Authors: C. J. Cherryh
He was guiltless, whatever that ship’s probe turned up.
The lift slowed to a sedate stop. Dortland met him at the exit—his chief of security, thin, gray fellow who wouldn’t look remarkable either in a riot or a board meeting, except the eyes, which were likewise gray, and never held a vestige of liveliness.
Not his favorite person, Dortland, of people he dealt with—no sense of humor, not even at the grimness of his own position.
Dortland was just what he was, and Dortland’s whole world was dependably what Dortland imagined it to be, the universe that Dortland created around himself: bleak and full of treach-
1 5 4 • C . J . C h e r r y h
ery and problems. Reaux always felt like taking a very long walk after he’d had to deal with Dortland, but at the moment Dortland took the walk with him, their two bodyguards lagging far to the rear.
Dortland reported in a low voice about the activity of the ship, which was nuisanceful but not destructive—yes, the ship had gotten into the network and fried that one system. It wasn’t critical and didn’t damage their security. Yes, the
ondat
had sent another query when that happened, but the office that dealt with such things was dealing with it, and Kekellen didn’t sound particularly disturbed, only curious.
The notion upset Reaux’s stomach.
“And what did Gide want, sir?” Dortland asked.
“Hell if it’s that clear,” Reaux said. “He wants Marak’s junior-most tap on a platter, is what he wants. He’s upset about replicated pots and he’s afraid of bugs coming in with them.”
“That’s not technically possible.”
“That’s what I understand. More to the point, he’s worried about taps taking notes from the onworld First Movement. As I understand, such notes wouldn’t be easy to hand-take or to hand-carry.”
“It could be done, in computer storage.”
“You think it
has
been done?”
“Not likely, without our notice.”
“So, outside of the usual paranoia about rogue nanisms, what’s he after?”
“Clearly, this junior tap,” Dortland said. Who had no sense of humor. It was worth a second glance, to be sure, but Reaux decided in the negative. No sense of humor, and an imagination utterly devoted to predicting other people’s mischief.
“I’ve called Brazis in. I’m trusting him to say no to the interview with this young man, and that’s that.”
Dortland frowned and concentrated on the walk ahead of them, toward his office and inside.
A middle-aged woman in a gray courier’s uniform sat, prim and proper, in Ernst’s office, and stood up as he entered.
Outsider tap-courier. She was clearly waiting for him, dis-patched from some location likely on this level. He didn’t like that.
Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 1 5 5
But it was Brazis’s personal presence—in a sense. And secure communication—it certainly was that.
“Governor Reaux, sir,” she said. “I’m asked to mediate your request of the Chairman.”
“Hell,” he said, peevish. He’d wanted Brazis in person—he hated dealing this way. But if he insisted, he’d raise warnings in Brazis’s very wary security. “Can you manage here?”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t at all like it that a PO courier’s relays operated inside his office foyer, inside all his electronic shielding. He didn’t think Dortland liked that either.
“Where’s your base unit?” he asked. “Point of fact, you’re not supposed to be operating up here.”
“It’s amped a bit.” It might be Brazis speaking through her. “Ordinarily we don’t. But it’s convenient, today.”
Bloody hell. He didn’t at all like the notion of Outsider relays in his ceilings or anywhere near them.
“Dortland. You can be in on this.”
They moved inside. Shut the door between them and Ernst.
“Antonio?” Reaux asked.
“Yes?”
from the mouth of this passive gray-clad woman, the an-tithesis of Brazis himself.
“The ambassador wants to interview one of your taps. One of Marak’s taps. One Jeremy Stafford. Which I’m sure you’re not going to permit.”
“Why? Did he say?”
“He’s got some intel who this tap is. That he’s young, and in this post. This is apparently some matter of concern. Is there any reason this young man would be a concern?”
“Curious. Very curious.”
“Is there a reason we should think anything’s wrong with this young man?”
“I’m disposed to find out. When does he want him?”
Brazis’s curiosity. Brazis’s damnable curiosity, which had had him meddle more than once in an investigation. No, no, that wasn’t at all the answer he wanted.
“Why would you possibly agree?” he ended up asking Brazis, and Brazis, through his living transceiver, answered: 1 5 6 • C . J . C h e r r y h
“This ambassador has come so far on his mission. And I’m sure he’ll
give something of his intentions away, just in the questions. When does
he want this person?”
“As soon as possible, I gather. I don’t like this. If you’re going to agree to this, and I very much advise against it—”
“I understand that. But I’m extremely curious.”
“Curious!”
“Yes.”
“I want to see this young man first. In my office. Antonio, I have to stress—there can’t be any provocation.”
“Soul of discretion. This is a young man who deals with very volatile
personalities on the planet. He understands diplomacy and certainly appreciates the value of understatement. I doubt there’d be physical danger
to him in meeting this person. Would there?”
“I’d earnestly hope not. No, I don’t think so.”
“Then I’ll send him to you and let you make the exact arrangements. I
must say I’m interested in the outcome.”
“Antonio,—” he began to say, thought of telling him frankly what the ambassador implied about his operation being full of leaks. But while he was drawing breath to do just that, the courier shut her eyes and opened them again. Her expression changed.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said. And turned to leave the office.
“Damn it.” He
hated
tap-couriers. They jangled human nerves.
You couldn’t delay one. You couldn’t get anything additional.
They cut out on you. Rudely.
And on a second thought, he wasn’t that sure that he should forewarn Brazis of what Gide intended.
But after the woman had left his office, on a third thought, he wished he had done it. What if this kid—this tap—found out his governor had strongly indicated Brazis shouldn’t send him, and spilled that fact back to Gide?
Governors didn’t often resign the Concord office. They died in it, more than once under very mysterious circumstances.
“Curious,” Dortland said, echoing Brazis.
“Curious. I’m sure he’s
curious
.” In both meanings. He never had liked Dortland. He decided today that he
truly
didn’t like Dortland. The man had ice water for blood. Ran risks involving others and didn’t give a damn.
Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 1 5 7
But the man was efficient. And intelligent. Give him that.
“Am I going to have to say no to this interview on my own?” It was still an option. “Dangerous, but an option.”
“You’ve gone this far. You might just see where this goes, sir,”
Dortland said, “and keep meticulous records—in case this investigation widens. I would in fact have advised against your interview of this young man beforehand. Since it will take place, I’d record that session, under seal, to prove exactly what was said.”
“Who is he?” Sharp question, sudden focus of thought—on the Outsider Council at Apex, and simultaneously on the byzantine maze of Earth and Inner Worlds politics. “
What
is he allied with?”
“Do you refer to the Chairman, the ambassador, or Mr.
Stafford?”
“Gide. Mr. Andreas Gide. What possibly authorized a ship to come out here?”
Dortland never varied expression. “Some important entity, some body of very great resource and ample finance.”
“A political party.”
“Or some other entity who has a ship of this sort constantly at its disposal.”
“The Treaty Board.” That suggestion was completely askew from surmises of Earth party politics. “Do you possibly think? The Board, or someone trying to prove something to the Board?”
“It might be,” Dortland said.
“Do you have that information?”
“I don’t have it, but I suspect it, rationally.”
The Treaty Board sat aside from ordinary Earth authorities, which came and went, and combined and recombined. The Treaty Board was monolithic, quiet, and rarely moved or voted, or even surfaced, in its age-old existence. Most of its members were de-crepit, dull, and scholarly, and most residents of the Inner Worlds and the Outside went about their business oblivious to the Treaty Board’s function in the universe.
But when that board did stir, when it raised any question that the Treaty, its sole business, might be endangered by some policy or action, governments shook and wise politicians thought twice and changed their tune as fast as they could dance to the other side. Nothing could generate panic in the economic markets like 1 5 8 • C . J . C h e r r y h
the Board stirring to life. Alone, it
could
argue with Antonio Brazis’s authority, if it wanted to invoke its powers. It
did
deal with the
ondat,
and with the agreements of performance that kept that ancient situation contained.
And what other Earth entity
would
logically be investigating any serious whisper of First Movement data getting off the planet . . .
and doing it with an armed ship as backup?
“Get your stock out of volatiles,” Reaux muttered, “if that’s the case. This isn’t a political setup. They’re serious. They’re damned serious. Do you suppose Brazis agreed to this because he
suspects
?”
“Let Mr. Gide meet with this young man,” Dortland said.
“That’s my advice. You’re this far into it. Don’t falter.”
It was worth a shiver. He still didn’t like the prospect. But he’d asked Brazis. He’d gotten his answer.
Damn Brazis for saying yes. But now, twice damn it, the suspicion Gide held might be solid, and if it was,
he
wanted the answers.
A B R E A K FA S T B A R , a sandwich, a piece of cake and a pot of caff, precariously balanced, but Procyon had the entry to his in-apartment office down to an art. The very minute the security system would let him in the door, an elbow against the switch, a rotation of the body, entrance achieved.
After which, every morning just before 1000h, he set his breakfast and lunch down on the counter, poured himself that first cup of caff, and reclined in his working chair, feet up, to read the transcripts. This morning he had an agenda, research to do.
The room-encircling bank of monitors showed him everything from remote islands to the halls of the Refuge. He couldn’t command their search for a new one, not until he came on duty. They merely showed him what Auguste saw, at the moment, in his office several streets apart from his residence.
Nasty weather had moved in on Marak, in Drusus’s account.
Marak’s party had set up the base unit, but
hadn’t
gotten the antenna up last evening. They’d taken to their tent and gone to sleep as the storm hit. That front they’d hoped would go slightly north, hadn’t.
And after that there was a very short file from Auguste. With the Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 1 5 9
storm, disappointing news, had come a long communications blackout, lasting most of Auguste’s watch since midnight. Sand blasted into the air created static. Better if they’d been able to establish all their planetary relays by satellite. But there was upset with the
ondat
every time they added a satellite. It took an act of God to get a new transceiver aloft, and here they were, communications-short and downed by a sandstorm.
Well, damn, Procyon said to himself. No new camera image from the area yet. He glanced past the images that floated before his eyes, to the rest of the monitors, scenes from off across the continent, stations either remote-dropped or precision-set by Marak or one of his people.
One of the stations, two sectors east of Marak’s position, had its lens completely obscured by blowing dust. The storm front had moved that far. Which probably meant it was clearing over Marak’s camp.
Auguste, still working, had sent over his partial transcript. The section of Auguste’s record that he could access was still brief, un-informative: storm and silence.
Well, damn and damn.
Then, from the tail of the general record, Ian’s, at the Refuge, and half an hour later—he saw there’d been worse than weather.
An earthquake had hit the region this morning, a major one, with an epicenter, the team thought, in the Southern Wall, the very area they wanted to set up this string of relays to monitor.
Not unexpected, in the gross sense. Not a surprise. But a very strong movement.
An earthquake felt like an emergency stop in the lift system.
That was the way he’d heard it described in his studies of planetary geology: a lurch, only with a shaking component that lasted about a minute or less. Structures fell down, poles whipped about, the taller the pole, the more violent. A tent could even pop a rope loose, and in a stormy wind with the dust flying,
that
certainly wasn’t a good situation. Canvas would bell and buck, possibly break loose and blow completely away.
Marak could certainly deal with that eventuality. He’d dealt with far worse. But the relay had clearly gone to secondary importance in their morning . . . witness Auguste was, in what trickled in minute 1 6 0 • C . J . C h e r r y h
by minute, still having trouble making contact with Marak, and his account of the quake slowly came trickling in, so voluminous and laced with research inserts it obscured the essential facts. From Drusus’s report, they had quit setup last night because daylight was going and a storm was coming on. And that had turned out, Auguste said, to be fortunate: an earthquake that strong, had the antenna been up without the bracing, might have added to their troubles, especially if they were in mid-process of the extension.