He hated it when Jils made too much good sense. Hated it. He pushed himself up out of his chair and covered his frustration with a quest for a cup of bean tea. You couldn’t get bean tea on the Malcontent’s courier, not unless you asked for it. Rhyti. Weak as water by comparison, even if rhyti’s mix of naturally occurring and mood-altering chemical substances were seductive enough in its own right.
“We’re saying it’s Honan-gung if it’s not Langsariks, and I’m dead on for Honan-gung because I believe it’s not Langsariks,” Garol said with his back to Jils, from the bean tea brewer. Basically, that was what she was telling him. “And there’s still a chance that it is Langsariks, and my own emotional investment in the settlement has created a blind spot in my analysis.”
“Our emotional investment,” Jils said quietly, and Garol bowed his head in gratitude to her. “Yes. And if we’ve called it wrong, we’ve potentially endangered many more souls than just the warehouse crew at Finiury. If we’re badly mistaken, it could be Tyrell all over again, but at Port Charid — with plenty of frustration on the Langsariks’ part to work out. It’s more than we can risk, and what’s the harm of calling for Fleet for backup?”
But she knew the answer to that one already. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. You never know with Fleet. For all we know they’d send us the Ragnarok, and we all know that’d just mean a lot of unnecessary interrogations. I don’t want Fleet involved if I can avoid it. I don’t like the uncertainties.”
Fleet was there for muscle, though. Fleet was the only enforcement muscle a Bench intelligence specialist had. Fleet was the police arm of the Bench. He was supposed to call for Fleet when he could no longer control the situation himself.
He wasn’t willing to admit that the situation wasn’t under control; and yet Jils was right. If he was wrong about the Langsariks . . .
“You’re the man on the ground on this one, Garol.” She’d given him her evaluation; she thought it was Honan-gung. She’d reminded him of the alternatives, too. Bench intelligence specialists didn’t dice with the lives of innocent people. “It’s your call.”
It was his call.
He was responsible to the Bench for the success or failure of his solution to the problem Chilleau Judiciary faced at Port Charid, the apparent resurgence of Langsariks piracy, the contempt for the amnesty, the disruption of trade, the retardation of the economic development of the site.
He would put Port Charid on notice that a Fleet detachment was coming. That would force someone’s hand; the only question remaining would be which someone, exactly, it would turn out to be.
If it was a raid on Honan-gung, he would be ready for them.
If it was a Langsarik raid on Finiury, there would be a bloodbath in Port Charid with Garol Aphon Vogel written all over it: and if that happened, he wanted to be the only one responsible.
“If that’s the way you feel about it.” On all levels. “I think you should leave, Jils.”
She looked a little surprised, eyeing him sharply as if to judge whether he had taken offense or not. Her expression smoothed as he continued, however.
“Go back to Chilleau Judiciary and tell Verlaine all about it. Take me with you. I’ll let them know we’re coming.”
Jils knew his mind. He didn’t have to explain.
“We leave tomorrow, then. Good enough.”
There were times when Garol wondered whether working with Jils was becoming dangerous. They knew each other almost too well. That could lead to a failure to detect a developing irregularity in the other’s conduct, potentially injurious to the Judicial order and the maintenance of the rule of Law.
So long as justice was served, was that a problem? It was for Jils; and Garol knew that.
For Jils Ivers it was only justice if the rule of Law was served. If the Judicial order was violated, it could not be just or judicious, no matter what the surrounding circumstances might be. There was no point in exploring the issue with her, though, so Garol simply stood up, giving her a bow of formal thanks for her support and her acuity.
“I’ll go make our call to Chilleau Judiciary.”
If he was right about the Langsariks, it would work out.
If he was wrong?
Would he be able to live with himself if he unleashed the beast that had ravaged the Tyrell Yards on an undefended population at Port Charid?
There was only one way left to find out.
Time enough to ask himself that question once this was all over.
###
“There may be some irregularities in the cargo manifests at the development site,” Fisner Feraltz admitted, generously. “But with Dalmoss away at Geraint, we’re using a temporary floor manager. A man with experience and reliability, who was once an officer in the Langsarik fleet.”
It was the morning of the second day after he and Dalmoss had played coy with the corpse of the murdered Langsarik from the Tyrell Yards. Fisner stood in Factor Madlev’s office reviewing the morning reports, which were presenting some problems — some carefully constructed problems. Fisner had yet to see any real development from the seeds they had planted that night; so he had initiated further measures of his own, to be in place in case they should prove to be required.
Factor Madlev frowned. “But there are irregularities? Trusting to gain trust is all very well, Fisner, but we can’t take chances with other people’s cargo. It’s our honor. As well as our duty.”
Chewing on his lip, Fisner took a moment before he replied. As a matter of fact Shires was doing quite a good job at receiving reconciliation, by and large; but Fisner had reasons for planting the doubts in Factor Madlev’s mind. “I’m sure it’s just the learning curve, Factor. But I am concerned. I felt it should be laid before you, if only as an informational item.”
Fisner heard footsteps approach the open doorway behind him; when he heard the Bench specialist’s voice he closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer of submissive thanks.
“Good-greeting, Factor, thank you for seeing me. Foreman.”
Bench intelligence specialist Garol Vogel.
Factor Madlev stood up politely, lowering his head in greeting. “At your disposal entirely, Specialist Vogel. Ah . . . Fisner, should you perhaps go?” “Of course.” Fisner could afford a prompt response.
The Holy Mother would not have placed him here so fortuitously had She not arranged for him to remain.
“Not necessary, Factor, thank you for your concern.” Vogel was but the tool of the Holy Mother’s purpose. To that extent Fisner was Vogel’s master; and Factor Madlev’s, too. “I’m leaving Port Charid, and I’d like you both to be fully briefed. In strictest confidence, of course.”
Fisner already knew part of what Vogel had to say. In general, if not in detail.
Vogel had apparently been expected, the link to Chilleau Judiciary set up in advance; Fisner stepped back to close the door to Factor Madlev’s office — and efface himself, as well — as the communications link cleared.
First Secretary Verlaine came on over the line.
“This is Verlaine. Your status, Bench specialist?”
Was it his imagination — Fisner asked himself — or did Vogel actually hesitate? He certainly seemed to pause to take a breath before he spoke.
“Beg leave to inform you, leaving Port Charid for Chilleau Judiciary with evidence to lay before the Bench as to the precise identity of parties responsible for recent predation at Port Charid.”
Very formal indeed. Factor Madlev had sat back down, staring at Vogel with wide-eyed wonder. Perhaps Vogel’s certainty of phrase did seem like the result of some wonderful feat of Bench specialist ferret work, to Factor Madlev. Fisner knew exactly what Vogel thought he knew. Vogel was like warm dough in his hands; he had but to supply the yeast, and Vogel would puff the tale up to twice and three times its original size.
“Good news, Specialist Vogel. Here’s mine.”
The First Secretary’s voice was so clear from the voice port on Factor Madlev’s desk th
at Fisner almost believed he could see the skeptical expression on the First Secretary’s face. He didn’t even know what First Secretary Verlaine looked like. He had to be a big man, though, probably bearded, a Factor Madlev of a man; because his voice was of the depth and timbre that only resulted from great chests and substantial bulk.
“News, that is, not good,” the First Secretary continued. “I have a Fleet Interrogations Group on alert.” This news came as an obvious shock to Vogel; but not so much as Fisner might have thought. So perhaps Vogel was further along than even Fisner had hoped?
Verlaine was still talking. “We cannot justify an abeyance of sanctions for very much longer. As you know, the Second Judge’s trust in your judgment is considerable, Specialist Vogel. She and I therefore both hope that you will be able to resolve the difficulties at Port Charid in an expeditious manner without resort to the expense of a Fleet Interrogations Group.”
A Fleet Interrogations Group on alert?
What was its charter to be?
He could use this — it would be brilliant.
“I was going to suggest a Fleet detachment, First Secretary. There will be no need for a Fleet Interrogations Group, but I am asking that police resources be detailed immediately.” Vogel sounded only reasonable and mild; but the First Secretary — Fisner was delighted to hear — was not having any of it.
“I have already made promises to representatives of the planetary governments concerned, Specialist Vogel. Pending a satisfactory resolution to the situation at Port Charid, the Third Fleet Interrogations Group at Dobe has been placed on standby alert to travel to Port Charid and investigate allegations of violation of the amnesty agreement on the part of the Langsarik settlement. If proved these violations will be construed as nullifying the amnesty, and the full range of Bench sanctions will be implemented immediately.”
Beautiful.
Unleash a Fleet Interrogations Group with such a Brief, and they would find evidence of organized violation of the amnesty among the Langsariks. There was no question about it. That was what a Fleet Interrogations Group did. They would go through the Langsariks until they had collected enough by way of confessions to validate whatever measures the Bench could want to take. Given enough bodies to process, they would get what they were looking for, with certainty.
“I’m sorry to hear that, First Secretary,” Vogel said; concerned, yes, but still confident. “Fleet Interrogations Groups so frequently generate their own momentum. I trust to satisfy the Second Judge as to the complete irrelevance of any such requirement. Leaving Port Charid today, expect arrival at Chilleau Judiciary in three days’ time.”
Yet until the Second Judge had reviewed Vogel’s evidence, the Fleet Interrogations Group would logically remain on standby. Having been driven to the point of putting the Fleet Interrogations Group on standby in the first place, they would have to wait for dramatic news before they could issue a stand-down without losing credibility. Fisner knew exactly how he could get that Fleet Interrogations Group on its way to execute the vengeance of the Angel of Destruction against the Langsariks — before Vogel even got to Chilleau Judiciary.
By the time Vogel even knew what was happening it would be too late. The Fleet Interrogations Group would be on-site, at work, and Langsariks would confess to everything. Anything the Fleet Interrogations Group asked them.
“We’ll wait.” The First Secretary didn’t sound convinced; the battle was half-won already. Soon it would be academic. “But not for very long. Priority call as soon as you arrive, Specialist Vogel. We’re very anxious to review your findings.”
Fisner had to stifle his grin of glee. It was an effort, but he managed.
Vogel bowed to the voice port on Factor Madlev’s desk, saluting the Bench in the person of the Second Judge’s principal administrator. “Leaving very soon, First Secretary. Vogel away, here.”
“Looking forward to it. Chilleau Judiciary, away.”
The First Secretary spoke for the Second Judge, and Vogel answered to the Bench. If the Bench decided not to wait any longer for Vogel’s solution to its problem at Port Charid, that was the Bench’s right and prerogative.
“So, we’ll be having an end to all this, soon,” Factor Madlev said. It was obviously as much as he dared say but so much less than he wanted to know.
Vogel nodded confidently. “That’s right, Factor Madlev. The information I have for the Second Judge is conclusive. Once she but sees what I have to show her, it will be all over but the deliberations.”
Vogel would never know; but the Angel of Destruction had bested even a Bench intelligence specialist and shaped Vogel to its will in the pursuit of its special mission.
Once the Fleet Interrogations Group arrived, with its Brief in full effect —
The Langsariks would die horribly, and he would be revenged.
###
Midmorning, the day after Hilton had located the battle cannon on the floor of the new warehouse, Kazmer Daigule sat before the console in the wheelhouse of the Malcontent’s shuttle, watching as Garol Vogel’s courier tracked for the Shawl of Rikavie and the Sillume vector.
“Good riddance,” Cousin Stanoczk said, from behind him. “Nothing but trouble, Bench intelligence specialists. Now perhaps we can all get on about our business here, without the interference of persons impertinently trying to interest themselves in other people’s affairs.”
It was a pretty little thing, Vogel’s courier. In his previous life Kazmer had dreamed of some year owning something like that. Now he owned nothing — but if he was to face a lifetime of service as pilot on craft such as the one Cousin Stanoczk had taken from Anglace, had he really lost? Since realistically speaking his chances of ever affording anything in either class were slim indeed —
“That’s the idea, anyway,” Garol Vogel said, from where he stood at Stanoczk’s side. There was no hint of resentment in his voice, though Stanoczk could be unpleasantly sharp when it suited him. “Has the freighter tender we want moved yet, Daigule?”
No, it hadn’t. In fact the freighter tender that Hilton had identified as the one to watch was the only one that Fisner Feraltz had not released to unload and stand by in response to Cousin Stanoczk’s request, made a day ago, for eight freighter tenders to be made available.
Kazmer keyed his window on the warehouse’s traffic monitors, just to be sure. “Stasis,” Kazmer said, pointing to the screen with satisfaction. “Going nowhere. So we can be sure that it’s the one.”
Vogel nodded with grim satisfaction, then looked to Cousin Stanoczk. “How are we doing on the cargo for Honan-gung?”
Cousin Stanoczk bowed in polite response. “In final preparation even now, Specialist Vogel. The carpenters have been working without rest at the airfield, building a transfer case for the large refrigeration unit we hypothetically expect at Honan-gung. We can load for departure by evening.”
Vogel nodded approvingly. “Fast workers, those Langsariks. I’m sorry, Daigule, but we can’t take you with us.”
Kazmer looked up over his shoulder at Cousin Stanoczk, surprised.
“Kazmer understands that he will be needed here,” Cousin Stanoczk said firmly, but Kazmer imagined that his voice was not completely unsympathetic. “If for no other reason than to be seen. Were he to drop out of sight while I remained bustling about in Port Charid, the quarry might become suspicious. We do not love each other. We are always eager to expect the worst of each other.”
The Malcontent, and the Angel of Destruction. Stanoczk was talking about the Angel. It was perhaps true that Kazmer and Cousin Stanoczk did not love each other; but love had nothing to do with the relationship. Kazmer was genuinely obliged to Cousin Stanoczk. And Cousin Stanoczk had treated him fairly enough, at least thus far.
“Also, Hilton Shires is leaving,” Stanoczk said. “Kazmer will be waiting for opportunities to slip away, while I am not watching. So that he can go and make love to the cousin.”
His role was to be that of the go-between, then, car
rying messages between Cousin Stanoczk and Walton Agenis.
It was a good plan. But it meant talking to Modice. That was unkind of Stanoczk, to send him to talk to Modice, because it hurt.
He was resigned now to what he had done and what he had to do to make up for it. It was going to make him feel much better to see the murderers punished for their crimes, that was true enough. Still, the sooner he was away from Port Charid — the sooner he could start to pretend to forget Modice Agenis — the easier it would be for him to wear the red halter of the Malcontent.
“Well thought.” Garol Vogel approved, but could hardly guess at what the arrangement was going to cost Kazmer in wear and tear on his emotions. Not that it mattered. As far as Garol Vogel was concerned, Kazmer was a criminal anyway, escaped from lawful punishment by stealth and worthily deserving any punishment that came his way by way of substitution. “I’ll be seeing you, then, Cousin Stanoczk.”
“Kazmer. I am going to go visit with Factor Madlev. Would this not be a good time for you to fetch a for-hire and go out to the airfield to see if Modice is there?”
He would be the package man, then. Vogel would hide in the for-hire that Kazmer would take from the docks in Port Charid out to the airfield, and when Kazmer got to the airfield — to ask around for Modice — Vogel could slip away, unseen, undetected, to join the Langsarik ambush party load-in for transport to Honan-gung.
“You know Sarvaw, Cousin Stanoczk. We are completely untrustworthy. Ruled by our passions utterly.”
He meant it to sound like an agreement, playful, entering into the spirit of the deception; but he had not fully mastered his bitterness. He could hear it in his own voice. Cousin Stanoczk surprised him; stepping forward, putting one hand on his shoulder, Cousin Stanoczk leaned over him and kissed his forehead with grave and absolute reverence.
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