Last Stand of the DNA Cowboys

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The minstrel boy stalked into the silver ballroom,stiff-legged and with a face like a mask. Strangest of all, he was carrying the veetar. Renatta was instantly on her feet.

'Are you okay?'

The Minstrel Boy completely ignored her. He walked to a chair on the far side of the ballroom and sat down. Billy, Reave, and Blaisdell watched silently from the bar. They had seen people coming off the horror of cyclatrol before. It was best to leave them alone. Interference in the process could produce a flash flood of irrational fury. Cyclatrol racked up a lot of short-term anger. Renatta looked around at the other three for some sign as to what to do. Reave placed a finger on his lips and shook his head, warning her to leave well enough alone.

The Minstrel Boy placed the veetar across his lap; his hands gently caressed it, and a wash of soaring notes flowed across the ballroom. He looked up with an expression of mild surprise, peering into thin air as though he were trying to see the music. The first experimental notes grew into an assured rhythmic cascade. The Minstrel Boy's eyes were closed, and his head was slightly inclined. A vein pulsed slightly in his forehead. He played experimentally, searchingly, for close to two minutes, as though feeling for a new power that he relished but distrusted. So far, so good. He started growing stronger each time he repeated the figure, and then his lips began to move. At first his voice was too soft to hear.

'The only thing to grasp for is my place in history.'

Again he looked into thin air as though wondering where the line had come from. He repeated it less tentatively.

The only thing to grasp for is my place in history

You hear me, sweet thing?

The boy is running thirsting

For that fatal dose

Rising from the vault of horror

Under the broken sky

Sea at his feet

And the fire of cities at his back

No time to sleep now

The only thing to ask for is my place in history

You hear me, sweet thing?

Clay Blaisdell undid the snaps on the case of his chromacon and then looked up at Reave. Reave looked uncertain and finally shrugged. What harm could it do? Blaisdell walked slowly toward the Minstrel Boy but received no acknowledgment. He squatted down on the floor, virtually at the Minstrel Boy's feet. His hands moved across the pressure angles, laying down a solid counterpoint to the Minstrel Boy's insistent drive. The Minstrel Boy briefly opened his eyes. He half smiled, then retired back into his own world.

The only thing to crave is immortality

And death is the last rube to cheat

You hear me, sweet thing?

Beyond the thunder

And behind the clouds

The rain is gentle as the massage of the lotus

But the damned can't linger

Hi ho silver lining

The only thing to trade is my place in history

You hear me, sweet thing?

The Minstrel Boy brought the poem to an abrupt halt. Blaisdell looked up in confusion, wondering what was going to happen next. The Minstrel Boy stared around at the others with a wolfish grin.

'You hear me, sweet thing?'

He laughed.

'You hear that? Fuck! I can do it again. I can actually do it!'

Billy, Reave, and Renatta broke out into spontaneous applause. There was no one in the Silver Ballroom of the R1009 who underestimated what the Minstrel Boy had been through. The only question was whether cyclatrol had freed a logjam in the Minstrel Boy's head or whether he had just been driven deeper into the swamp.

As the airship had approached the margin of the nothings, he had been strapped into a hastily rigged contour frame that looked ominously like an instrument of torture. The restraints on him were double-checked in order to minimize the chances of his hurting himself during the expected convulsions. The IV feed was inserted and taped down to his arm, intelligence cushion contacts were placed on the palms of his hands, and his hands were closed into fists and taped shut. With the preparations complete, the first drops of cyclatrol were introduced into his bloodstream.

The effect was instantaneous. His face distorted into what looked like a rictus. His mourn gaped wide in a silent scream, his eyes rolled back into his head, and his whole body twisted and strained against the straps. One of the crew maintained the flow of cyclatrol, and as the drug progressively flooded his system, the rest calmly studied the images that were beginning to appear on the display-sized pseudosurface that dominated the navigator's station.

Renatta put a hand to her mouth. 'I'm not sure that I can watch this.'

One of the crew members looked around. 'It would probably be less distressing if all of you left the control room. You have no function here.'

It was just ten minutes before the combination of the damaged biode and the Minstrel Boy's brain implant located the reality of Palanaque and locked on it. The drug flow was cut as the biode took over the lock, and the Minstrel Boy started screaming out loud. It was twenty minutes before he stopped. When they brought him back to the others, he was white as a sheet and beaded with oily sweat. Billy tried to force cognac between his teeth, but his jaw was locked.

Renatta looked alarmed. 'Is he dead?'

'No, but I think he's in major shock.'

'What can we do for him?'

Reave shook his head. 'There's nothing we can do except let him be.'

The Minstrel Boy confirmed the wisdom of Reave's words just five minutes later when he let out a long agonized sigh and sat bolt upright. 'Okay, so hit it. Don't keep me in suspense. Let's get it over with.'

'He's in a world of his own.'

The Minstrel Boy stood up. With the expression of a zombie, he slowly and mechanically walked away. Renatta started after him, but Reave stopped her.

'Let him be.'

'Shouldn't we go with him?'

'If he wants to be on his own, that's probably for the best.'

'Suppose he kills himself or something while he's like this?'

'I doubt he would, but if he did, it would be his prerogative. A man who's just been overdosed with cyclatrol might have his reasons for not wanting to live any longer.'

But when the Minstrel Boy had been gone for more than three hours, even Reave began to worry. Despite his outward what-ever-happens-happens brand of fatalism, he still did not want to see anything happen to the Minstrel Boy. Thus it was a considerable relief when the Minstrel Boy came walking into the Silver Ballroom carrying the veetar, even though it was clear that he was not fully recovered.

After the first strange musical outburst, the Minstrel Boy went on playing, but with less of that passionate fury. He cut Blaisdell increasing amounts of slack, and inside an hour he had regained some of his color and was happily dueling while Renatta sat close and watched him adoringly. Reave noted that the Minstrel Boy seemed to be the hero of the hour.

As the time-vague nothings streamed by, the journey took on a whole new feel, There was no more to worry about. The disrupter was gone. The warlords and their raiders had destroyed themselves, and although Palanaque might have its drawbacks, life there could hardly be described as ruggisd. Waiting turned into a party as they drank what booze had survived the crash and watched the two poets working out. Even Jet Ace and Stent came out and joined them, although they sheepishly remained in full armor.

The time went by so fast that it was something of a surprise when the PA announced that they were approaching stasisfall at Palanaque and that those who wanted to see the settlement as they came in over it should go to the; forward viewing gallery. There was considerable merriment as everyone, including the metal men, trooped forward to the gallery.

They were coming into Palanaque at night. Not until morning would they see the full formal grandeur of the city's architecture, but it was hard to miss the Great Pyramid. Floodlights played over the white polished marble of its surfaces, and red, green, and gold lasers flashed across the sky from its apex.

Billy glanced at Blaisdell. 'Does Palanaque have regular night and day?'

Blaisdell nodded. 'Sure does. Both of them, every day. Twelve hours of one and then twelve hours of the other.'

Tiny points of light moved below them like a bright living carpet. They were particularly concentrated at the base of the Great Pyramid. A wide, circular pool was bathed in blue light, and tiny figures could be seen swimming in formation in the illuminated waters. Green floodlights in a grove of palms gave the trees a weird, ghostly quality. The lights of small boats stood out on a dark area that, judging by the rippling reflections, had to be a river.

'Looks pretty busy down there.'

'Oh, sure, they know how to party in Palanaque. Only trouble is everything has to have some bullshit religious significance. Gets in the way of old-fashioned material fun.'

Billy continued to stare out of the gallery windows. 'So where do you think we're going to land this thing?'

The answer came from behind. 'We will put it down right in front of the pyramid.'

Everyone turned in surprise to see Showcross Gee standing there with the other metaphysicians in back of him. Reave wished that they would not sneak around the way they did.

He raised an eyebrow. 'Isn't that a little aggressive?'

'We have to exact our due respect from Great Master Parshew-a-Thar and his people.'

'Exact? We're refugees. Do you really think we should be exacting anything?'

'We are the twenty-seven metaphysicians of Krystaleit.'

'So we drop in on them like gods from the skies.'

'That is an exaggeration.'

The PA intrupted the exchange. 'Reave Mekonta?'

'Yo.'

'We are receiving electrical radio messages from the ground. Do you wish to answer them?'

'What do they want?'

'They wish us to identify ourselves. They seem to fear that we have hostile intent.'

Reave looked at Showcross Gee. 'You want to handle this?'

Showcross Gee shook his head. 'You are the bodyguards. This is your responsibility. We wish to set down exactly in front of the Great Pyramid.'

Reave sighed. 'Whatever you say, boss.' He turned to Billy. 'You come with me. The rest of you stay here.'

In the control room Reave was handed an antique microphone. A voice was coming from an equally ancient speaker.

'Palanaque ground to unidentified airship. You have violated our reality and airspace. Please identify yourself.'

'We are Airship R1009 out of Krystaleit.'

'Please say again, R1009.'

Reave repeated it. 'I say again, we are Airship R1009 out of Krystaleit.'

There was a long pause. When the radio voice came back, it was flat and hard. 'Krystaleit is no longer.'

'We were the last ship out.'

'To whom are we speaking?'

'I am Reave Mekonta, Master of Arms on the R1009.'

Reave had remembered Blaisdell's warning that they might have to do some fast talking if they wanted to keep their weapons. It was never too early to start laying the groundwork.

'Who else is on the ship?'

'The twenty-seven metaphysicians of Krystaleit.'

'We cannot allow you to land.'

'Why not?'

'It is inauspicious. We are in the middle of the Cha'a festival.'

That certainly did not sound like the tolerance Showcross Gee had talked about. Billy grimaced.

'Maybe the top banana here doesn't want any competition. That's often the way of it among the devout.'

Reave covered the microphone with his hand. 'Any ideas?'

'Tell him the ship's busted, and if we don't land, we'll crash into the pyramid.'

Reave spoke into the mike. 'Our ship has been badly damaged in an encounter with a disrupter. We have to land. I say again, we are damaged and have to land.'

There was another long pause. Then the reply came. 'R1009, you have permission to land.'

'Thank you, Palanaque ground.'

Reave grinned and handed the mike back to the nearest crewman. 'Take her down, right in front of the pyramid, if you please.'

The R1009 slowly circled. The four underside-mounted spotlights that were still intact probed down into the Palanaque darkness, crossing lush parkland and the roofs of geometric single-story buildings, and closed on the Great Pyramid with a definite inevitability. In front of the pyramid there was a wide area of hewn white stone, a plaza with more steps of its own leading up to it. One of the crew members glanced at Reave, and Reave nodded.

'That looks like our spot.'

Unfortunately, the plaza was crowded with people, presumably out celebrating Cha'a.

'Just float overhead, holding a steady position. I'm afraid we're going to have to break up the festivities.'

Close up, the pyramid proved to be exceptionally large, the equivalent of fifty or so stories. The R1009 hung over the plaza at about half its height, a giant, battered silver cigar with four beams of light stabbing down. At first the people on the plaza just stared, as though mesmerized by the visitation. It did not seem to occur to them that the ship might be preparing to come down.

Reave looked down at the situation and then turned to the crewman who was waiting on his orders. 'Start slowly taking her down. Let's show them what we mean to do.'

The R1009 started to descend. The people on the plaza seemed to get the message, and those directly beneath the ship began to back away.

The radio crackled into irate life. 'R1009, this is Palanaque ground. You cannot land at the point you are approaching. I repeat, you cannot land at the point you intend.'

Reave held out his hand for the microphone. 'We're coming down. We have no more power. R1009 out.'

A phalanx of soldiers or militia in white kilts and tunics and carrying long batons cut through the crowd and then formed a square in the center of the plaza. The square quickly expanded to become a growing cordon, herding the celebrants away from the area where the airship would touch down. When everyone was clear below, one of the crew members cut in the mooring beams; like radiant, green fingers, they drew the R1009 to the ground.

Reave hurried back to where the others were waiting. 'We seem to have gained ourselves a reception committee. They don't look to be anything more than spear throwers, but it's good to be careful. We haven't endeared ourselves to anyone here so far. What I suggest is, as soon as the ramp's down, we walk out with our weapons in full view in a discreet show of force.' He glanced back to where Showcross Gee still waited with the other metaphysicians. 'If, of course, that meets with your approval.'

Showcross Gee nodded. 'I see no harm in an initial show of force if Palanaque is being difficult. There must be no violence, however. No violence, under any circumstances.'

'If we're attacked, we reserve the right to return fire. I think you'll find that in the contracts.' Reave was getting heartily sick of Showcross Gee and his detachment.

The ramp lowered, and the main port slid open. By the time the ship touched down, the seven contract warriors were ready. They stood in the port bay with their weapons either cradled in their arms or down at their sides. As soon as the port was fully open, they advanced with purposeful strides and grim expressions. But the soldiers of Palanaque did not look like any particular threat. They were built more for ceremony than for speed, their short, pleated kilts and sleeveless tunics as spotless as the metaphysicians' bodysuits. Their only weapons were polished ten-foot batons, like double-sized pool cues. They might be good for crowd control on a religious holiday, but Billy's multiplex alone was capable of taking out the whole phalanx in under a minute. Stent, in his battle suit, could probably do the job in half the time.

The seven halted at the bottom of the ramp. They had taken only one step out onto the stones of Palanaque when what wasclearly an authority figure pushed through the cordon of soldiers with the attitude of a man who liked to be obeyed. His costume was a more lavish version of that worn by the soldiers with the batons. His kilt reached to his ankles, and instead of the simple sleeveless tunic, he wore a long white surcoat with sun and moon symbols worked into the fabric in gold. It was unclear whether he was a priest or a military officer. For all Reave knew he was a combination of the two.

Billy leaned close to the Minstrel Boy. 'I think this is our local bigwig.'

The Minstrel Boy grunted. 'Probably the first of many.'

'Which one of you is Reave Mekonta?'

Reave took a step forward. 'I am.'

The local bigwig airily gestured toward the R1009. 'This thing has to be removed from here. You have not only landed here illegally, but you have placed your aircraft on one of the most sacred areas of the Holy Reality. This alone would be cause enough for me to have you arrested for Grand Sacrilege.'

As he uttered the word "arrest," Billy hefted the multiplex in silent indication that arresting them might not be as easy as it sounded. Reave folded his arms.

'The ship is a wreck. It can't be moved without extensive repairs.'

Renatta stepped up beside him. 'And who might you be, anyway? You seem to be giving out a lot of orders. Are you in charge here?'

The local bigwig drew himself up to his full height. 'I am Dass-el-Hame. I am the Elevated Palarch of the Holy Reality of Palanaque, and I'm telling you that that aircraft has to be removed. It is an affront to the sacred power of the Great Pyramid.'

'I fear we're running into a bureaucratic deadlock,' Blaisdell muttered to the Minstrel Boy.

'So what else is new?'

The Elevated Palarch was not finished. 'There is also the matter of your weapons. There can be no energy or projectile weapons in the Holy Reality. I must insist that you surrender them.'

It was Stent who answered. 'We are contract warriors, and you take our weapons at your peril.'

The Minstrel Boy wondered how exactly anyone could take either Stent's or Jet Ace's weapons, seeing as how they werebuilt directly into their bodies. For the metal men to lay down their arms would be a matter of major surgery.

The Elevated Palarch inflated his chest. 'I will give you exactly one minute to hand over your armaments.'

Reave looked around at the others. Billy shrugged. If it came to a firefight, they were ready. He could not quite believe that Dass-el-Hame was dumb enough to actually push his ultimatum, although Billy had spent a lifetime being regularly surprised by the stupidity of those in authority. Some of the local hoplites seemed to share his feelings. Although they still stood at rigid attention, many of those in the front line of the cordon looked decidedly unhappy at the direction events seemed to be taking

Fortunately, before the minute was up, a distraction put the inevitable violence on hold. The first sign was the glow of torches, which burned with strange aquamarine flames, coming up the steps that led to the plaza in front of the Great Pyramid. Renatta glanced at Reave.

'Now what?'

'Who the hell knows, in a place like this?'

Some kind of procession seemed to be coming toward the airship. A murmuring arose in the crowd beyond the line of soldiers and grew rapidly into a full-voiced chant.

'Laud and magnify!'

'Laud and magnify!'

'Laud and magnify the blessed Name!'

'Laud and magnify the blessed Name of Parshew-a-Thar, beloved Master of the Holy Reality!'

Clay Blaisdell grimaced. 'So the top dog is coming to take a look at us.'

The Minstrel Boy grinned. 'That's what I always say: If you want to get results, go to the top.'

The crowd was parting, and Dass-el-Hame ordered his men to step aside. The beloved Master of the Holy Reality came with considerable pomp and circumstance and a retinue suitable for one who had his followers believing that he was the next best thing to a god. First there was a quartet of cherubic small boys in white surplices, swinging brass censers and laying a pall of sickly-sweet perfumed smoke. The small boys were followed by eight young women in dresses of wispy, pale blue silk, playing barls and tambourines and strewing the path with fresh rose petals. Parshew-a-Thar himself was carried in a litter, borne on the broad bare shoulders of six identical, body-beautiful nefrites with blue skin and white-blond hair, who must have been specially tailored for their job. The litter was luxuriously carved and finished in gold leaf. The backrest and canopy were shaped in the form of a towering mythical beast, a winged thing whose pinions folded protectively around the occupant. The beloved Master of the Holy Reality reclined languidly on a pile of silk cushions. His left hand was buried in a bowl of sparkling gems that presumably were charging him up with cosmic crystal energy.

The Master came as something of a surprise. He was young and very small, hardly the godlike figure they had expected. He seemed slack-faced and epicene, not much more than a pouting, petulant child with staring eyes that were pale and dark-ringed from some precocious debauchery and a tiny rosebud mouth that seemed to be set in a pout of permanent discontent. A blue silk toga was wrapped around a chubby pink body that obviously took no exercise and had been formed by a life of absolute indulgence.

'Laud and magnify the blessed Name of Parshew-a-Thar, beloved Master of the Holy Reality.'

Renatta looked at Reave in amazement. 'That spoiled-looking brat is the holy of holies?'

'So it would seem.'

'Damn.'

The nefrites lowered the litter to the flagstones. Parshew-a-Thar regarded the airship as though he had only just noticed it and it had come as an unpleasant surprise.

'What is that thing doing in front of our pyramid?'

The Master had a high-pitched, querulous voice that was perfectly suited to the willful baby face. It was accompanied by strange birdlike gestures of his hands, which added a measure of inhuman weirdness to the pampered petulance. Since he was addressing no one in particular none of the seven felt the need to answer him. It was left to a nervous Dass-el-Hame to explain the presence of the airship.

'They crash-landed here. They claim it's the last ship out of Krystaleit before it was destroyed.'

'We want it moved. We can't have that thing in front of our pyramid.'

The Minstrel Boy wondered how it must feel to be able to talk about a pyramid as one's own personal property.

Dass-el-Hame bowed low. Billy could imagine that he was probably sweating.

'They claim it can't be moved.'

'Of course it can be moved. Bring epsilons and ropes. They can haul it away. If we can build a pyramid, we can certainly remove an unsightly airship.'

Dass-el-Hame bowed low. 'Of course, blessed Master. It will be done at once.'

'There is also the matter of their weapons.'

'It has been explained to them that such weapons are forbidden in the Holy Reality. They have been ordered to surrender them, but they seem unwilling to comply.'

Parshew-a-Thar dismissed the problem with one of his quick birdlike gestures. As far as he was concerned, the answer was patently obvious. 'Punish them.'

Dass-el-Hame bowed again. He had the weighed-down stoop of a man who was faced with the prospect of punishing seven heavily armed combat veterans when backed up only by a bunch of guys with oversized pool cues. Reave could feel for him, but it really was not Reave's problem. Under no circumstances wan he going to give up his pistols.

Parshew-a-Thar was once again staring resentfully at the R1009. 'How did this thing become damaged?'

Reave decided that it was time to step into the conversation. 'We had a close encounter with a disrupter.'

The Master's head turned sharply. He looked directly at Reave for the first time. Again there was something birdlike about this movement. 'A disrupter? We want to hear about a disrupter. We are very interested in disrupters.'

Reave knew it was time to deal. 'What about our weapons?'

Before the Master could answer, the metaphysicians, led by Showcross Gee, emerged from the airship.

'Greetings, Parshew-a-Thar.'

Parshew-a-Thar looked around angrily, and his voice went up half an octave. 'We don't want these people in our domain! Have them removed!'

Showcross Gee raised a calming hand. He suddenly seemed a much more authoritative figure than the blessed Master.

'Parshew-a-Thar, we are the twenty-seven metaphysicians of Krystaleit, and under the Common Bonds laid down by Stafford Pardee, the First Master, we claim tolerance and the right and facilities to continue our work.'

The Master turned to Dass-el-Hame. 'Can they do this to us? '

'I believe that they are within their rights, blessed Name.'

It was clearly an impasse. The seven and their weapons were suddenly forgotten. Parshew-a-Thar seemed to feel exceedingly threatened by the metaphysicians. While he played at being God, the metaphysicians explored the deep and dangerous wild places on the other side of the mind.

'I will say it once again, Parshew-a-Thar. We claim our rights under the Common Bonds.'

The blessed Name squirmed on his cushions. 'You come here and land your ugly flying machine right in front of our beautiful pyramid and — '

'We claim our rights, Parshew-a-Thai.'

Dass-el-Hame leaned close to the Mjister. 'It might be as well to discuss this in private, Holy One.'

The Master saw the merit in the suggestion and quickly gestured to the nefrites. The litter poles were lifted to their broad blue shoulders.

'Follow us,' Parshew-a-Thar snapped at Showcross Gee.

The small boys swung their censers, the girls banged their tambourines and strewed their petals, and the procession, with the metaphysicians bringing up the rear, proceeded up the Great Pyramid, finally disappearing into a dark rectangular entrance on something like the twentieth floor.

Reave faced Dass-el-Hame. 'So what happens to us in the meantime? I don't want to break up the party, but we've been through a lot, and we're tired and hungry.'

Beside him, the Minstrel Boy muttered something under his breath about needing a drink.

Dass-el-Hame's relief at finding a way out was like the sun coming up. 'I will escort you to my residence, where your needs will be taken care of.'

'What about the ship?'

Dass-el-Hame looked nervously apologetic, as though he expected another confrontation. 'The epsilons will have to move it. It has been ordered. There is no way that it can remain here during Cha'a.'

Reave shrugged. 'What the hell, move it if you want. I think the point's been made. Just try not to damage it too much.'

The Elevated Palarch was a very big man around Palanaque, or else a large section of the population lived like kings. His residence was a spacious single-story villa in the Egyptian style, built around a central courtyard and a pool. The walls, faced with ice-blue and magenta marble, were half-obscured by a jungle of lush tropical vegetation. Foxfire and moonglo drifted among the heavy green leaves, undulating like sensual, glowing ghosts. Flame insects flared briefly around fleshy, luxurious orchids. More lights shone up through the tinted waters of the pool and played over the dancing cascade of the central fountain. Crystal wind chimes tinkled softly, long silk prayer banners stirred softly in a lazy breeze, and there was a hint of perfume in the air.

As they walked through the entryway and out into the courtyard, Dass-el-Hame spread his hands in a gesture of mock deprecation. 'Welcome to my humble home.'

Reave let out a low whistle. 'Some spread.'

Renatta stooped down beside the pool and scooped up a little water. 'I think maybe I could live here.'

Dass-el-Hame maintained an extended household. It seemed that the religious beliefs of Palanaque did not exclude the existence of a large servant/slave class. The Elevated Palarch had a particular taste for petite, dark-haired house girls with blank almond eyes who seemed to have no other motivation in their lives except to cater fawningly to his every whim. He indicated them as though they were simply an extension of his property.

'If there's anything that you want, you only have to ask. Anything at all.'

The Minstrel Boy suspected that the house girls were stepfords Stepfords were socially unacceptable, if not illegal, in most ra tional settlements because their creation involved irreversible brain surgery and a considerably shortened life span. There was also a clutch of exotics being languidly decorative over on the other side of the pool. The majority were heavily painted young women, but there was also a scattering of pretty teenage boys. It was unclear if they were family, invited guests, or just a concubine collection. They looked up at the new arrivals with the nervously watchful eyes of those who assume that the intrusion of strangers will be a prelude to trouble, an assumption that was perfectly understandable in the case of the seven armed mercenaries.

Food and wine were brought, along with a fuel charger for the metal men. Those of the seven who could were given a chance to bathe and to exchange their stained and dirty travel clothes for clean saris in various shades of watered silk. Their treatment left them in no doubt that the Elevated Palarch lived right on the top of the hog. The hot baths alone were a revelation. There were five of them, pale pink marble, each large enough for six people. They came with gold accoutrements anda full complement of wet, naked, and exceedingly attentive house girls who frisked in the bubbling water like sleek brown seals. The house girls proved to be so attentive that Renatta started to complain about the fact that in Palamaque servitude appeared to be exclusive to the female gender.

'Seems like these bastards have built themselves a playboy paradise under the cover of their stupid religion.'

Clay Blaisdell's face broke into a smug and lazy grin. 'It don't seem too bad to me. Besides, there were plenty of men among the epsilons who were hauling away the airship. They didn't look half as cheerful as these water babes.'

When the DNA Cowboys, Renatta, and Blaisdell changed their clothes they also had to face the question of what they were going to do with their weapons. Although they were still adamant about not giving them up, it was plainly ridiculous for them to sit around hugging their guns to their chests. Accordingly, the weapons were stacked discreetly in a secluded corner of the courtyard where they were still in sight but hardly obtrusive.

Once his guests had been comfortably settled in, Dass-el-Hame again reminded them that for the moment his home was totally at their disposal, then made his excuses and left to return to the Great Pyramid. With the master gone, the atmosphere of the residence lightened considerably. The house girls splashed in the pool, and even the exotics seemed to take their poses less seriously. One of the painted women, whose body was an arrangement of tangerine and magenta swirls, came over and sat down next to Renatta.

'Perhaps you would like me to color you? I could get my paints. It must be strange to be so plain, so unadorned.'

Renatta raised an eyebrow. 'Honey, I've done some of my best work unadorned.'

'I didn't mean to give offense.'

'Don't worry about it; you didn't.'

'Should I fetch my paints?'

Renatta shook her head. 'Not right now. Maybe later. I just want to relax here and drink some more of this wine.'

'Do you mind if I talk to you?'

'Not in the least.'

'Do you really come from outside the Holy Reality?'

'You better believe it.'

'And you are concubine to all six of those men?'

Renatta laughed out loud. 'Concubine? I ain't no concubine, cutie. I'm a contract warrior just like the rest of them.'

The tangerine and magenta woman's mouth was a small O of surprise. 'A woman can be a warrior in other realities?'

Renatta gave her a long, hard look. 'I don't know how they've got things set up around here, but where I come from, a woman can do any damn thing she wants.'

'Must be very exciting.'

Two of the other painted girls had moved nearer. The Minstrel Boy grinned. Renatta had only just arrived, and she was already fomenting revolution.

'Sometimes it's exciting, but there are other times when it can be hard and brutal.'

Renatta de Luxe had come a long way since she had begged the Minstrel Boy to take her away from the Caverns in the gold submarine.

Dass-el-Hame did not return until past noon on the following day. A glorious pseudosun had come up in a blaze of gold, and the singing and the peals of bells from beyond the walls of the residence indicated that the festival of Cha'a was still in full swing. When the Elevated Palarch returned, he seemed anything but festive. He glared acidly at the half-clad contract warriors who lounged by the pool eating his fruit, drinking his wine, and progressively going native.

'Your employers can be very persuasive.'

Reave hitched up his sari and got to his feet, 'So what's the story? Is the meeting over? Are we staying here?' He was determined not to treat the man as anything other than an equal despite the grandiose title.

Dass-el-Hame sighed. He looked as though only exhaustion was stopping him from being exceedingly angry. 'In his wisdom, my beloved Master has granted the metaphysicians of Krystaleit sanctuary in this settlement. They will be free to remain here for as long as they like, and they will be provided with the resources to continue their research.'

Reave raised an eyebrow. 'You don't seem too happy about this. Worried they might cause a few changes in your snug little social system?'

For a moment it looked as if Dass-el-Hame was going to tell Reave exactly how worried and unhappy he was, but then a lifetime as a courtier, with all its complex intrigue and guardeddiplomacy, asserted itself. He contented himself with pursing his lips. He looked as though he were sucking a lemon. 'I don't question the wisdom.'

'And what about us? Have we been granted sanctuary, too?'

'You are still under contract. Your employers require that you remain.' The Elevated Palareh eyed the weapons stacked in the comer of the courtyard. 'They seem to feel that you are the temporal end of their leverage, the hard fulcrum, so to speak.'

Reave half smiled. So Showcross Gee and his bunch were not so spiritual that they wouldn't stoop to at least a covert threat of violence to get what they wanted.

Dass-el-Hame caught the smile and went quickly on. 'You will remain here as my guests until more permanent quarters can be arranged.'

From his expression, it was clear that the extended hospitality was something else that gave him no pleasure at all.

The first few days were a novelty, but as that wore down, time started to blur into the languidly sensual rhythm of lotus life. For the Minstrel Boy, it was like nothing more than the routine gratification of the Caverns from which he had fled what seemed like a century before. The only real difference was that Palanaque had days and nights, whereas the Caverns had been shrouded in a continuous soft gloom. Palanaque even had a little mock weather system. One afternoon a soft novelty rain had fallen over the city. Aside from minor interruptions of that kind, there was nothing but the slow torpor of mindless hedonism.

Initially the Minstrel Boy was not too bothered by the enforced idleness. After the ducking and diving they had been forced to go through since their reunion at the Voice in the Wilderness, a period of doing absolutely nothing was far from unwelcome. But the Minstrel Boy could not keep himself from thinking ahead. A time would come when the seven of them would become bored with the luxury and lethargy and start hankering for some action. The inclination would be to cut loose from Palanaque and move on. He wondered how the metaphysicians would take that when the time came.

Jet Ace was the first to chafe at the relentless ease. He still had his dreams of becoming a legendary hero. He took to flying by himself at the far end of the valley, away from the city. The Minstrel Boy would not have been the least bit surprised if one day he simply failed to come back from one of his solitary excursions, simply deserted into the nothings. Yet each day he returned. Itseemed that Jet Ace's sense of duty was stronger than his ambition. The Minstrel Boy had no ambition at all. He simply played among the painted women and wondered what was going to happen next.

Billy was also showing signs of the strain of having nothing to do. The Minstrel Boy had noticed that Billy's mental condition seemed to worsen when he had too much time on his hands. In Palanaque there was one refinement that he had never seen in the Caverns, and Billy seemed increasingly to be turning to it as a cure for boredom. It was a kind of short-term discorporation, lasting from a few minutes to almost an hour, from which the subject emerged confused but euphoric. It was referred to as a spiritual outreach, but Billy Oblivion scoffed at that description.

'Hell, it ain't nothing but turning an inversion trick. Back in Utgard they called it doing the Valhalla, and out in the Dumps, it's known as reality jagging. You do whatever your particular thing is, you know? Lobe pressure, tantric exercise, drugs, mantra, whatever. Your body goes limp, and then you wake up sometime later, feeling great, with this stupid grin on your face. The damnedest part is that you can't remember why you feel so good, but you want to do it again real soon.'

Scoff as he might, Billy spent a lot of hours spiritually out-reaching. With a kind of inept junkie cunning, he tried to keep it from the others, but there was not one of the other six who had not come across him sprawled on a bench or propped up against a wall, out there, dead to the world, with his eyes rolled back into his skull. Nobody had said anything, but each hoped that something would turn up to occupy Billy's mind and slow the downward drift.

It was only after five full weeks that something happened to break the perfumed monotony. It was late afternoon, and Dass-el-Hame was not expected to return to the residence until well after dark. While the seven remained his guests, he spent as little time there as possible. So it caused a good deal of consternation among the house girls when he suddenly, without warning, hurried in, flanked by two of his aides. He quickly rounded up the seven contract warriors.

'You will all come with me. Our detectors have picked up an object in the nothings that seems to be coming this way.'