The Devil and Deep Space (28 page)

Brecinn stood up. “Well, good travel,” she said, extending her hand. “And good hunting. I hope I don’t need to tell you how important your effort is to our readiness as we stand by to support the Judge at Chilleau.” She wouldn’t say “Second Judge,” and it was too soon to say “First Judge.” Noycannir would take her point. “Nor how deeply we all appreciate your energetic pursuit of mutually productive goals.”

Noycannir’s smile was a little cynical, but Brecinn didn’t mind. “Just as you say, Admiral. I’ll see you in nine days’ time or less, then.”

Well, it would probably be longer than that, but Noycannir didn’t yet know that she would be staying to see the new request for a Bench warrant through channels. That was all right, too. Noycannir would be expecting to profit for her intervention. Let her work for her profit.

And ap Rhiannon just dug herself deeper into her own oubliette day by day by day. There would be a reckoning. Admiral Brecinn was not a vengeful woman, but ap Rhiannon’s intransigence was an insult to Fleet itself. Fleet would settle with Jennet ap Rhiannon.

And the
Ragnarok
would be transferred from a draw on resources to a source of tremendous profit, once the new First Judge cancelled the program and forgot all about the ship’s existence.

###

“With Security as well, Dame?” courier ship captain Gonkalen asked, reading the documentation that Mergau had presented. “With respect, it seems a little odd to take Security to Chilleau Judiciary.”

Gonkalen looked a little uncertain, but Mergau was sure of her documentation. She hadn’t spent all of the past several days creating her forged Record. She’d found time to ensure that she’d be able to get what she wanted when she was ready to make her move.

“Can’t be too careful in uncertain times, Gonkalen, and Chilleau Judiciary’s own resources are probably fully deployed just at present. It’s a mark of thoughtfulness on the Admiral’s part, really. Is there a problem?”

No. There was no problem, not unless this Gonkalen meant to argue with Fleet Admiral Sandri Brecinn about her disposition of her own resources. He passed the dispatch order back to her, and bowed. “Of course not, Dame. When do you wish to leave?”

“How soon can we leave?” She knew the correct answer to that question; she had chosen this ship with care. A fast courier, with transport for a Security team, and a storage area that could be secured. That was for Koscuisko. He would board the courier as a Bench officer on detached assignment; he would arrive at Chilleau Judiciary her prisoner, her slave.

Gonkalen shrugged. “At your convenience, Dame. There is a Security team on standby at all times.”

That was the right answer, fortunately for Gonkalen. Mergau nodded. “Here are my effects, Ship Captain. I’d like to leave immediately, if you please.”

Once they’d cleared Pesadie, they would start to spin for vector transit — but not for Chilleau. Gonkalen would be surprised, but she’d be his superior officer by virtue of Admiral Brecinn’s delegated authority. It would be a secret mission. There would be no questions asked; or at least none answered.

Azanry, in the Dolgorukij Combine, and Koscuisko would be at the old fortress known to the locals as Chelatring Side. She had the flight plan. She had the administrative clearance codes, for use when the time came. Her appearance would be sudden, unannounced, surprising. He didn’t have a chance.

“As you direct, Dame Noycannir. Within the hour.”

By the time it occurred to Brecinn to wonder where she was, she would be on her way to Chilleau Judiciary with a prize under lock and key that would render her position unassailable for the rest of her life.

###

Silboomie Station experienced a fair level of activity during a given shift, but a visit from one of the big battlewagons in the cruiser–killer class was unusual enough to be an event. They’d had a day or two to anticipate it, as well; once the loading drills had started to pool into the supply set to be ready for the gaining ship’s barge, it had been clear that the size of the ship was to be extraordinary.

That the ship was not only a cruiser–killer class warship, but an experimental model — a test bed for the still developmental and controversial black–hull technology — had only added excitement upon interest. Half the station was out upon the dispatch apron, high above the loading area, to watch the slow descent of the ship’s barge down to the loading level.

The clear–space of the station was clearly marked with illumination globes for the entire hemisphere, so that there would be a constant source of light, even when the station’s orbit carried it through the night shadow of the cold dead world that anchored it in Silboomie system. The ship’s marks were clearly visible, once in range; great
Ragnarok
itself, whispered and gossiped about as much because of the people on board as the innovative promise of the black hull.

Scanner Habsee, the Supply Officer on shift, counted the people who were watching the spectacle, and shook her head. Nineteen heads, and only thirty–six on Station. It was just as well that theirs was an oversight function, restricted to maintaining the automatics and administering the appropriate releases and secures. Because if the work relied upon the living, rather than the mechanical, it would have come to a standstill just now, to watch the
Ragnarok
’s barge come in.

From Habsee’s post in the control pillar, she could see the pilot platform on the barge as it sank past her line of sight. There were three people on it, and one of them had to be the Engineer, since he was required to attest to the receipt and valid need for supplies transferred.

One of the people on the pilot platform was tall enough to be the Chigan engineer Serge of Wheatfields, notorious throughout Fleet not so much for his own accomplishments — which were respectable — as for what Fleet had accomplished against him. There was a question to be raised though, over whether the adjective notorious could be applied to any of the
Ragnarok
’s officers in comparison to its Ship’s Surgeon, whose reputation outshone that even of the late, unlamented Fleet Captain Lowden for dreadfulness and horror. Supply Officer Habsee wondered if the Engineer was ever jealous of Andrej Koscuisko.

With the Engineer at the wheel on the pilot platform the barge slid into its preprogrammed docking slot without a single jolt or jar, not so much as a flash of proximity warning lights. Locked off, ready to commence loading, the barge engaged its interface protocols with the Station’s cranes, and the transfer process began.

Descending the ladder set into the side of the barge, the three people who had ridden it down began to make their way across the tarmac to the lifts. And suddenly something fell out of the upper atmosphere, something huge and black, erratic in its movements, swift and sudden in its turns.

Habsee could hear the exclamations of the onlookers over the monitors: fear, confusion, wonder. Recognition. It wasn’t a huge black awful thing falling from the underbelly of the
Ragnarok
. It was only the
Ragnarok
’s Intelligence Officer, taking advantage of the joined atmospheres to fly the extra distance rather than ride on the barge.

The Desmodontae came in swift and low, heading straight for the control pillar; to climb up the outer wall, Habsee supposed. It disappeared from sight below the lip of the tower’s balcony, only to reappear — climbing up over the outer railing — even as the lift doors opened to discharge the other members of the
Ragnarok
’s supply party.

Habsee went to her post, to greet them formally from behind the transfer–desk. There on the desk’s surface was the supply manifest, complete and cross–checked, ready for receipt signatures and release of responsibility.

It was rather a full manifest, she’d noticed. Maybe the ship had been out beyond range of resupply for the months since the death of Captain Lowden. Some of the staff thought that the
Ragnarok
had been on training maneuvers at Pesadie Training Command, though, and not out in the Fringe at all.

It wasn’t any of their business, really. They were reasonable people. The ship requested the support; Silboomie Station supplied it. That was their job. Their mission. Asking questions about clients’ recent active postings was not included in the mission statement.

“Welcome to Silboomie Station, gentles,” she said. She could hear a scrabbling sound behind her, to her left, as the Desmodontae let itself in from the outer balcony. “Your manifest has been prepared. I think you’ll find everything in good order. I’m Scanner Habsee, the shift Supply Officer.”

The Desmodontae had scuttled past the desk to take its place with the other crew from the
Ragnarok
. “Ship’s Engineer,” the tall Chigan said, confirming her previous guess. “Serge of Wheatfields. Logistics Control, Pinapin Rydel. Stores–and–Replenishments, He Talks. The Intelligence Officer, Two.”

Logistics and Stores–and–Replenishments nodded politely in turn, but the Desmodontae only stared. What was it doing here? Logistics and Stores–and–Replenishments one expected, but what did an Intelligence Officer have to do with a routine resupply? Had there been an undiscovered shortage of the nutrient broth that Desmodontae used for food? What?

“As you’ll see from the manifest, we’re ready to validate,” Habsee replied, a little nervously. “Will you be wanting to spot audit prior to acceptance, your Excellency?”

Many Engineers did, as part of good prudence, and to ensure that they were receiving what they had requested. It was different for commercial transfers, of course. Smaller orders could be more easily verified, and commercial transfers involved money. If the
Ragnarok
didn’t get what it expected, they’d just reorder. Silboomie Station was a chartered Fleet support activity; they took what Fleet paid, and were grateful for that much. They had their own ways of making sure that the margins were acceptable.

“Won’t be necessary this trip. We’re all reasonable people, after all, aren’t we? And Two has validated the audit trail.” The Engineer’s response was a little confusing, but he kept talking, as if what he’d just said had been easily understandable. “There are some additional stores we’re particularly anxious to pick up, now that we’re here. They weren’t on the pre–trans manifest, we’d like to do an ad–hoc add–on.”

Happened all the time, especially where reasonable people were concerned. As long as there weren’t too many last–minute requests, they could usually locate and load the desired commodity before the barge had finished clearing its original manifest.

“Of course, sir. Material class code?”

The Engineer glanced down at the silent staring Desmodontae at his side, and the Intelligence Officer turned its black–velvet muzzle up in the Chigan’s direction and spoke.

“Standard deck–wipes, by the octave, each,” the Intelligence Officer said — and its voice was female. Female, and oddly cheerful, somehow. “But a particular lot, if you please. It should be located at encrypt serio trevi–spikal–conjut–seven. Sector four. Line two. Crane access seventeen.”

Deck–wipes weren’t an acquisition item, under normal circumstances. They were as easy to come by as they were easy to dispose of, by the octave, each. Scanner Habsee didn’t wonder; she knew how to mind her own business, and she had to scramble to get the matrix coordinates loaded, because by the time she had grasped what she was being told, “Two” was already halfway through the location sequence.

“I confirm encrypt serio trevi–spikal–conjut–seven
. . . ” The information came up slowly, the cross–reference seeming to require longer than usual to complete its search. “With respect, ma’am, according to the register it’s a shipment of tallifers, special hold for experimental — ”

Two raised one clawlike hand in a swift gesture of warning, and most of one wing came with it. Habsee shut up, startled into silence.

“There is a very good reason for such an entry,” Two said, solemnly. “We, however, have strict instructions to receive deck–wipes from that coordinate. We are not to leave without them. It would, of course, help immeasurably if you could slip the package into mid–manifest, and excite as little notice as possible.”

As long as there were no inadvertent misunderstandings. Habsee invoked standard handling on emergency override, to get the package moved without the flag–action of a special transfer. Fortunately, the index location was only one or two processes deep; it had been placed quite close to the loading apron — doubtless deliberately.

Two was the Intelligence Officer, after all. If there were Intelligence issues involved, Habsee rather wanted to get rid of it as soon as she could.

“It will be one moment.” Habsee frowned in concentration, working the problem on–line. Pull a heavy lift off a mid–process, get it to the closest entry site. Find the package — there; load the package. It was remarkably heavy, for its size.

Habsee adjusted the counterbalance resists. The load stabilized; she keyed the global–domain. “Attention on observer. Maximum load limit on dispatch apron has been exceeded, return to post.” She was expected to run the idlers off from time to time; and they had already had the better part of the treat — the
Ragnarok
’s barge docking, with the dramatic appearance of the Intelligence Officer as an unexpected thrill. “Repeat, maximum load limit exceeded, return to post.”

Clear the area
. By the time the lift with the special consignment cleared the front end of the massive stacks to make its slow ascent from two levels down, the dispatch apron was effectively deserted. Not that the movement of the special requisition was really hidden or concealed in any sense, no. It was just as not–obvious as it could be, given the restrictions under which she had to operate.

Then it was done. The special consignment was placed forward, and the loading barge took it up as if it had been waiting for just that. The next four packages in their dull gray, featureless containers slid onto the barge immediately afterward, hiding the special package from sight. The Engineer stepped forward and set his mark against the manifest, bending his head to the ident–scan with solemn, bored gravity.