Wreaths of Empire

by Andrew M. Seddon

  Kuchera cracked a lopsided smile. “I’ve never felt so ridiculous in my life.”

  “My mother would have had a fit if she knew I was traveling with a man who rivaled the Chief Consort of Finzi’s Landing for sheer degeneracy. Savannah, indeed!”

  “It’s a nice city.”

  Jade took another swallow. “You’ll get it right next time.”

  “I’m not fired?”

  “Not yet.”

  His face relaxed. “So now that I’ve had my knuckles smacked and kissed all at one go, where to now?”

  Jade finished the last of her water and set the glass down. “Before deciding that, I’ll have to see exactly what it is that I just purchased.”

  “You know,” Kuchera said. “I didn’t like the sound of what I heard while you were flying back up. That part about who knew we were coming here.”

  Jade tried not to let Kuchera see the surge of worry that welled up within her. “I don’t like it either. By all rights, the only ones who ought to know are Admiral Stalker and Member Maricic. Emmers, of course.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. Maricic sent us; why do that and set the Politicals on us?”

  “No reason that I can think of. But I certainly can’t believe Stalker would. I’ve worked with him for years. Intelligence and the Political Bureau are at loggerheads most of the time—we don’t trust them and they don’t trust us.”

  Kuchera fingered his temple as if trying to ascertain whether his hairline had receded further during Jade’s absence. “Unless Stalker’s so firmly fixed on peace at any price that he’d ally with the devil.”

  “Not Stalker. He could have prevented me from telling Maricic in the first place. He wouldn’t resort to this sort of tactic.”

  “Emmers?”

  Jade shook her head. “I’d trust him with my life.”

  “Iverson?”

  “Nice choice, but how could he know?"

  Kuchera looked glum. Then his face brightened. “One other suspect,” he said.

  “Who?”

  He extended a finger towards the bridge.

  “But she didn’t—”

  “Once you told her what course to set, she did.”

  Jade stared at the closed door.

  “How long has Neilson been your pilot?” Kuchera continued.

  “Six months.”

  “There you are.”

  “She was thoroughly evaluated,” Jade protested. “Rick Emmers screened her personally. Rick is never slipshod.”

  Kuchera shrugged. “No background check is 100% foolproof.”

  Jade conceded. “But why?”

  Kuchera spread his hands. “That’s your department. And while we’re at it, here’s another question: Why Trevarra?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He rested his elbows on his thighs. “That story about learning a secret location through meeting someone at a bar who gets conveniently drunk and lets her take it? Come on! That ranks with some of the worst fiction I’ve read.”

  Jade’s lips twitched. “Or written?”

  “I won’t dignify that slight with a response.”

  “I thought it contrived, too.” Jade said. “But attempting to verify it would be futile. Despite her crudity I think Trevarra was telling me the truth.”

  Kuchera raised a hand. “Not so fast. I could probably list a dozen reasons why she’d lie to you.”

  “I’d just threatened to turn her freighter into so much scrap.”

  “So what? Maybe she was stringing you some story to get you off her back. It’s not as if you could verify it on the spot. Still, for the sake of discussion let’s suppose she was telling the truth and that incident really did happen. If so, it was staged. Somebody wanted her to get that information.”

  “And that somebody presumably put Nate Watford on to Trevarra to make sure that it entered his possession.”

  “Right. Unless you like big coincidences.”

  Jade tucked her legs beneath her. “I don’t like coincidences at all. In that case, Troy, why bother with Trevarra? Why not get the information to Watford directly? Skip the middle person.”

  Kuchera steepled his fingers. “Distance.”

  Jade nodded slowly. “Our mysterious somebody wanted Nate to receive the info, but didn’t want Nate to recognize him. Or her. Meaning that it was somebody Nate knew. Or had seen. Or could recognize from somewhere else.” Jade shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. We’re talking about a Gara’nesh plot to defeat the Hegemony, not something in human space. If our mysterious somebody is a Political—and granted, they want an end to the peace process—they wouldn’t let the Gara’nesh develop their weapon. If they had hard data, wouldn’t the Politicals take measures to see it was destroyed while at the same time shooting for maximum publicity?”

  “Maybe it was someone who didn’t want to be involved directly,” Kuchera suggested, “and who didn’t want to go to the Politicals.”

  “Getting thin. Somebody told those Politicals on Southern Cross something. Their leader—Maynard—knew my name. They weren’t coming down on Trevarra for customs violations—they wanted me. And somebody shot up Nate’s ship and then made sure he didn’t live.”

  After a hesitant pause, Kuchera said, “He wasn’t killed when his ship was attacked?”

  “No. Shot at close range.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I’ve seen enough fatal wounds to distinguish a close-range hand weapon shot from injuries sustained in a ship action.”

  Kuchera’s hazel eyes clouded. “But—”

  “I was never completely satisfied with what I saw of Nate’s ship, Troy,” Jade explained. “The hyperdrive vanes were too badly damaged to effect transition.”

  Kuchera scratched his head. “You’re saying he wasn’t attacked trying to escape?”

  “Right. The ship was ruined, Nate was shot, and then dumped where we—I—could find him.”

  “With a distress call blaring loud. But I thought Watford had contacted you in advance.”

  “I got a message purporting to be from Watford.” Jade jumped to her feet, and gazed without seeing at an abstract painting. “And maybe it really was. We’re playing someone else’s game, Troy. And I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Is this what you do every day?”

  Jade detected the strain in his voice. I’m putting too much on him, she thought. Back off a little.

  “No, thankfully. Most days are predictably mundane. I sit contentedly in my office giving Emmers orders to send to poor hapless field agents. Let’s rest our minds.”

  “Fine by me. What else would you like to talk about?” The relief in Kuchera’s voice was plain.

  “Who said I wanted to talk?” Jade asked.

  “Do you have a better idea?” Kuchera sidled closer.

  “Yes,” Jade replied. She wrinkled her nose. “I smell like a swamp. I’m going to clean up.”

  It came as a relief to shed her dirty clothes and release her hair from the uncomfortable French twist. After a lengthy shower, she put on a fresh uniform. When she returned, it was to find Kuchera sprawled on a couch, engrossed with a computer terminal, presumably working on his writing. She sat down across the lounge, accessed Starwind’s computer with a remote, and began to process Trevarra’s wafer.

  She discovered that she’d bought a duplicate of Nate Watford’s original files. They matched the ones Watford had given her.

  With one exception. This version contained coordinates. Jade grimaced. So much for Trevarra’s “honest business”. Or confirmation that Watford’s files had been tampered with?

  Roessler-space was not only incomprehensible to the human mind, but the complicated geometry required powerful computer programs to solve. Not even the most mathematically adept human brain could attempt Roessler-spatial navigation without assistance. Expressed as navigational coordinates, the location required processing first.

  The answer finally flashed up on her chair-side computer screen. J
ade initiated a computer query, then studied the result.

  Markher 12. A star in contested space.

  She turned to face Kuchera. “You ever hear of Markher 12?”

  He shook his head. “Never.”

  “Working on the biography?”

  “Notes. Of our quest.”

  Jade raised her eyebrows. “What in heaven for? You don’t expect to turn this into a story, do you?”

  “You file a report.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Of course I know this is not for release. But a good writer doesn’t waste anything.” Kuchera indicated his notes. “There’s reams of valuable material here. Conversations, ideas, descriptions, great plot for a novel—you and Trevarra make a fantastic combination. And that reminds me, I need a complete description of her, please—you’ll recall that I only saw her briefly from the neck up.”

  Jade spoke sternly. “Let me remind you that you’re not to say, write, or intimate a word about anything you see, hear—even dream—without my permission.”

  Kuchera nodded. “It’s force of habit. I need to maintain my good habits, just as you need to practice yours.”

  Jade sighed. “Keep those notes out of sight.”

  “Will do, Commander, ma’am.”

  Kuchera rose, moved over behind her, and massaged her upper back. “What’s the matter, Jade? You seem blah.”

  Jade closed her eyes. “Letdown. It happens to me after an incident such as what happened on Southern Cross.”

  “The adrenalin fades.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Do you really like your job?” Kuchera asked, working a knot out of a muscle.

  Jade relaxed as Kuchera’s large hands kneaded her shoulders. “I enjoy the sense of accomplishment, of feeling as if I’m playing a role in the struggle of good and evil. If you mean do I like what happened on Cross, no.”

  “I can’t picture you in the same mold as Trevarra.”

  “Heavens, no. Seeing people killed, even if they are Politicals, is never pleasant. That’s not my style. I’d much rather win over an enemy than kill him.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Sometimes. Rarely. Your average Political is so heavily indoctrinated, it’s like talking to a rock.” Jade shifted under Kuchera’s strong fingers. “Don’t stop.”

  Kuchera began kneading the other side.

  “Did you hear me trying to convince Trevarra to help save the Hegemony?” Jade said.

  Kuchera didn’t respond right away. After a moment, he asked, “Have you ever killed anyone? Other than, say, on ship in battle?”

  “Is it important?”

  Kuchera’s hands paused and then continued. “Yes.”

  Jade moved her shoulders around. They did feel better. “At heart, Troy, I’m a very gentle person. Sure I can shout orders and work undercover—”

  “—and engage in firefights with Politicals.”

  “—but I really don’t like violence. I try not to get into situations where that’s the only option. But sometimes it’s forced on you. Life tends to be unpredictable.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.” Kuchera dug his thumbs in.

  “To the best of my knowledge, no. Does it mean it couldn’t happen? I don’t know. That’s the best I can say.”

  “Fair enough.” Kuchera kissed the back of her neck. “Feel better?”

  Jade let out a contented sigh. “Much, thanks.”

  “Commander?” Neilson’s voice over the intercom broke into the conversation.

  Jade answered. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “We’ve reached a safe distance for transition, ma’am. No other vessels in proximity.”

  “Very good. Lay in a course for Markher 12.”

  A silence, where Kuchera looked at Jade, mutely questioning what was happening, lasted for a good minute. Just when Jade thought Neilson wasn’t going to reply, the pilot came back on.

  “Uh, ma’am? Comp says Markher 12's in restricted space. Permission from Sector 6 Command is necessary for entrance.”

  Jade raised her eyebrows to Troy. Curious. “I’m acting under commission from Member Maricic. That’s all the authorization I need. Markher 12. Drop us out a ways. Say a light-year.”

  “Ma’am, the penalties—”

  “Are my responsibility. Do it, Lieutenant.”

  Neilson’s voice sounded profoundly unhappy. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What’s so special about Markher 12?” Kuchera asked.

  “It’s in a cluster of contested stars,” Jade explained. “As far as Starwind’s data files know, there’s nothing special about it. It just happens to be on the frontier with the Gara’nesh, hence the interdiction.”

  Kuchera played with his moustache. “Funny place to be doing weapons research.”

  Jade nodded. “My thought exactly.”

  In a black mood, Fleet Admiral Lewis Gellner paced around the office that had been allotted to him, muttering to himself and clenching and unclenching his hands.

  “Leave the peacemaking for politicians like Maricic,” he grumbled. “I should be back at Command running the war.”

  “Excuse me, sir?” asked his aide, Lieutenant Commander Molloy, coming through the door.

  “I said I should be back running the war!” Gellner snarled. “Not arguing with some alien about star systems that have no value but that somebody has to own or the other side will want them!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I didn’t get where I am by exchanging polite words around a table, did I?”

  “No, sir.”

  And he hadn’t. Lewis Gellner prided himself that he had risen through the ranks by virtue of his achievements, not assigned a choice position because of influence or bribery. There were those who had gained promotion through underhanded means. Ramon Lopez, who had lost the battle of Felton 114 so disastrously, came immediately to mind. Lopez’s debacle had cost his doting father a seat on the Central Committee.

  Gellner’s father, in contrast, had been a decorated veteran, survivor of years of warfare in a star frigate’s engineering division. Early in life, Gellner had aspired to exceed his father’s accomplishments. And he had.

  He was Fleet Admiral Gellner, responsible in large part for the conduct of the war.

  And if the Terran Hegemony hadn’t yet won—it would, in time.

  But right now the government of the Hegemony lay in the hands of those who knew nothing about war—politicians who sought peace. They failed to realize that the only good enemy was a thoroughly defeated one and that the only solution to the Gara’nesh threat was to beat the aliens down so far they could never rise again.

  Preferably, to eradicate them once and for all. Otherwise, what value resided in the previous decades of war?

  The other reason for continuing the war was important too. A common threat served to unite humanity. With civilization spreading to scores of widespread worlds, some common factor was needed to unite them, to prevent them from fragmenting completely.

  And thirdly, as matters now stood, no world was completely safe—not even the Central Worlds like Earth, Greatmount, First and Weston. There was always the possibility—even if remote—of the Gara’nesh breaking through.

  “What have you got?” Gellner demanded.

  “Memo, sir.” The aide consulted a note. “Ambassador Halaffi suggests that we maintain control over Opharric, John’s 1 and 2, Harper’s Star, Beta Freiland and Bantock’s. They, in turn will keep Alpha Corelli, Haagen, Banner’s Triplet, Garinger 33, and Felton 114.”

  Gellner stroked his chin. “Not Garinger 33. That’s too close to Margan 2. Counterproposal: same as above, but exchange Garinger 33 for Opharric or Bantock’s.”

  “Yes, sir. And Ambassador Halaffi said the base at Mirl’takana is non-negotiable.”

  “Indeed. They can keep Mirl as long as they agree to the above change.”

  Molloy made notes. “Is that all, sir?”

  “For the moment. Write it up for m
e to sign, and send a copy to Member Maricic.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gellner’s intercom chimed and the lieutenant commander answered it. “Yes?”

  “Major Iverson to see the admiral, sir,” said an office aide.

  Lieutenant Commander Molloy looked to Gellner.

  “Send him in.” Gellner gestured impatiently. “And you’re dismissed.”

  Molloy had barely cleared the door before Iverson brushed past him.

  “What now?” Gellner demanded. “More bad news?”

  “I have to report that Trevarra got away, sir,” Iverson said, standing rigidly by Gellner’s desk.

  Gellner chopped out one word. “How?”

  “Lafrey met her when she showed up. The local agents moved in to apprehend them, but somehow they both escaped. Three agents are dead, including Lieutenant Maynard.”

  “Incompetent blunderers!” Gellner ran two fingers along his eyebrow. “Didn’t I say Trevarra was dangerous? Where are Lafrey and Trevarra now?”

  “Both Trevarra’s freighter and Starwind transitioned. No one in position to track them.”

  Gellner bit out an expletive. “I warned that this plan was too complicated. But did anybody listen?” He exhaled, then, more calmly, said. “We know where Lafrey’s going.”

  “We do, sir?”

  “I do, Iverson. That’s what counts.”

  Iverson closed his eyes. “Markher 12, of course. We’ll have to make sure she’s dealt with when she gets back and before she reports that there’s nothing there.”

  Gellner shook his head. “I told you not to worry about that, Iverson. The appropriate information will be released. Believe me, it will.”

  Iverson’s face sagged.

  “Enough with the dumb insolence!” Gellner shouted.

  Iverson lowered his head. “Yes, sir,” he muttered.

  “Lafrey isn’t the problem,” Gellner said. “Put out a general alert on Trevarra, Iverson. All worlds.”

  “She’ll undoubtedly head for a fringe-world dockyard, sir. Give her ship a make-over, a new ID—”

  “So warn agents to be on the lookout for a ship being reconditioned,” Gellner grated. “If she gets away this time, it won’t be Maynard’s head on the block.” He leveled a finger directly at Iverson. “It will be yours.”