“I’d be pleased.” The flight would only take an hour and he had not intended to arrive at Madame DeLeon’s until the moons were in the best position for the viewing. About half an hour past midnight, by his calculations.
“Excellent,” said Danilov. “But perhaps we might take a short stroll in the Square first? The catullus is in bloom. It will begin to fade tomorrow and the right now the light is very fine.”
Of course, the catullus was in bloom; it always bloomed for the Founder’s Birthday, the Proconsul’s geneticists saw to that. And the light was very fine, rich and deeply golden, slanting in from the west, with Arran, the primary moon, already up and providing a fine ruddy note. And although it wasn’t something they hadn’t seen many times before, it was a good excuse for a short private chat.
“Certainly.” Caneris cast an eye about the portico, now filling with workmen and military staff persons—it was the evening shift change—and the expansive courtyard below. “Where are your men?”
“Oh, I have a plainclothes detail today,” Danilov answered airily, meaning he didn’t want them noticed and it would be a waste of time looking.
He and Caneris walked across the courtyard and entered the Square, their escorts keeping a discreet distance and Caneris’ car purring along behind, a fifty meters or so back. They stepped onto the Avenue, a grand walk that bisected the park, paved with flagstones cut from the bedrock of Halith’s subject systems. On either side the catullus—a species of giant heliotrope—loomed, its boughs bare of leaves but heavy with blossoms; some the palest lilac, some of the deepest amethyst, but all with the same vivid golden throat; all glowing in the late sun against smooth coppery bark. Their scent wafted down, a light musk touched with cinnamon.
“Magnificent,” Caneris remarked, “I’ve rarely seen a finer display.”
“I recall better at your house on Lake Vann,” Danilov said before catching himself; proof his mind was much occupied elsewhere. “My apologies, Joaquin. That was inexcusable of me.”
“Oh, say nothing to that,” Caneris said, rather stiffly. “Life go on; duty does not rest.” Ava Marcellanis, the admiral’s late wife had loved their country house, neither as large nor as palatial as the other estates in the neighborhood but uncommonly elegant and possessed of famous gardens. Lady Caneris had been much devoted to gardening. It was unusual for romance to intrude into the arranged marriages of Halith aristocrats—that was generally reserved for liaisons with respectable paramours—but Danilov was aware that it had indeed intruded into Caneris’ marriage, however unlikely that seemed to those who knew only the admiral’s public reputation, and Caneris had never taken any mistresses then or even now.
They walked together in silence for a awhile, down the broad flagstone path, towards the tomb that marked the Avenue’s end, a stately building of pure white marble, simple and wholly unadorned, which held the body of Halith’s great hero, General Ilya Turabian, after whom the Square was named. That the body was a fake—a state-of-the-art simulacrum of two centuries years ago—was an open secret among the aristocracy. General Turabian had been killed during the final conquest of Zalamenkar when ground fire destroyed the bridge of his flagship Bogatyr, leaving nothing to entomb. But that had not stopped the mythmaking and it signified little whether the body in the tomb where millions came every year to pray and be blessed was real or not. As with all things, it was the symbol that mattered.
Bodies and symbols, real or false, concerned them only peripherally, and when Caneris paused to admire a particularly fine catullus stalk, plucking it off and holding this way and that in the light, Danilov asked, “Has your opinion of our cousins’ activities changed any?”
Their cousins’ activities referred to the covert operation that IRIS was running through Ivoria, hoping to deprive the League of the support of the Sultanate of Andaman and Nicobar and perhaps start a new conflict that threatened the League’s Eltanin sector. Halith had long desired to flip the Sultanate into their camp, and this venture to suborn the Porte’s most powerful vassal state had been proposed to that end. If it bore fruit, an invasion of Eltanin might proceed.
Caneris stepped farther under the tree, intent on an examination of the branches. Not only was catullus beautiful to look at, but its copper bark, moving flowers, and abundance of mildly conductive pollen made remote eavesdropping difficult.
“It has not. Our friends are being foolish: the principals are not reliable and they underestimate the competition. I foresee that they will shortly have an embarrassing situation to explain.”
Danilov nodded thoughtfully. “So I too think, but allow me to say that our cousins don’t share this gloomy outlook.” By which he meant the Proconsul and most of his Council of Ministers, some of them Caneris’ cousins in fact.
Caneris shrugged. “That is, I suspect, their prerogative.”
“Just so,” Danilov said. “But . . .” He paused, considering while he plucked a blossom. “It is being alleged that your reservations are because you disapprove of the Proconsul’s ambitions.”
Caneris did disapprove of the Proconsul’s ambitions, and what was more, he was one of the few persons with sufficient stature to hinder them. Within the top ranks of the Halith aristocracy, Jerome’s desire (perhaps lust was a better word, Caneris thought) for the forbidden—indeed almost heretical—title of emperor was no secret. With his being elected to an unprecedented third term, what had been previously dismissed as a windy pretense (Jerome had been labeled “the Pretender” for it) had become a more serious concern. Caneris, however, had been careful to avoid any public move or utterance on the matter.
“By General Heydrich?” he asked. “Or do I presume too much?”
On death of Admiral Christian Heydrich, his younger brother, General Tristan Heydrich, had assumed leadership of the Halith government’s militarist faction, with whom Caneris was frequently at odds. And because Christian Heydrich’s eldest son had not yet attained his majority, the general had also taken control of his family’s abundant assets, not incidentally causing severe strife within the family; particularly between eldest son, who sided with his uncle, and the admiral’s daughter, a strong-willed young widow, who did not. Further, it was believed the general now controlled assets of a different kind, for his late brother had been chief of Halith military intelligence.
As much as Caneris had personally disliked Christian Heydrich (notorious for his sadistic pleasures, even among Halith aristocrats), he conceded the man had possessed real abilities. The ill-fated operation which had led to him being killed last year, during the capture Ilya Turabian, was the source of their current difficulties. (Caneris had been against that scheme, too: he thought it great nonsense to trust the Maxor, on whose cooperation the whole thing depended.) The admiral’s death had contributed no small part of these problems by elevating his brother into the upper echelons of power. Tristan Heydrich was an altogether more erratic character: mercurial, impulsive, and—at times—dangerous.
Danilov inclined his head. “The general is aware of the allegations and undoubtedly seeks to gain by them, but I believe the source lies elsewhere. Although I do not commit myself, were I to guess, I would say Arutyun. He has been busy not only adjusting the event and meeting schedules, but force movements as well. We’ve detected a concerted pattern of disruption in his efforts. It may be complementary.”
Captain Nikolai Arutyun had been Admiral Heydrich’s chief of staff, and now filled that position for the new occupant, Admiral Geiger Massolit. But Massolit was merely a mouthpiece: Arutyun ran the department with the admiral rubberstamping his decisions. He shared many characteristics with his former boss, including his professional competence, private appetites, and exceedingly ruthless nature.
“Is this why you supposed I might have prematurely removed myself?”
“It occurred to me that you may have received news of which my sources were unaware.”
Considering the nature of Danilov’s sources, that was most unlikely. Caneris made lo
w discontented humming noises. “I appreciate the notice. Is that all you had to tell me?”
“Not quite. Perhaps we might walk a little more?”
They did. Presently Danilov said, “Touching the matter of the Proconsul’s ascension, it has been represented to him”—the Proconsul, Danilov meant—“that it would be unwise to proceed with his announcement unless he had some very good news to go with it. Good news always quells dissent.”
“You mean a victory.”
“But not just any victory. A signal victory, if you will. He is looking to our friends’ concern is this light, and I understand he particularly wishes you to be involved. Particularly.”
Caneris turned on his heel to face his friend with a dangerous glint in his eye. “Are you suggesting a trap’s been laid for me? That there may be irregularities in my command structure?” His voice was steady, but very low.
“I have no such information. I’m suggesting you take extra care.” Danilov returned his friend’s unwavering gaze. “If you were detained here and the concern were to be carried to a successful conclusion in your absence, well, your position would be badly eroded. Perhaps even tenuous.”
“But if I were remain here and it fails . . .”
“Then I predict a charge that you deliberately undermined the scheme in order to obstruct his plans, even forsaking your station so that your subordinates might take the blame.”
Caneris swore—very soft, very deadly.
“It is not without subtlety,” Danilov said low. “He puts out rumors that question your loyalty while urging this scheme upon the Proconsul and taking steps to delay your return to the fleet. Whether or not it succeeds, you can implicated. It is almost elegant.”
Caneris, in no mood at appreciate this elegance, chewed his lip, fury blazing from his pale narrowed eyes. “What do you suggest I do?”
“Return to your fleet with all speed and if there is a way to make this scheme succeed, find it. At all events, apply yourself most diligently, so that if in the end failure is truly inevitable, you can deflect the blame onto those who urged such a fatally flawed enterprise in the first place. Your earlier criticism can therefore be made to look prescient while your evident zeal to accomplish such a scheme in spite of justified reservations will give ample evidence of your loyalty.”
Caneris considered this, jaw champing rhythmically. “Such evidence comes at substantial cost,” he said at length. “Men. Ships. Materiel.”
“Perhaps one might consider that this cost will be borne regardless; it might even be lessened by your presence.”
“That is a point certainly. But have you considered, Marcus, that if in the end this pot boils, your half of the water won’t be any cooler than mine?”
“Just so,” Danilov agreed. “I do not pretend to be disinterested.”
Caneris nodded; thoughtful, the angry fires banked well down but far from out. “Thank you for telling me. It is very kind.” He dropped the catullus stem he’d been mauling in one hand. “Perhaps we should eat? As you insist on paying, it is only fair we take my car. Agreed?”
Danilov smiled. “With all my heart.”
~ ~ ~
Day 162
LSS Ardennes, docked
Weyland Station, Vesta, Eltanin Sector
The soft chiming of his secure command line snapped Admiral Joss PrenTalien out of a light doze. For a moment he just sat there, feeling the gentle subacoustic thrum of a living ship—as much a part of a mariner’s life as his own pulse—then sighed as he slid the xel he’d been staring at onto his desk. The report wasn’t making a lot of sense to him, anyway.
He was getting old. The treatments for aging were good; PrenTalien knew he didn’t look nearly as old as he was, but sooner or later, you still got old. He thought events had more to do with it than the passage of time, and this—this beeping of his secure circuit—was probably one of those events.
He palmed the alarm off. “Yes?”
“What-ho, Joss? Still burning the midnight hydrogen?” The voice was boyish, almost exuberant, and it came from a man six years older than himself. He wondered what the Consul-General of Eltanin Sector was putting in his coffee these days.
“What-ho yourself, Carlos. Enjoying your retirement are you?”
Consul General John Carlos Westover, Fleet Admiral retired, snorted, “Cheap shot, Joss. Unworthy of you, even in your sleep.”
PrenTalien merely smiled quietly. That was undoubtedly true, given why Carlos had retired. But he’d known the Consul General since he was a teenage rate rejoicing in the squalor of the lower decks and the Consul General was a stern-faced young lieutenant—he was entitled. Stirring the chips covering his desk into a pile, he swept them into an open drawer.
“So tell me, Carlos, you must have some reason to call a poor old Admiral at oh-dark-thirty other than to startle him out of his rest.”
“Yes indeed, Joss.” Westover’s voice was still light, but the lightness was veneer-thin. “Got a moment to wander by? We need to have a chat. I’ll make us a pot of coffee.”
Joss PrenTalien swallowed to ease the growing tightness in his throat. “Be there in five minutes.”
The tube transit from Ardennes through the sprawling bulk of Weyland Station actually took four minutes, but closer to six had elapsed by the time Joss PrenTalien walked into the Consul General’s magnificently appointed office. Back when the League was just a mercantile consortium, the Consuls General had been diplomats, responsible for overseeing trade negotiations and enforcing the rights of member planets. But as the League evolved into a colonial power, the Consuls General assumed almost viceregal status. They became the Plenary Council’s direct representatives in their sectors, overseeing the colonial governors.
As such, the Consul General’s office was designed to impress and it did that—all the more so because it was on a space station. It was almost as large as than the Consular Office downside in Tremontaine, Vesta’s capital, and it was paneled in the same native woods and had the same lush Persian-style carpets under foot. Much of the furniture had been imported from Old Earth and the huge desk with its built-in omnisynth was real French walnut. The impressive crystal and gold chandeliers were the only bit of legerdemain in the office—they were holograms. The CEF engineers had rebelled at the idea of installing so many tons of fragile mass just to light a room and had rigged up high-fidelity holographic projectors instead. But the sculptured medallions they “hung” from were real, as were the frescoes and the spiral fluted columns. No detail calculated to further impress visitors with the denizen’s lofty station had been omitted.
That denizen was not looking particularly lofty just now. John Carlos Westover was standing to one side of the room in civilian attire, fiddling with a coffee maker installed in an elaborately carved cabinet.
“What’s this?” PrenTalien asked as Westover squinted at the unfamiliar display. “The Consul General has to make his own coffee these days?”
Westover snorted. “Wells went home hours ago. If I ask my Chief of Staff, she’d break my arm.” He straightened up, apparently admitting defeat. “Not that I’d blame her.”
“No she wouldn’t,” PrenTalien countered. “She’d delegate—probably to me.”
“Consider yourself delegated.” He waved at the recalcitrant machine. “Whatever happened to the ones where you just dropped the grounds in the top and added water?”
PrenTalien walked over the began to program the front panel. “The march of technology, my friend.”
Once working, the machine took thirty seconds to produce a freshly synthesized pot of coffee. Westover found two well-blackened mugs, about as old as they were, and they retired with the coffee pot to the small cluttered office behind the “Throne Room” as Westover preferred called his overdressed receiving area when he wasn’t calling it “the Head.” “About all that gets done in there anyway,” he’d been known to complain. As the door slid shut behind them, Westover sat—collapsed actually—in the chair behind his much
smaller and more utilitarian desk, and PrenTalien saw how worn he really was.
“You know, Joss,” Westover said, eyeing the stacks of chips and hard copy that seemed to have accreted on every horizontal surface in the office, “I try to retire so as to comport myself as befits a man of mature years and what happens—I end up back where I was when I worked for a living. No goddamn progress at all.”
Silent, PrenTalien poured coffee. He too had been in the Service for over sixty years, and through two wars with Halith, as well as other sharper, shorter affrays—the last Deneb War, the Mirandan “civil conflict”, the Perseid Campaign—to say nothing of policing actions against Tyrsenian pirates and smaller slave states in the Outworlds and the Hydra, or the ugly business of the Lodestone revolt. In those days, an enduring peace had seemed unattainable, but with the signing of the Crucis Treaty, many had thought they’d achieved something like it. But that peace also proved illusory: within a year, a rearmed Halith shattered it with a strike through the Huygens Gap and down the Regulus shipping lanes. No progress indeed.
Without preamble, Joss asked, “What did you want to talk about?”
Westover gestured towards a chair and PrenTalien moved a stack of reports to sit in it. He could tell that Westover was using the pause to put his thoughts in proper order—ever the strategist, Carlos. Westover rocked back in his chair and looked at PrenTalien, fingers interlaced across his knee. “We’re going to deal you dirty, Joss. I wanted you to hear it from me.”
The pronouncement was entirely expected—had been ever since he’d received orders to recall Ninth Fleet at best possible transit speed “consistent with operational safety.” Considering what Lo Gai thought that limit to be, PrenTalien quirked half his mouth up in a sour smile.
“Dare I ask the cause in which I’m about to be shafted?”
Westover returned the smile, but only faintly. “Certainly. The decision has been made to activate Overlight. Ninth Fleet has been assigning, effective immediately. Sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier, but even I didn’t get confirmation until Lo Gai arrived here yesterday.”
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 19