by Mel Keegan
“Captain Vaurien is calling from the Wastrel,” Joss announced.
“Trouble?” Marin wondered as Travers appeared.
The big threedee in the study was already bright, with Vaurien and Jazinsky framed in it against the backdrop of Wastrel Ops. Their faces were studies in grim satisfaction. Marin shared a glance with Travers as Vaurien asked, “Did you see it?”
“See what?” Travers gestured back into the living room. “We tuned the world out. What did we miss?”
“Instant replay.” Jazinsky aimed a handy at the threedee, and the display shifted to file footage.
Images and vid clips had been assembled to accompany the commentary, with portraits culled from the CNS archives over several decades, views of properties in the homeworlds. The read-over had been laid by one of the major news anchors; Marin was not sure of the name, but her voice was deep, with suitable gravitas as she said,
“Senator Charleston Aimes Rutherford was executed in the early hours of this morning at the Hydralis Memorial Hospital. He is reported to have died peacefully in his sleep, following sedation in his final meal and an injection of medical nano which terminated brain function at 1:15am, Hydralis time.
“The Earth-born billionaire who was tried and convicted of masterminding the so-called CL-389 incident, in which an ore-hauler inbound from Hellgate was set on a collision course for the city of Hydralis, never confessed culpability. He never expressed regret for the actions that would have murdered as many as four hundred million people in an instant, and destroyed the biosphere of this world, save for the outstanding service of elements of the Delta Dragons – Delta Squadron of the Carrier Air Taskforce of the super-carrier Sark, which was named Kiev at the time of the event.
“Omaru, today, remembers the courage and sacrifice of the Delta Dragons. All surviving members are to be awarded the Star of Victory. Some will receive it posthumously.
“The body of Senator Rutherford has been placed in cryogen storage, pending its repatriation to Earth.
“Attorneys from Chicago and Marsport made an unconvincing case for his defense, claiming Mr. Rutherford was misidentified as the power behind the CL-389 incident.
“Irrefutable evidence was provided by Deep Sky agencies which penetrated the security of key offices on Earth and Mars, including those of Mr. Rutherford himself. This evidence was supported by statements from witnesses who worked closely with the rogue Freespacer, Boden Zwerner, whose blackmarket empire stretched from Marak City, Ulrand, to the unregistered, unpoliced Freespacer port of Halfway.
“The connection between Zwerner and Rutherford is unquestionable. At last Mr. Rutherford’s attorneys amended their plea of not guilty to a petition for sentence to be commuted to life imprisonment, to be served on Earth. Despite three appeals the request was not granted, on the grounds that the government, judiciary and people of Omaru had no confidence that the sentence would be imposed, once Mr. Rutherford left the Deep Sky.
“He is survived by three wives, eight children, twenty grandchildren, who will inherit estates on Earth and Mars, and majority shares in the ship construction company, RMC Industries. Rutherford-Mayhew-Carvalho Industries remains one of the ‘High Five’ group of companies which dominate the industrial and economic landscape in the homeworlds.
“It is not by chance that Senator Rutherford, President Jardine Mayhew and Colonel Tomas Carnairo de Carvalho – commanding the super-carrier London at the Battle of Jagreth – owned and operated a business empire measurable in trillions of Confederate credits, and tens of trillions of colonial dollars. President Mayhew’s ‘strong fleet policy’ inspired the boom in ship building which propelled no few families of Earth and Mars, like the Rutherfords and the Carvalhos, into the ranks of homeworlds royalty.
“President Mayhew is the last survivor of the founding trio. Colonel Carvalho was killed when the London was lost with all hands. Today, Mr. Mayhew lives with his fifth wife and three of his eleven children, on the family’s estates outside Barsoom, in the southern hemisphere of Mars. Due to the data lag between the Deep Sky and the homeworlds he could not be contacted for comment on the sentencing of Mr. Rutherford, but of Colonel Carvalho’s death he said, ‘The Confederacy has lost a giant whose name will pass into legend in the chronicles of our people.’
“Charleston Aimes Rutherford is expected to be repatriated to Earth for interment on his estates in North America. His attorneys are reported to have already contacted his current wife, the Donizetti heiress, Suzanne-Marie Chalmers. The government of Omaru confirmed this morning that it has granted permits and visas for an unarmed civilian ship from the Confederacy to enter Commonwealth space. The vessel will register at Hydralis High Dock in the coming months, and will be subject to routine quarantine and customs protocols.”
The images of Chalmers, Rutherford, the Confederate banner and Omaru’s orbital docks faded out, replaced by Vaurien and Jazinsky. They looked more grim than jubilant, but Jazinsky’s fists clenched in a small expression of victory.
Harrison Shapiro’s voice surprised Marin – he had not realized the man was standing in the doorway behind Travers. “Another chapter closes,” Shapiro observed. “You realize, Richard, the bounty on our heads will be doubled. Those families will want revenge, not justice … you don’t mess with mercantile royalty and not expect to pay the price.”
“But they can’t touch us,” Vaurien said, “not where we’re going. The Wastrel might have been recognized in Borushek high orbit, but any Terran agents working here now must be buried down deep. They don’t have the resources to hit this ship – all they can do is make a call, and we’re gone in ten hours. Earth doesn’t know any world called Carahne even exists, and they’ll lose track of us as we enter the Mare Aenestra. They have no ports, no worlds, no interests out that way. They might even show up with a warship, but they’ve no jurisdiction.”
“Which wouldn’t stop them taking military action in the Carahne system,” Alexis Rusch’s voice warned over the comm from the labs.
And Leon Sherratt: “So defend the system. Lay down the same minefields as defend Jagreth and Velcastra. Mark?”
Mark had no hesitation. “Yes. In fact, I’d do it on this assignment, Richard. As soon as we’ve offloaded the stasis chambers and answered the question of what’s become of the Freyana.”
“Done,” Vaurien said readily. “Speaking of which, we’re on pace to ship out unless someone has a reason to stay.”
He was looking into the vid pickup – looking at Mark, Marin knew. The threedee in the lab was online. But Mark’s voice was as firm as it was sad. “There’s no reason to stay in Riga. Dario and Tor have packed half the house, Leon and Roy have packed the other half. Everything is tagged for Saraine, of course, though for myself, I can’t stay there in any degree of security. I’m too well known. Dario and Leon aren’t – yet – on any death list, so they and Tor and Roy, can enjoy Saraine.” He sighed. “And I’m afraid I’m on the move again. Diaspora. Like the old days.”
“Like the rest of us,” Rusch added. “Harrison and myself are no more safe than you are, Mark. We can live in the grip of a security cordon, literally under house arrest on Elstrom StarCity, and I daresay we’d enjoy a great deal of comfort. But we’d be easy to pinpoint, and the same bounty hunters who’ll soon be after Robert’s head would be glad to take ours on the same ticket!”
And Chandra Liang was keenly aware of the situation, Marin thought. He was quite ready to spend three terms in office, fifteen years living with security at every door, never leaving StarCity in any vehicle without weapons and armor. But the bounty on his head would follow him lifelong, and eventually he would be ready to find freedom beyond the vengeful reach of the Confederacy. Vanish.
“Then, we leave at midnight, Riga time,” Vaurien said musingly. “Harrison, you left a message – you want to use the Wastrel’s highband from this system.”
“Yes.” Shapiro seemed to shake himself. “I finished the presentations for Chandra Liang, Tarrant, Pr
endergast and Cardwell a little while ago. I think they’re … persuasive. We can expect Robert to take our part, and Joyce Cardwell has worked in cahoots with him for so many years, I know she’ll see the sense of properly defending the frontier. Tarrant’s a realist who’s spent years under the gun – and he’s had good results recently, dealing with a Freespacer crew. Captain Ingersol set a good example as a skilled enabler, which should make Alec think favorably about Freespacer worlds, especially those which are applying for Commonwealth membership. Prendergast … well, he’s the unknown factor. He’ll be a harder sell on this issue, but I think my presentations are good enough to at least give Robert a strong position to fight from.” His expression darkened and he looked away. “I also need to contact the Kim family. Ulrand.” His voice thickened with emotion. “Better that the comm signal should be traceable to this system.
“I’ve some purely personal business to take care of this afternoon … a few calls to make. And a small personal indulgence. I want to walk in the snow, see the sun set over the Challenger Gulf one last time. Simple things, really, but Lauren and I used to enjoy the small things, and I promised a great deal to Jon that never happened.” He cleared his throat, searched for his voice. “Michael, Dario and Tor took the Capricorn to Sark for the afternoon, but they’ll be back in good time. We’ll be aboard to meet your schedule, Richard. No need to plan around us.”
“All right.” Vaurien shared the moment of grief. “I’ve already contacted the attorneys Alexis recommended. They have all the information they need to settle affairs with the Teniko family. His back pay, mission bonuses and a gratuity are banked with Atransa, ready for transfer.” He sighed heavily. “There’s no more we can do, Harry.”
“Except remember,” Shapiro added. “I seem to have filed Jon into the same place with Lauren. In here.” He tapped his temple. “They’re always there. They always will be. The highband, Richard?”
“Powered up.” Vaurien gestured vaguely. “Have Joss handshake with Etienne. You can do the whole thing from the house there.”
The five-meter dish on the roof would begin to drive, Marin knew, aligning on the Wastrel. Two AIs would trade microsecond signals; a man’s life would be consigned to a file of documentation, numbers changing from one bank account to another – the restoration of honor, and transportation permits approved for a cryogen casket.
“We’ll see you tonight, Richard,” Mark was saying. “I ought to spend the afternoon packing. And then … Carahne.”
“And whatever the hell Emil Kulich has done with the Freyana,” Jazinsky agreed. “Midani’s chewing the furniture. Emil might have to duck, or he’ll need his nose straightened out! Later, Mark.”
The threedee returned to the local CityNet feed. Marin watched idly for some time as Travers fetched coffee with a liberal dash of the Irish, and snow began to fall over Riga. Streetlights shone through it with an almost festive glow, but Curtis was aware of an inestimable sadness. This was an ending, and no matter how bright the future, so much would never come again. In the study, Shapiro was editing the final draft of the most difficult message he would ever record. He was speaking directly to Mariel and Matt Kim, and Jon’s young sister, Amanda, and nothing he could say would make the truth less painful.
Marin retired to the kitchen, muddled through a lasagne recipe using canned and dried goods that had languished in the cupboards, and enjoying the self-indulgence of making a mess while Travers looked on with disparaging observations about Dendra Shemiji’s culinary applications. Marin only laughed, trying to recall the last time he had actually investigated a kitchen rather than configuring an autochef.
The sun was low, the gardens were snow-laden when Joss called Shapiro to the threedee. Since he took the call in the lounge, the business could not be confidential. Marin caught enough of the conversation to hear the newly-promoted Colonel Yvette Lansdown, formerly Shapiro’s Executive Officer – still in command of the Mercury, at the head of the Borushek defense fleet.
She was installed in Shapiro’s office at the top of the Fleet compound, while the ship was parked in geosynchronous orbit and an armed Rand Calypso stood, engines always hot, on the air park. “General, it’s good to see you back on Borushek. Unexpected, but good,” Lansdown was saying. She was forty, fit, sinewy, with raven black hair and green eyes which pierced like gimlets. “If you’d told me you were coming in, I know President Cardwell’s department would have organized a proper reception for you.”
“Which is exactly why I didn’t call ahead, Yvette,” Shapiro said in amused tones. “A civic reception is the last thing I want.”
She shared his humor. “You’re a public figure, General –”
“Not now,” he argued. “And call me Harrison. How long have we known each other? You’re making me feel old. I’m out of the service … and not coming back, Yvette.”
“Yes, Gen–Harrison,” she corrected. “Apart from what you or I might want, President Cardwell’s been talking about honoring you with a parade.”
“A parade?” Shapiro sounded appalled. “I hardly know Cardwell. All the years I was in the chair where you’re sitting now, and the so-called colonial government took care of pavement, sewerage and social security while I made policy on global issues, Cardwell was a low-key member of a puppet parliament. I couldn’t have picked her out of a Tactical line-up, and I had no idea she was Daku, much less Robert Chandra Liang’s agent here on Borushek.”
“Still, she knew you,” Lansdown mused, “and President Chandra Liang kept her well informed. She knew exactly what you were doing. Apparently she kept the colonial government off your back numerous times. She had the ear of Governor Petrakis. He might not have recognized a Daku representative when he saw one, but he knew what was good for the people of this colony. We were lucky. Petrakis was one of the decent ones, like Regis Gangawar on Velcastra.”
Shapiro was impressed. “Give President Cardwell my best wishes. Tell her … I don’t exist anymore. I’m gone, Yvette.”
She skipped a beat. “Permanently?”
“As far as Borushek is concerned.” Shapiro gestured in the direction of the city. “How many Terran agents are you aware of in Sark at this time?”
Her face darkened. “Four or five. They’re marked. We’re letting them run, they’ll point the way right back to their chain of command. The object is to cut it off at the head.”
“And I hope you manage it,” Shapiro said honestly. “But if you miss one Terran agent, in a few months you can expect to be seeing bounty hunters out here. Borushek, Velcastra, Omaru. You’ll have seen the arrest list, I assume?”
“I have. It was posted on Earth, reported by CNS. You, Mr. Chandra Liang, Mr. Tarrant, Colonel Rusch, Captain Vaurien, Doctor Jazinsky, Doctor Sherratt … if Major Vidal were still alive, he’d be on the list. Nobody knows the assignment he was flying when he was killed, but since he was associated with your group, well, it’s a fairly safe bet he was on a mission to undermine the Confederacy.”
“Indeed.” Shapiro looked sidelong at Marin and Travers, who were watching the lights come on across the long, sloping front gardens. Marin met his eyes, watched him mask his amusement from Lansdown as he turned back to the vid pickup. “You could do me one last service. Give President Cardwell’s office the information that I’m dead. You received this intelligence from the Wastrel, which passed through the Borushek system on this date. I wasn’t aboard … I was killed a month or so ago, on unspecified duties.”
Her eyes widened. “I can do that. Harrison, are you sure? It’ll be tough to come back, after CNS has covered the story and the president’s laid a wreath at your memorial.”
Marin stifled a cynical chuckle. “And doesn’t Mick know it!”
“He doesn’t want to go back – not publicly,” Travers said softly, under the audio pickup. “I don’t think he wants to actually live on Velcastra any more than Ernst does. CityNet would deify them … for about three weeks. Then the exposes and critiques would start. Some citybo
ttom hustler selling the story for a small fortune: ‘I spent the night with Michael Vidal ten years ago, here’s how he likes to get laid.’” Travers’s dark head shook emphatically. “Not Mick’s scene. And as for Ernst –? He’d be the ‘living fossil,’ right beside Charles Vidal. Not,” he added, “that the Vidals and Shackletons, Elstroms and Vaughans would ever accept Jo Queneau as part of the family. She doesn’t have the pedigree of First Fleet aristocracy. Ernst’s likely to show them his middle finger right before he walks away, so why make a big drama?”
He was right, and Marin had known all this, as surely as Rabelais and Queneau knew it. Velcastra was not closed to them but they would pass through as tourists, on visas conjured by Joss and Etienne. Vidal himself might not absolutely conceal his presence there, but he would avoid publicity, shun CityNet – leave a mystery smoldering behind him which Charles Vidal could answer or deny in any way he chose.
“I’m a ghost, Yvette,” Shapiro was saying. “You know the truth. Leave it there.”
“I’ll know you’re out there somewhere,” she said, husky with emotion. “I, uh, I’ll stand by the secret. If you ever need anything, call me. You know where I’ll be. They promoted me. They’ll promote me again in a year or two.”
“You’ll be General Lansdown,” Shapiro said approvingly. “Watch yourself. Those Terran agents, those bounty hunters, would be delighted to hunt your head too.”
“I’m not on the death list,” she began.
“Yet. How long before they learn you were my Executive Officer, and I passed command of the Mercury to you when I vanished. If you were a loyal DeepSky Fleet officer, you should have turned the ship around, headed back to the Middle Heavens and put her at the disposal of the Confederacy. You didn’t.”
