New Scotland , 3049
Alone, unwatched by anyone, Kevin Renner stopped playing the role of Kevin Renner, and instead sat, eyes closed, forehead resting on one hand, leaning on one elbow, propped against the wing of his formidable chair.
Absorbed in thought, by feel alone, with his free hand he opened the edenwood case beside him, and ran his fingers across the contents. Silky silver tongs, buttery resin chunks, the crusher, the clicker, the tin of fermented leaf, the rosewood cradle, the amber bit, and finally, the bowl itself. He rubbed one fingertip along the cool, soapy, luscious feel of spiral galaxies whirling away around the lip of his pipe, laser-carved at his direction from a pristine chunk of New Utah opal meerschaum by a Motie Engineer. Its draw was impeccable, as was its feel. He cupped it to his palm and felt it warm to his hand.
Sighing, he opened his eyes, turned, and assembled the pipe. With the tongs, he dropped a chunk of resin into the bowl, then used the crusher, first to powder it, then to evenly smear the powder around the inside. Laying that tool aside, he flicked open the battered tin, rolled a plug of leaf between thumb and forefinger, used it to blot up any stray resin powder, and tamped it into the pipe. Finally, he raised the pipe to his lips, and with one long draw lit the mass with the clicker. The resin flashed red from bottom up, then glowed with an even white light. Renner smiled, and cupped the pipe with both hands. That last warmth of body heat tipped the scale, revealing the magic of the stone. The soapy meerschaum became translucent, rippling with opalene fire. With each draw, the galaxies sparkled in a milky blue field, as colors played across variations in temperature and the depth of the bas relief.
Anywhere he had ever been or ever seen, his pipe was the finest of its kind. Renner breathed deeply, pulling cool, opal fire through every pore, exhaled a chain of smoke rings, and smiled again. He smoked, and thought, and cleared his mind until the last pale flicker faded to white. High above him, blue, wispy swirls vented through the roof, into the starless night, as he slammed the door behind him and strode downstairs to meet Governor Jackson.
Jackson—now Sir Lawrence Jackson, and Governor of Maxroy’s Purchase, was momentarily flustered. “But Sally Fowler said—”
Renner, now playing Renner, knocked back the thimble of poisonous brew, smacked the table, leaned forward, and looked Jackson straight in the eyes.
“Governor, let me make one thing perfectly clear.” He held the pause for one heartbeat, then continued, earnest as a boy scout.
“Sally Fowler, Lady Blaine, is a dear, old friend; the wife of one of the damned few members of the inherited aristocracy who has outright earned his titles, a do-gooder extraordinaire, and the mother of my Godchildren.”
Renner leaned back a bit, and cocked his head.
“That makes her a wealthy, useful, well-intentioned dilettante. But her actual credentials? One year of so-called graduate education, most of it stuck in a prison camp, followed by a cloistered life surrounded by the Fleet, Fleet officers, and aristos while she decorated her husband’s arm and patronized her pet projects. That does not make her an expert on anything except how to wrest money from people who have more of it than sense. It sure as hell does not make her a geomorphologist, anthropologist, or ecumenist, nor does it make her conversant with any reasonably current list of people who are. You had better dodge her request, and put somebody on that accession expedition who is—both expert, and stupid enough to speak truth to power.”
Renner straightened completely, grinned, tossed back another shot, and grinned again.
“Preferably, somebody expendable. Because I would bet my pipe that you ain’t gonna like what you hear.”
Jackson toyed with his drink, calculating, resenting that charming grin. He wasn’t stupid. Renner had him in a triple bind. On the one hand, he needed Lord Blaine’s support if he was to succeed in reclaiming New Utah for the Empire. Absentmindedly, he slid the glass toward himself across the polished surface. On the other hand, the Mormon True Church Militant despised Renner, personally, and deeply. If the TCM dug in, there would be war, not trade, and he himself, Jackson, Governor of Maxroy’s Purchase, would be blamed for another failed mission to New Utah. Jackson slapped the glass from left to right, and caught it mid-glide toward the end of the table. On the gripping hand, Renner was Bury’s man; Renner was his inside to Imperial Autonetics; Renner was, so to speak, the man behind the Moties behind the—behind the what? He didn’t know. Nobody knew, yet. But in Jackson’s experience power followed wealth, and not the other way around.
“I suppose,” he said, lifting the glass to toasting level, “you have someone specific in mind?”
Renner smiled. He had the man’s tell. “Oh, yeah,” he replied. “I thought Quinn.”
“Quinn!”
“Uh huh.”
“Asach Quinn?”
“Uh huh.”
Jackson nodded, once, downed the drink, and looked preoccupied. Then, to no one in particular: “Asach. Quinn. Oh yes. Indeed. Asach Quinn will do just fine.”
He stood sharply, and donned his man-of-the-people face. “C’mon, Kev,” he said breezily, “we’d best get moving, before the Commissioners accuse us of plotting things we shouldn’t.”
Horvath’s face was literally purple. Spittle flew from his mouth as he ranted.
“Quinn?! Asach Quinn?! Asach Quinn is—” but his words were drowned out by the babble that ensued:
“the most dedicated servant of truth this Empire has ever…”
“living in a mucking hut on Makassar…”
“arguably the most brilliant ethnographer since…’
“a political hack unfit to…”
“utterly incorruptible...”
“not a team player…”
“a polymath genius…”
“used-up and overrated. Did you hear…”
“a deft negotiator, with an uncanny ability to fit in…”
“irascible, incorrigible, inscrutable, impossible to…”
“singularly persuasive. Writes like an angel…”
Among them, only Lord Blaine did not raise his voice. Nevertheless, all speech stopped when he spoke.
“The only social scientist Horace Bury personally designated as useful to the Empire of Man.”
All heads turned in shock.
Horvath regained control, barely, biting each word in half.
“Asach. Quinn. Is. Not. Morally. Suited—”
“I am well aware of your personal differences with Quinn’s—demeanor,” continued Blaine, unruffled. “But you must agree that what is here at issue is of rather more import than—attire, wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Horvath?”
“With all due respect My Lord Blaine, you know that I am not referring to attire. I am referring to—”
“My dear Dr. Horvath,” smiled Blaine. “You are not about to tell me that, after all we have been through, you are frightened of—hair? Are you?”
Despite themselves, most of the table chuckled, infuriating Horvath even further, were that possible. His hands were actually trembling. Little patches of foam had congealed at the corners of his mouth. “You know full well that I am not—”
“Excellent!” cheered Blaine, flashing his best old-school smile. “Glad that’s settled, then. We’ll have that vote, shall we? By acclamation, I think, don’t you? Shall I move that? Kevin, you’ll second? All in favor?”