“Shit,” she said, allowing herself to sound more like a Trasher than usual, “why should I?”
The Exec raised one high-bred nostril. Such language was not often directed at top castes, certainly not by shapely, red-haired, light-eyed women of middling-young years and uncertain classification. What was she? He could usually tell, but not with this one. Despite her language, she wasn’t Trasher class, that was sure. Trashers tended to be either obsequious or defiant, but he detected neither in Fringe. She showed neither Wage-earner servility nor Professional-class hauteur. The quality of her clothing was almost Executive, but if she had been Executive he’d have known her. Besides, the weapon on her hip was not the usual Executive toy. Maybe she was Out-caste, one of those interesting oddities who didn’t fit the system. An artist or entrepreneur, perhaps.
Fringe laughed openly at his puzzled expression and almost winked as she said, “Offended, sir? I do beg your pardon. Hell, I don’t want anything from him. Let his classly adopted daughter have what she can salvage.”
The Manager had enough sensitivity to realize she might be distressed. His expression softened. “His wives both died some time ago. And you’re entitled—”
“To nothing,” she said firmly, surprised by the pain she was feeling. She had forgotten that pain, mostly. Now she ignored it as she explained: “He did not approve of me, good sir. I disappointed him. If I take nothing from him, I am free of that. Owed nothing, I owe nothing. I may go my own way.”
“I have the feeling”—smiled the Manager, suddenly taken with her—”that you’ve always done that.”
“And well, perhaps I have,” Fringe said, her eyes fixed on some distant scene that only she could see. “There were times it seemed there was no other way to go.” She was thinking that there had been Dorwalk on her father’s side and Troms on her mother’s side; she couldn’t be both, so she had ended up neither.
The Equity Exec had been watching her musing face with complete attention. “I know it’s a personal question, but what’s your classification?”
“Born to, earned, or claimed?” she asked.
“They’re usually the same thing.” He gestured sameness.
“Born Professional, earned and claimed Outcaste,” she said with a matching gesture.
“You’re an artist then?” he asked, charmingly, to show how sympathetic he could be, how open-minded. Even Executives associated with certain Outcastes, like artists and singers. “Or an actor, perhaps?”
“Not exactly,” she said, the weapon she wore on her hip seeming to leap of itself into her hand. “What I do is, I Attend to Situations.” The eye of the weapon stared at him as her thumb twitched above the power stud.
The Exec swallowed, stood up quietly, opened the door for her, and stood aside, bowing very slightly as she left. When he sat back down at his desk, he noted with some astonishment that he was trembling. The weapon had been aimed between his eyes. If she had wanted him dead, she could have pushed the button and he’d have been scattered atoms or fried meat, depending on how tidy she was. He touched the ornamental weapon at his own belt, almost with revulsion. It was good for little. High-class persons carried weapons mostly as costume accessories. It was the custom to carry them, but no one ever used them. Well, hardly ever.
He licked his lips. It was a matter of pride with Executives not to be caught off guard. Someone should have warned him. He should have been more careful in checking before he invited her in. The Files had said merely Fringe…. Fringe Dorwalk. He keyed through the records before him. AKA, blinked the small codiforms squeezed in between two other things he hadn’t bothered to look at. AKA: Professional Name…. She had rearranged the letters in her name to spell something she liked better.
And she was a licensed Enforcer.
In Tolerance, Supervisor Syrilla had invited her young protégé, Jacent, to lunch. Jacent was a mere boy, only recently arrived from Heaven for his first tour of duty at Tolerance, but he was part of her “family” and therefore her responsibility.
“What do you make of this Arbai Door arrival?” asked the Supervisor of her young kinsman. “Do you believe it?”
“One believes one’s eyes,” he said firmly, tossing up one hand in an ebullient gesture. “You believe yours, Aunt Syrilla. You saw them come through.”
Syrilla frowned. Among themselves Council members cultivated a languid and unruffled demeanor, one which sought to convey they had seen it all and were not surprised at anything. Seeing her expression, Jacent flushed and put his hands in his lap. He had been warned not to wave his arms about except in public. When on display, yes, be shrill and mannered as a cageful of birds, but not when closeted, as now.
They were on the terrace outside Syrilla’s living quarters: she standing at the railing, he seated at the table where he lingered over the delicacies Syrilla’s Frickian cook had provided. Frickians made excellent servants as well as soldiers; there were several thousand of them employed at Tolerance, and a great many more employed back at Heaven. Jacent was fond of Frickian food, though he was not fond of much else he’d found at Tolerance.
Syrilla persevered. “I mean, do you believe they are primitives? Really? From before first dispersion?” She sounded not only puzzled but apprehensive, and Jacent looked at her covertly from beneath his abundant lashes, wondering at her tone. Why apprehensive? The creatures, however spidery and archaic, could do no harm.
“Well, of course, we’ve all asked Files what Files thinks,” he admitted, meaning we, the youngsters, the lower orders, the dilettantes and chatterers who had not yet learned discretion, those who did the routine work of maintenance and monitoring until they were old enough to do something essential and even more boring. “Files does not disbelieve it. Files went searching through the old, old
