Brackhaus stared at him silently.
“No, really!” Harlequin continued. “It’s amazing. They make these spe-cial buckets out of this wild paper-polymer that they can run through either a convection flash oven or a microwave.” He heard himself rambling, but didn’t care. “They put the burger and all the fixins in the bucket, at the same time, in the right order, run it through, and then hand you your burger in a covered bucket.”
“Then you take the bucket,” he demonstrated with his hands, “and flip it over on the table, cover down.” He raised his hands slowly. “Lift it off and your burger slides out of the bucket, perfectly formed, on its own plate.”
He smiled. “You keep the bucket, of course, in case you need to cover your burger up again. If say—” He smiled widely. “—things get messy.”
Brackhaus told him what he was clearly thinking, “You are mad.”
Harlequin waved off the comment. “Old news.” And smiled more broadly at the waitress as she skated up to the table, not even trying to hide his clear approval of her and her black leather and satin maid’s outfit and thigh-high boots.
Pammie—as her scrolling neon name badge stated—grinned at him. “Hiya, again. We’re ordering for your friend?” she assumed. She stood midway be-tween them, and her left eye pivoted toward Brackhaus as she spoke.
“Yes.” replied Harlequin, amused, as always, by the roaming eye.
“No.” stated Brackhaus.
“Yes.” Harlequin insisted. “He will have what I am having, except he prefers Canadian bacon.” The elf nodded once.
“Hokay, that’s wiz.” Pammie bounced. “Regular or deluxe bucket?” she asked.
“Regular.”
“Wiz. It’ll be up in a few ticks.” She skated off to greet someone at the door that the elf assumed was some kind of trash shaman. “Oy! No pants, no ser-vice—” she bellowed as she headed off.
Brackhaus grimaced faintly. “I note that you are, in fact, not incognito.”
The elf nodded. “I knew I’d blend in with the regular crowd. You, I was a little more worried about.” A quick glance around the place confirmed his words; it was full of a mix of genuine street riffraff and those who probably paid a personal shopping service to get them that latest look. BucketBurgertm was on the edge of two worlds, and it showed in its clientele. There were men and women, humans, a few elves, even fewer orks, and a few of indistinguish-able genetic origin. He saw a mixed bag of eaters and chatters, a handful of slumming wageslaves, a pair of arguing wire-heads connected together by a flashing red neon optical cable, and a pack from the ManMan Mannequin posergang that made even him shudder slightly. The front door opened, and Harlequin briefly glimpsed the silhouette of a troll standing outside in the rain
as a tall, thin elf woman with shinning dark hair and matching dripping long coat slipped in. Nice coat, he thought.
Brackhaus’s deep voice pulled him back from his distraction. “Why am I here?”
Focusing, Harlequin replied, “Well, I assume it’s because I asked. Other-wise it would be one hell of a coincidence, and I’d be very concerned.”
Brackhaus stared at him. Harlequin disliked seeing his own reflection in the man’s sunglasses.
“Fine, fine.” The elf said with another dismissive wave. “I asked you here—”
He glanced at the other two empty plastic chairs at the table. “—though I was expecting two others…”
The man tensed, not obviously, but Harlequin sensed it and raised his hand. “Just the Scribe and the Orange Queen. Nothing to worry about.”
The man set his teeth slightly. “Nothing to worry about, today.”
The elf nodded, glancing away. “No, not today.” Harlequin let his chair fall forward, its four feet back on the ground. “You were late, and they rarely are, so it would seem they are otherwise engaged.”
Brackhaus tilted his head slightly. “You meet with them often?” he asked, caution slipping into his voice.
Harlequin nodded again. “I play cutthroat Mille Bornes with the two of them and Aina every other week.”
He mentally braced for a dry retort from the man, who, after a brief pause, said, “Mille Bornes. Card game of French origin using a road-race metaphor.”
Harlequin stared again and then squinted. “Yet more creepy. Who are you?”
The man looked away, and Harlequin noticed a trim, ginger ork turn his head to avoid catching Brackhaus’ gaze. He’d been watching Harlequin and his guest. Curious, the elf thought, but then again, we do make quite the pair.
“You cannot confound me any longer with your annoying pop-cultural ref-erences.” The man finally said.
The elf nodded. “If you say so,” he replied, “and I won’t take that as a chal-lenge.”
Harlequin considered digging further into his burger, but decided that would complicate things. Besides, he could just put it back in its bucket and get it reheated later. The magic of technology. Instead he pressed his palms onto the table lightly. “I have concerns.”
The man tilted his head. “Concerns about what?”
“Telestrian.”
The other man’s head raised slightly “Telestrian.”
The elf nodded. “Telestrian.”
“Which one?”
“Which one? James the Third.”
“Why?”
DINNER WITH A FRIEND 52
Harlequin laughed. “Why? Surely it’s obvious. You know what just went down?”
Brackhaus adjusted his sunglasses, but said nothing.
The elf nodded. “I’ll take that as a big old ‘yes’.” He leaned forward. “It was ugly and messy. And sloppy. Telestrian’s family in that deep with the invae—
and he had no idea. None.” Harlequin convinced himself that he could barely see—but he definitely felt—the other man frown.
Brackhaus shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Humans are gullible. They seek pointless affirmation—”
“I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And doggone it, people like me,” the elf interrupted, and prompted the man with his hand. “Call it.”
The man clearly scowled. “You lied about taking it as a challenge.”
“I always lie about taking things as a challenge.”
The man paused fractionally. “Stuart Smalley. Fictional character created and performed by former United States Senator and Nobel Prize winner Alan Franken.”
Now Harlequin frowned. “Damnit. Go on.”
The man inhaled. “Humans are gullible. They seek constant affirmation that they are doing well, and living well, and making the right choices. They lack the ability to accurately assess the world around them and judge that for themselves, so they are pleased to have others assure them they are. Also, they lack the ability to pragmatically understand their place in the world and ac-cept it.”
“Yeah, they do get kinda uppity, don’t they?”
Brackhaus shrugged again. “I am sure that they, for the most part, view myself and mine as arrogant, but thus far they lack the understanding of what we truly are, what we are capable of, and what the true relationship between our kinds is.”
“I think that’s the topic on the next Wyrm Talk.”
The man visibly started. “What?”
“Kidding. I’m a kidder, remember?” Harlequin showed both his palms, but added, “Though I wouldn’t put it past him at some point.”
“That would be a mistake.”
“Ya think?”
“I do.”
“So do I, but for entirely different reasons.”
Brackhaus smiled, barely. “I know.”
As Harlequin nodded, he noticed the ginger ork was gone from his table.
He frowned slightly, but said, “Telestrian.”
“Telestrian.”
The elf nodded. “Yes, Telestrian. You’re saying this doesn’t concern you?”
Brackhaus shrugged yet again. “People are people.”
Harlequin blinked twice. “You did not just quote Depeche Mode at me, did you?”
The man said nothing.
The elf relaxed “Because if you did, I’d be smelling subtext, and that would imply all sorts of odd things related to that song.”
Brackhaus nodded slightly. “Written by Martin Gore. Depeche Mode’s tenth single in the United Kingdom from the album Some Great Reward.”
Now Harlequin just laughed. “Okay, I think you’re messing with me some-how, and that’s fine. I can live with that.” He became serious again. “But, Te-lestrian.”
“Make your point.”
Harlequin sighed, “My point is that clearly his house ain’t in order. All of this was happening right under his nose, and he was oblivious. What else might be going on around him that he’s not noticing, because he can’t?”
“Is there something going on that you think he is not aware of?”
With growing exasperation, the elf sighed, “No. Not that I am aware of, but there could be.” He gestured at the empty chairs. “That’s part of why I wanted them here. They also have dogs in this race…” He waited for a response from the man, which didn’t come. “What, no translation or explanation of that?”
“It is a colloquialism, not a pop-culture reference.”
“Fine. They give a shit about what happens in your precious Tir. But you—
and they—have a problem. A people problem.”
“A people problem.”
Harlequin nodded. “A people problem. And that people is James Telestrian III. You understand what he is, yes?”
Brackhaus seemed fractionally unsure. “An elf?” As if that was explanation enough for whatever problem Harlequin spoke of.
Harlequin kept nodding. “He is, but he’s also something the humans have a lovely word for. He’s a sociopath.”
The man shifted in his seat. “Go on.”
“Another colloquialism for you—you backed that horse, and I guess I’m be-ing inordinately generous in combe-ing to you about this, since I’m not sure that you or Ehran or Laverty or Lugh—though Lugh may by now—understand—”
“What do you mean, ‘Lugh may by now’?” the man interrupted.
“Well, your boy James made a bad play to put his brother-in-law Alejandro in charge in the Tir, yes?”
Brackhaus’s face visibly darkened. Harlequin knew he was starting to hit home. The elf gestured. “Bad play. Surehand was already starting to see the Tir being dominated by Telestrian Industries, and began maneuvering to weaken the corporation’s hold. And instead of trying to build bridges to Surehand and keep him happy, James the Third tried to cut him out entirely.”
The man listened quietly.
“You couldn’t have liked that, I imagine, but do you understand why it hap-pened?”
Brackhaus said nothing.
“Your boy James—”
“Stop saying that.”
Harlequin shrugged. “Seems accurate, all things considered,” he acqui-esced. “But fair enough. Telestrian played hardball because he doesn’t know how to play softball. A sociopath doesn’t understand people, emotions. They know how to fake it. They know how they’re supposed to act, but they don’t feel it.”
The man now seemed a little perplexed. “Why do I care about human…in this case, elven, feelings?”
Harlequin leaned in again. “Because he didn’t understand people enough to notice what was going on in his own family. It should have been fraggin’
obvious—I mean, really. He’s lived with those people all his life. He misplayed dealing with Surehand because he’s not savvy enough to realize that there’s something different about the bastard.”
“And…?”
“And, he only understands emotions when he’s manipulating them in oth-ers to get what he wants. And because he can’t read people and undoth-erstand what they want, he has to be continually manipulating them. All of them. All of the time.”
“You are not insinuating that he is manipulating me?”
Harlequin slowly smiled. “Well, what if his misplay with Surehand wasn’t?”
Brackhaus frowned.
The elf probed. “What’d you have to give to Surehand to stop him from retaliating? I mean, James the Third is still with us, and seemingly escaped with all his limbs and only the exile of his brother-in-law. Not bad for a coup attempt…which means, if I know Surehand, some other price was paid.”
Silence. Dull musi-pop crackled from badly hidden speakers. The dark-haired elven woman in the dark coat leaned against the bar. Plastic knives and plastic forks clinked against plastic plates. People talked. Something laughed.
The elf and his guest regarded each other wordlessly.
“Your point?” Brackhaus finally asked.
“My point is that if you continue to back him, you’re eventually going to have to cut him.” Harlequin pressed on. “He doesn’t get—he can’t get—that you’re not like the other people around him.” The elf gestured to the man’s body. “Regardless of what form you take. He can’t get it. He won’t grasp the implications that Laverty and Surehand and Ehran, or any of the others, aren’t like the others around him.” Harlequin took a breath. “Which means he has to be continually manipulating you and them in order for him to understand what you’re thinking and feeling.”
“Har’lea’quinn, this is very unlike you.”
The elf desperately wanted to slam his forehead into the table, but the burger was in the way. “Yes, I know.”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
Harlequin was now truly exasperated. “I don’t suddenly care…” He twisted his mouth into a particularly hideous grimace under his face paint. “It’s com-plicated.”
“It seems as if, with all of this talk of manipulation, that you are trying to manipulate me…”
Now the elf really laughed, attracting the attention of a couple of nearby tables. “Well, of course I am. It is what we do—what we all do—but you and I do it by means of figuring out what everyone else wants and then deciding if we’re going to ignore them, help them get what they want, or stop them from getting it.”
“Biased by whether or not we have any self-serving interest in the matter.”
The elf nodded with him. “Sometimes, yes. Often, yes, if I must be truth-ful, but not always.” He was about to elaborate when Pammie glided up with Brackhaus’s BucketBurgertm bucket balanced on her fingertips.
“One #177—deluxe—with Canadian bacon. Fresh and hot.” She placed the BucketBurgertm in front of Brackhaus.
Harlequin nodded to her. “Sankyuu.”
She grinned. “Thanks, boss!” And then skated off to the table of posergang-ers. Beyond her, Harlequin spotted the ginger ork who’d relocated to another table. The elf’s left big toe began to itch.
“Boss,” said Brackhaus with a soft undertone of resignation in his voice.
“Yeah, sorry. I guess your research guys didn’t dig deep enough. But I figure a six-deep shell corp, two false-fronts, and at least one proxy something-or-an-other is good enough for normal business.” This time his gesture encompassed the entire restaurant. “Mine. I bought the whole chain. Three here in Seattle, one in Austin. More on the way!”
Brackhaus shook his head. “I should have known.”
Harlequin agreed. “Probably.” He pointed a long finger at the steaming bucket in front of Brackhaus. “I mean—a burger in a bucket. How could I say no?”
“I suppose you couldn’t,” Brackhaus said, then added “But you were about to say why you suddenly cared.”
“Was I? I’ll take your word for it.” His left toe itched even more now, and he stretched, letting the motion cover his scan of the room. Letting his percep-tion slide, he took in the astral profile of the restaurant. There was a smatter-ing of dim auras and general haze, nothsmatter-ing truly concernsmatter-ing. The gsmatter-inger ork, however, was active with a couple of simple foci, though subdued. The troll was still standing just outside. The dark-hair, dark-coated elf’s aura was
sick-DINNER WITH A FRIEND 54
ly…she was wired. He and Brackhaus were masked and dulled and thoroughly mundane, through and through. Nothing else was out of the ordinary, but…
Harlequin inhaled slightly. “I—me, personally—don’t care. But other peo-ple do, peopeo-ple I know who have a fondness for your little Elf Utopia.” He tipped back again in the plastic chair. “I mean, it’s nice. Makes me homesick.”
“Homesick.”
“No, not at all. I’m lying,” Harlequin admitted. “Far from homesick. But you know that.”
Brackhaus said nothing.
“I just think some stability would be a good thing.”
The man raised an eyebrow slightly “You? Stability?”
Harlequin grinned. “Sure? Why not? Let’s have something different for a change.”
Brackhaus nodded slowly. “So, you are counseling me on how to bring sta-bility.” As he spoke he gingerly picked up his bucket and removed it, revealing the burger within. He stared at it.
“No, no…” The elf shook his head. “I’m just telling you that James the Third is a bad bet. Won’t work out for you in the end.”
“I assume you have another recommendation? Perhaps one of these other people you know who have a fondness for the Elven Utopia?”
“Actually, no, not any of those. I only barely know her, but I think she’s your girl.”
The man tilted his head again, upended the bucket, and placed it carefully beside the burger, which he very clearly and very deliberately didn’t touch.
“In a manner of speaking.” Harlequin assured him quickly. “What I mean is that she’s the one you should be backing.”
“And who is she?”
“James the Third’s daughter, Marie-Louise Telestrian.”
Brackhaus seemed genuinely surprised. “She is an infant.”
Harlequin laughed. “Not from what I saw—hello!—but yes, she’s young.
Still a teenager. But you should take a good look at her—she’s got something.
A spark.”
Now the man leaned slightly forward. “A spark?”
The elf rolled his eyes. “Not like that. I mean, really? You think I’d point her out to you if I thought that?”
“No, I suppose not,” Brackhaus acknowledged. “You do have your own col-lection.”
Harlequin displayed his middle finger. “One is not a collection.”
Brackhaus almost laughed “The humans have no idea what that really means, do they?”
“No, no they do not.”
“That is probably a good thing.”
“Maybe D can tell them.”
Brackhaus shook his head “No, I suspect that’s one of the few things he would not let slip.”
Harlequin nodded and looked past Brackhaus toward the front door. The giant silhouette of the troll was still outside, but now it was fully blocking the door and stopping anyone from entering. A piece of street meat—over-strung cyber muscle who ran under the name Danny Duke, or Biggs Blaze, or just simply Meat, depending on the day—was the last one inside. Dripping wet, he was failing miserably at looking inconspicuous.
“Could you look just a little to my left?” he casually asked Brackhaus, who frowned but accommodated and moved his head. In his sunglasses, Harlequin saw the reflection of the ginger ork, who was slowly standing up. He won-dered if Meat and Ginger were about to have some sort of reckoning when he spotted the indicator lights on the restaurant’s security and fire panel go into override and begin to turn off one by one.
Harlequin sighed. BucketBurgertm—his BucketBurgertm —was being
Harlequin sighed. BucketBurgertm—his BucketBurgertm —was being