Doc Halliday backed up a step. She had kept Mac heavily sedated for four days while she cloned enough blood for transfusions during surgery. Then twelve hours to repair nerve damage and another twelve for him to come out of the anesthesia.
“Why wasn’t I told?” Jake breathed deeply, forcing his temper aside.
Major Jake Hannigan, loose-cannon pilot, gave in to the need to hit things and people. General Jake Devlin was no longer that person. He’d learned to control himself. Mostly.
“Patient privacy,” Mariah Halliday snapped in return. “I have to respect his right to refuse treatment. I also have to respect his right to recover where he chooses without broadcasting to the entire station. For all I know his species may require a private hibernation to heal. I doubt it. But I have to respect his right to try it.”
And all the security cameras in Medbay were on a closed loop, accessible only to medical personnel with proper authorization. No one in Control could access them.
“Mara,” Jake called into his comm unit.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, prompt as usual. No trace of fatigue or frustration after the long night of rescues.
“Mara, I have just been informed that the alien left Medbay about three days ago. Please begin a search for anomalous heat signatures between bulkheads and in the maintenance tubes.”
“Searching, sir. This may take a while.”
“Why?”
“Because Admiral Marella has coopted a large portion of our computer power for her own purposes. Compound that with the ailing propulsion system, my databases are almost inaccessible.” The words were bland, but Jake sensed Mara’s intense irritation behind them.
“Let Pammy be, but don’t be afraid to leach some power away from her. Be careful you do it in small increments so she doesn’t notice.” He knew better than to hope anyone could monitor Pammy’s work from a remote position. The spymaster knew how to layer secrets into otherwise normal looking communications and then cloak the whole in so much verbiage that anyone but the intended reader lost the meaning between subject and predicate.
“Very good, sir.”
“I’m on my way to the penthouse. I presume our prisoner is still there.”
“Working.”
Two workers in bland gray coveralls entered the lift on the next level. One of them mutely handed Jake a small screen requiring his signature. Jake scanned the material, waiting for Mara to come back on-line. He pressed his thumb in the lower left corner and passed the work order for repairs to the plumbing on the new refugee wing back to the worker with a nod.
The two men crossed over the tram path on the footbridge to grab one going in the opposite direction from Jake.
“All reports from his guards indicate Mr. Labyrinthe is still at home with only his guards for company,” Mara reported as the tram doors closed behind Jake.
Memory flashed: Mac refusing contact with his half brother. “Double-check that. I don’t want the phantom sneaking in there and doing our guest harm.”
“On it, sir. Only three heat signatures in the suite. All identified.”
Jake breathed a sigh of relief. Seemed like lately he spent more time in the lifts or on the tram than any one place in the entire station. And he hadn’t seen Sissy in almost fifteen hours. Tonight, when he met with her and the girls for lessons and strategy session, he’d ask her to interrogate Adrial with specific questions. Find out where she came from, why she happened to choose FCC to crash into.
He used the time in the tram to call directly into Sissy’s office comms. No answer. She and the girls could be anywhere on the station, talking with anyone who crossed their paths, learning things no one thought to tell Jake, finding ways to help. The best spies in Jake’s arsenal.
Mary or Martha would call him if something weird cropped up.
Strange that they’d not reported any new sightings of the phantom. Jake was fairly certain the alien hadn’t sneaked aboard any outgoing ships.
Once more he longed for the return of the spectacles. He could tap into any of Mara’s searches with them.
The tram dumped him at the end of its run at the penthouse. He snagged a lift and dropped to the center of the wing, right outside Labby’s door. Jake saluted the guards. Both barefaced and wearing CSS uniforms today. As much as he wanted to integrate the crew, he hadn’t managed much sharing of shifts.
“I hope you are in a talkative mood today, Mr. Labyrinthe,” Jake said without preamble.
“There is talk, and then there is talk. Would you like to discuss the weather in Harmony City?”
“How about we talk about the Labyrinthe Corporation and why they haven’t replied to our reports and requests for your removal from the station?”
“I cannot account for my siblings.” He looked Jake directly in the eye, frank and open.
“This is a valuable property. You are a valuable member of the corporation. They should want both of you back.”
“Perhaps the messages never left the station.” The alien’s ears flopped forward, casting shadows on his face but not totally obscuring it. Labyrinthes said more with his ears than his words.
Jake had to think about communications to the CSS and to Harmony City. They remained open and frequent. Jake held the veracity of the communications from Harmony City in question, but they happened.
“Interesting idea. Any thoughts on who might have hacked into the system and prevented messages to that one address from leaving the station?” Jake tried a disarming smile but had a feeling it looked more like a grimace.
If someone had deliberately blocked communications, Jake knew ways around it. And who to help him do it. Pammy had sent him messages while he was on Harmony under deep cover at a time when no communication penetrated the empire.
“The same person who turned off the maintenance bots when I’d ordered them powered down,” Labby replied. “The same person who dismissed the entire Control crew during the midnight watch. The same person who disrupts traffic by changing signs.” Labby returned the smile. On him it did look like a grimace.
“Our phantom again.” Jake took a comfortable pose leaning against the wall.
“What about the one hundred workers who left here for Labyrinthe II? Surely they would have reported the changes here at the station.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Labby spread his hands and folded his ears to cover his face. “Few in power consider information from mere workers valuable or even true. Most of them have so little Labyrinthe blood in them that they are no longer considered persons.” The last statement sounded muffled from behind the ears.
“Did you know that your half brother has disappeared again.” Jake didn’t move from his lax pose, but he tensed, ready to tackle Labby if he chose to bolt. The tip of his wrist knife tickled his palm comfortingly.
Labby’s ears flew open, and his wrinkled brown skin turned a strange shade of gray. “I demand better protection,” he said, turning his head back and forth, searching every shadow and corner. “Number Three could be anywhere.” He began trembling, hardly able to sit upright.
“You seem mighty afraid of a phantom who does not exist. A phantom with a Labyrinthian name.”
“I was told from birth that Number Three was a child’s nightmare. What you call a monster under the bed to coerce the legitimate children into behaving. He has haunted me since infancy. You have to protect me.” Labby fell to his knees, hands clasped in front of him in supplication.
“Don’t know that we can protect you from a nightmare. But if we knew more about him and what he wants, maybe we could figure something out.” Jake set his comm unit to record. Finally he was getting somewhere.
“He wants power. He wants control. He wants recognition as a child of A’bner Labyrinthe. He wants this station!”
“Admiral Marella to General Devlin,” Jake’s comm beeped.
“What?” His foot began an arrhythmic tapping. “I’m busy!”
“Not too busy for this, General Devlin,” Pammy nearly chortl
ed.
“What is more important than interrogation of a prisoner?”
“Leave it for an underling. Champion’s sensors have picked up a ship in distress drifting away from the jump point. No distress signal, leaking air, and losing bits and pieces as it limps toward us, by momentum only. Power signature is spotty. We think it came through with the two refugee ships but was too badly damaged to signal. I’m sending out fighters and a tug,” Pammy said.
“Damn.” Jake looked from Labby to his comm. “Meeting you in fighter bay in seven. I’m going with you.”
“Unnecessary.”
“If it gets me off this station and into a pilot’s seat, it’s necessary.” He stomped to the door, paused and turned back.
“You.” He pointed to the guards. “Move this prisoner to my old quarters in the CSS residential wing. Give him worker clothing. Hide him in plain sight. Do it quietly and record every word he says about his brother and the Labyrinthe Corporation. I expect him to speak volumes in return for his safety.”
“Number Three is everywhere. He knows everything. I’m as good as dead!” Labby wailed as Jake dashed for the lift.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
An angel all in white came to Laud Gregor, High Priest of all Harmony in the middle of the night, when all was quiet in Medbay and even the guards dozed.
“In Harmony’s name, you will regain power and control over your Temple and your people,” she whispered as she stroked his brow.
“Who are you?” he asked lazily, too sleepy to fully rouse.
“I am your personal liaison to Lady Harmony. Trust me. Now rest and heal so that you can complete your destiny.”
One more soothing and cool touch to his cheek and she vanished.
When he awoke he found a cooling bowl of bland and soupy cereal on the table that crossed his bed.
He pushed aside the tasteless mush the Med staff had left for him. Breakfast or lunch he wasn’t sure. The dream of Harmony’s angel was so real… and yet… Surely it was all a dream.
“Guilliam!” he called. “Guilliam, where are you?” The effort of raising his voice pulled at the stitches that ran the length of his chest. Sharp pain followed the trail of the incision and left his head feeling fuzzy around the edges and breathless.
Too close to the memory of all of those ghosts pressing on him in hyperspace.
He rested his head against the piles of pillows and closed his eyes to regain a sense of normalcy.
“Mr. Guilliam and Laudae Penelope are in a meeting with Laudae Sissy, My Laud,” Caleb replied from the doorway. Hastily the boy wiped a glob of red sauce from the corner of his mouth with a disposable tissue.
Gregor was willing to bet an extra week’s stay in this thinly disguised prison that Caleb’s lunch tasted a lot better than his own.
“May I assist you?” Caleb moved into the room with the clumsy balance of a rapidly growing adolescent.
He’d make a decent replacement for Guilliam. Someday.
“I need some decent food,” Gregor said, pushing the bowl of pap aside until it teetered on the edge of the bed table. Throwing the dish would take too much effort.
“I will check with your nurse, My Laud.” Caleb ducked away.
Was that a smirk on his face?
“Who’s in charge here, Caleb? Those lesser-caste nurses or your High Priest!”
No answer.
Moments later Sissy glided into the room carrying a bowl of soup. She also had a sheaf of papers tucked under her arm.
“Your doctors say that if you are well enough to complain about the food, you are well enough to try something more substantial, My Laud.”
The aroma drifting from the steaming bowl made Gregor’s stomach growl. He waited for her to place it on the table and hand him a spoon. Then he dug in.
“Bah!” he nearly spat it out. “It needs salt.”
“Your doctors say you must cut down on your salt,” Caleb said quietly. He kept to the doorway, ready to bolt.
“Tasteless gruel,” Gregor sneered.
“If you don’t want it . . .” Sissy made to whisk the bowl away.
He pulled it close to his chest and tried another spoonful. Still watery and tasteless but better than the gruel.
“What have you brought me?” he asked between swallows.
“Copies of the latest version of the treaty negotiations with the CSS.” She set the folder on the corner of the bedtable. “I thought they might interest you.”
“Have you given away all our sovereignty and privacy?” Gregor sneered. “If Guilliam is in a meeting with you, why are you here and he’s not?” Gregor asked, peering closely at his HPs.
She wore her usual purple, this time in slacks and a delicate print blouse. No jewelry. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her in slacks before, unlike the other priestesses at Crystal Temple. Worker-caste women always wore old-fashioned dresses with full skirts, unless they were actually working; then they wore brown coveralls.
He didn’t like the informality of slacks on women and wanted them all back in dresses. At least when Sissy dictated that each priest and priestess could wear different colors—her predecessors had insisted on everyone wearing the same green—Gregor could differentiate among them at a glance, without having to work at remembering what name matched the face.
“We finished our meeting,” Sissy replied. “Mr. Guilliam is now running some errands for . . . Ja . . . for me.” She tapped the folder, reminding him of why she’d come.
He kept his attention on her. Let her stew a bit, waiting on him. He’d waited on everyone else long enough here in the hospital.
Now if he could just get someone to disconnect all of the tubes and wires that chained him to machines and chemicals, he might be able to recover.
“What kind of errands?”
“We have decided that Laud Andrew, the current liaison with city officials, should take over some of your administrative work while you recuperate here.” She tapped the papers again.
“Hmm.” Gregor mused. Andrew was a good choice. Assertive when he needed to be but also capable of blending in with the woodwork when necessary. He knew when to defer to more senior members and when to invoke Temple authority.
And he knew how to appease Gregor.
“How long?” No sense in letting her think she’d done the right thing. Not right off anyway.
“Until the doctors assure me that you are recovered enough to withstand the stress of hyperspace and resume a reduced workload. You will have to defer many of your duties so that you can rest. They have repaired some of the damage to your heart. Some of it must be replaced, and they haven’t the facilities to do that here. They did take tissue samples and have begun cloning a new heart, just in case.” She lifted her chin and fixed her gaze upon him.
Inwardly Gregor cursed. He’d trained her too well. Or she’d listened to that damned bodyguard, Jake.
“Is this cloning safe?” he asked. New technology always frightened him. This procedure sounded so alien he wasn’t certain he’d be himself, complete and untainted, if he had a new heart.
“Doctor Halliday assures me it is the safest procedure for patients with as weak and damaged a heart as you have. There is no fear of rejecting a clone, whereas a transplant—if available, and that is highly unlikely—has added risks. Provided you are strong enough to endure the surgery. You’ll have to eat properly and rest until they finish the cloning. Several weeks at least. You’ll be better than new afterward.”
He grunted, still not convinced.
Finally he could stand her silent expectancy no longer. “Andrew will do as well as anyone. He knows his place and respects my wishes. Unlike some I could name.”
She raised her eyebrows, daring him to speak her name at the top of that list.
“I need something to lighten my day. Would you bring the twins to see me? I like to listen to their girlish chatter.” He ate the last of his soup, keeping his eyes on the bowl so she couldn’t read his expression.
>
Sissy frowned. Then she nodded and retreated, leaving him with her notes on the treaty.
Her notes. Not his. As if she merely kept him informed and didn’t expect comments and suggestions.
“I’ll get control over you and Harmony again, Laudae Sissy. Don’t expect to run free much longer.” With a new heart he could remain in charge for many decades and not have to retire. He liked the sound of that. He’d need that much time to undo the damage Sissy had caused to their society and their religion.
He and he alone knew what was best for Harmony.
“Caleb!”
“Yes, My Laud?” The boy appeared in the doorway, once more wiping that damnable red sauce from his mouth.
“Bring me that Media person I authorized to work here. I think it’s time we lauded his caste mark so he knows where his loyalties truly lie.”
Jake counted heads in the Champion’s ready room. Nine other pilots donned their flight suits and helmets, adjusted sensors and life support.
“Ten feels unlucky,” he muttered, staring at his helmet. The little glyph of Harmony graced the side, right over his left ear, where She could whisper wisdom. “We should be seven in honor of You,” he told the Goddess.
But this was a CSS mission, and in the secular CSS base ten ruled in all things. Multiples of a sacred seven belonged in the Temple.
No matter who watched over him today, he decided not to test his luck. He kissed two fingers and placed them gently over the glyph. “Guide us well today,” he prayed.
He noticed about half the other pilots performing the same ritual.
Then he locked his helmet in place on his suit and led the men to their ships.
He made one last check of his personal comm. His security people reported, “No sign of Labby.” He’d bolted from protective custody. He, like his brother, had hidden himself well, and deep.
“Four people crewing the tug,” Lieutenant Josephs told him over the pilots’ private network. “That makes fourteen. We’re still lucky in the numbers.”
Maybe lucky enough for his security team to find Labby while Jake took a turn around the solar system.
Enigma Page 17
