Chapter 13: “Insider Rebellion?”
Valkarr lay with his eyes closed for a long time.
The dreams had been good, and the sleep was the most restful he’d had since his one good time with Yeokalani.
He woke dreaming of her. He enjoyed the pleasant quiet, and was trying to ferret out the only sound—a soft, low hum.
He hadn’t heard that in his lease-cube before.
At first he rolled over, seeking to dive back into his fleeting, imaginary, reconciliation tumble with the Holybody. Then, curiosity got the better of him and he opened his eyes.
A white blur was all he saw. It was a nice blur, he thought.
For some time he was content to let his eyes try focusing on their own. When he finally decided to consciously help the process, he realized he was looking at a wall, about a foot from his face.
Rolling slowly onto his back, he looked up, then around, seeing a small, all-white, moderately lit room, furnished only by his very comfortable bed.
He closed his eyes again, ambivalent about the unfamiliar room.
He was curious as to the single-person bedding. No one he knew had one—in fact, he didn’t think he’d seen one, except aboard ship. Maybe that’s where he was. Still, it didn’t matter.
He heard a door slide, but didn’t feel disturbed; nor did he feel curious. Still trying to get back into the dream, he rolled onto his side, away from the sound of the opening door. He thought he felt someone touching his back, perhaps between the shoulder blades.
Then there was a voice:
“You are better,” it was a young man speaking, and he spoke in the patronizing manner of serviles, with which the Journeyman never consorted. It continued, “That KaamSit is truly remarkable. Would you care to feed now? There is time.”
Valkarr had no concept of time, nor did he want one just yet. He decided to believe he was still dreaming, but there was an insistence.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I am instructed. I don’t know much about inquests, but even if there’s nothing to them, a meal would be in order.”
There was an irritability within the Journeyman that he was not accustomed to. “KaamSit?” Not him. Surely, not. At once flashing anger and sitting up, Valkarr dropped his legs over the side of the bed, sought to eye the one speaking, and found himself suddenly very dizzy. He could see someone before him, but closing his eyes, feeling weak, he swayed, feeling the servile’s hand steady him with a hold on his shoulder.
The attending spoke again, “Would you like another shot, sir? Please, one more, then a meal, there’s not much time.”
“Time?” Valkarr asked, “What time?” He was thinking, “Shot of what?” and becoming interested in an answer.
“Sir, you have counsel, shall I summon?”
Valkarr could make out a badge now. He was in company care, somewhere. Wiping his eyes, he stretched and managed to focus on a young medic, who, seeing the Journeyman gain full command of consciousness, backed cautiously away, giving him his space. There was the slightest hint of stiffness in the upper-middle of Valkarr’s back.
“KaamSit?” he said, “Listen…” there was an attack of wooziness, which he controlled before finishing, “I’m not into KaamSit. Maybe a little rope now and then, but none of those neo-narcs for me, thank you.”
“Sometimes, it is deemed necessary.” The medic was rather professional, Valkarr noticed, and though fearful, he was dutifully bound to assignment, which, at the moment, was clearly the Lord of Bellran. “In battle, or other extenuating circumstances, there’s nothing proven more effective. Had you an amulet stipulating otherwise…”
Valkarr was almost awake. A fog still existed, but he was remembering the party.
He remembered a pain, and he remembered, vaguely, being on his knees.
He interrupted, “What’s going on? What went on? This is an infirmary?” The words seemed more to deny than ask. “What do you mean, counsel? So I was in a drunken brawl? What’s the big deal?”
“I don’t know, sir.” The young man was an Apprentice, and Valkarr appreciated his forthrightness in explaining, “I tended your wound on authority of the Director, who personally certified your transfer from the Durrnund unit, below.”
The man extended his hand, offering Valkarr a small slate, which the Journeyman began reading. It wasn’t very informative; just official certification for a patient transfer. He knew now that he was aboard the Zamlonian headquarters platform, and sure enough, the Director had been involved in his priority transfer. Learning all he expected to from the slate, he demurely handed it back to the physician.
“Really, sir, you should take some nourishment. Your intake of fland-mold was near blood level limits, and with the KaamSit…”
“All right,” Valkarr was feeling a dread, and fortification on the most elementary level couldn’t hurt. “So, what is it? Called on the carpet again? Don’t tell me…That Karaoolian clone was the Director’s brother?”
“You are jesting, surely. Master Tal-Mon has no sibling.”
“Yeah, I’m jesting.” A small panel to his left, near the head of the bed, slid upward, and he sat up straight, clear of the tray that so obligingly extended out over his lap. There was bread, a glass of juice, and a bowl of savory, steamy, soup-like food-stuff. As he looked down at the meal, the physician took his moment to back from the room, and the door quickly closed.
Only then did the Journeyman realize confinement.
He was offered, and took, a second helping, just finishing when his attendant returned with two security grade Helpers.
The medic handed Valkarr a package containing dress from the Journeyman’s own wardrobe. There was a note from one of his maidens. She hoped he would be happy with her garment selection. No one spoke as he slipped on the outfit, which was adorned with more than a modest number of decorations. Once dressed, he gave the doctor a nod of courteous appreciation, and followed as he was escorted through the clean halls of the ultra-modern experimental trans-planetary command facility.
There was a lift ride, and some of the way was open for viewing. Still under construction, the unconventionally shaped station was unlike anything he’d seen. He could see that it was easily capable of substituting for the ground based Directory.
The view was blocked for the latter half of the ride and, on exiting, he was in the Director’s headquarters. The ceiling was high, and to his left was a view-wall framing Cyncor’s colorful, dead, volcanic moon. One of the escorts spoke, respectfully, as the two stopped on leaving the car:
“You may go on from here, sir. They have already begun, and we are not privy…”
“Yeah, all right, I know,” he had a bad feeling about all of this, but he remembered the Director as being a fair man, so he resigned himself, and proceeded to the high-topped double doors that led to the main debate hall. He stopped on reaching them, and looked rather puzzled, as it seemed he would actually have to push one open to go on. He flashed a look at the security detail, then pushed to enter the chamber beyond.
* * *
The tall narrow door was thick, and of heavy, dark wood. Trimmed with chrome, it was well hinged; still, it took a steady pressure to get inside. Few heads turned to see who entered. Two dozen drably dressed gawkers filled fewer than a quarter of the seats in the Spartan, boardroom-style hall.
Across the spacious room, opposite Valkarr’s entrance, a Five Master Tribunal, the Director at center, sat at the conference table. Slow moving equipment shuttles in the early stages of convoy assembly formed the backdrop as the court gave audience to a standing practitioner.
Master Tal-Mon was the only Craftsman to acknowledge the innocuous intrusion.
Seeing Faldon seated with familiar counsel at the defendant’s table, Valkarr struggled with the remnants of his quam hangover as he walked down the aisle leading from the double doors.
The practitioner faced the seated panel as he spoke from the exhorter’s lectern, a large display flashed a succession of diagrams and documents as his voice cued the changes. Before hearing the words clearly, Valkarr’s defenses were triggered by the litigant’s familiar, systematized patterns and plaintive tone:
“Furthermore, these seemingly innocent activities, heretofore so successfully shrouded, were, in actuality, brazenly audacious exploits, calculated and coordinated to culminate in extraordinary profits and exclusive contracts, benefiting these same Bellranian operations.”
“Hear, hear!” Valkarr couldn’t resist. There were varied responses from the spectators, including a giggle and a downright belly laugh. No gavel, though. The nonunion protagonist appeared put upon, momentarily losing his place in the castigation. Valkarr eyed him daringly as he sat slowly beside his partner.
The Director seemed entertained rather than concerned. He touched on the table before him. There was a replay of the practitioners last sentence.
Valkarr’s retort was omitted; nonetheless, as all looked expectantly to the scalper, he failed to recover his pious tone, “…and this is just the beginning.”
The three lay protagonists now conferred together at the lectern. One of the newcomers took over. “If it please the tribunal, the evidence gathered bears consideration…”
The Job Master interrupted, “This tribunal is pleased that your ‘evidence’ is already a matter of company record.”
He signaled, and security details began to form at the exits.
“Bearing more consideration, I should think, would be, not the evidence, these are lazy facts here—far less remarkable than the evidenced accumulation on your part. I find your effort much more fascinating that the timesheet itself.”
The High Master took folios from his co-seated, “I would imagine the House of Bellran might like to calibrate records with your detailed findings, as they would no doubt come in handy at tax time. Is that not true, Journeyman Valkarr?”
“The Master knows, commodity interests being what they are these days, we of Bellran appreciate assistance from whatever quarters.”
Valkarr welcomed the tilt to his table, and made replications of the opposition’s guild sleeve insignia as he went on, “The House is flattered that our speculative activities are deemed worthy to be here cited.”
The Director picked up his gavel, “Very well. The exhorters have been heard. Your careful documentation has been integrated into the company record, and you may be supplied with updates, should they be de-classified.” He rapped the mallet twice, “This tribunal is dissembled.”
The retained were dumbfounded, as was Faldon. Valkarr was looking through his wrist-calc at the Cyncorian professional directory for a logo match. Counsel for the Journeymen was at the conference table and the discharged protagonists were being ushered from the jobsite; and, that, not too politely.
Valkarr leaned close to Faldon, who saw the lingering fuzziness of the medication, “What the hell is going on? What happened last night? That Karaoolian…”
“He was Lumwadian,” Faldon was communicating on his touch-com. “Damned son-of-a-bitch. He bit it so fast, if I hadn’t seen the blue fingernails, I’d have never known.”
“Lumwadian?” Valkarr trailed off. The Masters were finished with their formalities, and the victorious defense lawyer was returning to his clients with their clearance.
Faldon continued, “Cara’s checking the only lead, which,” he laughed, “she got while choking your knife thrower.”
Valkarr stood to congratulate their champion, Slatar Filmarlon, who headed legal for Rokland House. He had occasion to represent Valkarr frequently during the latter’s Helper days, and there was a rapport between them.
The counselor shook Valkarr’s hand, and smiled warmly, “Nice to see you, stranger. Granted, there could be better circumstances for a reunion.” He paused, looked out the view-wall at the planet and the variety of vessels in transit, then around the large room, “Though, having an opportunity to see this station has been, in itself, well worth the trip.”
The elder began putting away his pads and wands, and kept looking to his business as he spoke to the two in an aside, “The Director wishes to see the two of you, together, as soon as you can ‘casually’ get behind those two gentlemen, there.”
His only indication was a nod toward two sentries who seemed to be standing beneath a sector chart. Behind them looked to be a solid wall.
The Bellranian smiled at his father’s old friend, “We’re holding apafest for our sector, next cycle. Why don’t you and Aunt Boreala come?”
“I know of that one,” there was a round of parting handshakes, as the very busy, very worthy lawyer began his exit. “I believe your father has plans for me to speak. I’ll certainly see you there, if not before then in this room, wherever it may be.”
The likelihood was well considered, and on that note, Sir Filmarlon began his way towards the large main entrance. He turned and waved once more before leaving.
Two of the court Masters were still standing, talking at their table, but the Director was out of sight. The Craftsmen nonchalantly wandered to where they had been directed, feeling very conspicuous, and somewhat silly. They pretended to be studying the hanging chart as they drew closer to the sentries, and were surprised when the guards went from parade rest to attention, their move a clear parting for passage of the curious to the wall.
With a quick, questioning, verifying look to each other, the Journeymen moved to within arm’s length of the wall. There, on seeing the apparition of a threshold, the invited stepped faithfully through.
<- Chapter 12
