Warring States

by Susan R. Matthews

  “Each party believed they were negotiating from a position of strength. Neither party felt that they’d been forced to it by circumstances because both had secret weapons that they could easily have deployed. At the same time each side believed that the other really had no choice whether they knew it or not. Stable outcome.”

  He was in trouble. He was in serious trouble. He didn’t have a single card that had containment anywhere in it. Could he get away with “delta” in Gamie? That would channel all the water away safely. He wasn’t sure what else he could try. He set it down.

  “Well, we were all just as glad to see it over.” Many of the people he’d been with, at any rate. Yes, there had been some among them who had resented being deprived of a chance to work off a little steam. The only trouble with a successful Jurisdiction, Rukota decided, was that there was too much law and order in the world for people to have a good appreciation for how horrible chaos and conflict could be. They’d been lucky at Ankhor. There’d been a large civilian population in Port Carue, non-combatants, citizens and the trading community.

  Even people who had held the civilian population responsible for the extremism of its government had found no way to blame the merchant community. For himself Rukota hadn’t been able to ever quite figure out how some domestic laborer in a public school could be held responsible enough for the political intransigence of an oligarchy to deserve to die for being there.

  Vogel frowned at his hand, suddenly, but it wasn’t a worried frown. It was one of concentration. Rukota felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. No, it would be too unfair. But nobody had played “nibs,” not yet, Vogel could have it in his hand, and if he did — and if he put it in Sacroe — there would be almost no way to avoid a cataclysmic “worldfire,” if that happened, and Vogel would win the game as well as the hand.

  “It was a close one,” Vogel admitted. There was a note of decision and determination in his voice. “But, yes, we pulled it off, because both sides were willing to avoid slaughtering the other if it could be done. Best basis for an entente, really, positive desire to not inflict tremendous losses on the other side. I think maybe I’ll try playing — ”

  The talk-alert sounded at the door to the ready-room just in time. Vogel looked up toward the door with an expression of mild annoyance on his face, and played “belange” in Sacroe. Belange, and not nibs. Belange had gale force in it — why, if Rukota played his last remaining “severance” in Hellox he would have a near-nova, and he’d never even seen one played before, the odds against the combination were . . . the odds were —

  They were more than he could calculate. “Step through,” Rukota called, and put down his hand. “Are they ready for us in Secured Medical?”

  The door opened; one of Koscuisko’s people came through. Micmac Pyotr. Maybe Pyotr Micmac, Rukota decided, since he’d heard Koscuisko call the big black-skinned Skaltsparmal bond-involuntary “Pyotr” but never “Mister Pyotr,” and Koscuisko called his bond-involuntaries by their names. Something to do with delicacy in the issue of reminding them of the detention facility in which they had been Bonded, Rukota understood, since a bond-involuntary took his formal name from the establishment at which he had been placed under governor for the thirty-year term of his sentence. Unless he was Nurail. Rukota didn’t think there were any Pyotr Detention Facilities, but he couldn’t recall having heard of a Micmac Detention Facility, either.

  “Yes, General Rukota, thank you. Ship’s chief medical officer to be waiting for General Rukota and Bench intelligence specialist Vogel in Secured Medical, sir, if the officer will follow me.”

  Well, he could finish the hand, or he could just go. Vogel might believe he was taking an easy escape from a losing position if he did that, but it didn’t matter. He had seen the potential for a genuine near-nova. It was enough. He could die without regret, even if not happily.

  “Shall we?” he asked; Vogel pushed back from the table, set his cap on straight, and almost saluted. Almost. Vogel knew. “After you,” Vogel said.

  Resisting the temptation to see what Vogel had been holding in his hand in reserve, Rukota led the way out of the room, following Pyotr and the two Security with him down the corridors. One bond-involuntary, Godsalt; one not, a woman, Smath, he thought.

  Koscuisko was waiting for them when they got there. Secured Medical was in one of the most remote areas of the entire ship — not that a ship of even the Ragnarok’s significant size could have any remote places on it, especially when you’d been living there for as many years as many of the Ragnarok’s crew had been. Koscuisko didn’t look happy. Why should he? Rukota couldn’t imagine anybody being happy about going into a torture-chamber, and Koscuisko was the one who knew exactly what had gone on in there.

  It was widely understood that Koscuisko’s peculiar advantage in Inquisition lay in the combination of empathy and exquisite sadism, that was true — a culturally inculcated passion to be the master of all that he surveyed, coupled with the unpredictable psychological quirk that afflicted a small but select group of unfortunate souls. Koscuisko was a decent enough sort in other areas of his life for all that, and nobody had sent him down to Secured Medical since Rukota had come on board; so he had no particular problem with Koscuisko.

  In fact, Rukota almost liked Koscuisko, if only by association. Koscuisko’s troops were as solid as any Rukota had ever had the pleasure to associate with. Koscuisko didn’t get the credit for that, no, of course not; but he did get credit for being an officer that honest troops respected and were fond of even when they couldn’t exactly bring themselves to admire him.

  “Specialist,” Koscuisko said, and bowed. “General. We may go in, now.” But he made no move to key the admit until Pyotr, standing behind Rukota in the corridor, coughed gently. The sound seemed to wake Koscuisko up, in some sense, and he turned to the panel beside the door with no visible sign of reluctance save for the white lines of his tensely compressed lips. Rukota didn’t usually notice much about men’s lips, but there was so little color in Koscuisko’s face to begin with that the additional paleness of Koscuisko’s mouth was hard to miss. This was harder for Koscuisko than he’d anticipated, perhaps.

  The door slid open on its diagonal track. Koscuisko stepped through and waited — facing the far wall, which wasn’t all that very far — until the female troop Pyotr had brought with them had closed the outer door and given the all-clear, “Secured, your Excellency.”

  He could see the rise and fall of Koscuisko’s shoulders as Koscuisko took a deep breath, then keyed the admit. The inner door slid open, and there it was, Secured Medical. Rukota had seen one of these places once before in his life — it was an orientation item — but this was different. This had been one of the most frequently used such rooms in Fleet until Captain Lowden’s death, and a person generally didn’t expect to see the Ship’s Engineer in the Inquisitor’s seat, either.

  Koscuisko had certainly not expected that. Rukota could tell by the half-a-step backward that Koscuisko took, raising one hand half-way in the classic gesture of suspicion and reproach and defensiveness. Wheatfields stood up and stepped off the little platform, a gently malicious smile not so much on his face as expressed in his entire body. “Nice to see you, Andrej,” Wheatfields said. “I just thought I’d be present for your return to your old environs. You must have so many happy memories of this place.”

  But there was something else going on here as well. Rukota could almost smell it. He couldn’t figure it out, but he could sense it. “Memories, at least,” Koscuisko said, with no particular emotion that Rukota could identify in his voice. “You’ve re-arranged, I see.”

  The wall in front of the Inquisitor’s chair had been completely covered, floor to ceiling, by stacked crates, perhaps two crates deep. The wall-panels behind which the instruments of torture were stored, the door at the far end of the room that led to the small cell where a prisoner under interrogation would be kept — all completely blocked off. Rukota didn’t know what
was in the crates but he knew he wouldn’t be surprised if they were the heaviest things the Engineer could come up with.

  Even the ceiling had an anomalous look, paneled with flatform storage in netting; no sign of the grid or any of the suspension points. Thorough. A person wouldn’t know that this had ever been anything but a store-room except for the chair in the middle of it — a perfectly innocuous seat with padded arm-rests, comfortable, provided for the Inquisitor’s use — and the aisle that had been cleared through to the right of the doorway to give access to the evidence locker. Just another anonymous panel in the wall, but one of the most secure places on board the Ragnarok.

  “Do you like it?” Wheatfields asked, standing very close to Koscuisko in a casually threatening manner. “I’m sure we could arrange to forget you’re down here, Andrej. Except that your damned Security would probably come looking for you,” he added, looking at Pyotr over Koscuisko’s head. Wheatfields was an extraordinarily tall man, fully an eight taller than Rukota himself. Rukota glanced back over his own shoulder, just in time to catch Pyotr’s polite bow of acknowledgment. Wheatfields didn’t like Koscuisko, but he was apparently unwilling to make Koscuisko’s Security uncomfortable just to make the point.

  “I could watch tapes to pass the time,” Koscuisko said. His voice had turned chillingly cold. “I understand you have some. Thank you, Serge, it is kind of you to be here for me.”

  The attack seemed to be as effective as it was apparently unexpected. Wheatfields stepped back a pace, but it was almost as if he’d actually staggered. From what Rukota had gathered of the tribal knowledge of the Ragnarok, this was a rare moment of ascendancy, for Koscuisko; but Koscuisko didn’t seem to have noticed.

  Koscuisko turned to his right instead, stepping through the shallow aisle between boxes to the wall to code his secured-access admits. Rukota hesitated for a moment before deciding that noticing the possibility that Koscuisko had floored Wheatfields would only contribute to the awkwardness, and going after Koscuisko to watch over his shoulder.

  The locker opened. There were two records inside that Rukota could see; Koscuisko lifted one out — top shelf, a small box, no larger than a modestly-sized meal-tray — and held it out for Rukota to take, not looking at him, before taking the second record out.

  “Access modification,” Koscuisko said. “On authority Andrej Ulexeievitch Koscuisko, Ship’s Inquisitor, assigned to the Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok. Confirm.”

  The record seemed to think about it for a moment. Rukota knew that what the record was doing was confirming Koscuisko’s voice, the genetic information in the sweat of Koscuisko’s hands, and scanning the central Judicial files for any hint that Andrej Ulexeievitch Koscuisko was no longer the appropriate authority. Finding none — obviously enough — the record said “Confirmed” in its calm clear voice, and Koscuisko seemed to relax by some unquantifiable fraction.

  “Access is granted for purpose of lawful investigation to the following named individuals. Please state your name and your rank. Karol Aphon Vogel.” Koscuisko passed the record in his hands to Vogel, who took it.

  “Bench intelligence specialist,” Vogel confirmed. “Karol Aphon Vogel. Judicial ad-hoc investigation in process. File in record.” Or, in other words, the record could check and make sure that Vogel was Vogel, but would not be expecting to find any other information; nor would the record release any to inquiries from its controller in Judicial systems. As far as anybody would be able to find out Vogel would still be exactly as disappeared as Rukota understood he’d been before he’d arrived on the Ragnarok, no more, no less.

  And now it was his turn. He passed the record that Koscuisko had handed to him off to the nearest person — Smath, as it happened — took the genuine record from Vogel, and spoke.

  “General Dierryk Rukota, Second Fleet, Ibliss Judiciary. On detail, assigned.” Well, that was what his last status had been, at least — detailed on behalf of Pesadie Training Command to oversee a preliminary audit investigation. He couldn’t help but wonder what the record would make of his claim, though.

  “Identity confirmed. Status is not confirmed.”

  So he wouldn’t find out. Oh, well. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

  “These two named and registered individuals are to have access to Secured Medical, by order and direction of Captain Jennet ap Rhiannon, Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok, commanding. They are to have joint access only. No unaccompanied access is authorized.”

  Another intriguing question, there, but the record didn’t seem to notice it. Koscuisko would have invoked ap Rhiannon’s name and status as captain when he’d secured the forged record in the first place, however, so maybe that hurdle wasn’t so very high. Because the record only said “Confirmed.”

  Koscuisko put the record back in its locker where it lived. The entire room was on record. It did not need to be anyplace in particular to talk to Ship’s Security. “Give the Bench specialist the evidence, Smish,” Koscuisko said. “Specialist Vogel. This piece of evidence is that which you wish to examine.” It was marked, as well; Koscuisko’s secure-code, evidence, bright and clear as its status-panel. “Serge, I need you to move some more of these boxes. Two can tell you where. Because Specialist Vogel will not begin his analysis until we are on record. Also I expect another chair will be required, and a table, and lights.”

  Rukota hadn’t really thought about it, but Koscuisko was right. Vogel clearly couldn’t be allowed to take the forged record out of this room. Koscuisko would lose control of his evidence; and this evidence was the foundation of the Ragnarok’s defense.

  Without proof that the accusations against the Ragnarok’s Security were false — as demonstrated by the torture and confession and death, on record, of four people who were undeniably alive — it was back to an internal squabble about protocol and insubordination. An internal squabble that would require investigation, which meant Inquiry, which meant torture and killing of at least some of the Ragnarok’s crew; and the execution of its acting captain as well, if Fleet upheld a finding of mutinous intent.

  “And I expect to see you damned in Hell forever, Andrej.” But the tone of Wheatfields’ voice didn’t match the venom of his words; it was almost cheerful.

  “You’ll have plenty of company there, Serge. The Balancers will have to build a special arena, I expect. One can hear the news report already, Andrej Koscuisko has died, demand for visitor’s passes to Hell swamps administration.”

  Wheatfields snorted and moved as if to go past Koscuisko and away, but did the most peculiar thing. He stopped on his way past, and put one hand to Koscuisko’s shoulder.

  “Adding arrant egomania to your already impressive list of personal shortcomings,” Wheatfields said. “I’ll send some people.”

  Koscuisko merely nodded, as if he was accepting a rebuke. Or expressing appreciation. For what? He hadn’t taken Wheatfields’ hand off at the wrist for touching him, either. Once Wheatfields had left Koscuisko spoke to Vogel. “I will ask Cousin Stanoczk to send people to attend you,” Koscuisko said. “You will have no difficulty understanding why I do not wish to ask any of the ship’s security to be here. If there is anything that you need please let me know.”

  “Very kind, your Excellency. I’m sure we’ll be very well taken care of. No need to keep you.”

  Go away. Koscuisko was clearly just as happy to do just that. It was only the stray glance that Rukota chanced to intercept that clarified things in Rukota’s mind; because the expression on Koscuisko’s face, turning his head to look around him as he walked away, was one of a truly indescribable longing.

  Koscuisko was suffering from being here, yes, but it was worse than that; because Koscuisko all-too-clearly almost wished that he was staying to ask somebody questions.

  But Wheatfields already knew that, didn’t he? That was why he’d been here. Koscuisko had guessed that Wheatfields knew; that was why Koscuisko had made so brutal a reference to the murder of Wheatfields’ beloved, so many years ago.
Wheels within wheels within wheels. It was dangerous to let people stay on one ship with one another for so long. When a Command had time to forge bonds of such intimacy between its crew there was no force in known Space that could tear it apart.

  Now more than ever Rukota understood that the captain and crew of the Ragnarok was capable of anything, absolutely anything, and nothing that Fleet could do would stop them. It was a profoundly depressing thought.

  Vogel pulled a packet of playing cards out of the chest-plaquet of his uniform. “While we’re waiting?” Vogel asked, and handed the forged record to Rukota. “We can use the chair.”

  The arms for a surface, the seat for the playing-field. The floor had not been covered over. It was still the grim gray lattice of a torture cell, through which blood could drip and be washed away when it was all over and the body had been fed to the conversion furnaces. That the room was clean Rukota had no doubt. He still couldn’t quite envision playing a game of cards on such a surface as that.

  “You’re on,” he said. “Your deal or mine?”

  Chapter Seven

  Unexpected Developments

  Early in Brisinje’s morning the talk-alert sounded. Jils Ivers woke from a deep sleep and blinked twice at the darkness above her. “Yes.”

  Brisinje. A bed in a luxury guest suite. A very plush and ostentatious luxury guest suite, and one she would have enjoyed much more if it hadn’t been for the hints she’d gotten that she was expected to require such expensive perquisites as due her, at least at Brisinje Judiciary.

  There was nothing to stop a Bench specialist from enjoying luxury, of course, because a Bench specialist was as likely to be found in a crib that rented by the hour or a tiny sleeping-hex in a port or in a slums in a shack roofed over with waste packaging material as lolling around in a tubful of heated scented water in a suite the size of a city block with a view of the river worth millions. If she wanted to sample the life of an autocrat, however, she could always just visit Azanry, and see if she could wrangle an invitation to attend on Andrej Koscuisko’s parents at Chelatring Side, in the mountains . . .