Angelmass

by Timothy Zahn

  “I’d bet money on it,” Forsythe agreed. “We have a number for the Gazelle’s yard?”

  “Yes—S-33, south field. Owner/operators are a brother and sister named Hanan and Ornina Daviee. You want to head over and take a look?”

  Forsythe looked over Pirbazari’s shoulder at the Angelmass Institute looming behind him, his mind sifting the possibilities and options. “Yes,” he said slowly. “But just Ronyon and me.”

  Pirbazari’s expression hardened, just a little. “I strongly recommend against that, High Senator,” he said. “We don’t know what sort of people we’re dealing with here. It could be dangerous.”

  “I don’t think so,” Forsythe soothed him. “Not yet, anyway. We know they’re smart, and smart operators don’t panic that easily. Besides, I may need you to move undercover later on, and it wouldn’t do to let them know we’re connected.”

  “The decision is of course yours,” Pirbazari said grudgingly. “I still recommend against it.”

  “Recommendation noted.” Forsythe nodded toward the Institute building. “Is Slavis going to have any trouble?”

  “You mean in getting hold of Kosta’s data?” Pirbazari shook his head. “No. High Senate staff IDs are quite persuasive.”

  “Good. You might as well go give him a hand. You didn’t tell anyone I was here, did you?”

  “No, sir. All we said was that we were members of your staff, here on a fact-finding mission. Which is all true, of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Forsythe suppressed a grimace. A few months ago Pirbazari wouldn’t have had any qualms over a judicious lie or two in the line of duty. Clearly, despite Forsythe’s best efforts, the angels were still having an effect on his people. “I’ll see you later, then,” he said, settling himself against the seat cushions. “Line car: huntership service yard S-33.”

  The vehicle pulled away from the curb; and as it did so Forsythe felt a diffident tap on his shoulder. Yes? he signed, turning to look at his companion.

  Ronyon had a strangely puckered look on his face. Is there danger? he signed back.

  Forsythe smiled. Not really, he assured the other. Seated to Forsythe’s left, the big man had of course been able to lipread only Pirbazari’s half of the conversation. We’re just going to go and see some people. You have our angel?

  Ronyon nodded with his usual eagerness. Right here, he signed, patting one massive hand against his left-hand pocket.

  Forsythe nodded and smiled again. Good. It was, not coincidentally, the pocket farthest from him. Among Ronyon’s many endearing qualities was the ability to follow simple instructions to the letter.

  With the emphasis on simple …

  He threw Ronyon another look. Up till now the big man hadn’t screwed up with any of this; but up till now he’d been in the more or less familiar setting of politics. This was different … and with a pair of con artists working the area, it would not be a good time for that first slip. The people we’re going to see are some of those who go out in little ships to look for angels, he signed to Ronyon. Because of that, there may be other people around who are looking for angels to steal. So I want you to be extra careful about keeping ours hidden away. Okay?

  Ronyon nodded, his expression solemnly eager. I won’t let anyone know.

  They were into the huntership yards now, row after row of dusty concrete rectangles, each blocked off from the street by a wire fence, many of them with a huntership resting on well-worn grooves in the middle. It was more than a little reminiscent of the condition the Iathrus Shipyards had been in before Forsythe rammed some reforms through the Lorelei Senate, and he made a mental note to check on just how much of the Gabriel Corporation’s profits were going into basic maintenance.

  Ronyon tapped him excitedly on the shoulder. There it is, he signed, pointing ahead. S-thirty-three, right?

  Right, Forsythe agreed, settling himself into confrontation mode and trying to ignore his racing heartbeat. Smart operators, he reminded himself firmly, didn’t panic easily.

  There were two men standing outside the ship as the line car rolled to a halt: one balding and rather fat, the other much younger and looking like he was fresh out of university. Ronyon beside him, Forsythe stepped to the gate. “Excuse me,” he called through the wire mesh.

  Both men turned. “Hello mere,” the older man said, waving them forward. “Come on in.”

  Forsythe lifted the catch and swung the gate open. “Sorry to bother you,” he said as he and Ronyon headed toward the ship. “I’m looking for a Jereko Kosta, and thought I might find him here.”

  Even at their distance Forsythe could see the flicker of surprise and wariness that crossed the younger man’s face. “I’m Kosta,” he said. “And you?”

  Forsythe waited until he and Ronyon had reached the other two before answering. “I’m High Senator Arkin Forsythe of Lorelei,” he said, watching Kosta closely.

  The reaction was more or less what Forsythe had expected: another flicker of surprise and perhaps a shade more wariness, but nothing even approaching panic. “I see,” Kosta said. “I’m honored to meet you, High Senator.”

  “And I you,” Forsythe told him gravely. “I’ve been following your work very closely. There are parts of it I find extremely interesting.” He looked at the older man. “You must be Hanan Daviee.”

  “Yes, sir,” Daviee said, looking dazed but recovering quickly. “Very honored to meet you, High Senator.”

  Forsythe nodded to him and turned back to Kosta. “I had to come to Seraph for a few days, and thought that while I was here it might be enlightening for me to check on the progress of your work.”

  “At the moment, sir, I’m afraid things are going very slowly,” Kosta said, his voice apologetic. “Somehow, my funding has been frozen, and until that’s straightened out I can’t use any of the Institute’s facilities. Mr. Daviee has graciously allowed me to bring some sampling equipment aboard the Gazelle; otherwise, I’d be at a complete standstill.”

  “I see,” Forsythe said. “Completely frozen, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. Director Podolak’s been trying to find the problem, but so far hasn’t been able to.”

  “Perhaps I can look into it when I get back to Uhuru.” Forsythe looked up at the ship looming over them. “You said you had some of your test gear aboard?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kosta nodded. “I could give you a tour of the setup, if you’d like.”

  “A very brief tour,” Daviee interjected, looking a little pained. “Begging your pardon, High Senator, but we’re scheduled to leave for Angelmass in less than an hour. The tow car will be attaching in twenty minutes—once we start rolling the regs require that the Gazelle’s hatches be sealed.”

  “Twenty minutes should be enough,” Forsythe assured him. Ronyon was hovering in clearly nervous uncertainty at his shoulder; without glancing up, he signed the big man to follow him. “Lead the way, Mr. Kosta,” he added aloud.

  It had been many years since Forsythe had been aboard a working ship like the Gazelle. Enough years for him to have forgotten how small and cramped and unpleasant they were, particularly when compared to liners and official government transports. Gingerly, trying not to touch the walls any more than he had to, he followed Kosta through the maze. “I have to apologize for the mess, High Senator,” Kosta said over his shoulder as he stepped over a section of half-disassembled machinery protruding into the corridor and started down a narrow stairway leading to the Gazelle’s lowest deck. “The Daviees have been working most of the night to try and get the ship ready to fly, and there are obviously still a few things to be done.”

  “I thought Gabriel was supposed to handle huntership maintenance,” Forsythe said.

  Kosta shrugged. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Hanan about that. Here we are.”

  He stopped in front of a small shiny box wedged into a space between two larger floor-to-ceiling equipment cabinets. A half dozen cables protruded from the top of the box, snaking their way to
unknown destinations behind the cabinets. “This is the primary logic module of my experiment,” Kosta said. “It takes data from a group of radiation sensors mounted on and just beneath the outer hull, does a fast analysis, and sends the results to a secondary module mounted in the Gazelle’s main computer room.”

  Forsythe nodded, eyes flicking across the six cables. Four of them were readily explainable: three standard data-transfer mesh ribbons and one low-voltage electronics power line. But the other two cables … “What exactly is this particular experiment supposed to accomplish?” he asked.

  “I’m hoping it’ll help me get a handle on these unexplained radiation surges,” Kosta told him. “I’m still not comfortable with the self-focusing theory that’s been suggested.”

  “Yes, I got that impression from your paper.” Forsythe nodded at the box. “Tell me about it In detail.”

  Kosta took him at his word, launching into a convoluted discussion of spectrum sampling, core-spiral generation, and real-time pattern analysis. Forsythe was able to follow only about half of it; but that half was enough to show that the explanation wasn’t simply built out of moonbeams and silk handkerchiefs. Whoever Kosta was—whatever this scheme was he was running here—he’d clearly done his homework.

  “Interesting,” Forsythe said when he’d finished. “And that’s all this experiment’s supposed to do?”

  “Isn’t that enough for one experiment?”

  “I’m certain it is,” Forsythe said, giving him a hard look. “I was curious about those two power lines coming out of your logic module.” He gestured to the two cables that had caught his attention. “You’re not going to tell me those are just more sensor lines, are you?”

  The corner of Kosta’s lip twitched. “No, they’re part of something entirely different. A small test I’m piggybacking on top of the main sampling experiment.”

  “What kind of test?”

  Kosta hesitated. “I’m sorry, High Senator, but I really can’t talk about that. It keys off a discovery by another Institute member, something I promised to keep secret.”

  “Even from top government officials?” Forsythe demanded, adding a subtle note of threat to his tone.

  “I’m sorry,” Kosta repeated. “You can talk to Dr. Frashni directly—perhaps he’ll be willing to tell you. But I can’t.”

  “I see,” Forsythe said, studying the younger man’s face. Odd; he’d have thought a good con artist would try to avoid ducking questions he could just as easily invent answers to.

  Unless he really was doing something for this Dr. Frashni. He made a mental note for Pirbazari to check it out.

  Over the hum of machinery came the sound of approaching footsteps, and he turned to see Hanan Daviee come up behind Ronyon. “I’m sorry, High Senator,” the fat man apologized, “but I wanted to let you know that the tow car is here.”

  “Thank you,” Forsythe said, glancing at his watch. It had indeed been just about twenty minutes since he and Ronyon had come aboard. If there was one thing the Gabriel Corporation was famous for, it was punctual scheduling. “I’ll get out of your way now. Good luck with your hunt.”

  “Thank you, High Senator,” the other said. “If you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to the exit. Oh, and by the way, the reporters are starting to arrive.”

  Forsythe stopped in mid-stride. “Reporters? What are reporters doing here?”

  Hanan blinked. “Why … I assumed you called them.”

  “No, I most certainly did not,” Forsythe snarled, digging out his phone and punching in a number. This whole trip was supposed to be secret, damn it. If this leak was Pirbazari’s fault—

  Pirbazari answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

  “It’s Forsythe,” Forsythe identified himself. “Why are there reporters gathering around the Gazelle?”

  There was a second of stunned silence. “Reporters?”

  “Yes, reporters. I thought I made it clear that my presence here was not to be mentioned to anyone.”

  “We haven’t told anyone you were here, High Senator,” Pirbazari insisted. “My only guess is that the Institute receptionist jumped to that conclusion on her own.”

  Who had alerted her superiors, who had alerted the media, who were now gathering like scavengers at a picnic hunting for crumbs. It fit, all right. Unfortunately. “Wonderful. What do you propose we do about it?”

  “You’d better stay aboard the ship until they leave. Can you get this Daviee person to tell them you’re not there?”

  “Probably,” Forsythe growled. “There’s just one slight flaw in that plan: the Gazelle’s about to leave for Angelmass. I doubt they’d be interested in having us along while they go angel hunting. No, you’re going to have to do something from there. And you’re going to have to do it in the next three minutes.”

  Beside Ronyon, Hanan Daviee cleared his throat. “High Senator?” he murmured, raising a tentative hand.

  Forsythe focused on him. “What?”

  “If you’d rather not leave right now, you’d be welcome to join us,” he said. “We have enough room aboard for both of you.”

  Forsythe stared at him, the automatic polite refusal catching midway up his throat. It was, on the face of it, a ridiculous suggestion.

  But on the other hand, why not? The other High Senators talked a great deal about angels being the future of the Empyrean, but to the best of his knowledge not a single one of them had ever personally gone on an angel hunt. It was no more or less than basic research for a man in his position.

  More to the immediate point, it would save him the trouble of facing a group of reporters and questions he didn’t really want to answer right now. “Very well, Mr. Daviee,” he said. “I accept your offer. Zar? Cancel the panic. I’m going to take a run out to Angelmass with the Gazelle.”

  There was another silence from the phone, a longer one this time. “You’re not serious, sir,” Pirbazari said at last, his voice sounding sandbagged.

  “Perfectly serious,” Forsythe said. “Why not?”

  “Why not? This isn’t exactly your standard fact-finding trip, High Senator. We’re talking about Angelmass here. EM radiation, deadly particle fluxes, violent magnetic fields—”

  “We’re also talking about a huntership, Zar,” Forsythe reminded him. “They’re designed for that environment.”

  “You also haven’t been checked out on huntership fundamentals, sir,” Pirbazari said stiffly. “That’s a basic safety rule. I’m sorry, but I cannot in any way endorse this course of action.”

  “Noted,” Forsythe said. “Continue your work; I’ll check in with you whenever I get back.”

  He closed down the phone and replaced it in its pocket. “Well,” he said, nodding to Hanan. “Request permission to stay aboard, Captain. Or whatever the appropriate phrase is.”

  “Oh, we’re not that formal here, High Senator,” Hanan said, his face reddening a bit. “If you’ll permit me to show you and your aide to your rooms—”

  “Why don’t I do that?” Kosta put in. “Then you can concentrate on getting the ship ready.”

  “That would be more convenient—if the High Senator doesn’t mind, that is,” Hanan added quickly, looking at Forsythe.

  It was, for Forsythe, a familiar pattern: common man meets Important Personage and instantly starts walking on eggs. Fortunately, it was familiar enough for him to know how to handle it. “What the High Senator would like most,” he told Hanan, putting a note of mild reproof in his voice, “is for you to relax. I don’t want any special treatment or deference or to interfere with your work in any way. All right?”

  “Ah … yes, sir,” Hanan said. “I’ll try.”

  “Good,” Forsythe nodded. “It might help for you to pretend I’m just someone who’s interested in angel hunting and came along to see what the business was like.”

  Hanan smiled wanly. “First thing I’d do is try to talk you out of it. Far too much work involved. Thank you, High Senator.” His eyes flicked to Kosta.
“We’ll put them in cabins one and two. Get Chandris to help you change the bunks.” With a nod, he turned and hurried down the corridor.

  Forsythe felt a quiet chill run through him. Chandris. As In Chandris Lalasha, as in the Xirrus’s stowaway. He’d predicted to Pirbazari that she and Kosta were working together; now, it seemed, that prediction had been borne out.

  She was aboard … and he was going to be spending several days cooped up on this ship with them.

  He shook away the momentary twinge of uncertainty. These were con artists, after all. Con artists were almost never violent.

  Ronyon was looking at him, uncertainties of his own puckering his face. We’re going to be staying aboard the ship for a few days, Forsythe signed to him. This is Mr. Kosta—he’s going to take us to our rooms. The other man who was here is named Mr. Daviee.

  Ronyon nodded, and Forsythe turned to Kosta. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Right,” Kosta said, his eyes lingering on Ronyon for just a second too long.

  Which meant he very much wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure of how to do so. “Ronyon is deaf,” Forsythe said, saving him the trouble. “Also somewhat retarded. If you need to say anything to him that can’t be communicated by simple gestures, you’ll have to do it through me.” Which wasn’t entirely true, of course. But there was no need for Kosta to know that.

  “I understand,” Kosta said. “Uh … if you’ll follow me, the cabins are back this way.”

  They retraced their steps back to the now-sealed hatchway and continued a short way past it to one of several identical cross corridors. The first door along it opened into a small but cozily furnished cabin. “This is normally Ornina’s room,” Kosta said as he ushered them in. “Hanan’s is across the corridor. Let me call Chandris and find out where fresh bedding is kept.”

  “All right,” Forsythe said as Kosta stepped around him and went to the bedside intercom. He wasn’t really happy with the idea of throwing Hanan and his sister out of their rooms; but this too was a reaction he’d run into before, and he knew that they’d feel far more uncomfortable if he insisted on taking less than the best accommodations they had to offer.