With a curt word to the three guards escorting Huron, he ordered them to remove the cuffs and then dismissed them. The guards placed the cuffs and their key on the small square table the man sat at and left. The door closed silently, leaving them alone in the closed featureless room, so featureless that even the closed door could hardly be made out, unless one looked very carefully, and illuminated in some fashion that left no shadows anywhere, not even beneath the table and the two chairs. The effect, heightened by the absence of color—everything being the shade of gray that might as well define neutral—was eerie; a sense of detachment or otherworldliness that had something tomb-like about it, an arrested or interrupted state of being. The only things that seemed to be wholly real in the room were the matte-black cuffs and the dull-white cylindrical key on the table next to an incongruous oval dish, shallow and the size of his palm.
Overall, Huron thought, it was not a bad setup. Not that he was in the best shape to appreciate it. His return to the land of the living—or the land of the near-living, as he often thought of it—had been slow, halting, tedious, and at times, painful. Indeed, an immunocyte implant at war with its host could produce some of the more spectacularly disagreeable sensations he’d ever experienced. Consciousness had ebbed and flowed ever since he first caught glimpse of it aboard IHS Belisarius, barely sensed and then gone, making for a strange interval of fractured time, disordered moments, events searching for a context, a place, a meaning.
His first clear memory: clawing his way out a nightmare state to find himself in a dimly lit room, Kris looking down at him, her hand on his brow. At first, she seemed unaware he was looking back and her face, softened, with a quality in her hazel eyes he’d never seen nor expected to see, was so inexpressibly beautiful the walls of his chest felt crushed by a vise. She saw the alertness in his gaze; the look closed as fingers close, curling about something infinitely fragile and precious. And she was the Kris he knew best again.
She’d said something, asking him how he did probably, and he discovered his vocal chords had not revived with the rest of him. Moving his head and trying to shrug were big mistakes; outraged muscles shrieked their displeasure and something like an icepick stabbed deep behind his eye as a searing blackness overwhelmed his vision. He heard her murmuring when the fit passed; felt a cool cloth on his forehead and then a cool cottony darkness lapping at him, and as he slipped under, a long slow glide, he thought he heard his name . . .
“Sit or stand,” the man said, without moving the hands that were folded in front of him. “It makes no difference to me.”
Waiting another few seconds, Huron sat, supporting himself on the chair back to compensate for the weakness in his legs. The man leaned back, reached into the jacket of his gray undress uniform which was devoid of any marks of rank, and brought forth, of all things, a cigar case. From another pocket, he produced an antique flame lighter. Taking out two cigars and a folding clipper, he snipped the ends off both, placed one across the dish in a most exact manner, and lit the other one, his hollow cheeks flexing like a bellows as he puffed. Blowing a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling, where it eddied and coiled as though alive, he set the lighter beside the second cigar—an obvious invitation.
It was all display, of course, a pantomime intended to enhance the air of strangeness and unreality. On Terra and most of the other League Homeworlds, smoking was considered eccentric (though only Nedaema banned it, purely on esthetic grounds, tobacco having long ago lost its harmful effects), and all common tobacco products ignited by scratching the end; using an open flame was almost unheard of. Huron’s educated olfactory sense detected highly prized raw and unprocessed Terran tobacco (he doubted genuine tobacco grew anywhere outside a lab within the whole Dominion). He wondered what the point of that was. Probably just to make him wonder.
“I am Nikolai Arutyun,” the man said, after his display had no noticeable effect.
Huron did not respond. He already knew that. He also knew Arutyun was chief of staff to Admiral Geiger Massolit, current head of Halith military intelligence. In reality, Arutyun ran the department, the unprepossessing Massolit being no more than a figurehead. But most importantly, he knew that Arutyun shared many characteristics with Admiral Heydrich, his former boss, including a high degree of professional competence and equally repellent personal appetites.
He was aware of this latter information because of Kris. Arutyun had, for many years, been linked with Nestor Mankho before Mankho’s demise on Cathcar at the hands of Nick Taliaferro. That linkage was more than professional. Not only had Arutyun’s long-time mistress (a retired Halith actress named Carissa Pagorskav, who’d risen to interstellar fame as Shardine Karmin), enjoyed a lasting sexual relationship with Mankho’s wife, but Mankho himself occasionally shared his ‘entertainment’ with Arutyun. And on one occasion, Kris had been that ‘entertainment’.
Huron had never forgotten—never would nor could—the details of that encounter, which Kris had presented to him and select members of CAT 5 in preparation for the mission to capture Mankho. If he was keeping his expression entirely composed in Arutyun’s presence, it was not without immense effort.
The captain leaned forward and knocked a centimeter of cigar ash into the dish. His eyes fell on the cigar Huron was pointedly ignoring and he leaned back, returning his gaze to Huron’s immobile face.
“If you are thinking I brought you here to ask you for information, allow me to state that is not the case. I brought you here to give you some.” Taking another drag on the cigar, he enlarged the cloud of smoke rolling lazily overhead. Huron remained impassive. Arutyun continued in the same mild, matter-of-fact tone. “I have data in my possession regarding your role in the Asylum affair. But what I think will be of more particular interest to you is this data also illuminates the true role of Loralynn Kennakris.”
It took all Huron’s will power to not visibly clench his jaw. If Arutyun was telling the truth—and he’d have to be an idiot to bluff about this—there was only one conceivable source, given how close-held that information was: the mole. And the mole must operate at a higher level than any of them had suspected. That consideration, however, was inconsequential in view of what he expected Arutyun to say next.
“I imagine you grasp the implications. Loralynn Kennakris’s unprovoked—I will not say wanton—destruction of our base at Asylum constitutes a war crime.”
While Arutyun tapped more ash off the end of his cigar, it tickled Huron’s mind that he’d said “I have data. . .” Not “we have . . .” Realizing where this was going, Huron eyes narrowed to the slightest degree despite his best efforts.
“Now,” Arutyun went on, seeming to gain confidence from even so small a reaction. “I expect you are counting on Admiral Caneris’ influence to shield you and Loralynn Kennakris. Let me disoblige you of that notion. While I will allow he was clever in returning both of you to the POW population and his corruption of the registry showed considerable finesse, he has been detected and with the proof I have of his treason, the admiral’s days are numbered. And, despite his efforts, we located you and Loralynn Kennakris, who is also in my custody. I do not think I need to elaborate on what awaits her as a . . . war criminal.” Having baited his hook—or so he thought—Arutyun attempted to set it. “However, I should not be unwilling to extend my protection to Loralynn Kennakris, guaranteeing her normal POW status, at the very least—perhaps more—in exchange for your cooperation.”
He’d rather see Kris dead than under Arutyun’s ‘protection’—much rather. Even if that meant doing it himself . . .
His face hardened, locking in the cold coiling dread Arutyun’s threat was breeding before it could show. “Fine. Give me five minutes alone with Commander Kennakris and I’ll cooperate.”
Three minutes would do, but five minutes would make sure. They might try to intervene—almost certainly would try—be even in his weakened state he could buy a couple of extra minutes.
“That is impossible.” Arutyun’
s deadpan was perfect—almost too perfect.
Huron showed the edges of his teeth. “In that case, I think you can guess my answer”—fighting the chill in his gut with anger. He needed to keep a clear head, and most of all he needed to stay in control. Maybe he couldn’t do shit right now, but he needed to get the best-possible handle on what was going on. And not hand Arutyun a victory by losing it. No matter how painful it was to feel helpless; to just sit and do nothing.
“Then I suggest you reconsider the consequences to Loralynn Kennakris”—a hint of irritation invading Arutyun’s voice for the first time.
His carefully harbored anger and his fear for Kris waged their seesaw battle while he fought to keep any signs of it off his face and out of his voice. “Then I suggest you reconsider what happened to your ex-boss.” And you shouldn’t have tipped your hand so soon.
He hadn’t seen Kris since the early AM they’d been hastily bundled out of Caneris’ estate and taken to a nearby Military Security office. He’d had no word, not a hint, of what had happened to her. Now, he knew two things, both hugely important. First, Caneris had tried to protect them by separating them and hiding them within the POW population. Second, and most vital: Arutyun was lying. There was no reason for him not to grant his request to see Kris. If he really had her in his custody, he wouldn’t be engaging in this rigmarole. Arutyun was acting like a man forced to play a hand he didn’t like against his will. Someone must be putting pressure on him. Heydrich? That seemed unlikely? Arutyun didn’t work for Heydrich. Their relationship—he assumed they must have one—was informal. Someone higher up? Jerome himself maybe?
Their only hope—Kris’s only hope—lay in opposing factions competing for them. If Jerome knew they’d been captured, he’d definitely be interested. And was Caneris really out of the picture? If Arutyun was lying about Kris, he might well be lying about that too. A lot depended on the card he played next.
Stubbing out his cigar in the oval dish, Arutyun crossed his arms. “It has been my wish to keep things on a civilized level. However, if you persist, you must know that by use of certain . . . measures—perhaps regrettable—the question of your cooperation becomes immaterial.”
Huron felt an iota of relief that Arutyun had shifted gears. “If that were the case, you wouldn’t be wasting our time with a clumsy attempt at blackmail.”
That response told in a deeper indentation at the side of Arutyun’s wide, thin-lipped mouth. “Tripwires can be broken.”
“Try it”—stretching out a painfully cramped leg and trying to relax against the chair back. “Let’s see if I got my money’s worth.”
“Your condition allowed us to do quite a thorough scan of your system. You are ill-advised to press me on this.”
“Is that so?”—a wider, colder smile. “I know what the consequences are for me. Painless. What about you? How are you gonna explain to your bosses how you managed to screw the pooch on this one? How d’ya think they’re gonna take that? After all, they seem like such an understanding bunch.”
“I will give you a final chance to cooperate,” Arutyun said flatly.
“Out of professional courtesy?”—lips pulling to one side in a smirk.
“What is your answer?”
In a deliberate motion, Huron picked up the untouched cigar and the lighter. His fist closed with all the strength of his warring emotions, crushing the cigar. Opening his hand, he scattered crumbs of priceless tobacco across the table, then flicked the lighter so that it bounced off the tabletop and ricocheted into Arutyun’s narrow chest.
His face even paler than usual, Arutyun retrieved the lighter from his lap and swept a swath of tobacco crumbs onto the floor.
“This discussion is concluded.”
* * *
“Are you absolutely certain of your conclusions?” General Heydrich made no attempt to disguise his impatience. He’d agreed to let Arutyun have access to Commander Huron expecting results, and results had not been achieved. Jerome’s order was most pressing; he could not stall it much longer. And while releasing Commander Huron to consular sequestration would shield him from Arutyun’s organization as much as it would from himself, there was the question of who would get control of the commander when the sequestration order lapsed.
If it lapsed. For all the League’s posturing, Huron was a powerful lever, and Heydrich did not think Jerome’s support for prosecuting the war was as fervent as he wanted people to believe. If he could wring enough concessions from the League, he might well change his tune to trumpeting a ‘diplomatic’ victory. That would consolidate his support among the wavering middle, sidelining Heydrich and his compatriots.
Where Arutyun stood in all this muddle, Heydrich wasn’t sure. A social and political nonentity, from no family at all and by no means popular, the captain depended on his support. But with the stakes this high, was anyone to be trusted?
“Absolute is nothing but an invitation to court disaster,” Arutyun said, his tone just short of insulting.
Yes, he could be cross-grained and literal, especially when he’d been stymied. Heydrich had no patience for verbal fencing, however.
“Our examinations turned up no evidence of a tripwire,” the general retorted. “None at all.”
“Is it probable that they would allow him to be put at such risk without one?”
“That is conjecture. Consider his reputation.”
“Consider the evidence,” Arutyun countered, harshly. “I have examined the record your people made. It shows anomalous ‘scarring’—I used the term loosely—in the organelles of his cellular structure. It is systemic. No normal med-scan would detect it, I have never encountered anything similar before and clearly your people did not take note of it. Perhaps they did not know to look. I consider it significant.”
That was true. The examination reports had made no mention of any such anomalies. Unsettled, Heydrich said, “Could this not be the result of his immunocyte implant malfunctioning?”
“It could not. The scarring is old, decades at least.”
“So this is your tripwire.”
“I cannot be absolutely certain, but I think it likely. There is, of course, only one way to be sure, and if you wish to risk the Princeps’ displeasure at disobeying his direct order and destroying an asset of such value, that is your affair. Personally, I can see how that would probably end. However”—Arutyun’s mouth stretched in a thoroughly unpleasant smile—“that is also conjecture.”
“You make your point as delicately as ever, Captain. Have you any fallback?”
The unpleasant smile flexed at the corners. “If your people had been able to locate Loralynn Kennakris, he would have proved susceptible. Failing that, I do not.”
“If you were able to produce proof of the admiral’s treason,” Heydrich countered, “Jerome would not be able to oppose us. We could have the order negated.”
Arutyun’s smile reversed into an equally unpleasant frown. “That will be forthcoming. In due course.”
“That’s very well, then.” Heydrich allowed a trace of the pleasure he felt at the captain’s discomfort to color his tone. “I think we have no further business today.”
Arutyun dismissed, Heydrich took out his xel and brought up Jerome’s order. If Arutyun was right—and in good conscience, he’d never known the captain to be wrong about these things—at least no one else could profit from Commander Huron’s invaluable fund of knowledge. That was half the battle. Given time, even that obstacle might be overcome? And perhaps Jerome might overestimate the appeal of a diplomatic solution to the conflict? His options were not exhausted there. The game was far from over.
And what of the prizes that game offered? Lessing’s inept message—did the idiot really think it had been all that cryptic?—obviously referred to Commander Huron. But what of Loralynn Kennakris? What was her connection with the affair beside a lapsed romantic one with the Huron heir? Caneris had not chosen to exercise his aristocratic privilege on her behalf because of her look
s. That miserable dried-up excuse for a man had no appreciation of beauty, even that as exceptional as possessed by Loralynn Kennakris. The woman must have some other value—quite substantial value—the admiral had learned of.
Arutyun had mentioned her with a significant look. Significant of what? He’d keep a sharp eye on that. But as for the present . . .
Detaching the stylus from his xel, he attached his signature to the Princeps’ order and authenticated it with his thumbprint. Pressing SEND, he sent it off, like a stone tossed into a pond. The splash it would make might garner some attention, but those who focused on the splash itself were fools. That was a transitory event, evanescent and soon forgotten. It was the ripples, superposing with the ripples of other acts, that mattered. Tidal waves, far out in the ocean, were of insignificant height—barely noticeable. Only when they came in shore was their full power revealed.
And so with this. He would wait to see what the ripples created brought him.
In the meanwhile, other consolations awaited, once his people did their job. He would enjoy—very much so, he thought—making the acquaintance of Lieutenant Commander Loralynn Kennakris.
Chapter 32
South Wing Imperial Chambers
St. Gregor’s Palace, Halevirdon
Halith Evandor, Orion Spur
“And so, I think it’s fair to say that the numbers speak for themselves.” Councilor Lord Geris motioned at the final slide of his presentation, orbiting leisurely over the center of the council table. “I don’t need to state that the matter of our fleet readiness is most pressing, especially at this juncture. But the degree to which this is exacerbated by the current state of affairs in regards the POW situation cannot be denied. As we now have an opportunity to address this issue from an advantageous position, I urge the Council to give this proposal the most serious consideration.”
Orion's Price Page 23
