Vaishali conducted them inside, into soft, even light and cool dry air, delicately scented with old wood and crisp with a slight oxygen boost. The route to the north parlor led through spacious rooms that had been remodeled by Rafe’s grandfather, son of the original builder; an amiable man in contrast to his famously hard-driving and rapacious father, and one possessed of quite different tastes. While his renovations were undeniably stylish, they also struck Mariwen as being rather anonymous, calculated to put people at ease rather than make any kind of statement.
Only when they reached the north parlor did they see what the original interior must have looked like: walls paneled in dark American walnut, teak floorboards that were hand-milled and still polished with natural beeswax; solid, comfortable furniture upholstered with rich Antiguan leather and bronze lamps with shades of brocaded silk.
At the far end, a stooped figure with papery white skin and a sparse halo of silvery-white hair sat in a wingback chair, a light blanket over his lap, looking out the mullioned windows at the orchard of rare Spitzenburg apple trees.
When Mariwen had last seen Rafe’s father, he’d been an elderly but vigorous man, not this frail-looking husk who looked almost insubstantial against the chair’s dark green upholstery. Only a year past ninety, he was genetically resistant to the treatments that would extend the lives of his contemporaries well into their second century, but this degree of decline was a surprise and as they paused at the doorway, she needed a second to master her shock.
His chief of staff gave a diplomatic cough.
“They’re here, sir”—as the gaunt head turned toward them.
“So my aged eyes perceive.” Brushing aside the blanket, he rose creakily to his feet. “A vast pleasure. Trin, it’s a delight to see you. Mariwen, you look divine, if you will allow the liberty. No, don’t bother”—waving off their attempt to come to his assistance. “They still work. More or less”—indicating his wizened legs as he crossed the room with a hunched, hobbling gait—“Perhaps rather less than more, these days. But sufficient to the occasion.”
Nonetheless, Trin met him halfway and they embraced. Mariwen stepped alongside and he hugged her as well with one bony arm. “What can I offer you? Tea, perhaps?”
They both declined, Trin with a quiet “No, thank you” and Mariwen a demure shake of her head that was all she could muster at the moment. The elder Huron took note of their mood and stretched his thin, colorless lips in a jocular smile.
“No, no. This is a meeting, not a funeral—at which I expect you to be a damn sight more festive, by the way. But come. Time is the one thing they can’t make more of—worse luck. Here. Over by the desk.”
When Trin suggested that they go talk to Rafe’s father, Mariwen assumed it was to apprise him of their thoughts for recovering Rafe—whatever those were. On the trip here, Trin had corrected that notion. During his long tenure as Speaker, Huron Sr. had been very much involved in intelligence affairs, to the point where the League’s intelligence community had almost become his private domain. Acting, for all intents and purposes, as his own DCID, he kept the multitude of threads of the whole convoluted cat’s cradle largely in his own hands, insisting on raw data along with prepared intelligence products, performing his own assessments when he chose, and keeping close tabs on on-going and planned operations.
This arrangement—so much more streamlined and agile than the massive bureaucratic muddle a large intelligence apparatus was apt to become—had answered very well during the last war and continued to serve admirably during the peace that followed. It was the unprecedented degree of trust that grew up between the Speaker and the intelligence community that allowed this system to thrive, but less fortunately, it also bred a degree of reliance on the Speaker’s firm guiding hand and astute judgment. Forced into retirement unexpectedly, there has not been time (and perhaps not the inclination) to restore the community to a more normal footing.
Worse yet, his replacement, Hazen Gauthier, the senior Grand Senator from Hestia, was viewed, quite justifiably, as an incompetent figurehead and many of the League’s most valuable assets refused to cooperate fully with her administration; a lamentable state of affairs that initially created some serious dislocations. The consequences had rendered the former Speaker’s retirement more theoretical than actual in some ways; his personal knowledge and contacts continued to be utilized and play a major, if shadowy, role in the League’s intelligence gathering and clandestine affairs.
Thus, far from acquainting the elder Huron’s with whatever Trin might have been able to come up in regard to a plan, this visit was to find out what assets Rafe’s father might know of, or be able to place at their disposal, that would allow a plan to be formulated. And from the look in the old man’s eyes, they were not going to be disappointed.
Settling them in two rigorously elegant, straight-backed chairs, well calculated to keep meetings from going on too long, he shuffled towards one of several bookshelves filled with priceless antiques. A minute’s peering, accompanied by much private sotto voce commentary, but not so private it could not be occasionally overheard: “Wherefore art thou, you little bugger? Thought I saw you just yesterday. Is this it? No. Merely that imbecile Rousseau. What’s he doing here? Should be filed with the other cretins. Kant? He doesn’t belong here either. Entropy, bloody entropy. Ah, here you are—finally. Bloody hell, that took long enough.” He turned and brandished a slim volume. “Pride & Prejudice. Two sins to be wary of, unlike fornication without which where would we be? Reproducing parthenogenically and what’s the fun in that?”
He opened the book, flipped instantly to a page and drew out a thin sheet of semi-transparent foil. Placing it on the desk in front of them, he licked his thumb and pressed it to the upper left-hand corner of the sheet. A hex-code block appeared. He flipped the sheet around and waggled a forefinger at the block, looking at Trin.
“If I may be so bold, I believe this may provide the answer to our prayers. Though one must always be cautious about what one prays for. Scan that.”
Taking out her xel, Trin did. Her eyebrows arched. “He’s active? I thought his organization was shut down years ago.”
“We labored to give that general impression, yes.” The former Speaker lowered himself into the desk chair, joint by protesting joint. “And, indeed, I endeavored to bring him in shortly before my fated retirement. One of several such attempts. His excuses grew more implausible with each attempt. In the last, he invoked grave concerns about his piano.”
“His piano?” Mariwen asked, her voice incredulous. She’d been looking over Trin’s shoulder at her xel; it showed an image of apish little man with a wrinkled face, sparse grizzled hair and piercing black eyes. He did have a pianist’s hands though: long, thin and white with prominently knuckled, agile-looking fingers. The name listed was Paavo Kirkunummi. That meant nothing to Mariwen, though it was barely possible the man himself looked familiar.
But Trin was still shaking her head. “If he’s active, who does he report to?”
“Himself. He does not choose to be known the current administration. On rare occasions, he will still deign to talk to me.”
“Who is he?” Mariwen asked, not really knowing if she should.
“He was,” Trin answered, “or I suppose is, our most successful deep-cover asset in Halevirdon. He’s been operating a network there since before the last war. His reports went by the codename Palimpsest.”
“Or Creighton,” Huron Sr. put in.
“He was Creighton?” Trin’s voice notched another tone higher in surprise.
“And Ortheris, Learoyd, and Mulvaney, to name but three more.”
“I’d no idea,” Trin said in an undertone.
“Most gratifying, I’m sure.” He smiled at Mariwen, who was feeling lost and out of place. “You might know him better by this name.” He reached over Trin’s hand and laboriously tapped a short code on her xel. The caption under the picture changed.
“Anselm Eigerfeldt?” Mariwe
n exclaimed. The man had looked familiar, though in the pics she’d seen, he must have been at least thirty years younger. “The Seventh Symphony?”—naming the most famous and widely played Neofusionist symphony of the current century.
“The very man. Says he never liked that piece, though—just wrote it for the money.” His eye held a waggish twinkle. “He does however profess great love for Pavane with a Dewdrop. Considers it his best work.”
Mariwen knew that piece too: a charmingly frivolous bit of tuneful fluff that, next to the Seventh Symphony, was moderately less profound than a nursery rhyme. Could he be serious?
“As you might infer,” the former Speaker went on, “he is a rather difficult customer. But he does have quite a nice piano.”
* * *
Back in Trin’s aircar, while Trin took the necessary measures to ensure that their flight back to Denver Heights would, like their flight here, be unmonitored and leave no trace, Mariwen gave her head a small shake. As she eased the car into the air, Trin questioned her with a look.
Mariwen returned it. “I’m afraid I grasped maybe ten percent of what happened in there.”
“Ten percent?” Trin turned her gaze back to their flight path. “That’s doing quite well.”
The comment lacked any satiric edge and Mariwen replied, “I did gather that Anselm Eigerfeldt is the assumed identity of an . . . asset? . . . we’ve had in the Halith capital all these years?”
“That’s right,” Trin nodded, with a sideways glance and smile. “I don’t know the whole story. There’s a rumor he’s a Karelian war orphan who was adopted by a Halith family during the occupation. I have my doubts. He would’ve been in his teens at the time, and it’s a tad too colorful and convenient. Another rumor says he fought with the Karelian resistance as a young man, and that’s where he developed a taste for black ops and espionage. That’s also rather too convenient and difficult to reconcile with what we know of his personal history. Which isn’t much, by the way. So, difficult but not impossible.”
Trin paused to check her sensors before taking the car higher in altitude.
“What’s clear is that he was a musical prodigy—another Mozart, according to some—and became established as one of Halith’s most eminent composers and performers well before he was twenty; long before he became famous here. That gave him access to the highest reaches of their aristocracy—he’s welcome anywhere, sees anyone. A more perfect cover couldn’t be invented. No one would suspect that one of the most revered living composers is an intelligence agent. And”—widening of her smile—“as you heard, he’s a noted eccentric—has a thoroughly ascetic lifestyle, never married, no known intimates among his many friends. That doesn’t hurt. We tend to like our famous musicians a trifle crazy.”
Mariwen digested all this with a pinch between her brows. “But being so high profile and seeing all these people, how does he manage any . . . spying?” The word felt a trifle impolite crossing her tongue. “How does he avoid getting caught?”
“He doesn’t do any spying,” Trin answered with no hint of taking offense. “He’s a model of rectitude; never does anything untoward, never gives anyone cause for suspicion.” The crease between Mariwen’s brow grew deeper. “He observes. You can learn a great deal from fraternizing with people, especially if you’re someone they wish to impress. Who they know, what they want, what kind of access they have. What their weakness and peccadillos are. Are they susceptible? That’s really the name of the game. Ninety percent of HUMINT collection is accomplished with an engaging smile and a glass in your hand.”
“Oh.” Mariwen settled back into her seat as the aircar continued to accelerate. At this altitude the sky was that particular shade of dark blue, indescribably lovely. The sun was getting low in the west, a glowing orb of molten gold. “So this is the person we’re going to rely on to get Kris and Rafe back? If he agrees?”
“To help get them back, yes.”
“Just help?”
“This operation requires a different type of background than Paavo’s. A unique set of qualifications.”
“Whose background and qualifications?”
The aircar banked hard left, descending below the reach of the rays of the setting sun, plunging them into shadow.
“Yours.”
Chapter 13
Docklands Quarter, Halevirdon
Halith Evandor, Orion Spur
With a bestial grunt, the naked man heaved himself from the wheeled chair onto the perforated metal platform in the small shower unit and sat there gasping for a full minute before he picked up a thin rod from a corner, stowed there for this very purpose, and used it to poke the control that activated the general spray.
The steaming water beating down on him, he bowed his head with its sparse halo of greying hair and silently counted off the seconds the shower would last while scrubbing his body in a desultory fashion with a rough cloth. For three years and eleven months GAT, three years and three months by the Halith calendar, and 34,272 hours according to his antiquated cel (xels were a mark of privilege here, and only for his betters), he’d fought this daily battle with the shower.
And not just the shower: to get in and out of bed, to get dressed (when he bothered), to take a piss. Always dragging his useless lower body here or there, the inert weight seeming to increase even as it wasted away; his arms quivering with the effort to lift himself into the shower. It had taken him three tries today.
Few people—perhaps none—who knew him in his prime would have recognized this shattered man with his pale bloated torso and stick-like limbs as Taylor Lessing, the former Chief of Staff to the late Grand Senator Archibald Grimbles of Hesperia. Late, because Lessing, who had been spying for Halith for the preceding decade and a half, had arranged an ambush that killed not only Grimbles, but his entire staff and (this he considered an unfortunate footnote) the crew of the ship the grand senator and his staff had been traveling on, as well as those of her two consorts.
It was also intended to ‘kill’ him, giving him the clean getaway he needed after the failure of the Alecto Initiative, which Admiral Heydrich had planned and hired Mankho to carry out. Lessing had been Grimbles’ head of security prior to becoming his chief of staff. Just as Lessing’s security background had proved invaluable to getting his boss elected grand senator, it put him in a unique position to aid Heydrich’s plot. Only the sheerest of sheer chances foiled the plot, but here again, Lessing counted on his position and his security connections to immunize him from the fallout.
Events proved him wrong on that count, just as they did when he plotted his own escape. His knowledge of escape pods and the effects of a starship’s fusion drives exploding were both faulty, and the resulting nerve damage left him dead from the waist down.
Half-killed.
The timer beeped and the spray turned ice-cold. Cursing venomously—for he’d lost his count—he half lurched, half hurled himself at his wheelchair, missing his hold on the slippery metal and landing with the heavy wet shocking noise of meat slapped down in a slab, sprawled on the cracked tile floor. Cursing still as his head rang from the impact, he nerved himself for the infinite labor to pulling himself to his wheelchair, maneuvering it between the sink and the wall where he could wedge it and use the rails to haul himself aboard.
A float chair, instead of this wheeled piece of shit, would have made the process easy, but his Halith masters never had, and never would, allow him that luxury, although—just to rub it in—they did let him use one when on official business. If that was adding insult to injury, the insult was not merely afflicting him with a wheelchair instead of the float chair the poorest League denizen would be given, but leaving him paralyzed in the first place. Halith medical technology was behind the League’s in many ways, not in this. They left him this way because they wanted to.
Staring at the ceiling, where a pair of narrow luminate strips were bisected by an incongruous beam rammed haphazardly through the walls—when this whole block of tiny dismal apa
rtments, built by slave labor, began to list, the authorities had simply encaged the whole sagging structure in a steel exoskeleton, piercing it with no more thought than they’d spent on the original construction—his mind whirled back along the line of life that brought him here, starting perhaps (or maybe just for convenience) with his father’s degradation from the ranks of Hesperian peers, then progressing step-wise to his turbulent college days and his gravitating towards politics, then security, and his association with that blithering yet malleable ass, Grimbles.
Yet it was not any of those, the mere waypoints on the journey, that birthed a rumble deep in his chest. It was the engine, the prime mover, that had impelled him from youthful admiration of a vigorous and martial culture to an introduction to the wilder and deliciously darker regions of the human heart and finally—the supreme irony—to that purest and most profound of motivations: love.
Yes, love. Only partly requited, to be sure, and in the end, chimerical.
The rumble grew to a quaking, and suddenly to laughter that bubbled from his throat, as bitter and dry and hollow as the memories of that love, of the phantasmic person who inspired it; of all they had seemed to share—all wasted, all gone to black unlovely ashes—those memories as impotent as the shriveling worthless flesh below his belly; feelings of which his blasted nervous system could return no echo—and his laughter boomed and rattled through the little rooms of his grubby domicile, causing the gossamer tendrils of the webs spun in dim neglected corners by creatures that were not spiders (but served exactly the same purpose) faintly to shake.
* * *
An insistent bleat from his cel roused him after some indeterminate interval during which he had submitted to an overpowering lassitude, an intense desire to sink into the deep well of that dream state where he might again feel whole—a promise that was not often fulfilled, but one that he never stopped longing for.
But it had been fulfilled this time, once he gained his bed, and anger boiled through him at being yanked from this uncertain refuge, banishing the last vestiges of sleep. A glance at the chrono told him it was the beginning of his work day and a look at his console (lifting himself with both arms so he could) told him the importunate alert was one he’d rarely ever seen.
Orion's Price Page 11
