Sitting on the soft, brown sofa left her centimeters above the floor, lower than any exhibits in this, the deepest, dimmest, dustiest section of the Rhododendron’s museum. Leaning back, the Sherriff looked up at the pictures of her father, with a younger Taw Brust, in rooms of a bygone design. There were even pictures of herself and her sister, and one very small one of her mother and grandfather. Most of the exhibits, however, documented the career of her father—and her predecessor as Shariff—in the days before his disgrace and death.
Marah Parimat came here in search of serenity that was always elusive and sometimes, as today, illusive as well. Her own disgrace and death doubtless waited behind a sealed door that Taw Brust was having Sergeant Bruvitt cut open. The whole gantlet section of the Dragonshelf had inexplicably shut down. The situation’s inexplicability was continuing because every computer with access to the system was told “Awaiting Further Orders” whenever anyone tried to turn the power back on. Her entire tech staff could provide no suggestions for an override.
The Emperor’s Recreational Command Module was sealed completely, and his updates and images of the progress of the Game had cut off. The governor of Lodeon VII was reporting violent demonstrations in five major gaming centers. Incidents of violence between privileged citizens allowed to watch aboard the Drover and Imperial troops had had to be quashed. Brust had mounted a rescue effort, in case this turned out to be one of His Imperial Worship’s little jokes. (Indeed, betting on this possibility was all that was keeping the population of Lodeon VII under even partial control.) The Sheriff, meanwhile, had ordered the Drover evacuated until the source of the problem could be pinpointed.
She shifted in her seat, trying to enjoy her little sanctuary: this might be her last chance. The whole mess was no doubt due to some glitch in the Drover’s computer system: an inevitable occurrence on what was still the slave ship’s maiden voyage. The Drover was vast and complex: one little error in programming could have huge consequences. The Sheriff did not let this idea trick her into believing His Imperial Worship would not blame HER.
The little monitor to her left blinked on; the face of Taw Brust filled the screen. “First large section of the door has been removed. A second will need to be removed before we can attempt entry.”
“Very good. What do you see?”
“The heat of the metal is preventing a clear sight, even with scopes. The Imperial Chair appears to be empty. There are two large unidentified objects in a corner. They appear to be albino slugs from Astafa, but I cannot see any way these could have entered His Imperial Worship’s chamber.”
Her Grace nodded. “Proceed with caution. Keep me apprised.”
She turned her head slowly, memorizing each picture. There had been bright days. Her father had awarded her that silver medal after the Strength Competition; her mother had dropped a glass of water on hearing she had won that certificate for torure development.
She set her back against the sofa. At the very least, she would be awarded weeks of concentrated pet duty. She knew she could survive two consecutive shifts; they would likely assign her two shifts on duty and one dangling in a cell to rest. Or she might be named the personal plaything of one of Stenge’s particular champions, like Kenjegge, allowing her to suffer in a corner of the Imperial Sty for a year or more.
The monitor hissed a little when it clicked on. She did not glance at it. “Yes?”
“Hello? Hello? Is this thing working?”
The Sheriff did not immediately recognize the nearly noseless face on the screen. It was illuminated only by the glow of whatever monitor it was using, and faint light in the background.
The signal to the left of her screen indicated that the message was coming from somewhere in a maintenance conduit on the slave ship. She sat up. Someone in Tech might be reporting on the source of the shutdown.
“Where are you?” she demanded. “Tell me now, in case the signal is shut down.”
“I don’t know. Do I? I do not. Who are you? My screen isn’t showing anything; I had to patch in power from the copier.”
The Sheriff knew the face now: it was the rebel librarian, who had been removed from the Game and held in the Emperor’s New Toy. More than that, it was someone the Emperor would want to punish even more than the Sherriff and Captain of the Rhododendron.
Now what? She pressed buttons which would send a couple of swift, silent security guards to the most likely computer stayions. In the meantime, best to pretend concern for the caller.
“Are you all right? Did you get lost? Everyone was to have evacuated the Drover during the blackout, but it’s easy to get lost on a ship so large. Don’t try to maneuver in the darkness. We’ll send help.”
“It isn’t all dark. I have light from the machine.” The escapee gestured behind her, rising enough to show that she was nearly naked, and bore the marks of His Imperial Worship’s attention. “Maybe the power’s coming back on, or the copier picks up power from a long way away.”
“Three thousand meters, or so I read in the manual.” The number was actually two thousand. If the prisoner did escape from the tunnel, she would run out of power long before it was convenient.
“I’ve read about mechanisms like that. It was ten….” The blistered forehead wrinkled; the escapee winced, but was thinking of something else. The little chin came up. “You’re the Sherriff, aren’t you?”
Marah Parimat, piqued at having been discovered so quickly, said, “What makes you think that?”
“You can read.” Split lips pursed, causing another wince. “Do you…need any books?”
The Sheriff drew back. A quick plan to pretend to be part of a rebel literate force was discarded; the Emperor could use anything she said when he tried her for her failures. “I read only government approved manuals and directives! Anything else is unnecessary.”
Now the traitor recoiled. “Unnecessary! I…. Unnecessary!”
Marah Parimat could see the pictures on the wall; fingers that had been poised to strike other alarm buttons gripped the monitor. Her voice was steady, though, as she replied, “Reading is treason. My father, the Captain of the Rhododendron before me, picked up a confiscated issue of the Bee Inspector’s Journal and read through it. This was not on the forbidden list, but was added later, and for having read it, he was condemned to be pressed to death slowly under blocks of ice.”
The refugee’s eyes were immense. “Did you…have to watch?”
“I was allowed to help!”
The face on the screen shook a little, the way a prisoner might shake its head if Bundar lace mites were dropped on it. “Why do you work for someone who would order that? What harm did the Bee Inspector’s Journal ever do to the Emperor?”
The Sheriff, forgetting the prisoner could not see her on the monitor, shook a fist at the face. “When infractions are not dealt with, dangerous rebels like you attempt to take advantage of the law, pressing against any leniency to widen the avenue of escape. If it weren’t for you rebels, His Imperial Worship would not need such restrictive laws.”
“But he killed….”
“You people killed….”
The conversation broke off in a burst of static. Quite another face took over the screen. It was rather a red face, but the Sheriff recognized it at once. It took only a second longer to recognize that His Imperial Worship was sitting in the control room of his own ship.
“Very good, Btust,” he was saying. “You may go.”
The face now turned toward the Sherrif. “Your Imperial Worship! Are you well? Uninjured?”
“Thank you for your concern, Sheriff. I will reserve the tale of my sufferings until you have the leisure to enjoy it.” His tone was similar to that she expected to hear from the lips of Death. “In the meantime, you will concentrate all your efforts on retrieving a prisoner. She called me groteske.w”
The Sheriff nodded. “What does it mean?”
“I have no idea, but I don’t like it. See that she is not damaged. I will finish that job myself.”
“Yes, Your Worship.” Was there still a chance to let the full weight of Imperial displeasure fall on the fugitive librarian?
No: the Imperial eyes promised that. “:I shall expect her aboard the Panoply within the hour. And those two men who pulled me out of the Drover—Brust and the others.”
“Yes, Your Worship?”
“Kill them.” Imperial eyes narrowed. “No one sees me barebottomed and lives to tell about it.”
The Sheriff’s nod was slower this time. “It was…no doubt a great honor to them, Your Imperial Worship.”
The Emperor smiled sweetly, unconvincingly. “An honor which could not be improved upon, so we shall spare them years of anticlimax. In fact, kill them so painfully that by the time they die, they can remember nothing but pain. See to it.”
The monitor blinked off.
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