She sighed. “Well, I suppose I better get to the point. So much for the happy reunion. The crux of it is, I may have a job for you.”
“What is it?”
“Well, you’d have a sign a contract first.”
“No.”
“You’d rather swim in pig shit?”
“Yes.”
“What if it meant getting back to Seeville?”
“How?”
“You have to sign the contract first.”
“No.”
“Now let me refresh your memory, Mehta. This is how things work for us. We sign contracts, and that’s that. You scratch your ass and check your watch, you don’t check your ass and scratch your watch.”
“How would I get back to Seeville?”
Mehta was surprised to see a man in a black robe suddenly standing immediately behind him. He had crept up on them without making a sound, aided by his bare feet. He had green makeup encircling his eyes and several ringlets around his arm, indicating a high rank among the Essentialists. He also had the maroon armband of the Shinogi. He looked vaguely familiar to Mehta—a former captain, maybe.
The man drifted around to stand in front of Mehta. Rosalie shrugged at the enigmatic figure. “I assume you heard the conversation so far.”
The man didn’t respond to her. He stared at Mehta and said, “My name is Nobura. I am an Essentialist general.”
Nobura’s legs scissored as he sat down on the floor in front of them, ending cross-legged. He said, “I know our laws prevent us from killing captured mercs in certain situations. When it is a trade agreement, or diplomacy, or a hunting foray. But this transgression was none of those things. You were stealing a holy disciple from our ranks, and you took the lives of our soldiers. No, this was an act of war, and thus the merc treaties do not apply to you.”
Mehta eyed him carefully.
“I have explained this situation to our curator,” Nobura continued. “She agrees, and has given me full jurisdiction on this matter. Full jurisdiction on whether you live or die.”
“Spit it out, foreigner,” Mehta said. “You must need me for something. What is it?”
The man smiled. It seemed to stretch his face unnaturally. “I respect your strength of will, Mehta. It tells me much about you. Most men would take the contract right away. Many would have signed it upon the first utterance by your colleague. More would have taken it after but a superficial attempt at bargaining. Whereas you would risk further torment, moreover death, and you would even elicit belligerence.”
Mehta shrugged.
“I can tell you will not bend easily, so I will be straight. I will tell you what I seek. Plainly, if you do not accept this contract, you will die, for in the knowing of its intent, without signing, there can be only death.”
Mehta watched the man closely, trying to understand motive, trying to ascertain his intentions. He believed Nobura’s threat.
“I understand,” Mehta said.
Nobura turned to Rosalie. “You are sure we can trust this man to be discrete and to do the job well?”
“Yes, if he signs your contract he can clam up real good. And yes, he’s one of our best. He’s done kilt so many that he has to be good.”
Nobura nodded, and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he stood up and walked around the periphery of the room. He looked behind some of the sliding doors, and he shooed away the maidens waiting at the front. Then he returned to them and spoke.
“Our leader of Grand Caverns has achieved much, but she is like the hawk who has never had a wounded wing. She flies too high in the sky. And now she has been possessed by another Old World abomination from the satellite. It has molten its metal onto her mind. It twists her to its will.
“Now I hear of more Old World technology returning to Spoke lands—much more than we have dominion over. I see the hammer in the sky, and I know this hammer is a Spoke implement of destruction. I know we Essentialists are not the carpenter, we are the recipients of the nail. I do not know what will come to pass in the days that follow, but for the sake of the Prefectorate and our allies, I worry this conflict with the Spokes is not the right path for the Essentialists.
“And so, I need insurance. We need insurance. We need to have a bridge that spans the chasm that Luna Pais wishes to hurl us into. I want you to be that bridge, Mehta—you and Rosalie.”
“Me?” Mehta scoffed. “I’m no diplomat. How can I possibly help?”
“Diplomats are snakes or bureaucrats. I want neither. I want you and Rosalie. I want you to be my liaison in Spoke lands. If things look bad for us, I want you to make a peace offering on our behalf. A peace offering that establishes the Prefectorate as a dominant Essentialist power in the east.”
Now it made some sense. This man wanted to wrest power from the curator. “And what about Luna?”
“You need not worry about her. If I fail, I will be dead. Your contract will be terminated in such an event, and you will be free.”
Mehta thought it over. It was more than prickly. Any number of things could go wrong. The Spokes might not even be giving mercs free passage in their lands anymore. And it was possible that Bartz and his crew knew about Mehta’s support for Madison, or maybe they had eyes on Monticello. A camera saw Alastair at the dish, and could have just as easily seen Mehta there. If so, it couldn’t just be explained away.
But it was also possible that Rosalie could make first contact. Mehta could get her to the right people, and she could test the waters.
Ultimately, none of this really mattered. What mattered was his prior commitment.
“I can’t do it,” Mehta said.
“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” Rosalie said in amazement.
“You are willing to die? Why?” Nobura asked.
Mehta realized that dead men don’t succeed in anything. His commitment would be worthless. And this man wasn’t making idle threats.
There was still a way. It was convoluted and unlikely to succeed. It was even less likely that this man would accept it. But he seemed to be aggressive, almost desperate. Perhaps he had no other option.
“Actually, on second thought I can do as you say,” Mehta said, “but on one condition. I have an existing contract I cannot breach. I can’t tell you the details, but based on what you say now, I should be able to do both without conflict. I need to ensure I can honor that contract as well.”
Nobura looked annoyed. Rosalie looked concerned.
Nobura closed his eyes and began breathing long breaths. Mehta knew what that meant. A decision would be forthcoming soon.
In the silence that followed, Mehta’s belly turned, digesting the meal he had eaten so vociferously. Then a breeze rustled the leaves outside. The wind sounded heavy to Mehta, as if it was laden with news, as if it was harkening of someone’s fate.
Nobura opened his eyes and said, “No, I will not accept your condition. You will have to die.”
WEST CHESTER
Axel and Grant toured the subterranean research facility in West Chester in a makeshift golf cart. They saw only two people the entire time, but there was plenty of activity. The cart weaved around dozens of active droids of various shapes and sizes.
Only a handful of people understood the Sentinel enough to know its true scale and potential. In fact, there were maybe twenty people in total that knew about the Sentinel at all, but most of these thought it was just another corporate project name, not a superintelligent machine. According to Grant, soon the Sentinel wouldn’t need any human assistance whatsoever, particularly in the underground facility.
Most research and development work was performed in an area almost a square mile in size, deep below the surface. There were projects to improve Nadar product lines, or enhance computing power, or build new multipurpose droids.