“Well, let’s go see whether Feraltz has any insight on this. It appears to be his chop. Let’s go visit the foreman, Daigule. Come on. Maybe could learn something.”
But Vogel didn’t start back toward the business district of Port Charid.
Vogel signaled for an auto-rent vehicle instead, and told the navigation unit — once he and Kazmer had gotten in — that he wanted to go out to the new construction south of Port Charid, where the Combine interests were building a new cargo-handling facility.
“Heard Feraltz was out on-site by default when I ran into him yesterday at the Factor’s office,” Vogel explained, once the vehicle was under way. “Lots of activity out there. Probably best if we don’t call him away from his job.”
Probably best if they caught him off guard and by surprise, Kazmer decided. Vogel had no reason Kazmer could imagine for suspecting Fisner Feraltz of anything; it was probably just second nature for Vogel to plan to his advantage.
Kazmer had reasons to suspect Madlev’s foreman, whether or not anyone would countenance them.
Madlev’s foreman was Dolgorukij, and the Angel of Destruction was made up of Dolgorukij.
Madlev’s foreman had been at the Okidan Yards and lived to tell the tale, as well: surely that could be suspicious in and of itself. The people who had done the murders Kazmer had seen at Tyrell Yards were not the kind to leave a man wounded but still alive to call for help.
In fact it was suspicious.
Wasn’t it?
Or was his dread and horror of the Angel of Destruction poisoning his mind, so that he saw the enemy around every corner?
###
Fisner Feraltz struggled to his feet gamely as Garol was announced at his office door in the administrative area of the new warehouse facility. Garol could appreciate the effort it took; still, a man learned to work with his bracing. So he’d been told. Wanting to get as fresh a reaction as possible, Garol reached into his jacket’s inner pocket as he entered the room, shaking the document free of its folds to set it down directly on the foreman’s desk.
“Good-greeting, nice to see you,” Garol said briskly, though he wasn’t all that interested in being polite. Feraltz’s maneuvers to be present at Garol’s report to First Secretary Verlaine yesterday had annoyed him; they had also raised questions in his mind. “Have a look at this for me. Your mark, here?”
There was no reason to suppose that Feraltz had anything against Langsariks, and every reason to suppose the contrary. Feraltz had certainly given an excellent impression of a man wishing to avoid the appearance of implicating the Langsariks for the Okidan raid. Too good an impression was suspicious in and of itself. Wasn’t it just that touch too convenient that Fisner Feraltz had been Okidan’s sole survivor — the sole survivor of any of these raids to date?
Precisely how had Feraltz survived the Okidan raid?
“It looks like my mark,” Feraltz agreed, readily enough. “But here. For the record.” He sat back down, carefully. Garol watched him sit back down. He didn’t think Feraltz moved like a man fully accustomed to his bracing; and there was no possible reason Garol could think of for so ungracious a thought but sheer contrariness on his part.
Feraltz pulled out the chop that he wore on a chain around his neck and keyed its confirm mode before he held it to the chop mark on the document.
The chop jumped in Feraltz’s hand, its static charge registering rejection of the chop mark on the document.
Feraltz frowned.
Pulling a ledger board from a side table, Feraltz leafed through the document originals until he found what he was looking for. Setting the open ledger board down on the desk beside the document Garol had brought, Feraltz keyed the confirm code on his chop again and held it to the chop mark on the document original in the ledger board.
The chop sang out its confirm code, shrill and self-confident. So Feraltz moved it over to the document Garol had brought once more, slowly, as if not to interrupt the micro-computer’s concentration.
The chop shut up abruptly and bucked in Feraltz’s hand.
“Interesting,” Garol agreed, but he was not about to take Feraltz’s word for it, and held out his hand for the chop. Feraltz passed it to him willingly, which told Garol all he needed to know; but he went through the motions anyway, comparing the chop to one or two other chop marks on document originals in the ledger board, then back to the one on the document he’d removed from the broker’s office.
The chop mark on the document that had been on file in the broker’s office was not genuine.
Forged.
“Any surrogate chops authorized?” Garol asked, passing Feraltz’s chop back. He didn’t have much hope of it, really, so it didn’t disappoint him when Feraltz shook his head.
“None authorized, Bench specialist. I leave this one with Dalmoss whenever I leave Port Charid just so we don’t get into that situation. Sorry. Is it important?”
Feraltz knew it was important.
Garol was increasingly convinced of that fact.
But he had nothing on which to base his suspicions.
“Maybe. Hard to tell. Where is Dalmoss, by the way.”
Dalmoss had the chop while Feraltz was away from Port Charid, so Dalmoss had it when the Tyrell raid was being planned. Maybe. Had Feraltz been back to Port Charid by then? He could find out — but he didn’t feel like simply asking, he was frustrated and starting to feel like somebody was leading him on a merry chase.
Some Dolgorukij.
Feraltz?
Or the Malcontent?
Garol had already marked out a block of time in his mental scheduler for when this was all over, in which to become deeply disturbed about the Malcontent. People like Cousin Stanoczk didn’t come up out of nowhere. If there were more like him at home, there was trouble in store for the Jurisdiction’s Bench when the day came that the Dolgorukij Combine decided to flex its economic muscle.
“Gone to Geraint on a special assignment,” Feraltz answered, sounding apologetic. “Sorry. We could call him back if you needed him, Bench specialist.”
No, he’d have someone speak to Dalmoss at Geraint.
And he needed to get an analysis of the forged chop on the freighter tender’s release document. Folding the document carefully, Garol tucked it away once more. “Quite all right. Thank you for your time, Foreman, I’ll see myself out.”
What was the wilder claim?
That some ancient secret terrorist society was resurgent at Port Charid for no better reason than to destroy the Langsarik settlement?
Or that a man who owed his life to the Langsariks should be involved in planning a frame so massive and ornate that it staggered the imagination — and was willing to countenance the torture killing of sixteen upon sixteen of souls just to pin the blame on his once-benefactors?
Garol had seen irrational behavior before in his life. But there was something going on here that was beyond irrational.
It was going to be that much more difficult to make sense of it; and if he could not make sense of it, the Langsariks were doomed.
###
Hilton Shires came across the comer of the administrative complex at one end of the new warehouse facility with his checklist in his hand, intent on getting through the morning’s receipts by the end of his shift. He was tired, but he was beginning to feel as though he understood what he was doing and why he was doing it the way he’d been taught. That was a good feeling. If it hadn’t been for the problems that faced his family — his immediate family, along with all of the rest of the Langsariks — he would have enjoyed the learning in its own right.
As it was he could not relax and concentrate on inventory management.
It had been three days since he’d overheard someone plotting an attack, and he had nothing to show for his after-hours sleuthing but frustration and anxiety.
Halfway into the administrative area Hilton happened to look up from the tally screen in his hand to check on his exact location, so as to avoid knock
ing into people, to be avoided if possible even when he was in a hurry. But there was someone there.
Looked familiar.
A man standing outside the doorway into the administrative offices where Hilton kept a desk just inside. Not wearing a warehouseman’s coveralls; leaning up against the inner wall with his arms folded and his head bent in evident study of the industrial flooring and the unfinished trim.
Looking for a job?
Waiting for someone.
And it looked a lot like Kazmer Daigule, but it couldn’t be. Kazmer had been captured off an impounded freighter at Anglace, and stolen cargo taken from Tyrell with him. So clearly Kazmer could not possibly be here, free and whole, and waiting for someone outside the administrative offices of the warehouse facility.
“Can I help you.”
Hilton raised his voice and hailed the waiting man, closing the distance between them as he spoke. He got more, and not less, confused as he came closer; because the man looked up at the sound of Hilton’s voice, and it kept on looking so much like Kazmer Daigule that Hilton was beginning to really puzzle how it could possibly not be.
“The Bench specialist. Said you had something to give to me, Hilton.”
Sounded like Kazmer, or like what Kazmer might sound like if his voice was being slowly strangled in the grip of some strong emotion or another. No, it made no sense. How did this person know Hilton’s name? The reference to a Bench specialist was worrying —
“Sorry, help me out here.”
It couldn’t be Kazmer.
It was.
There couldn’t be two people in the world with that exact same nose. Hilton stood and stared, stammering in his confusion. “Where did you come — how did you get — ”
Kazmer looked awful: pale, worn, skinny. But it was Kazmer Daigule. “Long story,” Kazmer said, his voice resonant with suppressed emotion. “Boring plot, though. I’m here with Specialist Vogel, you know him? He said.”
Whatever it was that had happened to Kazmer it was terrible. The ferocious impact of Kazmer’s fiercely contained grief was staggering.
Hilton thought fast.
Kazmer had been in Port Charid just before the Tyrell raid. Modice had been worried enough about what Kazmer might have been doing here that she’d used the Bench specialist to carry a message to Hilton, one that served as a warning. But something was wrong — if Kazmer actually had been compromised in the Tyrell raid, he would not be here now. But if he was free and clear of suspicion, what was the source of his evident anguish?
“Not on me, I’m afraid. The scarf. The sash. Whatever.” He’d been afraid to carry it, for fear of genetic damage from corrosive radiation. A pattern like that was too perfectly awful to be truly harmless. “If you can tell me where you’re lodging this time, I can bring it.”
There had to be more at issue than the scarf. Kazmer seemed near tears; and while Kazmer was an emotional man, he’d never struck Hilton as maudlin. “Perhaps it’s best if you just destroyed it, then, Hilton. A Malcontent has no personal possessions. And as much as I owe Cousin Stanoczk already, the additional burden of dealing with that scarf might be too much.”
What was this, “Malcontent”?
Who was Cousin Stanoczk, and what did Kazmer owe him?
“Then what would happen?” He had too many questions, and Kazmer was clearly not going to answer any of them. It made Hilton a little angry, but in a sad way. He’d thought Kazmer was his friend. “You brought the thing for my innocent little cousin. If it’s really so toxic as all that, what possessed you to give her the wretched cloth in the first place?”
“It was a joke,” Kazmer said, and the depth of sorrow that the simple phrase carried into Hilton’s heart hit him like a fist. “Just for fun. And if I try Cousin Stanoczk’s patience, he might just cancel his protection, I suppose. Then it would be back to Anglace for me, and Ship’s Inquisitor Andrej Koscuisko asking questions about the Tyrell raid, and who did I see at Port Charid, and could Langsariks have been involved. And what were their names. And murder done, Hilton; I didn’t really believe it till I saw it for myself, but what difference does it make?”
The words came almost too relentlessly once they started coming. Concerned already, Hilton felt his face drain white with the shock of what Kazmer was telling him as Kazmer continued.
“I know Langsariks would never do that. I know that now. Langsariks were never involved from the beginning. It was all a setup. But it doesn’t make any difference, I’m telling you. I thought it would help if I cried for the Malcontent, if I didn’t give evidence. It hasn’t helped. Stanoczk would rather it was Langsariks than who it is. The fix is too good. Nobody believes me, Hilton, nobody believes us; gather everyone you can and get out of here — get out of here now — ”
Someone was coming out of the administrative area, and Kazmer mastered himself with an obvious effort. Bench specialist. Hilton recognized him.
“Good-greeting.” Vogel nodded cheerfully to Hilton; if he’d heard any of Kazmer’s mad spate, he gave no sign. “Well. No help there, unless that’s help. Let’s go out to the settlement, Shires, I’d like a word with your aunt. Care to join us?”
He couldn’t possibly. He wasn’t finished with what he wanted to get done today, and he didn’t know how the foreman felt about floor managers absenting themselves on personal business in the middle of the day — regardless of whose suggestion it had been. Trying to put some polite words together, Hilton shook his head.
“I’d really like to, Bench specialist, but there’s inventory yet to log, and — ”
Vogel took Hilton by the arm and started toward the nearest exit door. “Good, good. Glad to hear it. The scheduled inventory will still be here, won’t it? No freighter tenders for load-out tonight? Just work with me here, Shires, I’m not in a very good mood.”
Oh.
Well.
If that was the way Vogel wanted it.
There was a hired vehicle on standby outside the warehouse; Vogel took the lever to guide the vehicle off the grounds, scowling in deep concentration. Or simply scowling. Once they’d cleared the construction site Hilton spoke; he knew how to defer to authority, he knew Vogel had authority, but Vogel’s rather highhanded behavior had got Hilton’s Langsarik up.
“I have a job.” Maybe Vogel didn’t understand how unusual that was — for Hilton to admit it, anyway. “I have responsibilities. There’s no cost objective supported by home visits on duty hours. I expect a note for my foreman, at the very least.”
Vogel didn’t answer him directly.
He pulled off the roadway instead and turned around to face Daigule in the passenger compartment behind him.
“We have to figure out how to get it to make a difference.“
What?
Kazmer just stared, and Hilton had no clue for his own part.
“I believe you, Daigule. I don’t know about Cousin Stanoczk, but you convinced me. That means we have a serious problem, because the First Secretary can’t take a hunch and a conviction to his Judge, and murder’s been done. As you said.”
Vogel had heard Kazmer, or at least enough of what Kazmer had been saying. Kazmer leaned forward and took the seat rail in his hands, as though to steady himself.
“They’ll come for Hilton.” What was Kazmer talking about? “They’ll come for Modice. You know they will. We can’t let it happen. We’ve got to do something.”
As if Kazmer believed all the stories he’d ever heard about Bench specialists.
As if Kazmer believed that Vogel could set the Bench to rights by saying so.
“I don’t know what we can do.” It was too bad. Vogel didn’t seem to have heard half the stories about Bench intelligence specialists that Kazmer seemed to have; he didn’t sound the least bit confident.
Vogel being not confident was the worst thing Hilton could imagine there and then, with Kazmer Daigule in the car, once it was clear that Hilton understood what Kazmer was afraid of and how close they were to unimaginable
disaster.
Kazmer was right.
They would come for Modice.
He would kill her first. Then at least it would be clean, and quick —
“Hilton’s taking us home to visit with Agenis. I need you to go ask Cousin Stanoczk for a favor for me, so say what you need to say to Modice; she’s worried you got mixed up in Tyrell, and you owe her an explanation. Hilton. Kazmer says it’s Dolgorukij behind all this. I need to understand how it’s managed, where they’re hiding the communications equipment, what they’re going to do next. We don’t have much time.”
Should he tell Vogel about what he’d heard?
“No help from the foreman?” Kazmer asked. It was as though there was so much to say, and so much to think about, that he could only deal with the most immediate issue. “You were hoping.”
Vogel shook his head, steering the vehicle back out into the roadway. There wasn’t much traffic going out to the settlement, mostly just the occasional delivery truck with stock for the small convenience store. “The chop was forged. Maybe Dalmoss knows about a duplicate, but Dalmoss has gone to Geraint, which is why I need Cousin Stanoczk to get to Dalmoss as soon as possible. Dead end. But I think he knows more than he’s saying.”
“Forged chop?” Hilton asked, startled out of conservative silence. “What chop is that?” He had the chop Dalmoss had left with him. He had it around his neck, as a matter of fact.
Vogel drummed his fingers against the steering lever thoughtfully. “Used to release the freighter tender to leave Port Charid with Daigule as pilot,” Vogel said. “Right, Daigule? Claims to be Combine Yards. What, do you know something?”
Hilton felt sick to his stomach. It couldn’t be the same one. Why would Dalmoss be connected with warehouse invasions? That was like parricide, in a way. Dalmoss was a floor manager. “Dalmoss gave it to me before he left, said it was his backup document-release marker, but he’d never gotten around to getting the authorizations all cleared. I didn’t think the Bench expected Langsariks to be handling such things, but Dalmoss said it was all right so long as I didn’t use it.”
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