Angel of Destruction

by Susan R. Matthews

  In the middle of the second or third such transit his signal cleared; Garol heard the concerned voice of the First Secretary. “Specialist Vogel. What news?”

  What news. What news? How dare he ask what news? Garol couldn’t stop moving. He would explode. He needed the physical stress of sustained if low-impact exertion to hone the wild edge off of his despair and free his mind for calculating evaluation. He was a Bench intelligence specialist. Calculating evaluation was what he was all about.

  “I’ve just come from the Honan-gung Yards in the Shawl of Rikavie, where I and a properly deputized party of Langsarik commandos successfully interrupted a warehouse-invasion raid.”

  Striding without ceasing from wall to wall, from corner to comer, the placing of his feet somehow seemed to help him place his words with concise care.

  “Returning to Port Charid under communications silence, I have just placed the ringleader under arrest. I can demonstrate with complete confidence that a group of Dolgorukij from the Combine Yards is responsible for staging the so-called Langsarik raids, including the torture and murder of warehouse crew.”

  Verlaine was listening, hearing him out. Maybe Verlaine was beginning to have a bad feeling about where Garol was going. Garol hoped so.

  “It was never Langsariks, First Secretary, not since the real trouble began. Factor Madlev tells me that the Third Fleet Interrogations Group has received its charter activation orders. They’ll be here inside of eight hours.”

  Then Verlaine spoke, since Garol’s statement was as good as an accusation after all. “We were unable to make contact with you, and Ivers could share little by way of evidence, Specialist Vogel. I have been doing my best to win time for you to work, but even had I been aware of your plans — which I was not — ”

  It was mild enough, as an implicit criticism. It was also fair. Perhaps he could have approached this mission differently. Perhaps he could have laid it all out for the First Secretary, without risking compromise. But he’d had his reasons. He didn’t know how sophisticated the abilities of his opponent might be. He still didn’t know with certainty whether this secure line was actually secure.

  “ — I could no longer deny the right of the Port Authority to demand action and see sanctions levied. There was a distress call, Vogel, under the very nose of the Fleet Interrogations Group another raid. What would you have had me do?”

  Anything but what he had done. Verlaine was not denying it. He had activated the mission of the Third Fleet Interrogations Group, and now it was functionally autonomous from the Bench until such time as it decided to declare its mission completed. Fleet was jealous of its Bench prerogatives. Politics had twisted the knife in the heart of the Langsarik settlement the final crucial fractions of a measure between a grave wound and a mortal one.

  “The Langsariks are innocent.” It was all Garol could think of to say. “I’ve had every cooperation from them. They’ve honored the terms of the amnesty, First Secretary. To see them destroyed by a Fleet Interrogations Group despite their best efforts to uphold the rule of Law is bitterly offensive.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  Verlaine asked it with meditative gravity that weighted the flippant phrase, so that it came out a genuine request for a reply. “I’m not sure we’re left with any other possible outcome, Bench specialist. The settlement has been too badly compromised. You may well have identified the true culprits, but can the Langsariks be said to have any real hope of a life at Port Charid yet before them?”

  Three-eighths of the way from one corner of Factor Madlev’s office to the other, Garol stopped and bowed his head. A genuine question deserved a genuine answer. It took him a moment to get one out, however.

  “That’s a true statement. As far as it goes.”

  The criminals, the Dolgorukij terrorists, this supposed “Angel of Destruction” had done too good a job of pretending to be Langsariks. Port Charid had learned over a period of months to blame the Langsariks, and not for mere piracy and theft but for murder and atrocity as well. He had failed in his mission. He could not salvage the amnesty agreement.

  Nor could he accept that as a reason to abandon innocent people to a Fleet Interrogations Group. The Second Judge would be amply vindicated by the Fleet Interrogations Group’s findings, that was almost certain — given the nature of its Brief.

  And yet — if Fleet really wanted to play politics –

  ”But it doesn’t mean we can sell the Langsariks out to the Fleet. And I see a potential problem.”

  There was no hope of simply canceling the activation order. It was one of the basic rules that governed the uneasy relationship between the Fleet and the Bench: the Fleet was subordinate to the civil authority, but once chartered was free to ignore the civil authority until the mission laid on it by the civil authority had been accomplished. And it was Fleet that decided when that was.

  “I’m listening,” the First Secretary said. But Garol thought that Verlaine was thinking, too.

  “We can’t afford another scandal along the lines of the recent unpleasantness at Port Rudistal.” Where the Domitt Prison had stood. “And once Fleet realizes, as it must, that there is no true Brief at Port Charid — it could easily be used against Chilleau Judiciary, First Secretary.”

  Torture enough Langsariks to assure themselves that the confessions were all just the pain talking, something even the average Inquisitor could discern. Then torture another fifty or sixty more just for the sake of the argument.

  Run a series of inquiries on drug-assist alone, and end up with proof of innocence.

  Go public with the fact that an innocent and unarmed population had been foully betrayed by the Bench officers that had promised to protect them. It could get ugly.

  It could even force the Second Judge into retirement — especially if Fleet chanced to discover that Garol had had the real criminals in custody before the Fleet Interrogations Group had even arrived at Port Charid.

  Or the Fleet Interrogations Group might just do the job it had been sent to do and issue no challenge to the Second Judge’s public image.

  Was it worth the risk that Fleet would use its Brief to the discredit of the Second Judge?

  Now that Verlaine knew that Garol had the truth, and that the Langsariks weren’t to blame —

  “I am at a loss to understand what you think the alternative might be.” Garol thought he heard frustration there, in the First Secretary’s voice. He hadn’t been entirely fair to Verlaine, maybe. But Garol had no particular reason to trust anybody, First Secretaries emphatically included. “If you could keep the two of them apart, your Langsariks and the Fleet Interrogations Group. If you could wave the scepter of wonder, and transport the settlement intact to cloud-cuckoo land through lands of mist and magic. I might be able to work a nullification of Bench instruction, in a month or so. Maybe. If.”

  An impossible task.

  But the First Secretary had suggested it.

  With all other situational elements taken into consideration, Garol knew exactly what he had to do.

  It went against nearly everything he had fought for during most of his adult life. But it was unquestionably the lesser of two evils.

  “Yes. If the Langsarik settlement simply disappeared, there would in that case be no risk of negative public reaction consequent to a misplaced accusation of crimes against the Judicial order. I understand, First Secretary. I will do my utmost to protect the honor of the Second Judge and Chilleau Judiciary, in the service of the rule of Law. Vogel away, here.”

  He had only one escape route open to him now; and no time to lose if he was to hope to make it free and clear.

  ###

  “Aunt Walton. Aunt Walton, please, wake up, something is wrong.”

  Walton Agenis struggled into consciousness, unable to parse Modice’s frantic pleas into coherence but knowing by tone of voice that it was serious.

  “Modice. I’m awake. You can stop shaking me now.”

  She was stiff
and sore from sleeping in the chair in the front room; how did Vogel manage? She couldn’t sleep at all in her bed, though, too unwilling to be caught at so much of a disadvantage when the soldiers came for her.

  If she was going to die, she would do so with as much dignity as she could manage, for as long as the torturers of the Fleet Interrogations Group would permit.

  “Unusual changes in pattern, Aunt Walton. There are transport trucks out there, and more coming, you can hear them from the roof.” Where Modice had made an observation station for herself, in the unfinished attic space up beneath the eaves. “Something’s coming.”

  And it didn’t sound friendly.

  “Do we have something to eat?” Walton asked, gathering her strength to stand up. “High-fat, we may need it. I’m going to go wash my face.”

  They’d be coming to the door soon enough.

  She couldn’t be looking very formidable, with her face dead pale and her hair in wild disarray, her clothing wrinkled from having been slept in. She was the Flag Captain, the representative of the Langsarik fleet before the world. She wanted to maintain appearances.

  Modice brought breakfast as Walton tidied her person, combing her hair between bites of fried fat-meat and toast dripping with butter. There was a small ventilation window in the washroom; Walton could hear the roar of the trucks that Modice was worried about.

  She could hear it when the noise of the engines stopped.

  This was it, then.

  She went to the door and stood behind it, waiting for the knock.

  It was a knock that seemed somehow familiar, when it came. Walton waited for a suitable interval to pass to make it clear that her response was a considered action, not mere reaction to the demand for her attention — and nodded at Modice to open the door.

  It was Garol Vogel, standing there.

  “Ma’am,” Vogel said, touching his fingertips to the brim of his dilapidated old campaign cap in some peculiar form of a salute. “I’m bringing an evacuation order. Langsariks to be removed from settlement at Port Charid immediately, by express direction from Chilleau Judiciary. If I could ask you to step outside.”

  He stepped back.

  Walton could only stare.

  There was her nephew, Hilton, behind Vogel; so they were back from Honan-gung — but if they were back from Honan-gung, why were the Langsariks evacuating?

  Had they failed to acquire the evidence that they had hoped for?

  Or was it even more simple than that?

  Walton followed Vogel out of the house. There were transports lining the roadway into the settlement, dozens of transports, and at least some of the drivers were Langsariks by their body language. She didn’t recognize anybody at the distance, her eyes were still half-asleep; but she knew her people. Those were Langsariks.

  Factor Madlev stood several paces removed, with an armed escort; the people who had secured the perimeter around her house were formed up in a detachment to one side. It was not an impressive one, either, but these were not professional soldiers.

  Once she was well clear of the doorway, Vogel stopped and stood with his back to her, assuming an approximation of a position of command attention that was too precise to result from imperfect learning — it was the gradual relaxation over time, rather, of a once-perfect discipline. Not for the first time Walton wondered about Vogel’s past: but there was her own future to worry about, and she could not spare Vogel the energy.

  “Factor Madlev,” Vogel said, pitching his voice to carry to as many of the people who were there as possible, “as I have mentioned briefly to you on our way here, I have received instruction from First Secretary Verlaine at Chilleau Judiciary on behalf of the Second Judge. The amnesty agreement between the Langsariks and the Bench has been declared compromised, and I am to ensure that the Langsarik population at Port Charid vacates the settlement as quickly as possible. The Bench will pay commercial rates for every freighter and other appropriate transport that can be made available for this purpose.”

  She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  Nor did she seem to be alone.

  “Specialist Vogel.” Factor Madlev’s reply was in a cautious tone of voice that only carried as far as Walton’s doorstep. “Wouldn’t it be just as efficient to leave these people here and let the Fleet Interrogations Group take over?”

  Vogel shook his head. “I can’t argue with you on the point, Factor Madlev. My instructions were to remove the Langsarik settlement from Port Charid as a failed enterprise. It is too much to expect the decent citizens of this port to tolerate the presence of persons suspected of crimes both mercantile and murderous for a moment longer. Do I have your support, Factor Madlev?”

  Factor Madlev didn’t really care. Walton could see it in the shrug of his shoulders, hear it in the tone of his voice.

  “Of course we will fully support any Bench initiative, Specialist Vogel.”

  Madlev knew that Vogel meant to get them off-world before the Fleet Interrogations Group arrived. And Madlev was perfectly willing to go along with that.

  It was too much to believe that Madlev would turn a blind eye to their escape, still believing that they were responsible for the raids — so Factor Madlev knew better, now.

  That meant that Hilton and Vogel had succeeded at Honan-gung and brought back evidence that the Langsariks were innocent. What happened to the Langsariks now was not apparently an issue of keen concern to Factor Madlev, except that Factor Madlev would share a common understanding that vulnerability to a Fleet Interrogations Group was not something to be wished on innocent people.

  Bowing crisply, Vogel turned away any lingering doubts or questions with a call for immediate action. “Thank you for your understanding, Factor Madlev. There are eight freighter tenders off-lined at the new airfield, you’ll make them available? Very kind. Lieutenant Shires.”

  Hilton, looking very tired, looking very tense, but looking also absolutely energized by the activity to come. “Yes, Bench specialist.”

  “Lieutenant, you will go with Factor Madlev to identify and select suitable shipping, please. I want to begin to load within the hour.”

  Vogel didn’t wait for acknowledgment; in the manner of a superior officer supremely confident of a subordinate’s ability, he turned back to her directly. “Flag Captain.”

  Her turn now, to receive her orders. The idea appealed to her sense of the absurd, though her emotions were generally too stunned by what was happening and how fast it was happening to really enjoy the sensation. “Bench specialist?”

  “If you would muster your command, ma’am, and be out at the new airfield absolutely as soon as possible. Because any Langsarik who is still at Port Charid when the Fleet gets here is as good as dead. But not quickly enough. If you know what I mean.”

  She understood him completely. The Langsarik fleet had lost people to interrogation before.

  “Eight freighter tenders.” She was impressed, and didn’t mind him knowing. “I’d like to know how you managed that. But I don’t see what good it does without transport, and it takes a few hours to bring freighters on line, once they’ve been parked out in geostationary orbit.”

  He knew that as well as she did. She was just making sure he knew that she knew. Did he mean to cram them all into a warehouse somewhere out in the Shawl of Rikavie? Because that was the maximum range of most freighter tenders, under ordinary conditions.

  “Which is exactly why we’re so lucky that Madlev got a distress call from Honan-gung. Even though it precipitated the danger from the Fleet Interrogations Group.” Vogel spoke softly, for her ears only. Well, hers and those of Modice, behind her. “There are seven freighters up there coming on line for a rescue mission. Some of them are even armed for pursuit. We brought an eighth back with us from Honan-gung. It’s borderline workable. But it’ll be enough.”

  She knew she’d been asleep. She knew she’d been under horrific stress, waiting to see her people condemned. She couldn’t think. That had to be t
he reason that she thought what was happening, was happening. “You’re taking a risk, Bench specialist. We could overpower the crew on the way into the Shawl. You’d never see your freighters again; think of the expense, not to mention the embarrassment.”

  Vogel had started to shift his weight, doing a species of dance on his feet. Impatient. “Nothing compared to the potential damage that another scandal like the Domitt Prison could create for the Second Judge. The First Judge is old. Verlaine wants his Judge to be in a good position when the post comes up vacant. We don’t have much time, Flag Captain, let’s get moving.”

  He meant for them to take the Sillume vector for Gonebeyond space. He really did.

  “Modice,” Walton said, and her niece stepped up smartly and nodded her head.

  “Yes, Aunt Walton.”

  “You heard the Bench specialist, Modice, issue the assembly order, evacuation plan in effect, timing critical. Mark and move.”

  Modice had only been waiting for assurance that she was truly to send up the flags. As it were.

  Vogel followed Modice into the house and came out again carrying a chair from the living room, setting it down in the pathway before the front door so that it faced the road.

  Walton sat down, and Vogel posted himself behind her, doing his peculiar version of command wait.

  Just as well.

  She had too many things to ask and to tell and to say to him to be able to say a single word right now.

  ###

  Standing in the dock’s load-in bay behind Cousin Stanoczk, Kazmer Daigule ached to be going with the Langsariks.