by David Drake
“Hey, did you see Kardon having to hold his pants up?” another handler said. “Whoo-ee, I’d have liked to see when that happened!”
The carefully positioned lights flooded the lab and everyone in it with their radiance. Carron watched nervously as the crew wound its way between benches and free-standing equipment. For all their nonchalance, the men didn’t bang the capsule into anything. Platt peered from the doorway, scowl ing and rubbing his shoulder as if he’d been punched.
“What is this place, anyway?” a man asked querulously.
“Don’t move the mirrors out of alignment!” Carron warned. The crew was edging its way to the dais. It wasn’t clear that it would be possible to put the capsule back without moving one of the pentagonal black mirrors that ringed the location.
“Don’t have kittens!” the foreman snapped. He paused, judging the relative shapes and sizes. “All right, Hoch, let go now.”
The man at the base of the capsule with the foreman obediently stepped away. The foreman eased forward, ducking his shoulder. By keeping the device low, he managed to dip it under the narrowest point and then raise it to clear the dais.
“There!” he announced with justifiable pride. He lowered the ring base, and his men lifted together to set the capsule upright.
“We’re not done yet,” Carron said sharply.
He switched on a measuring device from the kit he’d brought with him from Pancahte. It projected a hologram of the capsule taken at the moment Lendell Doormann vanished from Telaria for the next seventy years and compared the recording with present reality.
“There, you see?” Carron said. “The orange points are out of synchrony. Turn it clockwise ten degrees and move it a centimeter closer to the wall.”
Two of the cargo handlers moved to obey. The foreman waved them back. He viewed the image, then spread his arms around the capsule and himself began the minute adjustments.
Carron watched his measurement device tensely. The areas of orange slipped into the cooler end of the spectrum. “That’s far enough!” he cried as the foreman’s boot scraped the capsule the necessary distance toward the wall. “But keep turning, another degree.”
The foreman’s face was set. His mouth was open, and he watched the holographic display out of the corner of his eyes. The display wavered into the violet range then back toward indigo. He released the last pressure and stepped away, breathing hard. The main image was violet again.
“There!” he said.
The door of the capsule showed red to orange on the display. It had been closed when Lendell Doormann vanished. The foreman put his hand on the curved panel to swing it shut.
“No!” Carron cried, grabbing the man’s arm. “No, don’t do that! This is fine, this is perfect the way it is.”
The foreman shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. He stepped out between two mirrors. “You know,” he added, “this is a spooky place.”
“It is?” said Carron in puzzlement. “I wouldn’t have said so.”
The cargo handlers were sauntering back toward the door. “No, I don’t guess you would,” one of them muttered loud enough to be heard.
Carron walked out of the laboratory behind the crew. The lights cut off automatically. Platt shut the door, avoiding the eyes of the visitors.
Carron paused and looked at the attendant. “I have the phone number of your station,” he said. “You or someone else will be present at all times, is that not so?”
“Yeah, it’s fucking so,” Platt muttered. “Unless somebody gets me up to dick around in the lab again, at least.”
“I may be calling soon,” Carron said. “You will regret it if you do not carry out to the letter any instructions I may give you.”
But the despicable little man would regret it even more if he did do as he was told. . . .
The boardroom of Doormann Trading Company was on the top level of the crystal spire in the center of the family estate. It was nearly an hour before the board readmitted Lucas to its presence. Ned had waited a further hour alone. He paced slowly around the broad walkway which served as an observation deck.
Two guards with submachine guns stood at the ornate bronze doors giving access to the boardroom. There were two more guards at the single elevator which opened onto the observation deck on the opposite side of the circuit. As a further security precaution, before entering the armored boardroom one had to walk all the way around it.
The two guards who’d come up with Lucas Doormann and Ned kept pace behind Ned now. They were bored, but not too bored to remain watchful.
The exterior of the spire was optically pure and had the same refractive index as Telaria’s atmosphere. Though the curved, fluted walls were at no point flat, they did not distort the view.
The view was breathtaking. The Doormann estate spread over hectares of rolling hills in every direction. Ned knew from his view out of the limousine that the surface in the frequent glades and bowers was as carefully manicured as that of the surrounding grassy areas.
Buildings in a mix of styles, mostly those of Terra’s classical and medieval eras, nestled in swales or sat on hillsides. None of the structures had more than two above-ground stories, though from the traffic in and out, some had extensive basements. The aggregate floorspace of the outbuildings probably totaled as much as that of the central spire, but the careful planners had succeeded in preserving the illusion of agrestic emptiness.
Machines and humans in drab uniforms worked like a stirred-up anthill to keep the grounds pristine. Ned noticed that when people in civilian clothes walked near or paused to view the formal gardens, maintenance personnel moved out of the area so as not to disturb them. Most of those who lived within the estate were the Doormanns’ servants and office staff, but even they had the status of minor nobility on Telaria.
One of the buildings on the grounds was the Doormann family chapel. Ned would learn where it was when he needed to; which would be very soon, unless his interview with Karel Doormann proceeded in an unexpectedly reasonable fashion.
The door to the boardroom opened with only the sigh of air and the faint trembling from the electromagnets which supported and moved the massive panel. Ned turned. Lucas Doormann walked out. “Master Slade,” he said, “the board is prepared to see you now.”
“Yes,” said Ned as he stepped forward. The entranceway was constructed on the model of an airlock. An iridium-sheathed panel closed the inner end whenever the main door was open. The designers had taken no chances with a guard going berserk and spraying the boardroom with his submachine gun.
The outer panel slid shut behind Ned and Lucas. Ned felt as if he were riding a monocycle at high speed across glare ice. At any moment he could lose his balance and go flying, and he had no control at all . . .
The inner door snicked upward with the speed of a microtome blade. It was time.
Eight men and three women faced Ned from around the oval central table. There was an empty place for Lucas, who remained at Ned’s side.
Karel Doormann was neither the oldest nor the most expensively dressed of the board members, but his dominance would have been obvious even had he not been seated at the head of the table. He watched Ned with the smile of a cat preparing to spring.
“Mesdames and sirs,” Ned said, taking off his commo helmet. His voice was clear and cool. He spoke as the peer of any of these folk. “I am here to tell you of a necessary deception. Lissea Doormann is alive on Dell, awaiting the outcome of this meeting.”
Karel Doormann’s smile broadened. His son made a startled sound. A heavyset man leaned close to the woman beside him to whisper, but both of them kept their eyes on Ned.
“I say ‘necessary,’” Ned continued, “because Lissea and yourselves have the same basic desire: to avoid trouble. Had she returned with the Swift, an underling might have taken actions that were not in the best interests of Doormann Trading, and which might have prejudiced chances of a beneficial outcome.”
“Go on, Master Slade,” Karel Do
ormann said. There was a catch in his voice between words, like the sound of a whisk on stone. “Explain what you consider a beneficial outcome.”
“Lissea,” Ned said, “Mistress Doormann. Has completed a task that we all know was thought to be impossible. The capsule which she has returned to Telaria has the potential of revolutionizing star travel—and with it the profits of Doormann Trading.”
The board members were silent, facing Ned like a pack of dogs about to move in. The table was black and shiny and slightly distorted on top. It had been made from a single slab of volcanic glass—useless as a working surface, but richly evocative of the power of the men and women who sat around it.
“I understand business, mesdames and sirs,” Ned said. “I understand politics. I don’t ask you to grant Lissea the place she demands out of justice or fairness or any of those other things which are quite properly excluded by the walls of this room.”
Lucas Doormann backed a step away. His father, still smiling, nodded to Ned. “Go on,” he said.
“What I put to you is this,” Ned continued. “Lissea Doormann has displayed the resourcefulness that will make her an invaluable member of this board, and at some future point a worthy leader of it.”
He waited, looking down the table at the board members.
“At some future point,” Karel Doormann repeated. “I believe our relative’s demand was for immediate chairmanship.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Ned nodded. “I said I understood politics,” he said. “I can’t sell what I wouldn’t buy, Master Doormann. In your place, I certainly wouldn’t buy that.”
Karel nodded approvingly. “You know, young man,” he said, “there could be a place for you in this organization if you cared to accept one. However.”
To this point, the president’s tone had been playful, cruelly humorous. Now it became as hard and dry as a windblown steppe.
“First,” he said, “this board has no confidence in the willingness of your principal to accept the terms you’re offering on her behalf. Your Lissea made it clear from the beginning that she wants everything. Her ability to control a band of murderous cutthroats does nothing to dispel our concerns about her future behavior.”
Some of the board members glanced at Karel in concern. The president was obviously no more interested in their opinions than he was in the opinions of the obsidian table.
“Second and, I’m afraid, finally, Master Slade,” Karel continued, “we expected some such trick as this. As soon as I learned the Swift had arrived via Dell, I sent—this board sent—a shipload of company security personnel to that planet. They will . . .”
He shrugged, then resumed, “I hate to say this, sir, but your public assertion that Lissea was dead was a bit of good fortune. It will help greatly to avoid future difficulties.”
“Father!” Lucas Doormann cried. He started around the table. “Father, you can’t think of this, of murder!”
Karel pointed a warning finger. “Lucas,” he said, “stop where you are. Otherwise I’ll face the embarrassment of seeing the automatic restraint system act on my offspring.”
Father and son glared at one another. Lucas turned and covered his face in his hands.
Karel looked at Ned and raised an eyebrow in prompting.
“Yes,” said Ned. “Master Doormann, I very much regret this.”
He reverted to at-ease posture with his hands behind him and went on. “Now, sir, what does the board intend for the rest of the crew and myself?”
“Your due,” Karel said calmly. “You’ve accomplished a difficult task for Doormann Trading. You’ll be paid according to your contracts, and there’ll be an added bonus for success.”
Karel pursed his lips as he chose his next words. “I can’t imagine that many of your fellows would care to remain on Telaria, nor will they be permitted to do so. Their passage will be paid to their planets of residence and, if they claim no residence, to their planets of origin. Deported, if you will, but certainly not wronged.”
He paused. “I will make an exception for you, Master Slade, if you choose.”
“No,” Ned replied curtly. Braced as he was, his eyes were focused on the wall above the president’s head. “I do not so choose.”
“I thought as much,” Karel said, “though you would have been welcome.”
The dry chill returned to his voice. “Let me make the matter very clear to you, Master Slade. This is a Telarian problem. We have no desire to offend you or the other members of your company, but you will not interfere in our affairs.”
He smiled again. “I know you’re intelligent enough to realize that without Lissea’s presence as a rallying point, there is no possibility of gathering a coalition to redress what—”
He paused
“—for the sake of argument we may describe as the ‘wrong’ done her. Some of your fellows may not be as sophisticated. I trust that you’ll be able to convince them not to . . . do themselves harm.”
Ned nodded. “I’ll do what I can,” he said tonelessly. He raised his commo helmet and settled it back on his head. “I believe we’ve said everything that needs to be said,” he went on. “With your leave, I’ll return to the Swift and gather my personal belongings.”
“As you choose,” said Karel, gesturing toward the doorway behind Ned.
“Lucas,” Ned said, “I would appreciate a few words with you outside.”
“Did you think I’d stay here?” Lucas snarled. He strode into the anteroom ahead of the mercenary. The stroke of the inner panel closing cut off sight of his father’s frown.
“I can’t believe this!” Lucas said as the main door opened.
“I can,” Ned said. For my sins, I can.
The commo helmet was set to the channel linking it with the Swift, and locked against all other parties. As Ned stepped out of the shielded boardroom, he faced south and broke squelch twice.
The alarm clanged through the Swift’s internal PA system.
Carron Del Vore was straightening the bunks on one side of the aisle. Unlike playing solitaire or staring at the ceiling, it gave him the illusion of accomplishment. He’d worked his way to the third pair, pulling the sheets tight and arranging the jumble of gear and tattered clothing in neat piles at the foot and head respectively. He jumped as if he’d been stabbed in the kidneys.
Tadziki sat at the backup navigational console, facing aft. He was as still as a leopard in ambush. Occasionally in the past twenty minutes he’d blinked his eyes; when the alarm sounded, he blinked them again.
“It’s time, then,” he said to Carron. “Make the call.”
“I think . . .” Carron said. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was dry also. “. . . that we ought to wait a, a few minutes.”
“No,” said Tadziki as he rose to his feet. “We shouldn’t. You can either use the console, or the handset—”
He indicated the unit flexed to his console. Its keypad permitted handier access to some planetary communications nets than the voice-driven AIs built into commo helmets did.
“—or a helmet, if you’d be comfortable with that. But it has to be done at once. Preset five.”
“Yes, I know it’s preset five,” Carron said. He flipped up the handset’s cover, held the unit to his ear to be sure of the connection, and pressed System/Five.
The Swift’s main hatch was open. Sounds of the spaceport rumbled through. At the graving dock nearby, polishing heads howled and paused, then howled again as they cleaned the hull of a freighter.
“I don’t like having to do this,” Carron said to Tadziki as circuits clicked in his ear. “I know it was my idea. But I don’t like it.”
“We aren’t required to like it,” the adjutant said, looking through the Pancahtan and into his own past life. “People depend on us, so we’ll do our jobs. Lissea depends on us.”
“I know . . .” Carron said.
The paired chimes of the ringing signal rattled silent. “Yeah?” a voice croaked. “Two-two-
one, ah . . . Fuck. Two-two-one-four.”
“Platt,” Carron said imperiously, “this is Prince Carron Del Vore. You are to go into the laboratory at once and close the door of the device we brought in this afternoon.”
“What?” the attendant said. “What?”
“Close the door of the device so that it latches, but don’t slam it,” Carron said. “Otherwise the atmosphere will degrade the interior and cause irreparable harm. And don’t touch the mirrors surrounding the installation.”
“Look, this isn’t my job!” Platt cried. “I’m not even supposed to go into the lab—I’m just here to watch the door!”
“Platt,” Carron said, as implacable as a priest of the Inquisition, “I will arrive in a few minutes with mercenaries from the Pancahte Expedition. If you have not carried out my instructions to the letter, they will kill you. Hunt you down and kill you, if necessary. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand,” the attendant whined. “Look, I’m doing it, I’m doing it right now. But I shouldn’t have to, you see?”
Platt broke the connection.
Carron sighed and closed the handset. “The man’s scum,” he said to Tadziki. “But there must be thousands of people in the building now. We don’t have anything so large on Pancahte. So tall, at least. Because of the earthquakes.”
Tadziki eased past the younger man and stood in the hatch, looking outward.
“What happens now?” Carron asked. He hadn’t been part of the tactical planning from this point on.
“We wait,” Tadziki said. “I wait, at least. You might want to get out of the way, hide somewhere in Landfall City. I can arrange credit for you if you don’t have any of your own.”
Carron stood beside the adjutant. An articulated three-section roadtrain clanked slowly by on steel treads, carrying heavy cargo. Tadziki was looking beyond it, and beyond anything visible.
“You think there’s going to be trouble here, then?” Carron asked.
“There’s going to be a great deal of confusion,” Tadziki said. “If the state organization is good enough, there will certainly be police sent to arrest everyone aboard the Swift. I don’t expect that. There’s a far greater chance of rioters attacking, however.”
