Angelmass

by Timothy Zahn

  She sat Ronyon down behind the desk and pulled another chair up to face him, making sure her back was to the guards so as to muffle her words even more. “Now,” she said. “Slowly, please. Tell me what’s happened.”

  Mr. Pirbazari brought Jereko in here awhile ago, Ronyon signed, obediently moving his hands with exaggerated deliberation. He said he was a spy!

  Chandris fought back a grimace. So she’d been right. “Did he say how they found out?” she asked.

  I don’t know, Ronyon signed. I think Mr. Forsythe just figured it out. He’s real smart.

  “Yes, I know,” Chandris agreed. Half-right, anyway; it didn’t look like Kosta had turned himself in.

  And if he hadn’t, then any noble statements he might have made about Chandris and the Daviees being innocent bystanders went straight out the window. If Forsythe came out of that office and saw her here, he was likely to jump to a completely wrong conclusion. “Is he in there with Mr. Forsythe now?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  Ronyon’s face puckered in a frown. No, Mr. Forsythe isn’t here, he signed. Jereko is just in there by himself.

  It was Chandris’s turn to frown. “He’s alone?” she repeated, resisting the impulse to turn and look behind her. Forsythe wouldn’t lock a Pax spy in his own office and then just walk off and leave him there for the night, would he?

  But Ronyon nodded. Mr. Forsythe talked to him for awhile, and then Mr. Pirbazari went in, and they took a cot and some food in, and then they all left. And one of the workmen came and turned the lock around on the door, he added, his face lighting up briefly with remembered interest.

  The memory faded, his face creasing with concern again. What are they going to do to Jereko? Are they going to hurt him?

  “I don’t know,” Chandris said, her mind still back behind her in that office. So those men were guarding a lone prisoner, not simply standing by while he was being interrogated.

  But that still didn’t make any sense. Surely Magasca had enough real prison space for even such a supposedly high-profile criminal like a master Pax spy. There was no reason Forsythe should have to turn his office into a makeshift cell.

  Unless the High Senator didn’t want him talking to anyone else.

  And then it all fell together, and she found herself looking at Ronyon with sudden new understanding. Of course. Kosta wouldn’t have wanted to go to jail—he wanted to get out to Angelmass, and there would be no chance of wheedling his way there once he was officially charged. He would have tried to talk Forsythe into holding off on an official arrest while he went and did his experiment, probably nobly offering to turn himself back in when it was finished.

  And when that hadn’t worked, he had played his trump card.

  The fact that Forsythe wasn’t wearing his angel.

  “So Mr. Forsythe talked to Jereko,” she said. “Did he say anything to you when he came out?”

  He told me not to tell anyone about Jereko, Ronyon signed, his face suddenly going uncertain halfway through the sentence. Uh-oh. I wasn’t supposed to tell you this, was I?

  “It’s okay,” Chandris said hastily. “I’m sure he just meant not to tell anyone who didn’t already know.”

  Ronyon blinked. You already knew?

  Chandris felt her throat tighten, seeing a deep hole suddenly open up in front of her. Admitting to Ronyon that she knew about Kosta might get him to talk more freely, but it would also damn her as an accessory to espionage if he ever repeated that to Forsythe.

  But she had no choice. Not if she was going to help Kosta. “Yes, I knew,” she said. “He told me a couple of days ago, when we were discussing what to do about Angelmass.”

  Ronyon shivered, his shoulders hunching like he was trying to make himself smaller. That’s a bad place, he signed, his eyes looking haunted. It scared me a lot.

  “It scares me, too,” Chandris assured him. “And Jereko, and a lot of other people.”

  She leaned toward him slightly. “That’s why Jereko and I need to go out there. We need to find out some things about it, so that no one will have to be scared anymore. Can you help us?”

  His face puckered even more. I don’t know, he signed, the words starting to come out faster in his agitation. Mr. Forsythe told me not to tell anyone, and now I have. If I help you, he’s going to be real mad at me.

  “He’ll be mostly mad at me,” Chandris assured him. “If you get in trouble, I’ll tell him it was my fault, that you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  He peered down at her hands, his face twisted almost like he was going to cry. But that wouldn’t be true, he signed. You aren’t making me do anything. Mr. Forsythe says when somebody does something wrong they should take the blame themselves.

  “He’s right,” Chandris conceded. Except for Forsythe himself, she added silently, the thought of his fake angel pendant flitting through her mind. But it was no use bringing that up. Ronyon was clearly a willing accomplice to the fraud, which meant that Forsythe must have spun him some sort of story to make the whole thing seem legitimate. Trying to argue the point now would only confuse him.

  I mean, I want to help, Ronyon went on, signing so fast now she could hardly keep up. You and Jereko helped me a lot when we were out on the ship and I got scared. But Mr. Forsythe told me not to tell anybody—

  “Yes, I know,” Chandris said, touching his hand soothingly. “It’s all right. It’s my fault—I shouldn’t have asked you. I’m sorry.”

  He blinked. That’s all right, he signed, almost shyly. I’m not mad at you. I like you.

  She smiled. “I like you too, Ronyon,” she said, and meant it. There was something about his earnest, childlike innocence that touched a chord deep inside her. She would go a long way, through a lot of pain, rather than deliberately hurt him. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. You and I will be fine.”

  And Jereko, too?

  “Jereko, too,” she said, nodding.

  His eyes searched her face for a moment. Then, the creases vanished from his forehead and he smiled. Okay, he signed. I believe you.

  “Good,” Chandris said, feeling a pang of guilt. Did it count as a lie, she wondered uncomfortably, if you had all the good intentions in the world, but at the same time didn’t have the foggiest idea how you were going to make a promise work? “Do you know when Mr. Forsythe will be coming back in the morning?”

  He said nine o’clock, Ronyon signed. Are you going to talk to him about Jereko?

  She reached out and took his hands. “Thank you,” she said quietly, squeezing them once and then standing up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He smiled up at her, exactly like a child who’d just been told he’d been a good boy. Good night, Chandris, he signed. Happy dreams.

  She swallowed. “You, too, Ronyon.”

  He was still smiling as she left.

  When Forsythe’s presence on Seraph first came to light, just after the Gazelle’s near-fatal brush with Angelmass, the Governor had offered the distinguished visitors top-class hotel rooms as well as temporary office space. Forsythe had accepted the office, but had turned down the accommodations. His ship was just as comfortable, nearly as convenient to the Government Building, and much easier to keep nosy media types away from.

  He sat alone now in the control room of the ship, a drink gripped in his hand, gazing out the landing viewport at the starry sky overhead. It was nearly three in the morning, and he was as bone-weary as he had ever been in his life.

  And, though he would never admit it to anyone, as frightened.

  EmDef was doing its best—he had to give them that. In the seven hours since the Pax invasion they had pulled together an amazing assortment of fighting ships, armed patrol craft, and even a few research and weather satellites that could be modified into floating weapons platforms. Well before the Komitadji arrived over Seraph, all of the planet’s defenses would be ready.

  And none of it would do a single bit of good.

  Forsythe sighed, a dark and lonely
sound in the deserted control room. The Komitadji was just too big, too powerful, too indestructible. EmDef could throw everything they had against it and still not make a significant reduction in its offensive capabilities. When the dust cleared, the Komitadji would still be there.

  And it would be sitting in orbit above a completely helpless world.

  Forsythe sipped at his drink without tasting it, visualizing that bleak scenario. Earlier, at the battle by the net, the Komitadji’s commander had destroyed a Hellfire missile rather than let it unnecessarily demolish one of the catapult ships. Would he show similar restraint and mercy toward a captured planet full of civilians?

  Or would the level of restraint instead be tied to how quickly the vanquished were willing to surrender? Would the level of punitive action rise with each dent the EmDef forces put in the Komitadji’s hull?

  Forsythe had ordered that the people of Seraph not be informed of the impending attack, arguing in part that they might as well get one last good night’s sleep. Would they understand his reasoning this coming afternoon when the truth abruptly rose up and slapped them in the face?

  More importantly, would the EmDef men and women who would be getting no sleep at all tonight understand if he abruptly threw all their hard work away and surrendered Seraph to the Pax without a shot being fired?

  What was a High Senator’s duty here? To satisfy pride by allowing as much damage as possible to be inflicted on both sides? To present the money-worshiping Pax with a Pyhrric victory by forcing them to destroy much of what they had come here to conquer?

  Or was his duty instead to accept the inevitable, present the enemy a fully functional world, and protect the lives of the people he’d sworn to serve?

  Reaching to his chest, he fingered the angel pendant hanging there, his mind drifting back to all those High Senate meetings he’d attended on Uhuru. Irritating though he’d found his angel-wearing colleagues to be, he couldn’t help but notice their overall calmness and assurance. They were utterly convinced that their methods were right, that the consequences of their actions would be what was best for the people of the Empyrean.

  Had that calm been merely an illusion? A side effect of the sheep-like attitude the angels created?

  Or had there been more to it than that? Did the angels in fact bestow a degree of genuine wisdom upon their wearers?

  Forsythe didn’t know. And it was looking more and more like he would never have the chance to find out. Even if he took the angel back from Ronyon tonight, whatever effect it might have on him couldn’t possibly be fast enough to give him anything useful before the Komitadji arrived.

  But it would at least short-circuit anything Kosta might say.

  He snorted derisively under his breath. Who exactly was he kidding? Nothing would close Kosta’s mouth. The kid had his own agenda—a Pax agenda—and the minute he got within squealing range of someone’s ear, it would all come out. High Senator Arkin Forsythe, honored official of the Empyrean, had deliberately committed a felony.

  There was no way he could conceal it. No way he could even bring it down to his word against Kosta’s. Ronyon knew all about the scheme; and despite the pains Forsythe had taken to rationalize it for the big man, none of that would do any good once the questioning began. Ronyon was too honest, and too simple, to make any excuses or fabrications or spins. He would simply and straightforwardly tell the truth.

  What would the people of Seraph think when they found out? What would Pirbazari think, and all the EmDef officers and troops still laboring out there in the night?

  Unfortunately, he knew full well what they would think. Once, months ago, such a revelation would have meant the instant end of Forsythe’s career. Now, here, the consequences would be far worse.

  Because no matter what he ordered the people of Seraph to do now, it would be seen as nothing more than the self-serving manipulation of a corrupt politician. Surrender without a fight? He’d been bribed by the Pax to deliver an undamaged Empyreal world. Fight to the last man and ship? He’d been bribed to waste EmDef resources by throwing them uselessly against an obviously invincible Pax warship. Either way, the issue would be plunged into uncertainty and confusion, generating suspicion and hostility toward all their leaders.

  And no matter when Seraph surrendered, before battle or afterwards, that same suspicion would likely spill over into the creation of a hundred different guerrilla units. Angry men and women would turn their anger and shame at Forsythe toward their occupiers, spilling more and more blood, until even the Pax declared Seraph not worth the trouble and destroyed it.

  All that, because Kosta had somehow learned his secret.

  Or rather, all that if Forsythe permitted him to reveal it.

  The greatest good for the greatest number, the ancient measuring stick whispered through his mind. If Kosta had been a threat to Forsythe alone, it would be different Forsythe had made his decision, and he was willing to face the consequences of his actions. If there was one thing his father had taught him, it was that.

  But it wasn’t only himself on the line here. Kosta had become a threat to all the people of Seraph, and of the Empyrean. The people Forsythe had sworn to protect.

  And as an admitted Pax spy in time of war, Kosta had already forfeited his life.

  From the direction of his office came the sound of gentle chimes as his father’s old antique-style clock marked the three o’clock hour. It would be easy enough, Forsythe realized, the thoughts seeming as distant as if they were coming from someone else’s mind. He would go to the Government Building at nine, as he’d told Pirbazari and Ronyon he would. He would go in alone to interrogate Kosta, with Pirbazari’s spare gun tucked away out of sight beneath his jacket. A startled shout, an order to keep back, a single shot, and it would be over. The outer work area would be buzzing with clerks and junior officials at that hour, all of them ready to testify afterward as to what they’d heard.

  And maybe Forsythe would get lucky. Maybe Kosta would try to jump him when he came in. It would certainly make the whole thing easier.

  Wearily, he got to his feet and trudged aft to try to catch a few hours of sleep. By 9:05, he told himself, it would be all over. Kosta would be silenced, and he would be able to face the incoming Komitadji with a clear mind. The greatest good, for the greatest number.

  On his way to his stateroom he drained the rest of his drink. It still had no taste.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Just relax, girl,” Hanan advised, huffing a bit as he cleared the last of the fifteen steps and headed toward the main Government Building entrance, tapping the tip of his furled umbrella rhythmically against the marble as he walked. “You know the drill, and you’ve got all that native talent ready to call on. It’s going to work just fine.”

  “I hope so,” Chandris muttered, throwing a quick look at him as she got a couple of paces ahead and reached for the door handle. It wasn’t Hanan’s scheme she was worried about, in point of fact, but Hanan himself. Despite his loud and insistent claims that he was quite adequate to this little jaunt, she could tell that every step was sending a jolt of pain through him.

  But you would never tell it from listening to him talk. “It’ll be fine,” he repeated soothingly. “Provided you got the names straight when you looked at the directory, it should go smooth as slippies. Ten minutes, tops, and it’ll all be over.”

  Chandris hunched her shoulders beneath the unaccustomed weight of the short but heavy overcoat she was wearing. “Okay,” she said. “If you say so.”

  “I say so,” he said. “Just relax.”

  They stepped through the door and crossed to the receptionist’s desk. “May I help you?” the middle-aged woman seated there asked.

  “I certainly hope so,” Hanan said gravely, handing her the elaborate business card Chandris and Ornina had designed and printed aboard the Gazelle two hours ago. “I’m Dr. Gridley Fowler, psychiatrist; this is my assistant Jacyntha Thinne. We need to see Office Manager Cimtrask immediately in Supe
rvisor Dahmad’s office.”

  “Ah … certainly,” the receptionist said, looking taken aback as she focused on the card. “Let me call Mr. Cimtrask and—”

  “Immediately, my good woman, immediately,” Hanan in sisted, stepping past her desk and striding toward the door leading into the main office area of the building.

  He got three steps before the receptionist seemed to realize what he was doing. “Wait a minute,” she said, swiveling around in her chair. “I have to call you in—”

  “Supervisor Dahmad’s office,” Hanan called over his shoulder, pointing imperiously back toward her with his umbrella. “Immediately.”

  “But—”

  Her protest was lost as Hanan pushed open the door and strode through. Chandris was right behind him.

  “That worked,” Hanan muttered as they headed down the corridor. “Which way?”

  “Elevator’s over there,” Chandris said, nodding ahead. “We want the fifth floor.”

  “Dahmad?”

  “Second floor,” she told him. “We ought to miss Cimtrask just fine.”

  “Let’s make sure,” Hanan said, slowing his pace. “We don’t want to bump into him coming down while we’re going up.”

  They made a slightly more leisurely approach to the elevator and pushed the call button. The doors opened, revealing an unoccupied car, and they stepped in. Chandris touched the fifth floor button, and they were on their way.

  In the silence of the car, she could hear the faint sounds of scratching and one or two tiny and very indignant squeaks. It’s a normal chop and hop, she told herself firmly. It’s not going to go boff on us and fall apart. It’s not. Taking a deep breath, she set herself into her role.

  Not surprisingly, Forsythe’s office complex was considerably more lively than it had been the previous night. Ronyon was nowhere in sight, but the two guards were still on duty across the room. Two different guards, that is; there must have been a shift change sometime in the past few hours. That was good—the last thing they wanted right now was for someone to recognize her. Pulling open the door, Chandris held it as Hanan marched through, once again every bit the serious, overbearing, and rather obnoxious Dr. Gridley Fowler.