“This is Arturo Mendez,” Pescziuwicz said. “He’s the Head Steward aboard the Royal Carriage. He’ll see that you’re comfortable.”
The Porrinyards were as dumbfounded as I’d ever seen them.
I said, “The what?”
We had been promised a ride in Bettelhine’s private elevator car. We hadn’t known that there was anything royal about it.
But the Royal Carriage, its local nickname, was just that. One of a matched pair held in dry dock at the two endpoints of the cable linking Layabout to Anchor Point, the terminus on the planetary surface, it was installed on the cable only when members of the Bettelhine Family, or other passengers deemed of equivalent importance, needed shuttle rides up and down. As such, it was a vivid illustration of the kind of luxury wealthy people believe they deserve, and the rest of us either envy or view with jaw-dropping embarrassment.
The elegant obsequiousness we received from Arturo Mendez (the perfect servant, in that any actual personality he might have possessed seemed completely subsumed by the formality his job required) should have provided us with our first indication of the excessiveness we were in for. Then the outer doors, embossed with the raptors of the Bettelhine Family crest, irised open, revealing the rich auburn grain of the local woods that lined the bulkheads, and the glittery gold fixtures that adorned the trim. The overhead light fixtures were hugged by jovial cherubs. A pillar at the center of the room bore a reservoir of bubbling seawater and a glittery, silver fish that stunned me by its astounding facial resemblance to an elderly human being, complete with fleshy nose and sunken blue eyes. As its lips popped open and closed in conjunction with the gills behind the jowls, it looked like it intended to complain or say something unbearably wise. It had a family resemblance to the Bettelhines. I wondered for whom it was bioengineered to flatter, and answered my own question: some Bettelhine patriarch, of course. It was not a form of immortality I would have wanted.
There were no free-fall issues. As with Layabout itself, the interior was equipped with Specific Gravity systems, maintaining a pleasant .8 gee that wouldn’t budge one fraction of a percentage point whether the craft was in ascent, descent, or dry dock. The sofas and lounges were ornately carved antiques of the sort that might have seen service on more worlds than I had, without a fraction of the wear. The ceiling glittered with jewels the size of my fists. The observation window, made of some material that refused to take a fingerprint even when I flattened my sweaty palm against the “glass,” covered the entire exterior wall of the shared lounge and the one suite assigned to us, and offered a panoramic view of the planet below, including a wedge of daylight blessed by more green than most worlds inhabited by human beings have historically managed to keep.
Arturo led us to one of the four suites on our level, which included a bed large enough to welcome not only the Porrinyards and myself but also any other half dozen sentients we might have elected to invite. (There was, he said, another suite level, less luxurious than this one, giving the car sleeping accommodations for thirty.)
After a dazzling tour of the other wonders we’d been provided in our quarters, he led us back into the central parlor with that discomfiting fish and showed us a bar stocked with the finest liqueurs of a hundred worlds and the most popular narcotics of a hundred more. An actual, real-paper book set into its own recess on the bar, bound in something that felt organic, turned out to be a menu of available delicacies longer than some encyclopedias.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Arturo said as the Porrinyards and I collapsed in grateful heaps. “I’m afraid it will be another hour or more before all the other passengers are reboarded, and we’re ready to depart.”
“There are other passengers?”
“Yes. Two of Mr. Bettelhine’s children, three Bettelhine employees, and a pair of personal guests. I believe more may be coming, but you’ll have to ask the Bettelhines about that when they arrive.”
“They weren’t the target of assassination attempts today. Why aren’t they here with us already?”
“They expected to be, Counselor. The Bettelhine youngsters and their personal guest rode up from the surface with the express purpose of greeting you, and several others boarded at various times while we awaited your arrival. Then the unpleasantness occurred, and all of those notables needed to be evacuated offstation for security reasons. Now that Layabout’s docking facilities are opening again, they can return to the station and rejoin us for the descent to Xana proper.”
Interesting. I was not just some peon summoned to await the pleasure of the Great Man, but a personage of sufficient importance to deserve an escort by his offspring. “Can you tell me how long they were waiting for me?”
“The youngsters? About twenty hours, if you only count all their time in dry dock, thirty if you include their hours of ascent.”
I moaned. “Flights to and from the ground would be faster.”
“The Bettelhines limit ground-to-space traffic for security and environmental reasons. In any event, the other guests all arrived by various transports in the past day or so, the tardiest among them joining the party some five hours before your arrival. I’m afraid that there may have been some unkind words about your own late arrival, words that grew more heated as the unfortunate crisis required their own evacuation, but I assure you that neither of the Bettelhine youngsters held this against you in the slightest.”
“That’s a relief,” the Porrinyards said.
I ignored them. “Who was that last passenger?”
“That would be the gentleman, Monday Brown.”
The name meant nothing to me. What did was the timeline. The Bursteeni ship carrying the two Bocaian assassins had docked at Layabout ten hours before my own arrival. This Brown person hadn’t checked aboard the Royal Carriage until some five hours later, meaning that he’d possessed ample opportunity to meet with the Bocaians while they were waiting for me. Following that, he’d been an evacuee offstation for the entire duration of Pescziuwicz’s security sweep. In the absence of any other intelligence about him, I already found myself worrying about Claws of God in his luggage. “And aside from him? Was anybody other than him aboard the carriage for less than eight hours?”
“Not that I am aware of, ma’am. I can investigate, if you’d like—”
“Never mind. That’ll be all for now.”
Had Arturo clicked his heels, I might have been forced to kill him. Instead, he merely bowed, an act that simply argued for a light wounding. He didn’t stick around long enough to receive either punishment, but made his descent to the lower levels using the spiral staircase at the other end of the parlor.
I stood up, folded my arms, and wondered, not for the first or even twentieth time, just what Hans Bettelhine wanted with me. Up until now the closest I’d ever come to dealing with the Family on any substantial basis was a few interviews with distant cousins representing the corporation’s interests in remote outposts, and so far removed from the wealth and power of the Bettelhine Inner Family that they must have felt like human skin cells connected to the organism but superfluous and unconnected to the beat of its huge, cavernous heart.
But this was the belly of the beast…
Behind me, the Porrinyards said, “Andrea?”
I didn’t turn. “What?”
“You’re obsessing again.”
I still didn’t turn. “This is going to be a bad one, love.”