Chapter Fourteen
The Theoscientific Doctrine tells us that our religious and scientific principles are indistinguishable from one another.
—Scienscroll, 1 Neb 14-15
After gambling all night in the palazzo casino with members of the royal court, Doge Lorenzo took a ground-jet to the dagg races on the other side of the broad river that bisected the capital city of Elysoo. This was one of his favorite haunts for placing bets.
It was Monday morning, and he should be attending theoscientific services at the Cathedral of the Stars. Right about now, the Moral Instructors—elderly women in silver robes—would be reading passages from the Scienscroll, perhaps even admonishing the parishioners about the sins of gambling. He didn’t care. The meddlesome old maids of the Cathedral would not dare to speak directly against him, the powerful leader of the Merchant Prince Alliance. Still, he would not want a confrontation with them; he was a devout believer in the holiest of all writings, the Scienscroll. He even knew the most famous verses by heart, such as the one from the Book of Visions:
Know ye the Way of the Princes,
for it is the path to gold and glory.
He liked another passage even more, and frequently quoted it:
May mine enemies tumble into space,
and crumble to dust!
There! he thought, after murmuring the verses to himself. I’ve fulfilled my theoscientific obligations for the day.
As usual, he went to the dagg track with no fanfare whatsoever, accompanied by only a handful of plainclothed security guards. His Hibbil attaché, Pimyt, went along as well. Dressed in red-and-brown capes and matching fez hats, the two of them entered the Doge’s private box, which was decorated in wallpaper that featured sports calligraphy and holos of race champions in action.
Lorenzo stood at one of the windows of the enclosure and watched spectators stream into the stands. Out on the track—over slopes and around hairpin turns—daggs made practice runs, dusty brown-and-tan animals that resembled the canines of Earth but had tiny heads … proportionately less than half as large as those of greyhounds. Each dagg had a large, bulbous eye in the center of its face—dominating the front like a headlight—and a snout-mouth beneath the boxlike jaw.
“While we await the first race, I thought you might like to use the time productively,” Pimyt suggested. After removing his cap the furry Hibbil knelt and tried to open the clasps on a shiny black valise that he had brought with him. He pressed on the release buttons, but only two of the four fasteners popped open.
“Must we discuss business here?” Lorenzo protested, watching him with irritation. He heard the crowd roar and looked to see the daggs and their trainers—many of them alien—parade in front of the main viewing stands and private boxes.
“You’ve said yourself that every bit of time is useful, Sire, and you are extremely busy … so there is hardly a moment available to show you the latest in Hibbil technology.” He waved casually at the valise. “Of course, if you would prefer not to see this.…”
The Doge sighed. “You know me too well, my friend. Aside from my weakness for betting, I do have a fondness for gadgets … and for women, lest I forget, and not necessarily in that order.”
With a curt smile, Pimyt struggled to open the lid of his valise. “I think you will like this, Sire.” He slammed a furry fist on the bag, but the last clasp resisted him.
As Doge Lorenzo gazed dispassionately at his attaché, he had a hard time believing that Pimyt had once been the Regent of the Merchant Prince Alliance. A Hibbil. Though he hadn’t realized it at the time (and still didn’t), Pimyt had not been given any real power or responsibility during his term in office. It had only been ceremonial, and something of a well-concealed joke, a way of treading water between doge regimes while seeming to show respect for the Hibbil Republic, an important economic ally who provided the best machines available, at reasonable prices. His tenure in office had only lasted for a few months, until the Council of Forty elected a new leader, but it had helped cement relations between the Human and Hibbil societies.
Finally, Pimyt won his argument with the stubborn clasp and swung the lid of the valise open.
Intrigued, Lorenzo leaned closer to look.
“We call this a ‘hibbamatic,’” Pimyt announced proudly, as he brought out several flat, geometric pieces and snapped them together on the floor, forming a box with octagonal sides. He slid open a little door on the structure, permitting Lorenzo to see that it glowed pale orange inside, as if with an internal fire.
“Strange device.” The Doge reached out and placed a finger against one side of the box, which was around a meter in height. It felt cool to the touch.
“This is one of our smaller models, a machine that can be programmed to build a variety of small consumer and military devices out of programmable raw materials” Pimyt had noticeable pride in his voice. “Here, let me show you.”
The Doge squinted as he watched the Hibbil remove a hand-sized cartridge from inside the lid of the valise. The selected cartridge had a keypad on one side, and Pimyt tapped a code into it. He then tossed the cartridge into the geometric structure and slid the door shut. Moments later, a tray opened on the opposite side and a small, red-handled weapon slid out and clattered onto the tray.
“An ion gun,” Pimyt said. “Fully loaded. The hibbamatic can create anything except a copy of itself.” He grinned. “Or so our promotional literature says. Assuming we provide enough raw materials.”
“How about a beamvideo of Capponi’s Revenge?” Lorenzo asked.
“Ah yes, that patriotic war story.”
Seconds later, like a wish fulfilled by a genie, a silver-colored video cylinder clattered into the tray. After examining it, Lorenzo smiled craftily and said, “Now make me a nehrcom transceiver.”
Since this was one of the most secret devices in the galaxy, with its workings known only to Prince Jacopo Nehr, the Hibbil responded, “Don’t believe everything in our promotional literature, Sire.”
With a guffaw, the merchant prince leader said, “Nonetheless, I rather like your hibbamatic, as a novelty item for the amusement of my court.”
“Shall I transmit your order to my homeworld?”
“Later.” Lorenzo glanced out the window. “The race is about to begin.”
Twenty daggs in racing colors took off and dashed around the track, going up and down the slopes and around the sharp turns. But the top daggs were not as fast as usual. Doge Lorenzo smiled, for he had taken steps to influence the result, having arranged for the sedation of the favorites … just enough to slow them down slightly.
As expected, Abeeya’s Dowry, the underdagg he had bet on, won easily.
“Now I have enough to buy your products,” Doge Lorenzo said. “Big payday … minus operating expenses, of course.”
Beside him, Pimyt smiled, but a bit too broadly for the occasion, as he envisioned the Hibbil-Adurian master plan unfurling, moment by moment. Timing was everything.…