Caged

Chapter One

Palin gazed out the wide window. The view always fascinated him. He wasn't sure if it was because he hadn't always had it to look at or if it was because the huge window so dominated the room. It took up the entire wall, from floor to ceiling. Only the domed edges were steel. The window itself was reinforced glass, as strong as brick or mortar or steel, not invulnerable, but close enough. Or at least as close as possible.

He didn't live at the very top of the building, but he was up pretty high. There were only two buildings higher than The Romaliot and both stood behind it. A half dozen buildings rose higher than his apartment in front of him, but they were placed in a way that he could see the city sprawling away from its core, rolling over the land to the very edge of the sea.

He couldn't actually see the water from here; the horizon was buildings, the shorter flats that were a dozen stories high and all the same. He'd come from a place like that, his parents and his sister and himself squeezed into two small rooms that were like boxes.

His sister was older and she'd escaped when he was seven. She'd wanted to be an entertainer. Father had refused -- he wanted his children to live in the higher buildings, closer to the core, not serve the people that did. So she'd run away when she was thirteen.

He'd seen her once after that. He and his mother had come to the core for tests and he'd seen her on a street corner. She was thin, eyes so hungry and dark. She held her hand out to him, called out to him, but his mother held tightly to his hand and pulled him along. He'd watched until the crowd ate his sister up.

Looking down now, he wondered if she was still out there.

Palin couldn't see the street from here, with too much traffic between him and it, and nearly 200 stories. The aircars looked so different from above than they had when he'd been looking up at them that day. They'd seemed huge when he was twelve, their occupants larger than life, mysterious.

He was one of them now.

The bell rang, warning of the imminent arrival of his first client. Palin slid the gold and bronze embroidered white robe over his naked body. The robe was warm and the clients didn't know what he wore beneath it. Some of them made him feel vulnerable, and he would wear his jeans and shirt and a tri-klev robe beneath the robes of his office, even though the building had security and he was assured that there was no way for someone to arrive at his door with a weapon.

Still, it didn't hurt to be too careful.

Not everyone thought information agents deserved to live. Many were understandably wary, and he was slender and short at 5'6" -- an easy target.

It always amused him that some of the clients never realized that it would be as easy for him to pluck information from them -- easier, in fact, as they were right in front of him -- as it was for him to do it to the subjects they presented. Of course he would lose his license if he were to do that and, while some people were quite happy and prosperous operating outside of the law, it wasn't something he preferred.

The clients were all similar, dressed in silk suits, hair cut short, clean-shaven and always carrying a slim briefcase. It was always black. The case was almost as much of an identifier as the heavy silver robe information brokers had to wear in public so everyone would know who they were.

People never touched him when he was out, scared to give him an opening to their minds. He didn't need to touch them, and he figured most of them knew that in their heads, but their bodies still shrank from him. On the streets and walkways they would part in front of him like a river around a rock.

Today's client, Sahib Jonas, was a regular. Palin had garnered much information for the man and always been well-paid for his services. The Sahib was used to his stutter and his stature and knew well not to judge him by either.

He slid the gold turban on his head just as the knock came on the door. The turban and robe were gaudy and rather silly, but they were what the people expected information brokers to wear when they worked. It identified him to them in a way they could understand.

He wondered sometimes if it wasn't also that it made him and others of his kind less of a threat -- the gaudy show lending the profession an air of trickery, chicanery, that made the clients more comfortable.

There were histories in the office of the Council of Informations. In them he'd seen pictures of "circuses" and "freak shows" from hundreds of years past. There was always an information broker traveling with such groups, usually called a fortune teller and dressed similarly to his uniform. It kept them from being taken too seriously, made people associate them with entertainment.

It didn't matter; most people were still uncomfortable around information brokers, refusing to touch them or even meet their eyes. As if that was how it worked.

Palin sat cross-legged on the thick tapestry cushion in front of the low table and pressed the button that opened the door, admitting Sahib Jonas. Inclining his head, he indicated the cushion across from himself with a sweep of his hand.

Jonas appeared to be a nice man, quiet and unassuming until you looked into his eyes. There was a lust for power in them. It was another thing these men had in common along with their black briefcases. They wanted to rule the world, hungry for power, for the ability to control their environment and beyond.

In his appearance, Jonas was the same as Palin. He imagined the man's innocuous and retiring manner fooled many into dismissing him much as they dismissed Palin himself. Palin thought that to dismiss Sahib Jonas would be a very dangerous thing.

Jonas came once a week. Sometimes he was looking for specific information, most of the time he just wanted something the subject was keeping hidden. He would write down what Palin told him in a little paper book with a real stylus. Palin had only ever seen those before in the Council of Preservations offices.

Jonas knew the routine. He gave Palin the name of today's subject and told Palin he was seeking information on the man's mother, as much as possible without the man knowing Palin had been there.

Palin closed his eyes and slipped into the great mind that held them all.

Jonas was easy to find, as he was the closest and he was reaching out. He offered the image of a vala, a slave bred and engineered for pleasure if the tattoo that covered one side of the man's face was anything to go by. The way in was always something the client was willing to share, usually something unimportant that couldn't be used against them -- in this case a session at a flesh house that Jonas made no effort to hide his membership in.

Palin usually didn't linger, but there was something about this vala. He was large and dangerous; there was anger in the dark eyes and something else as well. Need. Palin could almost hear the man calling to him. Palin understood need.

He let the image go, latching on to the bright thread that would lead from Jonas to the subject. The two men had met, were friendly colleagues, the way between their minds was easy, direct, lit in brilliant neon.

Palin slid undetected into the subject's mind and searched for the man's mother. She was well-hidden, but once Palin found her, the information flowed easily. He began to tell Jonas what he saw, only slipping from the subject's mind when he could feel conscious attention begin to turn toward him. After that, he told Jonas as much as he could remember.

Sahib Jonas was practically crowing, hand moving quickly over the page as he scribbled everything down. "Wonderful! Wonderful! And he doesn't know you were there?"

"N-no."

"Wonderful! You shall have a very good bonus for this."

"Act-tually, S-s-sahib, I w-was hoping f-for an exchange th-this t-t-time."

The man's face grew sharp, calculating. "What kind of exchange?"

"Inf-formation f-for inf-formation. T-t-tell m-me about the v-vala y-y-you showed m-me."

Jonas relaxed, smiled. "In exchange for all you've told me today?"

Palin nodded and Jonas' smile grew wide.

"It's a deal. Don't ever go into business, boy, you'd be lousy at it.

"He's a vala at the flesh emporium on Broadway. A man named Favila owns the place and the man. The vala's a beast. Fights until you drop him with electric shock, but then he's a great fuck. It's a good workout, if a little dangerous.

"I heard someone dropped the controller once and the vala broke his arm and shoulder before he was subdued by the club guards."

"F-for sale?"

Jonas laughed. "Yes, I daresay he is, though no one's been able to keep him. He'd have you for breakfast, Palin, no offense meant."

Palin only inclined his head. Jonas was too good a client to lose over what could be perceived as an insult. His private life was none of this man's business anyway.

Jonas thanked him for the information, made an appointment for the following week, and left. As Palin watched the man go, he wondered suddenly if Jonas was behind the attempts to get into his own mind. He guarded well, any invasion setting off an alarm and he'd been able to fight off the attacks. It would be like Jonas though, to want information on him as well.

It made him shiver, to think there might be something written about him in that little book in Jonas' black-inked scribble.

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