The Mind Pool (6 page)

The two men had been equals and rivals for years. There had been a mutual understanding that one day there would be a final piece of infighting, in which one or the other would gain overall authority. Both Brachis and Mondrian had accepted that. What Mondrian knew Brachis would
not
accept, any more than he would have accepted it himself, was victory by arbitrary
fiat
—victory unrelated to (or
inversely
related to) performance.

He listened quietly as Brachis continued: “Just look at them.
Earthlings.
No wonder Captain Flammarion is worried. Would
you
take responsibility for making something out of one of those idiots? I wouldn’t. They’re dirty, and ignorant, and
inferior.
”

“Why don’t you come out and say it, Luther? That you think my decision to bring us to Earth was crazy.”

“Those are your words, not mine.”

“But you think them. You underestimate the potentials of Earth. You forget that this was the stock of your own ancestors.”

“Sure it was—half a millennium ago. And half a billion years before that, it was fishes. I’m talking about
now.
This is the dregs. That’s what you have left when the top quarter of each generation is skimmed off for seven hundred years and goes into space. It’s a flawed gene pool here. Look back over the past century. You won’t find any worthwhile talent that came from Earth.”

“Have you attempted that exercise?”

“I don’t need to.” Brachis nodded at the crowd, who were watching open-mouthed. “Look at them. They don’t even know they’re being insulted. We’re wasting our time. I think we ought to get out of here right now.”

He was needling hard—and finally he could see signs that it was working. Mondrian was staring away from him, over the heads of the crowd.

“You underestimate the potential of the people of Earth, Luther. And you overestimate what’s needed for the Pursuit Teams. Not to mention the training programs that I’ve developed for Perimeter work over the past decade. If I didn’t think I could find what we need here, do you think I’d have brought you?” Mondrian turned at last to face Luther Brachis. “You could pick one of those—
any
one of those.” He pointed to the crowd. “And I could train your choice to be a successful Pursuit Team candidate.”

“Would you wager on it?”

“Certainly. Name the stakes.”

“Nah.” Brachis snorted. “You’re stringing me along. You know you’re not risking anything, because not one of that lot would be eligible for training. They’re too old, or they’re bonded in some sort of contract, or they’d never pass the physical. See their hair and teeth. Show me somebody in the right age group, and healthy, and
then
tell me you’ll make the same wager.”

“Here we are, squire!” The argument was interrupted by the sudden return of King Bester. The thin man called out from the edge of the crowd and began to push his way rapidly towards them. He was followed by a tall woman, easily visible above the other people. As they arrived at the bench Bester gave a grinning nod and held out his hand.

Mondrian ignored him. He stood up. “Hello, Tatty.” He had switched again to Earth argot. “How’s the hustling?”

“Hello, Essy. It’s good. Or it was, until he interrupted me. I was working a deal up in Delmarva. I told the King to go to hell.”

“She sure did, squire. But I told her I wouldn’t hear no for an answer.”

Mondrian took the hint. Another packet of trade crystals went quietly into Bester’s open hand, then Mondrian patted the bench to indicate that Tatty should sit down next to him.

She remained standing, examining the other two Security men. After a few moments she nodded to them. “Hello, I don’t think that we’ve met,” she said in excellent standard Solar. “I’m Tatiana Sinai-Peres.”

She held out a hand to Luther Brachis. Tatty was tall, slim, and spectacular. She stood eye to eye with Brachis, who openly gawked at her. She stared right back at him. Her gaze was direct and bold, with bright brown eyes. But there were tired smudges of darkness underneath them, and the grey tone of Paradox addiction marred her complexion. The skin of her face and neck was clear and unblemished, but it was the skin of one who never saw sunlight. Her dark green dress was loose sleeved, revealing an array of tiny purple-black dots along her thin arms. In contrast to King Bester and the rest of the crowd Tatty was spotlessly clean, with neat attire, carefully groomed dark hair, and well-kept fingernails.

“I assume that it’s a first-time visit,” she went on to Brachis. “What can I do for you?”

Mondrian squinted at her in the strong light of the Sun-simulator. “It’s not what you think.” He reached up to touch her bare arm. “Sit down, Princess, and let me tell you what’s going on.”

“I’ll sit down, Essy. But not here. There’s too much light—it would fry me. Let’s Link back north to my place, and I’ll introduce your friends to some genuine Earth food.” She smiled at the uncertain look on Kubo Flammarion’s face. “Don’t worry, Soldier. I’ll make sure it’s not too rich for Commoners.”

* * *

Rank Has Its Privileges.
That had never been more true than during the first decades of space development. One odd and predictable—yet unexpected—consequence of automation and excess productive capacity had been the re-emergence of the class system. The old aristocracy, diminished (but never quite destroyed) during the days of world-wide poverty and experimental social programs, had returned; and there were some curious additions to their ranks.

It had been surprising, but inevitable. When all of Earth’s manufacturing moved to the computer-controlled assembly lines, employment needs went down as efficiency went up. Soon it was learned that in the fuzzy areas of “management” and “government,” most business and development decisions could also be routinely (and more effectively) handled by computer. At the same time, lack of results and impatience with academic studies had squeezed education to a few years of mandatory schooling.

The unemployment rate grew to ninety percent. The available jobs on Earth called for no special skills—so who would get them?

Naturally, those with well-placed friends and relatives. There had been a wonderful blossoming of nepotism, unmatched within the previous thousand years. Many positions called for prospective employees to possess a “stable base of operations and adequate working materials.” With living accommodations and family possessions passed on across the generations, the advantage lay always with those from the old families.

Meanwhile, away from Earth there was a real need for people. The solar system was ripe for development. It offered an environment that was demanding, dangerous, and full of unbounded opportunities. And it had a nasty habit of cancelling any man-made advantage derived from birth, wealth, or spurious academic “qualifications.” Cancelling
permanently.

The rich and the royal were not without their own shrewdness. After a quick look at space, they stayed home on Earth, the one place in the system where their safety, superiority, and status were all assured. It was the low-born, seeing no upward mobility on Earth, who took the big leap—outward.

The result was too effective to be the work of human planners. The tough, desperate commoners fought their way to space, generation after generation. The introduction of the Mattin Link quadrupled the rate of exodus, and the society that was left on Earth became more and more titled and self-conscious. Well-protected from material want and free from external pressures, it naturally developed an ever-increasing disdain for the emigrants—“vulgar commoners” spreading their low-born and classless fecundity through the solar system and out to the stars. Earth was the place to be for the aristocrats. The
only
place to be, on the Big Marble itself. Where else could anyone live who despised crudity, esteemed breeding and culture, and demanded a certain sophistication of life-style?

King Bester
was
a king, a genuine monarch who traced his line across thirty-two generations to the House of Saxe-Coburg. He was one of seventeen thousand royals reigning on and under Earth’s surface. He regarded Tatty Snipes, Princess Tatiana Sinai-Peres of the Cabot-Kashoggi’s, as rather an upstart. She had only six centuries and twenty-two generations in her lineage. He did not say it, of course, in her presence—Tatty would have knocked the side of his royal head in with one blow of her carefully-manicured and aristocratic fist. But he certainly
thought
it.

And King Bester, like Tatty, was nobody’s fool. He realized very well that the real power had moved away from Earth. The Quarantine operated by Solar Security applied only to people moving
outward
from Earth. Bester could sense the brawling, raw strength that lay in people like Luther Brachis. It ran right through the off-planet culture, and he was afraid of it. Far better to stay ome, operate within the familiar rituals of the Big Marble, and take a little when the opportunity came from visitors like Mondrian and his colleagues. Those visitors were far more numerous than System government liked to admit, and they came down to Earth for reasons rarely shown on any travel permits.

So Bester quietly tagged along with Princess Tatiana and the three visitors. He hung at the back of the group, listened carefully while Mondrian explained to Tatty the reason for the trip to Earth, and looked for his working edge.

He had never heard of the Morgan Constructs and the disaster on Cobweb Station until Esro Mondrian described it. He was not much interested. His reward lay in examining Mondrian, Brachis, and Flammarion, and learning in which category of pleasure-seeking their interests might lie.

There was sure to be one. Bester had his own ideas of Earth visitors. No matter what they might say, or how the official agenda read, there was always another angle. And that was where the profit lay.

Brachis should not be difficult. Big, powerfully-built, lusty, still in early middle age, he could be offered things undreamed of through most of the solar system. Flammarion would be even easier. He already had the poached-egg look to his eyes that told of a habitual use of alcohol. One good shot of Paradox, and Flammarion wouldn’t be looking elsewhere for entertainment while he was on Earth. Withdrawal symptoms after he left? That was not King Bester’s problem.

The big question mark was Mondrian. He had scared Bester the moment they met, when he had fixed him with those cold, dark eyes.

But on the other hand Mondrian wasn’t a good prospect, anyway. He was clearly no stranger to Earth, and he had probably found a way to gratify his own needs long ago. From the way she looked at him, Tatty Snipes had in the past helped to serve them.

When they reached Tatty’s underground apartment, Bester stopped any pretense of listening to Mondrian. He quietly helped himself to the free food and drink—Princess Tatiana had decidedly royal tastes—and moved a little closer to Kubo Flammarion. The scruffy man’s pleasures could probably be guessed, but they had to be confirmed before his pockets could be emptied.

“Ever see a public beheading, Captain?” And as Flammarion’s eyes widened, “I mean with full staging—steel axe, real wooden block, hooded executioner. We use a top-quality simulacrum under the chopper, you’d never know the difference—the spurt from the neck is exactly like real blood.”

“Bleagh!” Flammarion glared at him in disgust. He shook his head, and laid down the slice of underdone beef that he was holding. “What you doing, trying to make me throw up or something?”

“Not for you? How about him, then?” King Bester nodded to Mondrian, still deep in conversation with Princess Tatiana. “Think he might be interested?”

Kubo Flammarion scratched his head. “The Commander? Nah. To get him hooked, you’d have to have a real victim and real blood.” He pointedly took a couple of steps away from Bester.

The King turned to Luther Brachis. “How about you? Like to know more about some of our entertainments—I mean the Big Marble specials, the ones you’ll never see in the catalogs. How would you like one of those?”

Brachis smiled at him pleasantly. “And how would you like a big fistful of knuckles”—he spoke in poorly pronounced but quite passable Earth-argot—“right up your royal nose?”

King Bester decided that his glass needed refilling at the sideboard across the room.

“I didn’t know you spoke their lingo, too,” said Kubo Flammarion admiringly, watching Bester’s rapid departure.

“It’s good to have a few things about you that most people don’t know.” Brachis turned, so that no one but Flammarion could see his lips. “There’s things about your boss that you don’t know, too. Remember that. I don’t give away information—but I’m always willing to trade.”

Chapter 5

Tatty shook her head as soon as Mondrian explained what he was looking for.

“Not here, or in any of the areas where I have clout. There’s a local ordinance forbidding the off-Earth sale of anyone with more than four degrees of consanguinity with my imperial clan—and that means
everybody.
They all claim relationship, even when they don’t really have it.”

“Any ideas, then?”

“You might try over in BigSyd, or maybe Tearun. I don’t know the dealers there, though. And Ree-o-dee would be a cert, except you need to pay off so many people it gets out of control. Better if we could find somebody locally.”

“How about Bozzie?” King Bester had given up any pretense that he was not eavesdropping. “He’s top bod or that line of business.
And
he’s nearby, sort of.”

“Could be worth a shot. I don’t know what he has, though.” Tatty turned to Mondrian. “Well have to find him first—but he’ll be somewhere in the Gallimaufries, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Bozzie?” Kubo Flammarion was struggling to make an intelligible record of the conversation, but the last exchange was too much. “Find him in the Garry-what’s?”

“Bozzie. The Duke of Bosny. Also Viscount Roosevelt, Count Mellon, Baron Rockwell,
and
the Earl of Potomac.” Tatty’s face said what she thought of all those titles. “Upstart houses, every one. But I’ll say this for him, he prefers to be called plain Bosny, or just Bozzie. He hasn’t lived in Bosny City for years, though he claims to have been born there. He certainly has consanguinity with every major royal line in the Northeast, and he’s a big mover and shaker down in the Gallimaufries—the basement warrens” (She had seen Flammarion’s mouth starting to open again) “—two hundred levels below where we are now.”