Chaos Space - Marianne de Pierres [26]
On previous occasions he had met with the C-o-S in a laboratory but today the Balol assistant ushered Tekton into Balbao’s private rooms.
Tekton took a moment to absorb the size and luxury of them: the garish gold-plated fittings and pattern-switching floor covering.
The Balol sat perched in a swivel armchair with his feet on the ledge of a window facsimile. He sipped something frothy from a fluted glass and flexed his neck frill as if deep in thought.
Tekton ahem-ed politely to gain his attention.
‘Yes, Godhead?
Tekton detected Balbao’s sarcasm. To the astronemeins the tyros were merely convenient study animals.
‘I have a request.’
Balbao gargled the last sip of his drink before he answered. ‘Let me guess. Longer opening times at the Mélange bar? Pickled Ink Squid on the room-service menu? Lotion towels in the diner?’
‘I’m sure you are well aware that I do not use towels. They are too abrasive. And while your humour is mild and inoffensive, it also suggests that you perceive us to be frivolous and superficial.’
‘Superficial? You, Tekton? I would never think such a thing.’
Tekton fixed him with a cold stare. ‘I wager, Balbao, that it will be our endeavours which uncover the truths about the Entity. Not your tedious measurements and excruciating empirical observations.’
Balbao frowned. His skin turned an unflattering shade of grey like the first puffs of a storm cloud.
Tekton assessed him as suitably enraged, and delivered his request. ‘I wish to petition for a new tyro and I want you to support me to Higher Intelligence Affairs.’
The Balol’s crest flattened into his thick neck and he made an odd choking splutter. ‘You j-joke, of course?’
‘Humour is not a strong Lostolian trait. I wish to petition for a female from the Latino races to join us here.’
‘A Latino female?’ Balbao flicked quickly through some images until he got a representation. His absent look suggested that his moud was enlightening him about Latinos. After a few moments he let out an unattractive hawking sound as though he had a throat full of phlegm. ‘Godhead, you do have a sense of humour... a female tyro from a repressed, patriarchal society.’
‘Bigotry can achieve wonders,’ stated Tekton loftily. ‘Makes the mind hungry.’
Balbao snorted. ‘Then you won’t be surprised to hear that not only will I not support your application, but I will fight it to my last breath.’
Tekton conjured a look of annoyance. ‘That is regrettable,’ he lamented. ‘But I will not be denied.’
‘Oh yes, you will,’ growled Balbao.
Perfect, thought Tekton.
Tekton took a taxi to the Mélange bar to celebrate his easy manipulation of Balbao. To his disappointment only Labile Connit was there. He had barely spoken to the Geneer in his months on Belle-Monde. The man appealed to him almost as little as Balbao did, although his skin colour had a pleasant golden hue as opposed to the grey pigmentation of the Balol. It seemed rather unbalanced of nature, Tekton thought, to bestow such a radiant skin on a Geneer: they were such dour and imperative-bound types.
Yet you could not do without them, his logic-mind piped in.
Not yet, countered free-mind.
In a far more expansive mood than earlier and contemplating the notion that with his Sole-gained enhancements he might never have to consult a Geneer again, Tekton engaged Labile Connit in conversation.
Connit was hunched over a table-screen that was blurred by the spills from his row of empty agave-beer glasses. Tekton could smell the sweetness of the beer’s succulent base.
‘Good morning, Connit. May I buy you a beverage?’
‘Shure. Why not?’ the Geneer slurred and waved his hand. ‘After thish many I’ll drink with anyone.’
Tekton ignored the insult and ordered drinks via his moud.
They sat in awkward silence until the waiter served them. That is, Tekton felt a trifle awkward. Connit seemed oblivious to anything other than the flicker of images running across the table-screen.
‘The entertainment is tediously limited here, don’t you think?’ commented Tekton.
Connit shrugged. ‘I hate