CHAPTER 1
I crept out of the Taino Central Constabulary with, I believe, a creditable chastened expression on my face. Very little can bring one so low as the walk of shame in broad daylight, except if it should be in the company of one’s own conscience brought to life and embodied. My aide-de-camp, Commander Parsons, held my upper arm as if to prevent it removing itself from the rest of my torso and fleeing. I rather wished it could, and take me with it. I am very tall, but Parsons is somewhat taller, with remarkably dark eyes, and possessed of an austere expression that would cause even an angel to search its heart for any sins it might have committed. Parsons is also an old family friend, so I have beheld that expression more often than I care to think about.
“Perhaps you will reveal the reason that you flew your racing flitter in between the pillars of the charity art exhibit, Lord Thomas?” he asked.
“Well, my cousin Xan rather dared me,” I admitted. “In fact, he dared me to the fifth power. It was a challenge I hardly liked to ignore. And,” I added, with a hopeful look added to the shame on my face, “he went first. I wasn’t the only one to crash into the sculpture. Several of us impacted with it.”
The austerity of his countenance did not soften.
“It was a tribute to the Emperor’s late mother.”
“I know! It didn’t look a thing like the old girl, though. In fact, it looked like a wad of yellow sponge, magnified three or four thousand times. Modern art is an insult to one’s intelligence. If you don’t guess correctly as to the artist’s intention, then you are ignorant. If you just happen to be right, you probably commit illegal acts of art on your own time.”
I glanced at Parsons in search of a twitch of amusement, but in vain. No continental shelf full of ice could have been more glacial. I looked away, seeking something more pleasant to behold. The sunlight caused my pupils to contract painfully. I had noticed before how bright natural daylight appeared after a night’s incarceration. Something about the illumination in the cells, perhaps. My head pounded so loudly that I feared I was yet again disturbing the peace. I massaged my temples with shaking forefingers. My chest and thighs had been bruised from forceful impact against my flitter’s comprehensive safety harness, and I had a purple lump on my forehead from the crash itself. This edema felt tender to the touch. Perversely, of course, I could not help but probe it now and again to confirm. To distract myself, I gazed at my surroundings, trying to convince myself they had become more beautiful overnight.
And yet, the city of my birth needed no public relations specialist to enhance its attractions. Taino, capital of the Core Worlds of the Imperium, lay in a natural, high-sided valley surrounded by wind-and-water-etched cliffs of white and rust sandstone. As if to add that pop of color so beloved of decorators, muted green moss had been daubed in streaks, stripes and swags all over those cliffs. Above all hung a marvelously clear sky of the most enchanting blue with the faintest hint of turquoise. Here and there, a white cloud dawdled, and I could see the contrails, also white, from the morning arrivals and departures from the Taino spaceport downriver. I inhaled a great gust of air, still cool before the burning heat of a summer day descended.
“Here, my lord.” Parsons steered me toward a hovering skimmer. I glanced with a measure of hope at the controls, but they were locked into a thick cylinder twinkling with small lights and gauges.
“I suppose the robot won’t let me drive,” I said, with little hope. “It’s such a beautiful day. I’d adore a quick zip over to the Highclerc Cliffs and having a look out over the spaceport.”
“Your ban on operating a motorized vehicle took effect at midnight last night,” Parsons reminded me. “It will last for the next sixty days. SK902 will be your chauffeur until the ban expires.”
“Well, that’s dreary!” I declared, but I swung into the rear passenger seat. Parsons, with more dignity, ascended and took the place beside me. The skimmer lifted off. With gratitude, I watched the looming building of the Constabulary disappear behind me. “Where are we going? This is not the way back to the Imperium Compound. I had hoped to change out of these clothes. They are less presentable than I wish them to be.”
“We have a different destination. Your mother is disappointed in your lapse of memory.”
“Oh, no,” I chided him. “That is impossible. I have all important dates and facts listed in my viewpad.” I patted my hip, to which my pocket secretary had been returned by the warder on my departure from custody. “It’s not her birthday, nor my father’s, nor their anniversary, nor the natal days of myself, my brother or my sister. It is not Accession Day for my cousin the emperor, or any other day of importance. It was, in ancient times, the feast of the shoemakers Crispin and Crispian, but according to my star chart, that is a lucky day for me.”
“That is not what you have forgotten, my lord.”
“Then, what?”
“The dignity of the Fleet.”
I sighed, a trifle derisively, if I am to be honest.
“Oh, that.”
Parsons’s tone did not change one iota.
“Yes, that.”
“Why should that enter into the equation? Half my cousins were behind us on air scooters.”
“Because none of them is the son of the First Space Lord. None of them is still a serving officer. And they are not escaping the exploit unscathed. I believe that Lord Xanvin’s father retrieved him from the cells shortly before I arrived.”
“Ugh,” I emitted, with sympathy. “That probably means a few days on his hands and knees cleaning out whisky vats with a toothbrush in the family’s fabled distilleries.” It was his father’s favorite punishment. That led me to realize my own fate had not been revealed. “Er, Parsons? My mother didn’t hint at a penalty for me, did she?”
The hoped-for twinkle made a brief cameo appearance. “No, my lord.”
I blew a gusting sigh of relief. “Well! The shoemaker patrons are looking out for me!”
“No, my lord,” Parsons repeated. “There was no hint. She stated your punishment outright. You will start today on habiliment therapy for Uctu environmental hazards. You will be leading a small but important diplomatic mission to the Autocracy, to commence within two weeks.”
“Really?” I asked. I beamed. That sounded like an honor, not a punishment. The shoemaker patrons had indeed come through. I leaned back in the skimmer seat, well pleased with life. “Lead on, Commander!”
It seemed only two hours later that I was walking through the streets of Taino at a sixth of my former size. There had, in fact, been an interval of four days—a discreet blackout, if you will. I had just emerged from a medically-induced coma to spare me some of the more heinous side effects of the inoculations, vaccinations and other treatments I required on my first visit to the Autocracy. Those which I retained upon waking were gruesome enough that I wondered how much worse were the ones that occurred while I slept. With every step, I experienced a wave of nausea and giddiness that swamped most other sensations. My head swam so that the landscape around me tended to wash up and back in my vision like ocean surf. It was difficult to tell if the buildings were actually rushing toward me or not.
It was fortunate that my crew—I liked to refer to them as my crew, though they were only assigned to me when a mission called for my specific involvement, as now—had decided to accompany me on my first outing from the travel medicine facility. Ensign Miles Nesbitt, a large and stocky fellow with beetle brows that I would have sworn were walking impatiently to and fro on his forehead, held onto the arm on the side of the wayward buildings. My other side was protected by my good friend, Ensign Kolchut Redius, an Uctu with coral-scaled skin whose parents had immigrated as youths to the Imperium.
The most curious of the side effects was the difference in size I had undergone. I kept glancing up at my compatriots. I hadn’t realized from previous encounters how large the pores were in Ensign Miles Nesbitt’s skin, nor the intricacy of each of Redius’s scales, nor how gleamingly white were the teeth of First Lieutenant Carissa Plet or the fur of Indiri Oskelev, ensign, Wichu and demon pilot. The latter, in fact, steered us up the street, as Lieutenant Philomena Anstruther stayed behind us, possibly to catch me if I fell.
“Why, or perhaps I should ask, how did they manage to shrink me? And why are your arms so long?” I asked, in a querulous tone I would more usually associate with my elderly great-uncle, Perleas.
“No longer than before,” Redius said, with the breathy squeaks his species used to indicate it was laughing. “Perception yours!”
“I suppose you don’t have to go through the same treatment,”
Oskelev snorted. “We already have, Lieutenant.”
“It’s part of basic habitation,” Anstruther said. “We have all undergone treatment to prevent ill effects from the biomes of major space-going races. You never know whose ship you might have to board without working hazard suits . . . sir.”
This final sentence faded down to silence as I regarded the speaker with admiration. The final member of my coterie was a shy girl with thick, dark hair and startling dark blue eyes. Her skills in information technology probably rivaled my own, though her retiring personality undoubtedly would hold her back from otherwise well-deserved promotions. I had taken it on as one of my responsibilities to ensure that her efficiency and innovation would come to the attention of those of higher naval ranks. No sense in wasting extremely competent personnel when I so seldom made use of them myself.
“Thomas, please,” I said. “As long as you are so much taller than I, it would be a friendly gesture if you would dispense with naval formality.”
She reddened, a charming trait of hers. “Thomas.”
“How long will this proportional dystopia last?”
“It took me three days,” Nesbitt admitted. I let out a cry of protest. “The doctors said it was longer than usual. You shouldn’t be more than a day. We’ll look after you, my lord.”
“Well, thank all powers for that,” I said, with genuine relief. “In gratitude, allow me to take you all to lunch. I know a very smart new café with excellent food not far away. . . .” I glanced up the street, which seemed to be ridiculously longer than I remembered.
“Which one?” Oskelev asked, impatiently, holding out her viewpad, always the pilot.
“Social Butterfly,” I said. Picking up on my voice, the graphic appeared on the enormous vid screen. Oskelev pointed ahead and to the right. Her arm stretched forward into infinity.
“Six hundred meters. You’ll make it.”
My team sounded as if it had faith in me. I wish I shared it. I hesitated as I reached an intersection. The signal changed so that the ground-level vehicles wafted to a halt, leaving the way clear. Yet, I did not dare to step off the curb. It seemed to be dozens of meters high. Intellectually I knew it was less than the depth of my boot. I hesitated, one foot hovering over the abyss.
“Come on, my lord,” Nesbitt coaxed me. He held out an enormous hand that filled my vision. I reached for it. To my astonishment, my hand seemed almost as large as his. I could have covered my entire body with it. Together, we stepped into the depths. My boot sole hit the pavement long before I thought it would. The force of it landing sent juddering vibrations up my leg and into my hip. Somehow we managed to cross the street. Every bump in the terrain took on epic proportions. I stumbled as I attempted to dodge a huge pink monument obstructing my way. My friends righted me.
“When did they erect that?” I asked, appalled. “It’s nearly as ugly as the sculpture they dedicated to my late great-somethings-aunt!”
“That’s just a piece of gum, sir,” Anstruther said.
I glanced back over a clifftop that was my own shoulder, and realized that the wad of pink had receded to a spot miles below me. When I swung my gaze back, I was daunted by the approaching wall over which a cascade of giant feet descended.
“May I, sir?” Plet asked, in a tone of understandable exasperation. She elbowed the giant Nesbitt out of the way, and placed a vast hand over my eyes. Kindly darkness descended. I felt myself relaxing for the first time since I had emerged from the medical facility. “All right, lift your left foot. There. You are up on the curb. Please walk forward. I will guide you.”
Once I could not see, everything felt normal. I stepped forward with the utmost caution. Shortly, Oskelev took my shoulders and turned me sharply to the right. I heard the swish! of a door opening, and the temperature dropped precipitously as we passed inside and were enveloped by the atmospheric controls of the building. I was steered over a smooth floor, onto a deep-piled carpeted riser, and made to stand still while I heard the squeak of a chair being pulled out for me. Together, Oskelev and Nesbitt maneuvered me into it and pushed me down. I sat. Only then did Plet remove her shielding hand.
I gazed down a table as long as the carpet to my imperial cousin’s throne. My friends, rendered giants, stared down at me. I was, indeed, inside the walls of Social Butterfly, though I viewed it as perhaps no one else ever had, except for the health inspectors. I could see every detail of every wall, chair, table and decoration.
“What a relief!” I exclaimed. “How did you all manage this perilous landscape following your own treatment?”
“Mostly confined to barracks,” Oskelev said. “I had to be blindfolded until the effect wore off. Lucky that I could smell the head without having to see it. Everybody brought me food. I listened to music and dictated my Infogrid updates. I got along fine.”
“Opposite reaction mine,” Redius said. “All too small. Doorways size my snout.”
I chuckled. “If you were a cat, you could pass anywhere your whiskers went.”
The gigantic face of the Uctu wrinkled, his people’s way of showing amusement.
“Not standard issue.”
“Alas,” I agreed.
“Uctu Syndrome passes swiftly. No worrying.”
The surface of the table, which resembled cobalt blue glass, shimmered with light. Before each of us, the menu appeared. Holographic representations of each appetizer and entrée spun into being as one touched the name on the bill of fare. I cupped my hands around the display, causing it to render into a space that I could read without having to turn my head from side to side.
“Please, have anything you like,” I said. “I won quite a bit from my cousins for coming in first in the skimmer race.”
“And how much was your fine for damaging the sculpture?” Plet asked.
I waved a careless hand. “Probably twice that. It was worth it.”
“Nice, that,” Redius said. “Tridee most entertaining.”
Though I possessed the highest noble rank of the group, I deferred to Lieutenant Plet, whose military rank surpassed even my recent promotion. She perused the menu with the same serious concentration that she devoted to every task. At last, she raised an unfeasibly long finger and touched the menu.
As host, each of my guests’ selections was forwarded to my console for me to indicate whether I needed to veto any. In such manner could impecunious swains decrease the impact of a date upon their pocketbooks, and, much more importantly, parents had the ability to naysay ridiculous impulses by their offspring. My mother had used that tactic on me and my siblings many more times than I would readily admit aloud. But I clicked on “permit all” at once. In fact, noticing that Plet had chosen an open-faced sandwich that I had often ordered, I added two bottles of a white wine that I knew went well with it. That choice was reflected around the table for all to see.
That action freed the others to make their decisions. A roboserver arrived with the wine, uncorked it and presented it to me for my approval, then served it to everyone but Oskelev, who held up her hand.
“Got a nav test scheduled later,” she said. “No caffeine, either.”
“I respect your skills,” I said. “I am certain you’ll have no trouble with the test.”
“I know!” the Wichu said. Her kind were notoriously impatient with elaborate manners or social niceties. I understood that, and took no offense.
“I have a gift for each of you,” I said. I attempted to reach down into the pocket on the front of my right thigh, just above my knee, but it was simply too far away. With some embarrassment on my part, Plet retrieved the small parcel contained therein. I dispensed the contents, each of which had been labeled with their names. “One for each of you, specially designed by me from ancient drawings.”
“But, what is it, sir?” Anstruther asked, turning hers from side to side.
“It’s your lucky circuit,” I said. “It gives off waves of light, sound and heat that are particularly fortunate for you.”
“It does what?” Plet asked.
“It helps bring you good fortune,” I explained, to the enormous face that turned to me wearing an expression that denoted disbelief.
“Is there any scientific basis to support that claim, sir?”
I smiled at her ignorance. “While it is impossible to influence random events in one’s favor, lieutenant, the makers of these circuits employ quantum theory that certain elements, sounds and other input help crystallize unspoken wishes.”
“It’s very pretty,” Anstruther said, examining hers. “It looks like a piece of jewelry.”
“I am pleased to hear you say so,” I said, most gratified. Of all the ones I had had made, hers was the smallest, only the length of the first joint of her forefinger—a most harmonious and fortunate dimension—but the most colorful. Nearly invisible wires had been bent into configurations that I had found in a divination booktape eight or nine thousand years old in my family’s archives. At key points, miniature diode lights were affixed, as well as one speaker no larger than the lights. For her age, height and planet of birth, the book had demanded deep reds, one tiny white and three of deep ochre and one of teal blue. It emitted a low but soothing hum that would be perceptible only to the person wearing it.
I would have thought that Oskelev would be openminded about such a gift. I had been surprised at how much royal blue light was dictated by the time and date of her birth, along with a single green light, a scattering of white and a few light blue lights. The sound it emitted was a form of pink noise, conducive to deep thought or relaxation. She examined it carefully, held it to her ear to check the aural portion, then put it into a side pouch of her harness, all without changing expression. Most Wichus I knew were much more outspoken than she was.
Nesbitt’s circuit was more visible and the lights less obtrusive. A peridot-green LED sat at the center, with radiating spokes reaching out to nine points of tiny white light, one blue and one orange. Rather than a sound, the speaker created a subsonic vibration that tickled my fingers when I activated it. Nesbitt had the same reaction. His hand jumped nervously away from the device at first, but shyly crept back to it, as it became evident that the sensation was enjoyable. He beamed at me, the smile almost bursting his large jaws.
“Handsome,” Redius said, evidently pleased with his rust-orange, gold and deep purple lights. Since the crew was not in uniform, he hooked it into the breast of his tunic. “Pleasing in many dimensions.”
“Keep them with you,” I said. “They should always bring you good fortune.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Plet said, hastily putting hers away. I understood her reticence. The designs were rather personal. She might have felt I was exposing her psyche in ways that she felt were none of anyone else’s concern.
Our meals arrived. I inhaled deeply to better appreciate the aroma, and my head spun around. I expected to catch sight of my spine during the rotations. I caught the edge of the table with my hands.
“Are you all right, my lord?” Nesbitt asked, concern writ overly large on his expanded face.
“I wish the medications that they used on me would settle into my system!” I said. “I have given them every opportunity, and the doctors set me loose upon the general public with the assurances that I was ready.”
“Not drugs,” Redius said. “Nanites chiefly.”
“Really?” I asked, my eyebrows climbing my forehead. “How many of them are there? It sounds like an entire platoon of the little characters, and they are all playing different music.”
“The feeling will pass, my lord,” Anstruther said. “Really.”
“Thomas, please!”
“Thomas.” Her face reddened, and she dropped her eyes to her lucky circuit. “I . . . I can explain more if you would like.”
“Yes, I would,” I said eagerly. Anstruther’s specialty was technology. “This is your wheelhouse, and I would be obliged if you would show me around.”
I saw a peep of iris appear through her eyelashes.
“As you wish, my lord . . . Thomas.”
I waved to the others.
“Please, don’t let the food go cold, or the management will never allow me back in here,” I said.
The hour being a bit late for lunch, my guests needed no encouragement. They tucked into the gigantic repasts before them. Anstruther took minute bites of her food, but unlimbered her viewpad and linked it with the circuits in the table so I could see the file she had opened.
“Well, sir,” she began, “the Uctu settle on planets with a higher concentration of chlorine in the atmosphere than humans and Wichu are comfortable with. The process is necessary so it doesn’t harm our tissues.”
A professional-looking graphic appeared, showing an extreme closeup of a tiny, round, smooth-bodied machine equipped with pairs of pointed mechanical feet. It toddled into the center of the screen. The rounded back opened up to reveal a nugget of red, then closed again. It was joined by a few more, which showed the payloads they bore: chemicals of several colors and textures, or complex machines still tinier than they were. Hundreds and thousands of objects just like them increased the ranks. The “camera” pulled away to display serried ranks of nanites, more and more until they were a seething mass of silver.
“Are these genetic changes?” I inquired, warily. I knew from previous private briefings I had undergone that it was imperative that my genes remained intact.
“No, sir. About sixty billion nanites have been introduced into your system to process the excess input. They occupy your kidneys and liver, as well as a few in your lungs and brain to prevent any contaminants from crossing the blood-brain barrier.”
The animation displayed a thin gray wall against bright green waves that washed against it in vain.
“None shall pass,” I said, in a jolly fashion. “So I become a cyborg?”
“Um, in a way.”
“Is that what causes the magnified vision?”
“It is, sir. The nanites occupy a small portion of your retinas, to protect them against infrared glare. Uctus prefer suns that are slightly cooler than Humans do, so the solar profile is on the red side of the spectrum. Exposure can be dangerous. Some early visitors went blind later in life.”
“I don’t want that at all!” I said. “But if that’s all, and I will feel larger in the next day or so, I will cease to be concerned.”
I attempted to tackle my food, but even taking into account my knowledge that the magnification was artificial, I couldn’t seem to fit a bite onto my fork or, once there, into my mouth. A discreet tap on the menu brought the serverbot to my side.
“It smells irresistible,” I told it, “but it’s all too large. I couldn’t possibly finish what is here. It would be a shame to waste it.”
“What would you like me to do, Lord Thomas?” it asked me.
I noticed Nesbitt’s hopeful eyes above the receptor unit of the serverbot.
“I’ll help you, my lord,” he said.
“There, that’s the answer,” I said, relieved to have a good alternative. “Divide and conquer. Serve me half of this delightful treat, cut into bits small enough for me to eat. I would like to share the other half with my good friend.”
The serverbot put my plate into its large, square hatch, big enough for a shuttle craft to land in, and assumed a huddled stance as though it was about to lay an egg. I heard low humming from within. In a moment, a tiny ping! sounded. The hatch opened to reveal two identical plates, in area one-half the size of the original dish. On one, huge hunks that would have served a Tyrannosaurus rex. On the other, bite-sized pieces I could actually picture eating.
The first bite was the worst. I had trouble maneuvering my hand toward my mouth, but once I accomplished the feat, I found the bite delicious, if much smaller in fact than in anticipation.
“You did it!” Anstruther cheered, as I chewed.
“I knew it was possible,” I confided to her, once I had swallowed. “My daily stars told me that I was going to feel small and humble.”
“Feeling not to last!” Redius chuckled.
I smiled at him. I took his teasing in good part, because it was good to feel humility once in a great while, so one knew what one was missing the rest of the time. But it was also good to feel humility among friends, who, while they would not allow one to rise too high, neither would they permit one to sink too low at the other extreme. I appreciated their company and their friendship. I applied myself to my lunch, feeling deeply contented with life.