murmured. He leaned on
the bar, his legs dangling like a child’s over the edge of a seat that was
nearly his own height. Being not much over a meter tall in a universe where
most humans were nearly twice that height had its drawbacks; among its mixed
blessings was the fact that very few people ever forgot him, even after six
years. “You’ve got a memory like a servo. And a grip to match.”
Ravien snorted, and poured him a drink. “See if I remembered
that right.”
Kedalion took a sip of the greenish-black liquid, and made a
face. “Ye gods, right again,” he said sourly. “You mean to tell me this is
still the best thing you have to drink?”
Ravien rubbed his several chins. “Well, you know, we’re
lucky to get anything at all, what with the stinking breath of the Church
Police down my neck all the time. I can get the sacramental wine on the black
market, because it profits the Church .... But for a certain price, I could
maybe find you something special.”
“Bring it out.” Kedalion pushed the cup back across the bar.
“I made all my deliveries on Samathe. I’m feeling worth it.”
“Good man!” Ravien nodded happily, wiping his hands down the
front of his elaborately formal and extremely unbecoming shirt as he started
away toward the back room.
Kedalion leaned on the bar. looking out into the room,
absently scratching the astrogation implants hidden in his hair. First a drink,
then a room and a shower and some companionship .... He felt a pleasant twinge
of nostalgia, brought on by the completion of another successful run. Though
maybe nostalgia was the wrong word for it. Relief was probably more accurate.
He was a legal trader, but the people he did business with and for usually were
not. It was an interesting life ... and half his time was spent wishing he’d chosen
some other line of work. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was trying
to prove something to somebody. Well, what the hell—As far as he could see,
that was what motivated the entire human race.
He let his gaze wander the subterranean room, taking in the
reflective ceiling that hid the naked structural forms of someone else’s
basement. Up above them was the Survey Hall, where offworlders who belonged to
that ancient, conservative social group talked politics, gave each other
self-important secret handshakes, and generally spent their evenings far more
tediously than he planned to. He had wandered through a display of the latest
Kharemoughi tech imports in one of their meeting rooms before arriving at the
club’s hidden entrance; what he had seen of the Hall was severe and
stuffy-looking.
The decor here, on the other hand, set his teeth on edge
with its gleaming excess. He focused on the dancer performing incredible
contortions as effortlessly as he would breathe, to the rhythmic, haunting
accompaniment of a flute and drum, and the wild trills of a woman singer. This
was the best private club he knew of in Razuma, and that wasn’t a compliment.
There were no public clubs. The theocracy that was Ondinee’s dominant onworld
government forbade even thinking about most of the things that went on here,
and in other places like this. He had heard that all those things, and worse,
went on all the time in the Men’s Orders that most privileged Ondinean males
belonged to. But places where offworlders were welcome, and permitted to enjoy
themselves, were as rare as jewels, and about as hard to find, even in a major
port like Razuma.
The irony was that while it persecuted vice among its own
people with a fervor that verged on the perverse, the Church also harbored—and
let itself be intimidated by—the largest enclave of offworld vice cartels in
the Hegemony. A large part of the local population made its living harvesting
drug crops and doing whatever else the cartels needed done. The offworlder
underworld made an enormous contribution to the Church’s economic and political
stability.
The relationship was not without its
the bar, his legs dangling like a child’s over the edge of a seat that was
nearly his own height. Being not much over a meter tall in a universe where
most humans were nearly twice that height had its drawbacks; among its mixed
blessings was the fact that very few people ever forgot him, even after six
years. “You’ve got a memory like a servo. And a grip to match.”
Ravien snorted, and poured him a drink. “See if I remembered
that right.”
Kedalion took a sip of the greenish-black liquid, and made a
face. “Ye gods, right again,” he said sourly. “You mean to tell me this is
still the best thing you have to drink?”
Ravien rubbed his several chins. “Well, you know, we’re
lucky to get anything at all, what with the stinking breath of the Church
Police down my neck all the time. I can get the sacramental wine on the black
market, because it profits the Church .... But for a certain price, I could
maybe find you something special.”
“Bring it out.” Kedalion pushed the cup back across the bar.
“I made all my deliveries on Samathe. I’m feeling worth it.”
“Good man!” Ravien nodded happily, wiping his hands down the
front of his elaborately formal and extremely unbecoming shirt as he started
away toward the back room.
Kedalion leaned on the bar. looking out into the room,
absently scratching the astrogation implants hidden in his hair. First a drink,
then a room and a shower and some companionship .... He felt a pleasant twinge
of nostalgia, brought on by the completion of another successful run. Though
maybe nostalgia was the wrong word for it. Relief was probably more accurate.
He was a legal trader, but the people he did business with and for usually were
not. It was an interesting life ... and half his time was spent wishing he’d chosen
some other line of work. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was trying
to prove something to somebody. Well, what the hell—As far as he could see,
that was what motivated the entire human race.
He let his gaze wander the subterranean room, taking in the
reflective ceiling that hid the naked structural forms of someone else’s
basement. Up above them was the Survey Hall, where offworlders who belonged to
that ancient, conservative social group talked politics, gave each other
self-important secret handshakes, and generally spent their evenings far more
tediously than he planned to. He had wandered through a display of the latest
Kharemoughi tech imports in one of their meeting rooms before arriving at the
club’s hidden entrance; what he had seen of the Hall was severe and
stuffy-looking.
The decor here, on the other hand, set his teeth on edge
with its gleaming excess. He focused on the dancer performing incredible
contortions as effortlessly as he would breathe, to the rhythmic, haunting
accompaniment of a flute and drum, and the wild trills of a woman singer. This
was the best private club he knew of in Razuma, and that wasn’t a compliment.
There were no public clubs. The theocracy that was Ondinee’s dominant onworld
government forbade even thinking about most of the things that went on here,
and in other places like this. He had heard that all those things, and worse,
went on all the time in the Men’s Orders that most privileged Ondinean males
belonged to. But places where offworlders were welcome, and permitted to enjoy
themselves, were as rare as jewels, and about as hard to find, even in a major
port like Razuma.
The irony was that while it persecuted vice among its own
people with a fervor that verged on the perverse, the Church also harbored—and
let itself be intimidated by—the largest enclave of offworld vice cartels in
the Hegemony. A large part of the local population made its living harvesting
drug crops and doing whatever else the cartels needed done. The offworlder
underworld made an enormous contribution to the Church’s economic and political
stability.
The relationship was not without its
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