Before Godsen found him, however—and before the first peremptory, predictable demand for a video conference came in from the Governing Council for Earth and Space—Warden managed to sequester himself with Hashi Lebwohl for more than an hour.
Their conversation took place in one of the several secure offices which Warden maintained throughout UMCPHQ. Naturally no room, however private, could be secure from what Milos Taverner might have called “buggery.” But the director of Data Acquisition was no “bugger”: where secrets were concerned, he was as safe as a tombstone. The distinction of being the only person in UMCPHQ who might reveal what was said in one of those offices belonged to Frik himself. And the offices themselves, with their baffled walls and electronic shielding, were proof against any kind of eavesdropping.
As an additional precaution, the techs and guards who tended those offices had strict orders never to acknowledge that Warden Dios ever used them. While he was inside, he ceased to exist in every official sense. Even Min Donner would have been turned away with a blunt, “We haven’t seen him, sir,” if she’d tried to locate the UMCP director while he was sequestered.
As a result, Godsen had no idea where Warden had hidden himself, and therefore no idea in which direction events were moving, when he finally succeeded in confronting Dios.
Warden wasn’t usually a petty man; but he took a certain small satisfaction in Godsen’s ignorance. Ignorance led to discomfiture—and Warden liked seeing the PR director discomfited. Relations between the two men left him few other grounds for satisfaction.
By this time he was in his formal office—a huge, expensive, and generally useless space which he reserved for those occasions on which a display of status was more important than the status itself. At the moment when his public secretary informed him that Godsen wanted to see him immediately, he’d just settled himself behind a wide mahogany desk—polished wood hydroponically grown at immense cost—in an armchair, also of polished mahogany, which rolled on old-fashioned casters. Both desk and chair, like all the furnishings and appurtenances of the room, had been given to him several years ago by Holt Fasner: a congratulatory gift on the completion of the UMCP’s orbiting headquarters. Perhaps that was the real reason he never used this office if he could avoid it. Now, however, he had no alternative.
He quickly reviewed the arrangements he’d made for the next hour. Then he keyed the intercom and told his secretary—a woman whom he privately considered to be as polished and useless as the furniture—to let Godsen Frik in.
The PR director entered at once, looking harried.
The look didn’t suit him. His fleshy self-confidence and rather flagrant dignity were effective masks for his schemes as well as his pleasures; but they did nothing to conceal a sense of harassment or an air of grievance. His pontifical head with its panoply of white hair, which usually gave him the appearance of the quintessential elder statesman, now made him resemble an aging boy who’d been caught in a particularly shameful act of sodomy.
Observing this was another of Warden’s small satisfactions.
It changed nothing, however. Godsen Frik was always transparent to him, thanks to his prosthetic eye. In this Godsen was unlike his fellow directors. Hashi Lebwohl could have betrayed the universe without giving so much as a hint to Warden’s infrared sight, not because he was a natural traitor, but because he made no essential distinction between the many levels of his natural duplicity. And Min Donner’s intense concentration and devotion were inherently honest. But Godsen exposed himself by physiological clues too obvious for Warden to miss—every scheme, every mixed motive, every falsehood showed in the rate of his heart, the temperature of his sweat, the aura of his skin.
Whenever Warden Dios dealt with his PR director, he knew he had to be prepared for the consequences, which ranged from Frik’s own simple obstructionism to active intervention by Holt Fasner.
That was a curse. Nevertheless Warden counted on it, planned for it; used it.
“Come in,” he said unnecessarily. “Sit down.” Because he disliked Frik, he always treated him with mildness and courtesy.
Godsen seemed unconscious of his director’s dislike. As soon as the door closed behind him, and the indicators showed that the room’s monitors were inactive, he came toward the desk, hitched one of his hams onto the gleaming surface in an effort to appear self-confident, and said, “I did what you told me. Now I’m getting my ass roasted.”
The effort failed. His voice was too tense to project its usual assured rumble.
Warden spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you that you don’t have to deal with him? You could always leave him to me.”
“He” in this context could only be Holt Fasner.
Unfortunately Godsen had no difficulty choosing among his disparate loyalties. Harried but unrepentant, he replied, “You know I can’t do that. For one thing, you didn’t hire me for this job. He did. He says he has plans for me. You can’t expect me to ignore that. And for another, there isn’t a man or woman here—hell, there isn’t a skeleton in the damn closet—that can refuse to accept a call from him.”
This last assertion wasn’t notably accurate. Neither Min Donner nor Hashi acknowledged any authority outside UMCPHQ. Nevertheless Godsen believed what he’d just said; that was obvious.
Warden resisted the impulse to respond, I’ve got plans for you, too. Instead he inquired, “So what did he say?”
“He said”—Godsen was good at mimicry—“‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, telling the whole world Thermopyle and Taverner got away? Don’t you know what’s going to happen now?’”
“And what did you reply?”
“I told him I was acting on your direct orders.” Godsen’s aura was crimson with tension and vulnerability, undermining his efforts to sound staunch. “I told him we did it to back up Joshua’s alibi, so he can get into Billingate. And I told him”—the fluctuation of his readings signaled a lie—“I think you made the right decision. It’s worth the risk. Everything we’ve done with Joshua won’t be worth spit if Billingate decides not to trust him.”
Warden dismissed all this. “And you didn’t mention Morn Hyland?” His tone was particularly mild because his question was especially threatening. “You didn’t point out that by risking public exposure of our operation I’m increasing the pressure on myself to rescue her? You’ve been eloquent in your desire to see her saved.” Or eliminated. “You’ve often pointed out that we’ll have a serious disaster on our hands if anyone ever learns we’ve deliberately left one of our ensigns in her position. Did you perhaps suggest to him that he should urge me to reconsider Joshua’s programming where she is concerned?”
He didn’t expect a true answer. But he’d posed his question to glean as much information as possible from Godsen’s readings.
IR sight was wasted on Godsen: he exposed himself by body language alone. In blustery indignation, he retorted, “No!” Pulling himself off the desk, he retreated a few steps, nearly turned his back as if he wanted to hide his face. “That’s ancient history. I lost that argument long ago.”
So. Godsen hadn’t been given any special instructions. He’d played the Morn card—again—and Holt Fasner had left it lying on the table. The Dragon had decided that the situation didn’t call for intervention. Yet.
Warden permitted himself an entirely private sigh of relief.
“That’s good,” he said kindly. “You ought to know he doesn’t care about her. I’m not entirely sure he cares about you. You’re both just means to an end.” He wouldn’t have said such things to anyone but Godsen Frik. Only Godsen might be alarmed by them—and only he might report them. In a subtle way, Warden was trying to tell both Godsen and Holt the truth about himself. “If I knew what that end was, I would be easier in my mind.”
Palpably striving to recover his balance, Godsen lowered himself into a chair. For a moment he braced his hands on its arms; then he pulled them together on his t
highs. Studying them as if they had notes written on the palms, he asked, “What is going to happen now?”
Warden dismissed that as well. “It’s not your problem. PR isn’t an easy job, but it does have one advantage. Nobody expects honesty.
“Still, I’m glad you’re here. You’ve saved my secretary the effort of tracking you down.” Warden smiled at his own irony. “I want all of us to be absolutely clear about what our position is from now on.”
Unobtrusively he pressed a button which relayed a private signal to his secretary. On cue she chimed his intercom to announce, “Director, Min Donner and Hashi Lebwohl are here.”
“Send them in.”
At once the door opened, and the remaining UMCP directors entered the office.
“Come in,” Warden said by way of greeting. Because he hadn’t stood to greet Godsen, he remained sitting. In any case neither Hashi nor Min needed courtesy from him. They both knew more than Godsen did about why they were here. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
Min’s shrug said, It doesn’t matter.
“Not at all,” the DA director wheezed equably. “When I am in the presence of a woman as lovely as your secretary, I am never ‘waiting.’ ”
“Good.” Warden pointed out chairs and said, “Sit,” in a tone he didn’t use with Godsen Frik.
The ED director seated herself as if she were coiling into the chair, poised to spring.
Perhaps to acknowledge the importance of the occasion, Lebwohl had put on his dirtiest lab coat over stained pants and an appalling shirt. That and his scrawny frame made him look like a scarecrow. The laces trailed from his ancient shoes, threatening to trip him at every step. Slumping from his thin nose, his glasses were so badly scratched and smeared that they seemed to blur everything he saw—or everything other people saw when they looked at him. His movements and even his posture appeared somnolent: the boundless energy hidden inside him showed only in his charged eyebrows and the conceptual purity of his blue eyes.
As he sagged into a seat, he had the look of a man who was ready only to be measured for a winding sheet. But Warden Dios knew better. In his own fashion—a style utterly unlike Min Donner’s—Hashi Lebwohl was coiled and poised; ready for everything except death.
Still Warden didn’t explain what was “going to happen now.” Min and Hashi already knew—although only Hashi had been briefed—and Godsen could be allowed to sweat a little longer. He glanced at his desk chronometer: twelve minutes left. There was never enough time; but twelve minutes would probably suffice. If they didn’t, he could always fake a brief transmission delay.
“Now.” He faced each of his subordinates in turn, scanning their emanations like a craftsman checking the condition of his tools. On the most fundamental level, he didn’t believe in using human beings: not as tools; not as genetic raw materials. That in part explained why he’d become a cop. The fact that his personal dilemma required him to do so many things he abhorred gave him another moment of nausea. It didn’t show, however. He’d perfected the art of keeping the worst cost of whatever he needed and did to himself.
Bland and careful, as if all his defenses were impenetrable, he announced, “Trumpet is gone. For better or worse, Angus and Milos are on their own.
“You all know this is the most hazardous position we’ve ever put ourselves in. Never before have we risked so much on people in situations so far outside our control. And never before has so much depended on our ability to keep what we’re doing to ourselves. So it’s time for us to be clear.” Warden said this despite the fact that he had no intention whatsoever of being clear himself. “If you still object to this operation—if you believe it’s misguided or doomed—if you think I haven’t adequately considered the difficulties—I want you to say so now.”
Godsen went back to studying his hands. Hashi smiled around the room as if he didn’t know what doubts or objections were.
Min didn’t hesitate, however. “Why bother?” she asked bluntly. “As you say, Trumpet is out of reach. Assuming we could give Milos new orders, we have no way of knowing when, how, or even if he would put them into effect.”
“You aren’t listening.” Warden spoke more harshly than he intended. Min sometimes had that effect on him—or rather his own falseness toward her did. “I didn’t offer to change Angus’ programming. Whether sending him out this way is a stroke of genius or an act of suicide, he’s out of our hands. I’m concerned about us here, not him.
“If we fail to back him up effectively, we might as well not have sent him at all. No, it’s worse than that. If we aren’t going to back him up, we should have left him rotting on Com-Mine. If we lose him, we’ll expose all the knowledge and expertise that went into him, as well as all the information he carries about us.
“I want to deal with your objections and problems now, so they won’t interfere later.”
“Then there is no need for me to speak.” The DA director coughed like a man who’d spent a lifetime breathing Earth’s clotted atmosphere instead of processed station air. “Much of this operation I designed. The rest I approved. And I do not doubt that it will succeed.
“However, I suspect that my colleagues”—he grinned through his glasses—“differ with me on this.”
Warden glanced at Min, at Godsen. “How so?”
Min glared grimly at Frik.
Seeing that she wasn’t going to speak first, Godsen raised his head. Covering his uncertainty with fulsomeness, he announced, “Well, I’ve said before that I think Taverner is a terrible choice. That man has the morals of a stoat. Even Hashi will admit we didn’t have any trouble suborning him—which means no one else is likely to have any trouble either. But I think the situation is worse than that.
“I’ve read his records”—Godsen appeared to consider this an act of great diligence—“and I can tell you, it isn’t a simple question whether we approached him or he approached us. He was too slick about it to be obvious, but I’m convinced selling out Com-Mine Security was at least as much his idea as ours.”
Under her breath, Min muttered, “What does that prove?”
Portentously Godsen continued, “So Taverner is a terrible choice for two reasons. He’ll sell us out as soon as someone—anyone—offers him enough money.” He seemed to draw confidence from the sound of his own voice. “And if the great unwashed public we’re all sworn to serve and protect ever ever gets a hint that we released a cyborg as powerful as Joshua with only a proven bugger to control him, this whole operation will turn to shit faster than you can say ‘righteous indignation.’ Even the Dragon might not be able to keep the votes from pulling the plug on Data Acquisition.”
“Meaning what?” asked Warden calmly.
“Meaning”—Godsen was in full spate—“the mighty and forever-to-be-respected GCES might decharter Hashi’s little game room. The votes might decide Data Acquisition is too sensitive for mere cops to play with. They might even consider a bill of severance.”
Warden noticed Min’s increasing tension, but betrayed none himself. “Do you consider this realistic?”
For a moment Godsen was torn between his love of rhetoric and his deeper loyalties. Then he sighed. “No. The Dragon won’t let it happen.
“But he’s the real issue here, isn’t he? If this gamble goes against us, he’s the one who will have to clean up the mess. And he won’t be amused. That I guarantee.”
“Neither will I,” Dios promised. Because he was speaking for Godsen’s benefit, he faced the other directors and kept his tone quiet. “And I won’t put up with being second-guessed. If I ever get any hint—from anybody—that one word of our conversation has left this room, I’ll extract blood for it. Finding fault after the fact is easy. The four of us are going to leave the easy jobs to other people.”
That was another message aimed at Holt Fasner. When Godsen repeated it to the Dragon, it would take on a different meaning.
Leave Min and Hashi out of this. If you decide you want to punish someone for
what happens to Angus’ mission, concentrate on me. I’m at least big enough to pay for my own mistakes.
The fact that Hashi and perhaps Min as well were probably as doomed as Warden Dios himself didn’t deflect him.
“Other objections? Other problems?” he asked bluntly.
Like a woman who knew that her moment had come, Min said, “Morn Hyland.”
The passion of her aura, the intensity of her emissions, was vivid. All her doubts and fears were focused in that one name.
Involuntarily Warden stiffened. Precisely because he valued his ED director and ached to spare her, he often found that he couldn’t be as gentle with her as he was with Godsen. Close to anger, he demanded, “What about her?”
The curse as well as the blessing of his position was that Min Donner trusted him too much to fear his anger. The fact that she challenged him so rarely was a mark of respect, not an indication of timidity.
“Like Godsen,” she said, as clear as a blade, “I don’t trust Taverner. I don’t care about the PR implications. I worry about betrayal. But now that I see how this operation is running, I understand why you wanted him. Thermopyle probably wouldn’t get into Billingate alone. And anybody else we sent with him wouldn’t be much of an improvement. Taverner may be a shitty choice, but he’s probably the best we could hope for.
“Morn Hyland is another matter. I don’t understand what you’re doing to her.” Min glanced at Frik as if giving him a chance to support her, then continued on her own. “For some reason, you refused to let Thermopyle be programmed to at least try to rescue her. I don’t understand that—and I may never understand it until you tell me why you let Succorso have her in the first place.
“I don’t care if she’s the price we were supposed to pay for Succorso’s help. That isn’t good enough. He’s accepted money before. For a chance to hurt a ‘competitor’ like Thermopyle, he would have accepted money again. In any case, he couldn’t have stopped us. If we’d ordered Com-Mine Security to take her after he got her away from Thermopyle, there’s nothing he could have done about it.
A Dark and Hungry God Arises Page 13
