *
“A vote,” Pat Rin repeated, looking at his mismatched callers. “I am afraid I do not understand.”
“In theory, it is a simple procedure,” said Mrs. kaz’Ineo. “Its charm is that it partakes of both Liaden and Surebleakean custom. Its…drawback is that honor alone enforces the outcome.”
Pat Rin picked up his cup and leaned back in his chair, feigning a relaxed patience he did not quite feel.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Of course. Apprentice Jorish, please give Boss Conrad the Surebleak history.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned his long, clever face toward Pat Rin.
“This goes ’way back to the Gilmour Agency, Boss. I did use it, once er twict, when I was cornerman, but most of what I was solving for weren’t so complicated as to need it.
“Now, what it was, is if one of the Board of Directors wanted to do a particular thing, and another one wanted to do another thing, and neither one could be talked to the other one’s side, the whole board—all the directors, y’see—would have a vote. One director, one vote, and whichever idea got the most votes, that’s what got done.”
The Council of Bosses worked by consensus, which took time but produced workable compromise. This all-or-nothing approach was…slightly mad, Pat Rin thought. In his experience, which was increasing daily, it was the compromise—the melding of the two or three original ideas—that was the best answer.
He turned toward Mrs. kaz’Ineo. “And there is something like, in Liaden culture?”
She inclined her head. “There is, and you are, I trust, familiar with its use at Festival. How is the Most Artful Mask chosen?”
Pat Rin frowned.
“They are displayed side by side with a bowl on a table in front of each. One leaves a coin in the bowl before the object of one’s preference.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. kaz’Ineo, “and the mask which receives the most number of coins is declared the Most Artful.”
“Yes,” Pat Rin agreed. “You are correct; I see the similarity with Mr. Hufstead’s procedure. How will this assist us in the matter of Boss Surebleak, I wonder?”
