The world wore the name Bronwen. It was far from the mainstream.
Its claim to fame was that it had been the first human world
occupied by Ulant. It would be the last reabsorbed by
Confederation. In the interim it resembled one of those gaudy,
chaotic eighteenth-century pirate havens on the north coast of
Africa. Sangaree, McGraws, and free-lance pirates made planetfall
and auctioned their booty. The barons of commerce came looking for
bargains in goods worth the cost of interstellar shipment.
Freehaulers came looking for cargo to fill their tramp freighter
holds. Lonely Starfishers came down from their rivers of night for
their rare intercourse with the worlds of men. Millions changed
hands daily. The state was not there to watchdog and steal a cut.
Those were brawling, violent days, but Bronwen’s rulers were
not displeased. Fortunes stuck.
Michael Dee should not have visited the world. He should not
have risked having his name connected with the rogues he employed.
Success had made him overconfident. He did not believe anything
could break his run of luck.
The Sangaree came to his flagship, the old Glowworm, that
Michael had acquired through straw parties when war’s end had
thrown scores of obsolete ships onto the salvage market. The man
did not pretend to be anything but what he was. Michael found him
vaguely familiar. Where had he seen the man? In the background in
press rooms during the war, he thought. And, possibly, once when he
was a child.
Dee did not like puzzles. He did not like not being able to
remember clearly. Memory was his best weapon. But the man had never
impinged directly upon his reality . . . The
Sangaree initially claimed to be a buyer. Michael watched the man
pass through his security screens, wondering. He did not look the
type. Too fat, too self-confident in that intangible way powerful
men have. Fencing stolen goods would be a chore for fourth-level
underlings. Dee secured his observation screen and waited.
The man entered his cabin, extended a hand, said, “Norbon
w’Deeth. The Norbon.”
Michael’s underworld connections now extended into the
Sangaree sphere. He had dealt with the race directly on occasion.
They were sharp, cautious, and carefully honest in their business
arrangements. They were paranoiac in their efforts to protect the
secrets of Homeworld, Family, and Head.
This was a Head! And his Family’s name was turning up
everywhere these days. The Norbon had exploded into prominence
wherever Sangaree operated.
He took the proffered hand. “An honor. How can I be of
service?”
Michael masked his thinking well. He did not betray his
consternation and curiosity. The Norbon was just another
businessman for all the reaction he showed.
The man was damned young for a Head, he reflected. But you could
never be sure in these days of rejuvenation and resurrection. He
had the hard lines in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes.
The man inside was old in thought if not in his flesh.
The Norbon eyed him. “How’s your mother?”
The question took Michael by surprise. It came at him from the
least expected angle. “Well enough, I suppose. I’ve
been out of touch with the family.”
“Yes. The war did disrupt things, didn’t it? And
helped some of us profit.”
The slightest of frowns crossed Michael’s vulpine face. He
felt a case of nerves coming on.
“And the rest of your family?”
“Good enough. We Storms are hard to kill.”
“I’ve discovered that.”
Michael used a toe to caress an alarm button. In seconds a
needlegun, in the hand of a reliable man, began tracking
Dee’s visitor from behind an apparently solid bulkhead.
“None harder than I, sir. You make me uncomfortable. Can
you get to your point?” Michael was surprised at himself. He
was never this direct. The Sangaree had him shaking.
“We have Family business. With the big F. Your Family and
mine. There’s an unsettled matter between the Norbon and
Storms. No doubt you know the tale. I came to find out where
you’ll stand.”
“You’ve lost me.” The man had Dee totally
baffled. It broke through to his face.
“I see I’ll have to go back to the beginning. All
right. Twenty-Eight Forty-Four. Acting on information received from
Sangaree renegades, Commodore Boris Storm and Colonel of Marines
Thaddeus Immanuel Walters invaded Prefactlas. They destroyed the
Family stations and slaughtered any Sangaree they found. My mother,
my father, and hundreds of Norbon dependents were among the dead.
Only a handful of people escaped. Norbon w’Deeth was one of
the survivors.”
Michael shrugged as if to say, “So what?” and did
say, “Those are the breaks of the business.”
“Yes. That’s the human attitude toward risk and
reward. Not that much different from our own except that those men
felt compelled to make it a slaughter instead of a raid. It stopped
being business when they took that attitude. It became vendetta. I
survived. It’s my duty to exact retribution.”
Michael had begun to get the feel of it. His nerves were
steadier. “There’s a needlegun on you.”
His visitor smiled. “I never doubted it. You’re a
reasonably cautious man.”
“Then you’re not here to kill me?”
“Far from it. I’m here to sign you up for my
side.”
Michael’s jaw dropped.
The Norbon laughed. “That’s the first time
I’ve actually seen anybody do that.”
“What?”
The Norbon shook a hand in a gesture meaning never mind.
“You’re in the middle, Michael. You’ve got one
foot on each side. I want to get them both on mine.”
“You confuse me. I don’t have any special love for
my family. That’s common knowledge. But I don’t have
reason one to want them destroyed, either. In fact, it’s a
valuable connection sometimes.”
“I understand. Yes. The problem is that I’ve been
too obscure. I assumed you knew. Let’s go back to your
mother. She was slave-born, as humans say. You know that
much?”
“Yes. So?”
“She was born and trained at the Norbon facility on
Prefactlas. She was its only female survivor. For ten years she and
I fought barbarians, Confies, Corporation beekies, sickness, and
plain old bad luck together. And we made it through. Our
relationship became as deep as one can between a man and a woman.
We even parented a child.”
Michael began to glimpse the shaggy edges of it. And it was a
monster indeed. Yet . . . Yet it would explain
so much that had puzzled him.
It was almost too simple an answer.
“You expect me to believe that crap?”
“It’s happened before. It’s genetically
certain that human and Sangaree spring from the same ur-stock,
sometime deep in proto-history. That both races are repelled by the
idea doesn’t alter the facts. There were races here before
ours, Michael. Who knows what experiments they performed, or why,
before they faded from history’s stage?”
“And who cares?”
Deeth ignored his remark. “There’s a curious thing
about Homeworld, Michael. It’s perfect for human habitation.
A lot like Old Earth was before the Industrial Revolution. We
Sangaree fill the human ecological niche there. But, and it’s
a curious big but, there’s no archaeological or
anthropological evidence of our presence before about the time
Cro-Magnon appeared on Old Earth. There’s no evolutionary
chain. Nothing to connect with. No other primates at all. And we
sometimes crossbreed with humans. What conclusion has to be
drawn?”
That conclusion was irrelevant in an essentially emotional
context. And Michael was responding to feelings, not reason.
He had grown up with an absolute presumption that the Sangaree
were racial enemies. They were to be exterminated—unless
momentary intercourse offered profit or advantage. I can’t be my own enemy, Michael thought.
“That’s all I’ll say about it now,” his
visitor said. “Think about it. It’s a big bit to chew
on. And don’t forget. I’ll help you as much as you help
me. Oh. For what it’s worth, you’re technically my
heir. You’re my only child.”
Numb, Michael pressed a button. It released the lock on the
cabin door. The Sangaree departed.
Michael did not encounter the Norbon again for years. He had
ample time to forget. He could not. His character took over. He
began to scheme, to find ways he could use the Sangaree.
What he could not see, till it was too late, was that he was the
one being used. Norbon w’Deeth was a gentle, subtle spider.
He spun his natural son into webs of intrigue so soft that Michael
did not recognize the chrysalis of doom enveloping him. In the time
of the Shadowline some of the cobwebs were lifted from his eyes.
And he wept. By then he could do nothing but follow instructions
and try to deceive himself as to who was the real spinner.
Even his best-laid schemes betrayed him now.
Old Frog laughed in his grave. Michael had risked everything to
kill the dwarf and suppress his secret till he could exploit it
himself. The riches at the Shadowline’s end would have gotten
him out from under. They would have bought him a comfortable and
anonymous new life free of the Sangaree and his family alike.
The Norbon found out. Somehow. And fed him orders that could
encompass the destruction of the family Storm.
Dee squirmed. He writhed and tried to get away. The Norbon kept
the pressure on, often through Michael’s children by a
marriage he had arranged, often economically. Michael could not
wriggle loose. Perhaps his final defeat came when Deeth compelled
him to drop the name Storm and adopt the subtle mockery of Dee.
Michael did not overlook the obvious. He did think of going to
his brother for help. He rejected the notion. He knew how his
brother would respond. If he believed at all. Gneaus would tell him
to stand on his hind legs and act like a man. He simply would not
understand.
And by staying in line he could even scores with Richard. That
damned Richard. His little moment of spite had started this whole
damned thing.
Michael had spun the anchor silk himself, then had lost control
of his web to a bigger, nastier spider. In the year of the
Shadowline he was caught on the back of a galloping nightmare. His
only hope was that she would not deal him too brutal a fall when
she reached the end of her run.
He denied hope. In his way he was as convinced of his imminent
doom as was Gneaus of his.
The world wore the name Bronwen. It was far from the mainstream.
Its claim to fame was that it had been the first human world
occupied by Ulant. It would be the last reabsorbed by
Confederation. In the interim it resembled one of those gaudy,
chaotic eighteenth-century pirate havens on the north coast of
Africa. Sangaree, McGraws, and free-lance pirates made planetfall
and auctioned their booty. The barons of commerce came looking for
bargains in goods worth the cost of interstellar shipment.
Freehaulers came looking for cargo to fill their tramp freighter
holds. Lonely Starfishers came down from their rivers of night for
their rare intercourse with the worlds of men. Millions changed
hands daily. The state was not there to watchdog and steal a cut.
Those were brawling, violent days, but Bronwen’s rulers were
not displeased. Fortunes stuck.
Michael Dee should not have visited the world. He should not
have risked having his name connected with the rogues he employed.
Success had made him overconfident. He did not believe anything
could break his run of luck.
The Sangaree came to his flagship, the old Glowworm, that
Michael had acquired through straw parties when war’s end had
thrown scores of obsolete ships onto the salvage market. The man
did not pretend to be anything but what he was. Michael found him
vaguely familiar. Where had he seen the man? In the background in
press rooms during the war, he thought. And, possibly, once when he
was a child.
Dee did not like puzzles. He did not like not being able to
remember clearly. Memory was his best weapon. But the man had never
impinged directly upon his reality . . . The
Sangaree initially claimed to be a buyer. Michael watched the man
pass through his security screens, wondering. He did not look the
type. Too fat, too self-confident in that intangible way powerful
men have. Fencing stolen goods would be a chore for fourth-level
underlings. Dee secured his observation screen and waited.
The man entered his cabin, extended a hand, said, “Norbon
w’Deeth. The Norbon.”
Michael’s underworld connections now extended into the
Sangaree sphere. He had dealt with the race directly on occasion.
They were sharp, cautious, and carefully honest in their business
arrangements. They were paranoiac in their efforts to protect the
secrets of Homeworld, Family, and Head.
This was a Head! And his Family’s name was turning up
everywhere these days. The Norbon had exploded into prominence
wherever Sangaree operated.
He took the proffered hand. “An honor. How can I be of
service?”
Michael masked his thinking well. He did not betray his
consternation and curiosity. The Norbon was just another
businessman for all the reaction he showed.
The man was damned young for a Head, he reflected. But you could
never be sure in these days of rejuvenation and resurrection. He
had the hard lines in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes.
The man inside was old in thought if not in his flesh.
The Norbon eyed him. “How’s your mother?”
The question took Michael by surprise. It came at him from the
least expected angle. “Well enough, I suppose. I’ve
been out of touch with the family.”
“Yes. The war did disrupt things, didn’t it? And
helped some of us profit.”
The slightest of frowns crossed Michael’s vulpine face. He
felt a case of nerves coming on.
“And the rest of your family?”
“Good enough. We Storms are hard to kill.”
“I’ve discovered that.”
Michael used a toe to caress an alarm button. In seconds a
needlegun, in the hand of a reliable man, began tracking
Dee’s visitor from behind an apparently solid bulkhead.
“None harder than I, sir. You make me uncomfortable. Can
you get to your point?” Michael was surprised at himself. He
was never this direct. The Sangaree had him shaking.
“We have Family business. With the big F. Your Family and
mine. There’s an unsettled matter between the Norbon and
Storms. No doubt you know the tale. I came to find out where
you’ll stand.”
“You’ve lost me.” The man had Dee totally
baffled. It broke through to his face.
“I see I’ll have to go back to the beginning. All
right. Twenty-Eight Forty-Four. Acting on information received from
Sangaree renegades, Commodore Boris Storm and Colonel of Marines
Thaddeus Immanuel Walters invaded Prefactlas. They destroyed the
Family stations and slaughtered any Sangaree they found. My mother,
my father, and hundreds of Norbon dependents were among the dead.
Only a handful of people escaped. Norbon w’Deeth was one of
the survivors.”
Michael shrugged as if to say, “So what?” and did
say, “Those are the breaks of the business.”
“Yes. That’s the human attitude toward risk and
reward. Not that much different from our own except that those men
felt compelled to make it a slaughter instead of a raid. It stopped
being business when they took that attitude. It became vendetta. I
survived. It’s my duty to exact retribution.”
Michael had begun to get the feel of it. His nerves were
steadier. “There’s a needlegun on you.”
His visitor smiled. “I never doubted it. You’re a
reasonably cautious man.”
“Then you’re not here to kill me?”
“Far from it. I’m here to sign you up for my
side.”
Michael’s jaw dropped.
The Norbon laughed. “That’s the first time
I’ve actually seen anybody do that.”
“What?”
The Norbon shook a hand in a gesture meaning never mind.
“You’re in the middle, Michael. You’ve got one
foot on each side. I want to get them both on mine.”
“You confuse me. I don’t have any special love for
my family. That’s common knowledge. But I don’t have
reason one to want them destroyed, either. In fact, it’s a
valuable connection sometimes.”
“I understand. Yes. The problem is that I’ve been
too obscure. I assumed you knew. Let’s go back to your
mother. She was slave-born, as humans say. You know that
much?”
“Yes. So?”
“She was born and trained at the Norbon facility on
Prefactlas. She was its only female survivor. For ten years she and
I fought barbarians, Confies, Corporation beekies, sickness, and
plain old bad luck together. And we made it through. Our
relationship became as deep as one can between a man and a woman.
We even parented a child.”
Michael began to glimpse the shaggy edges of it. And it was a
monster indeed. Yet . . . Yet it would explain
so much that had puzzled him.
It was almost too simple an answer.
“You expect me to believe that crap?”
“It’s happened before. It’s genetically
certain that human and Sangaree spring from the same ur-stock,
sometime deep in proto-history. That both races are repelled by the
idea doesn’t alter the facts. There were races here before
ours, Michael. Who knows what experiments they performed, or why,
before they faded from history’s stage?”
“And who cares?”
Deeth ignored his remark. “There’s a curious thing
about Homeworld, Michael. It’s perfect for human habitation.
A lot like Old Earth was before the Industrial Revolution. We
Sangaree fill the human ecological niche there. But, and it’s
a curious big but, there’s no archaeological or
anthropological evidence of our presence before about the time
Cro-Magnon appeared on Old Earth. There’s no evolutionary
chain. Nothing to connect with. No other primates at all. And we
sometimes crossbreed with humans. What conclusion has to be
drawn?”
That conclusion was irrelevant in an essentially emotional
context. And Michael was responding to feelings, not reason.
He had grown up with an absolute presumption that the Sangaree
were racial enemies. They were to be exterminated—unless
momentary intercourse offered profit or advantage. I can’t be my own enemy, Michael thought.
“That’s all I’ll say about it now,” his
visitor said. “Think about it. It’s a big bit to chew
on. And don’t forget. I’ll help you as much as you help
me. Oh. For what it’s worth, you’re technically my
heir. You’re my only child.”
Numb, Michael pressed a button. It released the lock on the
cabin door. The Sangaree departed.
Michael did not encounter the Norbon again for years. He had
ample time to forget. He could not. His character took over. He
began to scheme, to find ways he could use the Sangaree.
What he could not see, till it was too late, was that he was the
one being used. Norbon w’Deeth was a gentle, subtle spider.
He spun his natural son into webs of intrigue so soft that Michael
did not recognize the chrysalis of doom enveloping him. In the time
of the Shadowline some of the cobwebs were lifted from his eyes.
And he wept. By then he could do nothing but follow instructions
and try to deceive himself as to who was the real spinner.
Even his best-laid schemes betrayed him now.
Old Frog laughed in his grave. Michael had risked everything to
kill the dwarf and suppress his secret till he could exploit it
himself. The riches at the Shadowline’s end would have gotten
him out from under. They would have bought him a comfortable and
anonymous new life free of the Sangaree and his family alike.
The Norbon found out. Somehow. And fed him orders that could
encompass the destruction of the family Storm.
Dee squirmed. He writhed and tried to get away. The Norbon kept
the pressure on, often through Michael’s children by a
marriage he had arranged, often economically. Michael could not
wriggle loose. Perhaps his final defeat came when Deeth compelled
him to drop the name Storm and adopt the subtle mockery of Dee.
Michael did not overlook the obvious. He did think of going to
his brother for help. He rejected the notion. He knew how his
brother would respond. If he believed at all. Gneaus would tell him
to stand on his hind legs and act like a man. He simply would not
understand.
And by staying in line he could even scores with Richard. That
damned Richard. His little moment of spite had started this whole
damned thing.
Michael had spun the anchor silk himself, then had lost control
of his web to a bigger, nastier spider. In the year of the
Shadowline he was caught on the back of a galloping nightmare. His
only hope was that she would not deal him too brutal a fall when
she reached the end of her run.
He denied hope. In his way he was as convinced of his imminent
doom as was Gneaus of his.