Shadows In Still Water

by D. T. LeClaire

  Tom studied the sheet for a moment. He looked up with raised eyebrows.

  “Know it doesn’t sound like much but all the old juices are churning on this one. The last few months, been intercepting strange looks, people stop talking when I enter a room, odd memos like this. My gut tells me something is brewing. Figure J4 means Jidal IV. One of our hospital ships, the Pasteur, is there now. Could be the P that’s supposed to be maneuvered into position.” He paused and leaned forward. “Don’t mind telling you someone on that ship means a hell of a lot to me. Anything happens to her...” He paused to let Ford imagine it for himself.

  Rubbing his head, Meng continued, “Here’s the part where you come in. Long story, huh? Thought BD meant birthday but nobody around here has May 7th. Think it means the Board of Directors meeting. Big hoopla for the year. Not just the board but division and department heads, spouses, kids. Lasts all weekend. There’s a pre-meeting party tonight. Want you there to see if you can ferret out any information. You’ll be my temporary assistant for the next few days. Lu Chen plans to be lying on some beach--won’t tell me where. If anything is going to happen tomorrow, I want to know about it. Any questions?”

  Tom took a pen from his vest pocket, flipped the memo sheet over and scribbled on it. Leaning out of his seat, he slid it back to Meng.

  Meng read it aloud. “Do you want me to watch anyone in particular? No,” he answered, “May be getting suspicious in my old age, but I want you to watch everyone. Anything else?” He slid the paper back.

  Tom wrote again. The paper came back.

  “Been trying to contact the Pasteur but haven’t gotten through yet. Getting worried about it. Not sure if it’s a communications problem or if something’s happening.” He handed back the paper.

  Lifting his arm, Tom tapped the watch on his wrist.

  “The party tonight is at 7:00. Anything else?”

  Tom shook his head. Touching the butt of his cigarette to the paper, he watched it catch fire and tossed both into the ashtray. He got up, shook Meng’s hand and walked out the door.

  Meng watched him leave. He hoped the man was as good as he was reputed to be. Jacob Montain practically swore by him. And if you couldn’t trust the President of N.A.-Mars who could you trust? Meng was beginning to believe maybe no one at all.

  ***

  Hotel Interstellar, owned by GEM Co., boasted an arboretum filled with plants from every planet where the company did business. It made an interesting confusion of vines, fronds, leaves, needles and flowers set in anything from tiny ceramic pots to huge glass-enclosed environmental control chambers. It also made it easy to sneak up and listen in on conversations.

  Tom Ford paused to inhale the deep purple scent of a lolanglin from Matia VII. He had arrived at the party early to check the entrances and exits, look over the security system, do his usual pre-event checklist. It really wasn’t necessary for this assignment but he liked to be thorough. The old man had been right about this being the hoopla of the year. The place had filled fast.

  Food had to be the main attraction. Tables filled the lobby and lined the halls on three levels, all overflowing with fruit, breads, shrimp, whole sides of beef, small game, caviar, an entire mangron with its wings spread to a full twenty feet, salo balls soaking in morac juice, platters of Raman kilar keeping cool in crushed ice, and desserts of every kind. The bar was open with every type of alcohol imaginable. Tom had to wonder just how much work would get done the next day. And the bill must have been in galactic proportions.

  Tom meandered through the arboretum, getting smiles and nods from most of the women, all dressed and bejeweled within an inch of their lives. He stopped next to a Zarvac tree to light a cigarette.

  The old man had been very cagey that morning. And very worried. Though he had met the admiral on only a few occasions, Tom held him in the highest regard. He had been hearing rumors for months in his own circles about some kind of power takeover, but this was the first inkling he had that GEM Co. might be involved.

  He accidentally caught the eye of a young blonde woman dressed in a tight black dress, slashed up one side past the thigh who sat on a wicker chair across from him.

  She stood and walked over. “Your cigarette smells better than that corellia plant,” she said in a soft, southern accent.

  Tom wondered that she could smell it over the heavy spice scent of her own perfume. He smiled and gestured to indicate he could not speak.

  Despite the obvious glaze of alcohol, she seemed quick to understand. “You can’t speak? You poor thing. You know doctors can do wonders these days. I know this guy... what’s his name... Ladero or Fadero something like that, he works with brains. He could do something...implants or transplants.”

  Tom nodded politely. He had been to numerous doctors. Psychological trauma, they called it. It might help if he could remember past five years ago. He could use computer assisting devices , but he got along without them. People tended to talk more when they knew he couldn’t.

  “I notice the big boy isn’t here,” the woman was saying. “He usually takes a whole table of food for himself.”

  Tom raised his eyebrows.

  “Renner Conlin, my pig of a boss. Whoops,” she covered her mouth and giggled. “Shouldn’t have said that. You’re not one of his spies are you?”

  Tom shook his head.

  Leaning closer, she whispered, “They’re everywhere you know. I think Conlin wants the Admiral’s job. Can you imagine this place with him as Director-General? Oh, look there’s Conlin’s ultimate toad now. You can be sure Conlin will know everything that happens this weekend.”

  She was looking at a thin, balding young man who had just entered the arboretum. The man glanced around and hailed a squat, curly-haired man who was shoveling food into his mouth at an alarming rate. They talked for a moment then walked off together.

  Might be an interesting conversation to listen in on. Picking up an empty glass, Tom waved it in the air and pointed at the door.

  “Oh, get me a double nebula smasher, please,” the woman said.

  Tom nodded. Halfway to the door, he looked back, saw she was engaged in conversation with a couple, and slipped behind another Zarvac tree.

  His two quarries stood about ten meters away. Someone chose that moment to turn the music up on the overhead system. Loud, off-key India Wave music flooded the room like oil poured over water. Tom walked by the two men and stopped behind a glass chamber with a bushy luffa plant in it. Pulling a round, skin-colored disk from his pocket he placed the disk in his ear. It took him a moment to filter out the other noises but he finally focused in on the two men’s conversation.

  The curly-haired one was saying, “Mr. Conlin has had a lot of trouble with the operation.”

  “I just got word that it’s going well now,” replied the bald one.

  “How?”

  “The Kaprinian was worth his price. He’s turned the bad luck to our advantage. Stirred up the Sclarians,” said Baldy.

  “But what about the Pasteur? I thought that was the whole point,” Curly-top said, frowning into the half-empty plate in his hands. He must have lost his appetite.

  “That was a problem. Dr. Aurelia tried to leave.”

  “Bitch.”

  “But Tahk took care of that. Now Mr. Conlin is working on that part of the plan.”

  “So everything still happens tomorrow?”

  “As far as I know.”

  The two men stopped talking when the music stopped. Tom took out the disk and listened to the announcement.

  One of the hotel officials was speaking, “I’ve just been informed there is a special report on the Worlds News System. We will be going to that on the screens. There are several around if you care to take a look at it.”

  A mass migration from the arboretum began. Tom found himself right behind Baldy and Curly-Top in the outer lobby, looking up at the fifty-foot screen.

  Kate O’Farrel, WNS’s main anchor
, appeared on the screen. Her beautiful, patrician face and warm, Irish-flavored voice were serious as she spoke, “The reports from the planet say a group of Sclarians apparently opened fire on the crowd in the open square. They concentrated most of the attack on the Kaprinians who make up a large portion of the population of Jidal IV. We have not received any...” the newswoman paused, her eyes, flicking back and forth as though reading. “The Triad Council on Kaprine has just declared war with Sclaria.”

  The rest of her words were lost in the eruption of voices in the lobby.

  Tom leaned forward to catch Curly-Top’s whisper to Baldy. “They didn’t say anything about the Pasteur.”

  Baldy shook his head, “Something has gone wrong. I’m going back to the office.” He turned to shove his way out of the crowd.

  Tom turned to make his way to the door as well. He would have to send someone back to keep an eye on the two GEM Co. men. But the news from Jidal IV meant the President would be needing him. He was afraid they were in for a long night’s session.

  Part II

  Chapter Thirty One

  Millie fought against the force pressing her eyelids shut. She had to get away from the flames. Hot. So hot. Mama? Don’t go. I promise I’ll take care of them. Please don’t leave . Breathe. I can’t breathe, Mama, help me. Oh, it hurts. Somebody please.

  She heard the whisper then. It slithered between the flames and pain, cold and evil.

  Go away. Leave me alone.

  Don’t fear me, Mahealani. I can help you. You won’t feel anymore pain. I promise.

  No. No. Go away. Help me, Mama! She struggled against the cold wrapping itself around her soul.

  You will live. You are mine now, Mahealani. Remember.

  She could feel nothing now but the cold. She was aware of nothing but the whisper. It stopped. She slept.

  ***

  Aurelia glared at the little round bald spot on the back of Chief Rekhaan’s head. He leaned into the guts of a control panel in the engine room. Maybe a swift kick would get his attention. Leaning over, she yelled in his ear, “How long before the bay doors are open?”

  Rekhaan did not move. After a few seconds of silence, he sat back on his heels, looking up at Aurelia. “They will be open when you stop interrupting me,” he replied.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, they’re shooting people downstairs. You should have had this problem taken care of yesterday.”

  A vein in the crew chief’s forehead bulged as he stood up. He dropped his scanner with a clang into the open tool box on the floor. “I have been working here all night. For your information, we have been sabotaged.”

  “Sabotage? Who did that?”

  “How should I know! I do not bother you at the operating table so do not bother me in my engine room.”

  “What about the airlocks? Can we bring everyone up that way?”

  “They just shut down again.”

  “Damn.”

  “I am doing my best.”

  “Do better.”

  As the door slid shut behind her, Aurelia, glad to be free of the hot, oily smell of the engine room, gulped in fresh air. She tugged at the cuff around her wrist. It moved about half a micron. It itched. Dammit.

  Who would have sabotaged the Pasteur? Althan Tahk. The strange Kaprinian’s image came to mind. Had he been on the ship? Why would he sabotage them?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the announcement: “Dr. Aurelia to the C.C. Dr. Aurelia.”

  She reluctantly put one foot in front of the other. Was this ever going to be over?

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Jak’s eyes burned. Covering his mouth and nose with his hand, he ran through the thick blanket of smoke and into the Rotunda. He should have been stopped. No one challenged him at the door. The lobby was deserted.

  “Hello,” he shouted. “Anyone here?”

  A click sounded from the end of the hall. Jak turned. A young Kaprinian, his hair still the lavender of adolescence, crouched behind the sights of a laser guided, Klin-Tar launcher. Jak raised his hands.

  “Don’t shoot. I’m friendly.”

  The youngster snapped the bolt back out of alignment and rose to his feet. His antennae shook as Jak walked toward him. “Sorry, sir,” he spoke in a cracked whisper.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Gone,” Co-Lanen answered his question. She stood in the doorway of an office just beyond the young Kaprinian. Her hair, disheveled, flowed down to her waist. Dark ochre stains covered her white tunic.

  “You’re bleeding!” Jak started toward her, but she waved him back.

  “No,” she said quietly. “It’s Led-Franere’s blood. He just performed the Ban Kar.”

  Ritual suicide. Jak stared at Co-Lanen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young Kaprinian slump against the wall. “Things can’t be that bad. Can they?”

  “He thought so. Led felt responsible for this massacre.”

  “Why? Is...was he the councilor you thought might have stolen the loron?”

  Co-Lanen shook her head. “No. But as a Zar, Led thought he should have prevented the fighting.” She rested her head against the doorpost. “No. I know who it was now.”

  As if on cue, Ka-Were Mitine approached them from down the hall. His movements were quick and steady, almost triumphant. He wore a scarlet tunic with a device of two fighting serpents on the front. Jak thought he had seen such a symbol quite recently but couldn’t remember where.

  The councilor stopped and smiled at the three of them. “Are you ready? Where is everyone else?”

  Co-Lanen sighed. “They have all gone out to fight.”

  Ka-Were rubbed his hands together with glee, “Good. Good. This is a fine day. I am calling for Kin Zai. Every Kaprinian will fight or die.”

  “You can’t do that!” Jak protested, hardly able to believe he had heard right.

  “I can’t?” The older Kaprinian’s eyes bored into Jak’s.

  Jak realized he was staring into madness.

  Ka-Were laughed. “Come. It’s time.” He marched off down the hall.

  “We have to stop him,” said Jak. Co-Lanen’s hand on his arm prevented him from following the councilor.

  “We can’t,” Co-Lanen told him with a brief shake of her head.

  “He’s obviously insane, Lanen. We can’t let him go out there and declare a holy war against the Sclarians.”

  She still shook her head, “We have no right to stop him, Jak. He’s BanZori.”

  Jak stared at her. His heart felt sick. Both he and Co-Lanen were in a higher caste than Mitine, but BanZori meant he was protected by the Zar, the highest caste of all. The only one who could have stopped him was Led-Franere. And he was dead.

  ***

  Bridget plowed into Miguel’s back. “Ow! What’d you stop for?” she yelled, rubbing her nose.

  Miguel whirled, sweeping his arm around her waist. “Everybody back. Now. Run!”

  “I can’t run anymore,” Fredrichs protested, his breath coming in short wheezes.

  “Fine. Let the Sclarians know you’re here.”

  Over Miguel’s shoulder, Bridget caught a glimpse of five beings wearing black blast helmets and carrying weapons. She heard the peculiar thump, thump of rafter fire. That was enough.

  “Move it!” she yelled at Fredrichs, giving him a shove. His back felt wet with sweat.

  The five of them fled the way they had come, Torp and Steve in the lead now. Torp was having trouble maneuvering the box. Miguel reached out to help.

  “There’s an open door down to the left” Bridget called out.

  They all tumbled through the opening, literally. Fredrichs tripped into the box and sent Miguel and Torp falling to the floor. Bridget managed to keep her feet. She hit the control panel on the wall to send the door sliding shut.

  “Ohmigosh,” Fredrichs moaned.

  “Get off my foot you fat nidge,” Torp demanded.

  “So
rry.”

  “Somebody find a light,” Miguel called out.

  A click and Steve’s pale face appeared in the darkness. He moved his hand, flashing his ring light on each of them then on the wall near the door. Bridget saw another control panel and turned on the overhead lights.

  Miguel, Torp and Fredrichs still sprawled on the floor, catching their breath. Steve sat down on a pile of unmarked boxes. Moving around, Bridget explored their refuge.

  It looked like nothing more than an unused, windowless warehouse. The air held a musty, cobwebby smell. A few odd boxes were scattered in spots. It looked like the door they had entered was the only way to get in or out.

  Kind of strange now that she thought about it. If it was a warehouse, there should be some kind of loading doors. The rising of the fine hairs on the back of her neck made her run to the door’s control panel. She pushed the one, green button. Nothing happened.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Aurelia was getting claustrophobic in the Pasteur’s small communications center. Besides herself and the two overworked comm-techs, there were at least fifteen other people in the room. Everyone stood glued in place, listening to the monotone of Lak Zanin’s voice coming from the central panel and trying to fill in the gaps her speech patterns left to the imagination.

  “Bangs and smoke. West I think,” Lak was saying.

  Aurelia leaned closer to the comm grid. “The fighting is west of you?”

  The grid hissed and wheezed before the reply came back. “Yes.”

  “Can you tell if it’s getting closer?” Aurelia knew she didn’t need to shout but she couldn’t help it. People were shouting in the background on the other end and intermittent pops and cracks sounded like gunfire though her brain told her it was probably static.