Huron and N’Komo exchanged looks. “Damn far off their range.”
“Kris,” Huron said carefully, “why would slavers want to kill you?”
Her hands clamped around the coffee cup, the knuckles showing white. “I don’t know.”
“Revenge?” Geoff ventured, his voice tentative. He handed his xel to Huron and mouthed: med scan.
“Doesn’t make sense,” Huron muttered and Kris shook her head. He made a distracted motion with his right hand. “No.” He gave the xel back and looked down at Kris again. “Kris, if you don’t mind, I’d like to put you up in one of our billets tonight. Is that okay with you?”
Kris nodded, finding it hard to feel anything but numb. “Sure.”
“Alright.” He opened a line and spoke briefly. Before she had finished her coffee an avuncular-looking Navy chief appeared. Huron introduced them. “The chief here will get you taken are of. Try to get some sleep. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“If you’ll follow me, ma’am,” the chief said pleasantly and he led Kris off. She glanced back at them twice before they exited.
N’Komo watched her go and poured himself his own cup of now-tepid coffee. “You sure it doesn’t make sense, Boss? She hurt them bad.”
“They don’t know that.”
“Maybe they think she knows something they don’t want us to know.”
“Something she hasn’t already told us?”
“Something she doesn’t know she knows?” Huron looked hard at N’Komo. N’Komo looked uncomfortable. “She passed out on the way here. You saw that scan. You know what the medicos have been saying about her.”
“Yeah, Quillan thinks she might be a plant. The shrinks here have reservations. So what?” He looked off in the direction Kris had gone, recalling uneasily the symptoms she’d displayed on the Arizona. “If she wasn’t reasonably fucked up after what she went through on that boat, I wouldn’t trust her at all.” He took out his own xel. His fingers tapped uneasily as his frown deepened. “Why would you kill your own plant?”
“Damfino, Boss. I’m not cut out for this detective shit.”
“Yeah,” Huron said, “me either.” And more emphatically: “Shit.”
* * *
Chief Inspector Taliaferro was reading a police report when Huron was shown into his office. “Ah, Lieutenant.” He came forward with one hand extended welcomingly, the other still clutching the report. “Thanks for dropping by.” Huron shook the outstretched hand, his eyes on the report. The Chief Inspector was being suspiciously ebullient.
Taliaferro did not allay his suspicions. The formalities of greeting accomplished, he went back to his desk, hitched a hip onto it and gestured broadly with the report. “Got a report here on a, ah—a disturbance last night.” He held it out and peered at it down his broad nose. “Mighty interesting. Listen. It says here”—he pointed, rather too ostentatiously—“that on witnessing a forcible entry and hearing a noise, a party of marines entered the building at 1600 Delphi Prospect—not exactly your cheap flophouse address, that—and found two individuals in a state of distress.”
He tossed the report on his desk. “Based on their keen powers of observation, they stated that one of the individuals had fallen down the stairs while the other, who was seen committing the forcible entry, had tripped on the threshold.” He fixed Huron with a gimlet eye that nonetheless might have held the slightest glint of amusement. “Both individuals had broken their necks.”
Huron, keeping his face carefully immobile, nodded.
“I suppose you are aware,” the Chief Inspector continued, “that by a fascinating coincidence, 1600 Delphi happens to be the listed residence of Ms. Loralynn Kennakris.”
“Yes, sir.” Now Huron let a bit of a smile creep out. “Were you ever in the Service, sir?”
Taliaferro’s answering smile was ambiguous. “Pax River. Class of ‘81.” By which he meant the Royal Marine Corps Academy on Hesperia.
Huron nodded again, more deeply. “Well sir, then I suspect you can read a bit more into that report than most.”
“I can indeed, Lieutenant.” Taliaferro folded his arms and looked at Huron in a way that gave him a sense of just how formidable he must have been in his Service days. “And for the moment, I am officially quite distressed at this business. Unofficially”—here his expression softened a bit—“I’m none too happy either. Especially at having a couple of slaver crew from Mantua wearing light body armor turn up dead at the residence of a witness to an assassination attempt.”
“I’m not so sure she was just a witness to that attempt,” Huron offered.
Taliaferro ran a hand over his bald scalp, fished absently in his coat pockets until he found a cigarette, and scratched it to life. “I’m not so sure about that either.” He raised the cigarette, sucked in a lungful of bio-engineered smoke. “What do you say we sit for a few and talk about it.”
* * *
Huron knocked briskly on the doorframe of Trin Wesselby’s office. She glanced up from her console and sighed theatrically. “Oh boy. If you actually knocked, it must be bad.”
“Heard about last night, did you.”
“I did.”
“Two slavers from Mantua, light armored.”
“Mantua? I didn’t hear that.”
“Kris nailed it. Taliaferro just confirmed it.”
“Kris?” Wesselby’s left eyebrow arched. “On a first-name basis, are we?”
“If that was her first name, we would be.”
She let go a slim smile and bent to her console again, fingers busy. “Mantua, you say? Well, well.” After a minute and a half, her eyes widened and she sat back. “Bugger!”
Huron, smiling at the quaint expression, came and looked over her shoulder.
“Here,” she said. “It’ll be easier if I put it up.” She keyed on the display and the holographic map popped up over her disk. “See, these are the known couriers, these are the lightspeed transmits, here are the drones. That’s other ship traffic there.” She highlighted each in turn, turning the display to show them more clearly. “Now here’s the time codes and here is our traffic overlay. These are the dates the hearings were announced and when the location was made public. These are the dates when some of the prime attendees were announced.” She indicated each with her stylus. “And this—this is the date of the Cor Leonis meeting.” That, she stabbed with a glowing red spot.
Huron squinted. “Just ten days after the first announcement of the attendees. It would take about that long just to get the word and then travel to the meeting. Assuming it was arranged in advance.”
“Indeed. Now look at this.” She batted the display to rotate it. “These—these here—are Lacaillian diplomatic packets. These”—she highlighted a small subset—“we’re pretty sure are packets used by their security organs.” She smiled triumphantly. “See how they fill it in? Using Mantua as a dead drop.”
“Or staging out of there,” Huron added.
Trin nodded, tapped the stylus on her smiling lips. “Or that. Or both. Probably both. Mantua’s prime for that. This can’t be coincidence. God, how I’d love to know what was in those packets.”
Huron straightened and watched Trin smiling for a few seconds. “So we believe the Ionians now? How’d they pulled off Arutyun being at those functions then?”
Wesselby shrugged, her eyes not wandering from the display. “Who knows? Visosculpt a double? A twin brother we don’t know about? A prime job of video fakery?” She continued tapping the stylus on her lips, her mind occupied with other problems. “It’s happened before.”
“Can we share this with Taliaferro? They did a lot of work on the Black Army—may have even more to add to the picture.”
She snapped him a sharp look. “Not without authorization. Don’t you dare, Huron!”
Huron smiled innocently, held up his hands. “Of course not. No question about that.”
“Dammit, you know I can’t trust you when you sound reasonable.” She refocused on
the display, took the stylus and added a few annotations. “No. We have to take this upstairs. This is way above our pay grade.”
“Agreed. Let’s get the Old Man on the line.”
Chapter Fourteen
LSS Ardennes, on orbit
Nedaema, Pleiades Sector
With his white hair cut down to stubble and his deeply tanned, heavy jowled, clean-shaven face, Admiral Joss PrenTalien looked like nothing so much as a hard-bitten Senior Chief Petty Officer, which is exactly what he once had been. But being the only enlisted man in the past century to rise to the rank of full admiral was just one of several distinctions PrenTalien owned. He was also the only colonial in history to make that rank and his imposing 195-centimeter frame—they called it six-four back where he grew up—was a strong hint as to the final distinction.
That distinction was in the eyes of many the most remarkable of all: the only flag officer in League history who was also an All-Services Unarmed Combat Champion. Although his heavy, slab-muscled physique had been considerably softened by paperwork and advancing years, PrenTalien still liked to go to the mat with the occasional green ensign or cocky lieutenant who thought it would be fun to take down a fat old man with four stars on his shoulders. Almost all of them quickly learned their error and those who did not were treated to bragging rights and a sumptuous dinner.
At the moment, PrenTalien was looking more frustrated than martial as he pored over the last of several précis and memos that various parties, both military and political, had urged on him. He had been compelled to inform at least the Archon and the Nedaeman Foreign Office of Commander Wesselby’s preliminary findings on the possibility of a terrorist threat to the Human Trafficking Abatement Hearings, and from those two incontinent centers, word of the meeting had gone abroad and its size had swelled proportionately.
Finally, PrenTalien pushed the last report away and glanced around the stateroom, the largest the LSS Ardennes’ had, and which at present contained only himself and Commander Wesselby, who’d been waiting quietly as he read.
“I suppose it’s out of the question to just cancel the damn thing.” His gruff voice was on the edge of being exasperated.
“I’m afraid so, sir,” Wesselby replied diplomatically. “Though I suppose we could raise the issue with the Archon. Possibly.”
“Possibly.” PrenTalien swept the reports to a sidebar with an audible sigh and gestured at the stateroom door. “Very well, Commander, time to open the ball. Go ahead and let the buggers in.”
Into the stateroom filed the chiefs of staff of five Grand Senators and their attendants, the Archon of Nedaema in a plain suit instead of his state robes and his aides, two senior reps from Nedaeman Foreign Office’s security arm, Chief Inspector Taliaferro, whom PrenTalien greeted with a familiar nod, three other staff officers, and Lieutenant Huron.
Even on a massive dreadnaught, staterooms were not intended for a meeting of this size, so the more exalted sat on what chairs there were and the CEF personnel stood, wedged into corners and wherever else they could fit. The admiral rose to welcome the group, reserving a polite Sir for the Archon. He was in his undress uniform to emphasize the informality of the occasion and encourage whatever degree of plain speaking these gentlemen were capable of. He suspected it was not much.
“Gentlemen,” he began in a more subdued voice than usual, “as you all know, there have been some alarming developments in the past seventy-four hours, but I think we can all agree that alarm before the fact is much better than picking up pieces after the fact.” There was a general nod and murmur of agreement at this. “Therefore, I have asked Commander Wesselby to provide us with a brief rundown of what we currently know and what it might potentially mean.” More nodding. “I would also like emphasize that what you are about to hear is both preliminary and of a most sensitive nature and must be kept in strictest confidence.” His eyes swept the room as he brought this introduction to a close: “But before we begin, are there any questions on that or other issues?”
The Archon, cleared his throat deliberately. “One point, Admiral, if I may?”
“Of course, sir.” PrenTalien inclined his head to the Archon as he sat again.
The Archon shifted in his chair, turning left and right to fix his audience. When he began, his voice was low but polished. “These hearings are the most forceful and important statement against the slave trade yet made. Yet there have been suggestions that they should be postponed or even canceled on account of recent developments.” PrenTalien hadn’t been expecting this and despite wondering Is the old bugger’s hearing really is that good? he managed to keep his face impassive.
The Archon lifted his head as he spoke as though on camera, which of course he was not. Probably force of habit, PrenTalien thought. “We cannot cancel such a critical event on the basis intelligence that is not firmly actionable, although it is certainly of great concern. We cannot be seen to yield to threats by the very people against whom these hearings are directed. It would be most disadvantageous to consider any such course at such a time.”
Politically disadvantageous, PrenTalien remarked inwardly, sternly retaining the mask. He did not personally believe that slavers stood much in fear of politicians making dire pronouncements about the evils of their trade. He did believe that Nedaema coveted the various benefits that having the primary role in the operations would confer, and he could see that these hearings were a likely means of securing that role. But PrenTalien was no politician, and strictly speaking that was none of his business. He once more inclined his head to the Archon.
“Yes, sir. That question is, of course, well beyond our remit. The point is certainly well taken, however. Now if there are no further issues, I’ll have Commander Wesselby begin.”
There were not, and she did. Using the display in the Admiral’s desk and projecting it out to where the audience might best see it, Wesselby gave a redacted summary of the data and her preliminary conclusions. She left out the Ionian report and any direct reference to the Bannermans, but mentioned Nestor Mankho and his current hosts, and discussed some of the implications. She emphasized that much of the evidence was highly circumstantial and concluded with a few well-known facts about Mankho’s previous exploits and his favored methods. It was a commendably brief summation, well adapted to the audience, and on finishing it, she left the display active and returned to her seat.
“There we have it, gentlemen.” PrenTalien intoned. “That is what we may be up against.”
Heads bobbed and amid the hum and mumble of whispered conversations one of the Hesperian Grand Senator’s men asked: “I’d like to know more about this stealth drone attack on the honorable Mr.—that is, Lieutenant Huron. That would seem to be a prime concern. What additional steps in mitigation have been taken in that regard?”
The Foreign Office’s security men bristled at the tone and the most senior leaned forward to speak down the row of little chairs. “We are running down the issue of the drone now. As for mitigation, I’d like to point out that such drone, if used in a terrorist attack, would have to defeat the layered defense of the Grand Exhibit Hall where the hearings are to be held.” He paused to give a convenient cough and went on: “That is unlikely, even for a stealth drone. But should it do so, you will observe that the Hall’s canopy is resistant to even a hypersonic impact by that much mass, and the warhead this type of drone can carry has a relatively small lethal radius.” Satisfied he’d made his point, he ventured a further conclusion. “So in the very unlikely event that another such drone exists and could be used in an attack and succeeded in impacting the building, damage would be slight and any casualties minimal.”
There was general low outcry at this faux pax and PrenTalien observed Nick Taliaferro at the back, trying not to chuckle as the Grand Senator’s man remarked, “I am not at all sure that any casualties at such a gathering could be described as minimal.”
The Foreign Office rep, aware of the gaffe as soon as it was out of his mouth, was very conc
erned to recover it. “Please forgive my poor choice of words,” he said slowly. “I meant casualties in the sense of the structure and equipment—not, ah, occupants. No human casualties inside the building would result from a strike of such a kind.”
The Grand Senator’s man gave him a cold polite nod. “I am most happy to hear that. But I was rather thinking about a nuclear—not conventional—warhead, as I understand that such a drone can be made so capable.”
There was still redness in the Foreign Office man’s face so PrenTalien decided to come to his rescue. “What about it, Chief Inspector? Any uncustomed nukes in your jurisdiction?”
Taliaferro hid a smile at the admiral’s eccentric use of the old smuggling term. “Well, sir, as you know, we have never successfully detected a plot the enemy has successfully hidden—”
“I knew you were going to say that,” PrenTalien interjected with a twinkle in his eye.
“—but I think I can say confidently that smuggling in enough material to make a respectable device is a very low probability event. And even then, they would have to defeat the fission suppressors. So while we can’t ever say zero, I’d put it way down on the list.”
“Very well.” PrenTalien said. “Anything else?”
A man in the second row, from New Meridies by his accent, spoke up. “There’s been some speculation about possible Halith involvement with either the Bannermans or Andaman or both in the past year. And of course we know both have ties to the prime Slaver factions. Any conduit to the Halith would raise the threat level a great deal, but I didn’t hear a mention of that possibility. Can you address it?”
Where the hell did he hear that? PrenTalien wondered as he prepared a reply, trying not to make it too sharp, but the Archon beat him to it. “There have been rumors regarding a meeting between Halith representatives and Andamans possibly having Slaver associations. Some Bannerman involvement has also been claimed.” The Archon was using his best tones of calm authoritative reason now. “But I think I can say with certainty those rumors have been shown to be unfounded. Both CID and our own intelligence services concluded this independently. I understand ONI concurs.” He looked to PrenTalien. “Is that not so, Admiral?”
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