Harriet returned the bow. As soon as the Narseil was gone, she activated the console. She brushed past the security confirmations. "Peter? We're here. What do you have for us...?"
* * *
Peter, she was sorry to learn, had little on the McGinnis case. The security forcefield had finally gone down, but only after the house had burned to the ground. The police still had the property cordoned off. But Peter had learned a few things about the disappearance of Maris. Security-cam records from the hospital had produced a description and partial registration number for the vehicle in which her abductors had driven off. That was enough to identify the vehicle as a rented aircar, later returned in another city, Bellairs, two hundred kilometers to the west of Elmira. However, the same vehicle had earlier turned up in Forest Hills, a town four hundred kilometers to the north of Elmira, where it had been involved in a minor traffic incident, but had fled the scene. Peter had investigators working in both cities, but his money was on Forest Hills.
"One more thing," he added, before ending the call. "You remember, they never found Jakus Bark's body?"
"For all the good that did us, yeah. Do you have something more?"
"Possibly. Someone fitting Bark's description was seen leaving the planet two days ago. On a ship registered off-planet, but suspected of being connected to Centrist Strength."
Harriet whistled. "Very good—I think. Any hard evidence we can use?"
"Unfortunately, no. If it was Bark, he traveled under an assumed name. We're still checking, though."
"Well, good work, Peter. Keep on it."
Not long after, another call came in. This time it came through the regular embassy switchboard. On the com was a stern-looking woman who began, "Spacing Commissioner North, to speak with Harriet Mahoney..."
* * *
"Commissioner, I don't know what you expect me to do. It is true that my client has left the star system, against my desires—" which wasn't quite a lie "—but that doesn't change his basic dilemma, or mine. The fact is he was framed on patently trumped-up charges. And your office hasn't done a thing to dispel those charges."
"Mrs. Mahoney—please believe me—" Commissioner North spread his hands in appeal "—we are conducting a thorough investigation, right here at the highest level. If we find any evidence of unfair treatment, I can assure you that heads will roll."
"Commissioner, I would dearly love to believe you—"
"Well, then, let's talk." North placed a forefinger against his temple, and seemed to be searching for conciliatory words. "I believe if I speak to the D.A., I might be able to arrange for you to be free on bail. It's not in my hands, obviously—but you certainly have a long-standing reputation in the community, and if you want to make a gesture of good faith by meeting me, say, at the police station—or any neutral location you would care to suggest—I might be able to prevail upon my colleagues at Justice to give you some breathing room. Wouldn't that be better than staying holed up in the Narseil embassy?"
Harriet hesitated before replying. She had no certain knowledge of where in the Spacing Authority the corruption lay. It was possible that North was innocent. But she would have to be out of her mind to take a chance.
"Mrs. Mahoney?"
Harriet shook her head. "I can't do that."
"But surely you realize—"
"Commissioner, look at it from my point of view. My client, who not only escaped from a pirate outpost, but brought you a captured pirate ship, was framed for a crime he didn't commit. Then, while in my company, seeking information on a matter related to his defense, he narrowly escaped an attempt on his life. On both our lives. Finally, to top it off, we were both framed for the death of Robert McGinnis, who sent us away in his flyer because he knew he was coming under attack. Now, what would any intelligent person's response be to a pattern like that?"
North looked troubled. "That depends on whether it's all true, doesn't it? I hardly have to tell you how the police see it. You lack physical evidence for your assertions, and the fact that you left a burning house with a dying man inside, taking the man's flyer, is problematical. Unless you can produce evidence of your explanation, of course."
"We're searching for the physical evidence now, Commissioner. I expect we'll be finding some as soon as there's a thorough examination of the McGinnis property."
North scratched his sideburn. "Well, we're all eager to see what turns up there. But Mrs. Mahoney—I'm concerned that you're making your case worse by your insistence on taking refuge with a bunch of—well, I mean, with the Narseil." He leaned forward. "The thing is—from the point of view of the prosecutors—how do they know that you were at McGinnis's house just to discuss Impris?"
"What else would we have been—?" Harriet caught herself, struck by a sudden realization. "Who told you we were discussing Impris?"
North's gaze sharpened. Was that a flicker of dismay in his eyes? "Well, your statement—"
"Did not specify the content of our discussions with McGinnis. It said only that we were seeking historical information."
North was silent for a moment. "I guess I must have assumed..."
"Yes," said Harriet. "You must have assumed." Or you knew from the start, because your people had their hooks into McGinnis.
"Well," North said brusquely, "let's not get sidetracked on that. Mrs. Mahoney, if you change your mind and want to talk, you know where to reach me. Yes?"
"Yes," Harriet said, reaching forward. "Thank you—" she cut the connection and finished in a mutter "—for your concern."
She sat mulling the screen.
"Mother?"
She looked up at Morgan, who had entered the room halfway through the conversation. "Yes, dear?"
"What was that all about? Was he just asking you to turn yourself in?"
Harriet blinked and slowly returned to the present. "Yes. Yes, I guess he was."
"You didn't consider it or anything, did you?"
Harriet sighed. "Well, if I had been thinking of it, he just ensured that I won't. Ever."
Morgan rested a hand on her mother's shoulder. "Good. I want to know that I can trust you to stay put here, when I leave."
"Leave?"
"There's no arrest warrant out on me. And if someone's going to go looking for Maris, there's a good chance they'll need some legal advice—especially if they can't prove that those hospital release papers were fraudulent. If you're stuck here, that leaves me."
Harriet stared open-mouthed at her daughter. She'd been so busy wishing that she could get out and be useful, she'd failed to consider what her daughter could do—besides put herself in harm's way.
Morgan hugged her. "What, did you think I was going to stay here and serve you tea the whole time?"
"That's exactly what I want you to do," Harriet said, laughing uneasily.
"Mother—"
"At least until Peter assures me it's safe..."
* * *
Irv Johnson liked working for Peter, the Clendornan PI, but there were times when he wondered what he was getting himself into. For the better part of the last two days, he'd been hanging around the grounds of the McGinnis estate, chewing on the stems of weeds, waiting for the fire investigation team to finish up so he could ask about their findings and maybe take a look himself. Fair enough. But this business about the dog...
When Peter had told him to keep an eye out for McGinnis's runaway dog, he'd had that glint that he sometimes got in his eye. In Peter's case, the glint was real: Clendornans had a sort of steel-wool fuzz at the backs of their eyes, and when it lit up, you noticed. What it meant, as far as Irv could tell, was: my intuition is telling me something and I'm not sure what it is, but I think it's important. Peter's intuition was pretty exceptional, and when he got that glint, there was usually good reason.
The client, Mrs. Mahoney, had said that McGinnis's dog had run away from the burning house and gotten out through the forcefield. It was probably somewhere in the woods right now, starving. Peter had been quite clear i
n his instructions: find the dog if he could, and bring it in.
Dogs made Irv nervous, and he had no idea what to do if he saw the animal. Whistle and hope for the best, he supposed. He spat out his weed and walked along the edge of the clearing. The house was a charred ruin. There was nothing anyone could have done to save it. With the forcefield up on internal power, the fire crews had had no choice but to wait until it burned down into the basement and destroyed the forcefield generator from the inside. By then, about all they could do was sift through the ruins and carry out the bones of the lone inhabitant. The remains were being examined at the regional coroner's office, but there wasn't much doubt as to whose they were. McGinnis's implants were pretty readily identifiable.
The fire inspectors were on the far side of the house now, looking for evidence of foul play or electromechanical malfunction. They'd told Irv they suspected some kind of power feedback in the house wiring. But until they were done he was to stay out of the way. That was fine with him. The smell of the charred remains was sickening, even way over here. The sooner he headed back to Elmira, the happier he'd be.
He'd already gone over the rental flyer and taken pictures of the lasershrap burns on its side. Earlier today, the regional authorities had trucked it away for further analysis. That left looking for the dog.
Irv sighed, picking his way along the edge of the woods. Here, doggy doggy. He scanned the trees, thinking he'd seen something moving in there. Maybe a bird or two. But no dog.
He yawned, remembered the thermos of coffee in his flyer, and started walking that way. After a few steps, he heard something and glanced back.
The dog leaped up, missing his nose by about an inch.
"Gah!" He jumped back, heart pounding.
The dog darted skittishly away. "No, wait! Come back! Good boy!" Irv stepped nervously toward the dog, snapping his fingers. "Come back here. Good dog! You snuck up on me. How did you do that? Huh, boy?"
The dog circled, making a low growl. Irv wasn't sure whether he looked fearful or aggressive. Irv drew a slow breath, studying the animal. It seemed to fit the description Mrs. Mahoney had given. Dark brown, medium-haired, long muzzle. It was panting, and looked hungry and probably thirsty.
"Good boy," Irv murmured, wishing he'd brought some food.
The dog stopped growling and stepped toward him.
Now what? Irv thought. Don't hold its gaze; he remembered Peter saying that. But the dog was holding his gaze. There was something damned peculiar about this dog, something intense, even for a starving, homeless animal. He tore his eyes away with a shiver.
The dog barked, piercingly.
"All right, damn it! C'mere, boy." He held out a hand again. "C'mere, for chrissake." The dog sniffed at his fingers, but when he tried to grab its collar, it backed away.
It barked again, making a mouthing, quavering sound. Damn if it didn't sound like it was trying to talk.
Irv squinted. "You want to come back with me? Smart dog."
The dog stared back warily.
Irv lunged, just missing. The dog sprang away with a yelp, tearing into the woods. Irv lit out after it, yelling. Then, realizing he was being stupid, he slowed to a walk. "Come on back!" he called. "I didn't mean to scare you!"
The dog's face peered out at him through some bushes. It was panting frantically, and making little whimpering sounds.
Irv whistled.
The dog just stood there with its tongue hanging out and its chest heaving.
"Listen—lemme go see if I got something I can give you to eat." Irv backed away, moving along the edge of the clearing toward the flyer. The dog trotted after him, still keeping its distance.
Across the way, the investigators seemed to take no notice of him or the dog. When he reached the flyer, he opened the gull-wing door and leaned inside. Maybe he should call in; maybe someone could tell him how to catch a dog. He hoisted himself into the seat, keeping an eye on the dog through the open door.
"Peter? Is Peter there? Yeah—I found the dog." He leaned forward, making sure the animal was still nearby. "That's right, Mrs. Mahoney's dog—I mean McGinnis's. Yeah. I'm having trouble catching it, though. What do you think's the best—yoww!" He rocked back, startled.
The dog gouged his lap with its nails as it sprang into the flyer, scrambling over him to get into the righthand seat. It sat there, panting like a steam locomotive, peering around wildly. It gave a long whine.
Irv stared at it, mouth open. He gulped and yanked the door closed. "You want a sandwich? Wait a minute." As he rummaged through his pack, conscious of the dog's hungry stare, he remembered the com and thumbed the key. "No problem here. Look, I'm bringing the dog in, Peter. Just like you said. I'll see you soon."
Finding a half-eaten roast beef sandwich, he tossed it to the ravenous animal. Then, taking a deep breath, he fired up the motors and took to the air before either of them could change their minds.
Chapter 18
Meeting of Minds
For several shipdays, intensive repair efforts had been underway on both H'zzarrelik and Flechette. On the pirate ship only a bare skeleton of the original crew remained; the rest were in confinement aboard H'zzarrelik, undergoing interrogation. Nine Narseil had died in battle—a spiritually significant number in the Narseil Rings religion—and the atoms of their bodies were cast to the interstellar winds with ceremony and mourning. Of the raiders, something on the order of forty were dead; and the atoms of their bodies were scattered, too, with considerably less ceremony.
For a time, it was unclear whether the mission would be able to proceed. Flechette was badly shot up, and no one knew if it could be made to fly again. If not, H'zzarrelik would return to base with prisoners and no doubt a great deal of useful information from a thorough examination of the Kyber ship—but with the primary mission unfulfilled. On the other hand, Legroeder had seen the Narseil engineers at work, and had a healthy respect for their capabilities. Even so, he was amazed when, three days after the surrender of the pirate ship, he was ordered to report to Flechette to help test its rebuilt rigger-net. It was Cantha who brought the news, and when Legroeder rose to follow, thinking he might be gone for a few hours, Cantha chuckled. "You must bring all your things, my friend. We are moving aboard, you and I. Fre'geel has called a strategy session for later in the day."
Legroeder blinked with astonishment, followed by a chill of apprehension. They were going forward with the original plan, then. He ought to have been prepared, but it was a jolt to realize that it was really happening.
Gathering his gear, he joined Cantha at the main airlock. Enveloped in a forcefield silversuit, he hooked his tether to a cable that joined the two ships and jetted toward the pirate ship, weightless and reeling from vertigo. He had never felt quite so exposed to space as he did during that crossing, surrounded by an awesome myriad of stars, suspended untold light-years from the nearest world. The net felt nothing like this, even when he was looking at the same view. In the net, he was anchored and secure; here, he could fall forever. He floated into the airlock of the raider ship with a gasp, and when the airlock door sealed behind him, he uttered a silent prayer of gratitude.
The air on the pirate ship assaulted him with the residual stink of smoke and burned insulation. But walking through the ship, he was struck by the ubiquitous repair work—fiber panels and plasteel patches and jury-rigged pumps and field generators. He peered down a corridor sternward and saw a maze of cables snaking through a blown-out wall. Shaking his head, he followed Cantha forward to a meeting room amidships, where he found Fre'geel, Palagren, and much of the crew he'd worked with on H'zzarrelik. They had all moved into quarters on the pirate ship.
"Rigger Legroeder," said Commander Fre'geel, "there is someone you need to meet, as soon as you've gotten settled."
"I thought you wanted me to work on the net."
"I do. As soon as you've spoken with—"
"Their rigger crew—?"
"I would be pleased to have you not interrupt m
e. Yes, with their lead rigger and acting captain. Deutsch is his name. I want you to establish a relationship with him."
Legroeder let out a silent breath. "Excuse me?"
"You are to establish a relationship. Make friends, if you can," said Fre'geel. "And you might as well get used to the idea," he added, noting Legroeder's incredulous reaction. "Everything's going to be different now."
* * *
"You cannot be serious!" boomed the synthetic voice of the pirate rigger, Deutsch.
"But we are," said Commander Fre'geel, sitting tall on the other side of the meeting room table. "You are to lead us back to your base."
Legroeder watched the exchange with confused emotions. Curiosity, trepidation, hatred of what the pirate stood for, and, to his own surprise, sympathy. Freem'n Deutsch was a stocky man-machine. Legless, he moved around by floating in the air; a round, brushed-titanium housing where his hips should have been apparently contained the levitators. Around his chest was a complex assortment of armor and cyborg-augmentation, including speakers for his voice. His round face was one-third chrome, with glowing cyberlink connectors on his temples, and four lenses—two hemispherical mirror lenses over his eyes, and two smaller ones mounted on the sides of his cheekbones. Presumably the four eyes gave him enhanced peripheral vision; they also made it nearly impossible to read his emotions.
Legroeder suddenly realized that Fre'geel was waiting for him to say something. "We'd have thought you'd be glad to go back," he said, with a shrug.
Deutsch made a low ticking sound. He rotated one way and then another, as though to see who was listening. "I am not eager to return to the outpost with a chain around my neck," he said finally. "Truthfully, I would prefer not to return at all."
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