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Authors: Brian Stableford
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came back, radiating wounded vanity.
"Murderer or not, it's people like you that get the human species a bad
name. No wonder we get embroiled in stupid wars. We did win, by the way, insofar
as either side can be said to have won. The Salamandrans came off far worse
than we did, at any rate. It'll take us centuries to live it down, of course,
even though they started it—but at least it wasn't our homeworld that was
devastated. They're going to need our help now, just to avoid extinction.
Compared with the amount of blood the whole race has on its hands, your
innocence of the death of a single Sleath is a minor matter."
"Not to
me," I told him, through gritted teeth. I was being as diplomatic as I possibly
could.
"We're all
complicit in near-genocide, Michael," he told me, morosely. "None of
us can avoid that stain. It's a whole-species crime. You and I and our two
hundred compatriots might be a very long way from Earth—farther, I suppose,
than anyone else—and you and I, at least, might have set off from home before
the war even began, but we're still guilty. There's no way around that."
I hung up on him,
figuring that either he would do what I'd asked him to do or he wouldn't, and that
either way, he was the least likely miracle-worker I'd ever met in my entire
not-quite-guilt-free life.
There was no mad
rush to buy me out that day. Nor was there any news of Saul Lyndrach or
mysterious Myrlin. The hours of grace remaining to me ticked inexorably by, and
the only manifest improvement in my situation was the slight amendment to
Jacinthe Siani's contract that 238-Zenatta negotiated on my behalf.
The changes were
cosmetic, of course; I knew as well as the Kythnan did that my chances of collecting
a share of Amara Guur's profits were a good deal slimmer than a snowball's in
hell.
I seriously
considered the alternative, but I couldn't persuade myself of its merits. Amara
Guur might be a murderous crook, but he wanted me conscious as well as alive
and healthy, at least in the short term. While he still needed me, I had a
chance to outwit him, and maybe even get my own back.
I knew I'd have to
sign Jacinthe Siani's contract in the end, but I was determined to drag it out
as long as I could.
9
When the appointed hour came, I was let out
of my cell and taken to the Hall of Justice by 69-Aquila. 238-Zenatta was
waiting for me there, with Jacinthe Siani and the fatal document. There was
also a Tetron clerk to whom I wasn't formally introduced, because she was female—the
Tetrax have strict but labyrinthine rules to regulate communication between
the sexes. She and Aquila were there to witness that I was signing the contract
of my own free will.
I insisted on
having it read aloud, as was my right. The clerk didn't seem at all put out; I got
the impression that she welcomed the opportunity to show off her perfect
parole.
I didn't bother to
listen—I just watched the miniunits ticking away on the wallclock's digital
display.
A Tetron day is
about twenty-eight Earth-standard hours. It's divided up into a hundred units,
each of which is subdivided by a further hundred, so each miniunit is about ten
times as long as an Earthly second. It makes Tetron clocks seem to run very
slowly; waiting for the next tick can be an agonising business if you're in the
wrong frame of mind.
The clerk handed
the ballpoint pen to me, and pushed a fingerprint pad across the tabletop. I slowly
inked my thumb, and then I looked at it very carefully. I'd given up expecting
miracles; it was just that I had let the treacly quality of Tetron time get a
grip on my actions.
I was just about to make my thumbprint and
add my signature when the door to the Hall burst open. There was an appalling
clatter of booted feet on the vitreous floor. The floor was immune to all
damage, of course, but such was the racket that it was easy to imagine chips
and shards flying in every direction.
Seven humans in
neat black uniforms raced across the room as if they'd
"Murderer or not, it's people like you that get the human species a bad
name. No wonder we get embroiled in stupid wars. We did win, by the way, insofar
as either side can be said to have won. The Salamandrans came off far worse
than we did, at any rate. It'll take us centuries to live it down, of course,
even though they started it—but at least it wasn't our homeworld that was
devastated. They're going to need our help now, just to avoid extinction.
Compared with the amount of blood the whole race has on its hands, your
innocence of the death of a single Sleath is a minor matter."
"Not to
me," I told him, through gritted teeth. I was being as diplomatic as I possibly
could.
"We're all
complicit in near-genocide, Michael," he told me, morosely. "None of
us can avoid that stain. It's a whole-species crime. You and I and our two
hundred compatriots might be a very long way from Earth—farther, I suppose,
than anyone else—and you and I, at least, might have set off from home before
the war even began, but we're still guilty. There's no way around that."
I hung up on him,
figuring that either he would do what I'd asked him to do or he wouldn't, and that
either way, he was the least likely miracle-worker I'd ever met in my entire
not-quite-guilt-free life.
There was no mad
rush to buy me out that day. Nor was there any news of Saul Lyndrach or
mysterious Myrlin. The hours of grace remaining to me ticked inexorably by, and
the only manifest improvement in my situation was the slight amendment to
Jacinthe Siani's contract that 238-Zenatta negotiated on my behalf.
The changes were
cosmetic, of course; I knew as well as the Kythnan did that my chances of collecting
a share of Amara Guur's profits were a good deal slimmer than a snowball's in
hell.
I seriously
considered the alternative, but I couldn't persuade myself of its merits. Amara
Guur might be a murderous crook, but he wanted me conscious as well as alive
and healthy, at least in the short term. While he still needed me, I had a
chance to outwit him, and maybe even get my own back.
I knew I'd have to
sign Jacinthe Siani's contract in the end, but I was determined to drag it out
as long as I could.
9
When the appointed hour came, I was let out
of my cell and taken to the Hall of Justice by 69-Aquila. 238-Zenatta was
waiting for me there, with Jacinthe Siani and the fatal document. There was
also a Tetron clerk to whom I wasn't formally introduced, because she was female—the
Tetrax have strict but labyrinthine rules to regulate communication between
the sexes. She and Aquila were there to witness that I was signing the contract
of my own free will.
I insisted on
having it read aloud, as was my right. The clerk didn't seem at all put out; I got
the impression that she welcomed the opportunity to show off her perfect
parole.
I didn't bother to
listen—I just watched the miniunits ticking away on the wallclock's digital
display.
A Tetron day is
about twenty-eight Earth-standard hours. It's divided up into a hundred units,
each of which is subdivided by a further hundred, so each miniunit is about ten
times as long as an Earthly second. It makes Tetron clocks seem to run very
slowly; waiting for the next tick can be an agonising business if you're in the
wrong frame of mind.
The clerk handed
the ballpoint pen to me, and pushed a fingerprint pad across the tabletop. I slowly
inked my thumb, and then I looked at it very carefully. I'd given up expecting
miracles; it was just that I had let the treacly quality of Tetron time get a
grip on my actions.
I was just about to make my thumbprint and
add my signature when the door to the Hall burst open. There was an appalling
clatter of booted feet on the vitreous floor. The floor was immune to all
damage, of course, but such was the racket that it was easy to imagine chips
and shards flying in every direction.
Seven humans in
neat black uniforms raced across the room as if they'd
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