Michael Flynn - The January Dancer

Bridget ban said nothing to answer the obvious. She lowered her binoculars and waved at the approaching guards. “Tally ho!” she called. The Fudir shook his head.

The ornithopter set down a dozen double paces off, on the road. That this would block any traffic coming up the mountain from either direction seemed not to bother them at all. There were certain advantages to working for the biggest corporation on the planet, if not in the entire Spiral Arm. The ICC did not own the government of Old ’Saken, but it might fairly be said that they rented it.

“The top o’ the marnin’ to ye, darlings,” Bridget ban said to the two men who approached. The senior—he had stripes on his sleeve—lifted his cap just a little. It was more like pushing it back a little on his head. His partner, a shorter, darker man, remained a step behind him and kept an eye on everyone. He’s participated in too many simulations, the Fudir thought.

“May I ask what you are doing here, ma’am?” the senior guard said.

“Why, birding, to be sure, Sergeant.”

“Corporal, ma’am,” but the Fudir could see he was a little pleased at the virtual promotion. “Why the interest in the estate?”

“What estate?”

The Fudir thought that might be carrying innocence too far. “The Dalhousie Estate, ma’am,” the Fudir said, pointing to the map. “You remember I told you. The wine-makers.”

“Oh, losh, Reggie. I’ve no interest in architecture. You know that.” She glanced into the valley at the complex of buildings. “Which one is it? The whole thing? My. Not as big as the palace complex on High Tara, but a nice enough country lodge.”

“And you would be…?”

“Julienne Lady Melisonde,” said Bridget ban. “I’m Second Assistant Lady-in-Waiting to Herself, the Banry Keeva of High Tara.”

The corporal was writing in a small notebook with a light pen. “Uh-hunh. Sounds real important.” He looked at the Fudir.

The Fudir jerked a thumb at Bridget ban. “I’m with her.”

The guard gave him a suspicious look. “You’re a Terry.”

“Yeah, but I’m housebroken.”

The guard turned to Lady Melisonde. “You gotta watch letting them run their mouth, lady.”

They showed him their identification cards. The guards had probably seen High Taran cards before, however little importance the court was given this far from the center of the League. If he was impressed, he did a good job concealing it. He tried to look at the bird book open on the ground car’s hood without being obvious.

“I heard on Die Bold,” Lady Melisonde said, “that the Friesing’s woodleafsinger had recently been introduced here, quite by accident. I was wondering if you had seen one.”

The guard’s face showed that he did not know one bird from another, but he answered politely enough. “No, ma’am, I have not. But you might want to try the Rolling River Nature Reserve, out on the peninsula.” By which he meant, far away from the Dalhousie Valley.

As the two guards returned to their ornithopter, the shorter one, who had remained mute until now, said to the Fudir, “You pukkah fanty, sahb?” And he made a Brotherhood sign with his fingers that the Fudir recognized.

The other guard swatted him on the arm. “What I gotta tell you about bukkin that lingo, pal? You speak Gaelactic when you’re on duty.”

The next morning, Greystroke and Hugh went to keep their appointment with the master vintner to discuss the proposed contract. In the ground car along the way, Hugh mentioned that the deal could be a profitable one if it ever were carried out. Greystroke reminded him that it was only a ruse to gain access to the estate. Hugh sighed. “I know. But it really is a sweet deal.”

A half league past Chel’veckistad city limits, they left the traffic grid and switched over to manual control. Hugh, who was driving, fussed a little bit with the unfamiliar control panel and at one point swerved into the opposing lane. “Sorry,” he said. “On New Eireann, we used the other side of the road.”

The countryside was a pleasant one of gently rolling hills terraced into vineyards. The landscape was open, warm and dry in the soft morning sun. The land rose, and the road switchbacked up to the crest of Moaning Mountain and down the other side into the Dalhousie Valley. Hugh whistled at the sight of the cliffs and the distant bright blue flashing river. Greystroke made no response and Hugh glanced to the passenger seat on his left, just to assure himself that the Grey One was still there.

A few moments passed, and Greystroke said, “You couldn’t possibly have thought I jumped out the window on one of the turns.”

Hugh grinned and said nothing.

The estate entrance was an elliptical arch made of granite and shuttered by a wrought-iron gateway. The old Dalhousie corporate logo carved into the keystone was still used by the ICC for their wine-and-spirits division. They showed their passes to the guards, who wore the uniform of the 17th Peacekeepers, ICC Civil Police company.

“Take the first right-hand turn, honored sirs,” the guard said. “The winery is the large stone building at the end. Yellow granite. You can’t miss it.”

They thanked him and drove through. “I don’t get it,” Hugh said. “If Lady Cargo has the Dancer, why does everything on ’Saken seem so normal?”

“Two reasons,” Greystroke said. “One: you can’t improvise your way into power. There are logistical details to work out. Sometime soon, I expect, the ICC will buy commercial time for a ‘must-see’ spectacular show. They’ll want as many ears as possible listening at the same time up front. Remember, if someone out of earshot—maybe across the sea in Sinkingland or up on Jubilee Moon—learns what’s going on and disapproves vehemently enough, they could lob a missile directly on old Lady Cargo’s head. I don’t care how persuasive that stone is. It can’t sweet-talk ballistics and a targeting computer.”

“What’s the other reason?”

“Why bother? If the ICC and its policies are already well thought of here—the government’s not exactly in her pocket, but they do snuggle closely—why impose your will? To tell everyone to eat their vegetables? I understand power corrupts, but I hardly think Lady Cargo cares what simulations people experience or what they cook for dinner.”

Hugh nodded. The reasons made sense, but it seemed to him that Cargo had had the Dancer long enough that some move should already have been made. “Pup?” he said.

“What?”

“Suppose there has been a broadcast of some sort, and we listened to it, and we were ordered to forget we had heard it. How would we ever know?”

They pulled into the visitor lot by the winery and Hugh deactivated the motor, which spun down with a slight whine and the ground car settled onto its pylons. Greystroke opened his door. “We wouldn’t,” he decided.

The negotiations with Bris Dent, the winery’s business manager, were tough but straightforward. Naturally, Dent proposed terms more favorable to Dalhousie Wines. “We expect price of our wines, which are unique in this quarter of Arm, to rise on Krinth and so shipment will be more valuable relative to crater gems. Krinthic crater gems to be dropping by two percent.”

Tol Benlever waved his hand. “You cannot possibly know that, ’Spodin Dent.”

“Our economic models best in all Spiral Arm. Find case where we are being wrong more than one, two points, Acts of God excepted. These price movements almost certain. You still make good profit when you resell wine on Krinth.”

Hugh said, “Then you’d not object to making those terms a futures option rather than a straightforward price.”

“No, not at all.”