His door opened unexpectedly; he glanced up to see his personal assistant and behind him someone in uniform.
“Mr. President, the Commandant of Spaceforce Academy.”
The President looked up, into the steady gaze of a man he had despised for decades. His assistant backed out and shut the door. “Commandant,” he said, unable to put any real welcome in his voice. “What brings you here so—”
“Without an appointment? That.” The Commandant nodded at the President’s desk.
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. President, let’s not play games. You’re proposing—no, you’ve decided—to rescind all letters of marque without the advice or approval of Council. You are on the point of signing the Order of Rescission.”
“How do you know that? Have you been spying on me?”
“Don’t be naïve.” The Commandant sat without being invited to sit. “Everyone spies on everyone else; it’s why we have security systems.” He put a scrambler cylinder on the desk and thumbed its controls. “Someone may be able to penetrate even this, but it will take skill. Mr. President, we at Spaceforce—since we are tasked with the external defense of this system—have been looking into the attacks on the Vatta family compound and headquarters—”
“That’s not external,” the President said. Sweat sprang out on his back. They could not know…
“In origin, yes, they were. And they represented a clear threat to our system integrity, so they are well within our defined mission.”
“What has this to do with the Academy?” the President asked. “You’re head of the Academy, not all of Spaceforce.”
“True. You appointed Cair Tlibi the Spaceforce Commandant, didn’t you?”
It was a matter of record; they both knew it. What was this leading up to?
“Yes, I did. What of it?”
“A distinguished officer, with a fine record,” the Commandant said. “Would it surprise you to know that he had a history of offering and accepting bribes?”
The President knew his own face was shiny with nervous sweat, but he dared not wipe it away. He scowled. “I would not believe it,” he said. “It’s a politically motivated attack on an honorable man…”
“Hardly that,” the Commandant said. “He’s confessed, you know. Bribery, extortion, and collusion with an external enemy.”
The President felt faint. Not Tlibi, not the gruff, hearty man who had always been the most accessible, most affable military man he’d ever known.
“And I must mention, Mr. President, that he has—I’m most sorry to have to say this—named you as one of the people with whom he had illicit monetary arrangements. Given his record, we do not accept this on his word alone, of course, but I’m afraid that there must be an investigation—”
Shock and rage swamped prudence. “How did she do this?” the President heard himself saying.
“She?” In that one word was all the warning he needed to pull himself back to his usual control.
“Never mind.” He took a deep breath. “Needless to say, I repudiate everything you’ve said. I don’t know by what means you forced an innocent man to confess to crimes he had not committed, but I refuse to believe that Tlibi has done anything that heinous, and obviously I’m denying any such acts on my own part.”
“I understand, Mr. President,” the Commandant said.
“And now I must ask you to leave,” the President said. “I’m quite busy already and I will consult with my legal staff at once about this…this disgusting matter.”
“No,” the Commandant said. “I’m not leaving.”
“But you—” The President stabbed at the emergency button on his chair. Nothing happened.
“Mr. President, for the moment you are…cut off from communication. The Council are considering what to do, and I am here to ensure that you communicate with no one and take no actions related to your presidency.”
“How dare you!”
“On orders from the Council, Mr. President. They have been apprised of the relevant facts, and it was their request—no, command—that you be guarded by a high-ranking officer of Spaceforce who was already in possession of the same facts.” His voice changed timbre. “Sir, I would not reach into that drawer if I were you.”
The President removed his hand from the drawer in which he kept his personal weapon. “You are wrong,” he said. “You are completely wrong and I will be exonerated in court. After which, your career will be in ruins.”
“It is the risk one takes in the military,” the Commandant said, with a twitch of the shoulders that was not quite a shrug. “Doing the right thing has its risks, and we accept them.”
“I could have killed you.”
“I doubt it.” The Commandant smiled, not the easy, affable smile that the President had enjoyed from Tlibi, but a smile that brought ice to his heart.
He wanted desperately to know how they had found out. Was it Graciela Vatta, that horrible old bag? She was supposed to be dead, or near enough. She’d had her arm shot off; she was in an amputee ward. Surely someone in an amputee ward wasn’t able to arrange this, even if she’d had the knowledge…and there was no way she could have the knowledge…“I want to know—” he began.
“I’m sure you have many questions, Mr. President,” the Commandant said. “But I’m not allowed to answer them.”
“This is outrageous,” he said. It was what one said in these situations, but he realized that by itself, with no one listening who cared, it sounded ridiculous, like the bluster it was.
“Except,” the Commandant said slowly, removing from his tunic a small round container, “with this.” He opened the container and set it on the President’s desk, within his reach. It looked like—it was—a small pillbox. Inside was one small white pill.
The President felt his insides twist into a hard knot of terror. It could not be. It could not be anything else.
“Such behavior would unfortunately deprive us of the information you have that is relevant to your case,” the Commandant said. “I would be censured severely for not anticipating such an act on your part and preventing it. On the other hand, from the perspective of the person facing intense interrogation with regard to the alleged acts of malfeasance and treason, it might be preferable, though of course it would be seen as an admission of guilt.”
The small white pill seemed to swell, blotting out the future. The President’s mouth filled for an instant with sour liquid; he swallowed. “Is it…does it…is it…painless?”
“No,” the Commandant said. “But it is quick.”
His thoughts raced, tiny pictures flickering through his mind. His election, his inauguration, his many speeches, his many conferences, those conversations with party leaders, with prominent business leaders, those confidential chats, those significant glances and one or two words in the right places. He knew—he had made it his business to know—how effectively information could be extracted from prisoners. Those who had been his allies, his friends, would expect him to protect them. Or would they? Were they even now figuring out how to deny their complicity? Were they even now in custody, even now revealing everything to save themselves?
A wailing voice in his mind insisted that he had not been a bad president. He had not done anything everyone else hadn’t done, at least not until the threat that could have doomed his government…We have targeted you and your family, too… himself. And he could have done nothing else then, no one could. The government needed him, needed his familiar face and voice to reassure them through the crisis. If one family had to suffer unfairly for it—if it was unfair for one family to suffer—then for the good of all…
The Commandant’s gaze ripped through that reverie; the man had a drooping eyelid as if he were going to sleep, but even so the intense scrutiny was like a searchlight. The President knew that this man would not listen, and if he listened would not agree with that whining voice.
Now the President’s mouth was dry; his voice rasped in his throat. “You think
I should…”
“I have no opinion,” the Commandant said. “Or rather, I have an opinion but it would not be appropriate to state it.”
“I—I need time to think—”
The Commandant glanced at the clock on the wall; the left corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you? That might be unfortunate.”
“You could have said it was painless!” That came out in an aggrieved whine that sounded childish even to him.
The Commandant shook his head. “I don’t lie,” he said, without even a hint of emphasis on the pronoun. Other men had said that, and other men had been lying when they said it. The President had long experience of liars great and small. But this time, with this man, habitual honesty was as obvious as habitual dishonesty was in others. It was not a boast. It was not an attempt to convince. It was a simple fact: he did not lie.
Damn the man. Damn the arrogant, self-righteous, stiff-necked, ramrod-up-the-rear priggishness of him. Why couldn’t the Commandant at least have the grace to be crudely triumphant, amused, something—anything—despicable that he himself could fix on, could feel superior to?
The President felt the sting of tears and closed his eyes. He would not cry in front of this man. He would not beg for mercy where no mercy existed. His eyes dried, burned with the effort not to cry. His hands twitched against each other, under the desk, but he was sure the Commandant knew that even if he could not see it.
“My wife—” he said, pleased that his voice was steady. “She is certainly not involved in any of the alleged incidents.”
The Commandant nodded. “No one, Mr. President, suspects your wife of anything.”
“And I categorically deny that I myself have done anything illegal or…or improper.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
“Whatever evidence you or the Council think they have seen, it is all faked, a malicious plot against me.”
“I understand, Mr. President.” A pause. “Time is passing, Mr. President.”
Somewhere outside his office, men were searching through files and closets, questioning clerks and secretaries, housekeepers and cooks. The quick imagination that had made him so effective a politician, so able to see others’ viewpoints and how to circumvent them, what means would work with which opponent, now provided a stream of images: employees backed into corners of an office, eyes wide, muttering to each other, families disturbed at breakfast, on vacations, children crying, spouses indignant and frightened, the incredible mess left behind any official search.
The pill in its box seemed to pulsate in time with these images, alluring and terrifying all at once. He had always considered himself a brave man: what would a brave man do? Face the coming investigations, the inevitable trial? Drag his wife and his relatives and friends through the muck? End his life with a hood over his head so the official witnesses at the execution didn’t even have to see his face, as the glass wall protected them from the unseemly smells of sudden death? Or die now, quickly if not painlessly, and hope that his death would take much of the ardor from the investigations? That they would be content with his death?
He wanted to ask how much it hurt, how bad was the pain, but even in the roil of emotions, he knew that the Commandant could not answer that question. If it was really that—really death, in that small compass—no one had lived to say how bad it was. Or how quick.
He had never considered himself indecisive. He had always been firm in his opinions, in his positions, unswayed by anything but the practicalities of his office. Yet now he was wavering, hating himself for that wavering.
Even through the closed door, he heard a noise in the passage outside.
In a flash, without really thinking, he grabbed the pillbox, shook the pill into his hand, then into his mouth. The pill dissolved, a bitter taste, and a second later pain wrenched his body, outlining his bones in white fire.
“Good for you,” the Commandant said, past the pain and the roaring in his ears. For an instant, he was grateful for that small commendation. Then sound and pain met, went beyond bearing, and he lost himself in that chaos.
After setting up the new ship account, Ky asked about access to the other Vatta accounts.
“Of course,” the account rep said. “You have been identified as an authorized person, captain of a Vatta ship. What did you want?”
“I want to transfer a small sum to the ship account, to be transferred back when the West Cascadia Rehab Centre funds come in and clear. We need to pay docking fees, air fees, that kind of thing.”
“You’ll need about a thousand, then,” she said. “Here are the balances of the various Vatta accounts. There’s the general corporate account, and each ship has its own—”
“I’ll transfer from the general,” Ky said. “What’s your clearing time on transfers from the planet?”
“For an entity like the rehab center, four hours. We have to run a verifying query to their branch, that’s all.”
Ky mentally added up the charges so far. “You’re right, a thousand should do it.” That transfer took only seconds. Ky then authorized payment of the outstanding charges, which came to 978 credits, and headed back to the ship with a freshly programmed leader-tag. She was able to anticipate most of its chirpy directions, and dumped it happily in the bin outside the dock entrance.
The status display outside the ship now showed green: all charges paid. No local police were visible, as they had been when she left. A very practical way, she thought, to ensure that no one pulled out leaving unpaid bills behind. The little blue bar at the bottom of the display puzzled her at first, but when she touched it, the text explanation came up. 48 HOUR CREDIT LIMIT APPROVED. So she wouldn’t have to transfer again even if the rehab center’s funds were delayed…good.
Back inside the ship, Toby met her before she got to the bridge. For once, the dog was not at his heels. “You’re not going to make me sell Rascal, are you?”
“What? Of course not, what gave you that idea?”
“There’ve been inquiries coming in. It’s all the cargo they’re interested in, and they’re offering a lot of money…and he’s caused so much trouble…” Toby looked near tears.
Ky put a hand on his shoulder. “Toby, listen. Rascal is not cargo. He’s crew. Granted, he’s a noisy, dirty, smelly, mischievous little terror, but he’s our dog, officially, and your dog in reality.”
“It’s a whole lot of money,” Toby said, doubt still clear in his voice. “Martin said you might need it.”
“So just how much is a whole lot of money?” Ky asked.
“Er…um…thirty-seven thousand.”
“For a dog?” That seemed impossible. What were dogs good for, other than to make messes and cheer up orphans?
“Yes. And Martin thinks they’ll go higher…we haven’t even advertised.”
“Well, I wouldn’t sell you for thirty-seven thousand, or thirty-seven million,” Ky said. “And I’m not selling your dog.” The numbers danced in her head anyway. “But if you weren’t offended at the idea, maybe we could market his sperm.”
“You trust them?”
“No. But if we hired a vet, I’m sure there’s some way to do it on this ship, something that wouldn’t harm him permanently but could get your trading nest egg started.” And pay for his education, if it turned out his parents were among the dead.
“He’s only a puppy—”
“He’s grown a lot since Lastway, Toby, and so have you. Let’s see…if dogs are so scarce and valuable here, they may not have a canine vet on the station, but there’s bound to be one onplanet who has expertise in artificial insemination. Let’s see.”
The station directory listed only two vets, both certified for “livestock import/export health certification and quarantine procedures.” One listed the species for which he was certified, including some Ky had never heard of, but not dogs. The other’s ad said, “Practice limited to health certification of large animal (hoofed) livestock.”
Cascadia’s directory included on
ly five “canine specialists,” and one of those listed “reproductive services.” Ky checked the time zones against the listed office hours. Seven hours until they opened. She glanced at Toby. “So where did you hide him?”
He flushed. “In…a crate behind some stuff in the gym.”
“Don’t you think you ought to let him out?”
“Yes. I just worried—”
“Well, don’t. You’re not going to lose your dog. Go on now, let him out before he destroys the crate.” She just managed not to add her usual and keep him out of trouble. Toby didn’t need to hear that at the moment.
“Yes’m.” Toby took off at a jog, neatly avoiding Rafe, who was just coming onto the bridge.
“A boy and his dog,” Rafe said, coming in as Toby left. “I suppose you told him you weren’t going to sell Rascal?”
“Yes,” Ky said. “Though we’re looking at vet services. If they’re that eager for a dog, I’m thinking frozen sperm might be worth something.”
“Mercenary lot, you Vattas,” Rafe said, but without much sting to it. “I noticed that our dock-watcher disappeared. I suppose that means the transfer came through?”
“It hadn’t when I was at the bank, but I moved some funds from another Vatta account to clear our accounts onstation.”
Her skullphone bleeped. Ky motioned Rafe back and answered it.
“That transfer you were expecting just came through from the rehab center.” A visual display gave her the number and name of the caller, though she had already recognized the voice as the person she’d spoken to at Crown & Spears. “We should get confirmation by the close of business, this shift; do you want us to transfer the thousand back to the Vatta corporate fund when we do?”
_______
Ky queried her implant about the Moscoe Confederation’s history with Vatta Transport. Under its heading, her father had noted “…requires steady, mature captains with uncommon interpersonal skills; these people are ferociously courteous but occasionally capricious. Under no circumstances should ship crews reveal the presence of small pets, especially dogs. There is a pervasive belief in this society that their dogs were stolen from them by merchant ships, and they will insist that any dog is one of those stolen, or the descendant of same. They have few dogs, owing to the same problems as many terraformed worlds where the native wildlife is highly toxic to dogs.”
Engaging the Enemy Page 21