“So… you’re telling me that you’re mixed up in all this?” He felt terminally confused.
“Certainly not,” Zelda replied, a little offended. “I value my safety far too highly to get involved with drug running and piracy. I know about it, though I don’t have any evidence that would stand up in court. And even if I did, if you think I would step up to being a witness in any case against the Landorn cartel, trusting my life to one of those dreary witness protection programmes, you clearly do not know me as well as you think you do.”
“I don’t feel I know you at all,” Chok admitted, feeling quite dizzy again with sheer bewilderment. “How can you say you’re not involved when you’re obviously up to your neck in it with intelligence agencies?”
“There is a difference between knowing what’s going on and being involved in it,” she told him patiently. “I have to know what’s going on, in order to protect myself. I refuse, however, to become involved, either in assisting them or in making any statements or giving evidence against them. We are, of course, talking privately here. No witnesses, no recordings.” She glanced at his wristcom with a slight smile, “One of the features of the Boudoir is a detector which sounds an alert to any recording devices being used, camera or audio. This is a space in which my VIP guests can relax, secure in the knowledge that no paparazzi can be secretly filming them. Nothing said here between us would be accepted as evidence in court, and if you attempt to make any statement about what I’ve said here I will deny it absolutely. Do drink your coffee, darling.”
Chok glared at her.
“How can you just…” he started, then broke off, composing himself with an effort. “You say you don’t have any evidence,” he said. “So what grounds do you have to say that drug running and piracy is going on, here? Is that something that the LIA or Fleet Intelligence has told you?”
“No, my sweet,” she said, “that’s been common knowledge around the station for years. What’s new, though, is the revelation of the sheer scale of the thing. Everyone knew that drugs were coming through and everyone knows about the Pallamar, of course. Just about everyone does business with Leo Arad, buying cindar and tet from him, too.
“Up until the Might of Teranor seizure, though, I truly believed, myself, that the serious drug running was at the level of a crate or two here and there, only involving the lowest kind of dirty ship. When they started talking about container loads being shipped here to be broken up and redistributed as crates, I couldn’t see how that would even be possible. Not until it was discovered that Leo has been selling it to unsuspecting spacers as cindar or tet. I mean, who’d have thought? He seems such a nice, jolly sort of man. Not at all like the kind of menacing jewel-dripping thug drug traffickers are in the movies.”
“But that’s just what the Fourth is saying,” Chok felt a mingled surge of relief and irritation, feeling that this was just more Senate propaganda coming from another source. “You don’t actually know that he’s doing that, do you? Where’s the evidence?”
Zelda surveyed him with an understanding that verged on pity.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” she said. “I know you don’t want to believe it. But I have to ask you, Chocky, do you know what social closure is?”
Chok blinked at her again, wondering what the heck she was on about now.
“Er…?”
“It’s what you get,” Zelda told him, “when you live in a restricted, isolated environment – very well known and common on starships and deep space stations. The rest of the galaxy just…” she gestured, dreamily, “fades away, becomes remote and unimportant. Events in your own little bubble become magnified, feelings intensify and your judgement is distorted. That’s why ISiS Corps has a policy of all staff on deep space stations having at least one month’s planet-leave every three years, yes?”
“Well, yes,” Chok said, a little impatiently. “But what’s that got to do with…?”
“Darling, when was the last time you left this station?” Zelda asked.
Chok was silenced.
“It was nine years ago,” Zelda informed him, helpfully, “when you got back from the interviews to take up the post of executive director. You have not left the station since, other than for occasional dinners on liners. You are showing all the classic signs of social closure, my sweet. Karadon is not just your world. It has become your whole universe. Nothing that happens outside it even seems real, let alone important. I have suggested to you, more than once, that you really ought to take a holiday, go home and visit your family or go for a trip somewhere. You’ve told me that you can’t possibly, that you’re needed here, and that you wouldn’t want to go anyway because you have everything that you could possibly want, right here.
“Now that bubble is bursting, you can’t cope. You’re not listening to people when they’re telling you things. You’re just flatly refusing to believe them. You would rather believe that the League Senate, I mean, the Senate, has come up with this conspiracy involving the LIA and the Fleet planting drugs and framing people on the station so that they can seize corporate assets. Seriously, my darling, seriously, take a deep breath and get a grip on reality. The Senate certainly does want to sequester ISiS Corps stations to bring them under governmental jurisdiction – which is not the same thing at all as seizing them – but the reason they’re being pushed into that is because tons of drugs are being processed through this station, and tons of stolen cargoes, too, and they are not getting any kind of support from ISiS Corps, from you, in dealing with that. You’re just denying it’s even happening. Head Office is no more clued up. They’re off in their own little bubble on Flancer, relying on the information you send them, or at least they were until they sent Bella Torres here to find out what was going on.
“I’m so sorry, darling. I know, it’s a cruel thing to have to face, but the reason this station is in the mess it is because you just won’t even accept there is a problem. Your absolute conviction that it is impossible for drugs to be trafficked on this station has enabled it to happen. I know how that feels, I feel dreadful myself at not having realised the scale of what was going on. But it’s true, darling. There is a drugs gang operating here, they are moving tons of drugs through Karadon every year, and they are, believe me, extremely dangerous. There are at least twenty people on this station involved in it, some of them working directly for the Landorn cartel. And the man at the back of it all is, I’m sorry, Durb Jorgensen.”
She held up a hand to still his immediate protest and repeated demand for evidence.
“He offered me fifty thousand dollars, cash,” she told him, “three months ago, to find out who the LIA agents on this station are and tell him. Five days ago he offered me twice that if I could give him any information on who had told the Fourth about the powdered almond shipment. You understand how much trust I am putting in you, here, by telling you this? I am safe, for now, because everyone believes that they can trust me. Even our meeting like this will arouse suspicion. If he finds out that I have told you that, or that I’ve withheld the identity of intelligence agents from him, I am liable to have a very nasty accident. Understand this, Chokky, darling. You are in way over your head. If I didn’t like you as much as I do, I wouldn’t be talking to you at all. I just don’t want to be standing by your hospital bed, or at your funeral, feeling guilty because I didn’t warn you. So be warned, darling. These are very dangerous people. Remember Tully McVay?”
“Uh?” Having a conversation with Zelda, Chok thought, was rather like dancing with someone who kept spinning you off to another part of the dance floor. “What the…?”
Then he remembered. Tully McVay, of course. There had been a few deaths on the station during Chok’s time there. Tully McVay’s had been a tragic accident. He’d been working in the warehouse with containers being shunted about. He had apparently ignored the warning lights on a bay where a container was being lowered, trying to take a short-cut across it. He was, Durb Jorgensen had said, rather prone to pushing his l
uck that way.
“But what are you saying?” Chok asked. “You can’t possibly be saying that you think he was murdered!”
“Darling, he switched a crate of DPC for tet and tried to sell the DPC himself,” Zelda told him. “Durb Jorgensen dropped a container on him. I can’t prove it, but I’m as sure of that as I can be. And he’s not the only one. Remember Jaz Michell?”
Chok gaped at her. Jaz Michell was the employee the station had agreed to extradite on evidence that he was involved in drugs that had been seized at Canelon. When they’d gone to tell him that the decision had been made to extradite him they’d discovered that he had already left the station on a freighter.
“When he was being extradited, he said that if he went down he would not go alone,” Zelda said. “Silly man. They took him on the Pallamar and he’s never been seen again. Of course, you may like to believe that they took him somewhere safe and set him up with a new identity and that he’s living happily somewhere with a mortgage, a wife, two point six children and a dog. The consensus of opinion, however, is that they threw him out of an airlock. These are not people you mess with, Chokky darling, they’re really not.”
Chok shook his head. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Come on, Durb? Killing people! It’s ridiculous! And if you really think it’s that dangerous, why are you still here?”
Zelda smiled.
“Trust me on this,” she said, “if I get so much as a funny look from any of those people, I’ll be off this station in a heartbeat. Not that that would help if they were really coming after you. The Landorn cartel has long arms and no concept of just letting things go. My best protection is to stay here, maintaining good relationships with everyone and not getting involved. But you, darling…” she shook her head. “You’ve been very useful to them. You have very high credibility with head office, the media and the public, or at least you did, reassuring everyone that there was no truth to these stories. They must know, though, that once you do realise what’s going on here, you will turn on them, and that could be… well, just ask yourself, darling. If you die or you’re in hospital beaten to a pulp, who takes over in charge of the station?”
The name Durb Jorgensen arose in Chok’s mind before he could stop it. He got to his feet, too agitated to stay still.
“This is insane!” he exclaimed. “This is like some sick fantasy! It can’t possibly be true!” He pointed at her. “Who are you working for?” he demanded. “The Senate? The Fourth?”
He expected her to deny it, to say that she wasn’t working for anyone, but instead she just gave him an amused look.
“None of the above, darling,” she said. “And nobody you know.”
That stopped him in his tracks, as realisation clarified slowly.
“The Shareholder?”
The thought had actually occurred to him before, fleetingly, over the three years he’d known Zelda. He’d joked sometimes that she was the uncrowned Queen of Karadon. Many VIPs passed through the station, system presidents, movie stars, all manner of important people. If Zelda wasn’t on first name terms with them when they arrived, she would be before they left. Chok had wondered sometimes whether The Shareholder might have sent her here to act as hostess on the station, or even perhaps to keep him or her informed about what was going on there. He’d always dismissed the thought as rather embarrassing conspiracy-theory, but now, a whole lot of little things lined up and suddenly made sense.
“Let’s just say an interested party, darling,” said Zelda. “And that interested party, I assure you, would certainly not want you shot, stabbed, beaten senseless, splatted with a container or blasted out of an airlock, so I am acting as much on their behalf, here, as my own, in warning you. I know you don’t want to hear this, you don’t want to believe it. You’re tired and upset and everything is just too confusing. But darling, you have to understand that the allegations being made against Durb Jorgensen and Leo Arad are true. The Fourth has them cornered, trapped. The situation is becoming increasingly volatile. If anyone cracks and even looks as if they’re going to go to the Fourth offering evidence against the rest, I wouldn’t give two cents for them making it off the station. If you look like you’re turning on them, you too are at risk. You have to take quick, decisive action. Arrest them, hold them, and start talking to the Fourth. Only don’t involve Hale Ardant because he’s in with them.” Hale Ardant was the station’s security chief.
Chok’s expression changed from one of bewildered distress to one of dark suspicion the moment that Zelda told him he should start talking to the Fourth.
“I am not,” he declared, “going to listen to any more of this claptrap! What kind of idiot do you think I am, to fall for this Fourth’s propaganda!” He flung up a hand as she tried to speak, “No!” he told her. “I don’t know who you work for or how much you’re being paid to spin me this guff but that is exactly what it is, guff! Durb Jorgensen dropping a container on someone? You’re the one who needs to get a grip on reality! Just…” he walked away, still holding his hand out to her in a barring gesture, “leave me alone!” Then as he headed for the door, he flung a parting shot over his shoulder, “And you can get off this station as soon as you like!”
When he’d gone, Zelda poured herself another miniature cup of coffee and ate a semolina ball with a sorrowful expression.
Chapter Fifteen
“Captain.” Alex shook hands with the Queen of Cartasay’s captain, a distinguished-looking woman in a white uniform overloaded with gold and glittery stuff. Any hope he might have had of just being allowed to go aboard the liner quietly and have a private lunch with his friend had been futile, of course. Captain Giscard had insisted on him having cocktails with her and “a few select guests”. Quill had called to warn him, too, to expect a formal reception at the airlock. The formal reception involved the captain and several officers who were standing in line to greet him. It also involved a hideously embarrassing fanfare and an official holographer taking pictures.
Alex was looking pretty stunning, it had to be said. Even if he’d been coming aboard privately for lunch he would probably have changed into the rather smarter uniform worn groundside and for things like meetings off the ship. It had been put to him, however, that it would be very much appreciated if he could wear dress uniform for cocktails with the captain.
Alex had sighed a little, but obliged. Way back on Chartsey, in the middle of everything else he’d been dealing with, the Senate’s Fleet Sub-Committee had decided that the Fourth should have their own uniform. Dix Harangay had given Alex a say in that. They’d discussed it briefly in the First Lord’s office. Alex had agreed at once that they should have just the same kit as the regular Fleet but in a different colour. He’d chosen grey because no other service used it, it was smart, and he didn’t want to get stuck with something like the horrible garish mustard colour that the Third Irregulars had to wear. When Dix had asked about dress uniform, traditionally a darker colour than ordinary Fleet blues, Alex had said he didn’t mind, he’d leave it to him. Dix, therefore, had written “black” on the form. Neither of them had thought any more of it till the order was delivered.
The Fourth, it was generally agreed, had the best dress rig going. It was hard not to look stylish in a midnight black tunic with an upright collar, matching narrow pants and high gloss boots. Silver insignia gleamed. Alex was also wearing a gold signet ring. Jewellery was not normally allowed with dress rig but the Fleet made one exception to that. The top cadet every year was presented with a ring which they were then required to wear as an honour with their dress rig for the rest of their Fleet careers. Alex disliked wearing his so much that he’d “lost” more than ten of them so far. Buzz, however, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of replacements. He’d turned up with one just as Alex had been about to leave, smiling innocently as he presented it to the skipper. It felt heavy and awkward on his finger, and he saw the Captain look at it, too, as they shook hands. She made no comment, however, but presented her of
ficers to him. Quill was one of them, grinning mischievously as they were officially introduced.
“Very fetching,” he said, indicating Alex’s uniform. Alex just looked back at him, showing no emotion but allowing his gaze to flick up and down Quill’s own bright white uniform with a glittery star on the breast and glitter-gold lapels. Quill gave a crack of laughter at that, knowing very well what his friend was thinking.
He chortled wickedly, too, as Alex was shown ceremoniously to the Captain’s reception room where the “few select guests” were waiting. There were a couple of hundred of them. It was evidently rated a white tie event even though it was only in the middle of the day, and everyone was in evening wear. White-jacketed stewards were gliding about with silver trays. A string quartet was playing light classical music in the background. As the Captain led him in, everyone turned to stare. Then about half of them started to applaud while the rest glared.
Alex would rather have led a boarding operation onto a rat-infested sewage barge than walk into that room. Mentally cursing Buzz for talking him into this, he glanced once at the sniggering Quill and then walked on with the captain. He was trying to put a pleasant social expression on his face without actually smiling. Forcing smiles when every instinct in him was compelling an unemotional expression just did not work well. The smile might twist his mouth but it did not touch his eyes. When he’d attempted to force a smile addressing a room full of anti-Fourth activists they’d rioted and thrown stuff at him.
He had, however, discovered that he could appear at least reasonably cordial if he just tried to look really interested in the people he was talking to. This was hard to sustain when they were boring the pants off him. He stayed alert, though, by keeping score in a private game. He was tallying up how many of them gushed at him with variations on “isn’t it awful!”, with “it” being the drug trafficking, and the various other reactions.
Karadon (Fourth Fleet Irregulars) Page 22
