by David Drake
“Well, but you’re an old hand at these outposts, aren’t you?” Croydon asked with a tone of voice that was almost malicious, though his eyes were pleading with Travers to understand. “You know how to make do. I can’t manage that, never could. You’re able to accept the way things are. You don’t let that stop you.”
Meaning, thought Travers, that both he and Croydon knew he had been passed over for promotion and was likely never to advance much higher than he was at present. He chose his words with great care, for he wanted his fiction to be convincing. “Sometimes a man isn’t sent to these places because he has disappointed his family. Sometimes he is sent there because he is good at doing this job.” This was not the case with him, but he could see he now had Croydon’s attention. “I am an old hand at these outposts, yes. Which means that I have dealt with more strange forms of life and more difficult customs than you can think of. So before you set yourself up as a person who knows more about these things than anyone here, remember that I have already served nine years on Limbo.” His smile was more wintery than that despised planet.
“You don’t like Tarnhelms,” said Croydon with complete certainty. “But you see, I despise them. Worse than despise. They’re repulsive.”
“No, I don’t like them, you’re right about that,” said Travers, doing his best to look well steeled. “I didn’t like the bratcyclers on Limbo either.” He waited while Croydon digested this unwelcome bit of partial information.
While Croydon was not convinced, he was curious enough to be willing to give Travers the benefit of the doubt while he ran down his records in the company access files. “You could have mentioned it.”
“Why?” Travers said softly. “Were you going to stay here?” He nodded to his second-in-command.
* * *
“There are Tarnhelms in this station, Manager,” said Goro Kasagio with an air of gloomy satisfaction. “I’ve had reports for days.”
“You’ve seen them?” Travers asked.
“Ha-ha,” said Kasagio. “You said no mass detectors. How could I see them?”
“Then how can you know?” Travers asked.
“I feel them. I can sense them. There are three, maybe four of them drifting around the station. Sometimes you can feel them when they cut through the purified air stream. There’s a slowdown in the system, but it’s not the system, it’s Tarnhelms.”
Travers did his best not to be critical. “What makes you think that the Tarnhelms are doing this? Do you think there’s any risk?”
“An unknown number of invisible predators on the loose in this station who eat human beings is risky,” Goro said testily. “What would you expect? Don’t you want something done about this?”
It had always been Travers’s greatest gift to dither without showing his dithering. He put the tips of his fingers together and though his expression was vacant and studious, his thoughts were a frenzied shambles. What if Goro Kasagio was right, and there were Tarnhelm spies in the station? There was nothing he could do to find them that would not turn them against him. He said “Ummm” once or twice, then looked at Goro. “If you will be good enough to come to my quarters after supper, I think we had best assemble a worst-possible scenario before I contact the Tarnhelms and see what I can find out about their doings.”
“Another wait-and-see?” Goro jeered. “Are you serious?”
Travers gave Goro a hard look. “Consider what’s at stake here.”
“That’s what I am doing,” Goro insisted, exasperated.
Travers did not dignify his outburst with comment. “We’ve just completed a very difficult security contract with the Tarnhelms, and for the first time the safety and security of the family heads can be guaranteed in a way they never have before. The Tarnhelms have said they are loyal, and their honor is of the greatest importance to them.” He rubbed his palms once. “I don’t want this to turn out to be a disaster.”
“If you let those things off-planet, you‘lI have all the disaster you’ll ever know.” Goro lifted his fists. “There are Tarnhelms here, Travers. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Travers asked. “If we Investigate, then the Tarnhelms will say we have broken their code–which is accurate–and will have an excuse to move against us and make war on the station. Being the Waxy Tarnhelms, they will command the Sandies and Dusties to join with them, because of the Waxies’ position in their ... uh ... culture.” He pursed his lips to keep from continuing so that his voice would not shriek.
“You are ten kinds of a fool, Travers. You’re a sensible manager, and right now we need a troop of armed Kosantz berserkers with someone like General Shanks Rogers to lead them.” He started down the hall. “I’m sending an emergency signal to Heimlend about the possible danger here. On my own. I’ll say that it’s against your orders.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Travers softly. “Really, Kasagio, I know you think you must, but please reconsider.”
”Why? So you can delay until we are unable to defend this station at all?”
Travers shuddered to give his answer. “Listen to me. I have thought about what you’ve said. I read your preliminary reports, and I am aware of the danger we’re in. And I will tell you what has me the most concerned now: that if you are right, then the Tarnhelms may have already decided to war with us. If there are Tarnhelms in the station, let us hope they remain invisible and relatively helpless. If we start seeing them, then we’ll be in the shit, no doubt about it.”
“Then why aren’t we sending for reinforcements?” Goro asked, desperately puzzled, his eyes angry and resigned.
“Because I’d like it to appear that what we are doing is standard procedure. If we behave as if there is nothing odd about our circumstances, the Tarnhelms may be convinced.” It was whistling in the dark and he knew it, but he said it with his usual forthrightness, and Goro Kasagio narrowed his eyes, considering.
“I’m going to increase security patrols and I want to put the housekeeping staff on alert. If there is anything, the most minor thing, out of the ordinary, I want to know about it at once.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at Travers, painfully trying to believe him.
“You’re doing superior work under difficult circumstances,” said Travers, in the hope that Goro was not too cynical to be swayed by the compliment.
Goro shrugged and turned away, returning to his control area.
Travers was congratulating himself for squeaking through that one when he felt a flutter of air pass his face. He stopped still, his hand on the wall. Something–he could not see what–something had touched him.
* * *
“The cousin is not pleased at the reports he has been receiving,” said the family proctor, a tall, prosperous fellow with a beak of a nose and hair so very pale that at first glance he seemed completely bald. His name was Hylander and he had married well three times.
Travers studied the receiving screen, trying to gauge the wanted response. He decided on a single, serious nod and a soft answer. “Yes. There has been a disruption here at the station. We’re not in complete agreement here.” He was dressed in a houppe that was expertly cut and made of fabric that would have cost Travers’s annual salary. His grandeur was the more impressive for being understated.
“Your security team is adamant about the Tarnhelms. He says that the previous interdicts were sound and ought not to be lifted now, or at any time. “He pulled at his lower lip, a gesture designed to strike terror into his underlings.
“The Father himself lifted the interdict and requested that the Tarnhelms be brought in under Syndicate aegis. He said that there was not reason enough to continue the interdict when the other family heads were so eager to bring in the Tarnhelms as contract-security teams. It was the family’s thinking that it would be more appropriate for us to have the Tarnhelms guarding us instead of bodyguarding the Fleet’s admirals once they are found.” He saw disapproval on the proctor’s face. “I don’t intend anything facetious
. As I recall, you supported the idea at the time they lifted the interdict, though our recommendation was for caution.” All that was on record, he thought with relief, so that if there was a review now no one could say that Travers had been in favor of the Tarnhelm lnterdict–or against it.
“I am familiar with the records. I am not asking to review these decisions in quite that way. I have had extensive reports on the usefulness of the Tarnhelms as espionage personnel, along with his recommendations for their larger applications. A very forward-thinking fellow, your proctor. I think his potential is enormous if he isn’t so ambitious that he cannot make his way to the goal sensibly. The Syndicate can offer a great deal to someone like Croydon. Now your security man is something else again. Not much of a risk-taker, is he? Oh, I don’t say he isn’t well enough in his way. He is one who prefers the safest path and there may be some excuse, given your situation there. What is most troubling is your security man is adamant about the danger these Waxy Tarnhelms present. He claims they are more warlike than the others of their kind, and that they have plans of their own.” He shook his head. “This isn’t satisfactory.”
“Oh, no, of course not,” said Travers. He was thinking as fast as he could. “It is true that of the three sorts of Tarnhelms, the Waxies are the most capable of mimicry. They do not have the same texture of surf ... skin, and their invisibility is the most complete. A man wrapped in one of them is nothing more than a pair of floating eyes. It’s a great disguise, no doubt about that.” He could not entirely conceal his shudder, for the thought of letting one of those creatures wrap around him seemed worse than living entombment.
“What is it?” The proctor’s keen eyes had not missed Travers’s aversion.
Travers made a muddle of self-deprecatory chuckles. “A touch of claustrophobia, I’m afraid. Surface sleeping cocoons do it to me, as well.” He thought that was rather neatly handled. “And I’m not fond of the scent of burned lentils.”
“Burned lentils?” Proctor Hylander asked, and Travers had the pleasure of seeing that august fellow bewildered.
“Burned lentils,” he said more emphatically, taking full advantage of what little credibility he had. “You see, they smell of burned lentils.”
The proctor’s wince was eloquent. “Strongly?”
“Yes.” Travers straightened, mustering himself for the task of getting off the proctor’s hook. “Well, what would you want me to do in this situation? If the Syndicate wishes the Tarnhelms contained again, I’m afraid that will be awkward, especially since we have already shipped a dozen Sandies off to Christiania. The Syndicate is making progress there, and it is one of the places the First Son believes the Tarnhelms will be useful. He said that it could mean the difference of losing control of Christiania or keeping it.”
“I am aware of the stakes,” the proctor snapped. “And my information is certainly more current and complete than your own.” He patted his wide, bejeweled collar. “The First Son has not yet changed his mind about the Tarnhelms. He has said he wants someone to give him a reassessment of the situation.”
More than anything Travers wanted to scream, to tell Hylander that the whole Tarnhelm idea was crazy from the start, that the Tarnhelms were the worst and most dangerous carnivores in Syndicate space, that once they got loose no one would be safe. But that would be the same thing as calling the First Son an irresponsible idiot, which would put him on Wasteland Two for sure. Siggirt’s Blunder was dreadful, as all class-4s were, but Wasteland Two was class-6, and that was worse than class-5’s Limbo or Far Outback. He had to use every discipline he knew to maintain his dignity. “Let me recommend,” he said, as if making a necessary sacrifice for the good of the station, “that an outside observer be sent. I believe that some of our station staff have become polarized in their thinking, and it has made a difference in their assessment of the situation.”
“It would take three weeks to arrange such an observer,” said Hylander, dismissing the entire suggestion. “You will have to be more diligent, do your best to present a mix of opinions and assessments.” Travers was once again back on the hook.
He made one last attempt. “What about a series of interviews–perhaps by one of your staff?–who would do as we’re doing now, with everyone on the station, to get a better picture?”
Proctor Hylander was an old master at this game. “If your report indicates that’s necessary, then we’ll do it. In the meantime, we’ll continue to make the usual supply runs, but will keep cargo to essentials until all this is cleared up. The Danegeld ships will not make planetfall there while the crisis is going on. No need making this any more dangerous than it need be, is there?” He made the appropriate gestures and remarks and rang off with barely polite haste.
Travers sat in the receiving room and wondered if perhaps there were such things as curses, after all, and he was the victim of one. He could not rid himself of the notion that he was trapped no matter which alternative he chose and that none of the alternatives was correct.
Regan Keir found him still there sometime later. “It’s almost teatime,” she said, then saw that he was upset. “What’s wrong, Keane?” She almost never used his first name, and so it caught his attention at once.
“The First Son wants another station report. About the Tarnhelms.” He was sitting with his elbows braced on his knees, his chin in his hand. “I can’t think. I’ve been trying to for the last hour, but I can’t.” With his free hand he slapped his head. “Nothing.”
“You’ll figure it out. You always do.” She took the seat opposite him. “I’ve got to change for tea–so should you–but if there’s anything I can do . . .”
He gave her a wan smile, “I hope so, but I can’t guess what it would be.” He looked up as a breeze slid around the room. Breeze? he asked himself. Or Waxy Tarnhelm? Was Goro right, and the Tarnhelms were truly here? “I’ll be in for tea shortly. Have Croydon take care of the ordering this time.”
“If that’s what you want,” she said uncertainly. She was almost on her feet when she added, “There might be something I can do with the program for the station: you know, change something, or set up a few closed registers, so we can keep things ... well, very private.”
“From the Tarnhelms?” he asked, knowing he was grasping at straws, but unable to resist.
”Possibly. But not just them. There might be another connection?” Her smile was so tentative as not to be a smile at all. “But if they had help, in here . . .”
Travers frowned. “Someone from here? Do you honestly think any member of this station staff could ... help the Tarnhelms?”
Her face was somber. “Well, we all hate it enough, don’t we?”
* * *
Two days later Travers received an urgent summons from Goro Kasagio to join him in the sports hall, adding that they had to meet alone.
“Alone?” Travers asked with heavy skepticism. “Here?”
“Sure. I found something. Well, actually Nugunda found it. An hour ago.”
“All right.” With a sinking feeling at the base of his spine, Travers got to his feet and tried to think which of his various outfits would be the correct one for this interview. Certain standards were required on stations even in emergencies. At last he selected his least impressive mid-length working houppe and tugged it over his head without bothering to wear his wide collar. As he hurried off toward the sports hall, he tried to imagine what it was that so troubled Goro that he would demand Travers come alone. Was it Tarnhelms or station staffers who troubled him more?
“Come here. Housekeeping’s coming to take care of it, but I want you to see it just as I found it.” He had dressed hastily and had not bothered to add ornaments or insignia to his clothes. He took Travers by the arm and tugged him toward the far corner of the sports hall where most of the various kinds of equipment were stored. “It’s back of the spickle-ball nets,” he said urgently.
Behind the snarI of nets, there were drained and desiccated carcasses of three ookies and tw
o horrids.
“They haven’t been dead long,” said Goro, breathing shallowly. “Chambulo came in for a morning training and got a whiff. He notified me. I notified you.” He got a little closer to the dead creatures. “The mandibles are still in place, and you know how fast those things fall off once a Tarnhelm gets its hooks into them.”
“A day at most,” said Travers, trying to think of a way not to be sick on the shiny sports-hall floor. “Which of them has that sulfur stench?”
“Horrids.” Goro stepped back and took a deep breath. “I tell you, Travers, we’ve got Tarnhelms here.” He looked up at the ceiling. “They could be hovering just over our heads, and we wouldn’t know it, not without mass detectors.”
“But–” Travers began.
“But that would endanger the treaty and everything else. The Family Father would be angry because he wouldn’t get his troop of invisible assassins.” He saw something in Travers’s face, and shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t believe that crap, do you? You don’t really think that the use is purely for defense and protection? Travers, don’t be an idiot!” Goro slapped his legs as he took a single long stride away from the manager of the station as he tried to find a response to Travers. “The family has lost three rich planets to other families since he came to control. There is too much to be lost. You do understand that much, don’t you?”
“Our family has never resorted to aggression, not as you mean it.” Travers appeared to be steady and confident as this jolt ricocheted through him.
“They want the Tarnhelms for two purposes: to get their assassins to their targets and to be assassins themselves. If the Tarnhelms could do anything other than invisibility while they’re invisible, the Family Father would give them the whole job. But they can’t attack unless they’re visible. So they have to smuggle in people.” He rubbed at his forehead. “And now you know that the Tarnhelms are here.”