“So where,” she asked one green-and-yellow bird, “is your master?”
The parrot shuffled a bit on its perch, cocked its head, and squawked. “Whaddaview! Lookaddaview!”
Bridget ban snorted, turned away, then wondered if there was something more serious under this frivolous facade. The ’Cockers were famous across the Spiral Arm for their bioneering. Perhaps the parrot was a receptionist, after all. Yet there was nothing about the bird that suggested it was anything more than a bird. The skull was not of an encouraging volume; its attention span fleeting. It glanced at the intruder repeatedly, but that would be expected of any half-wild beast. Its exclamation was probably no more than a trained reflex.
But why train a bird to make that response to that question? Answer: the Director took his breaks in the viewing room she had noticed from the outside. She glanced at her watch. It was early for a break—unless, as she suspected, ’Cockers inverted the times devoted to work and leisure.
A passing technician, frail and featureless as an elf, bare-chested and wearing a tool belt over his “srong,” told her the lounge was at the end of Redfruit Lane, and pointed to a bush growing along the side of the “corridor.” Bridget ban thanked him and he nodded vaguely, plucking a “redfruit” to eat as he sauntered off. She wondered if he was on his way to repair something and how long that repair would await his arrival.
The redfruits wound through the seventeenth floor, intersecting at times with other winding paths marked by other bushes. There were no walls, but occasionally there were lines of shrubs or trees, or rivulets crossed by short footbridges, each evidently intended to mark the boundary of a “room.” Not one was straight. There might not be a right angle in the entire building. She did see individuals working at screens and chatting casually to hologram images. It could not all be personal activity, could it? Somehow, cross-stellar and in-system traffic in the Junction was choreographed; somehow lighters and bumboats were lifted and landed. Someone out there must be working!
Eventually, curiosity—or surrender—overcame her and she plucked a redfruit for herself. Its skin was soft and plump and the texture, when she had bitten into it, crispy. The taste was succulent and sweet, suggesting both apple and cherry in its ancestry. She had to remind herself that she was inside a large building and the groves through which she wound were only clever artifacts.
The lounge was entirely transparent; even the floors and furniture. In effect, one seemed to be walking in midair, and Bridget ban could see past her boots the traffic far below. Only the people and a few other objects—brightly patterned cushions and the like—were stubbornly opaque. Directly ahead, Polychrome Mountain had been artfully framed between two other high towers so that it appeared larger and closer than it actually was. She wondered if the ’Cockers had erected those two buildings precisely to achieve that effect.
Bridget ban wore a green-and-gold coverall with the blue facings and collar pips of “The Particular Service.” Above her left breast were discreetly pinned two of the twelve decorations to which she was entitled: the Grand Star and the Badge of Night. The Kennel called it “undress uniform,” but she thought herself the most completely dressed person in the lounge, perhaps in the entire building. Some ’Cockers she saw carried casualness of dress to its logical, and ultimate, conclusion.
A few inquiries eventually led her finally to the Director. She had wondered from the name whether Konmi Pulawayo was male or female and, after having been introduced, continued to wonder. Most of the human race was bimodally distributed, but the bioneers of Peacock had achieved the bell-shaped curve, with most inhabitants clustered around a sort of genderless mean and rather fewer out near masculine or feminine extremes. Pulawayo might have been a fine-featured man or a boyish woman. Large, liquid eyes set in an androgynous face gave no clue. There was one way to be certain—and, judging by what she had seen so far, not a way entirely out of the question—but she was struck by the disturbing notion that lifting the Director’s srong would not lift the uncertainty.
Tentatively, she designated Pulawayo as “she,” and firmly fixed that pronoun in mind.
The Director called for tea. On Peacock, that was a foregone conclusion. The variegated flavors and fragrances unique to Polychrome Mountain constituted the planet’s primary export, and drinking it was an act of patriotism.
Pulawayo had preceded her tea order by a slight cough, by which Bridget ban concluded that she was “headwired” and the cough was how she activated the link. While they waited, the elf regarded the Hound with a smile bordering on amusement and studied her with palpable interest.
“Zo,” she said through near-motionless lips, “wuzzahoundooneer?”
The Peacock dialect ran words together and softened its consonants. Indeed, a common joke in the League was that on Peacock, the use of a consonant was subject to a heavy fine. Lazy speech for lazy lips, thought Bridget ban. Her implant sharpened the phonemes to Gaelactic Standard. So. What’s a Hound doing here? the Director had asked.
In answer, she produced her credentials—by ancient tradition, a golden badge of metallo-ceramic that glowed when held by its rightful bearer. “I’m investigating the battle that took place here recently.” It was more than that, of course. The phantom fleet had taken something from the pirates—a prehuman artifact of great value and possibly greater power. But such secrets were best held close, lest they pique greed and ambition.
The Director barely glanced at the badge. “Oh, that,” she said. “No battle. Battle needs two sides. Ambushers caltroped the exit ramp and swissed whichever ships came out next. Good luck, they caught a pirate fleet with top booty and their shields down. Nuisance.”
“Aye. Such lawlessness…”
But the Director had not been concerned about lawlessness. “Clean up the mess,” she complained. “Sweepers still out there. Sent swifties down the Silk Road with warnings. Placed marker buoys. Duchess of Dragomar took damage coming off next day. Didn’t want more ships running into shards. Bad for tourism.”
As she spoke, she muttered under her breath, annoying the Hound. Bridget ban tried to make out what she was saying, but the subvocalization was too slight. Irritated, she said, “And have ye identified the combatants?”
“Pirates were from Cynthia, barbarians coming back heavy from somewhere—”
“From New Eireann. We know about them. The survivors reached Sapphire Point while I was there.”
“Zo. Heavy with loot from this New Eireann place. Lost their vanguard on the caltrops. Other ships jittered. Two skated off on hyperbolic. One braked into elliptical. Saw Cerenkov flashes, so some ships reached the high-c’s but missed the channel and grounded in the mud.”
And those who escaped down the Silk Road had been destroyed by Fir Li’s border squadron. “And what about the ambushing fleet?”
The Director held up a hand palm out. “One sec.” Then she closed her eyes. “No, no, no, darlings. Move Atreus 9-1-7 into High ’Cock Orbit. Low ’Cock ICC 3-2-9-1. ‘First come,’ dears. Do not, repeat not, land lighters from Chettinad Voyager…Because Heart of Oak is still on the designated landing grid, that’s why. Where,” and this was said with deadly sweetness, “are the tugs?” A pause. “I don’t care. King Peter is off the active field. Heart of Oak is still on it. I can’t land Chettinad Voyager with the field cluttered up that way.” Pulawayo sighed, rolled her eyes in mute appeal to beings unseen, and smiled at Bridget ban. “Sorry. New controller. Needed full attention.” She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. “Ah, here’s the tea. I asked for Wenderfell, a very nice blend with a spicy aroma and an aftertaste of clove.”