Gilhame stepped into the communicator’s view. “Guthry! Your very good health.” He lifted the little cup so that it could be seen. “What can I do you out of?” “You’ve changed course. What’s going on?”
“Did you get the report? Marpessa talked. The Na-bateans are going to attack the Gemna system. We’re going to meet them. What the devil is the matter with your communications?”
“What report? All I got was word of an attack on Gretry. Then my communications went crazy. There’s a lot of interference. I can barely see you. Are you smoky?”
“Only a little. You’re right. There seems to be a lot of interference. You’d better come over here to discuss strategy. Can’t work through this fog. I’ll show you the report on Marpessa. I’ve only scanned it lightly.”
Gyre hesitated. He peered at Gilhame, trying to decide what he should do. “Yes. I guess I’d better. I’ll be there directly.”
“ ‘Won’t you come into my parlor? said the spider to the fly!’” Gilhame chuckled. “Commander Frikard!” He said into the communicator.
There was a brief pause, then Frikard said, “Sir?” “What have you done to Gyre’s communications?” “Not just his, sir. The entire fleet. It struck me we didn’t want him talking to either the Admiralty or the enemy.” “Clever man. You’ll be an admiral yourself, at this rate. But he’ll almost certainly try to get a ship into normal space at our next pass-point. See if you can prevent that. He’s coming over. I’ll see him, but you’d better greet him with some marines. I don’t think he’ll come alone. You may use whatever force seems appropriate.”
“With pleasure, sir!”
“Don’t enjoy yourself too much,” Gilhame said. He heard Frikard’s rare laugh as he turned away from the communicator. “Now we know. Marpessa knew the attack would be at Gemna.”
“What if Gyre didn’t take the bait?”
“ ‘The wicked flee where no man pursueth,’ my darling. I took a gamble, though I prefer to think of it as a calculated risk, based on my knowledge of Gyre’s personality. And I think I won. I suspect he will attempt to declare me incapacitated. Either that or he’ll try to board me.”
Alvellaina frowned. “But why doesn’t he just go along with you? I mean, there’s no hard evidence against him so far, and he could really make the situation at Gemna rotten if he just sat still.”
“You have a good grasp of the reality of the thing, dearest. Because he is who he is, and he can’t sit still. There are other reasons. First, he is afraid of me. Second, he doesn’t know how much I know. Third, he is boxed into a no-win situation. You see, I don’t think my participation in this plan was anticipated. I think Gyre expected to be sent back to his sector alone. Who could have guessed that the
Admiralty would send two fleets? Unless, of course, they had some inkling of all this. That is possible. They do have good intelligence and good foreseers. And, if one of the latter said, ‘Send ur Fagon to the Faldarian sector,’ they would.”
“How is it a no-win place for him?”
“If he fights with me, the Empress will be very annoyed. And if he fights against me, I’ll blow him to spacedust before I go. That’s why he put the ingarit aboard. As insurance. A poor choice of weapons, actually, after Marpessa exposed it, but Gyre reasons differently than I do. Now, unless you are anxious for another audience with our choon-eating friend, I suggest you retire.”
“Retire? And miss my chance at his liver?”
“Beautiful, but bloodthirsty.”
“Only in certain cases. Why does he hate you?” “Because I beat him during a war game years ago and cost him a promotion. He’s older than I am, and I showed him up.”
“But if he’s such a poor commander, how did he get where he is?”
“He made a good marriage—she’s dead now, poor thing—and then his commanding officer died under curious circumstances. As a matter of record, five of Guthry’s superiors have died suddenly. And he is not incompetent. Far from it. When he’s thinking, he is very good. But the achievements of others diminish him, somehow; he has always been eaten alive with envy. And, sometimes he doesn’t understand the consequences of his actions. He and Marpessa are well-matched in that.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“That depends on what he chooses to do.” Gilhame went to the bathroom and combed his hair back into place. When he came out, Alvellaina offered him more tea. They talked and cuddled for a few minutes.
Finally, the portal buzzer sounded. Gilhame opened the comm and said, “Yes?”
“Gil, here’s your package.” It was Buschard’s voice. Gilhame opened the portal. Buschard and a pair of bulky security men stood outside with Gyre. The Commander had a long scratch on his face, and it had dripped blood onto his uniform. One sleeve was ripped from its armhole, and the knuckles of Pers’s right hand were beginning to swell. The two security men were similarly disheveled.
Gyre’s face was badly bruised. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, and he was white with pain. “You’ll pay for this,” he said with difficulty.
“He tried to board with a bunch of troopers. I’m afraid hatch four is out of commission for a while. They had cannon. We dumped the survivors. Sixteen of ours dead, fourteen wounded. The only reason Gyre isn’t dead is that he was leading from behind.” The contempt in Buschard’s voice was unmistakable.
“Who broke his arm?”
“One of his own men fell on him in full kit.”
“It must have been quite a brawl. I’m sorry I missed it.” “I haven’t been in that good a fight in years,” Buschard answered grimly.
“Bring him in. Alvellaina, would you call for a Witness, please? And a Healer. You always were a fool, Guthry.” The security men pushed Gyre into a chair and stood behind him. Buschard yanked the torn sleeve off his uniform and wiped at the blood on his face and chest. Alvellaina spoke into the communicator, and Gilhame drank some of his now tepid tea. The only sounds in the room were the woman’s voice and Gyre’s heavy breathing.
A few minutes later a medic came in through the still open portal, followed rapidly by an Adjudicator’s Witness carrying the impedimenta of its office—a recorder and truth-baton. The Witness wore silver robes of no particular cut, and its head was covered with a dark hood whose purpose was to mask identity. Only the shape of the hands gave Gilhame any clue as to the sex of the Witness. They were small for a man.
“Witness, you may be seated,” Gilhame said formally. She sat.
The little dumpling of a medic was cleaning the blood from Buschard’s face. “Sir?” Her question was almost a whisper.
“What is it?”
“Do you want me to treat ... to treat the Admiral?” The medic’s eyes were round as saucers.
“Yes. I do hope, Guthry, that the trooper’s fall didn’t damage the sinew. Otherwise, you’ll be crippled for the balance of your brief existence. Do you know, only a few minutes ago I was regretting your wife’s demise. She is fortunate, actually, to be beyond punishment. Now, why don’t you just tell the Witness the names of your coconspirators in your agreement with the Empress. I would rather not destroy your fleet entirely. It would mean wasting blameless lives.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Of course I would,” he answered icily. “Besides, this is only to confirm the accuracy of Marpessa’s confession. It’s a little garbled,” he said, picking up Vraser’s report on the ingarit cylinders and pretending to study it. “I’m afraid that considerable damage was done getting the truth out of her. Why don’t you begin with your meeting on Muria?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Gyre snarled.
The Witness’s baton turned an ugly red. “He’s trying to think of something to say, sir,” came a quiet voice from behind the hood.
“Of course he is. Be reasonable, Guthry. Those troopers are already waiting for you. Do you really want to meet your whole fleet in the overworld?”
“No.” Gyre’s eyes were very wide with white. He
was not ordinarily a superstitious man, but the pain of defeat was undermining his reason.
“Then, tell the Witness what transpired, and you can go off to a nice bed in the brig.”
“Damn you! Damn Marpessa and all women! I was to get the Faldarian sector when Araclyde gained control.” “Control of what, Guthry?”
“The Empire, of course. You know that.”
“Of course I do, but the Witness needs it for her records.”
“What the devil are the records for? The Emperor and his whole family are dead on Dardanus by now.”
Gilhame shook his head and smiled. “I hate to disappoint you, but the Emperor did not go to Dardanus.” The baton went red again, and the Witness glanced at him, but Gyre did not notice the change. Gilhame exchanged a glance with Buschard, who left the room quietly.
Gilhame reflected that this was one eventuality he had not even considered, that Araclyde might be the only member of the imperial family still alive. The war that would cause could not bear thinking about. “Now, who knows of your conspiracy?” His voice did not betray either his interest or his impatience.
“The Emperor’s alive?”
“Very much so.” Gilhame had a sudden burst of that rare foresight which occasionally came to him without var. He saw himself bow before the rather ugly but august person of Clyven IV and receive from him the coveted white star given to heroes of the Empire. His tall, red-headed wife, the Empress Urlanda, smiled at Gilhame. Then it was gone.
“Damn! Dunegan knows. Chillworthy, Gorun, Hrunt, Doevidsun, Vingar, ur Selmes, Nispar and Marpessa. That’s everyone.”
“Not Mafrin?”
“That prig. He couldn’t lie to save his skin.”
“Villiam?”
“No.” The baton turned red again, then back to white.
“Now, Guthry. Is Villiam also in this?”
“I don’t know.” The baton stayed white.
“Something about his person disturbs you?”
“Yes. I can’t quite put a finger on it. I feel as if he knows something. I tried to get him transferred when we were at Attira, but... my request was ignored.”
“Really? Then I would not be surprised if he was in Intelligence. I see by your face that that thought had not crossed what was left of your mind. I think you can put him to sleep now, medic.”
“No!” The word was shouted.
Gilhame looked at him, looked at the timepiece on the wall and smiled. It was 1350. “Don’t worry. The ingarit has been removed long since. Sleep, dear Guthry, and dream of . . . what? I don’t think you’ll be exiled.”
“How did you find out?”
“You really must learn to give the devil his due, Guthry. My spies are everywhere.”
The little medic placed her hand on Gyre’s forehead, and he closed his eyes. She withdrew her hand and wiped it distastefully on her uniform. “Can I call for a litter, sir?” “After you wash your hands, certainly. There’s a basin in there.” He pointed towards his sleeping quarters.
“Yes, sir.” She scurried out of the room.
“Do you need me any further, Admiral?” asked the Witness.
“No. You may leave.”
“Sir. What he said about the Emperor . . .”
“. . . need not worry you.”
After a few minutes the room was empty of all but Alvellaina and ur Fagon. Buschard came in, smiling. “Well, Pers?” Gilhame asked.
“Very, thank you. As is the royal family.”
“Of course they are. How could you have doubted it?” Gilhame answered with a grin.
Chapter XVIII
Alvellaina looked at the two men as they sat down across from each other at the table. Buschard was tense, nervous and ready for a fight. Gilhame was relaxed and at ease. It puzzled her somewhat that Gilhame seemed almost disinterested. Then she decided it must be a consistent facet of his personality, remembering that the more sharp-tongued she was, the more urbane were his responses.
“Now, having ascertained that the Emperor and his family are quite well, we had better decide what to do with Gyre’s fleet, quickly. Much as I would like to, I cannot call Mafrin on the comm and say, ‘I say, old boy, I have your Admiral in the brig for treason.’ He’d want to know the details, which I am perfectly willing to share with him, but not with any renegade officers. And, while I believe that Gyre told me all he knew, conspiracies have a terrible tendency to grow. It is a shame that the comm is not a more discreet device.”
“But, Gilhame, he tried to board your ship and take over. Isn’t that enough?” Alvellaina asked.
“If there were not seven officers who were his coconspirators—certainly. They are what’s bothering me. Ah, that must be the information I wanted.” He got up and took the sheets the computer was producing.
“Now, let’s see what we are up against. Damn. I said Gyre wasn’t incompetent—and I was right. Technically
speaking, these seven men could manipulate that fleet without Gyre’s presence. Even without Marpessa to back him up, Gyre still has an effective weapon. Except for Nispar, I don’t know any of these men personally, but if Nispar is typical, they’ll fight alone.
“Ummm. They will have to be disarmed before we get to Gemna. They are surely becoming a little uneasy right now. We altered course three quarters of an hour ago. Right on cue. Anyone want to make a wager this is Mafrin calling to speak to Gyre?” he finished, as the comm sounded.
Alvellaina rose to answer it. “Admiral ur Fagon’s quarters.”
“Greetings, Halba Krispin. Could I speak to Admiral Gyre? There seems to be some disagreement... I mean, there’s some confusion . . . well, er, could you break in on ... I mean, is he in conference with Admiral ur Fagon?” It was Mafrin, although Alvellaina wondered if there wasn’t someone out of her view prompting the man.
“I’d love to, Commander, but he’s sound asleep,” she answered in a low, husky voice.
“Asleep?”
Gilhame was standing beside her, but out of view, one eyebrow arched. He nodded to her and hissed, “Go on. You’re doing fine. Just see if you can get him over here.”
Alvellaina took a deep breath and said to Mafrin, “He came in to speak to the Admiral, chewing a wad of that dreadful stuff he likes. You know, that choon?” She made a face. “And bang, three minutes later he was sound asleep. The medic wondered if he could have gotten hold of something that wasn’t quite pure, you see, and says Gyre should sleep it off.
“It’s all so upsetting. And embarrassing. He may sleep through everything. Do you think you could send someone . no, that’s not a good idea, is it? Look, do you think you and Commander Villiam could come over, sort of quietly, and take him back? No one would question your presence here under the circumstances, and you could save Admiral Gyre a lot of embarrassment.” She smiled at Mafrin, annoyed with herself for leading the rather nice man astray, angry with herself for letting Gilhame use her to further his own ends but delighted with her first major lie. “Then Admiral ur Fagon can bring you up-to-date on the situation— which is what he was doing when Gyre fell asleep.”
“I see. Yes, you’re right. I’ll be there shortly.”
“The fewer people know about this, the better.”
“True, true. Thank you, Halba Krispin.” The comm went dark.
Gilhame smiled down at her and shook his head. “Beautiful, my darling. Just beautiful. Why have you never used that voice on me?”
Alvellaina drew herself up with dignity, aware of Busch-ard’s interested gaze. “I didn’t wish to arouse your beast, sir.”
“But you don’t mind arousing Mafrin’s? My thousand-planet woman! Always keeps me in my place. Now, if Mafrin doesn’t say anything to Dunegan, we may just have a chance to squeak out of this with a minimum of casualties. I think we want the Witness back. Could you next time, give me just a little warning of what you are going to do, m’alba?”
“Why should I? You never reveal your plans to me.”
“I can always depend on
you to depress my pretensions. Tell me, Pers, does Derissa fight you every step of the way?” Buschard, who had been watching them in his quiet, thoughtful way, shook his head. “We have never even exchanged a harsh word.”
“Strange. I assumed that all redheads were contentious. Sounds dull,” Gilhame continued. He looked at Buschard’s reddening face. “No, you probably like it all smooth, don’t you, Pers? Excuse me.” He went over to the comm and talked briefly into it. “Now, if our guests will refrain from bringing in any more troopers,” he said as he came back, “we can get onto the real problem. These encounters with Gyre’s folk are becoming quite tedious. Relax, Pers. I have the situation as well in hand as it can be.” By the time Commanders Mafrin and Villiam arrived several minutes later, the Witness was back. She had her little recorder in front of her and was playing back the tape.
Mafrin and Villiam arrived alone, the former fidgeting with nervousness, the latter cool.
“Where is Admiral Gyre?” Mafrin asked, looking around.
“Sit down, won’t you, gentlemen? There’s something I think you should hear. Witness.”
“Yes, sir.” The voice was muffled by the hood.
“Would you be so kind as to play the tape?”
He got a nod in reply. She fiddled with her machine, adjusting the sound levels.
“What is all this?” Mafrin asked.
“Shh.” said Villiam. He folded his hands in front of him on the table and listened to the tape without expression. Then he looked at the Witness. “Can you testify that this is a true and accurate record, Witness?”
“Yes, sir.” The Witness stirred uneasily. “Except for the portions where Admiral ur Fagon lied. But, since he was the questioner, not the respondent . . .” she trailed off nervously, torn between her duty to her commanding officer and her duty to the Adjudicator’s Tribunal.
Gilhame gave her a smile. “It is not easy to serve two masters, Witness. You are quite correct to tell Commander Villiam that I was—what? No matter. I won’t make any bones about it. I made Admiral Gyre think I knew more than I did. Have you made a transcript yet?”
“No, sir.”
Adrienne Martine-Barnes Page 21
