The Fourth Guardian Page 3

  Councilor Chumwith, chairman of banking and treasury, cleared his throat. “Sir, given this has nothing to do with economic issues, if Regis Tregarath is kept prisoner another month, I foresee the gravest of consequences."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Hasn't it occurred to anyone? The Galactics. What's to prevent them from putting one of their monstrous world ships in orbit, and then sending one of their grotesque alien reps to take over? They've got the perfect motive. All they have to say is they're here to guide and protect a Guardian. Who would challenge that?"

  "Chumwith, you've got something else up your sleeve, man. What is it?"

  The blubbery councilor shrugged. “Once that happens every record in every computer will be opened to scrutiny. That's every record ... even ours."

  He didn't have to go into the matter further. Everyone focused on the possibility of long prison terms. President Amaron didn't think it appropriate for one of his station to endure that injustice if he could help it, and he was not alone in that thought.

  His address was to Alexander Mottled, the Councilor for Justice. “Mottled, what about that contracted judge of yours—what's his name? Matslug?"

  Mottled cleared his throat. “Maat"izlog or something that sounds like that. He was not what I requested, but when a Galactic rep suggested him, I didn't think it prudent to refuse."

  "Does he go by the book?"

  "Every inch of him. I couldn't think what it would take to bribe one. What does an Octopoid need? What does an Octopoid think about? Do they look upon money the same way we look upon it?"

  Amaron held up a hand. “Yes, yes. Whether he's corruptible or not, we do not have time to find out. What about Nald? How much influence does that man have with the mercantilists? I've got to know where we stand if we move on this situation, and I need to know where our enemies are, and what enemies will be made."

  That was Councilor Delmar's concern as head of public affairs and relations. He nodded quickly. “Nald is one of the great merchant houses of the market. If they went belly-up, the market would take a tailspin and wouldn't stop until it hit earth. We can suspend them from acting against us, but if that suspension became permanent, we'd face a grassroots revolt from our own supporters. After all, you're talking about several hundred thousand credits worth of gold-platinums here."

  "So killing the little twerp won't do."

  Delmar shook his head, the flab in his cheeks flexing like hanging globs of jell. “That would be the worst you could do, if you were trying to commit financial suicide. The House of Nald would pack their business up and move out of the human sector. And if they went, hundreds of others would follow."

  Amaron's eyes narrowed. “Theory or probability?"

  "The probability factor of that happening is close to ninety-seven percent, and we're talking about the least that would happen. If it did, I'd say we have seven, maybe nine months, before requiring bodyguards, and then even our bodyguards couldn't be trusted."

  "So ... we can't kill him. We can't mind-wipe him. We dare not imprison him for long. What about sending him to one of the penal colonies or the convict mines?"

  At that, Councilor Vinci of State Security, snorted. “You want a riot on your hands? You send him to one of those places, where the only personnel we've got is staffed by robots working the machinery, and you'll be shopping for another place to live ... in another life."

  The president slammed his hand on the desk and glared at him. “That sounds like a threat!"

  Vinci shook his head, dogged. “Listen to me Amaron, I'm telling you that if you make a mistake with this boy, you'll end up by running. Most of my men and I will probably be dead, and the rest will be lucky to find holes deep enough to hide in!"

  An aide standing beside Councilor Emi, head of the council for scientific affairs, leaned over and whispered in his boss's ear.

  Emi's eyes glowed with the planted idea. “What about sending him to a place no one can get at ... a place he can't break out of, yet will be safer than anything else we could offer a convicted felon?"

  Amaron swung around. “What have you got in mind?"

  Emi chuckled, liking his idea better. “Are you familiar with the concept of dimensional travel? We've been experimenting with one, opening and closing portals, and even sending and retrieving objects and animals. Now, if it works out, that could make it a unique solution to our problem."

  "What are you talking about?"

  The scientist coughed delicately. “Don't you see? While extended dimensional travel is still beyond us, we have found that a small portal can open up between worlds that are similar, even if they are different."

  Amaron was intrigued. “Different? Different how?"

  Emi shrugged. “Cultural growth. Technology. In this dimension, to us, it would be as if we stepped back thirty thousand years."

  "What would that achieve?"

  Emi smiled tolerantly. “We've been spying on these people, and on this world, their culture is highly unstable."

  Amaron went still and licked his lips. “So, we send the Nald brat through this portal, and hope the place does him in?"

  "Essentially."

  "What do you mean ‘essentially'?"

  "We can't just thrust him into a strange land without some protection. If that was ever found out, we'd be in the same fix we're in now, but worse."

  Amaron took a deep breath. “What are you suggesting, then?"

  "An alteration, Mr. President. One that looks good, but won't have much of a lasting effect one way or another."

  "And the technicians you're using?"

  Emi blinked. “We'd have to be careful there, sir. Most of them are contracted. Where their loyalties lie I could not say."

  "Could they be replaced?"

  "Yes, in time."

  "I want all the information on this parallel dimension you've got. Then I want more studies performed to assure that you know what you're talking about."

  Emi beamed, his silver hair shining. “The material will be in the system for you to access before the day is over."

  * * * *

  Bemused over the situation facing his jailors, Reg-I-Nald took the opportunity to view his surroundings with a new perspective. Not bad. There were bathing and toilet facilities, a small but efficient kitchenette, a float bed, a small library module with access to non-secured information banks, and yes ... he found a few prized selections to tap into as strains of haunting musical tones reverberated in the air. Next was a small desk alcove, and guest chair built into the wall, and the force field.

  It was set to ensure his safety even if he were to go mad and hurl himself at it. But what he'd observed of his guards proved a transformation of attitude. A good number would have waited on him hand and foot. Others were frightened.

  If anything happened to him, they weren't sure what would happen to them. He snorted when he heard it.

  The Fourth Guardian, indeed. Who would have thought it? Regis Tregarath, the only brat of the House of Nald, one of the biggest trading concerns in the sector. Killer. Maniac. Saint.

  He shuddered at the picture. And how had it all begun? He tossed on his float bed and stared at the ceiling. His concentration digging at the hazy memory, and his tripleter heart quickening, and then the memory surged up, swamping him, as if it had been lying dormant, just waiting to be summoned...

  The Chenese. The crustacean-like race that had the curious and repugnant ritual of serving dinner guests their female infants. It was a time-honored tradition. Broiled á la famille, thus making closer the bonds of a business arrangement.

  With eyes wide, he saw the moments unfold. It was a repressed memory, but now he could look upon it clinically, objectively. What was the ritual called? His eyes narrowed. The eating of another's salt. A chill went down his spine. It was an occasion he thought he would never forget, but in some inexplicable manner he had forgotten.

  His father, Doral-I-Nald, introduced a young Reg-I-Nald to their host on his first trip ou
t of sector and was commenting on the young man's training and aptitude for business when a commotion broke out in the lower kitchens.

  Portals flung open and a blue-veined female came lumbering in, all half ton of her crashing forward on the steps to confront her lord and master, red-veined Crag Chen-Chen. Alien vocoders realigned frequencies to accommodate the high keening squawks.

  "My lord,” she cried, mandibles clacking and gesturing widely. “I must protest. I beg of you. Our daughter is reluctant to submit, and I—I must agree with her! She refuses to see business apart from separateness from existence. She is stubborn, lord, but—"

  Clearly, the dam misjudged the temper of her mate, or the importance of the dinner, which was evident as her lord revealed his rage.

  Squealing too high for the vocoders to register, a mighty swing of an outsized claw caught the impertinent female and struck her aside. With a crash that dented the high density permalloy flooring, she landed flat on her back amidst cries of anguish at the sudden fall of her station.

  What followed next was something out of a nightmare. The Chenese lord gave curt orders, and his infant daughter was dragged scrabbling and screaming from the kitchens, up the steps, and into the center of the floor, and brushing aside her feeble attempts to defend herself, the petrified infant was attacked by her parent.

  With the slashing of a curved spear blade, first went one claw, and blood shot out from the inner pressure of a rigidly built vascular system ... then the other claw, and the smaller legs followed. Her screams only made more horrible what was happening, until finally, in the middle of the blood-splattered, quivering remains, her father gripped a weighted prong in a tentacular claw, and with a grim, high roar, separated her head from her body.

  The blue-red blood had spread to the inner circle of the diners, and slowly the shocked audience pulled back. These hardened traders had seen a lot in their time, but this was too much even for them.

  Then kitchen staff came up to the corpse and began sawing, tearing at joints and muscles, throwing away the organs, placing everything else in a steaming vat and sprinkling it with herbs and clarified squid butter.

  The floor was mopped clean, fragrance sprayed in the air, music reestablished, and guests resumed sitting on cushions. The pressure boiler cooked to a high temperature, and condiments and appetizers arrived with a flourish while the entrée cooked.

  Doral-I-Nald glanced at his son to see how the other took it and breathed a sigh of relief. The boy was doing all right. Reg-I-Nald had filled a goblet full of Nydrian wine, gulped it, filled it again, and mingled with the others, sharing a word, listening politely. He observed his father's rigid face, commented on lighter matters ... and while the servants quietly and efficiently served ... Reg-I-Nald started thinking.

  Ritual was a great part of life among the Chenese, but he hadn't known what to expect. His father had tried to warn him there were space-roving people with barbaric customs, but then he just nodded, smiled, and looked excitedly towards his first voyage to outré cultures.

  He noted other Chenese keeping their oculars glued upon their laughing lord and picked up a sense of trepidation. He engaged in other conversations, moving around, becoming immersed ... listening. Some were used to the Chenese ... used to the curious and the bizarre, however, now ... even they wondered if the race was mad.

  Attendants had picked up their dam and helped her out of sight. He chuckled dryly, and openly said that from what he had just witnessed, she'd be lucky if she wasn't added to the entrée.

  Then the main course was prepared, and Reg-I-Nald looked with interest upon diners who geared themselves for cracked crab. Some were observed taking pills before eating. A servant asked him to resume his seat, alongside his father. He nodded appreciatively and did so.

  "Well, son, getting the other viewpoint you were always asking for?"

  "Yes, father, I am."

  "Try that brown sauce next to the meat. It adds to the flavor."

  "Thank you. I shall."

  Then he watched his father, who was stoic, attentive to those around him, appreciative, while he, on the other hand, barely touched his plate.

  "Reg,” his father whispered, “if you can't eat, then move around. The Chenese lord is watching."

  Smiling, Reg-I-Nald got up, waving to a couple towards the other end of the curved stone table, and started to move, stopping here, stopping there, laughing at a quip, sharing a joke.

  Dancers gathered before them, and the musicians changed their tone to something more gay. Their lord clacked his mandibles, and the dancers bowed before him and his guests, and then began swaying, keening, stepping adroitly.

  He overheard Doral asked if the other accepted the proceedings as a final “lock” to their contract. He looked around and saw his father nodding and touching his wrists together in a sign of agreement. Yes, he replied, it was acceptable. And the feast in their honor honored him most of all.

  When he said that he took care not to look at his son. If he had, he might have seen an odd glint growing in the youngster's eyes as the evening wore on.

  Several hours later Reg-I-Nald had a silly little grin on his face and was weaving in and out of the cushions of the clustering party-makers, smiling amiably, hugging a weeping female who wanted to tell all to all.

  Separating himself from the delighted audience that formed to hear the tale, stopping for a second with a group of public relations representatives, ever on the job, he murmured into a personal recorder and sprinkled a bit of Neednn into his wine.

  "How's it going?"

  The professional looked up with a shrug. “So, so. There really isn't much I can use here. The Chenese have made a good deal for themselves in striking a bargain with your father's group. The trades market in this sector is scarce in animal furs, but here the stuff is overflowing.” He patted the cushions nearby and invited the boy to sit. “Of course, the industry is changing. People are always switching styles, but the more bizarre the better. The silkie fur the Chenese have is just that."

  "They say the fur is still half-alive after curing."

  "It is."

  The young heir shook his head distastefully. “Sick."

  The professional laughed. “Son, people's wants are always opposed to their needs. The Chenese have more than mere furs to offer. There are at least twenty listed drugs on this world, that when properly purified and processed could make it possible to treat a dozen debilitating diseases. But right now, where's the quick money? It's in furs that squeak."

  Reg-I-Nald chuckled, shook his head at the irony of it all, and with a genial wave stopped here and there, sipping from a friend's offered goblet, and agreed with him that contracts with this outré race would make them all rich, besides increasing their dividends on the open market...

  Then having circled the banquet, he barely escaped being pulled into a contest with several squealing attendants without vocoders and found himself on a pile of soft silkie furs.

  The thought of wearing something that quivered made him uneasy, but nonetheless, he lay back fingering the little bag of the forbidden Neednn he'd borrowed and wondered as he half-listened to the Chenese lord's boasts about his prowess among females, what a good dose of Neednn might do ... in a Chenese.

  A half hour later, they all found out. The Chenese lord was heard screeching, sending plates, bowls, and goblets cascading to the floor, rearing up, claws and mandibles reaching for something that wasn't there, and the entire assembly rocked into silence.

  The music ground to a stop. Everyone stared, and then the lord stiffened and screamed with an even louder ear-piercing tone, and like some chemical experiment gone awry, Crag Chen-Chen exploded.

  Business guests, accompanying friends, followers, employees, along with attendants, yelled, scrambled, and shouted. People gathered their belongings, some speaking into miniature com units and advising flight personnel to rev up the engines.

  Some Chenese ran to the remains, hoping to offer aid ... but what could they do
with a floor full of pieces?"

  Finally, getting themselves in hand, dancers and musicians scurried out of the way, and those with no business dealings were ordered out. The banquet hall became a tense place to await whatever would happen.

  After a few hours, a distant cousin to the Crag was located, and temporarily established as lord and master. To the shock of many, he directed that all contracts agreed to in the past were null and void. Obviously, he gestured, this was the work of the gods, and they alone knew how the previous Crag Chen-Chen deserved their pity.

  Doral opened his mouth to protest, but the other's antennae did not waver in the slightest. Sorry, but that was the way it was. They expected all aliens to be gone by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.

  Several attempted to say something biting, but a single look from Doral froze the inclination in their throats. They could take a hint. It was time to pack up their tents.

  In consideration of what had occurred, the new Lord Crag explained, eyes swiveling nervously around as he tried to remain outside the huge splotch of gore, their social culture was due for a change.

  Glumly the guests retired to their rooms, and Reg-I-Nald repaired to his small apartment where he could shed his clothes. The remnants of the Lord Crag splattered all over him was disgusting, and he ran a bath.

  He started to undress when a sound caused him to turn. A blue-veined female in the entrance to the suite stared at him, then moving with the grace of a dancer, she stepped to a foot from him.

  Her vocoder rumbled. “Why, Outré, did you kill my lord and master? Speak well, I say, before you die!"

  With a shock, Reg-I-Nald recognized the dam who had earlier that evening begged the life of her daughter. She was aiming an instrument in his direction, a space tool for vaporizing carbon rust that would do amply well for other purposes, too.

  The alcoholic fog befuddling his senses dispelled.

  "What are you talking about?"

  She slipped closer, whispering with a clacking undertone that promised him no good. “I'm saying, Outré, that several attendants spied you slipping something into my lord's bowl, and sometime afterwards he passed into the Great Beyond. I warn you not to lie to me. I know the truth!"