FSF Magazine, August 2007 Read online

  The frown deepened. “Do you find that scenario more believable than mine? If so, why?"

  I was getting sick of being grilled. So I spoke a bit more frankly. “Monasteries of all faiths are famous for their inner feuds and hatreds. Too many incompatible people living too close together. That sort of thing could provide a motive, and I'm sure you realize that the question of motive is fundamental. I naturally wonder why a guest—all of them well-heeled, from what I hear, and at least one a powerful public figure—would travel thirty-six thousand clicks just to stab a middle-aged monk. That also goes for your gladiator."

  I was practically quoting Sister Jann. He didn't look terribly happy, but he didn't argue either. I could almost see the wheels turning inside that huge head. If the gladiator didn't do it, he'd prefer the guilty party to be a monk. Anything to shield his VIGs.

  But I wasn't finished. “However, there's another scenario that makes Kendo a more plausible victim. With the dim lights and everybody looking more or less the same, the killer might have made a mistake. After all, this murder was literally a stab in the dark."

  Suddenly he was tense again. “If that's the case, then the real target of the attack is still in danger. And that means you can't afford to dawdle. We have some important people here, especially Councilor Mmahat. What would happen if a Councilor of State were murdered, I can't imagine."

  On the contrary, I saw in his face that he could imagine it only too well. The uproar that would follow on Terra. The media overkill. The speeches in the Council. Maybe even Heaven's Footstool losing its sovereignty!

  "Then perhaps I'd better get to work."

  "By all means.” Those mesmeric eyes didn't, however, let me go. “Wait a minute. I just realized something. A few years back—weren't you the fellow they blamed for the catastrophe on Planet Bela?"

  "Yes. Because I made the mistake of surviving."

  "Well, try not to make another mistake, Colonel. This is serious, very serious. I'll expect a progress report every day at 0730. Good-bye."

  And that appeared to be that. The dark unblinking eyes followed me through the door, where Brother Ion or somebody shaped exactly like him waited with his fists opening and closing. Maybe just exercise? Or maybe he had internal tensions, too.

  * * * *

  During my pre-breakfast walk, I'd noticed a section of the B Ring marked Reserved for Honored Guests. I found it again and started exploring.

  Here every door had a nameplate but I found no Huksa Byung. Checked again, found Rhee—the only name that looked Korean—and knocked.

  The man who opened the door resembled a bronze ingot in a white robe, only much bigger. Shaved and polished scalp, keloid ridges on ears and brows. I explained why I was here and he nodded me in.

  The cell of a paying guest turned out to be considerably larger than mine and boasted a separate bedroom and a private bath. Still, everything was pretty austere, all the furniture bare and bolted down in the usual fashion. The only decoration was a celadon vase holding a cherry blossom made of faux silk. Well, in the East the cherry blossom—odd as it seems to western eyes—is a traditional symbol of the warrior. It's the only reminder I could see of Rhee's earthly profession.

  "Someone told me your name is Huksa Byung,” I began.

  "That's the name I fight under. It means Black Death.” He smiled. He had several gold teeth showing. “It makes my opponents uneasy."

  "I just bet it does. Are you a barehanded fighter, or—"

  "Or a knife fighter?” Quick golden grin again. “No, I do straight Tae Kwan Do. Korean karate. Never liked those closed-channel butcheries where they use cesti and knives and spurs like animals. Fighting bare-handed or in gloves, it's more like an art. Of course, people sometimes die anyway. When you're in the habit of breaking stones with your hands, you're bound to break bones occasionally. Or necks."

  He beamed like Hotei the Happy God, minus the pot belly. Considering he probably knew seventeen ways to kill me with one blow, he was an affable fellow. I suppose he could afford to be.

  "Can I ask why you came to Heaven's Footstool?"

  "Wanted to see what it's like. Meditation's a fine discipline. It's the opposite of the rough stuff, and therefore provides balance. Yin and yang, sort of. Also it purges the fear of death and, after all, my business is facing death. Sometimes handing it out. Whenever I kill an opponent, I always bow down to him, honor his spirit. Set up a tablet with his name in the Warrior Temple in New Seoul. After all, there's no real difference between slayer and slain."

  "'We be of one blood, thou and I.'” Quoting Kipling, one of my favorite ancient authors.

  "Yes, exactly. I'm always aware that the guys I happen to kill are my brothers. That's why I treat them with respect."

  This was the most civilized conversation about killing people I'd ever had. Pretty soon Black Death had his wallet out, showing me pictures of his wives and children. “I make all my kids learn self-defense, but I also tell them, ‘You decide to become a gladiator, I'll break your arms!’ I don't want them running the risks I do."

  We finally got down to the Great Meditation at which Kendo was killed. Black Death claimed that he sat two tiers above the victim and didn't notice that anything was wrong until the man passed out near the door.

  "Recognize any of the people sitting around you?"

  "Not really. Well, Councilor Mmahat was sitting right in front of me, I could recognize him by his height. He's nearly as tall as you are. But with the darkness and the chanting and all—no, I didn't really notice anybody else. Just row after row after row of dim forms in the starlight, like white tablets lined up in a memorial temple. You know,” he added thoughtfully, “the murder was really a professional job. Bold, but also cold. I like that. It shows class."

  My reaction to Mr. Black Death was that he showed class, too. Also, I was extremely glad I'd never have to fight him. So I said good-bye, stepped out into the corridor, found Mmahat's door and knocked softly.

  It was thrown open by a large man with black eyes and scimitar nose set in a long, horsy face. “Ah yes!” he cried. “You're the inspector. Come in. Come in!” His expression seemed to say: Your superiors grovel to me, so I know you will, too.

  I entered a large room whose walls were decorated with shields bearing intricate inscriptions in Arabic. On a mother-of-pearl inlaid table with magnetized strips a veiled serving woman was laying out bowls covered by clear plastic. Two lustrous dark eyes rested on me for a moment, then turned away. Her veil covered her top to toe, but was nearly transparent, and it rippled like clear dark water over opulent breasts and hips. The Councilor knew how to choose a handmaiden.

  Reluctantly removing my gaze from the houri, I saw through a half-open door a bedroom—a serving bot was making the bed—and one corner of a bathroom sheathed in gold panels. Not only were guests better off than monks, some guests were more equal than others. Class distinctions had invaded heaven—or at any rate, Heaven's Footstool.

  The Councilor sat down to breakfast, and I was permitted to sit and interview him. He sipped a tiny container of Turkish coffee through a straw, but didn't offer me any.

  "You want to talk about this murder, of course,” he said. He had a resonant voice, accustomed to large halls and no contradiction.

  "Yes, your excellency."

  "I was the one who convinced the CM to send for a professional to investigate this business. Can't have a killer running around, putting important people in danger. Of course, whatever you find out, it'll all have to be hushed up. Catch the bastard, push him through the airlock, and move on. Can't have religion getting a black eye. Wealth, know-how, and the mysteries of faith—those are the three legs the world system stands on. I was raised to worship Allah, and I have Christian and Jewish colleagues I respect deeply"—he gazed at me meaningfully, as much as to say Jews like you—"but there's no doubt that with China and India dominating the earth, this pan-Asian stuff the White Monks teach is the elephant in today's religious menagerie.
/>   "Doesn't matter a bit, that's my view. All roads lead to Roma, et cetera. New Angkor in this case. What counts is having the prevailing religion, whatever it is, bless the system that runs the world."

  "Just so,” I murmured. “Can we discuss the murder? I'm sure your excellency will be a most important witness."

  "Important! I should say so! I saw the crime happen!"

  "You saw it happen?"

  Mmahat liberated a round rice cake from its prison in a bowl, let it float upward, captured it and spread it with some sort of jelly. “Yes,” he mumbled, chewing. “Of course I didn't know it at the time. I'd found a place right behind the lights. The CM proceeded to do his act—absolutely marvelous! If he hadn't dedicated his life to religion, he'd be in the Council of State today. Astounding performance! Where was I?"

  "You sat down behind the lights."

  "Yes. Not entirely satisfactory, that. They really should have a section reserved for people who matter. I've brought that to the CM's attention. But anyway. During the meditation I was simply enraptured, moved more profoundly, I believe, than the monks themselves at the glorious universe created by the Ever-Living One. I wouldn't be surprised if I levitated just a bit."

  Remembering the super GLS discovered in his quarters, I found this easy to believe.

  "Then, as the roof was closing I began to descend, so to speak. Yet my mind remained crystal clear. Crystal clear,” he repeated, as if he'd just coined the phrase.

  "Suddenly I heard a cry. Not loud, but sharp and close at hand. A couple of meters away on the first tier below the lights—which were beginning to flicker on—I caught a movement in the corner of one eye and turned my head. An arm in a white sleeve was touching the back of the monk who'd made the sound. I thought someone was asking him to be quiet. Then the arm withdrew. The monk halfway rose to his feet and two others got up and went to him to see what was wrong. I heard a voice say ‘pain,’ I think—yes, it said ‘pain.’ The two assisted him to walk and the three of them moved off toward the end of the tier. Then, of course, everybody was rising, stretching if they felt cramped and so forth. I was heading for the door myself when I saw that the fellow had fallen, and several monks were bending over him.” He selected a hard-boiled egg, peeled it, and let the fragments of shell drift away. The handmaiden approached with serpentine grace and began capturing the bits of shell in midair with a tiny net such as goldfish fanciers keep.

  "Getting back to my original statement,” Mmahat went on, “I actually saw the murder take place. Absolutely fascinating. When I get back to New Angkor, I'll be dining out on the story for months."

  "Hard on the monk, of course,” I murmured.

  "Yes, poor devil. However, I don't suppose he had much of a life anyway.” He continued to eat his breakfast.

  I rose, stole a last glance at the houri, bowed, and departed. As to how far I should trust Mmahat's testimony, and what use I could make of it if true, I had at that moment no idea whatsoever.

  * * * *

  Well, there's no use repeating most of the stories I spent that long, tedious day listening to. Like most witnesses, the VIGs divided into two groups, those who remembered nothing useful, and those who remembered things that had never happened.

  Still, I did get a good feel for the lamasery's A-list. Quite a who's-who of prominent people who either had spiritual interests or liked to pretend they had. A couple of trillionaires, an artist who did holographic portraits said to be superior to Rembrandt's, society women with time on their hands (at least three of whom indicated they might find me interesting in an unofficial capacity, say later on that night). Plus some pale youngsters with drug problems, trust funds, and no idea how to make sense of their lives.

  The very last interview of the day turned out to be different, even though at the time it seemed like more of the same.

  "Immensely healthy and inspiring,” said the witness, a Grande Dame of the Solar System, an elderly lady who looked, and undoubtedly was, rich. She spoke in squeaks and harsh grating noises, like a very expensive parrot.

  Actually, the Grande Dame had seen nothing that contributed in any way to solving the murder. But she was quite willing to bend my ears with accounts of her life on Earth, which sounded pretty tedious, since she lived surrounded by a legion of bots and human servants who did everything for her except digest her food.

  Heaven's Footstool was her great escape from the banality of wealth. She came every year; said it cost her seven hundred thousand a pop, but was worth it. (I surmised that if it cost less, she'd value it accordingly and stay home.) Living under weightless or near-weightless conditions was so good for the arteries. She slept better there than anyplace except in her hyperbaric chamber. The ceremonies were awe-inspiring; the Chief Monk possessed incredible charisma. On her last visit he gave her a koan or spiritual problem to work on. She gave him a conventional answer, and he slapped her—not very hard, but hard enough to destroy the cocoon of pride she used to live in.

  "I really feel that was the moment of my awakening,” she said.

  I was beginning to envy the CM. But of course cops don't swat Grande Dames. Lest I be tempted to do so, I got up.

  "Thank you for your assistance, my lady,” I murmured, bowing and kissing her thin blue-veined hand. She saw me to her door, never ceasing to chatter.

  "Such a disgraceful crime ... profaning a holy place ... like King Henry the Whatever, back in the Christian era, murdering that archbishop fellow on the altar ... the poor man, slaughtered in the very place where he thought he'd found sanctuary...."

  I was halfway through the door when I realized that the last sentence didn't refer to Thomas á Becket. “Just where who found sanctuary?” I demanded.

  "Why, the poor fellow who was murdered. I saw him in the infirmary one day when I went in for a shot. He'd been injured somehow, he was lying down and his hood was pushed back. I recognized him at once. He used to run an investment bank in New Manhattan. Oh, he was just a teeny bit crooked, everybody knew that, that was how he was able to earn his more select clients such wonderful returns on their money. I was so shocked when the police came after him. You know these government prosecutors, always putting the worst possible construction on everything. Anyway, he got away in time, but until I saw him up here I didn't know where he'd escaped to. Now what was his name—some Slavic name. Kristovsky? No ... Krovich, that was it! I never forget anyone who makes me richer."

  I bowed and kissed her hand a second time. “Don't mention this to anyone else,” I cautioned her. “Remember, the killer's still at large and might decide to silence you."

  "Oh, how thrilling! I do think, Inspector, that this has been my most profoundly interesting visit here ever. I'll be silent as the grave until I get home, and then tell simply everyone!"

  * * * *

  Back in my cell, seated, belt clasping my hara, I tried to make sense of the few dubious pearls of information that my long, mostly boring day had brought me.

  Heaven's Footstool was silent, everybody but me at the Great Meditation. I'd grabbed some leftovers from the kitchen so I could eat a light supper alone and concentrate on the case. Questions: Should I arrest the gladiator, even though I think he's innocent? Could I trust the Councilor, even though he's a druggie? Should I believe the Grande Dame, even though she's a fool?

  The only checkable item was the real identity of the corpse, for whom I now had three names—Kendo, Stancic, and Krovich. Decided to run the memory cube Sister Jann gave me through Security's central archives. My omni did the sending in a few milliseconds. Then I sat and ate bread and cheese and sipped wine through a straw, wishing Anna were there to share the goodies with me.

  Nine minutes later, I got a return message confirming the data. The info on the cube matched exactly the dossier of Stancic, Drago, who took the name Kendo when he went religious. Nothing about anybody named Krovich. So that took care of the Grande Dame, with her probably failing memory, her boring life, and her consequent love of self-dramatization. Sh
e'd made up the story, that's all.

  Or did she?

  Hmm. Liars, damn liars, and government archives. I never worked Fraud, and the name Krovich meant nothing to me. Nor did the man's face. Yet I could think offhand of at least three famous homicides—important person gets killed, planetary uproar follows—where the accused simply evaporated into thin air. Or into empty space.

  I mean, look: If I assumed the records were right, I had nothing. If I assumed the Grande Dame was right—wow! A stunningly rich field for speculation. Heaven's Footstool. Legally a sovereign world, untouchable by Terran authorities. Perhaps granted its sovereignty precisely because well-heeled people sometimes need a getaway, and I don't mean a place to recharge their spiritual power packs. And by providing them a refuge, many, many other people could assure themselves of substantial bribes.

  Great Tao, but it must have been expensive to get there! I could imagine a lifetime of ill-gotten gains vanishing like smoke as a refugee from the law bribed whole layers of officialdom to create a false identity, embed it in the central records, issue a forged exit visa, and make it worthwhile for the White Monks to accept and conceal him.

  How frustrated Krovich must have been, a financier reduced to the life of a common monk while his wealth went to stuff the already weighty pockets of others. No wonder he punched a rib of nuclear steel. A private matter, he told Sister Jann. Yes—very private.

  But was all this really possible? I sat drumming my fingers, wishing I had Anna to talk it over with. I could call her at home, of course, but somebody up here could very well monitor the call, and certainly it would be picked up Earthside by Security. And if by any chance I was right about what was going on, at least a few people at HQ had to be in on it.

  Heaven's Footstool. The Flying Vatican. Suddenly I was remembering an anecdote Sister Jann told me about a homicidal Pope. Maybe, I thought, I'd better refresh my memory about the original Vatican. I knew it was centuries back in the Christian Era, during the Age of the Warring States—maybe even earlier, in the Middle Ages. And that was about all.