Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men Read online

  He could have entered Benjamin Harrison Town Project Rezcom Cluster 3 through the commercial entrance and avoided beeping his own way in, but that would have meant a walk around half the building, a waste of the shortcut up the hill through the park zone. He opened the inner door, waited his habitual half-second, and walked in and across the hall to the elevators. A glance at the mail dispenser showed the light on the Reddy box dark. Either nothing had come today or his mom had already cleaned it out. He hoped that it was the latter. He punched the call button, wishing for the car's instant arrival.

  A soft chuffing noise announced the arrival of the lobby's cleaning 'bot. The toaster-sized cart wheeled out of its dark alcove and headed straight for John's muddy footprints. It gurgled happily to itself as it spit out soapy water and buffed the tile back to its original luster. Print by print, it advanced on him. When it was two away, he deliberately made a wall of fresh prints around himself. He hated the way the thing whined and hung around when it ran out of dirt on the floor and could still sense the mud on your shoes. He hoped the elevator would arrive before the 'bot finished with his impromptu defense.

  It did.

  John escaped the deranged and almost certainly dangerous 'bot with an astonishingly agile leap into the waiting car. He landed in a crouch, then rose on one toe, turning as he did. His jacket spread out around him like a swirling cloak. Without pause, he snapped a single finger out to spear the desired button as it flashed past. He stopped, facing out the transparent outer wall of the car, and dipped his head in acknowledgment of his audience's wild applause for his outstanding athletic prowess.

  That was when he realized that he actually did have an audience.

  Mister Johnson harramphed at his performance.

  "Hello, Mr. J." Geez, why did it have to be one of their neighbors to catch him cavorting about? Why couldn't it have been one of the billion strangers who shared the rezcom? And why Mr. Johnson, of all people? The old guy was so old that he probably couldn't remember how to spell young, let alone be it. John hoped his face wasn't too red. A tinkling sound in his ear, which might have been laughter or might have been distant machinery, turned up the heat and ensured that he was glowing enough to give off light. -

  Mister Johnson's mouth twitched, his usual grumpy hello.

  "Nice night," John said, eliciting another twitch. "Or it will be, anyway."

  Outside the lights of the city were beginning to wink on, to join the always-lit advertising banners and signs. Off to the east the first stars were showing in the sky, where the glow of the sprawl wasn't drowning them out. At least you could still see stars here in Worcester. Phil said you could really see stars where he came from, but John doubted he'd ever get out to Montana.

  Then again, why would he want to? Other than to see the stars, that was? Phil's back-home tales made it really sound boring, aside from the Wild West history and all that Native American stuff, but there wasn't any real history. No kingdoms and empires, no armies marching proudly in their steel armor, no pyramids, no parthenons, no musketeers and no legionaries, no crusades—just miserable, coldhearted geno-cidal campaigns and resource exploitation, embarrassing rather than uplifting. And cows. Phil wouldn't like it if he forgot the cows. Like cows were important to anybody but Phil. Geez, you'd think he was from Vermont.

  But even Vermont could seem exotic and far away to a guy who'd spent his whole life in one town. An "old-time safe haven," according to the Mitsutomo Keiretsu prop. John could see it all spread out beneath him as the elevator car rose: the old city, the Worcester Polytech campus, the Benjamin Harrison Project, the southwest hills where the old money still held out against the changes, the rebuilt commerce zone, and the Turnpike slicing through it all on its snaky way between Boston and upstate New York. It might not be an exciting place to live, but it didn't have the problems of, say, the Boston-Warwick corridor or the New York 'burb sprawl. Maybe those places should have had a Mitsutomo Keiretsu to look after them the way Worcester had.

  John had scanned some of the old newscasts and seen how a lot of people had been upset to learn that Mitsutomo and its trading partners had bought up most of the land and businesses in the area. The biggest gripe seemed to be that Mitsutomo had done it secretly. But the old Disney Corp had done the same thing down in Florida when they were setting up their empire, and they had made the Orlando economy. And it wasn't like Mitsutomo was turning the town into some kind of daimyo fief. The prop said they wanted to make Worcester a real American town, and for once the prop hadn't been a lie.

  Mitsutomo had a right to be proud of the work they had done in rehabilitating this old steel town. Their idea of "quin-tessentially American" was a little odd at times, but what could you expect from foreigners? Important thing was that they did something while the native governments sat and twiddled their thumbs. They had kept Worcester and much of western Massachusetts from tumbling into slum sprawl and urban blight zones like most of the East Coast cities. The old town might be a little kitschy for the mainstream these days, but old-fashioned didn't necessarily mean unfashionable. And what was wrong with old-fashioned, anyway?

  Nothing, a little voice said.

  John could only nod in agreement; some of the best things in life were old-fashioned.

  He bolted the elevator before the doors were fully open and was around the corner before old Mr. Johnson was out of the car. He took the turn, and it was a race down the corridor. He lost, but he did reach the door to the apartment he shared with his mother before Mr. J made the corner. He popped his card and slapped the plate, tapping toe beating a nervous rhythm while he chanted, "Come on, come on, come on." The door finally recognized him and he bounced through just as Mr. J turned into the corridor.

  Safe.

  Of course, John. No threat.

  So what? Speed and quickness. Dash and style. Ever ready, never lost

  Pointless platitudes.

  He shrugged.

  When he stepped out of the foyer, the first thing he noticed, as always, was the vid wall. Happy Lifestyles was running in time shift. Perish any thought of Mom missing that mainline straightline. How would she know how to decorate the apt? Marianne Reddy wouldn't be happy unless her place was the way it should be. Nothing else would satisfy.

  His mom was planted on the couch, taking in the latest and most proper corporate style. She had a half-dozen sub-screens running through catalogs, looking for matches to the furnishings shown on the main screen. A seventh subscreen was running an interior design program on which their apartment plan hung, halfway through a metamorphosis into something like the one in the main screen, and she was absorbed inputting commands into the remote on her lap.

  He popped into the kitchen and dug out some Cheez Snax™. On his way to the perscomp, he asked, "Any mail?"

  "Yes, dear." She waved hello, but continued to give her attention to her program. "The confirm on your scholarship came today. Isn't that nice?"

  "Wonderful."

  "I was getting worried."

  "No need to frown down. You know the corp's good for it." Mitsutomo's paternalistic compensation programs covered the education of corporate dependents. No problem. "I meant was there any mail for me?"

  "In the file, Johnny."

  It might be. It might be. There'd been barely enough time for his application to get through all the hoops it would have to go through. Barely. Slipping into the seat in front of the console, John tapped in his code. He shunted to the mail box and popped up the "in" box. There was only one entry. The com code burned a deadly disappointing green, and the ID code told him it was a notice from Dr. Block, his least favorite person in the world.

  Shit.

  His mother looked up, and he knew he'd said that aloud.

  "Now, Johnny, it's just a checkup."

  Block was a psychiatrist, not a physician. John was tired of the blockhead's probes. The bastard was always trying to trip John up, trying to get him to admit that he was still talking to Faye. Years of counseling had
cured him, though, cured him of letting on to Block that Faye was real. Everything went so much smoother when he had Block believing that he believed that Faye was just another invisible childhood friend, the same as other kids had. Block liked to believe Faye was a psychological crutch, a manifestation of a troubled reaction to the death of John's father; such an answer made the blockhead happy, and John liked it better when Block was happy. The bastard left him alone then. "I don't need to see Dr. Block."

  "Dr. Bloch is only interested in seeing that you're doing well."

  Seeing that the blockhead's record stayed clean, more like. Unresolved cases didn't look good when you were up for promotion. But bringing that up would only unsettle Mom. She took Block's pronouncements for truth, 'scuse me, Truth. He was a psychiatrist, after all. "Block's only interested in drawing his checks."

  "Now, Johnny."

  "It's okay, Mom. I'll go."

  Immediately, she looked relieved. She'd never believed in Faye, and was always nice to him after the blockhead's reports that said John's progression was satisfactory. If only she knew the truth. She was all corporate conformity, and the whole mainline straightline was just extruded plastic trash to him, so they butted heads often enough, but he knew she meant well, that she really loved him. She had to. Otherwise she'd never put up with him. But love, they said, was blind, though they usually didn't mean this context. And blind she was where Faye was concerned. Right?

  Right.

  But while love might be blind, it wasn't necessarily stupid. "Shall I make you an appointment?"

  "I can take care of it."

  "Now, Johnny. You know how you forget sometimes to do things you're supposed to."

  Believe it.

  "You'll be running off to the museum or working on your homework and the next thing, Dr. Bloch will be calling back, wondering what happened to you. Missing psych evaluations won't look good on your record."

  And having them would? Logic jar, there. "I'll do it now if you want to watch."

  "Now, Johnny. You know I trust you."

  Uh-huh. Which is why you nag. John sighed. When the corporation paid for you, they expected you to fit their image of what you should be. It was easier to pretend to go along. You had to fit into the corporate image and lifestyle if you wanted to have any privacy at all, and John had long ago found that he liked his privacy. He'd deal with Block. Maybe this would be the last time.

  Go along.

  Yeah, that was the best thing. He keyed the respond menu and selected make appointment. He took an opening between his Heroic Literature seminar and fencing practice. He'd have just enough time to shuttle into the med center and back, if the trolley line was running on time. And if it wasn't, Coach would just have to understand. Medical, you know. Healthy mind in a healthy body, you know.

  "I'll go Tuesday."

  His mom smiled her well-satisfied smile and returned to her redecorating, leaving him to get on with his life.

  "I might have known."

  John looked up from his reader. Yael Haasmann's voice had sounded annoyed, but he had a stupid smirk on his face.

  "Hey, Mom, call security. We've got a burglar."

  Not really. Just an obnoxious fiend.

  Friend, John corrected. Obnoxious friend.

  Whatever.

  In any case, there was no response from the other room. Yael stuck his hand under his jacket and pulled it out again, thumb pointing up and index finger extended. A maniacal look on his face, he pointed at John. "Too late, drone. She let me in. There's no one to save you now. One more twitch and you're vapor."

  John put down the reader but declined to raise his hands. "It's 'there's no hope for you now.'"

  The pretend blaster dissolved as Yael shrugged. "With all the times I'd seen the vid, you'd think I could get. the lines right. I mean, Stellar Wars, the Final Generation is, like, the formative vid of our generation."

  "Keep working on it." He waved a hand. "Grab some space."

  Yael snatched a stack of reports, disks, and magazines from the desk chair and deposited it on the foot of John's bed. The pile dissolved into an avalanche that buried John's stocking feet. Promising himself he would put all that stuff away where it belonged, he pulled his feet free and sat up straighter.

  "What brings you to this part of the galaxy, stranger?"

  "I missed Zalinger's class today."

  "So I noticed. Oversleep?"

  "In a manner of speaking." Yael grinned wickedly. "But ask no more, for I will sully no lady's reputation."

  "That's a new attitude."

  "Simple practicality. I'm always discreet when it's useful."

  "You've got a new line, anyway."

  "Like it? I thought you would. Sounds like something you'd come up with. If you ever had to, of course."

  "We were talking about your love life, not mine. She anyone I know?"

  "Only in your dreams."

  "Let's leave my dreams out of it."

  "Okay. But I do need the reading assignment."

  "Next three chapters. So, who is she?"

  "I'm not telling. Three chapters! Doesn't Zalinger know we have lives outside his class?"

  "I don't think he believes there is life outside his class. Not intelligent life, anyway. Her name, freund?"

  "When you meet her. If you meet her. But I will tell you that she knows there's life outside the classroom."

  "I'll bet."

  "You'll win." Yael waggled his eyebrows and grinned foolishly. "Hey, just got the word. Zephyr Scream is gonna be playing down at the student center. We can drop over there after practice Tuesday night and catch the second set. And maybe, just maybe, you'll meet the elusive mystery woman."

  "Who's Zephyr Scream?"

  "Who's Zephyr Scream!" Yael smote his brow with broad theatricality. "They were right, you must be from another planet. No, wait. I know! Your brain has rotted from too many books. But don't worry, I'll save you from intellectual despair and share with you my secret knowledge of Earth's darkest secrets. Zephyr Scream is nothing less than the hottest buzz-rock band this side of Boston. When they play, it's like communing with the infinite. They pump, man."

  "Sonic shock." John tapped the side of his head with a long, slender finger. "Cuts out all the higher functions of the mind."

  "At least it's music." Yael pointedly looked at John's autographed Bard Taliesin poster and held his nose. "They don't do that retro downer stuff you listen to. This crew is alive. Crest of the wave."

  "Last month you said those neomonowave shriekers were the crest."

  "Yeah. Too true. But that was last month. World's a happening place, happening all the time. Not frozen like these books of yours." Yael kicked a dog-eared copy of The Two Towers, sending it sliding under the desk. The book connected with a pile of papers and disks, which promptly collapsed upon it and buried it. The shifting debris plowed into the table leg, the shock setting a Lego castle tower to teetering. The toy castle rocked, almost overbalancing before settling back to sit firmly again on the desktop. John shook his head. A little bit harder and it would have gone over, and no one would have been able to do anything about it. The old plastic was too brittle to survive the fall.

  Barbarian.

  Not really. Just ignorant of the finer things of life. Books, even secondhand ones, weren't cheap anymore. And the castle—they just didn't make those anymore. At least it hadn't been part of the Robin Hood set; that was truly irreplaceable. Still, friend or not, the incident couldn't pass unremarked.

  "Watch the merchandise," John said with a growl. "Men have died for less than that."

  Yael started as though John had made a real threat. "Hey, easy, freund. Nothing happened."

  No thanks to him.

  John chuckled. No, not to him.

  "That tower is built from a prerecall, first pressing of the 1995 Earl's Keep set. My mom got it for me two years ago. It took her months of scouring the antique shops."

  "Hey, like I'm sorry. Okay?" Yael's apology sou
nded only half sincere. "Look, I, uh, gotta go. Thanks for the assignment. See ya in class."

  "Yeah. See ya."

  John heard his mother saying good-bye as Yael let himself out. He should have been polite and seen Yael to the door, but he didn't feel very polite. Yael was difficult to get along with, and this latest interruption had almost cost John one of his favorite pieces. The guy could have phoned. John fished The Two Towers out from under the desk. Yael had no respect for anything important. Abandoning the homework assignment in his reader, John settled back on his bed and opened the book.

  The Orcs were closing in on Frodo.

  CHAPTER 2

  Charley Gordon sat on the railing and watched the crime scene crew do their work. The body hadn't been in very good shape when Charley found it. No surprise there; the death had been violent, and the victim had lost a lot of blood. Up here in the mountains there still were wild animals to be drawn to the smell of blood. Scavengers, he told himself. He shivered a little and blamed it on the morning chill. What the wild animals had done was no worse than what rats did, he supposed. But you expected things like that in the city. Out here things were supposed to be cleaner, nicer.

  Manuel Salazar was a good partner; he brought an extra cup of coffee when he came to sit next to Charley. Manny's badge wallet was tucked into his parka's chest pocket. The parka was civilian but the badge vouched for Manny's right to be here, even if you didn't notice the uniform under the coat. Charley didn't have either badge or uniform, since he wasn't here officially, at least not in the usual way. He was here as a witness, the finder of the corpse. He was supposed to be on vacation; he was supposed to have left all of this kind of shit in the Sprawl.

  He took a pull from the steaming cup. The coffee wasn't as hot as it looked; most of the steam was air-temp differential. It'd be too cold to drink soon. Which might not be so bad; this swill was near as bad as Sergeant Kowalski's squad-room acid.