What was it to be? Minimizing the damage, the exposure, the risk at the cost of a few crew from the Ragnarok, or letting delicacy of feeling overwhelm common sense, and the greater good of the majority?
“There will necessarily be a series of collaterals,” Brecinn noted. Mergau knew by the fact that Brecinn was thinking about it that she was halfway there. “We’re not just talking about four people here. And there’s bound to be Judicial review. Command Branch requires it.”
“The Bench has other things to worry about right now, and among them is its sacred duty to maintain public confidence in the rule of Law. If anybody wants to ask any questions when it’s all over it’s only going to raise unnecessary issues, and the Bench is going to have its hands full with political stabilization for the next few years.”
Brecinn wasn’t looking at Mergau any more. She was staring past Mergau’s left shoulder at the far end of the room, her face all but expressionless. “We do need to be here for Chilleau Judiciary when the new First Judge is seated,” Brecinn agreed thoughtfully. “And that means with our credibility intact. If we risked a scandal now it could cost Chilleau support she’ll need. We can only provide it if we’ve put this behind us by the time the Selection is made.”
Just so. Mergau sat quietly, content to let the Admiral do the job of convincing herself to sacrifice lives on the Ragnarok to political expediency. The personal benefits — escape from exposure as a black–market trafficker, negotiating leverage with reasonable people — were strictly subordinate to the greater good of the Judicial order. Of course.
Brecinn took a deep breath and focused her eyes on Mergau’s face. “What’s your interest in all of this, Dame?”
Almost there. Mergau smiled. “You mean apart from my keen awareness of how much the First Secretary values the support of Pesadie Training Command?”
Verlaine cared no more for Pesadie’s political support than for any other such Fleet partisans. Brecinn didn’t need to know that. Brecinn was more than willing to believe herself to be an important key to Verlaine’s long–term strategy.
Mergau let her head sway on her shoulders, ever so slightly, in a gesture of complicity and conspiracy. “And apart from my personal interest in doing the best for the next First Judge, I’d like to do business with you, Admiral. We could consider my assistance in this little matter services on account, for the future. On deposit, if you will. I know there’s interest to be had, if I can demonstrate to you that you can rely on my discretion.”
As far as that went. It didn’t have to go very far. The plan, in fact, didn’t go any further than what Mergau had proposed just now; she was still thinking things through. But if she pulled this off, she could earn invaluable protection . . . and blackmail opportunities, if it came to that.
Admiral Brecinn leaned forward over her desk and offered Mergau her hand, in the quaint, old–fashioned manner that some people had of doing business in good faith. “I begin to see the long–term requirements of the situation,” Brecinn said. “Thank you, Dame. It’s never easy to believe treason of any Fleet resources, but our duty to the Judicial order clearly requires us to investigate. The more quickly we can resolve things the better it will be for everyone.”
This transparent rationalization required a solemn response from her, and not a hearty chuckle. “Quite right, Admiral. I will tell the First Secretary that I have offered my services, and extended my stay. If you could detail an aide to show me what facilities you have available. And I’ll need access to the Record on site.”
No time like the present to be started. The Admiral would have work for her very soon, of that Mergau could be confident. “Of course, Dame Noycannir. I’ll send someone to you in quarters directly.”
She would gain armor here that would protect her even from the chance that Garol Vogel would return from wherever he had gone, and uncover the forgery of the Bench warrant that should have ended Andrej Koscuisko’s life. Somehow, Mergau knew that she would be coming out of this more powerful, more influential, more secure than she had ever dreamed of being.
###
When General Dierryk Rukota reported to Admiral Brecinn’s office he was surprised to find Dame Mergau Noycannir in company, and a clearing signal on the communicator screen at the far end of the office. The signs were not good. But what was Noycannir doing here?
“You sent for me, Admiral.” Rukota had been detailed here to observe as a representative from the Second Fleet; Admiral Brecinn was not in his chain of command. He didn’t worry about observing all the formalities. He’d be polite, but he was an artilleryman, not an administrator.
At least he’d used to be an artilleryman before he’d attracted the wrong sort of attention from the reasonable people that seemed to fill Fleet’s administration these days. His tour of duty with ap Rhiannon had been the last straw, apparently, because he’d been on one detail or another ever since, and there was no hint from anybody about a return to an active line posting yet.
“Yes, thank you, General. I’m just putting a call in to Second Fleet.” Brecinn in turn barely acknowledged his rank, though she could hardly avoid acknowledging his presence. Maybe she wasn’t entirely to blame for that. Second Fleet wasn’t particularly on Brecinn’s side, and exercise observers were frequently called into play as double agents to collect information on mismanagement to be used, if necessary, to offset any criticisms that Pesadie might level at the Fleet resources undergoing evaluation.
Noycannir hadn’t stood when he’d come in; so she felt she was on an equal rank footing with him — a change since yesterday. The implications were intriguing. He’d heard gossip about Noycannir from his wife, during their infrequent rendezvous.
There were disadvantages to being married to one of the great beauties of the age; one of them was not having her all to himself. Another was having to put up with the jokes that people made about children that looked like almost anybody other than their mother’s husband, but Rukota knew better than to care. They were all his children. She was his wife. He was their father, no matter who the sperm donor might have been.
Since nobody was standing on ceremony he guessed he would just seat himself and say the first thing that came into his head. Brecinn was barely paying attention to him anyway. “Why are we waiting to talk to Second Fleet, if I may ask?”
“We’re going to ask Second Fleet to extend your detail, in order to accomplish a very sensitive task for us,” Brecinn said. “I know it’s an imposition on your time, General, but you’re really the very best person we have at hand for this mission.”
It was the preliminary response team. He just knew it. Admiral Brecinn had only two choices for a commander to field such a team: someone from Pesadie; and someone not. If they sent a team comprised entirely of people from Pesadie, there would be protests and accusations of partisanship from the beginning of the investigation. And of all the other people here to observe the Ragnarok’s training exercise — numbering two in total — he was the only person who could credibly be detailed to command an audit team, howsoever ad–hoc and informal.
Second Fleet was on the line — Brecinn’s counterpart, Command General Chehdral herself, Rukota suppressed a sigh. Chehdral was not part of the network of corruption as far as Rukota knew, but she had no particular use for him — not because of any personal animus, but because she was fully staffed for officers in his grade. Chehdral would be just as glad of something that would occupy Rukota’s time for a while longer. It would be the assessment team for him for certain, then.
“Admiral Brecinn. What can we do for you?” It wasn’t really a question, just a polite sort of a greeting. Not much of a greeting, either, come to that.
“General Chehdral, I’ve been privileged to enjoy the support of one of your command in recent weeks. You sent General Rukota to participate in evaluating the training exercises we have been conducting with the JFS Ragnarok. We’d like to keep him on for a few months. We need the line commander’s insight on some issues that hav
e come up.”
Well, it wasn’t as if she was likely to come out and say “The Ragnarok’s Captain has been blown up and we need someone to help us control the damage.” Was that what they wanted him to do? Manage the fallout? Or just pin it on the Ragnarok and get on with life?
“General Rukota is with you?” Chehdral asked. “Yes. General. What do you hear from your family?”
His wife was in retreat, helping the First Secretary at a Judiciary not to be named manage his not–inconsiderable stress. His children were with their mother, with his parents, or in school. Nobody particularly needed Rukota himself. His was a relatively small role in the life of his family.
“They are well, General Chehdral, thank you for asking. There is nothing at home that requires my personal attention.” He couldn’t pretend to be needed at home, though he appreciated the offered escape hatch. It was clearly of no particular interest one way or the other whether Rukota stayed or not, for Command General Chehdral. She shrugged.
“You are seconded at Admiral Brecinn’s request, General Rukota, to serve as needed or until further notice. Orders to follow. Are we done, Brecinn? This is Command General Chehdral, Second Fleet. Away, here.”
She always had been a woman of few words. That Rukota was inconvenienced by the words she had shared with him was not her issue.
It was quiet in Brecinn’s office, so Rukota took the initiative. “What do you expect to accomplish with the fielding of an immediate response team, Admiral?” His question came out sounding perhaps a little more confrontational than it really needed to be. Brecinn did not seem to notice.
“Dame Noycannir has prepared a brief.” A flat–form docket, which Brecinn held out for him to take. He had to stand up and lean forward to take it. He’d never liked Perand chairs; they compressed the spine and gave him muscle cramps. “Due to the extended period of time likely to elapse between now and the arrival of an accredited Fleet audit team, it’s imperative to capture what physical evidence there may be. It would be too easy for vital information to be lost.”
Or discarded. Or destroyed. “Physical evidence of what, Dame, exactly?” Rukota asked, looking at Noycannir. If this was about an honest attempt to protect the truth he was a Chigan’s bed–boy. “It seems a little unusual to send an investigative party to the Ragnarok to seek evidence pertinent to something that occurred on an observation station.”
Noycannir dropped her eyes, almost coyly. “You’ll forgive me if I protect privileged sources.” As though she had some. Perhaps she did. He had no reason to suspect that she was making it all up. Did he? “There are disquieting indications. We need to establish a baseline as soon as possible.”
Either she was truly in a position to know something, or she and the Admiral meant to blame the accident on the Ragnarok somehow. She was a Clerk of Court at Chilleau Judiciary, true; she could be operating on a level much different than that about which Rukota’s wife had told him.
Or she could be dirty, as Brecinn was dirty, as Pesadie Training Command was dirty, as increasing numbers of Fleet administrative staff appeared to be. Reasonable people. So why select him?
He’d worked with ap Rhiannon before, and lived to tell of it. Did they assume that he resented the trouble that ap Rhiannon had caused him, and would turn a blind eye to plots on the part of Pesadie — or even actively forward them? Or did they mistakenly believe that his presence on Brecinn’s hunting party would put ap Rhiannon off her guard, convince her that she had a friend in him who would protect her interests?
“When do we leave, Admiral?” He would read Noycannir’s brief. And he would keep his own counsel. Who knew? Perhaps by the time the accredited team ap Rhiannon had demanded arrived to take charge, he would have some interesting things to say to them. About Admiral Brecinn. And about Mergau Noycannir.
Anything was possible, in this age of wonder.
###
Bench intelligence specialist Jils Ivers sat beneath a canopy on a crossing–craft in the middle of a great blue lake, her eyes resting on the brilliance of the snow–covered mountains that garlanded the horizon.
The men who rowed the crossing–craft were singing. If you row well enough the Autocrat may see/And then the Autocrat may chance to smile/And then good fortune will descend upon your house.
There was an island of gray rock in the middle of the lake, and administrative buildings glittering in the sun. Old–fashioned architecture. The Autocrat’s summer residence was in the middle of lovely Lake Belanthe, which lay in the embrace of the goddess Perunna — after whom the right–most range of mountains had been named.
Then all of your sons will have eight sons/And you will have a daughter of such beauty and ability that she will come into the house, into the Autocrat’s house/And there the Autocrat may see, and then the Autocrat may chance to smile.
It was an old song, by its syntax; Jils wasn’t sure she caught more than half of it. Garol might have been able to translate for her. Garol was good at languages, and had an apparently solid grasp of High Aznir by report; which was a little humorous, because Garol didn’t even like Dolgorukij. Garol’s nature was not at base suspicious, but he had learned to be wary, and among the things to which Garol had elected to take general all–purpose undifferentiated exception was the Dolgorukij Combine and all of its works and adjuncts.
Your daughter will have sons of noble blood to grow in power and prosper in wealth/The breeding–grounds of Geral will be yours, the seven looms of Dyraine of the weavers/You will have the holy grain to feed your house/And be welcomed as a guest in all Koscuisko’s strongholds.
The crossing–craft drew near to the island and slowed.
There was a man at the docks waiting for her. Jils tried not to be glad to see him; at this distance he could well be some other Dolgorukij than the one she was looking for, and even if he was the right man he might not have any information. Or elect to share it.
People in uniform clustered around the crossing–craft as it tied up. Someone pushed a roll of fabric down the stone steps — a rug. An expensive rug, and though the waters of Lake Belanthe weren’t salt using a hand–knotted rug of such elaborate pattern for a traction–mat was surely not the way to preserve a work of art. That was the whole point, Jils supposed. Conspicuous consumption. The Combine was rich.
The Combine was filthy rich, and had always had an agricultural surplus with which to support labor–intensive handicrafts, and as long as people could earn a decent living replacing rugs used as traction–mats who was she to think twice about it?
“Specialist Ivers,” the waiting man said. It was the Malcontent Cousin Stanoczk, yes. “Good to see you. Did you have a pleasant crossing?”
The crew held the craft so still it was almost as though she was already on solid ground as she stepped out. The angle of the steps was a little awkward; she found herself glad of the extra purchase that the rug provided. The stairs were worn to a slope. They were old. On other worlds they might have been replaced, or the lake bridged; but Dolgorukij treasured old things as they were.
“Smooth as anyone could wish.” There wasn’t much of a breeze up across the lake, but thanks were owed to the crew as well. A rowing crew could make the smoothest passage rough if they were minded to. “These men are impressive, Cousin.”
She didn’t feel up to choosing the correct Dolgorukij form of the word; there were entirely too many ways to call someone cousin in Dolgorukij, each one with its own meaning and message about relative status, the degree of intensity with which one desired a favor, and the depth of obligation that one was willing to accept in return. Jils stuck to plain Standard. It was much safer that way.
“Indeed, Specialist. Combine–wide champions for speed as well as endurance, three years running now. Someone will take your box up to quarters. If you’d care to come with me, and have a glass of rhyti?”
If she had to. “Very kind.” She didn’t like rhyti. She’d learned a lot about it over the years, though. Verlaine had set her on Andr
ej Koscuisko to keep an eye on him, and Koscuisko drank rhyti. She’d gotten interested almost despite herself. “Thank you for meeting me, Cousin. I wonder if I could have a quick word or two with you on a personal matter.”
Cousin Stanoczk reminded her of Koscuisko, if rather vaguely. The two men were related, if she remembered correctly; but Cousin Stanoczk had a very deep voice and Koscuisko was tenor, Cousin Stanoczk had dark brown eyes and Andrej Koscuisko’s eyes were so pale that they almost had no color at all, Cousin Stanoczk had hair the color of wet wood and Andrej Koscuisko was blonder by several emphatic degrees.
Still, it was the same general form — not tall, deceptively slight, with shoulders whose slope belied their power and hands whose surpassing elegance belonged by right to an artist or a surgeon. What a Malcontent was doing with such hands Jils didn’t know. Perhaps Stanoczk painted; it was unlikely that he practiced medicine, because medicine could be hired nearly anywhere, and Malcontents specialized in services that could not be hired or purchased at all.
Cousin Stanoczk grinned. He had very much the same surprising and open smile as Koscuisko had from time to time — one that showed a lot of small white teeth. “Be careful what you do, Specialist, the Malcontent is always at your service but will almost always find some favor to solicit in return. Sooner or later. That said, speak, I listen.”
The worn stone walkway from the dock led them up a long shore of shallow steps into a green plaza where water birds were browsing in the grass like flowers on feet. Webbed feet. How did they keep the walkways clean? Jils wondered.
“Garol Vogel, Cousin. I don’t mind telling you in confidence, as one professional to another. He’s disappeared.”
The Devil and Deep Space Page 7