Trickster

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kendi looked up from the display holo as Ben entered their quarters and flopped down onto the couch with a heavy sigh. It was shift change at the Collection. The holographic screen showed the door scanning a steady stream of people-IDs and prints-in a ritual Kendi had seen dozens of times over the last few weeks. In about half an hour, another stream of people would emerge from the same door. Kendi assumed the people coming off shift had to brief the people coming on. Kendi wondered why the Collection needed all these employees, and he desperately wished they could hack the computer system to find out. The Collection's system, however, was still physically isolated from the rest of the station, and the only way to get access was from within. It was frustrating in the extreme, knowing the Collection and his family were so close, yet so untouchable.

It was also difficult because Kendi had only a vague sketch of a plan. He hadn't told anyone, not even Ben, that he had almost no idea what he was doing. Every instinct he had, however, told him that the department head keys were crucial to freeing his brother and sister. Kendi hated keeping secrets from Ben, but he didn't think Ben would react well if he knew Kendi was insisting on stealing the keys before he knew what to do with them.

And then there was the time limit. The Poltergeist had to be back on Bellerophon in eight days, no excuses or exceptions. If it came down to it, Kendi would happily end his career with the Children if it meant liberty for his brother and sister, but he didn't want to do that. For one thing, his parents were still out there somewhere, and they were next on his list.

"I take it you got nothing," Kendi said to Ben.

Ben shook his head. His red hair was dark with sweat. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear Roon was a saint. He doesn't drink, he doesn't touch recreational drugs, he doesn't visit hookers, and he doesn't gamble. He doesn't even seem to have a favorite restaurant. I thought today I might actually get something on him because he deviated from his routine and made an extra stop on his way home from work, but no dice." He ran a hand over his face and grimaced. "God, I need a shower. I'll give you the details when I'm done."

He got up and headed for the bedroom, shedding clothes as he went. Kendi watched the muscles of Ben's back bunch and move beneath smooth skin as he pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the floor. Trousers, underwear, and socks followed. Kendi continued to watch Ben's naked form until it disappeared into the bedroom and, presumably, headed toward the bathroom. A few moments later, he heard the hiss of running water. Kendi drummed his fingers on the desk. He should watch the displays. He should look for an anomaly among the workers that he could exploit. He should look for subtle clues about what was really going on inside the Collection. He should- "The hell with this," he muttered.

Less than a minute later, he drew aside the back corner of the shower screen and stepped into the shower behind Ben, whose face was upturned under a luxurious spray. Water had drenched and darkened his hair and ran in rivulets down his back. Kendi felt an aching, heavy need to be close to Ben, become so close that their bodies would melt and run together like drops of water. He put both his hands on Ben's shoulders. Ben jumped and turned partway around.

"Need someone to wash your back?" Kendi asked, moving his hands lower.

"That's not my back," Ben pointed out with a grin and turned back to the shower.

"How about this?"

"Nope." Ben closed his eyes with a sigh. "You'll have to keep trying."

What started in the shower finished in the bedroom. Ben, still slightly damp, sprawled on his stomach next to Kendi, who was lying on his back but still pressed close to Ben. Kendi's skin was warm on Ben's. The soft light and lack of angles in the room were soothing and restful. The window showed gleaming stars against an utterly black background, and Ben could pretend there was no Collection, no SA Station-just a universe that was completely empty except for him and Kendi.

Ben shifted and winced beneath a slight twinge. Kendi's lovemaking had been intense, even a little rough, and Ben was sure he'd have a few bruises in the morning. He didn't care. Everything about Kendi had lately been more intense-and just plain tense-and Ben was glad to offer him some relief. Ben was just drifting off to sleep when Kendi spoke.

"So what happened today? You said Roon deviated from his routine."

"Hm?" Ben roused himself. "Deviated. Yeah, he did. It wasn't anything big. He gets off work every day at the same time-not during the shift change for the rest of the workers-and then he goes home. He takes the same route every single day, and once he gets home, he stays there. Except today."

"What did he do today?"

"He went to an art gallery."

"Art gallery?" Kendi rolled over and propped his head up on one hand. "Did you follow him inside?"

Ben shrugged. "Of course. I swear he looked at everything. Paintings, sculptures, holograms, sensories-you name it. There was a special exhibit on. He wandered around for more than two hours. Finally he bought a painting. He ordered it delivered and walked out. I followed him home, but nothing else happened."

"What was the painting about?" Kendi asked intently.

"Does it matter?" Ben said, surprised.

"It might. No detail is too small, you know that."

Ben closed his eyes and cast his mind back. Kendi, he knew, had the flawless short-term memory required for Dream communication work, and could faultlessly remember pages and pages of text for short periods of time. All Children were trained this way so that written communication could be transmitted word-for-word to other Silent through the Dream. But Ben hadn't gone through the mnemonic training, and he hadn't paid too much attention to the specifics of Roon's purchase. He hadn't though it would matter, though now he realized his mistake. He closed his eyes and thought.

"It was an exhibit of circus art," he said after a while. "And Roon bought a painting of a circus animal. An elephant? Yeah, an elephant."

Ben felt the bed move and heard the rustle of sheets. He opened his eyes. Kendi had gotten up and was yanking open the closet door.

"What's up?" Ben asked.

"I have to go talk to him." Kendi pulled out an outfit he rarely wore because it was so dressy-an electric blue silk tunic with matching trousers that set off his dark skin and eyes.

"Talk to who?"

"The art gallery owner." He pulled a long length of red cloth from the closet and expertly wound it into a turban. A purple amethyst lapel pin completed the ensemble. Ben gnawed his lower lip, feeling like he had let Kendi down. If he had done a proper job shadowing Roon, Kendi wouldn't have to go back to the gallery. Ben felt had somehow blown it, but he didn't know what he had done wrong. Kendi didn't seem upset, but still.

"How do I look?" Kendi asked.

"What look are you going for?" Ben countered, sitting up.

"Wealthy collector."

"Works for me. Um… do you want me to go with you? Back you up?"

"No, I'll be better off alone. Send out the troops if you don't hear from me in two hours."

And then he was gone, leaving Ben alone on the bed.

Bedj-ka ghosted along the walkway, staying close to the shadows. Insects chirped among the talltree leaves, and his feet made only a tiny whisper of sound on the wooden path. The forest was almost completely dark beneath the talltree canopy, though enough silvery moonlight filtered through the leaves to let him see where he was going. The house, built into the branches of the talltree, lay about ten meters ahead of him. Like most Bellerophon treehouses, it sported a wide balcony that went all the around it. Golden light shone from the house windows, and a pair of enormous, shaggy humans guarded the front door. Bedj-ka halted where he was. He knew from experience that if he got much closer, the two men would spot him, no matter how many points he put into his stealth skill. This time, however, he had a different idea.

Just before reaching the discovery point, Bedj-ka oozed carefully over the rail of the walkway. The forest floor was shrouded in shadow, and Bedj-ka was grateful for that-he didn't have to look at the hundred meter drop. Beneath the walkway was a fine polymer netting made to catch objects or people that slipped over the edge. Bedj-ka dropped fearlessly onto the netting and scuttled along the stretchy strands like a spider until he had made his way to the rear of the house, opposite the side with the guards. The men didn't stir. Bedj-ka reached up, got a hand on the walkway, and hoisted himself back onto it. This brought him almost directly under a rear window of the house-and got him past the guards unnoticed.

Voices filtered out of the open window.

"Where would she run to?" demanded a husky male voice. "Where's she hiding?"

"I don't know," replied a woman in shaky tones. "How would I know?"

The sound of a slap, a grunt of pain. Bedj-ka's throat tickled. He swallowed hard to suppress a cough and slowly raised himself up until he could peer through the window. A big, shaggy man in black was glowering down at a woman who was holding her cheek and trying to look defiant. Three other men in the room held energy pistols on a small crowd of scared-looking humans of varying ages. Some were younger than Bedj-ka.

"Maybe I should kill one of the others," the shaggy man snarled. "Maybe then you'll be more forthcoming." He gestured at one of his men, who leveled a pistol at a boy Bedj-ka's age. "Tell me where Irfan Qasad is hiding, or the boy dies."

"I can't tell you what I don't know," the woman cried. "Please, Mr. Clearwater. I really don't know where she is. None of us do."

"Max," Clearwater said. Max tightened his finger around the pistol. Bedj-ka made an odd gesture, and the scene instantly froze. He stared through the window, trying to think. Bedj-ka had already died seven times, and he didn't want to make a mistake that handed him death number eight.

Okay. The shaggy man was Ormand Clearwater, leader of the pirates. That he already knew. Irfan Qasad was hiding in the woods less than a kilometer away from Treetown, but she had no idea what the pirates were doing or why they had invaded Treetown. All she and the other escapees knew was that the pirates had slipships and a lot of weapons. Bedj-ka had volunteered to go spy on them to learn more, and Irfan had flashed him a grateful look before nodding and sending him off. She hadn't actually said whether or not he should rescue anyone, and the only weapon Bedj-ka had was a knife.

A sudden cough exploded from Bedj-ka's throat. He put a fist to his mouth and coughed several more times, then swallowed. Was he getting sick? He hoped not. Good thing he had paused the game.

Bedj-ka stared at the frozen scene for a long moment. Maybe Clearwater was bluffing, or maybe the woman did know something and would reveal it now. Regardless, Bedj-ka was sure that if he charged through the window, he would die.

Or would he just be captured?

Bedj-ka suddenly wished he had read more about Bellerophon's history. The sim was supposed to be historically accurate, and he had the feeling he was playing the part of a real person. If he knew what that person had done, Bedj-ka might know what to do now.

Clearwater continued to train his pistol on the cowering woman. Bedj-ka did know that Clearwater was actually a minor player in all this. The real villain was Daniel Vik, who was even now amassing an army to attack Treetown and the new Silent who lived there. Irfan — and Bedj-ka — had to find a way to stop Clearwater and rid Treetown of the pirates before Vik got wind of their presence. If he knew how vulnerable Treetown currently was, he would almost certainly invade in force and the Silent would be wiped from the face of the planet.

Bedj-ka drew an "S" in mid-air. The letter glowed briefly, then flashed and vanished, indicating the game had been saved. If he blew it, he could just restart from this point and try again. Bedj-ka drew his knife and made the gesture that would re-start the scene.

"Hold it!" he shouted, and dove through the window. Everyone turned in surprise. Clearwater's face shifted into a mask of rage — and then froze again.

"Time expired," said a dry computer voice. "Do you wish to save the game before exiting?"

Bedj-ka sighed. "No." The scene vanished, replaced by the blank inside of sim goggles. Bedj-ka pulled them off, removed gloves, boots, and earpieces, and stepped off the little trampoline which could become rigid or soft, depending on what sort of surface the sim called for. He considered calling Mom to ask for more sim time, but ultimately decided against it. She always said no, and he didn't feel like arguing with her right now.

A coughing fit seized him, followed by a hefty sneeze. Definitely a cold. He grimaced. Getting sick meant you had sinned and were being punished. It also meant being confined to bed, having to drink horrible-tasting medicine several times a day, and having the other children pray over you. He didn't want to go through that here.

What had he done? Bedj-ka tried to think. He hadn't disobeyed Mom that he remembered, though maybe he hadn't obeyed her as fast as he could have. He didn't like Sister Gretchen very much. Did that count? He didn't know.

Bedj-ka put the sim equipment on the shelf in the living room of the quarters he and Mom shared. They were nice, a lot nicer than the Enclave had ever been. Everything was done in soft blue, and several windows looked out into space. There was a big living room, a bathroom with both a shower and a tub, and two bedrooms. The rooms were also quiet, with no gongs to mark meditation time and no bells to mark learning time, eating time, and play time, no shouts and yells of other kids. The only sound was the soft rush of the ventilation system. Bedj-ka liked that. He could be alone whenever he wanted.

In this place, Bedj-ka had his own room. It was small, but it had a door he could close and a bed that stood by itself instead of in a long row of other beds. It also had a window. Bedj-ka had his own closet with seven whole outfits Mom had bought for him on Drim and on SA Station. He had unlimited access to the galley and could get something to eat whenever he liked, as long as it wasn't too close to a meal time. He had bookdisks and sim games and other toys, all things Mom had bought for him. She limited the amount of time he could play sim games, but he could read all he wanted. Bedj-ka liked reading. The Enclave had taught him how, but Matron and Patron had made it clear a lot of stuff was forbidden to the Silent. Silent were weaker than other humans, more prone to corruption, and they had to be sheltered. When Bedj-ka had brought this fact up with Mom, however, her face had gotten all tight. The next day, he had found a small library of bookdisks in his room, ones filled with histories and fairy tales and stories of adventure the Enclave had forbidden. Bedj-ka had devoured most of them. At first he had felt guilty and wondered whether he would get corrupted, but nothing had happened, and then Mom had asked him about some of the books at supper. That had been a surprise. He hadn't known she'd read them too. Mom wasn't corrupt. She had gotten him away from the chocolate farm.

Except now he was getting sick. Was reading the books was a sin after all? How could it be, if Mom did it? Mater always said Silent children sinned more than the non-Silent. Maybe it was a sin for him but not for Mom.

He coughed again, hard. After the spasm passed, he got a glass of water from the bathroom. At this rate, the whole ship would know he was getting sick. He groaned inwardly at the thought. Then it occurred to him that if Mom was nice about the books, maybe she would be nice about him getting sick, whether he had sinned or not. Maybe he should tell her. She was a nurse, after all.

Bedj-ka checked the computer. It said Mom was working down among the engines. He hesitated for a moment, then told the intercom system to page her.

"I'm off the sims," he said.

" 'Course I did. The computer won't let me play until I'm done." He paused, suddenly uncertain again. The cough came back, and he suppressed it.

"No," Bedj-ka said. "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to see what you were doing."

He didn't like, though he only said, "Okay. Myra, close channel."

Bedj-ka coughed again, then wandered aimlessly around the quarters for a while, not quite sure what he wanted to do. He didn't really feel sick-he was just coughing-and he wasn't tired enough to lay down. If Mom treated him like Mater and Pater had done at the Enclave, he'd be stuck in bed soon enough, so he decided to wander around and enjoy a little freedom.

The ship's corridors seemed to be empty. Where was everyone? Probably out scouting the Collection again or something. Bedj-ka only had a hazy idea of what Father Kendi, Mom, and the others were up to. Mom had told him he didn't need to worry about it, and eventually he had given up pestering her for information.

Bedj-ka continued to wander, stopping to look out the occasional window at the ships coming and going from SA Station. A few minutes later, he found himself outside the Forbidden Door. He passed it without stopping, then, when no one appeared in the corridor, reversed direction and passed it again. Stopping outside the door was disobedient, but no one had forbidden him to just walk past it.

Curiosity burned. Someone was in there, that he knew. Ms. Lucia made food for whoever it was, and Sister Gretchen delivered it. Twice Bedj-ka had arranged to be in the vicinity when Sister Gretchen opened the door, and both times she had noticed him lurking and ordered him away. When he had asked Mom about it, she had gone quiet and her mouth tightened in an expression that meant he'd get no answer.

Mom. Bedj-ka put his arms out on either side of him and pretended to tightrope-walk along a carpet seam. It still felt strange knowing he had a real mom. And not only was she a real mom, she was a totally rigid mom who traveled on a space ship and played sneaky tricks on bad people and rescued slaves. Slaves like him.

Bedj-ka wobbled a bit, then coughed and had to windmill his arms to keep his balance. The Forbidden Door remained stubbornly shut. Mom thought he didn't know she checked on him every night. Bedj-ka, however, was a light sleeper, and she always woke him up when she looked in. It made him feel secure, knowing she always checked. At first he had been afraid that she might take him back to the cacao farm, or sell him to someone else. And then he had been afraid it would all turn out to be a hallucination, or maybe that he had gotten into the Dream after all and was making it all up for himself. As a result, he had been afraid to let Mom out of his sight. By the time the Poltergeist got to Drim, however, Bedj-ka had begun to feel secure enough to let someone else watch him, and on the ship, he didn't need much direct supervision. Bedj-ka liked Ms. Lucia best. She told him stories about Irfan Qasad and her adventures back in the days before slipspace. It was because of her that Bedj-ka had tracked down the historical sim games.

But now he was lurking outside the Forbidden Door again. Bedj-ka glanced up and down the blue hallway. No one was around. He dashed up to the door and pressed an ear against the cool surface. Nothing but the faint hum of ship machinery. He concentrated, trying to tune out the noises of the ship and catch even a tiny sound from within.

"Hey, shortie," came a gruff voice. "Move it!"

Bedj-ka jumped away from the door. Sister Gretchen had moved up behind him, carrying a covered food tray. Bedj-ka blushed and tried to think of something to say. Sister Gretchen saved him the trouble.

"I told you to stay away from this door," she snapped. "You've got no business in this part of the ship. You want me to tell your mom what you're doing?"

"No," Bedj-ka said with a touch of belligerence. Sister Gretchen wasn't his mother and she couldn't tell him what to do. Besides, she was a real bitch, no matter what Mom said about her.

Sister Gretchen shifted the tray to one hip. "Listen, kid, I'm only going to tell you this one more time. There is a very dangerous man behind this door. He's a real son of bitch, and he'd happily slit your little throat if it gave him a chance to get away." She took a step toward him and he backed away. "You ever feel a knife slice through you, kid? Ever watch your own blood pour through your hands and make a puddle on the ground?"

Bedj-ka didn't answer, though his hand stole unconsciously to his neck.

"I didn't think so," Sister Gretchen said. "That's what'll happen if you ever open this door. And if I ever, ever catch you lurking around here again, I'm going to have Lucia fit you up with a pair of slave shackles that'll shock the living piss out of you if you come within ten meters of this door. You got that?"

"You can't put shackles on me," Bedj-ka said, anger rising again. "I'm free now."

"You'll be dead if you come near this door again," Sister Gretchen shot back. "Now get the hell out of here."

Bedj-ka turned and marched away with all the dignity he could muster, though his heart was pounding hard enough to make his neck muscles pulse. Yet another coughing fit struck him, and he was starting to feel warm now. He thought about telling Mom about what Sister Gretchen had said, then realized that would involve telling her why she had said it. Best to keep his mouth shut and hope Sister Gretchen did the same.

And then, sin or not, he'd have to find a way to talk to the person behind that door.

"Are you looking for something in particular, good gentle?"

Kendi turned. A tall, willowy being with red skin and enormous yellow eyes had approached him from behind. He-the voice was deep enough to make Kendi think of the creature as male-had long, graceful limbs and topped Kendi by almost a meter.

"I'm always looking for something unique to add to my collection," Kendi said with a small smile. "This one isn't quite to my taste-" he gestured at a messy blob of colors titled Circus Day "-but I'm sure you have better." He sniffed. "You certainly couldn't have worse."

"What sort of work is to your taste?"

"Realistic paintings and sculptures, especially of circus animals."

"Then you should follow me, fine gentle, and I will guide your steps to something more to your liking. I am Pnebran, and this is my gallery."

Pnebran turned and walked away, swaying like a sapling in the wind. Kendi followed, trying not to bounce in the lighter gravity of the gallery. The place was built on a spiral. A large open space opened all the way up to the ceiling, and a single wide balcony wound its way around the wall, corkscrewing a path to the top. Occasional staircases and lift platforms provided shortcuts. Floors, walls, and ceilings were white so as not to detract from the artwork displays which lined the walls. Statues, paintings, holograms both static and mobile, living sculptures, and sound symphonies each had a niche. Creatures of many shapes and species moved slowly among the pieces. Every work had a price discretely displayed somewhere on it, reminding the viewer that this was not a museum.

"You have arrived at an appropriate time," Pnebran continued. "I am displaying my annual exhibit of circus pieces."

"I know," Kendi said. "That's why I'm here."

Pnebran made a languid gesture, and Kendi wondered if his bones would break under the full gravity of the rest of the station. Was Pnebran a prisoner in his own gallery? If so, why did he stay on SA Station?

"The first three tiers are all circus artwork," Pnebran said. "Here we have a lovely display of Pallingram's early work. The colors are carefully muted and almost hypnotic. You're familiar, I'm sure, with the fact that his work always has a dark edge to it."

Kendi looked with pretended interest at the four paintings. They did indeed hold a dark quality to them. The clowns creating a living pyramid in the first painting looked ready to leap onto the audience and devour them. A tiger in the second was clearly about to slip its leash and attack the red-clad ringleader.

"Fine examples," Kendi said. "What else do you have? I'm especially interested in the rarer works."

"Would you like to touch my Koochi?"

Kendi bit back a reply that would probably have gotten him ejected from the gallery and simply nodded instead. Pnebran lead him to a blank section of white wall. "There," Pnebran said with another gesture. Kendi laid his palm on the wall. Crowd noise instantly crashed over him and he smelled roasted peanuts.

"Olfactory and auditory neural interface," Pnebran said proudly. "I have heard rumors of a Koochi that combines three senses but have been unable to find such."

"Breathtaking," Kendi said, meaning it. "What is the price?"

"Eight hundred thousand freemarks," Pnebran replied.

"A steal," Kendi said, barely managing not to choke. "What else do you have?"

Pnebran showed Kendi several other pieces, and Kendi pretended polite interest in each. Other guides of Pnebran's species shepherded other customers through the gallery around them.

"Have you sold many pieces during this exhibition?" Kendi asked casually.

"We just opened it yesterday, gentle, so not yet. It is a popular exhibition, however. The idea of a traveling group of performers appears in so many cultures that it is nearly universal, as is the artwork that springs from the concept, so we have people of many species who wish to visit."

Kendi nodded. "I'm especially interested in pieces with elephants in them. I had heard there were a few here."

"We sold one such just today," Pnebran said. " Gray Elephants on Parade by Wimpale."

Kendi seemed to grow excited. "Do you have more Wimpale?"

"I am afraid I do not."

"Dammit! Who bought the piece? No, let me guess-Edsard Roon."

"You know him," Pnebran observed.

"I know who he is," Kendi replied ruefully. "Does he often buy from you?"

"He is one of our favored customers. He has, in fact, one of the finest collections of circus art I have ever seen. And his memorabilia collection goes beyond the status of mere treasure."

"I've never seen his collection," Kendi said absently. Something stirred in his head.

Pnebran, meanwhile, lead Kendi to another painting. A group of human circus folk were gathered around a downed elephant. "Yemark's work is not so much dark as delightfully depressing. This is one of his earlier ones. The elephant is diseased and soon to be put out of misery."

Diseased. The word froze Kendi's world. He stared at the painting for a long moment. Ideas and possibilities rushed through his mind. Abruptly, one idea crystallized, and excitement surged through him. It took him a moment to realize Pnebran was speaking to him.

"… you well, gentle?" Pnebran asked. "Do you like the painting? The price is-"

"I'm fine," Kendi interrupted, wishing the curator would shut up. "I just… I'm receiving a call. Excuse me?" He turned away and pressed a hand to the side of his head, as if listening to someone on his earpiece, and he used the time to examine his idea from several sides. Disease. A ship. Roon's key. Elephants. It would work. He was sure of it. Excitement jumped around Kendi's head and made him want to leap up and slap the ceiling. In this gravity, he might be able to pull it off.

Instead, he turned back to Pnebran. "I have to leave, sir. How long will your exhibit be open? There are some pieces I want to look at more closely."

Pnebran made a graceful gesture Kendi took for a slight bow. "We close in twelve more days."

Kendi thanked him and rushed away.

Ben glared down at the pile of rubble beneath his feet, then lifted his plexiglass face mask and swiped at his sweaty face with one sleeve. The little sledgehammer pulled with substantial weight at his other arm. It wasn't working anymore. Smashing Padric Sufur flat with a hammer used to give him a certain amount of satisfaction, but lately it hadn't done much for him. Maybe he needed to try something else. But what?

He wished he could create the real thing, a Dream simulacrum that would move and talk. And bleed. But Mom had always said that no one could create people in the Dream.

A feathery touch on Ben's mind warned him that someone was nearby.

Ben quickly banished the sledgehammer, face shield, and remains of Sufur's statue. "Come on in," he said aloud.

A falcon swooped in from the plain gray sky. It changed into a kangaroo in mid-drop and landed lightly in front of Ben. The kangaroo had a pouch. Before the Despair, Kendi's fragment animals had always been female, a trait that seemed to have carried over into Kendi's current state. The one time Ben had tried to rib Kendi about this had resulted in such an explosion of temper that Ben had never again remarked on it. Nowadays Ben always thought of Dream Kendi as "he," regardless of the gender of his animal form.

"Where's the computer system?" the kangaroo asked.

Ben shrugged. "I'm playing around with other stuff. How did things go at the gallery?"

"Pretty good. That's why I'm in here, in fact." Kendi gave Ben a capsule description of his conversation with Pnebran. He kept bobbing up and down in obvious excitement. "I've got it, Ben. I know how to do it."

"Do what?"

"Get them out."

"You mean you didn't before?"

"Not completely," Kendi admitted. "But then it hit me in the middle of the art gallery, every detail. I think it'll work. And it won't take that long."

Ben called up an armchair and plunked down into it, bringing himself down to Kendi's eye level. "So what's the plan?"

Kendi looked away. "I'm not… I don't think I should tell you all of it."

"Why not?"

"In case."

"Kendi, who am I going to tell?" Ben asked, nettled.

"No one-unless Silent Acquisitions gets wind of what's going on and captures one of us. Anyone will talk under drugs or torture. You know that."

"How am I supposed to help if I don't know what the hell is going on?" Ben demanded.

The kangaroo took a hop forward and abruptly changed into a koala bear which looked up at Ben with enormous brown eyes. "Please don't be angry, Ben. I need your support in this. I don't want anything to go wrong."

"You're only doing that because you know koalas are cute," Ben growled.

"Is it working?" Kendi asked, reaching up to place a warm, clawed paw on Ben's leg.

Ben sighed. "All right. What do I need to do?"

"Help me find Valeta's messenger. I need to cash in a favor."

"A favor?" Ben echoed. "From the Emporium?"

"And then I need to talk to Vidya and Prasad. You said Sejal can't-or won't-help us, but I'll bet those two will."

— Relayed out of Dream to solid-world messenger. Awaiting response. Relaying response: Kendi! I haven't heard from you since before the Despair. How're the Children holding out? I hear you guys are expensive these days.~

— Relay: Got that right. Listen, remember that time back on Nipon? The stalker who came after you?~

— Relaying response: Just me or the whole Emporium?~

— Relay: The whole enchilada, Val. Probably won't take more than a week.~

— Relaying response: Kendi, I can't just-"

"Rent a slip shuttle? From SA? Father, that'll cost a small fortune."

"I know, Lucia, but I don't want to take the Poltergeist out."

"And where you do want me to go?"

"There's a… semi-legal shipyard orbiting one of the moons around Artemis. Do you know it?"

"I know it. It's just outside the boundaries of the Five Green Worlds. One of the owners is actually a distant cousin of mine."

"Does he owe you any favors?"

"One or two. Why?"

"Cash them in, Lucia, and I'll owe you a favor. A big one. See if you can get him to give you a discount-a one-hundred percent discount, if you can manage it."

"On what?"

"An old, clunky ship. It doesn't need to have slip, gravity, or even life support. As long as the hull is intact, it'll work. The less it costs, the better-rent for the shuttle will eat up most of the cash we have left."

"All right. What am I supposed to do with this ship?"

"Haul it to a point a few parsecs away from SA and set it to drift relative to the station. Then leave it and come straight back here."

"Yes, Father."

"Aren't you going to ask what it's for?"

"I'm assuming you have your reasons."

"A refreshing change from everyone else. Leave as soon as you can get the shuttle, Lucia. And thanks."

"Irfan blesses you, Father."

"Let's hope she blesses all of us."

"I need everything you can get your hands on about circuses, Ben. History, current shows, clowns, animals, the works. In great and excruciating detail."

"Text? Holovid? Pics?"

"The works. I need to become a three-day expert. I learned a fair amount from that time with Valeta, but I need a refresher if I'm going to pull this off."

"Sure. I'll even throw in a subroutine to weed out repeat info."

"Great. But you'll have to hack it out of SA's library databases. I don't want there to be a record of what I'm reading just in case someone starts sniffing around. It'll also be cheaper, and I'm starting to worry about money."

"Shouldn't be hard. It's not like the library computers guard station secrets or anything, and they won't be that well guarded."

"Thanks, Ben. I owe you."

"What? I don't keep track. You know that."

"Sorry. Sometimes I get into favor-cashing mode and don't get out. But I'll still pay you back. There are lots of… favors I'd love to owe you. Think creatively about what I could do."

"Not if you want me to hack the SA library without getting caught."

Edsard Roon logged off the computer terminal, pulled his key from the receptor, and dropped the chain around his neck as the screen vanished. Enough work for now. These days he too-often found himself arriving home after a fourteen-hour workday only to spend another hour at his home terminal. Time for a break.

He kicked off his shoes, took a deep, cold pull from the frosted glass that hovered at his elbow, and sank into a supremely comfortable easy chair with a sigh. Caffeine, his one weakness. Edsard didn't allow himself alcohol or any other recreational drug. The mind had to stay clear, be precise, firm. Even caffeine had an impact on the thought processes, but, he supposed, everyone needed at least one bad habit. Bad habits, in moderation, relieved stress.

Relieved N-waves.

Edsard snorted. He was a dark-haired man, tall and rangy, with a long, sad face. Work, it seemed, was never far from his mind. He supposed it was his own fault. After overriding Elena Papagos-Faye and ordering a dedicated terminal installed in his den at home, he found himself spending more and more of his minuscule free time at the computer doing Collection business. Papagos-Faye had protested the practice, but Edsard had known there would be times when he would need the access at home. Besides, no one except Elena even knew the terminal existed-or what it was for. There was no danger it would be hacked.

After another long drink, Edsard set the glass down in mid-air beside him. The house computer caught the movement and adjusted local gravity generators. Edsard's glass hovered in place at hand level. Edsard wiggled tired toes and sank deeper into the chair. Did enjoying comfortable furniture count as a bad habit? Perhaps it did, and he had two bad habits.

The study was enormous, large enough to house three families in some sectors of SA Station. Persian rugs imported all the way from Earth covered the polished wood floors. Glass-topped tables with wooden borders vied for floor space with several couches and overstuffed chair. The ceiling was two stories away, and the walls were all but hidden by display cases. Each case was crammed with pieces from Edsard's collection, as if someone had torn pieces from a thousand different circuses and trapped them under glass. Tom Thumb's skeleton. P.T. Barnum's hat. A set of tights worn by Ernie Clark, the first human trapeze artist to perform the triple somersault. A lock of Mario Santelli's hair. Tommy Zane's chess set. A scale reproduction of the railway accident that had killed Jumbo the elephant. The third eye of Vrilkari no Sencmok, ringleader of the very first interplanetary circus.

Seeded among them all were the elephants. Statues of elephants, paintings of elephants, holograms of elephants. Toys, blankets, tapestries, signs, hides, and tusks. Everywhere one looked, an elephant looked back. Edsard's newest acquisition, a Wimpale painting called Gray Elephants on Parade, hung in a place of honor lit by a special spotlight. He looked at it contentedly. There were only eight surviving Wimpales left, though rumor spoke of a ninth in the vaults owned by Padric Sufur. Edsard possessed three Wimpales. Parade now made four. The work had cost over three million freemarks, and it was worth every single one.

Edsard took back his glass and raised it at the Wimpale in silent toast. A salute to his collection. And, as always, his mind wandered back toward work-his other Collection.

The Collection. His best idea ever, despite its simplicity. Use the same indoctrination methods that human cults had perfected over centuries of practice to create an army of working Silent who were slavishly devoted to him-and to Silent Acquisitions. With working Silent still terrifyingly rare, a stable of Silent that wouldn't run away even if they could was essential to SA's financial future. And SA had to survive. The collapse of Silent Acquisitions would be equivalent to the collapse of a multi-system government, with millions of people thrown out of work and thousands of slaves left without owners. Also, no fewer than five major economies were tied in with SA's future, and if SA sank, it would doubtless drag those governments down with it. No, SA had to continue, and gaining monopolistic control over the remaining Silent in the galaxy was the best way to guarantee that. Carinna Mogarr, the company's CEO, had been slaveringly appreciative when Edsard brought her the idea, though now she was pressuring him to put some of the Collection to work and find out if similar methods would work on non-human species.

It was all stopgap, of course. When the current crop of Silent died, Silent Acquisitions would follow them. But that was still several decades away, and someone, Roon was sure, would find a solution.

Meanwhile, between overseeing the Collection's day-to-day operations and playing the part of Dreamer Roon, he was finding precious little time to admire his circus collection. The outing to the circus exhibit had been his first major treat in months. Ah well. Eventually the Collection would run itself, and Edsard would have more spare time. Several of the Alphas had already been promoted to Beta, and when they reached Delta status, they would take over the training of new Alphas, replacing the current Deltas, who were played by actors. This absolutely loyal base of workers would "recruit" and train more workers, who would, in turn, indoctrinate yet another generation. It was perfect. It was brilliant. And it had been all his idea.

Edsard grinned. Once the Alphas were all nicely pliable Betas, he would start the next phase of the operation. He toyed with the computer key on its chain around his neck as his mind filled with pleasant plans.

"Mr. Roon?"

Edsard glanced up. His wife Annalies Roon, a soft, pale woman with white-blond hair and gray eyes, was standing in the door. He gave her a quizzical look.

"There's someone here to see you. A Mr. Evan Qiwele. He was insistent but not rude."

"What does he want to see me about, Mrs. Roon?"

She gestured at the displays. "He says he a circus enthusiast and he's hoping to see your collection, especially your Wimpales."

Edsard's first instinct was to tell Mrs. Roon to send him away. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to some time alone. Mrs. Roon would keep the children, and he could spend a quiet hour or two.

On the other hand, it was no fun having a collection if you didn't get to show it off. Edsard's few friends didn't share his enthusiasm, and it would be nice to have a new audience, even one that arrived unexpectedly.

"Show him in, Mrs. Roon," he ordered.

She nodded and vanished. A few moments later, a tall, dark-skinned man wearing blue silk, white gloves, and a red turban entered the room. A smile wide as a crescent moon split the man's face in half.

"Mr. Roon?" He extended a hand and Edsard shook it. "I'm Evan Qiwele. Sorry to drop in on you unannounced, but I was down at a certain gallery today and learned that you beat me to a Wimpale. I had to see if you would allow me to view it."

"Mr. Qiwele," Edsard said politely. "Can I offer you something to drink?"

"Thank you. Scotch and soda?"

Mrs. Roon had already taken up her position behind the bar. Ice clinked and soda hissed. Roon reached for his floating tea glass and gestured for Qiwele to sit on one of the sofas. He accepted the drink when Mrs. Roon brought it, sipped, and looked at the glass appreciatively.

"The scotch is twenty years old," Edsard said. "I keep it especially for guests."

Qiwele nodded and set the glass down in the air beside him with a restless air. The computer caught the glass and set it to hover.

"I apologize again if I seem rude," Qiwele said, hands tapping on his knees, "but I couldn't help myself. I've been looking for a Wimpale for ages, and just when I think I've gotten a solid lead on one, I learn that someone has whisked it out from under my nose. I congratulate you, Mr. Roon, though I have to say I'm not above trying to convince you to sell it to me. Or perhaps we could arrange a trade? Something in my collection for something in yours?"

Edsard shook his head with a smile. "I doubt that very much. The Wimpales are the jewel of my collection. Have you been a circus enthusiast for long?"

"All my life." Qiwele continued tapping his hands on his knees. "My wife thinks I'm insane. I literally snuck through a war zone for the chance to examine a Debsi sculpture once. Turned out to be a forgery, I'm sorry to say."

"Debsi isn't really my thing," Edsard said with a smile. "Shall I show you my collection, then?"

"That would be a delight, sir," Qiwele cried with palpable enthusiasm. "Do you still have Lupino's makeup case? I would give a great deal to see that."

"I have it," Edsard told him, surprised and pleased. "How did you-"

"Please." Qiwele held up a hand. "I've heard a great deal about your collection, Mr. Roon, and I've been eager to get a look at it for a long, long time."

Feeling flattered, Edsard got to his feet. Mrs. Roon stayed behind the bar as he lead Qiwele to the first display case. They chatted circus as Qiwele examined with happy exclamations each piece Edsard showed him. Qiwele clearly knew what he was talking about, and Edsard found himself glowing with pride as he saw his prizes anew through the eyes of his visitor. A fine man, this Mr. Qiwele.

Despite the growing lateness of the hour, Edsard saved the Wimpales for last, and when Qiwele at last reached them, he let out a long sigh of contentment.

"Let me simply feast my eyes," he said. "No one captures the spirit of the circus elephant like Wimpale."

"Agreed," Edsard said. "His work takes me back to my childhood. I wanted to be a circus performer for the longest time."

"I wanted to be a lion tamer," Qiwele confessed with a wry grin. "I even made a whip. The first time I used it, I broke an antique lamp and my mother banished me to the garden."

"I wanted to be a clown," Edsard said. "Whenever there was a costume party, you would find me dressed in floppy shoes and white makeup."

Qiwele looked him up and down. "That's hard to picture," he said.

"Truth." Edsard held up his right hand, though his eyes took on a faraway look. He remembered the smell of real greasepaint, the ridiculous flapping of overlarge shoes, making silly faces, eliciting bright laughter from other partygoers. The only thing missing was the ring and the roar of an audience. He came to himself a moment later and realized Qiwele was staring at him.

"What?" he asked, suddenly uncomfortable.

Qiwele made his wide, white smile again. "Just trying to imagine you as a clown. It still doesn't fit." He gave an abrupt yawn that nearly split his head in two, and Roon, finding the gesture contagious, followed suit. "Heavens, it's late. I've intruded on you long enough, sir. Your lovely wife abandoned us ages ago."

He leaned against Edsard's desk, the one with the Collection terminal on it. Edsard quickly gestured him over to a pair of armchairs and they sat despite Qiwele's observation of the hour.

"I trust I'll see you at the Emporium next week," Qiwele said.

"The Emporium?" Edsard echoed, confused.

"The Kalopolis Intergalactic Traveling Emporium of Wonders."

"I know what it is. What do you mean by mentioning it?"

Qiwele scratched his ear. "You hadn't heard?"

"Heard what?" Roon asked with a hint of impatience.

"The Emporium is coming here next week for a short engagement. Three performances only."

Edsard sat bolt upright. "The Emporium is coming here? To SA Station? Why didn't I hear about it?"

"Tickets are already sold out, my good man. You really hadn't heard?"

Anxiety mixed with disappointment. The Emporium was the greatest circus in all history. No other even came close. Roon had only seen the Emporium's show twice his life, and both times he had come away burning to see more. He would happily travel slipspace for a month to catch it, but his schedule was so insane these days, such things were out of the question. Now the Emporium was coming here, right into his own neighborhood, and tickets were already gone. Well, he would see about that. What was the point of having money and power if you didn't use it?

"You must come," Qiwele was saying. He lowered his voice, though they were patently alone. "I'm good friends with the ringleader, and-"

It was Edsard's turn to be impressed. "You know Valeta Kalopolis?"

"I didn't mention that? Our families have been friends for a long time. I'm sure I can arrange tickets for you and your family at the opening performance. They'll be waiting at the box office for you. I insist!"

Relief and excitement flooded over Edsard. The Emporium! "That would be marvelous, Mr. Qiwele. I'm in your debt."

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Roon. In fact… " Qiwele's voice trailed off for a moment, and Edsard leaned forward, eager to hear what might come next. "You know the Emporium uses bleachers? With no reserved seats?"

"Yes," Edsard said. "Part of the charm."

"You've been so kind," Qiwele murmured. "And for a fellow enthusiast of your caliber, I might be able to arrange… well, perhaps I shouldn't say, in case it can't be done."

Edsard tried not to squirm. "What? You can't leave me hanging like that. Tell me!"

"No, no. I shouldn't get your hopes up."

It was on the tip of Edsard's tongue to shout, to order Qiwele to tell. This was the Emporium, for god's sake. Who did Qiwele think he was, jerking him, Edsard Roon, around like this? But he bit the inside of his cheek. Shouting orders at a guest was not only rude, it probably wouldn't work. He forced himself to keep his voice calm.

"Tell," he said. "After all, I showed you my Wimpale."

Qiwele paused for an agonizingly long time. "I just don't want to make you think this is a guarantee when I can only promise to do my best."

"What? What?" Edsard demanded.

"I'm thinking," Qiwele said slowly, "that I could have a word with Valeta. Arrange something special." Qiwele rubbed his nose. "Tell you what. As I said, I will arrange for tickets to be left at the box office. When you and your family arrive, be sure you sit in seat A7. Your wife and children may sit where they like, but you, my friend, must sit in seat A7. I will try to ensure it remains vacant, but I can't control everything, so you'll want to arrive in plenty of time."

"What exactly are you arranging, Mr. Qiwele?"

Qiwele gave a maddening smile. "A surprise, Mr. Roon. And nothing in the world will make me spoil it for you. The opening performance is in three days, and seating starts at seven o'clock. Seat A7. It'll be a dream come true, Mr. Roon. An absolute dream."

After a hearty handshake and a polite good-bye, Qiwele left. Roon stared after him feeling like a child who has been handed an enormous present and told he couldn't open it for three days.

Then his com-link chimed.

One, two, three, four, five, six, and turn. One, two, three, four, five, six, and turn. Isaac Todd paced and paced and paced again. There was frigging nothing to do. He was tired of reading, bored with the mini-sim games, and sick, sick, sick of being in these tiny quarters with no frigging windows. He had nothing but a bed, a chair, a tiny bathroom, and a combination bookdisk reader and mini-sim player. That was it. He didn't even have a change of clothes, had to stand around naked while he washed out his stuff in the sink and hung it up to dry. Who the hell did Harenn think she was, anyway? She had no right, no right to keep him here, let alone stick him with needles.

Todd shuddered and paused in his pacing. The needles. Just thinking about them made him sweat. And then there were the nightmares. He could never remember exactly what they were, or even actually having them, for that matter. All he knew was that three times in four when he woke up in the morning, he was shaking with the memory of fear, the sheets soaked and cold. Harenn was doing it to him somehow, he was sure of it.

At least the vomiting thing had stopped.

Harenn. Damned bitch. He hadn't done anything illegal to her. The kids he had made were his, his to keep or to sell. Besides, Harenn and the other women should have been glad for what he did. The kids were all genetic freaks. He had disposed of each one of them, ensuring their mothers didn't have to raise them and earning a tidy profit for himself. In the meantime, the freaks were put to good use. Everybody won. Especially Isaac, who got a steady stream of new sex partners, a good income from the results, and the thrill of outsmarting a bunch of women stupid enough to fall for him.

But now he sat in an inhumanly tiny cell with nothing to do, and that burned him. Inactivity chafed like sand in his clothes. He wanted to act, get out there and do something. Anything.

Well, not quite anything. He had been putting off the one thing he could do, setting it aside until he could work out some details. Said details had come together yesterday afternoon, but still Todd had avoided acting. So much would depend on how fast he could talk.

With a deep breath, Isaac Todd twisted his left ring finger. It came off. From the base of the finger he pulled a short antenna. Then he pressed the nail. A tiny holographic display popped up. Todd swallowed, then whispered a command to it. A few moments later, the display morphed into a head-and-shoulders view of a man.

"Isaac Todd," he said, mouth almost completely dry. "Reporting in, Mr. Roon."

"It's been over two weeks, Mr. Todd. Where are you? I was just about to go to bed."

"I've been captured by the Children of Irfan."

Mr. Roon's expression didn't change, but Todd noticed his neck muscles stiffen. "The Children? Are you on Belleroph-no, you can't be. What is your location?"

"I'm on a ship docked at SA Station. I don't know the name of it-they haven't mentioned it within my hearing."

"Start from the beginning, Mr. Todd," Mr. Roon said tensely, "and tell me everything."

Todd explained and Mr. Roon listened.

"So you allowed yourself to be captured, is that it?" Mr. Roon said when he was done. "And then you let them drug you and make you blab everything you know."

"We can turn this into an advantage, sir," Todd said. He thrust the hand that wasn't holding the communicator into his pocket so it wouldn't shake. "The Father in charge-I haven't caught his name, either-said he wants to steal away his family. Mr. Roon, he's still Silent."

Roon didn't answer right away, so Todd plunged on. "He once said something about going into the Dream. I also get the idea that at least one other person on this ship is also still Silent. There may be more, sir."

"And?" Mr. Roon said at last. "I have the feeling that this is going somewhere."

"If we play this right," Todd replied, "we could grab all of them."

"Of course we can grab all of them. Your signal has already told me where you are. I can simply flood the ship with security troops. We'd get the Silent-and you."

Todd didn't miss the implied threat. "I think that would be a mistake, sir."

"Oh?"

"It would be hard to keep something like that a secret," he explained. "The moment security forces show up, the Children will shout for help and probably dump everything they know about the Collection into public-access networks-and into the Dream. I would, under those circumstances."

"To what end?" Mr. Roon countered.

"Partly to tick you off and partly because it would put every Silent in the galaxy on their guard, making the Collection harder to expand. The Children themselves would also come looking to rescue their people, and the groups we… liberated our Silent from would want their property back, so you can be sure they'd kick up a fuss. SA Station would be inundated with people trying to destroy the Collection, and someone might even declare war against SA itself. If the Collection's existence became public knowledge at this stage, the whole thing would be ruined."

"You have a point," Mr. Roon conceded grudgingly. "So what do you propose we do?"

"Nothing. That's the beauty of it. If they want to get the Father's relatives, they'll have to come to us. All you have to do is wait for them. I can feed you information from the inside, let you know when they're planning to move. The moment they try something"-Todd snapped his fingers-"you'll have them. All of them."

Mr. Roon thought for a long moment. Todd held his breath. If Mr. Roon decided to dump Todd's plan and instead take the ship by force, Todd would be in the position of "agent who needed rescue." If Mr. Roon accepted Todd's plan, Todd would be in the position of "agent who came up with a brilliant idea." The latter meant gratitude and a bonus. The former meant the recycling vats or worse.

"All right," Mr. Roon said at last. "We'll try it your way. Check in with me every two days at this time, sooner if something's going to break. Meanwhile, I'll step up security around the Collection."

"That would also be a mistake, sir," Todd said with an internal sigh of relief. "If anything, you should ease up a little."

Mr. Roon considered this. "Because it will make it easier for the Children to get inside where we want them. I see your point." He eyed Todd skeptically. "You're adept at turning your position around, Mr. Todd. I'll be watching you carefully."

And with that, he broke the connection. The hologram vanished. Todd let out a long, heavy breath. Then, whistling a little tune, he replaced his finger.