The Devil and Deep Space

by Susan R. Matthews

  That Marana had taken comfort from Ferinc in Andrej’s absence he could understand, so long as he declined to think about it.

  Yet Anton loved his Ferinc, and Andrej didn’t know what he was going to do about that. The Ferinc that Anton loved was very little to do with the man Andrej had disciplined so many years ago; it did no good to tell himself that it was for Anton’s sake that Ferinc should be denied him. Anton was a loving and trusting child. Children learned what they were shown, rather than what they were taught. To be fair, Andrej could not deny Ferinc credit for the beautiful spirit of his son, the openhearted affection that he had found so surprising and so endearing. How could those two Ferincs be the same man?

  He was not particularly interested in Cousin Stanoczk’s thula. Unless he missed his guess, Specialist Ivers would imagine that this was the only one that the Malcontent owned; and she was impressed enough at that, because the Bench itself could not afford any more of them. That had been why the program had been cancelled. Andrej suspected that the Malcontent had more than one thula at his saintly disposal; not because he knew, but because he — unlike the Bench specialist — had the native child’s grasp of the money that the Malcontent held in safekeeping for the Saint’s purposes.

  He stood outside the craft at the side of the loading ramp and looked at the sky, instead. They were so high into atmosphere at Chelatring Side that everything looked crisper, brighter, sharper in the thin air. Sometimes he thought about the old times when Koscuisko had lived at Chelatring Side and only gone down to the grain fields to raid or to marry, and wondered whether his ancestors would hold him in contempt for that he had to use a supplemental atmosphere generator when he came to his own home.

  He knew that he’d looked down on Iosev for chronic bleeding of the nose, as if it were a moral weakness. There were many more reasons than just that to find his brother wanting, that was so.

  Someone came around from the nose of the thula toward him, and stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of Andrej. Andrej sighed. “Come to me, Cousin,” he suggested, knowing that it was not a suggestion. “Stanoczk says that I am to have a word with you.”

  Ferinc looked a different man, in this thin light, than he had in the library at the Matredonat, which had been comparatively dim. There was more gray in his long fore–braids than Andrej had noticed, but his gaze was clear and level. When Ferinc dropped his eyes to bow it was with professional self– effacement, not the fear that had possessed him before. “If Cousin Stanoczk says, your Excellency, I am bound to obey.”

  Oh, be that way, Andrej thought to himself with irritation. And your soul to perdition on top of it. “My child loves you very much, and speaks of you often. Someone has taught him to be so openhearted as to gladden the heart of a long–absent father. How are we to manage this between us?”

  “We” was owed Ferinc, regardless of how Andrej felt about the man personally. Marana had not approached him to moderate his ban on Ferinc, but every time Andrej heard Anton mention the name it reminded him that there was an issue to resolve.

  “Permission to speak freely, your Excellency,” Cousin Ferinc said, but it wasn’t a Malcontent talking, it was the petty warrant officer that Ferinc had once been. Andrej didn’t care to be reminded of who Ferinc had been, but that was the problem whole and entire right there, wasn’t it?

  And who was he, of all men, to disdain Haster Girag for what Girag had done, when he himself was so much the more depraved a beast? “Granted.”

  It took Ferinc a moment to collect his thoughts, but then he licked his lips as though they were dry and spoke. “I was sent for duty, your Excellency. I didn’t mean to grow close to the child. I didn’t see it happening. I am the slave of the Malcontent. His Excellency knows how little I have to say about where I am next to go. But, your Excellency, if I could be permitted, even if only to write from time to time.”

  Andrej knew that he was Anton’s biological parent, his genetic sire. Ferinc was the man who had been Anton’s father — the realization was liberating and agonizing, at once.

  “Stanoczk is right.” Andrej said it out loud, and heard the somewhat confused wonder in his voice. “A duty is owed to you, Ferinc. I don’t want to see you. Deal with Marana. I withdraw my prohibition. Anton loves you. How could I love him, if I kept you from him?”

  Liberating: because what he had done to Ferinc when he had punished Haster Girag — rather than reporting his criminal behavior for Fleet to punish — had not destroyed Ferinc’s capacity for happiness, Malcontent or no. Ferinc could still feel and share a parent’s love for a child, love that was untainted by the corruption of the torture cell.

  Agonizing: because Andrej despaired of ever taking Ferinc’s place in the heart of his own son. He did not deserve it; he could not truly begrudge it to Ferinc; and yet, and yet, and yet. Ferinc reached out and took him by the sleeve, as if overcome. Loosened his grip, then straightened up. “Thank you,” Ferinc said. “I won’t give you cause to regret it. I promise. Thank you.”

  And yet he had only done the right thing, because the pure parental affection in Ferinc’s voice was unmistakable. Undeniable. How cruel would it have been to deny Ferinc to Anton? To deny Anton to Ferinc?

  It was the Malcontent’s business; so Andrej did not have to think long or hard on it, nor could he bear to. He merely nodded, and Stildyne came down out of the thula to rescue him from awkwardness, pausing in apparent confusion to see him and Ferinc together. “Your Excellency,” Stildyne said. “Your assistance, sir. Lek’s bonding. We may not be able to pry him loose. We need your help.”

  No, Stildyne had only wondered where he was, but Andrej was glad to take the offered escape route. Andrej nodded yet again; and went up the ramp into the courier to see what had gotten into his good Lek, hoping he’d done the right thing for his son.

  ###

  Admiral Brecinn stared at the little ticket in front of her on her desk, her hands flat to the desk’s surface as though she could stop the room from spinning by main force of will.

  The treachery was unspeakable.

  Dame Mergau Noycannir was not at Chilleau. She hadn’t been there, she wasn’t expected, and so far as Chilleau knew she was at Pesadie. Mergau Noycannir had taken the finest, fleetest courier at Pesadie and left days ago, but she hadn’t gone to Chilleau at all. It all made too much sense, all of a sudden.

  Noycannir had come from Chilleau to observe the exercise. When the accident had happened, she had offered her services to Brecinn as though motivated by nothing more than an eye toward her own advantage and a desire to ingratiate herself with the network of reasonable people. She had counseled patience, subtlety, tact, but it had all been a trick.

  The Ragnarok had stolen the cannon from Silboomie Station and left for Fleet Audit Appeals Authority at Taisheki. Mergau Noycannir had disappeared.

  It was a conspiracy; Brecinn couldn’t quite puzzle the exact framework of it out, but she knew a conspiracy when she smelled one. There was no time to sit and beat herself for her stupidity, her trusting nature, her gullibility.

  This had gone beyond a simple issue of lost profit. The loss of the battle cannon was a serious compromise. Reasonable people did not tolerate being compromised. She needed a good story and she needed it fast, and she needed to get it to Taisheki Station before the Ragnarok had a chance to log an appeal. She had to get her word in first.

  There were reasonable people at the Fleet Audit Appeals Authority. And the cannon was worth a very great deal of money.

  The Ragnarok was clearly trafficking; they’d killed poor inoffensive Brem because he’d discovered something inconvenient, perhaps because he’d been reluctant to participate. They’d used their stay at Pesadie Training Command to forge documentation for stolen munitions, using her own validation codes. Now they intended to present the gun to Fleet to incriminate Pesadie and divert Fleet’s attention away from their own corrupt dealings.

  It was not the most convincing story in the world. But it was al
l she had. And if it cost her everything she had left to buy credibility at Fleet Audit Appeals Authority — poverty was better than death. Poverty she could hope to recover from. Assassination was much more permanent a handicap for an officer’s career.

  She would see to it that ap Rhiannon, not Sandri Brecinn, paid the price for this treachery, if it took the last resources she had at her command. She would be revenged. She could no longer hope to profit from the Ragnarok’s decommissioning, but she would see to it that ap Rhiannon died for her duplicity.

  ###

  There were only fifty people at dinner, sixty at most, but Stildyne couldn’t get a decent count for the glittering of jewels in the bright lights. They hurt his eyes. And he was drunk already: not on any alcohol, but on the luxury that clothed his body and beguiled him with unimaginable sensuality.

  They hadn’t brought dress uniform with them.

  Koscuisko’s people hadn’t said word one, but Koscuisko’s people had been busy at it since the day that they’d arrived here on Azanry. Stildyne could only guess that garments had been borrowed, checked for size, when he’d thought they were merely being laundered. Because on gaining crew–quarters here at Chelatring Side earlier today, they had found dress uniform ready for all of them.

  The fit was exact and the detail was precise, from the formal version of the service marks that Taller wore on his collar — from the Abermarle campaign — to the exact shade of green that marked Lek for a bond–involuntary. Of course, the shade of green had to be precise; not all hominids under Jurisdiction had the same sort of color vision, after all, so tone and saturation were as important as hue.

  Perfect. But so much more than perfect. The boots had been shaped to the wear of the foot, but they were lined with glove leather so soft that it was almost like sex to set foot inside them. Koscuisko’s personal linen had always been that, linen, and Security had handled it often enough over the years while managing drunken officers; Stildyne had never imagined the luxury of wearing a linen hip–wrap on his own part.

  And the boot stockings were silk. And the uniform blouse was a wool spun so fine that it made a man afraid to put it on, but it lay so lightly across his shoulders that he almost felt naked. It was unnerving. His under–blouse alone was worth three weeks’ pay, and the kit was complete. It was astonishing. And it made him angry, in a subtle sense; how dare Koscuisko’s people treat them with so much contempt as to casually clothe them with a year’s wages, and not even bother to mention it?

  Stildyne stood by the side doors into the great dining room, brooding about it, watching his people. House security had posted Security 5.1 in visible positions around the officer, a guard of honor. Koscuisko’s people were particularly fascinated by Smath and Kerenko, to judge from their placement, because they were to either side of Koscuisko himself, with a clear corridor between down which the servers might pass.

  Koscuisko would never wear his uniform again. He wasn’t wearing his uniform now, sitting at the table, talking with Specialist Ivers to one side of him and a boy–child on the other. Not that much older than Anton Andreievitch, Stildyne thought, and nudged Cousin Stanoczk in the ribs with his elbow.

  “Who is that?” The boy–child looked like Anton Andreievitch, come to that. Or like Koscuisko. That meant nothing. Chelatring Side was filthy with people who

  looked like Koscuisko. He had thought that Cousin Stanoczk looked like Koscuisko at the Matredonat. There were closer matches here everywhere he turned.

  Cousin Stanoczk frowned, apparently confused; but his face cleared quickly. “Young prince. The youngest of the family, Nikolij Ulexeievitch. Your officer’s youngest brother. Who else?”

  The servers were carrying a meat course down the line behind the seated guests. Stildyne caught a glimpse of the Bench specialist’s profile as she turned her head to consider the offer; she looked a little panicked, Stildyne thought. Yes. It had already been several courses.

  “Father. Mother. Autocrat’s Proxy.” Stildyne named them off as he knew them, and Cousin Stanoczk filled in the rest.

  “Thy officer’s sister, actually, did you know that? Fourth born and second eldest of daughters. Younger than Iosev and Meeka, but older than Lo. There’s another sister. And the oldest sister is not here tonight, because it is too awkward in today’s environment, after all.”

  Whatever that meant. Stildyne counted them all up in his mind; Koscuisko had four brothers, then, and three sisters as it seemed. More family than Stildyne had ever had. In Dolgorukij terms, Stildyne had never had family at all, he supposed. “Why do they keep staring?”

  That the guests were intrigued by Smish in uniform Stildyne could understand. Koscuisko had warned them to expect that, and the experience of their stay at the Matredonat had only confirmed the exotic appeal Smish had on Azanry. He wasn’t sure he understood what was so interesting about Lek. Lek was tolerably well put together, yes, and Security were expected to maintain an appropriately lean and menacing physique. But so were Taller and Murat, and Murat was quite possibly abstractly the more attractive of the three. Being younger, for one.

  Now Cousin Stanoczk shoved him, as, Stildyne had elbowed Cousin Stanoczk earlier. “What do you think?” Well, if he’d known what to think, Stildyne thought a bit resentfully, he wouldn’t have asked. “And do you mean to watch all through the dinner, Chief?”

  “No, Cousin, I think he’s safe enough with his own people. These troops look like they mean business to me.” The house security who staffed the room were as fine troops as Stildyne had ever seen; he could smell their edge. It was subtle. They more than just looked impressive. They had the juice.

  “Then come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”

  Cousin Stanoczk drew him away from the room, walking backward, sidling through a panel door in the wall that Stildyne hadn’t noticed being there. “He’s Sarvaw, Chief,” Cousin Stanoczk said, and after a moment Stildyne remembered having asked the question about Lek. “Imagine that. A Sarvaw security troop. Assigned to the son of the Koscuisko prince. The mind, it absolutely boggles.”

  Stildyne couldn’t see what was so particularly boggling about that. “It’s all Combine one way or the other, Cousin, isn’t it so?” All right, so he’d heard that there was bad blood in the history. History was history. And if it wasn’t history, it ought to be, once it was history. “How can they tell, anyway? You all look alike to me.”

  Cousin Stanoczk snorted, apparently taken by genuine surprise. “Say such a thing to either Aznir or Sarvaw and insult them equally, friend Stildyne. You will perhaps consent to trust me on this. We can tell.”

  The corridors through which Cousin Stanoczk led him were emptier by the moment; the area into which they were descending seemed almost deserted. There were locked doors. Cousin Stanoczk had the keys.

  “But how can they tell?”

  And where were they going? “If you had the history of this family, you might have cause to understand, Chief. I would almost say that Sarvaw children know Aznir for their enemy in their mothers’ wombs. And my cousin and his Lek, they get on together?” The corridors were narrowing, and they kept climbing down stairs. Cousin Stanoczk stopped in front of one particularly large wooden door to work the secures.

  Lek was a bond–involuntary. He had no choice. That wasn’t what Cousin Stanoczk was asking. “His Excellency respects and values Lek equally as his other Security. Maybe there’s even a community feeling between them, both Combine — what?”

  Stanoczk had rolled his eyes in exaggerated exasperation, leaning into the door to open it. “If you only knew what nonsense you were talking, Chief. But, at any rate, that is why they are staring. Andrej has been playing his Lek up from the moment he arrived, to give him face. I’m not surprised that the family are fascinated.”

  That was all to the good. Stildyne found Cousin Stanoczk a little fascinating for his own part. Stanoczk was very like Andrej Koscuisko in some ways that had nothing to do with his physical appearance; and so complete
ly unlike Koscuisko in others. Cousin Stanoczk flirted with him. Andrej Koscuisko had never kissed a man with amorous intent in his entire life, not in any context that counted.

  “Where are we going, Cousin?” He didn’t mind taking a stroll with Cousin Stanoczk. But he was beginning to wonder what was going on.

  “Going, we go nowhere, we are arrived,” Cousin Stanoczk said, somewhat confusingly. “You and my Ferinc had history, I understand. I thought that you might be intrigued by some of what it can mean, to be Malcontent.”

  Cousin Stanoczk turned and closed the door behind him, and secured it. Stildyne stood and stared.

  It was just a corridor, but it seemed to be a long corridor, and there were pictures on the walls the likes of which would have been startling enough in almost any other context but which were truly amazing in a Dolgorukij one.

  “What’s this?”

  Cousin Stanoczk took Stildyne’s arm encouragingly, and started down the corridor. “It is the Gallery — technically, the Great Gallery at Chelatring Side. Or more technically, it does not even exist. This part of the house belongs to my holy Patron, Chief. Some mysteries cannot be written, but they can be shown.”

  Visual documentation. Pictures. Ways in which a man might discover that he was Malcontent. “Reconciliation,” Stildyne guessed, trying hard to look without seeing. It was hard. They were persuasive pictures.

  “In one form or another.” Cousin Stanoczk’s voice was cheerful in agreement, seeming unmoved by the explicit and arousing images on the walls. Why not? Stildyne asked himself, in despair of ruling his own flesh. Cousin Stanoczk probably saw them all the time.

  “I’m not Dolgorukij, Cousin.” And nobody would know that better than an Aznir Dolgorukij, because that was as Dolgorukij as they got. “Why have you brought me here?”