Will rolled off the bed carefully so as not to disturb her. He liked to make love to Lysette first thing upon waking, whereas Lysette liked to remain fully unconsciousness until the afternoon was well underway. This had been an area of compromise.
The compromise was that he would go and get a cup of strong tea and drink it by the link while he checked to see if his new assignment orders had come through. And then he would take a walk through Sangaree, drop in on Johnny, maybe take the train to visit Bernadette at her new address, and eventually come back to the compartment to find his betrothed gone out for rehearsal. This was the way most of his compromises with her went.
Anyway, she was usually eager enough after the show. One couldn’t have everything. He dropped a spoonful of blackleaf into a large cup and poured boiling water over it, then sat down at the link and presented his Guard code.
PLEASE HOLD YOURSELF IN READINESS, said the link-screen. That was unusual; was somebody trying to call him? Why wouldn’t they leave a message with someone on the public link in Brissard Street, or with Bernadette, for him to call back? And he knew that they couldn’t have traced him through any such call on the local links because no Sangaree, especially not Bernie, would ever have given his location to anybody. They just didn’t operate that way.
A minute later a new message appeared. REPORT TO ROOM EIGHT, ECCLESIASTICAL COUNCIL, 16:00. YOUR ASSIGNMENT WILL BE GIVEN AT THAT TIME.
The message stayed a moment, then was washed away and replaced by the screen-filling imprimatur of the Council.
Good lord, what was this about? He wasn’t told to report to the duty sergeant at Guard headquarters. He wasn’t even sent a proper link-message in writing. Just a screen that came and went and left no evidence.
God … had Hart filed some kind of negative report on him? Did they just want to bring him in easily so they could terminate him?
No. There wasn’t any need for paranoia. He’d been on the Opal for six days. Surely they would have killed him before, if they were going to. Well, unless it got held up in Administration
No. Thinking this way was pointless. What was he going to do, run off and join the ghosts just because he was jumpy? And it seemed to come down to either that or reporting to Room Eight.
He took a few deep gulps of tea. At least his hands were steady. He put the empty cup down, wiped his palms on his trousers, and saw that he’d drunk half the bitter tea leaves without noticing.
“Room Eight?” he asked the secretary, a young deacon.
“Through there.”
Will was always nervous at being this close to the center of ecclesiastical power. The halls were filled with EPs in their crisp black uniforms, and like all Sangarees he considered the EPs to be little more than stormtroopers. Joining the Guard had led to a few bar fights, but had he been ill-advised enough to enlist in the Ecclesiastical Police, his body would long ago have been stuffing a ventilation tube in Sangaree. He still occasionally had quick and painful spurts of memory of die day the men in black came to school and took Tommy away. Five or six times a year the playback would hit without warning, knock him in the gut, and then pass by without leaving a ripple.
He pressed for permission to enter Room Eight The green light came on and the door slid open. Will stepped into a high cleric’s office, well-appointed, with dutiful pictures on the walls from the sacred books, an expensive carpet, and a tapestry hanging behind the desk.
Hart sat there, writing on a pad. He glanced up for a millisecond and said distractedly, “Just give me a minute, Willie, I’ll be right with you.”
Will closed his mouth. He found himself checking the exit and stopped.
Hart looked up and grinned. “Like the office? I’ve been promoted. Thirteenth rank.”
Will focused on him. “Why am I here?”
“With rank comes responsibility. We must never forget that. I’ve just been handed a dandy little project involving some negotiation with Baret Two as well as some information-gathering on the Diamond.” His smile was wide and sunny. “I enjoy travel.”
“I didn’t know you were on the trade team.”
“I’m not. Officially. I won’t be looking for salt and coffee. How has your time off been? Pleasant, I hope— what was the name of your fiancee? Lisa, Leslie—?”
He knew better than to lie. “Lysette.”
“Lovely girl. I’ve seen pictures.”
“Why am I here, Hart?” He hadn’t turned in any reports about the girl in Helium Park, and Hart must know it. Nor should it surprise him—it would take an idiot to try something as futile as that. What did they have to discuss?
“Why are any of us here?” inquired Hart, and as Will opened his mouth again, he added, “But you as an individual are here because you’re now on my personal staff.”
The phrase seemed to echo. The enormity of this vision of hell hung before Will’s sight, momentarily obscuring his view. Hart was polite enough to give him a few seconds to digest the news. Then he said, “Willie? Are you still with us?”
There seemed to be a ringing in Will’s ears. Then he stepped back from the precipice and in a completely logical tone of voice he said, “Someday one of us is going to have to kill the other.”
“Willie, you smooth talker,” said Hart. He was scribbling on a piece of paper, which he handed the sergeant. “This is the address of my tailor. He does a lot of uniforms for the higher admin ranks. Please patronize him. I couldn’t bear to have to look at you all day in that standard-issue stuff.”
Will took the paper mechanically. Hart gave him a diagnostic look and said, “You ought to take the rest of the day off. Oh, and don’t worry. You can still
