Chapter 11: “Cyncor”
The structure housing headquarters for IGCC’s Zamlonian Project was floating gracefully in synchronous orbit, high above Cyncor. Below, the metropolis and its planet had for centuries been synonymous. Cyncorians boasted the oldest continuous municipal government in the galaxy, and no one contested that claim. An oasis of humanity, spinning gaily along the edge of the far outlands, here was one of the few societies to remain intact following the dissolution of the Last Galactic Empire.
A company town for generation, it had been considered a cushy assignment even before its recent designation as seat of the new territorial governorship. The steady influx of company personnel continually took from, and added to, this thriving center of economic, cultural, and political affairs.
Cyncor was a great place to party. Employee visibility was high here; conversely, and conscientiously, company visibility was comparatively low. The “resident” employee population was mostly transient, as long away-tours were the norm. Everyone wanted cubes here, but while construction was constant, dwellings remained expensive at all levels. In paying for them, no one could stay.
Regional Director Tal-Mon, in a move to alleviate the cube crunch, elected to transfer large blocks of company cube space to employee use. The mammoth “Regional Directory Estate” was one such block. A city-within-a-city, occupying a sixteenth of Cyncor’s surface area and over 4,000 vertical levels of prime core, it was presently being converted to a multipurpose employee center, with first-class cubes, at Club rates, for those of Helper status or higher.
Such a move by the Director was a far cry from the opulent extravagance of previous administrations. While unprecedented, the un-orthodoxed management style of the dynamic Palandarian was not unappreciated. Though from the beginning of his tour he had met with opposition and was frequently the center of controversy, in the longer run, after the inevitable shock of radical change, consensus held that Cyril Tal-Mon was of a higher calling.
The low profile maintained by this Director was unusual, but rarer still was that, as a sitting board member, he chose to be active in the field. He was not without ambition. Some things seemed below him, however; local politics, for example.
While governorships were generally handed out to the top-ranking company official in a region, Master Tal-Mon had selected a well-known member of the local forum to serve a full term as vice-governor. The surprise appointment had been received with the broad popular support of global citizenry, and had also generated endorsements from splinter scab factions throughout the territory.
Having withdrawn his executive operations to the orbiting platform, the Director seemed content to monitor his official business and to dispatch his initiatives from there. Primarily, he was active with supervision of rig preparation for movement to, and deployment in, Sector SC. He had come to Cyncor because of the sentient fungus, not to play master of ceremony for pompous circumstances below.
When the Rockrat Task Force returned from Karaool, excitement surrounding the coming inauguration served well to mask the more sensitive aspects of the operation know officially as “BioChem-ProGen054.”
A five day festival was being held throughout Sector D, and in the Seat of the Sector, the de jure capital, partying was especially hearty.
The raiders of Yeokalani’s temple had returned on the second day of the festivities, and for their third night (the crew’s second night in), Cara had organized an outing for her and her favorite Journeymen, Valkarr and Faldon.
While the Zamlonian project itself would never be a topic of casual discussion in a planet bar, “Operation: Rockrat” wore a well tailored disguise, and the public relations firm handling the holo-line for GCGlass was hosting a grand gala honoring the successful raiders. There had been talk of spectacular visuals featuring the Holo Ghost, mostly re-enactments, as well as scenes from the actual battle.
This night Cara was set on “painting the planet.” The employee banquet would be a late affair, and she had invited a maid applicant to her cube for an early evening evaluation. Faldon, having been invited to observe this exclusively female weeding-out process, couldn’t resist the opportunity, and planned to arrive early.
* * *
The glass-walled tubecar rose swiftly, and Faldon had a great view. The thrice yearly double sunset had begun its auroral dance with dazzling full spectral display.
As they neared the horizon, the two suns (of the ternary) reflected upwardly against the thin stratified clouds. The brief illusion transformed the even higher-flying sheet of ice crystals into a multi-colored, crackled, stained-glass; except that the lights were constantly changing, one color kaleidoscopically pouring into another.
The feelings of awe associated with “Maasdaak” (as religion once called this minor conjunction) were inescapable. They were also conducive to tarantism.
The three-hundred-fifty level ride enhanced the magic, and each of the dozen aboard had bookings. The passengers voted to stall and enjoy the local customs associated with the event, and a young plebette, having just matriculated, dispensed zilt tabs for the occasion, which she proudly gave as gifts. Only once, of the three yearly occurrences, would the two stars kiss the horizon simultaneously. They did so now.
Twice in a lifetime the three stars set together. Faldon would be an old Master by the next occurrence of Zaah-nak-kun, but already he had reservations for the eight day extravaganza.
The lights in the distant sky lingered briefly in the seasonably short twilight; then, the sparkling points of light seemed to gradually relocate to the vast surface below.
When the car reactivated, and the air changed, the brief camaraderie began to break up as the passengers reached their destinations.
An alluring gamin-wench of Juanian decent, the plebette had boarded on the same level as Faldon, and had remained at his side throughout the sunset observance. She may have been fifteen. From the vibes, he was half expecting her to petition. He fancied she might be on her way to see Cara, and would have fancied further had she not gotten off at level three-hundred.
Two sales execs, both women, remained in the car, continuing on when he got off. An arrestingly beautiful Salandan prostitute entered as he walked out. Her bracelet indicated availability, and he had to fight resisting her hook.
Stepping out into the housing lobby, the sound of rushing water drew his attention to an impressive, dramatic, five-level waterfall fountain. The lobby was brightly lit, in contrast to the lift. Twilight withdrew to darkness through the large view-wall, behind Faldon as he walked from the tube.
Feeling safe from the Salandan only when the car’s door closed, he turned around and looked out onto the city. The panorama of twinkling lights spread to the horizon, and he saw the air was now much clearer than during his watersport activity of the afternoon.
Having missed Cara’s cube-warming party, he had heard of the condo’s exotic decor. With its high ceiling and suspended phosphorescent crystals, the jungle-like atrium faithfully served as the lobby of an exclusive residence. He appreciated anew the tastes of his partner’s youngest Helper as he called her on his wristcom.
“Some place you’ve got here,” he said when she answered, “I was wondering, is this what it looks like on Ny-Komtura?”
“You’ve got to be kidding! I thought you were a traveler.” She sounded ready, which served to make him more so. Linking floor-plan directions through his wristcom, he was led to her customized sometimes-habitat.
He found himself waiting a bit at her foyer-lock; a bit too long, he thought. He was just getting restless when the door, ornate imported Bessham wood, silently parted for entrance. The conditioned air that ushered forth carried an invigorating invitation.
Stepping into the lock, the door closed, and after a tasteful moment of darkness, a soft blue luminosity came to the foyer-lock walls. Just as he could make out the door before him, it opened upward revealing a lavishly furnished, spacious entertaining room. He’d seen clubs that weren’t this large. Not bad for a Helper with relatively no inheritance; especially considering her reluctance to take gifts from Craftsmen. Gifts from laymen, though, that was a different matter.
“What’s this?” he said, not seeing his hostess, “Hide and seek?” Cara suddenly ran by the open doorway, left to right, seeming not to notice him, or the open door, at all.
Catching herself with a hand on the doorjamb, she backed up and almost looked surprised, “Oh, well, come on in. I was making drinks, you wanna finish? Right over there.” She pointed out of his view to the left of the door and continued as she had been going, dashing off to his right.
Smiling, shaking his head, he walked to the hotel-class bar and found a variety of concoctions, in various states of assembly.
He did a little tasting, dumped two glasses of a partially completed fland-mold combination into a clean glass, downed that, then started with his own variation. He could hear his hostess talking to someone. A view-com, he suspected.
Her conversation ended and she came back in. Quite cheerful she was. She practically skipped across the den, settling on a stool across the bar from Faldon. He saw that she was not so far into the wind as he might have thought. Handing her a glass, he saw her lively imagination at work behind those hypnotic eyes.
“Thanks,” she stirred the softly smoking blue liquid. “Did I have them screwed up too bad?”
“I don’t think so, no.” Faldon sipped his new mixture, “A little more chattern powder, though, otherwise you won’t get the wavies.” They tapped their containers (it wasn’t an official “toast”) and sipped. Knowing she was expecting other company, he enjoyed seeing her dressed as she was now, in the sheerest of her sheer sleepware.
“You really do have a way with these things,” she said sincerely, “I still can’t get the flakes to come out right…and the plimpmills…don’t they make a dispenser? I get thinking I’m on target, then some date of mine will either make a joke about my weak drinks, or he’ll pass out!”
Faldon laughed.
“I mean, how would you like it if you were hot and…”
“No, no, NO!” He began routinely cleaning her sandoseed crusher, “You’re doing fine. Really. How about your maiden? Why don’t you try a fland-mold on her?”
Cara stopped still for a moment, straightened on the stool and asked, “Why didn’t I think of that?”
There was a hail-tone, followed by the amplified query of a very young sounding female, “Miss Nee-Yool?”
Cara looked up at the bar clock, “That’s the first one yet to be on time, and she’s a little early, but all the better.” She accessed the house system with her com-bracelet, “Yes, you’ve got the right place. Are you in the lobby?”
There was a supple sweetness in the response, “No, I got off at three-hundred.”
Faldon’s look didn’t escape Cara. She nailed him on it, and smiled reminiscently as she listened, “They have the best selections of pop-caps here; but I can shop some more…”
“No, that’s all right,” Cara smiled at Faldon while continuing with the caller, “you have my cube code pass?”
“Oh, yes, Ms. Nee-Yool.”
“Come on up. You may have to wait a minute at the door.”
“If the stiles aren’t crowded, I should be there in five.” Cara’s finger dawdled on her bracelet after she disengaged the com-link, “What’s the matter, recognize a trick?”
“It could be nothing,” he sucked his swizzle and, rinsing, explained, “but, there was this stray nymphet, on the ride up, who was looking at me pretty hard, and, well…she got off at three hundred. Probably coincidence considering the building’s population. What is that, anyway? Do you know?”
“About three mil,” Cara got off her stool and shook back her long hair. “Yeah, one of your fland-molds sounds like a good idea. In fact, I’d be grateful, if you don’t mind.”
“It was my idea,” he smiled. “What am I supposed to do? Do you want me out of sight, or should I take notes? How long does one of these ‘evaluations’ take?”
“Depends on the girl,” she said. “We’re already limited timewise, what with the party. You can do whatever you like. If you stay and she gets nervous, it’ll help in my making a decision. You may decide you want her,” she teased.
“No thanks,” he added the chattern powder, “I’ve got three fledglings living in as it is, and one of them is a plebette.” He test tasted his blend, “This ought to do. She won’t be able to hide anything from you after a few sips of this.”
“Tell you what, why don’t you let her in?” She was already off towards another of the five doors entering the parlor. “I’ll be ‘late’ a minute or two—dressing, you know. If it’s your girlfriend from the lift, tell her we work together, and if she knows what’s good for her, she’ll try to make you happy, eh?”
Still highly animated, she practically danced from the room, leaving Faldon working on a second drink for himself.
When the applicant arrived, Faldon answered. She was, indeed, the maiden from the lift ride. She seemed ill at ease; caught. He knew she worried that her thoughts on the ride had hurt her chances.
Seeking to lighten her anxiety, he bowed, “Welcome to the cube of Helper Cara Nee-Yool. I am Journeyman Faldon Roklandir. You needn’t worry about our earlier encounter; consider it to your advantage, please. Would you like a drink?”
“Thank you, yes,” she smiled shyly, but her walk was a no-holds-barred seduction as she moved towards the bar.
Her take of the fland-mold was far more than the tolerable sip; she gagged and almost fainted, sliding from the stool.
Faldon moved quickly from his position behind the bar, caught her, and settled her on the couch behind the barstools.
He was removing his arms from her when Cara entered.
Seeing the Journeyman release his arm-hold on the near unconscious waif, Cara asked, “Well, did she pass?”
“It’s not what you think,” he said getting up, somewhat compromised, “She gulped her drink.” He backed away from the limp sylph, “All yours, baby; I think I’ll go check up on current events, where’s your ref-mon?”
Cara was unable to contain her laughter. She pointed to the room she had run to when he arrived and walked to the couch, sitting beside the nauseated applicant.
She put one arm behind the woman-child’s head and lightly touched her pale cheek, rubbing it softly.
Faldon sighed, turned, stepped lightly to the bar for his glass, then quietly left the room.
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