Walter Jon Williams - House of Shards

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CHAPTER 1
hen one star gobbles another, the universe may
be forgiven if it pauses to take breath. Imagine
the sight: the smaller star a bright-haloed
emptiness, a nullity that draws into itself vast
ruddy flares of stellar matter until it consumes the very heart
of its companion. People might well stop and stare. Some
may even pay for the privilege. Thus Silverside Station, a
small asteroid held within view of the phenomenon by
mighty anchors of self-generated gravitational energy.
Small, hence exclusive. With exclusive rights to the view.
And about to have its grand opening
.
A private media globe hung inconspicuously over the control
console. Recording every word.
"Imagine it. Everyone on both sides of the border wanting to
have a ticket. Salivating for one. Offering anything to get
one. And the two of us, flying into Silverside on our own
private racing yacht."
A doubtful frown. "I'm not certain of this rule banning
the media. It seems extreme." A glance at the private globe. "I
can't record myself. That's a little absurd."
"The ban only applies to most of the media, Pearl. Some
will be there. Kyoko Asperson, for one."
"That," the Pearl said, her ears flattening, "will guar-
antee catastrophe."
W
2 | WALTER JON WILLIAMS
Pearl Woman was tall and dark-haired. Her shoulders and
arms bulged with transplanted muscle: in her youth she
hunted daffles from proughback, and that takes upper-body
strength. Her hair shagged from her head like the mane of a
lion. She wore a single pearl hanging from the left ear, an
object balanced artfully by a duelling scar on her right
cheek. Both were her trademarks within the Diadem, never
duplicated by others of that exclusive organization, though
they were often imitated by her admirers across the Con-
stellation.
The enthusiasm of Pearl Woman's companion was un-
dimmed. "Only three of the Diadem were invited. Three
of the Three Hundred. You and the Marquess Kotani and
Zoot. Imagine that."
Pearl Woman gave her a look. "Advert. I need to dock
the ship."
Sulkily. "You could put it on auto."
"Not my way, Advert."
Advert, with a self-conscious glance at the media globe,
fell silent. She was young and pale and willowy, with wavy
brown hair that fell halfway down her back. She had dropped
her second name, hoping the Human Diadem might notice
and consider her for the next vacancy. She wore silver rings
on every finger, including the thumbs, and fondly hoped
they (and perhaps the hair) might one day become her own
trademark. Pearl Woman knew better, but had not as yet
disillusioned her.
Advert was new to this sort of existence and still felt a
little uncertain. Her remaining illusions, Pearl Woman
thought, made her charming, though in an unformed sort of
way. One day Advert's particular brand of charm would
cease to hold its attraction; but that day had not as yet
arrived. Throughout their conversation, the awesome sight of
one
HOUSE OF SHARDS | 3
star consuming another had been splayed across the ship's
viewscreens. Neither paid it the slightest attention.
The entry concourse was a long, low room, carpeted in dark
green. Darker tapestries flashed winks of silver thread from
the walls. The lighting was subdued, and a small orchestra
played brisk tunes in the corner. People in uniforms stood
behind desks; robots carried bags in efficient silence. Dis-
embarking passengers took their time strolling toward the
desks. It was not done to seem in a hurry.
"Pearl Woman. You are looking very dashing."
"Maijstral. It's been years."
"The matched swords are very elegant. What are they,
small sabers?"
"Cutlasses. I thought they'd add a swashbuckling touch."
Pearl Woman snicked one sword from its scabbard, per-
formed a figure, returned it. Like the claws of a kitten, a touch of
fear moved along Maijstral's nerves. Someone had tried to hack
him to bits with a sword just recently, and the presence of
edged weapons made him more than usually nervous.
He and Pearl Woman clasped hands (three fingers each)
and sniffed one another's ears as, around them, the entry
concourse bustled on. Maijstral was slightly taller than av-
erage, but he had to raise his head to reach the Pearl's neck.
Drake Maijstral's dark hair waved to his shoulders. He
was dressed in grey. Lace floated casually at neck and wrists.
He wore a large diamond on one finger, and leather buskins
on his feet. His eyes were green and heavy-lidded; they
gave an impression of laziness, or at least languor. He
seemed to be in his mid-twenties.
Maijstral turned and indicated a restless young man dressed
in violet plush. "My associate, Mr. Gregor Norman."
"Charmed, Mr. Norman," said Pearl Woman, "This is
Advert, my companion."
6 | WALTER JON WILLIAMS
"Mr. Maijstral," she said, pointing. "Your desk is over
there."
Disembarking from second class, a nondescript, portly man
named Dolfuss picked up two heavy suitcases from the robot
baggage carrier and began moving toward customs.
"Excuse me, sir," the robot said. "I will be happy to
carry those."
Dolfuss ignored the robot and moved on.
The room glowed blue. Mr. Sun, sitting in his padded chair
behind a U-shaped console, found it a soothing color.
He looked with satisfied eyes at his security monitors.
Individual media globes had tagged everyone who had just
disembarked, and images of each decked the walls. A ho-
logram projector set into Mr. Sun's desk showed a file
labelled Known Associates.
Gregor Norman, it said. Human male, age 20 yrs. The
picture was an old one and showed Gregor wearing vulgar
earrings and a grossly offensive hairstyle. A short arrest
record was appended.
Next to Gregor floated the hologram of a Khosalikh wearing
a subdued dark suit with a fashionable braided collar.
Roman, it said. Khosali male, age 46 yrs. Bodyservant. No
arrests or convictions.
Mr. Sun touched an ideogram on his console. Two of the
video monitors flashed. Match, the console reported, and
made a pleasant chirring sound.
Mr. Sun smiled. He touched another ideogram to transmit
the pictures to Khamiss at the entry concourse.
Acknowledged, flashed the response.
Mr. Sun looked down at his uniform, brushed away a
speck of lint. A simple touch, he thought. A simple gesture
HOUSE OF SHARDS | 7
like
this,
he thought, and like the lint, the thieves are brushed
away.
In his view, this set of burglars had a lot to atone for,
and he intended the atonement start now.
"Mr. Norman," said Khamiss. "Your line is over there."
"I'd count those rings if I were you," Pearl Woman said.
Advert glanced in surprise at her fingers, and Pearl Woman
smiled. Advert was so
easy.
"Sometimes they'll take the jewelry right off you, right
in public," Pearl Woman said. "It's vulgar, but sometimes
Allowed Burglars like to show off."
"That Gregor person was vulgar enough, heaven knows."
Advert looked dubiously at the trademark that dangled from
the other woman's ear. "Aren't you worried, Pearl?"
Pearl Woman touched the matched silver hilts of her
swords. "Not at all, Advert," she said. "It's for other
people to worry, not me." She looked at Advert. "If Ma-
ijstral ever bothers you, there's something you can do to
get rid of him."
"Yes?"
"Ask him if his mother is well."
"That's all?"
"It's always worked for me."
Dolfuss waited in a queue with the other second-class pas-
sengers. (Second-class passengers weren't expected to mind
waiting in line.) The others were either servants of the first-
class passengers or people who actually worked at Silver-
side, late arrivals come to take up their new jobs. Dolfuss
was the only guest. Dolfuss didn't care. He was enjoying
himself.
8 I WALTER JON WILLIAMS
* * *
Annoyance flickered across Maijstral's face. A tall, thin,
grimly satisfied sort of person was looting his luggage.
Gregor, a step back, gazed on in astonished dismay.
"Darksuit," said the man, a human named Kingston. His
ears fluttered in disapproval. He lifted the object from Ma-
ijstral's trunk, and handed it to a robot. "Illegal onstation. It
will be returned to you on your departure."
"The point of a darksuit," said Maijstral's servant, Ro-
man, "is to blend in with the darkness. There is no darkness
on this station. The suit would be useless."
Roman was a tall Khosalikh, erect, dignified, his ears
folded in an expression of cold fury. He spoke Human
Standard without accent and, considering the circumstances,
with admirable restraint.
"You may complain to Mr. Sun if you wish," Kingston
said. "He's head of security. I only enforce the regula-
tions."
Roman's nostrils palpitated in anger. Maijstral gazed in
cool annoyance at the sight of his belongings strewn over
the concourse. He frowned.
"I see no need to appeal to underlings," he said. "I will
complain to Baron Silverside in person."
"Nothing, sir, would give me greater pleasure," Kingston
said, radiating grim happiness. He looked down at Gre-gor's
trunk, then reached into it. He picked up a small gadget and
held it up to the light.
"An electronic device of the sort referred to as a 'black
box,' " he said. The quotes were clear in his voice. "Com-
monly used to interrupt alarm systems." He wagged a sol-
emn finger at Gregor. "Very naughty, Mr. Norman," he
said. "You'll get it back when you leave."
Gregor turned red. Maijstral folded his arms. "Must we
be subjected to this amateur stand-up routine while you
HOUSE OF SHARDS | 9
search our baggage?" he asked. "Let's get it over with,
shall we?"
"Certainly, your worship," said Kingston. He handed the
black box to his robot with an elaborate gesture. "Now let's
see what Mr. Norman has in his gadget box, shall we?"
There seemed to be a delay in disembarking the second-
class passengers. Dolfuss waited patiently, glancing over
the concourse. There were supposed to be members of the
Diadem here, and Dolfuss had always been a big Nichole
fan.
The lounge bar, called the Shadow Room, was dark, quiet,
scarcely inhabited. A woodwind quartet readied their equip-
ment in a corner.
"Marquess."
"Your grace."
"I enjoyed the recordings of your last play. I only wish
I'd had the chance to see it live."
"Thank you, your grace. The play did wonders for my
share. I believe I saw you in that race on—Hrinn, was it?"
The Diadem's researchers had given the Marquess Kotani
current facts on every prominent person scheduled to be at
Silverside, the better to be ready for informed conversation.
The Marquess always did his homework.
"Yes. I did fairly well in the Hrinn race."
"Second only to Khottan."
The Duchess smiled. "Khottan," she said, "was lucky."
Kotani returned the smile. He was a spare, cultivated,
brown-skinned human with a brief mustache, greying tem-
ples, and a distinguished profile. He had been born in the
Empire and had made his reputation with the naturalness of
his languor. He was one of the older members of the
10 | WALTER JON WILLIAMS
Diadem—their first lord—and his share had always re-
mained in the top twenty.
The Marquess cast a careful glance over the lounge bar,
seeing no one he cared to talk to other than the Duchess.
"Will you join me at my table?" he asked.
"Alas," said the Duchess, "I am here to meet someone."
"Some other time, your grace." He sniffed her and with-
drew.
Her grace Roberta Altunin, the Duchess of Benn, was
nineteen and a gifted amateur athlete. Her hair was dark red
and cut short, her eyes were deep violet, and she moved
with grace and confidence. She had first-rate advisors, and
they had suggested Silverside as a perfect location for her
debut.
She stepped to the bar and ordered a cold rink. She nodded
to the man standing next to her.
"Mr. Kuusinen."
"Your grace."
They clasped hands (one finger apiece) and lightly sniffed
one another's ears. Mr. Paavo Kuusinen was a slight man
with an unexceptional appearance. He wore a green coat
laced up the sides and back.
"The coat suits you, Kuusinen."
"Thank you. I discovered that my wardrobe marked me
too easily as an Imperial citizen, so I had a new one made.
Your gown is quite becoming, by the way."
Roberta smiled lightly. Her drink arrived, and she put
her thumbprint on the chit.
"The Count Boston has arrived," Kuusinen said. His
forefinger circled the rim of his glass. "I understand that
Zoot is aboard. And Drake Maijstral, the burglar."
"Have you seen them?"
"I have seen Maijstral. He seemed to be having difficulty
at customs."
HOUSE OF SHARDS | 11
Lines appeared between Roberta's brows. "Will that be a
problem for him?"
"He seems a man of considerable resource. I'm sure he
will rise above the difficulty."
She raised her glass, put it down again. "I don't want
this to go wrong, Kuusinen."
"Geoff Fu George is already on station. Perhaps he would
be more suitable. He has more resources to draw on."
"I want Maijstral." Firmly.
Kuusinen assented. The woman's mind was made up.
"Your grace," he said.
Roberta glanced behind her, seeing Kotani in conversation
with a short woman in bright clothes and a funny hat. "We
shouldn't be seen together for very long, Kuusinen.
Perhaps you should make your congé."
"As you wish, your grace."
They clasped hands, still one finger apiece, and sniffed.
Kuusinen passed the woodwind quartet on his way to the
door. Roberta took her drink and drifted in Kotani's direction.
She noticed silver media globes hovering over Kotani's
conversation.
". . . I'm still looking for something suitable," he was
saying.
"I understand," the short woman agreed. She spoke a
broad provincial accent that seemed less comically non-U
than, somehow, a deliberate provocation. "It must be dif-
ficult finding a part nowadays that features the sort of old-
fashioned character you favor."
Kotani stiffened slightly. "Not old-fashioned, my dear,"
he said. "Classical, I should think." He turned to Roberta.
"Your grace, may I present Kyoko Asperson. Miss As-
person is a personality journalist." He gave the words an
unnecessary emphasis that indicated his distaste. "Miss As-
person, may I introduce her grace the Duchess of Benn."
12 | WALTER JON WILLIAMS
Roberta offered the journalist a cautious finger during the
handclasp, receiving two in exchange. Kyoko Asperson was a
head shorter than Roberta, with straight black hair and a
round face. She dressed in bright reds and yellows, and
wore a odd mushroom-shaped hat. A loupe stuck over one
eye allowed her to see through the lenses of her hovering
media globes.
"Congratulations on your Hrinn race," Kyoko said. "You
gave Khottan a run for his money."
"Metaphorical money, of course. An amateur event."
"Will you be turning professional anytime soon?"
Roberta sipped her drink. "Probably not. Though I haven't
quite decided."
"You don't need the money, of course, but on the profes-
sional level the competition is more intense. Do you find
yourself intimidated by the prospect?"
Roberta, having never considered mis question, was mildly
surprised. Amateur contests, in her circle anyway, were far
more fashionable than professional competition. "Not at
all," she said, truthfully, and then wondered if she'd said it
convincingly enough. But Kyoko had already moved to the
next question.
"Do you feel any pressure to turn professional simply in
order to have people take you more seriously? Do you think
that people take amateur sports seriously enough?"
The quartet began to play, starting with a high-pitched
screech from the ristor. Roberta glanced at Kotani in dismay.
He smiled at her and nodded, happy to be out of it.
Roberta resigned herself to a very long afternoon.
' 'Mr. Drake Maijstral?'' Maijstral's interrogator was a slight
man in a brown jacket.
"Yes. May I be of assistance?"
"Mencken, sir. VPL."
HOUSE OF SHARDS | 13
Mencken held out Maijstral's Very Private Letter.
Throughout Maijstral's life, the appearance of a VPL courier
would have been an occasion for dismay. Maijstral's father
had used VPL almost exclusively, and his letters were either
long lectures concerning Maijstral's faults, or requests for
money in order to honor an old debt. Maijstral restrained
his reflexive annoyance, signed for the letter, glanced at the
seal, then broke it.
"Will there be a reply, sir?"
"Not now. Thank you."
"Your servant." Mencken bowed and withdrew. Ma-
ijstral looked at the card, then handed it to Roman. "We're
invited to a wedding. Pietro Quijano and Amalia Jensen
will be getting married on Earth in six months' time."
Roman read the card. "Will we be attending, sir?"
"Possibly. We're heading in that direction. I've never
seen Earth."
"Nor have I."
"Perhaps it's about time we did. But I'll need some
thought before I decide."
"Very well, sir."
The orchestra was packing up and heading for the main
lounge. Dolfuss had finally arrived at the customs desk. "I
feel so lucky," Dolfuss declared. "I won my ticket in a
lottery. Otherwise I'd never have a chance to visit a place
like this." He glanced around the room. "I'm impressed
already!" he said.
The uniformed Tanquer closed her nictitating membranes,
as if to deny what she was seeing. "Yes, sir," she said.
"I understand just how lucky you feel."
"And I was able to schedule my ships so as to work in a
business trip. Stop at Ranc on the way home. That's why I'm
carrying my sample case."
The Tanquer's bushy tail twitched. "The exit is that way,
sir. Your room is programmed to receive you."
"Thanks. I'm going to have fun here, I know it!"
Dolfuss laughed as he picked up his suitcases and walked
for the exit. He was the only person carrying his own lug-
gage. As he moved into the corridor, he saw Maijstral asking
directions of a robot.
"Mr. Maijstral," he said.
"Mr. Dolfuss. I hope your journey was pleasant."
"It was. Very. I even made some sales."
"How fortunate."
"See you later."
Dolfuss bustled away. His head swivelled left and right.
He was enjoying the scenery.
The robot was a latest-model Cygnus, a dark, polished ovoid
that hovered a precise sixteen inches from the floor and did
all its work with grappler beams. Its dark carapace bore an
ideogram meaning "Advanced Object."
"As I was saying, sir," it said. "Take the second left,
through the arcade, then your first right."
"Thank you," Maijstral said. "I don't know how I could
have got lost so easily." A frown crossed his face. "I
believe your carapace has something on it. Let me see."
As he leaned over the robot, he made a brushing gesture
over the carapace with his hand. A programming spike was
inserted into the robot's input connector. Maijstral brushed
again. The spike was removed and palmed.
"There," he said. "Much better."
"Thank you, sir."
Stepping lightly, Maijstral began to stroll in the opposite
direction from that which the robot had indicated.
The orchestra had moved from the entry concourse to the
main lounge, appropriately called the White Room. The
music was muffled by dazzling white couches, chairs, and
carpeting, but the music was also echoed pleasantly by a
sixteen-foot length of natural impact diamond that hung
overhead. The stone had been discovered during the ex-
cavation; it wasn't gem quality, but it resonated well, and
added a lustre to the room.
Overhead was a window, its view fixed at the sight of
one star devouring another. The shutters were resolutely
closed, awaiting the grand unveiling.
"Pearl Woman."
"My lord."
Kotani and the Pearl stood on the white soft carpet, sniffed,
and gave each other three fingers—Diadem members were
de facto intimates.
"Have you met Advert?"
"I don't believe so." (Sniff. Three fingers. Sniff.)
"Charmed."
"Pleased to meet you, my lord."
Kotani cast a glance over his shoulder. "I just made my
escape from Miss Asperson.''
The Pearl gave a sniff.' 'I understood she was to be here.''
"She is currently fashionable. Fashions pass, thank-
fully."
"One may hope her vogue will be of short duration."
"Have you seen Zoot?"
Pearl Woman shook her head. "Perhaps he's waiting to
make a grand entrance."
"Perhaps," archly, "he's hiding from Asperson."
The orchestra came to the end of its piece. Those in the
lounge tapped their feet in approval. The carpet absorbed
the sound entirely.
HOUSE OF SHARDS
15
14 I WALTER JON WILLIAMS
摘要：

CHAPTER1henonestargobblesanother,theuniversemaybeforgivenifitpausestotakebreath.Imaginethesight:thesmallerstarabright-haloedemptiness,anullitythatdrawsintoitselfvastruddyflaresofstellarmatteruntilitconsumestheveryheartofitscompanion.Peoplemightwellstopandstare.Somemayevenpayfortheprivilege.ThusSilve...

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