Timothy Zahn - Deadman Switch

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Deadman Switch

Timothy Zahn

DEADMAN SWITCH

Chapter 1

I'd been sitting at the window of my small cubicle for nearly an hour, listening to a Joussein

symphonaria and watching the intricate drift of sunlight and shadow across the city from a hundred

twenty stories up, when the call I'd been expecting all morning finally came. "Gilead? You in there?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, turning off the music with a wave of my control stick and standing up. The

Carillon Building's intercom speakers were very good, and I had no trouble discerning the

excitement and anticipation in my employer's voice. With Lord Kelsey-Ramos, that could mean only

one thing. "I take it the raid is nearly finished?"

He snorted, just loudly enough for me to hear. "Is it that obvious?"

"It is to me," I said simply.

He snorted again. "Well, you're right. Come on in."

"Yes, sir." Stepping across the starkly plain room—kept so by my own request—I set the control

stick down by the player and crossed to the second of the room's two doors. "Gilead Raca Benedar,"

I told it, speaking distinctly. The voicelock was a slightly ridiculous precaution, here in what

amounted to Carillon's inner sanctum, but I'd long since stopped feeling annoyed by it. Paranoia, in

one form or another, was one of the many burdens of wealth.

The door opened; and from my cubicle I entered Lord Kelsey-Ramos's office.

Lord Kelsey-Ramos himself had once likened the contrast of the two rooms to that between

midnight and noon; but for me that comparison fell far short. From the dark at the bottom of a mine

shaft to noon, perhaps; or even to the searing brightness outside a sunskimmer's slingshot pass by a

star. For a pair of heartbeats I paused there on the threshold, senses struggling as they adjusted from

the peace of my undecorated room and quiet music to the flamboyant luxury laid out before me.

To the luxury, and even more to the shrewdly engineered contradictions embedded within it. The

milky-white living carpet, the shimmering Vedant woodling panels and camocarvings, the massive

gemrock desk—the sense of the room reaching my eyes was one of extreme wealth, calm and stable.

At the same time, the subtle yet distinctive sounds of the InWeb news/data analyzer and Wall Street

Interactive machine gave off a totally opposite sense, that of frantic haste and unrest. It created just

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enough emotional confusion that first-time visitors were invariably thrown slightly off stride, though

few of them realized on a conscious level just what it was that was bothering them.

And in the midst of it all, as much a study in contrasts as the office itself, sat Lord Kelsey-Ramos.

Seated straight-backed at his desk, gazing almost disinterestedly at the displays facing him, he

blended quite well with the calm decor... but as I stepped closer, the lines around his eyes and the

play of his facial muscles radiated the message I'd already learned from his voice. Somewhere out

there, on some ethereal battlefield of paper and computer memory, a war was raging. A quiet,

civilized war, fought by opposing sums of money... for no more purpose than the acquisition of even

more of that same money.

The love of money is the root of all evils, I quoted to myself. But it was an automatic, almost ritual

thought these days. Once, I'd thought in my pride that my mere presence might be enough to

influence the way Lord Kelsey-Ramos handled his wealth; now, years later, I could barely consider

myself lucky that that part of my own conscience hadn't become uselessly numb. Pride goes before

destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall... Another ritual thought, and one that always included the

reminder that destruction came in many forms. Including stagnation.

After eight long years, I still didn't fit in here. And most everyone knew it.

Lord Kelsey-Ramos shifted in his chair, the faint squeak of embroidered cloth on camileather

reminding me I wasn't here just to indulge myself in self-pity. Over the familiar scents of the room's

woodling and living carpet I caught a whiff of Marisee Tinge, the executive secretary's perfume;

beneath that, I could smell the very human odor of Lord Kelsey-Ramos's tension. The images,

sounds, scents—all of it blended together into the all too familiar sense of civilized warfare that I'd

felt upon entering. I'd seen it many times before in my time at Carillon... but this time something

about it was different. This time, there was something more than just money at stake. Something far

more important...

And at that moment, it was abruptly over. The tension lines left Lord Kelsey-Ramos's face, and his

eyes softened, and he looked up at me. "Congratulate me, Gilead," he said, his voice rich with

overtones of satisfaction. "After ten years of trying, I've finally done it."

"Congratulations, sir," I said. "What is it you've finally done?"

Amusement lines replaced those of the earlier tension, and the sense of his satisfaction deepened.

"I've obtained the Carillon Group a transport license for Solitaire."

My stomach tightened. "I see," I managed.

He peered up at me. "Bothers you that much, does it?"

I looked him straight in the eye. "It's the paying of a blood offering in exchange for wealth," I said

bluntly.

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His lip twitched, and some of the satisfaction left his face. But not very much. "I'm sorry you feel

that way." Reaching to his desktop, he snagged his control stick and began punching buttons, my

opinion already dismissed from his thoughts. "If it helps your conscience any, Carillon won't

actually be handling flights in and out of Solitaire system, at least not directly. What I've done is

simply to buy up a controlling share of HTI Transport, the company with this particular license. I

thought it might be interesting to call up HTI's chief exec and see how he reacts to the news."

Which was why he'd sent for me, of course. "Anything in particular you want me to watch for?"

"Signs of resistance, mostly. HTI's always been stiffnecked jealous about its autonomy, and I want to

know how badly they're going to resent being swallowed up. Ah—"

A decorative young woman had appeared on his desk's center display. "HTI Transport; Mr.

O'Rielly's office," she said pleasantly.

"Lord Kelsey-Ramos of the Carillon Group," Lord Kelsey-Ramos identified himself. "Mr. O'Rielly

will want to speak to me."

A flicker of uncertainty touched the secretary's face, but she was obviously knowledgeable in the

names of Portslava's business elite and she put the screen into hold without argument. A moment

later it cleared to reveal a middle-aged man wearing an expensive business capelet. "Lord Kelsey-

Ramos," he nodded in greeting. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"He doesn't know yet," I murmured from just outside the phone's range.

Lord Kelsey-Ramos's eyelids dipped briefly in acknowledgment. "Good morning, Mr. O'Rielly," he

said. "I just wanted to call and personally welcome you into the Carillon Group."

O'Rielly's face went the whole gamut—shock, disbelief, more shock, outrage—all in the space of a

second and a half. Behind him, the out-of-focus background shifted as the camera tracked his lunge

forward, and through the stunned silence I could hear the faint click of nervous fingers on control

keys. One look was really all he needed. "Spike you, anyway, Kelsey-Ramos," he snarled. "You

putrid, smert-headed—"

"Thank you, but I've heard it all before," Lord Kelsey-Ramos interjected calmly. "I'll leave it to you

to inform the HTI board of this, and I'll want a meeting scheduled to discuss any changes that'll need

to be made. In the meantime, do you have anything besides insults you'd like to say? On or off the

record, of course?"

Some of the pure fury was fading from O'Rielly's face, to be replaced by an icy bitterness and more

than a little discomfort. "What, off the record with your little pet lie detector Benedar there

somewhere?" he sneered, eyes darting around as he searched the limits of his screen for some sign of

me. The sarcasm wasn't nearly strong enough to cover his discomfort. "Or did you think I didn't

know about him?"

Lord Kelsey-Ramos had indeed thought that, but only I caught his annoyance. "I take it that means

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you'll save your statement for the board meeting, then," he told O'Rielly. "Equally fine. Have your

secretary call mine when you've scheduled the meeting. Oh, and we'll be wanting to send a rep to

Solitaire to check on your locals there. I'd appreciate it if you'd send word to Whitecliff to expect

him."

O'Rielly's lip twisted. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you? You've been trying to get your sticky

little fingers on a Solitaire license for, what, eight years now?"

"Closer to ten," Lord Kelsey-Ramos said coolly. "Not that it matters. I'll be sending a courier over to

your office within the hour; kindly have copies of all your records and documents ready by then.

Good morning to you, Mr. O'Rielly."

He waved his control stick, and the display blanked. "And that is that," he commented, dropping the

stick on his desk and looking up at me again. Some of the thrill and triumph was draining out of him

now, leaving a measure of tiredness behind. "A very profitable day's work, I'd say."

I nodded, a neutral enough response. "You'll be going out to Solitaire yourself, I take it?"

He smiled. "Is it that—?" Abruptly, the smile vanished. "Is it that obvious?" he asked cautiously.

The paranoia of the wealthy. "It is to me."

A muscle in his cheek tightened. "Could it have been obvious to O'Rielly, too?" he asked.

I thought back, trying to remember every nuance of the man. "It might have been," I agreed. "The

shock of it all was wearing off at the end, and he wasn't ready yet to give up. Once he stops to think

about it he may be able to guess at least that much."

Lord Kelsey-Ramos pursed his lips. "Tell me everything else you got."

I went back through the conversation for him, giving as best I could the sense I'd had of O'Rielly at

each juncture. "Do you think he'll put up a fight over this?" he asked when I'd finished.

"Yes."

"A legal fight, or otherwise?"

I shrugged. The sense of the man on that point had been abundantly clear. "He'll fight to the limits of

either his abilities or his conscience. I don't know where either limit lies."

Lord Kelsey-Ramos gnawed the inside of his cheek. "I have a pretty good idea of both limits," he

growled. "Unfortunately. So. You think he'll figure me to go charging off to Solitaire to personally

stick Carillon's flag into the dirt, eh?" Gently, under his breath, he swore. "You know, Gilead, I've

waited for this moment for ten years now. Petitioned and maneuvered to get the Patri to grant new

transport licenses, pushed and prodded at companies who already had them—" he glared up at me,

discomfort flicking across his face—"and put considerable money into trying to find a substitute for

the Deadman Switch. I've earned the right to be the first man to ride a Carillon ship to Solitaire, vlast

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it."

He broke off, took a deep breath. "And now I've got to stay here and duel with O'Rielly and the HTI

board instead. Thanks to you."

"You could ignore my advice," I reminded him. "You've done so before."

A touch of dark humor came back into his face, as I'd expected it would. "And usually wished I

hadn't," he pointed out wryly. "Besides which, what's the point of hiring a Watcher in the first place

if I'm not going to listen to him?"

"People have done stranger things to themselves, sir. Often even willingly."

His eyes flicked past me, to the door of my—to his mind—painfully plain cubicle. "And more often

done those strange things to others. Not willingly."

Punishing the parents fault in the children and in the grandchildren to the third and fourth

generation... "The training really hasn't been a burden, Lord Kelsey-Ramos," I assured him quietly.

"There's a great deal of beauty in God's universe—beauty that you may never even notice, let alone

be able to appreciate."

"Does that beauty make up for all the ugliness that's also there?" he asked pointedly. "Does it make

up for the fact that you have to strip a room practically bare to get a little relief from sensory

overload?"

To one he gave five talents, to another two, to a third one... "I do what I can with what I've been

given," I said simply. "In that way, at least, I'm no different than you."

He pursed his lips. "Perhaps. Someday you'll have to tell me—to really tell me—what it's like to be

a Watcher."

"Yes, sir." I never would, of course. He didn't really want to know. "If that'll be all...?"

"Not quite." His face tightened slightly, his sense that of a man preparing to deliver unwanted news.

"I concede that you're right, that I can't afford to traipse off to Solitaire right now. But someone

ought to go, if for no other reason than to let them know Carillon will be taking things firmly in rein.

It seems to me that the obvious person for that job is Randon."

He clearly expected a negative reaction, but I had none to offer. At twenty-five, Lord Kelsey-

Ramos's son still had a lot to learn about life, but he knew enough about how to handle people—his

own and others—to make a reasonable ambassador to a conquered firm. "I presume you'll be

sending a financial expert along with him?" I asked. "In case their records need looking over?"

"Oh, I'll send a whole slate of experts along with him—don't worry about that. Still, even experts

often miss important details... which is why you'll be going, too."

I took a careful breath, feeling my heartbeat increase. "Sir, if it's all the same with you—"

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"It isn't," he said firmly, "and I'm afraid I insist. I want you there with Randon." He hesitated. "I

realize the whole idea of the Deadman Switch bothers you, but I'm sure you can handle it this once."

Solitaire... and the Deadman Switch. For a moment I nearly told him no, that this time the price was

too high. But even as I opened my mouth, the quiet reminder of why I was working for him in the

first place drained the defiance away.

As it always seemed to do. Punishing the parents' fault in the children and in the grandchildren to

the third and fourth generation... "All right, sir," I told him instead. "I'll do my best."

Chapter 2

The Carillon Group numbered several small courier ships among its modest fleet, and I naturally

expected our group would ride one or more of those to Whitecliff, transferring at that point to one of

HTI's freighters. But Lord Kelsey-Ramos would have none of that. This was his personal triumph,

and he had no intention of having us ride someone else's ship into Solitaire like hitchhikers or

afterthought cargo.

Which consideration made it almost inevitable that he would saddle us with the Bellwether.

From his point of view, it was a generous favor, of course. His own personal craft, the Bellwether

was a genuine superyacht, with all the luxury and heavy-duty status that that implied. Unfortunately,

the size and sleek lines carried their own hidden costs: the size meant the Bellwether could do only

eighteen hours at a stretch on Mjollnir drive before having to go space-normal to dump its excess

heat; and the sleek lines meant it then took up to six hours to cool down enough to continue on.

Which meant that instead of the twenty-three-plus light-years per day a heavily radiation-finned

courier ship could cover, we stodgered along at barely eighteen. Which meant the hundred-odd light-

years to Whitecliff took us nearly six days to cover, instead of a courier's four and a half.

Which meant HTI's representatives in Alabaster City were primed, ready, and waiting when we

arrived.

—

I'd half expected them to try and hide their preparation, but they apparently knew better than to try

and play stupid. Instead, they'd opted for the opposite response: laying the honey on with a sealant

spreader.

It started practically before we'd even gotten our feet on the ground, with the spaceport director

himself greeting us at the Bellwether's gatelock as we disembarked. He bubbled a message of

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greeting tinged with nervous awe, led us through an artificially brief customs ritual, and then

escorted us across the terminal to the connecting hotel. The three best suites, we found, had already

been reserved for us, as had the most secure meeting/privacy room on the lobby level. Randon left a

message with the hotel registrar to be transmitted to the local HTI office, and we retired to our

rooms.

Even then, the HTI people showed their expertise in such matters, giving us a half-hour to relax and

readjust to groundfall before arriving at the hotel.

—

They were sitting at one end of the polished gemrock table as we entered the privacy room: two

men, one dark and almost too young, with a slightly overformal black and burgundy capelet draped

carefully over his tunic; the other older and graying, with a sense of long tiredness hanging on his

shoulders as visibly as his physician's white capelet. On the table before the younger man sat an

open computer, humming faintly. "Good day to you," Randon nodded as they rose to their feet at our

approach. "I'm Randon Kelsey-Ramos of the Carillon Group; you must be our HTI hosts."

"Good day to you as well, sir," the younger man said with a nod that was as formal as his capelet.

His dark eyes flicked to me, the sense of him shifting from stiff and grudging politeness to animosity

as he did so. "I'm Sahm Aikman—HTI legal affairs department," he continued, eyes shifting back to

Randon. "This is my colleague, Dr. Kurt DeMont—" he gestured, the muscles of his hand as taut as

the rest of him—"who handles the various medical aspects of the Solitaire run."

DeMont's eyes came back to Randon from their uneasy study of me and he nodded his own greeting.

"Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," he said gravely. His eyes shifted again to me, and I sensed a surge of boldness

peek through, as if he were considering speaking to me directly. But caution and protocol prevailed,

the boldness withered, and he remained silent.

All of which would have been abundant proof, if I'd needed any, that the message O'Rielly had sent

here had included the fact that Randon might be bringing his father's Watcher along. But they

weren't quite sure yet...

"Pleased to meet you," Randon said, nodding acknowledgment of the introductions. He, too, had

picked up on their interest in me; equally clear was the fact that he intended to draw out their

uncertainties as far as he could. "May I say, first of all, that I appreciate your getting all the

accommodations trivia out of the way—it certainly made life easier for my aides." He waved

vaguely in my direction; like magic, both sets of eyes shifted to me. The gesture shifted smoothly,

Randon's hand ending up pointing at the computer sitting on the table. "You've brought me copies of

your records?"

"Uh, yes, sir," Aikman said, shifting gears with visible effort, his attention lingering on me for a

second after his eyes had gone back to Randon. Standard business etiquette said that entourages like

me were to be ignored in direct address until and unless they were formally introduced, and

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Randon's deliberate failure to do so was beginning to irritate him. "I thought we could take a few

minutes to go through them now, if you're willing."

"You have all HTI's records here?" Randon asked.

"Oh, no—just those involving shipment through Whitecliff," Aikman said. "The complete records

are of course kept only in the Solitaire office."

"Ah," Randon nodded. "Well, then, I think I'll pass. Not much sense in spending time studying one

corner of the painting when I'll get to see the whole thing in a couple of days, is there?"

A flicker of surprise touched both men, followed immediately by annoyance in different degrees. I

gathered the local HTI office had gone to some effort to gather the records into easily digested form,

and Aikman in particular was clearly put out at Randon's casual dismissal of all that work. "As you

wish, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," he said, managing to keep his voice civil. "In that case—"

"What I'd rather do," Randon interrupted him, "is see what kind of night life Whitecliff has. I

presume it does have some?"

Another flicker of surprise. DeMont recovered first. "Oh, certainly," he said. "Nothing like what

you're used to on Portslava, I don't suppose, but enjoyable in its own way. Here in Alabaster City,

particularly, we have a wide mix of different entertainments."

"Yes, port cities tend to be that way," Randon nodded. "Though I certainly wouldn't like to think I'm

too much of a snob to enjoy something new. You'll both be my guests, of course?"

Aikman and DeMont exchanged glances. Clearly, Randon wasn't fitting into their expectations, and

they weren't entirely sure how to handle him. "We'd be honored to serve as your guides, Mr. Kelsey-

Ramos," Aikman said diplomatically.

"Excellent," Randon said with a smile. "I'll have to bring a couple of my shields along, too, of

course. Company policy, I'm afraid."

"Understandable," Aikman nodded. "Well, then, whenever you're ready—"

"Oh, and Mr. Benedar will be coming, too," Randon said blandly, gesturing a hand toward me. "I'm

sorry; I've been remiss, haven't I? Mr. Aikman, Dr. DeMont—Gilead Raca Benedar."

It was a game on Randon's part, of course—nothing more or less than a way to suddenly spring my

name and Watcher status on them and force a reaction. Certainly he had no interest in trying to

carouse through Alabaster City's night life with someone he considered a religious fanatic hovering

disdainfully in the background. My own interest in playing that role was equally microscopic.

But Aikman and DeMont didn't know that. "Mr. Benedar," Aikman said in acknowledgment, his

formal stiffness turning abruptly rigid. "Mr. Kelsey-Ramos... with due respect for your position, I'd

like to suggest that it would be best if your associate remains behind."

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"Oh?" Randon asked, almost innocently. "Is there a problem, Mr. Aikman?"

Aikman locked eyes with him. "To put it bluntly, sir, Watchers aren't especially welcome in

Alabaster City."

Randon met his gaze steadily. "I understood the Watchers have a settlement here on Whitecliff."

"I'm sure he'd be welcome there," Aikman countered. "But not anywhere else on the planet."

For a long moment the room was silent; silent with heavy discomfort from DeMont, with almost

calm calculation from Randon, with black hatred from Aikman. I lie surrounded by lions, greedy for

human prey...

An icy shiver ran up my back. I'd encountered hatred before—Watchers who left their settlements

couldn't avoid running into it these days. We'd been barely tolerated before Aaron Balaam

darMaupine and his followers had come on the scene; now, two decades later, feeling against us was

still running high. There was hatred everywhere—unthinking hatred, frightened hatred, even

inherited hatred. But Aikman's hatred was different. Cold, almost intellectual, it had far less actual

emotion simmering beneath it than it ought to have had.

God had given mankind intellect, one of my teachers had once said, and the Fall had given him

prejudice; and there was no human force more dangerous than a combination of the two.

Randon broke the brittle silence first. "I seem to remember, Mr. Aikman," he said, choosing his

words deliberately, "that one of the chief cornerstones of the original Patri Articles was the banning

of religious discrimination in the Patri and in all future colony worlds. I was unaware that policy had

been repealed."

The words were indignant enough; the emotions beneath them far less so. Randon's father, I knew,

would have felt automatic anger at such a brazen display of discrimination, but Randon's own world

view wasn't set up that way. To him, I was less a human being than a tool with useful properties. But

that didn't prevent him from using my humanity to score a few points in this psychological trapshoot

he had needled Aikman into playing.

Not that Aikman needed much prodding. "We have a fair number of emigres from Bridgeway," he

countered harshly. "They haven't forgotten what darMaupine nearly did there. Neither have the rest

of us."

"That was over twenty years ago," Randon pointed out coolly. "Mr. Benedar was all of eleven years

old when darMaupine's experiment in theocracy was brought down."

"I'm not responsible for his age," Aikman said, the first hint of caution beginning to break through

the anger as he abruptly seemed to remember who this young man was he was arguing with. "I'm

also not responsible for the concept of guilt by association. I merely state the relevant facts."

"Then I take it you've not forgotten the most relevant of those facts, Mr. Aikman," Randon shot

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back. "I'm in charge of this man... and the Carillon Group is in charge of HTI. Which means I make

the decisions on this trip."

Behind his lips, Aikman clenched his teeth, and for a second some of his hatred for me shifted to

Randon...

"Excuse me, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," I spoke up, before Aikman could find a response he might later

regret. "If you wouldn't mind too much, I'd rather stay here this evening. I'd appreciate the

opportunity to get a good night's sleep in real gravity."

Randon turned to eye me, the sense of him one of approval. He'd made his point—had boldfaced his

authority for the others—and now was perfectly ready for me to make my excuses and back out.

"Yes, I remember you never slept very well aboard ship," he commented. "All right, then, you're

excused." He shifted his attention back to Aikman and DeMont, who were looking as if we'd just

pulled the rug out from under them. As we had, of course, just done... and even though I knew I

shouldn't, I couldn't help enjoying their discomfiture just a little bit. "My apologies, gentlemen,"

Randon continued briskly, "but it appears it'll just be you two and me after all. Well, then. Give me a

few minutes to change into something more appropriate and I'll be back. Oh, and I will take those

records, I guess—my financial expert may find himself bored tonight."

Tight-lipped, Aikman reached down and pulled a cyl from the computer. His hand was shaking

noticeably with emotion as he did so. "We'll see you in a few minutes, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," he said,

his voice fighting hard to remain civil as he handed the cyl over.

Randon nodded and we left. In the elevator, several floors from the lobby level, he finally turned to

me. "Quite a show, Benedar, eh?" he said with a smile.

I swallowed. "Indeed, sir. I really don't think it was a good idea to bait them the way you did,

though."

He dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. "The fastest way to get through a corporate

mask is to give the person wearing it a good, hard push," he told me off-handedly. "I'm sorry if you

felt offended in there, but you have to admit you're a very convenient lever to push with."

A tool with useful properties. "I'm also reasonably capable of reading people without the need to

push them," I reminded him, annoyed despite myself. "The whole purpose of me being here—"

"Is to use your wonderful powers of observation to spot things that I miss," Randon cut me off with a

patient sigh. "Yes, I know. I've heard my father go on and on about your vaunted Watcher mind-

reading tricks."

"It's not mind-reading—"

"So then let's have it, eh? What did you see down there that I missed?"

I clenched my teeth. "They don't like you," I told him. "They aren't sure yet whether you're a clever

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DeadmanSwitchTimothyZahnDEADMANSWITCHChapter1I'dbeensittingatthewindowofmysmallcubiclefornearlyanhour,l\isteningtoaJousseinsymphonariaandwatchingtheintricatedriftofsunlightandshadowacro\ssthecityfromahundredtwentystoriesup,whenthecallI'dbeenexpectingallmorningfinally\came."Gilead?Youinthere?""Yes,si...

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Timothy Zahn - Deadman Switch

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