Angel of Destruction

by Susan R. Matthews

“You are as good man as any and better than most, Kazmer Daigule. You will see vindication, it is my sacred duty to you. — Now I am leaving, I will see you later.”

  Kazmer didn’t see what vindication had to do with Malcontents. But he was irrationally comforted by Cousin Stanoczk’s gesture, nonetheless.

  Chapter Ten

  After his meeting that morning with Factor Madlev — with its bonus of seeing Specialist Vogel — Fisner had come back to his office in the new warehouse, taking Hariv with him to provide administrative support. He had some catching up to do, and plenty of work to keep Hariv busy; so it came as no surprise when Hariv knocked at the door to Fisner’s office for instruction.

  “Yes?”

  Hariv looked a little unsure of himself.

  “The floor manager to see you, Foreman. The Langsarik. Shires. Asks for a word.”

  Fisner thought fast. The office was well lighted; Shires had seen him in the warehouse only under conditions of low light and was less likely to make the connection accordingly. He had laid aside his over-blouse, sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves; Shires had seen him in the warehouse only fully clothed and wearing warm clothing for going out at night, so there would not be any hinted connection there either.

  Since he was seated Shires was likely not to notice that he had finally laid aside his medical bracing. So as far as Shires was concerned Fisner would still present the appearance of impaired physical performance — with the unconscious assumptions of limited mobility suggested by that.

  He was probably as safe from exposure by Shires as it was possible for him to be. It would only attract unwelcome attention if he rejected a normal request during the normal course of the day’s events without an obvious and self-evident excuse. Which he did not have.

  “Thank you, Hariv, of course. Now?”

  What would it matter if Shires did start to suspect something, at this advanced point in the campaign? To whom could Shires bring a half-formed suspicion? The Bench intelligence specialists had left. It was only a matter of hours before their courier would reach the Sillume entry vector. Once that happened they were as good as neutralized for three days, the time it took to travel on Sillume from Charid to Chilleau Judiciary via Garsite.

  As Hariv opened the office door more widely to admit Shires, Fisner made another quick calculation. Shires had heard him whispering to Dalmoss in the warehouse. He would be sure to speak loudly and confidently.

  “Foreman Feraltz. Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

  Shires came only part of the way across the room, stopping at a polite distance in the middle of the rug. Discomfort and uncertainty seemed to discourage him from seeking eye contact; Fisner relaxed a bit, but only internally, careful to maintain his formal posture.

  “Something’s come up, Foreman,” Shires said. “This is awkward. I very much appreciate the trust you’ve reposed in me, opportunity to learn, and so forth. But it’s a family matter.”

  Quitting?

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Shires, what’s on your mind?”

  Raising his eyes to Fisner’s face for one quick glance, Shires seemed almost to blush, dropping his gaze again immediately. “There’s a man working out in the Shawl at the Honan-gung Yards, not really my relative, but I am related to his sister. There’s a situation. His family needs him, but there’s the employment contract with Honan-gung. Hand for hand. I’ve got to get to Honan-gung so that Willet can get back to his family, I don’t know how long I’m going to have to cover for him. I’m very sorry, Foreman.”

  Oh. Was that it? Or did Shires actually have something more subtle on his mind?

  Disappointed understanding was clearly what was called for in this situation; Fisner frowned, to demonstrate concern. “I feel sure you wouldn’t come asking if it weren’t a real problem, Shires. But I have to note that this puts us in a very difficult situation, with Dalmoss not back from Geraint.”

  Now Shires took a deep breath and threw back his head, staring up at the ceiling for a moment — as though getting his thoughts together — before he met Fisner’s gaze, very frankly. Utterly honest. “To be brutally explicit, Foreman, there’s a certain sort of irregularity involved. Personal behavior. It can be put right if an intimate friend can be identified before much more time elapses, but timing is critical. For the family’s sake.”

  That was a lot of inventing to do.

  If it was inventing.

  Maybe Shires had thought the clues through and arrived at Honan-gung; why not? There was the question of what exact evidence Bench specialist Vogel thought he had, to present to First Secretary Verlaine at Chilleau Judiciary.

  It was at least possible that Shires actually had no other motive than to address a family problem. Somebody was pregnant, without benefit of prior family negotiation and agreement. It happened. It even happened to Dolgorukij.

  Shires at Honan-gung ...

  Shires could not be hoping to rescue Honan-gung from a raid single-handedly; that would be insane. Perhaps Vogel had not believed him, and now he sought to put himself in a position to be an eyewitness for the Langsarik defense; but if that was what Shires had in mind, he was self-deluded. Who would take Shires’s evidence on behalf of his people seriously?

  There was more.

  If Flag Captain Walton Agenis’s own nephew and lieutenant should be at Honan-gung when it was raided, his presence — especially under such irregular circumstances as those represented by this sudden excuse to get out to the Shawl — would be powerful circumstantial evidence of Langsarik guilt.

  “When must you go?” Fisner asked, careful to sound as reluctant as possible. Shires let his breath out in an audible sigh, as of relief.

  “Willet can come back on an inbound that’s scheduled to load at Honan-gung. I can get passage on outbound freighter, Sarihelt stopping at Honan-gung to take on cargo tonight. Thank you, Foreman.”

  He was in a hurry.

  When his body was discovered at Honan-gung — a casualty of the firefight, overlooked by mischance — what would the Bench make of his eagerness to get to Honan-gung as soon as the Bench specialists had left, to be in place in time for the raid that was to come?

  And Shires had Dalmoss’s undocumented chop, the one they had used to obtain the freighter tender’s release for the Tyrell raid; better and better.

  “It can’t be helped.” Shires had apparently correctly guessed at Fisner’s permission, so he wouldn’t push that any further. “I can’t promise that your place will be held for you. But you’ve done very well, Shires, I hope you’ll give us a chance to employ you again once these domestic entanglements have been resolved. Good-greeting, then.”

  Fisner turned his attention back to the administrative details of his daily tasks, smiling.

  ###

  It was a matter of hours from Port Charid to the Shawl of Rikavie. Once the freighter came up to speed, there was little for Hilton to do but brood about how the freedom that had been their natural right had been denied them as part of the terms of the amnesty agreement. Life at Port Charid had not been torture: it was knowing that he was trapped there that had shadowed his psyche, for more than a year now.

  He didn’t want to dock at Honan-gung.

  He wanted to steal the freighter, hit the Sillume vector, and fly forever — or until his air ran out. It would be worth it, to die in space. It would be a good death. Satisfying. Fit. Appropriate.

  He couldn’t afford the distraction.

  He had work to do.

  The freighter docked at Honan-gung, but nobody came out of the dock-master’s office to greet them. Hilton had his instructions. The freighter crew let down the load-in ramp, and Hilton stepped down out from the belly of the beast to the docking bay’s load-in apron. Hilton walked by himself across the empty and un-peopled warehouse floor with his documents board in his hand to pay his respects to the dock-master, who was waiting for him in her office. He could see her standing at the office’s observation port, watching him come, and some
one behind her with a jelly-stick. Nasty.

  What, didn’t they trust him?

  Just because he was Langsarik —

  He was on camera, too. He knew it; Vogel had clipped into the communications braid as the freighter neared the Honan-gung Yards, checking to be sure they knew where the eyes were. Parking an access slip in the information stream, to be ready when the time came. Hilton stopped short of the dock-master’s office and called out.

  “Hilton Shires come from Charid to relieve Willet, Dock-master. We have your permission. May I come in?”

  He had no intention of quarreling with a man with a jelly-stick. Get hit with a fist, and bruise your face; get hit with a jelly-stick and smash all the bones at the side of your face into a pulp. Hilton was not interested.

  He did his best to look defenseless.

  After a moment’s consideration the man with the jelly-stick opened the door to the dock-master’s office to let Hilton through. Hilton went, but only because he knew Vogel was watching. He hoped that someone would intervene if the dock-master decided that she didn’t like his looks.

  Marching up to the dock-master, Hilton bowed politely, holding his documents board in front of him so that she could read what was there. “Thank you for your confidence. My credentials, ma’am.”

  A personal request that she play along with the charade that was required to get the ambush in place without alerting the quarry; one signed by Garol Aphon Vogel, Bench intelligence specialist. Identity chops could be forged; the raiders who had vandalized Tyrell would hardly be deterred from attempted forgery of Jurisdiction chops by the relatively insignificant penalty of death for doing so.

  But it was such a beautiful chop mark, crisp and sparkling and ornate and complicated, that it was convincing in and of itself. Hilton was sure the dock-master couldn’t help but be impressed. He was impressed, but he already knew that the chop mark was the genuine article.

  “Are they, really?”

  The station’s surveillance was focused in other directions than within the dock-master’s office, but Hilton knew he couldn’t afford anyone glimpsing any anomalous behavior. They’d start to wonder. The presence of the man with the jelly-stick was enough of a problem. If Jelly-stick turned out to be the enemy’s inside man, they would have a piece of work to do to get him taken off line without alerting his principals either directly or indirectly. Jelly-stick didn’t look Dolgorukij to Hilton, though, so maybe they were all right.

  As though any seven people with jelly-sticks would present serious difficulties to people with Langsarik battle cannon tucked casually into their hip pockets, if Hilton actually had been a raider.

  The Bench requests your cooperation in investigating a serious crime. Please take your cues from the bearer, Hilton Shires.

  Signed and sealed.

  The dock-master seemed undecided for a long and trepidatious moment.

  Then she made up her mind, handing the documents board back to him with a nod of acquiescence.

  “All right, Shires, what can I do for you?”

  That was two.

  One had been getting out of Port Charid with their cargo undetected. That left only three — getting set up here, while staying out of sight — and four.

  Four.

  Ambushing a raiding party, capturing the killers who had done their best to ruin the Langsarik settlement, and returning in vindicated triumph to Port Charid.

  Maybe it was a little more than four, maybe that was actually four through eight, but there was no question about two, which meant four was coming.

  “If you would care to accompany me, ma’am, to inspect the cargo seals in place prior to off-load. With your escort, of course.”

  Garol Vogel was waiting on the freighter, out of sight. In safe concealment. The man with the jelly-stick would have to be included, because though he might not have seen the text on the documents board with its impressive official chop mark, he certainly knew by now that something was going on.

  There was a lot to do.

  They had to locate the raiders’ inside man, going on information from Kazmer Daigule and that Cousin Stanoczk of his. They had to get cargo into place. They had to find Willet and send him back to Port Charid. And then they had to wait.

  “Lead on, then,” the dock-master said, beckoning the man with the jelly-stick with a wave of her hand to let him know that he should come with them.

  Soon, soon, soon he would have revenge for the dead and the honor of the Langsarik fleet; and he was eager for it.

  ###

  From where she knelt in the garden pulling the weeds, Walton Agenis could see the dust on the vehicle track, someone approaching the settlement — in a transport van, rather than in a for-hire or on a speed machine. It was that size of a cloud. The vehicle track was graded and paved, but the autumn rains had yet to set in; the dust on the road was as good as an advance warning signal.

  Who would it be?

  Midweek. That explained it. Walton watched the dust cloud for a moment, evaluating its dimensions and its rate of travel; then bent her head to her weeding once again. Yes. Midweek. It would be the supply van from Port Charid coming out to stock the little concession store that the Fleet had put out here to serve the community’s miscellaneous requirements for notions, sundries, small amounts of luxury foods. The supply van from Port Charid.

  It was early for the concession truck to arrive, though, didn’t that usually show up after midday? The morning was early yet. The first shift at the construction site down the road was no more than two hours old. Traveling a little quickly for the concession van, maybe. The driver of the concession van was usually in no particular hurry to get here, and in no particular hurry to leave.

  She was not liking this.

  She was not liking this more and more, moment by moment.

  She sat back once again, watching the dust on the vehicle track. There were more than one of them approaching.

  The settlement was as deserted as it ever got. Many of the Langsariks with physical labor left in them were at the construction site. Others were in Port Charid doing entry-level administrative or custodial jobs, oiling the machinery of commerce with their low-cost labor.

  If someone was going to raid the settlement –

  This was not the time to do it, not with most of the Langsariks population dispersed to one job or another.

  Or was it?

  Had someone decided to accept the added task of tracking down each and every one of her crew, as an acceptable price for avoiding any potential resistance in mass that might have threatened had they chosen another time? There were more Langsariks than police or Port Authority employees in Port Charid. There were almost more Langsariks than able-bodied others; where would the resources to take them all at once come from?

  Pushing herself up off the ground, Walton stood up. She could see Modice at the side of the house, watching the road. The vehicles were turning off the main vehicle track, making for the settlement proper.

  Three transport vans, not supply trucks; still, they were headed for the concession store.

  What was going on?

  Nobody pulled up to her door to require her presence, though she was one of the senior members on the municipal board of the settlement.

  Modice was looking in her direction, now. Walton couldn’t see the expression on Modice’s face from where she stood, but Modice’s body language was sufficiently eloquent to communicate concern and uncertainty.

  All right, if they didn’t come for her, she’d go to them. Tucking her gardening trowel into her belt loop, Walton stepped across the rows of ripening root vegetables to go see what this was all about.

  Modice started moving, too.

  Other people in the settlement had seen the transport vans arrive or heard them pass through the settlement on the way to the concession store, alerted by the unusual speed at which the vehicles were traveling. A small crowd had gathered by the time Walton arrived; but there didn’t seem to be anybody near th
e store itself.

  As Walton Agenis got closer she saw the reason why.

  Troops.

  There was a cordon of people between the small crowd and the concession store, drawn up in formal array. They weren’t in uniform, and they weren’t in very good position, but they were all carrying weapons; so troops it was.

  What was this all about?

  Walton pushed through to the front of the crowd of people, looking past the cordon now to see if there was anybody she recognized.

  “Factor Madlev!”

  He started when she called out to him, as though she’d frightened him. It was Factor Madlev, and someone she thought she vaguely recognized with him: her nephew’s foreman from the new construction site, Fisner Feraltz.

  That was why he was familiar, then.

  She remembered Fisner Feraltz. He’d been much younger, but he hadn’t changed so much; and nothing she had ever heard had hinted that he had yet dealt with the traumatic event that had made him an orphan.

  Factor Madlev was a decent man, if unsure of the wisdom of placing Langsariks in positions of trust.

  But Fisner Feraltz was the enemy.

  Turning, Factor Madlev started toward her; Feraltz put out a hand to detain him, saying something in a low voice. There were people she didn’t recognize in the store, going in and out with boxes, through the back. Whatever Feraltz said was apparently convincing, because Factor Madlev stopped; but then Madlev waved her forward to come and join him, so the armed men had to let her pass.

  Feraltz stepped back and away from Factor Madlev, but Walton didn’t care if he heard what she had to say or not. “Factor Madlev. A surprise. What’s going on here? The store won’t be opening for another hour or two yet.”

  Some kind of a search, that seemed obvious enough now that she was close enough to get an unobstructed view. What, did someone think you could hide Langsarik battle cannon in flour boxes? It was ludicrous on the face of it — but she couldn’t deny her uneasiness.