Warring States

by Susan R. Matthews

  The Fifth Judge stood to gain the most from a consideration that excluded Chilleau Judiciary, and Capercoy was her representative.

  Capercoy shook his head. “Of course not, Delleroy, we have communication security in effect. No, it wasn’t in her instructions, anywhere. But she knows as well as anybody that we’re here to make the best choice. If we can find a way we can all go home early. Your endorsement, First Secretary.”

  This was a waste of time. Wasn’t it? Hadn’t they come here exactly because Chilleau Judiciary could not be selected so soon after losing its senior administrative officer? Well, no, they hadn’t. They were here because it was assumed that Verlaine’s death put Chilleau out of the competition. Bench specialists didn’t like to assume.

  Padrake didn’t like this proposal, either, she could hear it in his voice. “Wait one, Capercoy, we can’t stop there. It’s not enough to ask if Chilleau can be selected. Why not ask whether a Judge should be promoted at Fontailloe, instead? Their administrative apparatus is intact. Or why not select the Second Judge, but send her to Fontailloe while Chilleau recovers?”

  Ridiculous. Fontailloe was out of consideration. It was an old, tried, venerated practice to exclude the previous incumbent’s Judiciary from the selection for the new First Judge, and the very few times when an exception had been made — always for only the very best, the very most pressing reasons — the Bench had invariably learned to regret it all over again. It was a solid curb on the natural tendency of power centers to pull more and more and more into their gravitational fields. Corruption was all but inevitable. Abuse went without saying.

  And yet Capercoy merely nodded. “All reasonably possible alternatives will be considered, Delleroy. I ask again for your endorsement, First Secretary, we need to be sure we know what we can’t do before we turn to the question of what is not impossible, and seven out of nine of us are agreed. Ivers and Delleroy have not yet been polled.”

  “I’m surprised,” Tirom said. “But I can see your point. There is an additional issue, however. We have already suffered serious losses to the infrastructure of the Bench while we have been trying to figure out how to handle the situation. What if you derive no different result from such preliminary arguments from those already argued and discarded?”

  That had been the first line of scrimmage, after all, the Second Judge insisting that the selection go forward, the balance of the Bench declining to make any quick decisions. Well, most of the balance of the Bench, anyway — all of the Judiciaries that had been prepared to back Cintaro among them, and without a First Judge there was no tie-breaking vote to overbalance an even four-four split against Chilleau. Fontailloe didn’t count. The First Judge was dead. And this was all the First Judge’s fault, Jils thought resentfully, for dying so inconsiderately of a stroke in the first place.

  “We’ve done an informal survey, First Secretary, and we believe that there are enough stipulations in place to address that issue. Ibliss will waive its place in the match. Supicor is willing to cede if it can’t beat Cintaro. It was anticipated that Brisinje might be willing to cede as well. We can make up the time. And since those of us who’ve had a chance to discuss it are determined on seeing the test through, we will be testing those arguments along with the previously decided procedures if we have to. Your endorsement, First Secretary.”

  Tirom was backed into a corner, and he obviously knew it. “Very well, Capercoy. All present in favor of modifying the agreed-upon procedure along the lines proposed by Capercoy here in your presence and on your behalf will so signify by saying ‘Yes.’”

  Seven voices, all more or less determined, but all seven. Jils wasn’t sure what she thought about it. She knew she wanted time to think before she would be ready to cast her vote; but her vote was not needed. The majority opinion was clear.

  “So be it.” Tirom stood up, with a grim expression on his face. “As it has been spoken, so it shall be done. Now. I should be getting back. Padrake, if you’ll take me back to the elevator.”

  “We’ll go with you,” Capercoy said. Jils hardly heard him. They were going to start by arguing for Chilleau Judiciary. She’d thought she’d have days ahead of her, days to sit and observe the debate and not have to think about much of anything except whether the debate was fully and freely executed without intimidation, duress, improper influence, or evidence of collusion. That was out the airlock now as surely as Tirom would soon be.

  Jils stood up and fetched her kit from under the seat as Padrake and Capercoy went away with Tirom. There was a woman she didn’t think she’d met — young woman. It was hard to remember how young she’d been when she’d sworn her duty; young, ambitious, and almost too sure that there were answers and she would find them. She’d found them. But they’d been to the wrong questions.

  “Dame Ivers?” the young woman said, offering her hand. “We haven’t met. Ghel Nion. For the Seventh Judge at Supicor.”

  Ah. Yes. “Good to make your acquaintance, Dame,” Jils said, returning the offered hand-clasp with a cordiality that she did not really feel. “Could I ask you to show me to quarters? I’ve got all of this unpacking to do.” She hefted her kit, and Nion grinned.

  “It’s a convocation, Ivers, not a beach-party. How did you get a cabaña into that little package? Delighted. This way.”

  The Seventh Judge, at Supicor. Supicor had been the first of all the Judiciaries, the original — a long, long time ago. Supicor that had given birth to Jurisdiction, nourished it, promulgated it across known Space as the Bench expanded and encountered other hominid cultures as it came. All hominid cultures could be traced on genetic markers back to Supicor, so either the Bench represented Supicor’s second wave of expansion or they’d come to Supicor from somewhere and rebounded.

  Genetic evidence suggested support for the “second wave” theory, but as far as Jils knew nobody except for the occasional zealot really cared. It had been a very long time ago. What mattered was where they were now, not where they had come from. Supicor was old and frayed and dingy, desperately poor, with only its story of cradling all hominids to sustain its pride. No more than that.

  Just outside the door to the theater Jils had to stop herself, abruptly, to avoid knocking in to Rafenkel, who was just straightening up from leaning against the far wall of the corridor with her arms folded across her breast. Watching. The doors had been open; what had she been watching for?

  “Tirom’s got an escort,” Rafenkel said to Nion. Nion was behind Jils; Jils couldn’t see her face, but could guess that Nion was a little surprised to be confronted. “Only polite to give a fellow Bench specialist at least as much honor. Lead on, Nion, I’ll bring up the rear and provide the travelogue.”

  Jils shrugged. “Just so long as I get to quarters,” she agreed, hoping she didn’t sound churlish. She was just tired. “Need to rinse my mouth.” No, she needed a year off, and to discover who had killed First Secretary Verlaine and why, and where Karol Vogel was, and what it had been about Padrake’s exact tone of voice that was bothering her ever so slightly at the back of her brain.

  As if he’d been surprised, but not enough. As if he’d seen it coming. Could he have been in illicit communication with the Bench specialists here, before he had come down himself? He’d probably escorted them all down. That was true. He had been back and forth. He could have seen it coming. That was true. There was no need to invent complications where none existed.

  “We’ll get you taken care of,” Nion said cheerfully. There was a note of annoyance at the back of her voice, but a very subtle one. Too early for Jils to begin to think about what it was or why it was there. “It’ll be this way.”

  It was clearly between Nion and Rafenkel, one way or the other. “Combine?” Jils asked Rafenkel, following Nion down the corridor. “I understand that the Koscuisko familial corporation is particularly rich, this time of year.”

  Rafenkel grinned. Jils hadn’t had time to form much of an opinion — apart from a baseline assessment, Bench intelligen
ce specialist, good at her job or she’d be dead — but it was a good smile, cheerful and open and attractive. Something in the water in the Combine, maybe; every Combine national Jils had ever met had had an engaging smile.

  “This or any other time, Dame Ivers. Is it true that you were a guest at Chelatring Side? The stories that they tell about the place. I don’t know how you survived it.”

  Neither did Jils. The Dolgorukij notion of festive dining at the top echelons of the Koscuisko familial corporation had been almost more than she’d been able to take; and then to be expected to dance, within an hour of rising from the table —

  “‘Tongue cannot speak nor mind conceive the words to contain the horror,’” Jils quoted at Rafenkel, and smiled back. One of Padrake’s. Rafenkel didn’t seem to recognize it.

  “We’ll get you settled,” Nion said. “And go find the others. You can tell us all about it.”

  Of course. How had she missed it? She was not to be allowed to speak privately with anybody. Not to wander in the corridors by herself. But was this to protect her against someone . . . or themselves against her?

  Her temporarily cheerful mood destroyed Jils nodded, silently, and followed Nion through the halls to quarters.

  Chapter Eight

  Explosive Events

  She didn’t try much by way of small talk as Rafenkel and Nion escorted her through the narrow corridors to her billet. Looking for ambush at every turn — it was second nature — Jils admired the straightness of the hallway and the relative scarcity of either turnings or doors. There were relatively few places where one could lay in wait. Unless people were on fairly intimate terms with one another it would be difficult to actually pass, in these confined conduits, without going over or under each other. Somebody had taken all of the fire safety and evacuation management officers away and gotten them good and drunk, during the planning phases of this station.

  Around one corner the corridor suddenly widened to more than twice its previous allowance; living quarters, Jils guessed. There were doors. Rafenkel stopped in front of one about halfway down the corridor and keyed the admit. “Home,” Rafenkel said, with a flourishing gesture of one hand.

  Jils went through and put her kit bag down on the little table that was there, thinking. If they took her they’d probably do for her, but then both women would have to be in on it; and the odds that one of them would change her mind about the propriety of the action at some later date would be high enough that Jils herself would not care for them.

  Therefore neither Nion nor Rafenkel was likely to try to kill her right now. Was that why Rafenkel had waited — to protect Jils from Nion? Or had that been why Nion had offered to escort her, to give Jils a little security in Rafenkel’s company? Rafenkel had not seemed surprised to see Nion, and had been able to see in. Nion had seemed a little startled to see Rafenkel. Tentative score, Rafenkel positive, Nion neutral, Ivers on the edge.

  “What happens next?” Jils asked, looking around her. It was a small room with its own shower and toilet. The station had converters on its water supply, clearly enough, or else she was just mis-remembering about the generally unhealthy properties of centuries-old water in caves. Standard ventilation — she could put an alarm on that — a security locker, and someone had made the bed up for her, narrow though it was. That had been a charitable impulse. Was she going to have to tear the bed apart to check for silent assassins?

  No. If someone was going to hide a bomb in her bed they would not have made the bed up. They would have let her do that, to lull her into a false sense of security. Someone had made up the bed. That was saying that there was no need to tear it apart. Maybe it was a complicated double-braid. Maybe there was a bomb. Maybe there was to be poison in her food, gas from the ventilator, a quick silent assault in a dark corridor.

  Maybe she was surrendering to fear and paranoia. If someone was going to kill her they would, but they needed her right now for the convocation. She had to concentrate. She had a duty to perform.

  “There’s a schematic on the wall, there, but I wouldn’t trust it,” Rafenkel said. “Maybe it’ll be different for you, but I can’t seem to keep my directions straight down here. We’ve started to make signs.” Some of which, Jils realized, they had passed on their way here, though she wouldn’t have realized they were guideposts per se. “And the way the station is laid out, one wrong turn and you could be in for a long walk once you finally realize you’re going in the wrong direction.”

  Rafenkel was fiddling with the schematic as she spoke, standing just to the inside of the door. When she had successfully invoked a route on the interactive map she stepped back and away, out of the room again. She had her back to Nion. But she kept between Nion and Jils, Jils noticed.

  “So get yourself situated, and call in to the commons. There’s rhyti. Cavene. Kilpers, someone said you drank kilpers — Delleroy, I think. We’ll come and fetch you. Better to get an escort until you’ve had a chance to familiarize, and if you want a laugh ask Zeman how far it is from the airlock to the laundry. Be ready to duck.”

  Waving cheerfully Rafenkel turned, and — taking Nion by the arm — headed back up the corridor in the direction from which they’d just come. Jils shut the door and secured it, thoughtfully. She didn’t have any unpacking to do to speak of; she almost didn’t bother securing the data she’d been carrying with her since she left Chilleau — there was nobody here but Bench specialists.

  On the other hand not even a Bench specialist necessarily had a good reason to know what was in that data, and failing to secure data was a bad habit to get into. She locked it up and had a wash, changed her boots out for padding-socks and sat down on the bed to stare at the closed door for a while. Yes, Rafenkel had suggested she call for an escort. Jils wasn’t sure she was interested. It was good to be alone, even if not very alone, even if only for a little while.

  It wasn’t to be left to her to decide. The crisp chime of the talk-alert startled her — it was an old style of signal, more confrontational in a sense than the newer generation whose parametrics adjusted for the number of people in the room and whether their rate of respiration indicated that they were sleeping or otherwise engaged, and adjusted frequency and volume accordingly. Sighing, Jils stood up to go to the door; the station’s talk-alert was not so primitive as to wait for a manual toggle, however, although Jils could have wished it were. The signal came through once the talk-alert knew that it had gotten her attention.

  “Jils.” It was Balkney, Jils thought; she didn’t know him very well, but she had worked with him before. “Got a flask of kilpers with your name on it, but the management doesn’t want me carrying flasks through the corridors, they’re afraid I’ll spill things and spoil the rugs.” Of which there were none, but that wouldn’t stop Balkney. The man was ingenious. He could manage all sorts of impossible things; Jils had seen him do it. “Rinpen and Nion are coming out to collect you. Don’t want you to get lost. See you soon.”

  Out. And all without waiting for a response. Don’t want you to get lost, Balkney had said; but wasn’t that exactly what she had at the back of her mind like an unclean dish-rag? Someone wanting her to get lost?

  One way or the other she didn’t feel like waiting passively for an escort. There was a perfectly good schematic on the wall. She studied it for a moment or two and opened the door just in time to not see anybody.

  Somebody had been there. She could smell it. She didn’t know who it was. Her mind was convinced that she had seen something out of the corner of her eye but it couldn’t make up her mind which corner had processed the fleeting image. This was one of the shorter corridors; a person could disappear around a corner. Unless she selected one or the other end and sprinted, the odds of actually catching sight of anyone’s back were too uncertain to make the trial worth the tariff.

  Shutting her eyes she stilled her mind to let the fugitive impression process into retrievable memory in her brain. Scent. Something almost not heard at all about a footfall or th
e sound of fabric against fabric. She would find out who it was. There were voices, coming down the corridor; it took stern self-discipline to keep that fact apart from what her mind only almost remembered of what direction someone might have gone away in. She could afford no assumptions that if people were coming from one direction, any observer who might have been in the corridor had gone away in the other. She could afford to make no assumptions at all.

  “ — said to clear out. So she did, that’s all. Then the judge got angry about it, but it was the judge who’d told her, so I’m not sure what the point was.”

  Not a voice Jils recognized, and so there was good odds it was Rinpen and not Nion. When the second person replied, Jils felt the satisfaction of a hypothesis confirmed.

  “You see? There. That’s just what’s wrong with the Courts these days. A judge, of all people, and if a judge is surprised at what people make of her words — these people need keepers — ”

  It sounded like a complaint that was both traditional and familiar among Bench specialists, the incompetence of the supreme power under Law — the Judges who codified and interpreted the Law — to think their way out of a puzzle grid. Familiar: but disquieting. Surely this was not the time or place to be mocking the judges on whom the stability of the Bench relied . . . but on the other hand where better than here? There was no one around but Bench specialists. She was being too sensitive. Pressure valves were critical to their psychological health.

  “You called for a transport?” the one who wasn’t Nion called, pitching his voice to carry. Young to not-exactly-young man, brown hair, a face and features that called no attention to themselves whatever: now this, Jils thought with satisfaction, was a Bench specialist. Not one of those flashy models like Padrake Delleroy or Capercoy or Balkney.

  “Moments ago. Your gratuity is in question. Rinpen, I expect?”

  Nion made a quiet little face that gave her expression a very fleeting charm, apparently chagrinned. “Sorry, Ivers, it’s either introduce you to people you’ve known for years or forget to introduce you. I once tried to introduce a judge to her own First Secretary. True story. But I’ll deny it.”