“So I saw. That aerosol. I’m surprised you did not offer a twist of lemon with it.” It had a distinct tang, which still lingered. “Or an olive.”
“Eh?” The long face of his host crimped into a frown and then cleared. “Oh yes. It is ethanol, quite highly refined.”
“It smelled very like an excellent vodka.”
“Well, yes. That is his highly refined ethanol of choice.”
The intercession of so much domesticity, delightful as it no doubt was, had pushed thoughts of politics very far from their minds. To ease their way back, Gareth Fitzwilliam explained that—his wife being away—his sister, Caroline, had taken their two older boys on a trip to explore the cloud tops. (Caroline was a xenobiologist of note, which explained the propensity for exotic pets.) Callista was too young for such an excursion, and so had been promised a special treat on their return. Which treat, the senator confided, sotto voce, had yet to be determined.
“So Elena is away?” Huron Sr. inquired politely.
“On Luna. She’s been working the case of that former medical director. The one who’s charged with having . . . some extreme ideas on how to conduct his practice. I’m sure you’ve heard.”
The elder Huron had heard; had been following the proceedings quite closely as they concerned Kris deeply, and Rafe to lesser, but still significant, extent. “Commander Quillan.”
“Just so. Elena is due to testify for the prosecution in the next Terran day or two.” Without a pause for further comment, Fitzwilliam renewed his offer to get them both something.
“Thank you, Gareth. I’m perfectly fine.” Then—correctly interpreting this as a signal he should proceed to the heart of the matter—he continued. “So, if it came to a vote of no-confidence, where would you stand?”
“I should not like to commit myself, but under present circumstances, I feel I would be against it.”
“You would not consider standing for the Speakership yourself?”
“Why do you ask?”
“There is an old saying, Gareth: that which cannot go on, won’t.”
“Hazen’s administration, if I take your meaning.”
“Quite. I cautioned Bertie about rocking the boat, but perhaps the boat is closer to foundering than I thought at the time. Soon there maybe no choice.”
“And you have come to suggest that I involve myself?”
“You would make a good Speaker, Gareth. You are what we need at this time.”
“So you believe?”
“I do. You are honest—I say it with no hint of affectation. But what is more to the point, you are known to be honest. Faith in government is at a low ebb—and rightly so. It would do a power of good to see a man of your proven rectitude stand for the Chair. I have little doubt of your being elected.”
Fitzwilliam dropped his chin to his chest, lost in thought for a minute. When he spoke again, it was slowly, with great deliberation. “Leon, although we have often disagreed, you know I have always entertained the highest respect for your abilities and your motives, even when they led you in ways I believed misguided.”
“Likewise.” There was no satiric intent in the word, nor did Fitzwilliam appear to assume any.
“So you will appreciate that it is without spite or malice that I say no.”
The former Speaker covered a sigh. He’d expected an initial refusal, but not one so final as this sounded. “I appreciate your feelings, Gareth, but if one considers—”
Fitzwilliam waved away his budding objection. “I know what you’re going to say, Leon. It’s not that you’re wrong. I know you’ve kept your ear to the wall. But, no—you can’t appreciate how things are these days. You’ve not been in the Chamber for two years—you don’t have a sense of it. It’s not just the factionalism we’re used to—though there’s enough of that and it’s getting worse. You know that Jackson Holder had his creatures up on their hind legs a few weeks ago, demanding again that we do something about Iona? They got a working committee stood up to draft the motion.” Well aware of that development, he nodded. “And Eltanin has brought things to near boil. They rammed through the two-thirds vote they need for elevation; they’ll do the same with ratification by the planetary governments. The Meridies may be back on their heels now, but they’re ready to come out fighting tooth and nail.”
This was one point where they’d disagreed: the former Speaker had been a strong proponent of elevating Eltanin to Homeworld status and setting up the new CEF sector there, while Fitzwilliam, although privately sympathetic, had felt it would be far too destabilizing—that it might even lead to the Meridies withdrawing from the League, with potentially near-fatal consequences. And who was to say that idea was farfetched in the climate Fitzwilliam was describing?
“Do you know that a Messian member actually proposed we forego considering the colonies that are up for voting rights this session? Said it might be unwise to disturb the Chamber ‘at this critical time’—he didn’t bother to mention that more than half of them would likely ally themselves with the Eltanin block. And he was listened to! By God, the man proposed trampling the very Articles on the very floor of the Senate and they listened to him!” Here the Phaedran Grand Senator stopped himself. “But forgive me—that is beside the point. Things are afoot, Leon—dark currents I neither understand nor like. Too many new committees with vague remits. Too many Czars appointed with ill-defined authority—too many blind eyes. Too much silence; implausible positions being tacitly supported that would have been hooted down in years past. I tell you, I’ve not seen the like before.”
Huron Sr. shifted uneasily in his chair. This was bad—worse than he feared.
“I want no part of it, Leon. There is rot at the heart of this and it’s struck deep. I’ll not get my hands as dirty as I must, rooting around in this mess—my soul won’t stand it. Not anymore.”
. . . the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire . . .
It was not clear why his eccentric memory had served up that verse just now. He was getting old. “I see your point, Gareth, and I am sorry for it.”
“I am sorry, Leon. I know you didn’t go willingly, and I know my part in seeing that you did go. But I believe I may have done you a kindness there. This is not a tide you could have turned.”
“So what will you do?”
“I will stand my ground as long as I can. But it will be this ground. I owe that to my home. The rest of this rotting edifice . . .” He shrugged.
“One cannot ask more than that.” The elder Huron climbed laboriously to his feet. “Thank you, Gareth. Shall I see myself out?”
Fitzwilliam rose with his visitor. “Let me conduct you. Vai is waiting, I imagine?”
“On a dinner date with friends.” Fitzwilliam’s quirked eyebrow seemed to register some puzzlement that the former Speaker’s chief of staff might have a life of her own. “She’ll be along in good time.”
As they made their way towards the entrance, Huron Sr. stopped abruptly. “I was curious to ask, but I forgot. What do you think of Hazen’s hospitalization?”
“In what respect?”—in a guarded tone.
“Well, it seemed a little odd to me, once I learned about it. The duration, I mean. It’s a simple enough procedure, but she was there for nearly three days. A day—that’s usual. Maybe two, if there was some complication. But almost three, merely for observation and adjustments?”
“Who said that?”
“Her medical team. Though the official story is that she got the procedure done, stayed overnight for observation, and then took a few days to rest in private.”
“Yes. They said she was released the next AM. To rest.”
“So you didn’t know she was hospitalized for three days?”
“I did not.”
“I see.” Dark currents indeed.
Back in his shuttle, the former Speaker looked across at his chief of staff, who seemed to
have very much enjoyed her “dinner” date, if the subtle lingering roseate glow was any sign. “Vai, if you would, do a bit more looking into this business of Hazen being hospitalized. Check the backgrounds of the medical staff involved. New people on the team and suchlike. Something does not quite add up.”
“Very well, sir,” she answered, lounging against the acceleration couch, with more purr in her voice than he’d ever heard. “Do you need that right away? I’m a bit tired, I’m afraid.”
“Oh no. Once we return will be time enough.”
“Thank you, sir. Oh. I learned that the closing arguments in Dr. Quillan’s court martial are to be heard in two days, and the verdict is expected to be handed down by the end of week.” She yawned. “You asked to be updated.”
“So I did.” They must be moving the trial right along. Fitzwilliam was under the impression his wife hadn’t testified yet. Given his position, he’d be staying well clear or the affair—hadn’t even inquired about the latest schedule. Now they were almost a week ahead. Had the evidence been that damning or had Quillan’s team managed to cut a deal?
“Thank you, Vai.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Vaishali Kriesel-Roth settled in deeper with a smile and closed her eyes.
~ ~ ~
175 days earlier
Wodehouse-Marshall Complex
Lunar 1, Tycho Prime, Luna, Sol
The sign on the office door read “Dr. Elena Smith” without further elaboration. Kris, standing before it, didn’t need any elaboration. When she reported in this AM, a message from Dr. Smith had been waiting for her, requesting a meeting. Elena Smith, she learned on checking, was a forensic psychologist, which gave Kris chills. Her experiences with “shrinks” (as she insisted on thinking of them) had ranged from bad to worse. The message had not stated the meeting’s purpose, but there was only one Kris could think of: another shrink, Dr. E.E. Quillan. It was fair to say that, as far as experiences went, hers with Dr. Quillan couldn’t have been any worse.
A Nedaeman, E.E. Quillan was a rigid believer in that culture’s concept of “evolved humanity”: the admirable notion that homo sapiens sapiens was not necessarily enslaved to its violent, bestial nature; that such tendencies could be expunged without any essential change to the species’ “better” qualities. To some, this concept was vaguely ridiculous. (To Kris, in particular: her upbringing did not allow for such notions.) These people tended to liken Nedaema to a benign human zoo: quite pleasant, but an environment those who believed in “evolved humanity” could neither create nor maintain, thus making them dependent on others who fundamentally disagreed with them.
But as LSS Arizona’s medical director, Quillan saw firsthand what Kris had done to Anton Trench. What he saw had convinced him that Kris was a living, breathing icon of all that was “unevolved” in humanity, and he took it as his duty to help “evolve” her—by chemical rehabilitation, if necessary.
As a well-respected expert, his views carried considerable weight and he certainly would have succeeded in his aims had not the Huron family intervened. Frustrated in his designs to deal with a “clear and present danger,” Quillan’s activities had evolved into a personal crusade: so much so that when Kris was sent to him last year for a routine psycheval, he resorted to extreme measures which had landed him and an orderly in the hospital, lit the fuse for the events at Asylum Station, and potentially crossed the line into rank criminality.
Just how “rank” had been the subject of months of hearings and inquiries, which had now matured to a full-fledged court martial. Kris had given her deposition last month, but was not otherwise concerned with the proceedings (or so she’d been assured, the facts in evidence not being in dispute). Kris knew enough about the rather tortured legal maneuverings to know that Quillan’s influential allies had actually been pushing for a court martial in hopes that the highly fictionalized official account of what happened at Asylum would fatally weaken the prosecution’s case. The defense did not need to know the truth: the mere fact the CEF was obliged to cover it up was itself evidence that Kris was an embarrassment, lending credence to Quillan’s views.
By casting things in this light, Quillan’s defense intended to show that he had reasonable cause and while he’d been overzealous, his actions were not actually criminal, and a notice of censure, as opposed to dismissal from the Service and disbarment from medical practice, was the proper course. Kris was by no means sure they wouldn’t succeed with this angle of attack. She remained an upstart from the Outworlds and Huron’s support—now that their ongoing relationship had seemingly confirmed years of salacious gossip—was as much a liability as an asset.
Standing at the entry to Dr. Smith’s office and breathing steadily to get a handle on her nerves—when Kris was angry, nervous, or feeling stressed, her voice tended to slip back into the lank drawl of an Outworld’s slaver accent, and that would never do for this meeting—all these factors were present in her mind, not as a series of discrete thoughts, but as inchoate impressions crowding against her overriding concern: how did Dr. Smith fit into this legal morass Kris wanted no part of, and whose side was she on, if she was on any side at all?
Kris knew Elena Smith was a civilian, which meant nothing. Her quick scan revealed only that she was from Phaedra, that her husband was the currently the senior grand senator for that Homeworld, and that he also held the title Chief Justice Emeritus, which sounded important, although Kris was unfamiliar with it. Her opinion of politicians was only slightly better than her feelings about shrinks, leaving the doctor’s origin world the sole potentially positive glimmer. Ferhat Basmartin, Kris’s best friend from the academy, was Phaedran—she’d also gotten to know (and like) his family—and what she knew of their society made it seem unlikely that Dr. Smith would be in Quillan’s camp.
But at this late stage of the court martial, what might a forensic psychologist want with her? Realizing how long she’s been standing there staring at, but not seeing, the doctor’s name plate, Kris exhaled and tapped CALL on the entry pad.
The door slid aside to reveal a medium-height woman with dark hair, an easy, confident smile and kindly brown eyes standing up to greet her. “Hello, Lieutenant. Thank you for coming.” Kris crossed the threshold with a nod and a deliberate and sterile half-smile. “I appreciate your making time to see me. Would you like to sit?”
Taking the chair indicated, Kris noted the doctor hadn’t offered to shake hands. How calculated that was, Kris couldn’t tell: she apparently didn’t rely on it to establish a personal connection.
“Can I get you something?”—spoken in the same genial, unaffected tone. “A drink?”
That was clearly a tactic to put her at ease, but Kris did not detect any signs of an impending ambush in the other woman’s expression. Instead, Elena Smith looked open without trying to be familiar, and the pattern of lines around her smile told Kris two things, both important: she was not vain and didn’t try to disguise her age as Homeworlders often seemed to do; and she was in the habit of smiling. Kris also sensed she was perfectly aware of the scrutiny, the motives behind it, and probably the results—and that this amused her.
Kris relaxed. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.” Elena Smith cupped her hands on the desktop, palm up, and met Kris’s gaze directly. “I imagine you’re wondering what this is about.”
“I was, yeah.”
“How familiar are you with what we forensic psychologists do?”
“I know what the reference I checked out said.”
That widened Elena Smith’s smile a trifle. “Then you’re aware that in a broad sense, we apply our specialties to the law, dealing with the ramifications of psychological issues from a legal perspective.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Often we are asked to assess someone’s mental state at the time of an event. Particularly in regard to mens rea—are you acquainted with the term?”
“Guilty mind.
Consciousness of wrongdoing.” That had been spelled out in the reference.
“Exactly. So you appreciate that’s a legal term, not psychological one.”
Kris nodded. There was no surprise in the doctor’s smile, only an acknowledgement they understood one another.
“We also are sometimes asked for an evaluation of witness credibility. That can take in conclusions a witness drew that were shaped or prompted by personal prejudice.”
“Okay.” This was certainly beginning to sound like Quillan.
“In this case, what I was called in for covered both these areas. With respect to your situation, I was asked to assess if, during the psycheval Dr. Quillan attempted, your response was reasonable, in that you believed you were defending yourself from a dire threat, or if—because of Quillan’s actions—your mental state was such you were not in control of your own actions.”
“Yeah. Okay.” The omission of Quillan’s title was not lost on Kris.
“My testimony—and I’ll reiterate this for the closing arguments tomorrow—was that your response met the legal test for self defense under the circumstances, and while your actions exceeded what might be strictly considered reasonable, Quillan’s actions, especially his attempt to drug you, rendered you unable to act in a more considered manner.”
Nodding, Kris wondered if she should thank the doctor. Somehow it didn’t seem appropriate.
“In Quillan’s case, I’ve testified that he undoubtedly had a guilty mind: his choice to involve an orderly, the drugs, his lying to you about the drugs, all these and the other arrangements he made, indicated he acted with malice aforethought.”
The lingering tension inside Kris unwound. “So what’s gonna happen to him?”
“As to that, I can’t say.” Dr. Smith’s tone was matter of fact. “I can only tell you what I have because it’s a matter of legal record and you’re a major party in the case. And in fact, I don’t know what they’ll do. My husband is fond of saying: ‘Tar . . . Feathers,’ when people abuse their official position”—her voice had dropped into a lower register and slower cadence when she recited the two words; Kris resolved to look them up—“but in this case, I can only offer you my private opinion that what Quillan did merits something far beyond that. Whether he will get it, we’ll have to wait and see.”
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 8