The Crown Jewels (4 page)

“First thing tomorrow, sir.”

Maijstral turned to Gregor. “I’d like you to fly over to the Scholder estate and take a look at it. Check for— well, you know.”

Gregor gave a breezy, two-fingered salute. “Only too, boss.”

Maijstral thought for a brief moment. “Oh. Yes. Our other business. If any of your surveys turn out to be of property owned by a General Gerald of the marines, disregard it. He’s filled with unnecessary complications.”

Roman gazed at him levelly. “May I inquire their nature, sir?”

Maijstral took a breath while he considered what manner of lie to offer. “Security matters relating to the defense of the planet,” he said. “I would prefer not to be involved with counterspies. It would be contrary to the image I wish to present here.”

“Certainly, sir. I understand.”

Maijstral put his feet up on the couch and pillowed his head on his hands. “And while you’re off having fun, I’ll be laboring at the Elvis recital.”

“It must be hell, boss.”

Roman’s diaphragm spasmed once, then again, the Khosali equivalent of a deep, heartfelt sigh.
Definitely
Non-U.

Maijstral’s irregularities were sometimes completely incomprehensible.

CHAPTER THREE

The Elvis was human and dressed in white and sequins. His movements— the way he leaned into the chrome microphone, the pelvic thrusts, even the gesture used in wiping sweat from his forehead with a red silk handkerchief— all were highly stylized, as ritualized as the steps of a Balinese dancer.

A holographic band stood in partial shadow behind. Stacks of obsolete and highly unnecessary amplifiers were placed on the wings of the stage, and the sound was arranged to boom from them as though they were real.

“
Hunka hunka burnin’ love
” sang the King of Rock and Roll. The screaming of debutantes centuries dead wailed up around the stage in answer to the meaningless pre-Standard lyrics. The Elvis leaned forward, mopped sweat from his brow, and presented the handkerchief to one of his assistants in the audience. The assistant brought it to Nichole, the guest of honor, who bowed and accepted it graciously, momentarily illuminated by spotlights. The audience offered polite applause.

“Now what the hell do I do with it, Maijstral?” Nichole asked, drawing her hand across her mouth so the ever-present media globes could not read her lips. “I’m not going to sit here all night with a wet rag in my hand.”

Maijstral looked at her with sympathy. Her costume, a bluish thing composed of several semitransparent layers of pseudocarapace, did not allow for pockets. “I’ll take it, if you like,” he said. “Or I can tie it around your arm.”

The spotlight on Nichole faded. Her diamond earrings and necklace dimmed. “I’ll send it to Etienne,” she decided. “It suits his coloring better.” She signaled one of her coterie and whispered instructions. Etienne, in the next box, yawned behind his hand. He had decided to be bored by Peleng.

Before the concert Maijstral and Nichole had an enjoyable luncheon, discussing their lives, their times, old friends. He had discovered she had a tendency to assume he knew more about Diadem affairs than he really did, but he managed, he thought, to cover his ignorance fairly well. He really didn’t keep up with gossip.

Maijstral leaned back and felt his chair adjust to his contours. He glanced across the hall and saw Countess Anastasia sharing a box with Baron Sinn. She gazed at him intently with her ice-blue eyes. A brief alarm sang in his nerves. He bowed to her, and she nodded back.

She calls me irregular, he thought. It was the Khosali who made Elvis a part of High Custom and left Shakespeare out. Probably, he reflected, because there were too many successful rebellions against monarchs in Shakespeare. And Elvis was a mock rebel who became, in the end, a pillar of the social order.

Maijstral liked Shakespeare a good deal, having read him in the new translation by Maxwell Aristide. The comedies, he thought, were especially good. This was, he supposed, an indication of his low taste. Most people found them unsubtle.

*

The lobby bar was padded in red leather and featured more polished brass than was strictly tasteful. Media globes bounced uncomfortably along the low ceiling and stared at the intermission crowd. Half the audience, having stayed long enough to make certain they were noticed, took the opportunity to slip away from the incomprehensible performance.

Maijstral sipped his cold rink. His lazy eyes passed slowly over the crowd, taking in clothing, accessories, jewelry. Making mental notes.

“Yes,” he said. “A playwright, a very good one. The Constellation Practices Authority rediscovered him and had Aristide translate him.”

“I shall look for it, sir,” said Pietro Quijano. His brow wrinkled and he tugged at his lower lip. “Do you think it’s political, sir?”

“Nothing overt that I could see. But the Khosali buried him for some reason, so who knows?”

Pietro tugged at his lower lip again. Maijstral followed the direction of his gaze and saw Amalia Jensen talking to Lieutenant Navarre. Navarre nodded and smiled in answer to something Miss Jensen said. Pietro’s frown deepened.

Maijstral finished his rink.

“If you will excuse me, sir,” he said, “I should see if Nichole needs refreshment.”

“Certainly,” Pietro murmured, and then he tore his gaze away from Jensen and brightened a bit. “She was a most stimulating dance partner, sir. Please give her my compliments.”

“Of course.”

Maijstral made his way to where Nichole was giving an exclusive interview to one persistent media globe. “We’re old, dear friends, of course,” she was saying. “I’m afraid it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.”

Said with a hesitation, a little flutter of the eyes. Nuance, Maijstral thought. Once he’d thought her very good at this, but in the last four years she’d become an artist.

After the interview the globe drifted away and Nichole took Maijstral’s arm. Maijstral gave her Pietro’s message. “A dreadful dancer,” she said. “He kept tripping over his own damn boots.”

“You made him look good, I’m sure.”

Her eyes glistened. “I’m sure I did.” She tapped his arm. “Do you see our High Seas Scout friend over yonder?”

Maijstral gazed once again at Lieutenant Navarre, who was still intently listening to Amalia Jensen. “Certainly.”

“Would you do me the favor of asking him to sup with me this evening? I’d do it myself, but the globes are sure to notice, and they’ll never leave off harassing the poor man.”

Nichole, Maijstral reflected, would never have asked a man on this kind of errand four years ago. This was the sort of thing she had an entourage for. He reflected again on his earlier resolution and was thankful it appeared to complement hers.

“Of course,” he said, “What time?”

“Thirty or so.” Nichole smiled. “I’d invite you, but I’m sure you’ll be off on business,”

He answered her smile. “I’m afraid it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.”

“As I thought.” Knowingly. She patted his forearm.

“I’d love to see you tomorrow, though. Luncheon again?”

“Delighted.”

She glanced up and saw more media globes moving in. Her face did not exactly fall, but grew more controlled, less spontaneous. Less delighted. “Please fetch me some champagne, Drake, will you?” she asked. Her voice was silky. Maijstral sniffed her ears— this was a High Custom event, after all— then bowed and withdrew.

“Not much pelvis,” said a high, wonderfully resonant voice. “Troxans cannot Elvis do well.”

Maijstral bowed in Count Quik’s direction as he strolled by the tiny round-headed alien. Amalia Jensen’s laughter hung in the air. She was finding Lieutenant Navarre amusing. Maijstral glided toward them and touched the copper-skinned lieutenant on the arm. “With Miss Jensen’s permission, a word, sir.”

Miss Jensen gave her consent. Maijstral murmured Nichole’s message. Navarre looked confused.

“Oh. I’m flattered. And delighted. But I’m afraid”— he looked toward Amalia, who smiled, more at Maijstral than at Navarre— “I’m committed for this evening. With Miss Jensen. Please give Nichole my sincerest regrets.”

Maijstral glanced up at a clattering noise and saw Pietro, standing about ten feet behind Navarre, trying to extricate himself from the rubble of a spilled drink tray while a purse-lipped hostess looked at him with annoyance.

“I’ll convey your apologies,” Maijstral said. “I’m sure Nichole will understand.”

He walked to the bar and asked for champagne. Receiving his glass, he turned to stare into the intent eyes of the Countess Anastasia. Looming over her was the bulk of Baron Sinn. Maijstral’s blood turned cold— that old reflex again— but he smiled and exchanged sniffs.

“Champagne, Countess?”

“I have sworn not to drink champagne within the boundaries of the Constellation,” she said, “till the Empire be restored.”

“I fear you will have a long wait,” Maijstral said.

“Your father—” she began. Anger surged in Maijstral’s heart.

“Remains dead,” Maijstral said. He sniffed her and excused himself.

The woman had always got to him, damn it. He had to wait some moments before Nichole was sufficiently clear of media globes to convey Navarre’s regrets, and he used that time to calm himself. Nichole, when she heard the message, was astonished.

“He turned me down, Maijstral! What am I to do with myself this evening? It’s one of the few free moments allowed in my schedule.”

“I would offer to keep you company, but . . .” Maijstral’s heavy-lidded eyes gave the impression of slyness. “I really do have other plans, my lady.”

“I don’t suppose I could watch.”

Maijstral kissed her hand. “I’m afraid your presence would attract unwelcome attention.”

Nichole sighed. “I hope you’ll send me the vid, at least.”

“Perhaps I’ll be able to send you something interesting before you leave. My general run of jobs aren’t very enthralling, though.”

She pointed at the white stone on his finger. “I can always recognize your videos by the ring. When I see it, I cheer.”

Maijstral smiled. “The ring is my trademark. They alter my face and body in the vids, but I need something noticeable to keep my place in the standings.”

“Do you like the way Laurence is playing you, by the way? He looks more like you; but I thought Anaya seemed to capture your personality better.”

“Truth to tell, my lady, I never watch them.” Nichole gave a skeptical laugh. Maijstral looked at her. “I’ve lived through it once,” he said, “I have no desire to see an imitation.”

“If you insist, Maijstral.”

Maijstral touched the clusters of diamonds hanging from one of Nichole’s ears. His eyes widened with professional interest. “These are lovely, by the way. Are you certain you should wear them in such dangerous company?”

“They’re not mine— the Landor Company lets me use them in return for a credit. They might even be delighted should they disappear— it could attract attention to their wares.”

“We might discuss that,” Maijstral said. “Luncheon. Tomorrow.” He kissed her hand again. “Of course.” The screams of a holographic audience began to echo from the theater, the signal that the second half of the performance was about to begin.

Nichole linked her arm in his. “I’ll simply have to resign myself to a lonely evening tonight. No one would credit it.”

“Cherish it, my lady,” Maijstral said. “An event of such rarity must be savored.”

“Pah,” Nichole said as they began to stroll toward their box. “It just means I’m getting old. Or passé.” But she seemed pleased.

*

One of the consequences of the odd and complex relationship between humanity and the Khosali is that, deplore us though they may, many Khosali find irreverence and irresponsibility interesting, and the human style of irreverence and irresponsibility of particular fascination. A human will perform what the stodgy Khosalikh only dreams about. Humans dance till five in the morning and show up late at work, suffering from hangovers. Humans write satires about Imperial officials and farces in which scores of people end up hiding in closets or under the bed. Humans engage in passionate relationships with people to whom they are not married, sometimes proclaim these relationships actually improved them, and frequently (and most tellingly) fail to kill themselves afterward in a display of proper atonement. Some even commit the profounder sin of living happily ever after. Though the Diadem was created for human consumption, their joys, scrapes, and follies have a small but devoted following among the Khosali.

Even when the Khosali influence over humanity was at its height, the conquerors often had the unsettling impression that the humans were laughing at them behind their backs. Little did the Khosali know but that when Earth’s children served up the punch line, it was going to be a doozy.

The punch line was, of course, the Great Rebellion, in which humanity rid itself of the Imperial System, the Imperial caste, and the unfortunate Pendjalli Emperor, Nnis CVI, whose luckless person was seized at pistol-point in his very own palace by Scholder’s Death Commandos. As part of the peace treaty, a pledge was extorted from poor Nnis to let the Human Constellation alone, a pledge which thus far he has been scrupulous to honor. This was the only rebellion, let alone the only successful one, to be perpetrated by a subject species once it had got over the trauma of its initial conquest. The whole precedent-breaking affair was such a shock to Nnis that he moulted and retired prematurely to his cryogenic vault, whence he still lies, heirless and alone.

The Emperor’s termination of the war doesn’t keep individuals on both sides of the border from wishing things were different. To the dismay of human ideologues, there is a large human minority in the Empire who live seemingly happy lives under the Imperial System and have no desire to emigrate to the Constellation. And on the human side, a large Khosali minority seem to lead contented and productive lives in the Constellation, expressing no more than a sentimental longing for the Empire.

And of course there are the troublemakers. The Human Constellation is blessed with a small but noisy Imperial party who claim the revolt was a mistake. For the most part they are a despised and ignored group of (largely human) malcontents, but they did win nineteen percent of the vote in the last election on Baroda, a figure so disturbing that the victorious Symbolist-Commonwealth party decided to do away with elections altogether until the Barodans developed a more refined sense of social responsibility.