by C. J. Ryan
“You sound just like Whit Bartholemew,” Petra observed. “And look what he wound up doing.”
“If I wanted to run my father’s business, would I have joined Dexta?”
“You might have,” Petra replied. “Just a little youthful, pro forma rebellion, before returning to the fold. Isn’t that the sort of thing that usually happens in families like yours?”
“You know, you’re as big a snob as your mother. I don’t hold it against you that you were born poor, Petra. Why must you hold it against me that I was born rich?”
Petra considered that for a moment and decided that it was a fair question. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that I need to know where we’re going, Pug.” She stood up, closed the distance between them, and put her arms around his neck. “I still want this to work.”
“So do I.” Pug drew her closer and kissed her softly on the neck. “And as for where we’re going…yes, we’re probably going to Pelham. Would that be so awful?”
Petra pulled back a little so she could look at his face. “I made a commitment to Gloria,” she said. “We both did.”
“And what if Gloria decides she’d rather be Empress? Where would that leave us?”
“I talked to her about it. She says she hasn’t made up her mind. But if she did leave Dexta, I think she’d want me to come with her. Personal secretary, maybe.”
“And I could be your assistant?” Pug released his hold on her. “Look, I really don’t mind being your assistant now. But I don’t want to spend my whole life doing that. This Pelham job could put me on the fast track at Dexta. If I rise high enough, soon enough…”
“Then you wouldn’t have to come back here to the family business?”
Pug nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “In any case, if Gloria leaves, or OSI collapses, I wouldn’t be hurt. And neither would you if you came along. There’s nothing wrong with an Undersec slot on Pelham, you know.”
“And in a year, when you make ImpeSec, I could be your assistant.”
“That bothers you?”
Petra sighed. “I guess not,” she said. “Unlike you, it looks like I am going to spend my whole life being someone’s assistant. I suppose that’s the most I can expect, given the tragic limitations of my background.” She offered Pug a weak smile, which he returned.
“Right now,” he said, reaching into her robe and fondling her breasts, “I’d rather concentrate on your foreground.”
“Which is also tragically limited.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t mind slumming.”
CORNELL DUBRAY STARED AT GLORIA VANDEEN, chattering away about OSI on the far side of the room. If he was honest with himself—and he usually was, because he could afford to be—he had to admit that he admired her, and not simply for that magnificent ass, which was currently on full display in a bizarre bit of sartorial architecture that left her front mostly covered in swirling silver tinsel. VanDeen was smart and ambitious and, in her own way, as ruthless as DuBray himself. She was easily the most formidable woman he had encountered since Elsinore Chandra in her prime.
The Sector 21 Reception was well attended because it was the host Sector, and it was no surprise to find VanDeen here. Inevitably, he was going to keep tripping over her at these affairs throughout the length of the Quadrant Meeting. That could prove to be inconvenient; he didn’t want any public scenes with her because there was no way he could come out on top in such an encounter. She had public support that he could never hope to muster. And, as she had pointed out in that broom closet this afternoon, Dexta people liked her. DuBray resolved to keep to the far side of the room from her and avoid confrontations.
That was ridiculous, of course, but there was no help for it. This was his Quadrant, and—at least until Norman Mingus arrived—he was the senior Dexta official on New Cambridge. Yet that twenty-five-year-old harridan had somehow put him on the defensive.
DuBray helped himself to a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter and munched on a caviar-covered cracker. If he didn’t watch it, he’d probably put on ten pounds in the next two weeks. Long ago, when he’d lived on this planet, he’d been lithe and athletic and didn’t have to worry about such things. In bed, Saffron had called him “Slim.”
Saffron was here tonight, too. They’d made their peace years ago—or an armistice, at any rate—but there were unexpected moments when he still felt a pang. It had all worked out for the best, in the long run, he supposed; fifty-five years certainly qualified as the long run. They had each prospered, the Empire survived, and history had buried all their tawdry little secrets.
Until now.
He was certain that he was correct in what he had said in the closet that afternoon. VanDeen truly had no idea what she was dealing with. She was like a dog tugging on the corner of some half-buried shroud because, just maybe, there was a bone somewhere down there. If he told her the truth, would she stop tugging, stop digging?
She might. But he simply couldn’t risk it. Truth was like a plasma bomb; you only used it when there was no other choice. Truth, like unleashed plasma, was indiscriminate and unyielding and devoured everything in its path. Lies were safer because lies could be controlled. He had learned that, if nothing else, in seventy years at Dexta.
One of his aides caught his eye and signaled to him. DuBray nodded, set down his champagne, and followed the aide out of the mansion’s ballroom, down a long corridor, and into a small, opulent private office. The aide retreated, closing the door behind him, leaving DuBray alone with the girl.
She stood before him, clearly frightened, but with her widely set dark eyes gleaming in anticipation. Something big was about to happen to her, and DuBray gained the impression that she might possibly welcome it.
“Ms. Murakami,” he said, “thank you for coming. You know who I am?”
The girl nodded. “Yessir. Cornell DuBray, Quadrant 4 Administrator.” Then she added, unnecessarily, “Level Four.”
DuBray smiled. “That’s right,” he said. “And you are Level Fourteen, currently assigned to the Office of Strategic Intervention.”
“Yessir.”
She was very attractive, another one of OSI’s young Tigers. She was wearing nothing on her small, slim body but a tiny scrap of black mesh band skirt and a matching shawl carelessly draped over her shoulders. Her face, Asian-Pacific, was carefully made up to emphasize her hypnotic dark eyes. She looked as if she might have been about twelve, but DuBray knew she was twenty-five. And he knew much more than that.
“Ms. Murakami,” he said, “your father is currently incarcerated at the prison colony on Hingson III. He has two years left to serve on a three-year term for fraud and embezzlement. Would you like to get him out next month?”
Her eyes widened even more. “You could do that?”
“Of course I can. And I will, if you cooperate.”
DuBray could tell from the way she hesitated that Murakami was not the innocent young waif she appeared to be. She was already calculating the angles, measuring the moment for maximum advantage, like a pool shark plotting a three-cushion shot. So much the better.
“I’ll cooperate in any way I can, sir,” she said at last.
“I know you will.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You are presently working as Gloria VanDeen’s assistant, correct?”
She nodded. “Petra Nash is her regular assistant, but she’s busy on another assignment, so I’m filling in for her.”
“And just how close are you to Ms. VanDeen?”
The girl hesitated, then smiled slyly. “We’ve made love,” she said.
“Have you, now?” DuBray found that intriguing, but not entirely relevant. “Does she confide in you? Tell you her plans? Share information?”
Murakami shrugged. “In general. I don’t think she tells me everything that’s going on, but I think I have a pretty good idea of what she’s up to, most of the time.”
“And how would you feel ab
out sharing that knowledge with me?”
“You want me to spy on Gloria?”
“That’s what I want. Will you do it?”
The hesitation again. The girl would not have been a good poker player.
“I…I’m not sure. I need to think about it.”
“Think about this, Ms. Murakami. Your father is in prison on Hingson III. I can have him released, or I can send you there to join him.”
A look of sudden doubt flickered across the girl’s features.
“On an irregular basis for the past two years,” DuBray said, “you have been involved in the sale and distribution of illegal substances—Orgastria-29, to be precise.”
“How did you know that?”
“How I know is of no moment. What matters is that I do know. Well, Ms. Murakami, can I count on your cooperation?”
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Of course you will. After we’re through here, my aide will instruct you in your duties and communication procedures.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” Murakami asked. She had some nerve, DuBray was pleased to see.
“If you do as I ask, your father will be released. Frankly, I don’t care a farthing whether your father is released or rots in prison. I have no interest in the matter, so I have no reason to lie to you.”
“And what about me?”
“What about you?”
“Naturally, I want to see my father released. But I could be risking my Dexta career by doing this for you, Mr. DuBray. I mean, what’s in this for me?” She gave him that sly smile again.
DuBray smiled back at her. “I’m glad you asked me that,” he said. “Selflessness makes me suspicious. Very well, then, what’s in it for you is a promotion to Thirteen when we return to Earth and a transfer to an appropriate position on Quadrant staff. Does that meet with your approval, Ms. Murakami?”
“Yes…but wouldn’t that let Gloria know what I’ve been doing?”
“By then,” DuBray assured her, “it won’t matter.”
EDWIN OGBURN, PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC of New Cambridge, made the introduction. “Ms. Gloria VanDeen of Dexta, allow me to present Ms. Saffron Bartholemew, one of our world’s most beautiful and respected citizens.”
They shook hands politely and took each other’s measure. Saffron’s resemblance to her father was unmistakable; something in the aristocratic slope of her nose and the high, unlined forehead. Her fine, cornsilk hair was artfully arranged, and her V-shaped jaw jutted out just a little. Her eyes were the same color as her father’s, a watery blue-gray.
Both women simultaneously turned their heads to look at the man who had introduced them. Ogburn, no fool, quickly made his apologies and departed, leaving the two women alone.
“So,” Saffron said at last, “you’re my father’s latest popsy.”
Gloria ignored the verbal sally and smiled pleasantly. “I’m hardly that,” she said, “but I do work closely with him.”
“All the stories and rumors aren’t true, then?”
“I doubt if one percent of them are true. But we aren’t intimate, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“No?” Saffron frowned, as if disappointed at this news. “Well, he is a hundred and thirty-one. Finally slowing down, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. But the fact is, his health has not been good of late. He just had a new pancreas put in. He’ll be here next week, Ms. Bartholemew. Perhaps you should take the opportunity to find out for yourself how he is, instead of relying on rumors and secondhand reports.”
Saffron raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take it under advisement,” she said.
“He’s a lonely old man,” Gloria said. “It would do him good to see his family.”
“Ah, but would it do his family any good?”
“I don’t see how it could do you any harm.”
“Then, Ms. VanDeen, you don’t know my father as well as you think you do.”
“Look, Ms. Bartholemew,” Gloria said, feeling a growing sense of exasperation, “I don’t know anything at all about Norman’s personal life. I don’t know why the two of you are estranged, and I don’t want to know. But I think he’s a good man, and I care very much about him.”
Saffron gave her a lingering, appraising stare, like a jeweler considering a gem. Then she said, “You really do care about him, don’t you?”
Gloria nodded. “I do.”
“No reason you shouldn’t, I suppose,” Saffron said. “He does have…qualities. You know, I was just about your age when we became, as you say, estranged. Until that point, I worshipped him. Thought the galaxy revolved around him. And I suppose it does, now. Even then, you could sense greatness in him. But greatness is not necessarily an endearing trait, Ms. VanDeen.”
“Is that why you resent him? Was he too busy being great to be a good father?”
“Not at all. I wasn’t neglected—far from it. My mother died in an accident when I was only twelve, you know. And my father was very devoted to me. Credit where credit is due—I can’t deny him that. He positively doted on me, and took great pains to see to it that I grew up with every advantage. He was also demanding, but not oppressively so. I think he simply wanted me to be perfect so that I could have a perfect life.”
“And now you blame him because you didn’t?”
Saffron didn’t quite laugh at that. “That’s one way of looking at it,” she said. “Ms. VanDeen, you are obviously unaware of what transpired between my father and me. Perhaps my father will see fit to enlighten you someday, but I have no intention of dredging up painful memories just for your sake. I’m glad that I had the chance to meet you, Ms. VanDeen. Allow me to give you some advice. Whatever affection or esteem you feel for my father, and whatever his emotional attachment to you may be, don’t for one minute imagine that you are anything more to him than what I was—what everyone is.”
“And what is that?”
“A tool, Ms. VanDeen. A tool.”
PETRA AND PUG RETURNED TO THE OLD ANNEX the next morning to continue their research. They had said no more about the files in her pad, but when Petra connected the pad to the main console, Pug gave her a hard look.
“You’re going to do this in spite of everything?”
“It’s my job,” she told him. “Yours, too, or had you forgotten?”
Pug snorted wordlessly and got to his feet. “I’ll be over in Gibraltar,” he said. “I’m going to see if I can find some of those people who were here in 3163.”
“Good idea. Maybe they’ll even talk to you.”
Pug left, and Petra finished downloading the files from her pad. After all the talk, she was eager to get down to cases and see what was in them. The main thing she was after was a bill of lading for that final shipment to Savoy. Aside from the 24,000 Mark IV plasma rifles, they still didn’t know what else was in that shipment. Whatever it was, it was now probably in the possession of PAIN.
She quickly zeroed in on August and September of 3163. Before she found the bill of lading, she happened upon the log and registration information for the freighter that had been used for the shipment. She made note of the names of the captain and crew of twelve, thinking that some of them might very well still be alive and willing to talk, assuming they could be found. Officially, at least, they had all disappeared, along with their freighter, when the Ch’gnth attacked. The freighter itself, a LoadStar, was rated at sixty thousand tons capacity and was seven years old in 3163. B & Q had bought it new, for 73 million crowns, with a loan from the Bank of New Cambridge. Before its final voyage, the vessel had logged just over thirty-nine thousand hours in Yao Space and 42,154 light-years traveled. There was nothing interesting or unusual about it, as far as Petra could tell.
Next, she studied the contracts that had been negotiated between Dexta and B & Q. Whitney Bartholemew had signed for B & Q; as Quincannon said, it had been “Bart’s deal.” There were a number of signatures for Dexta, as required by a web of regulations: everyone from
Port Masters to the Export Decontamination Control Authority to Assistant Quadrant Administrator Cornell DuBray had been required to sign it, and did. Petra stared at the contracts for quite some time. She had already seen the Dexta copies of the same documents. Out of curiosity, she called them up and did a side-by-side comparison.
There were differences between them. Nothing dramatic, or even meaningful, as far as she could tell. The standard wording in the contract text was nearly the same, but the fill-in sections of the documents contained minor variations in style and language, almost as if they had been completed at different times by different people. That, in itself, was not particular cause for concern. It was not unreasonable to assume that in the back-and-forth of the transaction, different people at Dexta and B & Q might have gotten their hands on the contracts. Still, now that she knew the truth about Whitney Bartholemew, Senior, Petra couldn’t help wondering.
She got to her feet and paced around the tiny office space they had been granted. For today, she had shed her Tiger stripes and was wearing jeans, a loose gray shirt, and, praise the Spirit, comfortable shoes.
If something was wrong with the contracts, how could she tell? How could she recognize something for what it was, even if it was staring her in the face? Answer: she couldn’t, because she had no idea what contracts like this were supposed to look like in 3163. But there was a cure for that gap in her knowledge.
With a sigh of resignation, Petra sat down again and called up a random assortment of B & Q and Dexta shipping contracts from 3163. She studied them for a full hour before returning to the Savoy contract. This time around, the truth leaped off the pages at her. She double-checked, and there was no doubt.
The Savoy contract in the B & Q records had been written, not in late August 3163, but no earlier than late October of that year. With the coming of war, in early September, the basic shipping contract text had been altered to include war-related issues. In the newer version of the contracts, there were additional lines and boxes, and some tacked-on paragraphs related to wartime liability, insurance riders, military escort regulations, and the like. None of that new material appeared verbatim in the Savoy contract, and yet Petra had the feeling that it had been there, then deleted. The result was that the spacing and some of the phrasing in the Savoy contract was subtly different from other prewar contracts.