The Devil and Deep Space

by Susan R. Matthews

  “Clearance is logged, General. We’re expected. Well. We’ll just have to hope that the evidence hasn’t been compromised already.”

  What made the navigator suppose that there was evidence to be compromised in the first place?

  Did she expect him not to realize that the mission upon which he had been sent was at least as likely, if not certain, to compromise evidence — if it was not actually bent on fabricating evidence that did not exist?

  Rukota couldn’t decide how best to answer, and therefore decided not to. He was technically in command of this mission. He didn’t have to make nice with anybody.

  The courier cleared the maintenance atmosphere with the familiar and unpleasant feeling of insects tunneling through his joints. Rukota concentrated on what the screens showed, to distract himself from his discomfort.

  The entire working area of the Ragnarok’s underbelly lay open to the maintenance atmosphere, with the plates that would hull over the ship for vector transit stacked into a solid wall fore and aft. There wasn’t much activity: some tenders, one craft in free–float with its crew on EVA, their umbilicus tethers glinting in the powerful illumination from the Ragnarok’s docks.

  Their destination was a slot in the hull of the ship, an envelope of stalloy big enough to park the Captain’s shallop — her personal courier — in. As the navigator maneuvered toward the slip Rukota thought he caught sight of a familiar figure in the basket of a crane near the entrance to their docking bay.

  Short person. Stocky. Hair smoothed back severely across a rounded skull typical of a class–three Auringer hominid, but if it was who he thought it was she had six digits on either hand, and that meant Versanjer instead. He’d thought it through one day a few months ago when he’d been in a particularly bad mood.

  Twenty–seven years ago the Bench had put down a bloody revolt at Versanjer. The slaughter had been horrific. And the vengeance of the Bench had not stopped at the execution of most of the adult population; the Bench had taken the children as well. Put them into crèche. Raised them to serve the Bench with fanatical devotion, making of the daughters and sons of dead rebels paragons of everything against which the insurrectionaries had rebelled.

  The navigator brought the ship into the bay, and the tow drones took control to complete the landing sequence. Rukota decided that he needed some air. Following the system engineer up through the topside observer’s station Rukota straightened carefully, standing on top of the courier’s back.

  Something fell past the mouth of the docking slip, something big and black and silent.

  “Oh, no,” the system engineer said, as if someone had asked her a question. “I don’t deal with those things. All yours, General.”

  She scurried back down into the body of the courier with unseemly and ungraceful haste. Rukota looked at the now–closed hatch for a moment, thinking about it; then he threw the catch with the toe of his boot, securing the hatch from the outside. Let the crew wait for the inorganic quarantine scans to cycle through before they left the ship. It would serve them right for abandoning him to a Desmodontae.

  Something else was coming toward the mouth of the docking slip, but Rukota had an idea that he knew what this was. The crane. The basket came down across the mouth of the docking slip slowly, then slid carefully into the bay itself until it rested level with Rukota where he stood.

  Jennet ap Rhiannon opened the security cage’s gate and beckoned him in with a wave of her hand. “General Rukota. A pleasure to see you.”

  If she said so. He couldn’t say the same for her, and if he had been in her place he would consider his mission to be about as welcome as the tax collector the morning after an unreported gambling coup. Rukota stepped into the basket without comment, and ap Rhiannon moved the crane out and away from the docking slip.

  He could see the Desmodontae now. A great black web–winged creature out of a horror story, a giant bat, subsisting on plasma broths that replaced its native diet of hominid blood. The Ragnarok’s Intelligence Officer. One of the very few non–hominids with rank in all of the Jurisdiction’s Fleet, her presence here on the Ragnarok part and parcel of Fleet’s confusion over what to do with her and what to do with the ship itself.

  His wife said that Two had something on somebody, but that nobody had ever been able to decide if Two realized it or not.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this meeting?” Rukota asked, watching Two carefully as she executed her aerial maneuvers. It was probably difficult for her to be confined on shipboard, rank or no rank. Rukota supposed he himself would grasp any opportunity to fly if he had been a bat.

  “We’ll have a formal in–briefing later on, of course,” ap Rhiannon assured him. “I was surprised to hear you’d accepted the assignment, General. I’m sorry. We don’t have anything for you.”

  Of course she didn’t. What else could she be expected to claim? “Brecinn thought I’d be an impartial observer.” Or a cooperative patsy. Maybe that. “Second Fleet doesn’t have much work for me just now. So here I am. Don’t get any ideas, Lieutenant.”

  There had been awkwardness, during their earlier assignment together. The gossip about Rukota’s wife was widespread. Ap Rhiannon had apparently become intrigued by him, if for no other reason Rukota could guess than sheer contrariness. He had had to remind her that he was her superior officer.

  Now she was the acting Captain of the Ragnarok, and technically outside his chain of command. Was he going to have to defend his virtue?

  The Desmodontae was coming at them in full soar, gliding by very close overhead. Talking to herself, evidently, from the vibration Rukota felt in the buttons on his blouse. Maybe it was just her echolocation. Either way he wished she would stop it.

  “Have you met my Intelligence Officer?” ap Rhiannon asked. Two did a spin and roll, landing on the arm of the crane and stopping abruptly. It was unnatural, that sudden absolute stop. Rukota held on to the railing. He didn’t like Desmodontae. They made him nervous.

  Crawling up the crane’s arm to the basket Two climbed over the rim to hop down into the security cage, smiling up at Rukota cheerfully. It looked like a smile, at least; her mouth was open and the corners of her lips curled up in her face. Rukota could see her very white, very sharp teeth, set off to dazzling perfection by the black velvet of her pelt.

  “Pleased,” Two said. Her translator had no accent, but Rukota suddenly thought about the farce stereotype of the Briadie matron, all flamboyant hand gestures and shrill nasal tones and insatiable nosiness. “Rukota General. Seventeen thousand saved at Ichimar, and casualties held at less than one in four sixty–fours. Very impressive.”

  And a long time ago, but it was kind of her to mention it. “Very gracious, your Excellency. What’s your take on all of this, if I may ask, ma’am?”

  Ap Rhiannon seemed clearly intent on controlling the investigation from the beginning. He could appreciate that. It was her natural right as the acting Captain of this ship. If she was going to give him access to her Intelligence Officer, though, he was going to take advantage of it.

  “We have nothing to give or take,” Two assured him, happily. “But don’t take my word on it. Take your time. Enjoy your investigation. The food is not good, by report, and accommodation cannot be said to be luxurious, but what is ours is yours.”

  Ap Rhiannon was not so happy as Two seemed about it all. “I’ll tell you what I think, General. I think Pesadie wants to find someone here on board of the Ragnarok at fault for that explosion. The plain fact that it’s incredible is not enough to stop some people. I won’t have it.”

  There wasn’t anything he could say in response to this, because she was right on all counts. “Then the audit will show that you’re clean, Lieutenant. And we’ll be out of your way in no time.”

  He hadn’t convinced her. No surprise there. He hadn’t sounded convincing to himself. “We’ve already done one assessment, General, ammunition, equipment calibration, electromagnetic emissions. Everything. Unexceptiona
l on all vectors. So what? If evidence is not found, it can be created.”

  Yes. That was the way it was. “So Fleet will run a few tests, and ask a few questions. You could lose a troop or six. That’s the way it goes, Lieutenant. There’s a Command Branch officer dead, and there has to be an explanation somewhere.”

  “Pesadie can just find its explanations at its own expense. I have no intention of throwing a single life into Fleet’s maw, Command Branch or no Command Branch. These are my crew now, General, for howsoever short a time, and I will defend them. Are we clear?”

  Two shifted her wings with an embarrassed sort of a shrugging gesture as ap Rhiannon spoke, and it was all Rukota could do not to jump.

  “I’m just here to take the baseline, Lieutenant.” Yes, they both knew how easy it was to fake a baseline. But if she’d learned anything at all about him during their previous acquaintance, she would know that he didn’t play games. “It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. If there’s nothing here, that’s what I’ll tell Brecinn. If there’s something here, you’ll see it before she does. Can we just agree on that?”

  So that he could get out of this crane basket, and away from the Ragnarok’s Intelligence Officer. He was probably sweating.

  Ap Rhiannon glanced up into his face for a moment before she nodded, finally. “Very well, General. Welcome aboard.”

  Oh, absolutely. A hostile Captain and suspicious crew to one side of him, a team he mistrusted — and whom he suspected of having their own agenda — to the other: just his idea of a welcoming environment.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Technically she was an Excellency, he supposed. But she’d been his subordinate Officer, once upon a time before, and he didn’t know quite how to relate to her as anything else. What did it matter if he antagonized her? She wasn’t happy about any of this anyway. “Pleased to be here. Well. Actually, no. But we’ll do our best with what we’ve got.”

  With luck, he wouldn’t have to spend too much time with the Intelligence Officer.

  But, with luck, he wouldn’t have been here in the first place; so Rukota sighed and resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have an opportunity to grapple with his fears, and climbed back out of the crane basket — when ap Rhiannon returned him to the docking slip — to open the hatch in the top of the courier and let his team come out.

  ###

  Cousin Ferinc stood in the young master’s schoolroom with Anton Andreievitch in his arms, looking out the tall window across the courtyard to the old wall and the river beyond.

  “There, now, that’s better,” he said encouragingly, as Anton rubbed his nose and wiped his eyes. In that order, unfortunately, but there were limits about what could be expected of an eight-year-old — even one so self-possessed as Anton Andreievitch Koscuisko. “Here’s Nurse, young master, time for your bath. You can tell me all about it when I get back, but be good and don’t fuss, or I shan’t bring you a wheat–fish from Dubrovnije.”

  Anton’s bright blue eyes widened. “I shall be very good,” he assured Ferinc, solemnly. “And shan’t fuss at all. I promise.”

  He always kept his promises, too; at least, as well as a child with the handicap of a developing attention span to contend with could manage it. He was like his father that way.

  Ferinc put the child down. “Good man. Go along, I’ll just speak to the Respected Lady, and I’ll see you in a few days. Don’t forget. I’ll bring you a wheat–fish.”

  He usually tried not to think about Anton’s father. Over the years it had become easier than he would have imagined not to think about Anton’s father. He still had dreams, but Cousin Stanoczk had reconciled him to that. Cousin Stanoczk was not Anton’s father. But he did look a very great deal like the man, especially in the dark of a dimly lit cell.

  Ferinc watched Anton Andreievitch out of the room, smiling gently to himself: Anton was such a little man.

  Anton Andreievitch’s mother spoke from behind him, and called his attention back to where he was. “And for me, Cousin.” It was a word for cousin that she used only seldom, and never except when they were alone. “What will you bring me from Dubrovnije if I am very good, and do not fuss?”

  There was tension in her voice, and not a little bitterness. But there was to be no help for it. Andrej Koscuisko could not find him at the Matredonat. It would ruin everything.

  “Surely the Respected Lady has nothing to fear,” Ferinc said with tender assurance, turning to face her. “What is it, Marana? Tell your Cousin Ferinc all.”

  She smiled bravely at his teasing, reaching out for him, drawing him to her by pulling at the braids that he wore to each side of his face to keep his hair out of his eyes. Malcontents alone of all Dolgorukij men wore their hair long; at least some of them did, and Ferinc had let his hair grow as part of his way of separating himself from his former self. There were drawbacks. This was one of them.

  “I have not seen Andrej for more than nine years, Ferinc. Nine years. And yet he is the master of this house, lord of the Matredonat, and all that is in it.”

  Master of her body, at least in principle. That was the traditional understanding of her position here, at any rate.

  “It will probably be a little awkward. Yes.” He had his arms around her now, and the trusting warmth of her body against his was familiar and comforting. She was tall for a Dolgorukij woman. But he was taller. He was not Dolgorukij, either. “Nothing I have ever heard of thy lord would make him out to be a man to impose himself on a lady’s privacy. He is probably as nervous as you are; consider, you know I’m right.”

  She raised her head and looked up at him sharply. It couldn’t be that she had misunderstood him; they were speaking of Koscuisko in his capacity as a normal social creature. Not as Inquisitor. “But I’m not a lady, Ferinc, I’m a gentlewoman of yes–all–right–passable breeding — but poor judgment — who bespoke a child from a betrothed man before his sacred wife had been bred to his body. There are far simpler ways to say just what I am. You know them.”

  Willful misunderstanding was to be his tactic, Ferinc decided. “Yes. Among them beautiful. Devoted. Precious beyond price. The hearth–mistress of the Matredonat — ”

  No, none of those were the words she had had in mind, and she pushed him away from her with a smile. “ ‘In the mouth of the Malcontent, excrement is honey.’ You will be gone for how long, Cousin?”

  Not so quickly as that, Ferinc decided, and closed the distance between them to embrace her. “Would I dare to kiss you,” he asked; and did so, carefully, gently, thoroughly, “if that were true? Be fair, Marana.”

  She made a face at him, her hands at the back of his head, smoothing the long hair that fell unbraided down his back. “Lefrols, then, and it is very much the same thing if you would like to know my opinion. Answer the question.”

  “Three weeks, maybe longer, Respected Lady. I don’t know for certain. I won’t know until Cousin Stanoczk tells me, and he hasn’t yet.” Koscuisko would be home for at least that long. Anton would be reconciled to Ferinc’s temporary absence after a day or two, and then six weeks would seem no longer than three to him. Marana was not likely to be as understanding, but there was nothing that Ferinc could do about that.

  He was not going to Dubrovnije. But that was nobody’s business but the Malcontent’s. He would have to send for a wheat–fish for Anton Andreievitch.

  “Think of me while you are gone, Cousin.” Marana stepped away from him and back into her status; one almost saw the power descend upon her shoulders like a shawl. “Yes. I’m nervous. It’s beastly of you to leave me now. But one does not expect decency from Malcontents.”

  She was not actually angry at him. If she knew what duty called him away from her, she would be. She would be more than angry. She would be horrified and betrayed, and would quite possibly refuse to so much as see him again, ever again.

  She was right about one thing at least, though. It was nobody’s business but the Malcontent’s. It could be true that Merga
u Noycannir at Chilleau Judiciary had no good reason to know Andrej Koscuisko’s exact whereabouts: but the Saint had accepted the bargain she’d offered, and would fulfill its side of the contract. It was one way to be sure that they knew what she was up to, after all.

  “The peace of the Malcontent be with you, Respected Lady. I will think of you. Depend upon it.”

  She was to be Koscuisko’s wife, though she didn’t know it yet. Ferinc was not sure she would still be his lover when he returned. “The Holy Mother has ordained that women need not bless your divine Patron. So I will say only good–bye, Ferinc.”

  It was in the hands of the Holy Mother. In whom he did not believe, but it would be imprudent to remind his Patron’s goddess of that. “I’ll be back to see you in a few weeks, Respected Lady. You have the home advantage with your lord; he is almost a stranger here. You will manage beautifully.”

  Women were absolved from blessing the name of the Malcontent; Malcontents, from begging leave, as from most — if not all — of the otherwise common rites of ordinary life. Ferinc left Marana in the nursery and went down the hall to make his way out to the motor stables. There was a ground-car waiting.

  Marana, in the embrace of her lord, soon to become her husband as well as her master. Marana, in Koscuisko’s bed —

  He had to get out to the airfield in time to find his covert. He would simply have to submit the whole problem to Cousin Stanoczk, the next chance that he got to be reconciled.

  ###

  Andrej Koscuisko stood behind Lek as the courier made its final approach to Jelchick Field.

  The Magdalenja had made atmosphere, dropped out of space into stratosphere, several hours ago; it had shed the thermal load acquired in its re–entry over long, slow, high–altitude orbit, and it was ready to make planetfall in fact.

  “We have for the final approach your clearance codes, Magdalenja. Stand by.”

  The Standard was precise and uninflected, but the syntax was Dolgorukij. Andrej watched the long hills, the great broad course of the river Trijan, the black–green slopes of the spacious game preserve with its old forest scroll beneath the hull of the courier: home.