“If you say so, Lieutenant.” It was a tricky business, making his way to the door; it meant getting past Aachil, and Aachil always got a little over–affectionate when he was drunk. Not like Haber. Andrej wouldn’t have minded kissing Haber, but he rather drew the line at Aachil. “Gentles. Thank you for your good wishes, good–bye, I’ll be back in three months. Please do not save any documentation for me. I grant it all to you, with all my heart.”
The party was in full spate. It would do very well without him. Barille was in pursuit, with a full cup of punch; Andrej couldn’t very well have Barille coming out into section with uncontained liquor, could he? “Yes. Thank you.” Almost to the door. Andrej drank off half the cup before handing it back. “But really, I must go. The Lieutenant says so.”
She was getting impatient, too. “If you please, your Excellency, we’ve got to get to courier bay.”
That was odd. What urgency was there, really? Everything was ready to go, his kit packed, his people cleared. But not understanding what was happening was something that a man grew to accept when he was drunk, or even when he was merely not exactly drunk. So rather than argue with her Andrej put his arm around her shoulders — for support and stabilization only, of course, he was a little unsteady on his feet. “Yes, yes, Lieutenant, coming immediately. Tell me. Have you ever to Azanry been?”
He was going home. It had been nearly nine years. He was not going home to stay, to try to rebuild a life of some sort after eight years dedicated to the practice of atrocity as a professional torturer; no, that fantasy had died months ago, when Bench intelligence specialist Jils Ivers had brought him word from Chilleau Judiciary that had forced him to re–engage with Fleet, to save himself from the administration that had been responsible for the Domitt Prison.
But he was going home.
Bench intelligence specialist Garol Vogel had shown him a Bench warrant with his name on it, in Port Burkhayden. Someone wanted him dead. If someone with the power to obtain a Bench warrant truly meant that he should die, the odds were good that he did not have long to live. So he had to take care of some personal business before he could be free to concentrate on who and why and how he was to protect himself. He had to ensure that Marana would be all right if he was killed; Marana, and his young son Anton.
“Never had the pleasure, your Excellency, though I understand it’s very beautiful,” Seascape said. “Here’s the lift, sir. It’ll be this way.”
What? Oh. That was right. He’d asked her a question.
“I suppose one’s home is always beautiful.” The half–cup of punch he’d downed on his way out of his office had fuddled him, but the walk did him some good. His head was just clear enough for him to realize what an inane thing that had been to say. Stildyne’s home had never been beautiful to Stildyne, for instance, as far as Andrej had ever heard him talk about it.
Or perhaps Stildyne’s had simply never been home at all in the sense that Azanry was Andrej’s. That could be. Stildyne’s childhood and upbringing had apparently been as ugly as Stildyne himself was, also through no fault of Stildyne’s own.
The lift doors sealed behind them; they were alone. Andrej leaned up against the back wall of the nexus lift, waiting for the fog to clear from the forefront of his mind.
“Your Excellency, there’s been a change of plan,” Seascape said.
Andrej stared at her, wondering what she was talking about. “How do you mean, Lieutenant?”
Seascape seemed uncomfortable, but resolute. “Necessary to make a last–minute substitution, sir, Security 5.1 for 5.3. We’re to be met by the First Lieutenant. She’ll explain, but you should at least be forewarned.”
Substitution? What nonsense. And yet it didn’t seem to be a joke; Seascape seemed quite serious. Any number of things to say occurred to Andrej, but she was the most junior officer on board — so whatever was going on was not likely to be her fault. A man had to take care how quickly he took offense, when liquor might be interfering with his perception.
The nexus lift stopped; it wasn’t far to the courier bay from here. One turning, three turnings, straight on; First Officer stood in the corridor waiting for them, pointing them toward the ready–room with a gesture of the arm and hand before he followed them into the room to close the door behind them.
Through the observation window in the connecting door, Andrej could see his Security 5.3, drawn up in the muster room adjacent. What were they doing there? They were supposed to be waiting at the courier itself, not on standby.
The ship’s acting First Lieutenant ap Rhiannon stood between Andrej and the door to the next room. She waited until Mendez had sealed the door, and then she spoke. That was a little forward of her; perhaps the impertinence could be excused on a formality, as her superior officer was not on board.
“Your Excellency. I regret that I must make an alteration to your travel plans, sir. It will be necessary for you to take Security 5.1 rather than your previously selected Security 5.3 home with you on leave. And it is critically important that you leave immediately.”
Said who? Jennet ap Rhiannon? Andrej folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrows at her skeptically. She was shorter than he was. And he outranked her. Who did she think she was, to tell him what to do?
“I’m not inclined to make any such substitution, Lieutenant.” He’d been through a great deal with 5.3, or rather they had been through a great deal with him. Because of him. On his behalf, for his sake. “I have clearance for 5.3. I’m taking them with me. What possible interest could you have in interfering with my holiday?”
And yet the First Officer was here, and he was not jumping down her throat for overreaching her position. First Officer rarely tolerated breaches of rank–protocol; Andrej therefore asked the question in a curious, rather than an overtly hostile, tone of voice. Oh. Perhaps a little hostile. Perhaps. He didn’t like Command Branch interfering with his life. Captain Lowden had had altogether too much to do with Andrej’s life, until someone had killed him at Port Burkhayden.
“In the recently completed exercise from which Security 5.1 has just returned, a target was destroyed near the containment perimeter.” All right, she clearly seemed to feel that she was making an explanation. He would wait. “Shortly afterward, an observation station proximal to the final kill exploded. I don’t know if 5.1 knows about the explosion. I’m quite sure they don’t know where our own remote observation team was when the explosion occurred.”
Andrej began to see where the argument was headed. He didn’t like it. “Lieutenant, I have promised these people, and long anticipated this. Is it truly necessary?”
Even through the liquor and the partying, however, Andrej’s mind could track the logic. Command Branch officer dead. Explosion proximate to fighter manned by Security 5.1. Interrogate the crew for any potential evidence of conspiracy to commit a mutinous act. Aggressively investigate all implied or explicit disaffection among the crew.
“Your Excellency, through the death of acting Captain Cowil Brem I have assumed command of the Ragnarok. In the legal capacity of your commanding officer, I direct you to take Security 5.1 and clear this ship with all expedient speed.”
How dare she use such language with him? She had the technical authority, but it was just that, a mere technicality. And yet she was right. She was the senior Command Branch officer, and that made her acting Captain.
That didn’t mean he had to like any of this a bit. “First Officer. What have they been told?” It was capitulation on his part, and she would recognize it as such. But he dared not leave without understanding exactly what Lek Kerenko knew, and what supposed; Lek was bond–involuntary, and vulnerable.
“I told ‘em that Fleet would try to pick the team apart, to cover for the embarrassment of being blown out of the water by an experimental ship. So they were going on assignment. Captain’s direct and explicit orders.”
Well, it would do, and it was all he had. Very well. “I will say good–bye to my Security,”
Andrej said firmly, and not very respectfully either. “And then I will leave straightaway. By your leave, of course, Lieutenant.”
He didn’t wait for leave. He went through the intervening door into the muster room, where Security 5.3 stood in formal array, waiting for him. There was to be no chance to explain; what the Lieutenant proposed was to willfully evade normal Judicial procedure by removing persons potentially of interest from their immediate environment, and that might create trouble in the hearts and minds of bond–involuntary troops.
Bond–involuntaries had been carefully schooled in the performance of their duty. Emotional conflict was the signal for the governor that each had implanted in their brains to punish what was clearly either a transgression or intent to transgress. So he could say nothing to his people except that he was sorry, that he would miss them, that they would be sure to come with him next time.
She was overreacting. Surely. Yet he had seen too much during his term of duty to be able to believe that there was no chance of her worst fears becoming reality.
###
Stildyne could see Koscuisko in the next room, talking to 5.3. He wished Koscuisko would hurry up. The sooner they got clear of this the easier it was going to be to manage; and starting this exercise with Koscuisko already in a filthy mood was not what he had anticipated — but a man could only deal with what he had to work with. Not what he wished he had.
Koscuisko stepped through the door into the courier bay, and Security 5.1 came to attention smartly, lined up beneath the belly of the craft and waiting only for Koscuisko’s word to be away. It was a nice courier; a Combine national, the property of the Koscuisko familial corporation in fact. One of the things that still amazed Stildyne after four years and more with Andrej Koscuisko was how inconceivably rich the man was — at least so far as disposition of material goods was concerned.
“Thank you, gentles, and we must leave very soon, but I want a moment. Stand down. Stildyne. Kits on board?”
Stildyne knew what urgency First Officer had concealed behind his calm demeanor and his careful drawl. If First Officer was worried Stildyne was near frantic; but Koscuisko would not be hurried.
“Cleared and ready for departure, your Excellency, immediately. As the officer please.”
Koscuisko frowned at him a little over that. He didn’t usually resort to formal language with Koscuisko; it was almost a form of bullying. It was the only way Stildyne could come up with to express the urgency he felt. First Officer wanted 5.1 clear of the Ragnarok. Stildyne didn’t know why — exactly — but that didn’t concern him. First Officer knew what he was about.
“These people have just come off exercise, Chief.” There was a touch of admonition in Koscuisko’s voice, a hint of reproach. “And in particular the navigator has been worked hard. Not that the entire crew has been less fully challenged, but do we demand that Lek perform a vector transit now? This moment? Lek. Should truly we be asking such effort, from you?”
All right, maybe Koscuisko was not simply being difficult because he was angry and frustrated. It was possible that Koscuisko was checking to be sure that Lek was centered, clear, and well within the tolerances imposed by his governor. “It’s just a vector transit, your Excellency.” Lek didn’t quite shrug, but the idea was there. “Not a problem, sir. And Godsalt has already done the calculations.”
There was no halt or hesitation in Lek’s voice. If Lek had any apprehension, he would let them know by using more formal and submissive language — “as it please the officer.” For Lek to use “your Excellency” and “sir” in direct address meant that there were no issues with his governor for Koscuisko to confront. Koscuisko nodded, and made an effort to clear the trouble from his face. “Well, then, let us be off, there is no time like the present. Chief.”
Stildyne didn’t need to say anything. Koscuisko went up the ramp into the courier. Stildyne nodded, and 5.1 broke out to man the stations — finalize the checks, close the ports and portals, seal the courier for launch.
Stildyne himself followed Koscuisko up the ramp, slowly. Thinking. Wondering. Why was First Officer in such an apparent hurry to get these people away from the ship? What did Koscuisko know? And what would Koscuisko tell him?
It was an unfortunate complication to the start of a man’s holiday. But maybe once they’d passed this rocky bit the track would be smooth and level for the duration of Koscuisko’s home leave.
Chapter Two
Damage Control
Admiral Sandri Brecinn sat at her ease in her war room watching the course of the exercise on the massive screens that filled the whole half of the room: top, bottom, sides. “What do they think they’re doing?” she demanded, watching, as the Wolnadi made an audacious move on its next–to–last target. “Eppie, I’m going to want a blood test on that navigator. He’s got to be on something.”
An appreciative chuckle ran through the room, passing from sycophant to toady to sidekick. Brecinn stretched comfortably. She was in her element, surrounded by her people, and they all knew that nothing the Ragnarok accomplished during this exercise would make any difference in the end. The Ragnarok was history. History, and a very significant addition to her asset account.
“You might have to hold the crew here for a while.” Eppie, her aide, picked the line up and stretched it out ably. “Once you start looking into such things. Who knows how far it goes?”
Brecinn liked Eppie. Eppie was a reasonable person. They were all of them reasonable people, people one could deal with, people with whom one could do business. Well, almost all of them. Some of the observers were unknown quantities. The armaments man, Rukota, for one; Brecinn didn’t know too much about him except that he was very solidly protected — his wife had an intimate understanding of long duration with somebody’s First Secretary.
The Clerk of Court that Chilleau Judiciary had sent to take legal note of the proceedings, however, was a woman with a very interesting past about whom Brecinn’s sources wished to say surprisingly little; that piqued Brecinn’s interest. Noycannir was just a Clerk of Court, one who didn’t seem to be very well placed. Her apparent status was inconsistent with what little Brecinn had been able to find out about her contacts. So was she a different sort of an observer? And why exactly was she here, under cover as an exercise observer?
If Noycannir was here on a secret mission she had yet to approach Brecinn about it, which showed a lack of respect on Chilleau’s part. Chilleau was getting too self–confident by half. The Selection was far from certain, and — favorite or no favorite — Chilleau’s victory would not be guaranteed until the last Judge had logged the consensus opinion of the last Judiciary. That was weeks away.
“No sense of propriety.” Brecinn vented some of her frustration with Chilleau Judiciary at the expense of the Wolnadi crew on–screen. The Ragnarok’s fighter had taken its next–to–last target; it had only one left. “Anybody with a feather’s–weight of sensitivity would settle for a solid showing. Instead of this — shameless display — ”
That crew knew as well as anyone that the program was as good as cancelled. If they had any sense at all, they’d be doing what they could to facilitate the cancellation, and hoping for a few crumbs of the spoils to drop their way. If they were reasonable people, they’d play along. Nobody was going to be looking closely at anybody’s personal kit once the ship was decommissioned, after all.
The Wolnadi closed on its last target. Brecinn frowned.
There was an observation station right there, just there, to the other side of the containment field. The Ragnarok’s observation party was on that station. The Wolnadi wouldn’t know that, or at least they weren’t supposed to know. What was she worrying about, anyway? Brecinn asked herself, and took a deep breath, willing herself to relax. The odds of the fighter missing the target, breaching the containment field, and hitting the observation station were low indeed.
Maris had sworn that the stock he had stowed there was stable. Fresh stuff. New loads. Rocket propel
lant didn’t start to degrade until it got old, unless it had been contaminated. Maris knew better than to have sold her inferior goods. He knew she needed them to satisfy the debt she owed to reasonable people.
And the fighter didn’t miss the target. Admiral Brecinn sat back in her chair, satisfied and annoyed at the same time — satisfied, that she’d been concerned over nothing; annoyed at the fighter’s arrogance in pushing for a perfect run.
The fighter heeled into its trajectory, starting back toward its base ship while the debris from the target blossomed in the familiar dust–rose of a solid kill. The target had been very close to the boundary; the plasma membrane of the containment field belled out, fighting to absorb the energy of the blast, and kissed the observation station, sending it tumbling.
There was a murmur of amusement from the observers assembled, nine in all, seated in ranks arrayed before the great monitoring wall — getting a lick from energy wash was a harmless mishap, a pratfall, more amusing than anything else unless it was your bean tea that got spilt. Still Brecinn frowned, despite herself.
Armaments were intrinsically unstable to a certain degree, but it was a moderate degree, a very moderate degree, and it wasn’t as though she could have redirected the Ragnarok party. They’d made the selection at random from the available platforms as part of the exercise protocol.
She hadn’t thought about excluding that one station until it had been too late, not as though she really could have without drawing attention to herself, and not as if that was the only station she was using for storage. The storage spaces were all inerted anyway. Why should she worry? Nobody paid any attention to what might be stored out on unmanned observation stations. Nobody cared about miscellaneous stores.
There was a sudden flare on–screen, and the room fell silent. Brecinn stood up, staring.
“What was that?”
It couldn’t be. It would be such disgustingly stupid luck.
The Devil and Deep Space Page 3