Black Brillion Read online

  “A reasonable assumption, since Arboghast was close on our trail when my partnership with Horslan Gebbling came to an end.”

  “So you are an auxiliary,” said Baro, “a temporary employee.”

  Imbry extended his lower lip and knitted his eyebrows. “My commission makes no such distinction. I am full-weight, a complete scroot.”

  “Show me,” Baro said.

  The fat man went into his belt pouch and withdrew his own plaque. He pressed a symbol and a second screen appeared in the air between them, displaying an official document. Baro scanned it quickly and experienced a disheartening realization that there was no difference between Imbry’s commission and his own.

  Then a thought occurred. “What is the date and time of your commission?” Baro said. If Imbry’s had been ratified after his own, Baro would have seniority.

  Imbry pressed another character on his plaque and scrolled to the bottom of the text, where Directing Agent Arboghast’s sigil appeared. Beneath it was yesterday’s date, the same as on Baro’s.

  The young man ground his teeth, but all was not yet lost. “What about time of issuance?” he said.

  “It is not on the document,” said Imbry.

  “But it will be in the Bureau’s records.” Baro turned to his own plaque and pressed the character that transformed it into a communicator.

  A voice spoke from the air. “Bureau of Scrutiny, main integrator. What is your requirement?”

  “I wish to know the precise time of my commissioning as an agent,” Baro said.

  “Bureau integrators are not for personal indulgences,” said the voice.

  “It is a matter of determining seniority between me and my partner, Agent Luff Imbry. We also require his time of commissioning so that we may know which of us is to take charge.”

  The integrator made a sound that approximated a human tsk, then said, “You were both commissioned at the time of nine hours, four minutes, and eighteen seconds past noon yesterday.”

  “Is it possible that we were both commissioned at the same instant?” said Baro.

  “It is beyond mere possibility,” said the integrator. “It is a fact.”

  “The Bureau records time in minims and microminims,” said Baro. “Please see if there is a distinction beyond the decimal point.”

  “I have already done so,” said the integrator. “There is none.”

  “Well,” said Luff Imbry, “there it is. We are equal partners.”

  Baro disconnected from the integrator. “I have spent my life preparing for a career in the Bureau,” he said, “while you have busied yourself in violating its every standard and precept. It is not fair.”

  “I see it as yet another demonstration that ironic humor is the basal operating principle of the universe,” said Imbry. “However, what we need is to establish a harmonious working relationship.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Nonsense,” said the older man. “Where is the faith one expects from youth? We will set ourselves to achieving the Bureau’s goals, which coincide with our own—you for glory and promotion, me for revenge and recoupment from Horslan Gebbling.”

  “The Bureau is not a weapon for settling private scores,” Baro said.

  “If you say so. Directing Agent Arboghast may have a different view.”

  Baro relented. “I suppose we must work together, at least for this one case.”

  Imbry smiled. “That’s the spirit. Let us divide our responsibilities according to our capabilities. Since I am familiar with Gebbling and his style of scheme, I will plan an appropriate angle of attack.”

  “That is reasonable, so long as you stay within the bounds of the law and Bureau operating procedures. But what shall I do?”

  Imbry considered for a moment. “Would you like to take charge of communications between the field and headquarters?”

  “That means reporting to Arboghast.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no.”

  “All right,” said Imbry. “I suggest you look after logistics and arrangements—book our travel and accommodations and so on.”

  “That would seem to place me firmly in the assistant’s role,” Baro said.

  “But we both know that we are equal, don’t we?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And when it comes to quoting Bureau procedures and regulations, you are clearly in first position, are you not?”

  “Well, yes,” said Baro.

  “Then there we are,” said the older man. “Now why don’t you pay for these snacks while I plan our first move?”

  Baro reached for his plaque, then halted. “I have had half a cup of punge, while you have consumed two, plus a plate of cakes,” he said. “I suggest that we pay our individual scores. That way I do not risk feeling like some lackey picking up after his superior.”

  Imbry’s hand waved in airy dismissal. “If you like,” he said. “After all, what counts is that things are done and done well. The issue of who does them need not arise.”

  “Then I will plan our next move while you pay for the food,” said Baro.

  “Hmm,” said the older man. “I sense an undercurrent of distrust.”

  “Your senses serve you well. I do not trust you.”

  Imbry showed a wounded spirit. “Are we not partners?” he asked. “Are we not commissioned agents of the Bureau, resolutely united, determined to root out ill-doers and set the world aright?”

  “No,” said Baro. “We are not. At least you are not. I have sought nothing more, my whole life through, than to be an instrument of right and justice.”

  “I am similarly motivated. I desire to bring Horslan Gebbling to book for his transgressions.”

  “That is settling a personal score.”

  Imbry looked down, then up again. “No, not entirely,” he said. “I admit that I have never before been on your side of the dichotomy yet I am willing to give it a try. I may come to enjoy clapping ne’er-do-wells behind unbreakable bars.”

  A corner of Baro’s mouth turned in on itself. “And tiny winged creatures might spring from my ears and perform coordinated aerobatics around my head,” he said.

  “An unusual ambition,” said Imbry. “But I will not disparage your aspirations if you will let mine be.”

  Baro sighed. “We appear to be at an impasse. Clearly, we are ill-matched partners.”

  “Yet matched we are, and by Ardmander Arboghast for whatever purposes may move him.” Imbry spread his hands. “Look, let us lay our members on the stump. You do not wish me for a partner but neither do you wish a squabble with the section chief, for fear he will take away your promotion.”

  Baro did not like to admit it, but he spoke plainly. “That is so.”

  “I, however, am willing to chew what I find in my bowl, if I thereby keep my freedom and—I will admit it—gain a chance to insert a finger into Horslan Gebbling’s dewy eye.”

  “So?” Baro said.

  “So we each have something to lose and something to gain, and we might as well see how it goes.”

  Baro thought about it. “It is worth a try,” he said. “But we will proceed as equals.”

  “Though each shall exercise his special capabilities,” said Imbry.

  “Within reason, and with full consultation.”

  “Agreed.”

  The older man held out his hand, but Baro withheld his long enough to say, “Of course, if I find you in violation of any law or statute, I will immediately rearrest you and haul you before a magistrate.”

  Imbry blinked. “Of course,” he said, his hand still offered. Baro took it and they performed the appropriate manipulations.

  “Very well, let us return to the file,” said Imbry, and when it was open before him again, he pointed to one of the clippings. “Here is our avenue of approach.”

  Baro had read the news report before. He said, “It is despicable.”

  “Even I would agree,” said Imbry. “Gebbling has gone beyond the pale.”

  �
��He’s pretending that he can cure the lassitude.”

  “Nothing less.”

  Baro was outraged. “He is a shameless mountebank! He exploits the misery of those whose loved ones have been struck down by a foul disease!”

  “I can’t disagree,” said Imbry. “Something has happened to Horslan Gebbling since last I knew him. He was always bad, but never beastly.”

  Baro rubbed his hands. “I itch to be at him,” he said. “How do we unpluck his scheme?”

  “We join the victims, and come the moment Gebbling reaches to rake in the proceeds, we pounce!”

  Baro’s throat produced a sound of affirmation that was close to a growl. Pouncing sounded very good indeed.

  No one knew exactly when the lassitude first appeared. The initial cases were few and widely scattered. It was only recently that the syndrome had been recognized as one disease.

  The early symptoms were mild and easily overlooked: a tendency to sleep a little longer of a morning, a tapering off of interest in pursuits that had formerly engrossed, a growing absentmindedness, and a lack of interest in finishing sentences. But within a short time the sufferers ceaselessly descended into catatonia, drew away from the world to become trapped in the prison of their own inert bodies.

  The lassitude first took away the power to initiate speech, while leaving the capacity to respond to words spoken by others. Then the ability to answer a question faded, while victims remained able to understand what was spoken to them—could nod yes or no, or move their faces in the equivalent of a shrug—but soon even that minimal competence dwindled to nought.

  By the time speech and hearing were completely gone, physical immobility was creeping over the victim, beginning with a tingling in the fingers, then a weakness in the limbs that proceeded to a general paralysis that affected all of the body’s striate muscles. The skin became waxy, then hardened. The afflicted gave no response to heat or cold, to pinpricks or noxious aromas.

  Internal functions slowed but did not cease entirely. Fed and hydrated intravenously, the sufferer lived on. Eventually, there came a crisis: it was as if the victim’s body sought some radical rearrangement of its internal organs. The result was always fatal.

  Scientists and apparaticists applied their paraphernalia and methodologies to the victims in all stages of the disease but were forced to conclude that the condition was both unknown in origin and untreatable in its presentation. The Archonate eventually imposed a moratorium on unconventional treatments after one ambitious experiment resulted in the patient’s spontaneous combustion.

  Contagious diseases having been eradicated back in the dawn of time, it was speculated that the lassitude might have been brought to Old Earth by some transient visitor from one of the human-settled worlds that straggled along the great arm of the galaxy known as the Spray. But wide-ranging inquiries turned up no cases of the syndrome on any other planet. Nor was anything like it known among the various nonhuman populations that had inhabited parts of the Earth since ages past.

  There seemed to be a geographical element: all cases were within a certain distance of the region known as the Swept, a vast sea of prairie well to the east of Olkney. But so sporadic were the outbreaks that no connecting factor—prevailing winds, contact with travelers from the region—was ever identified. The geographic aspect was put down to coincidence.

  After the first few dozen victims died, the disease seemed to have burned itself out. For months there were no more outbreaks. Then it burst out once more. The victims again all lived within a large circle whose center was somewhere in the Swept. But, as before, there was neither apparent cause nor any cure.

  Science having performed to no avail, philosophy now stepped in to try its hand. It was argued that the syndrome was a physical manifestation of a spiritual malaise. “We inhabit an ancient planet,” said one sage at a colloquy convened to discuss the lassitude. “All that ever could have been done has been done. Knowing that there can now be nothing new under the sun, the sensitive spirit withdraws into inertia. The disease is a profound and pointed philosophical statement.”

  Another pundit then rose and pointed out that since the lassitude itself was something entirely new, the first speaker’s remarks were self-contradicting. Sharp words ensued, followed by a tug on someone’s beard and a sandaled toe in someone else’s shin, and the conference broke up without issuing a final statement.

  After the philosophers came thaumaturges and occultists, but this was Old Earth’s penultimate age, a time when science still outranked wizardry (though the Wheel was slowly rolling toward the cusp when the distinction would again be reversed), and the various spells and cantrips yielded no better result—though it was rumored that one wonder-worker had inadvertently transformed himself into something scaly that had wriggled off, not to be seen again.

  It was the latest sufferers whom Horslan Gebbling meant to fleece, Baro thought as he followed Luff Imbry along Flevangher Road in a district of Olkney where day workers and students made their simple abodes. Imbry led Baro to a small ground-floor apartment on a nondescript street where the door monitor recognized him and swung the portal wide. “Gebbling must be stopped,” Baro said.

  “He will be,” said Imbry, leading the way into a single room that combined living and sleeping quarters as well as rudimentary facilities for food preparation. The utilitarian furnishings were a far cry from the luxury that Baro knew his partner preferred.

  “This is not your residence,” he said.

  “Members of my profession never conduct business from their abodes,” Imbry said.

  Both their plaques now contained copies of the file. Imbry activated his and laid it on the scarred table. Then he pressed a concealed stud beneath the tabletop. A portion of the wall slid back and revealed a fully equipped research and communications nexus, its high quality at odds with the bare-bones setting. “Sit down,” he said, “and we’ll begin.”

  Baro sat on the sleeping pallet while his partner took the single chair and brought the device to life. It declared itself ready to serve. Imbry’s fingers went to the controls, but then he paused and turned to the younger man. “My showing you this installation should help you to put aside your lingering doubts,” he said.

  “Why so?” said Baro.

  “Because here is where I planned all of my … exercises. The Bureau never knew of this place.”

  “Hmm,” said the younger agent. He produced his plaque and contacted the Bureau integrator. “I am in the place where Luff Imbry concocted his illegal schemes,” he said. “Consult his file and tell me if the Bureau was aware of this location.”

  “No,” was the integrator’s immediate response.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Are you sure,” the integrator said, “that you want to ask me that question? All communications with agents in the field are recorded and can be examined by their superiors.”

  “I withdraw the question,” Baro said.

  “What question?” the integrator said.

  “Thank you.” Baro made to break the connection, then hesitated and said, “It was good of you to let me know about the recordings.”

  “You need to have confidence in what I say to you,” said the integrator. “We may have to work together for a long time.” It paused, then added, “Assuming that you last.” There was a slight pop as the integrator broke the connection itself.

  “Look here,” said Imbry, and Baro turned his attention to the research station’s screen. It showed a list of names.

  “Who are these people?” Baro said.

  “Those who have registered for passage on the Orgulon.”

  The Bureau file had been compiled when Gebbling was seeking a charter. Now that stage of the fraudster’s plan had been surpassed and Imbry’s research system had not only found the name of the vessel but its passenger manifest.

  “Hmm, interesting,” said the fat man and highlighted one of the names on the list. The screen opened a new portal and displayed a list of headings
: Address, Education, Affiliations (subheaded Social, Professional, Intimate), Assets and Income, Politics, and more besides.

  “What is all that?” Baro wanted to know.

  “One of the passengers is Trig Helvic,” said Imbry, highlighting the section labeled Assets and Income, “and this is his total worth.”

  The screen showed an extensive list of properties and securities, plus a wealth of financial data that placed Helvic well up in the higher reaches of Olkney society.

  “This is not public information,” said Baro.

  “True,” said Imbry, running his finger down the screen. “I’m sure the gentleman would not want it noised about that he is the actual owner of properties on which three notorious brothels are located. He has erected various shell companies and dummy corporations to put distance and fog between him and some of his holdings.”

  “We are invading the man’s privacy,” Baro said.

  “We are conducting an investigation, in your case at the Archon’s personal order.”

  “I think we should consult the Bureau.”

  Imbry made a noise that bespoke impatience. “Look,” he said, “you’re either a scroot or you’re not. If you have doubts, I will be glad to contact Directing Agent Arboghast for you. I am sure he will relieve you of them.”

  Baro capitulated, but said, “I don’t believe the Bureau’s integrators contain the private details of ordinary citizens’ affairs.”

  Imbry’s fingers flickered over the system’s controls. “I stand in awe at the innocence of your worldview,” he said. “Doubtless you still believe that the Blue-Green Sprites delivered all those scrumptious treats left on your boyhood pillow during the Feast of Slamming Doors.” He tapped another key. “Never mind, this gets more interesting. And more puzzling.”

  Baro looked at the display of data on the screen. Imbry had moved on to examine the backgrounds of the rest of the Orgulon’s passengers. They were a mixed bag: besides the magnate Trig Helvic and his daughter Erisme, they included the imagist Tabriz Monlaurion and his companion, a former actress who went by the single name Flix; a pair of students, Corje Sooke and Pollus Ermatage, from the Academy of Liberal Pursuits in the County of Fasfallia; a retired couple named Ule Gazz and Olleg Ebersol from the Isle of Cyc; and a raft of other heterogeneous folk from several places.