Orion's Price

by Owen R. O’Neill

  The captain considered. “Light charge—no more than fifteen percent. Just enough to muddle the last hour or so.” He turned to her. “Ms. Rathor, if you would, please?” He pointed.

  Mariwen, fighting strong nausea, gave a sketchy nod and was more than happy to be ushered out the door.

  Chapter 39

  MFA Headquarters

  The Legistry, Halevirdon

  Halith Evandor, Orion Spur

  Assistant Undersecretary Marcus Eusebius Danilov sat behind the large desk in his basement office wearing an expectant, but what he hoped was also a diplomatic, smile. The office itself was an unprepossessing space, deep in the bowels the MFA headquarters building, entirely in keeping with Danilov’s subfusc character. But it was also the central node of Danilov’s quite extensive network of networks, and there was very little he could not keep tabs on from within it. Indeed, the uncharitable could—and did—liken it to the center of a spider’s web and Danilov himself to the prime architect. Uncharitable to society at large, that is: Danilov was rather fond of spiders—those elegant, efficient and most adaptable predators—and he knew that a reputation for omniscience was very nearly as useful as the unattainable ideal.

  For example, he had received Captain Malinen’s private secure communication that the guest had arrived and the surprise party had been everything they hoped for. Well, perhaps not quite: the party had not gone exactly as planned but would still serve their purpose. Indeed, if the initial report was confirmed, it might even be better. Malinen was a most active zealous officer: inventive, resourceful and wholly reliable. More importantly, Danilov knew he was wholly reliable because an array of sensors and other informants—many of which neither Malinen nor anyone else outside Danilov’s private organization knew of—had tracked his operation and his progress and confirmed the essentials of his message. So when Malinen badged himself in the building, submitted his credentials and entered the private elevator that dropped himself and his party rapidly sixty-seven floors to the tertiary basement where Danilov waited with his expectant diplomatic smile, the Assistant Undersecretary knew precisely when his office door would open and who would be standing there.

  The door did open; he did see who he expected to see, but his smile became somewhat fixed. Captain Malinen kept his voice low and his face carefully bland as he made introductions, but Danilov listened with a scant half-ear. The woman who was being introduced looked shaken: her complexion was a trifle gray and her hair was disordered and caught carelessly behind her neck in a rude knot. She was missing a glove, there was blood on her clothes and on her cheek, where the left side of her face was starting a show a bruise. But appearances counted for little with a man like Marcus Eusebius Danilov. What caught and held his attention was the triumph that blazed in her eyes; triumph born of courage and a force of will that rivaled—indeed, outstripped—any he had ever known.

  This extraordinary woman had traveled sixteen-hundred light years and risked more than her life—very much more—for love. He wondered if history recorded a parallel. Frankly he doubted it. Love was the force, as Danilov knew, that the ancients considered to be a prime mover of history; a force that could uproot empires. Herodotus had been eloquent on the subject. But if anyone had been so bold as to tell him he would witness just such an uprooting in his lifetime he would have called them mad to their face.

  It was mad. All the more so because she’d done it without any idea—not the merest whisper, he was certain—of how he and Admiral Caneris had planned to leverage her desperate scheme. But she did know, and most precisely (for he had read her file and knew what she’d been through), what she risked if she failed.

  And she had done it. Captain Malinen was merely the chorus who comes in at the end to explain things and tidy the mess. Spectacularly mad . . .

  He could not help but wonder what this lieutenant commander, this Loralynn Kennakris, must be like to inspire such a love in such a woman. He knew her record and her reputation; he’d seen imagery of her, yet this was something on another plane altogether. Forces were at work here that perhaps the ancients understood, but not him.

  Captain Malinen was still delivering a summary of his report—he would read it in full later—and he nodded automatically as he worked to compose his mind. As the captain mentioned the pass phrase Commander Kennakris had supplied them with, he smiled. He’d taken it to be a bit of romantic hyperbole when they first told him; more elegant than most but essentially the same sort of silly prattle new lovers share while the initial glow remained undimmed. He knew the quote: it was from the holy book of the ancient Hebrews, their Old Testament, and the pedant in him could not help noticing that the commander had introduced a minor error, supposing the word bands to be bonds. Then again, he allowed, the error might have been deliberate, given the context. But in the original, it was a question posed by their god to one Job, whom this god had been persecuting for no other reason, or so it seemed to Danilov, than because he could.

  The precise meaning of the phrase was disputed, but the gist seemed to be that men, being ignorant and weak when they fail to embrace their god, ought not to oppose the ways of Divine Providence, for can they “bind the sweet influences of the Pleiades or loose the bands of Orion?” Can they, in effect, change the stars in their courses?

  Danilov smothered a chuckle at the thought. It was well, he considered, that the Hebrew god had not addressed his question to Mariwen Rathor. He would have received a most shocking answer.

  “Sir?” Malinen must have noted the most uncharacteristic expression and the slight movement of his head.

  “Well done, Captain. Very well done.” Danilov bowed his head to Mariwen. “Ms. Rathor, my compliments.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Danilov.” It struck him that her voice with its soft liquid accent, even though a trifle frayed by stress, fit her with uncanny perfection. He made himself focus on her next sentence. “Would it be too much to ask what happens now?”

  A great many things, Danilov thought as he considered his reply.

  To start with, the surveillance data planted by Captain Malinen would appear to implicate Admiral Caneris in General Heydrich’s death, but analysis would show it to be fake, which of course it was, having been created be Danilov’s people. Combined with other forensic details, it would point to Heydrich having been assassinated by members of his own security team, acting for militants in the militarist faction, incensed by his ‘betrayal’ over the POW exchange issue.

  In the aftermath, several of Heydrich’s security team would undoubtedly disappear and potentially compromising communications would be revealed. On learning of the meeting between Heydrich and Mariwen, Danilov spread some rumors, hinting that Heydrich was contemplating approving the POW exchange proposal for his own gain. This had allowed time for members of his faction to get stirred up and a few had already said things privately that might be made to look incriminating with a little effort.

  All in all, Danilov was now confident that his hopes for some very pretty chaos among the militarists would be fulfilled. None of this could he explain to Mariwen obviously, nor was it the point of her question. Making his tone as sympathetic as possible, he answered what he believed that to be.

  “I intuit—and forgive me if I am indiscreet—that your primary interest is in Commander Kennakris, so let me assure you that she is in no danger. She and Commander Huron will be removed to Admiral Caneris’ estate, where they will stay as guests until the initial exchange can be arranged.”

  “Can you say how long that might take?”

  “There you have me,” Danilov said, leaning back. “The diplomatic wrangle is outside my purview, but I would guess not less than two weeks.”

  “I understand.” Mariwen’s posture had changed slightly on hearing that, as one trying not to fidget. “Do you foresee any . . . complications?”

  The pause was significant and Danilov wondered what Mariwen was hinting at. Had she learned something during her meeting with General Heydrich that gave
her cause to fear there might be last-minute complications? No other explanation seemed likely. If so, she must be worried that something had not died with Heydrich, and as he, Danilov, was not aware of anything that might cause such concern, it could only be known (if indeed it was known) to a tolerably few people.

  Nikolai Arutyun at once came to his mind, and whatever private assets the general had inherited from his brother. As Admiral Heydrich’s chief of staff, Arutyun certainly knew of them. He and the admiral had shared a particularly close relationship, something Arutyun and General Heydrich had not. In fact, it had always been his impression that the two men did not especially like—or trust—each other. Yet General Heydrich had lacked experience with intelligence; to what extent did this force him to rely on Arutyun? More than a little, he guessed.

  But touching the matter of Mariwen’s evident concern, the general’s suspicions that Commander Kennakris had been personally involved in his brother’s death must have come from his private assets, thus possibly—he amended the thought to probably—from Arutyun. Hence . . . complications.

  If Arutyun knew more about the commander’s role in the Asylum debacle than was currently suspected, and chose to reveal it, there indeed might be complications. But here, the captain would have to exercise great care. With Heydrich dead, control of the general’s private assets would likely be in his hands. And if those assets had succeeded in uncovering what had really happened at Asylum, where all others had failed, they were exceptionally valuable, which could make Captain Arutyun quite powerful. His ability to exercise that power would be constrained, however. Despite being the de facto head of Halith military intelligence, he was still just a staff officer and not a particularly high-ranking one at that. To reveal these assets would be to lose them.

  No, if Danilov was correct in his deductions, there was virtually no chance Arutyun would compromise assets of such value for the sake of preventing Commander Kennakris from being exchanged by revealing data about what happened at Asylum; data the people who would now be returning under the new exchange agreement could probably supply in any event. No one as ambitious as he knew Arutyun to be would conceivably do that.

  However, he would now have to keep an exceedingly close eye on Captain Nicolai Arutyun.

  “No . . .” he said, giving Mariwen her delayed answer. “With as much certainty as there can be in these matters, I would say not.”

  That did not seem to entirely satisfy her, nor was his silence before answering as reassuring as it might have been, but she accepted it with a nod.

  “Is there any chance I might be able to see Commander Kennakris before I go?”

  His inability to satisfy her on this point, as well, caused an unaccustomed twinge. “Regrettably, no. Current circumstances do not permit. You are to be conducted from here directly to Haslar where one of Admiral Caneris’ dispatch boats will take you Zhian. Arrangements are being made for you to rendezvous there with a League ship, which will convey you home.”

  “I see.” Mariwen’s urge to fidget was becoming visibly stronger. “Could I send her a message?”

  Danilov resigned himself to inflict more disappointment. “I fear not. As much as I would like to oblige, anything that leaves evidence of your presence here must be avoided. However,”—he stopped to clear his throat softly—“ if perhaps you were to entrust a verbal message to Captain Malinen that might serve?”

  In her glance at Malinen, who continued looking straight ahead with a fixed expression, he saw at once that it would not serve and suppressed his own minor pang of disappointment at not being able to give her even this minimal solace.

  “No, thank you. I . . . appreciate the offer. But that will not be necessary.”

  Her stiff formal smile and the way she dipped her head did little to ease that pang.

  He bowed his head in return. “Then allow me to wish you a safe and pleasant voyage, Ms. Rathor.”

  “Again. Thank you.” She did not offer to shake hands, and he quelled the impulse.

  “If you would be so good, Captain Malinen.” He made a gesture that seemed to indicate not just the door, but all the lay beyond it, including a most uncertain future.

  “Of course, Undersecretary.” Malinen raised a hand. “This way, ma’am.”

  They exited with no more words, and when the door closed behind them, Danilov sat unmoving for a minute.

  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . .

  Dickens had never been Danilov’s favorite author, but as he considered that famous opening line, he found he had to agree with nearly all it—especially the part that ran: we had everything before us, we had nothing before us—and whether they faced a spring of hope or a winter of despair would be soon told. To all this, he was inclined to add what was purported to be an ancient curse of disputed origin: May you live in interesting times.

  Yes, the times would undoubtedly prove interesting—for some more than others.

  With that thought in mind, he turned back to his main console and began typing.

  Now, Captain Arutyun, my good man, just what have you been up to?

  Chapter 40

  En route

  Sol to Illyria

  Captain Trin Wesselby’s reputation for ruthlessness was eminently well deserved: she could slice open a carotid as swiftly as she opened a parcel or peel a brain as easily as she might peel an orange, and with much the same degree feeling in either case. In the last war, she’d directed the expenditure of capital, both human and material, carefully, judiciously and efficiently with no more emotion than a man spares on the water he washes his hands in. Even now, decades later and far removed from the immediate bloodletting—and despite her carefully cultivated prim and bookish persona—a fellow officer could waspishly remark that more than anything, she reminded him of a librarian with a stiletto.

  But those who called her cold, heartless, unfeeling, mechanical, stony, pitiless or frigid were quite mistaken, although her smile when she heard that remark was not the best of evidence. In truth, those she liked, she liked clear through with a strong and fervid attachment. Rafe Huron she had liked—and more than liked—these twenty years. Nick, she admired and respected, and shared with him a strong fellow-feeling that she had no trouble calling friendship, but Mariwen, in the space of two days, had gotten inside her skin.

  They had been two extraordinary days, and terrible, and in their aftermath she’d realized that as deftly as she might peel a brain, Mariwen could peel a heart; hers was not unchanged by the encounter. Far from it. She and Nick had labored, in that desperately short time, not so much to train Mariwen for this mission, that being impossible, but to give her some useful tools and sound ideas about how not to make elementary mistakes. Sending Mariwen off in such a state had caused Trin some of those sleepless nights most people were sure she never had. (Nick bore it better, having the release of being more voluble while at the same time being buoyed up an obscure and undoubtedly heathen faith.)

  Now she had Paavo’s report before her and reading the dry, indeed parched, prose she saw all her worst fears realized. Mistakes had been made; dreadful mistakes—blatant dire contraventions of all the principles of tradecraft. And yet here she was, on her way to meet Mariwen. Arrangements had already been made to exchange the first two groups of POWs and to initiate formal negotiations for resumption of the exchange protocols. Kris and Rafe would be returning, along with a Halith delegation that was being sent to work out of the final details of the agreement, which would include an armistice of several months to allow the exchange to occur.

  Trin’s mind thus ran, as she scanned Paavo’s arid verbiage, down many of the same paths Danilov’s had previously traveled, contemplating on love as an engine of history, on the nature of the divine, on elemental forces and the silliness of trying to get them to abide by rules, as if wind or tide knew what ‘tradecraft’ was, or cared. There were lessons to be absorbed here, Trin felt sure, and her intuition suggested to her that absorbed was key—not a
nalyzed or reasoned out.

  She sighed, closed the report and stared into her nested palms awhile. Then she rose, went to her cabin’s aft-most lower cabinet, and from there retrieved a certain bottle. Not to open, for now was not the time. But the time would be soon. At long last, after more than four decades, she knew what she’d been waiting for.

  Chapter 41

  OverHallin Estate, outside Halevirdon

  Halith Evandor, Orion Spur

  For light and airy spaciousness, no room in the OverHallin Estate could rival the main library, with its splendid widows and domed skylights. The effect was enhanced by the mosaicked floor, the half-paneled walls and vaulted ceiling all being cream; a profusion of subtly different shades and textures that lent an almost baroque richness to the interior. Although it contained enough real books in glass-fronted cases to justify its name, this space had most often been used to host the concerts and formal dances Arianna’s grandmother had adored, and when Arianna came here, as she sometimes did, in the absolute stillness of pre-dawn when the last few stars palely gleamed through the crystal skylights, she fancied she could still hear the music.

  No music now, and with the AM bustle, no stillness outside; and with the apprehension that had been tightening Arianna’s chest since she’d arrived back from her trip up-country a little less than twenty minutes ago, no stillness inside either. On being told her grandfather was at leisure in the library, she had gone straight there, walking double time, not wanting to be seen to actually run.

  Her grandfather, seated with legs crossed at the knee on an ivory settee, reading a volume of Caesar’s Commentaries—his black clothes and the book’s scarlet leather binding the only breaks in the sea of cream—looked up as she entered.

  “You are returned,” he said, setting the book aside. “I was about to send for you. But I see you are a trifle flushed. Perhaps you should go first.”