“More birds?” Calla asked, also looking up. “The moon?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve seen this behavior before.”
“What?”
“Shh. Let me look.” He saw it only after minutes of intense concentration, what would appear to the untrained eye to be a star in retrograde. A new star. One that had not been there last night, nor any night before. “There,” he said, pointing to it for Calla. “Company.”
All of a sudden, the danae took flight, the whistle of their many wings drowning out the ocean sounds until they cleared the beach. The nighttime air was suddenly sweet smelling, as if a thousand flowers had bloomed at once.
“Dear Timekeeper!” Calla said. “Do you suppose they actually notice a new light in the sky among the thousands and thousands?”
“You bet they do,” Jason said. “Every supply ship, every freetrader.” He stepped down from the rock and held her arm tightly to help her. “You still want to tell me there’s no ship hiding out behind the moon?”
“What ship?” she said, flat, professional.
“Yeah, right. What ship. Well, I guess there’s still one secret on Mutare, and where there’s one there’s a nest of them. Let’s get back and get ready for company.”
“They would have called us if a ship were approaching,” she said tapping her comm.
“Not if they don’t know they’re coming. Our equipment is limited, Commander.”
“Yes, of course, but they can tighten up enough to call us.”
“Can, but whether they would or not depends on who they are, doesn’t it?”
She nodded. “Let’s get back.”
Chapter 11
Mahdi gave them less than an hour’s notice to prepare for his arrival on the surface of Mutare. Then he kept them waiting at the shuttle landing while he arranged a purple toga over his khakis and stellerator until he was satisfied that the draping looked elegant and the golden suns on his collar and shoulders were prominently displayed. When he was ready, he took a look out the portal. There were a dozen rangers standing at parade rest and a few officers, some wearing ranger-green sashes and others Praetorian crimson. Calla was among them. Beside the officers were two civilians, both wearing blue togas over simple white suits, both elderly to judge by their white hair.
“That looks like Praetor D’Omaha,” Mahdi said with a sudden frown.
“You seem surprised, sir,” Roma said. “Weren’t you expecting him to be here?”
“I told Frennz to make certain the entire staff was experienced in elixir production procedures so that nothing would go wrong, but I didn’t expect him to assign a retired decemvir.”
“There were limits to how much he could control,” Roma said. “Is that his wife beside him?”
“If it is, she’s aged,” Mahdi commented. He remembered Stairnon as a lovely brown-haired woman who had a natural presence for the role of a decemvir’s wife. “He used to be very devoted to her.”
“I would say that he still is,” Roma said.
Mahdi noted the protective arm around Stairnon, a gesture almost unheard of in a group gathered to greet the Imperator General of the Legions. That she was here at all suggested D’Omaha still cared for her a great deal. He could have come to Mutare unaccompanied.
“Look who’s wearing the gold,” Roma said. “Old Antiqua. Timekeeper! I thought she’d died at Aquae Solis or something.”
So had Mahdi. He knew the exact time of the Aquae Solis tragedy, for learning of it had spoiled his appetite. For days he could think of almost nothing except that the treasures of Aquae Solis were lost to him before he’d ever had a chance to own them. Calla’s reassignment to Mutare must have been made immediately after the fire.
Mahdi stepped away from the portal. His officers looked at him expectantly. “Let’s go meet the rest of them,” he said, and led them to the open hatch where a ramp was already in place. Roma and the others waited until he stepped off the ramp bottom before they came out.
“General,” Calla said, saluting with a snap that belied her years. Beside her was Anwar Jason D’Estelle, his nomenclator told him, the ranger-governor. He was dark-haired and almost as tall as Mahdi himself, and there was something familiar about him. Mahdi listened carefully to his nomenclator as he casually returned the man’s salute. The ranger-governor’s military career was uneventful, all downtime service, except for cadet years in the Praetorian guard. He had been attached to Mahdi’s own cohort, and Mahdi smiled, not really remembering him in detail but glad to know why the man looked familiar.
“You’ve been down the time spiral for quite a while,” he said to him amiably.
“Yes, sir.”
“A lot of hunting experience with all this outback-world exposure, I imagine,” Mahdi said, already knowing from his nomenclator that the man was highly rated for his ability to fill specimen quotas, no matter how large and fierce the quarry. “It’s probably served you well here on Mutare.”
“I haven’t hunted on Mutare, sir,” the ranger-governor said, his voice sounding carefully respectful.
“Why not?” Mahdi asked bluntly. The riches that crystal could bring were too great for a common man to resist.
“My charter is to survey and map the planet, and to collect data on cosmic radiation. More recently, my cohort has been diverted from the original tasks to construct facilities and perform support duty for Commander Calla’s group.”
“I see,” Mahdi said abstractedly, his eyes already on the next officer in the greeting line, for he had already dismissed the ranger-governor from his mind as being either too dedicated to duty or at the extreme limit of his ability to handle his assignment. Perfection Chief Marmion Andres Clavia, a man with a perfect urban body, like Mahdi’s own, already seemed more interesting. Mahdi’s nomenclator had already told him the man preferred his praenomen and that he had a nickname, The Peddler, but left him wondering how he’d earned the name. “Chief Marmion,” he said warmly.
“General!” He snapped to attention.
“At ease,” Mahdi said, “and tell me if I’ll find the processing plant absolutely perfect.”
“Yes, sir. The quality of the product is perfect. I would be proud to demonstrate to you how I know that it is.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Mahdi said. “Is the product so perfect that you, too, have had no time for hunting?”
“I’ve given up sleeping, sir,” he said with hard simplicity, “and manage both.”
Mahdi nodded approvingly. “The inspection comes first, but afterwards . . .”
“It will be my pleasure, sir.”
Mahdi glanced at the other officers, clamped down on his nomenclator. They weren’t of sufficient rank to bother meeting. He stepped past them to Praetor D’Omaha and Stairnon. He shook hands with D’Omaha and kissed Stairnon’s hand. “It’s so good to see you,” he said.
“It has been years,” Stairnon said, “more than I care to remember. But you are looking very well, Mahdi.”
“It’s the downtime travel that my office requires of me,” Mahdi said, calmly.
“Surely the imperator general does not go to downtime worlds,” Stairnon said, her eyes intent and kind.
“I’m here on Mutare, am I not?”
“Three months . . . here and there. It must add up, for you simply haven’t changed.” She smiled, and it was not the youthful smile Mahdi remembered.
“Your presence here is reassuring,” Calla said behind him, quietly. “Things must be quiet back in the Hub.”
“If you’re referring to the Cassells strike force, it’s confined to Dvalerth and Macow far-orbit.”
“Macow? How did Macow become involved?”
“Cassells chased a Dvalerthian squadron into Macowan space. The Macowans took offense.”
“Then it’s already escalating,” Calla said, gravely. “Escalating?” Mahdi shrugged indifferently. “Interplanetary power measurement by peaceful means has failed. These local wars will continue until the Decemvirate makes
a recommendation to the council and council makes its decision on how to distribute elixir.”
“That process could take years,” Praetor D’Omaha said, shaking his head. “Meanwhile power will shuffle as various factors change the tide, but there’s nothing big enough to do it decisively until the Decemvirate steps in.”
“Then,” Mahdi said, “the legions will be the deciding factor, and peace will break out because the balance of power will have been decided.”
“It’s not that simple,” Calla said. “The old worlds perceive internal disunity among the young worlds, which the allied Cassells strike force belies. And the young worlds have misjudged the old worlds’ military strength and their willingness to apply it in the theater of war, as witnessed by the Macowans. The ideology is far apart. A series of wars on the local level can interlock and be fought simultaneously.”
“General war?” Mahdi pretended to be surprised. “General wars are always long wars. No one could risk that. Too many worlds have first-hand knowledge of the realities and sufferings of war, even though only on a local level.” He paused impressively and said seriously, “The Decemvirate would not have sent me here if they thought I might be needed back in the Hub.”
Calla didn’t consider his remark for even a second. “The Decemvirate would not have sent either of us here if they really believed peace will break out, not war. Had they been certain, there would be no need for us.”
Mahdi fell silent, suddenly uneasy in her presence. He had always disliked her, mainly, he had thought, because she was so ugly. Too short. Her thick body seemed precariously perched on ridiculously skinny legs. Scarred legs, he remembered from the public baths they had shared. Her breasts had swayed like old socks. Her eyes would have been perfect on a cow. There was enough about her to fill anyone with dislike and discomfort, but he finally realized it was a quality of implacability about her that set him on edge. It was like looking in a mirror.
“My time is limited, more limited than I had realized, if I’m to believe Calla,” he said, addressing Praetor D’Omaha. “Let’s get on with the inspection.”
“This way,” D’Omaha said, tightening his grip on his wife to hold her back while permitting Mahdi to step off first onto a primitive gravel path. Calla fell in beside him. The officers trailed behind.
Mahdi was pleased with the depth of the cavern that housed the facility. It was, without question, the most secure elixir plant in the known worlds, one easily defended, too. Calla was leading him to the production area, assuming that was what interested him most. But he noticed the hydroponics were adequate for sustaining the workers for months if they were cut off from the Hub, and that security was, surprisingly, not relaxed on this backworld.
She took him and the rest into the decontamination chamber as far as the transparent doors to the production area. “Would you like to go inside?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said impatiently. “I haven’t traveled three months to look through a damn door.”
“Your officers will have to wait here,” she said. “It’s off limits to anyone who hasn’t need. No exceptions. The risk of contamination is too great.”
“I’m aware of that, Commander.” He gestured to his officers, two of whom helped him take off his toga and stellerator and put on special coveralls over his khakis. When he reached for the airlock-door switch, he was surprised to see Marmion beside him, not Calla. A fine mist of adhesive that would keep securely in place any moveable particulate they might shed inside coated them before the second door opened. They stepped into an odorless, dry world where the only sound was of air rushing through filters. It was a white noise, blanketing even the sound of their footsteps as they walked alongside bays of acid baths where tough protein was washed off seeds that came from spawning tanks. Workers and technicians, wearing white from head to toe, tended the baths.
Marmion led him to the other end of the cavern where the process began. First the diffusion machines where the starter seeds were treated before being dumped into the spawning tanks. Nutrient tanks that fed the growth until the seeds branched and doubled, and then doubled again, and then were harvested before the oldest seeds in the tank could bloom and destroy the newer seeds. Optical inspection stations where seeds were separated into starter, first, and second generations. Starter, first, and half the second generation would be processed into elixir, the other half of the second generation would be stored until used as starter seed. If just one of the original starter seeds were not sorted out from the second generation destined to become the next batch of starter seed, it would bloom in the spawning tank and destroy the entire batch. The seeds were like snowflakes, no two of any generation looked quite alike. The jelly beans controlling the optical scanners were programmed to remember the shapes of second generation starter seeds and careful records were kept so that each group could be scanned and recognized.
The acid bath process was only slightly less dicey. Each bath had to wear down the protein case around the heart of the seed until it was a single molecule shell. Any more and the precious elixir base was dissolved uselessly in the acid, any less and the protein gave off antigens that contaminated the elixir during final processing. Filters, microscopic droplets rolling down pipettes to fill sterile vials with yellow fluid. Counters everywhere. Every drop accounted for. Marmion looked very smug.
Mahdi looked at the balances that the jelly beans displayed on the flatscreen at the end of the process. Losses here on Mutare were less than anywhere else. No wonder Marmion looked smug . . . and, by the number of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, like he was aging. He wasn’t even stealing any of the elixir for himself. Mahdi wondered, if he were to give Marmion a legal first dose of elixir, would the Chief of Perfection Engineers gladly call him emperor to get the second?
“We have no baths here,” Calla said when they returned to the airlock, “so we’ll take you to rooms where you can wash off that adhesive. Then . . .”
“Later. Right now I want my engineers to examine your traceability for second generation starter seed. I assume you have a staff room we can use for that purpose?”
“Right across the hall, General,” Calla said, her voice as expressionless as her face.
She was cool, all right, Mahdi thought, but then she would probably have done a detailed inspection herself if their positions were reversed. And the perfection engineer wasn’t batting an eye either. Only Praetor D’Omaha registered any surprise, but even he recovered quickly and was smiling faintly, his blue eyes astonishingly vivid. The records must be perfect, Mahdi decided.
“I’ll need your inventory records, too,” Mahdi said, “for finished product.”
Calla nodded. “Praetor D’Omaha can probably give you a final count right now.”
Mahdi looked at him expectantly, and D’Omaha said, “Two thousand and three vials.”
“Two — and you’ve only been operating two months?” Mahdi was impressed. It was twice what he expected.
“Production has been excellent. No personnel problems thanks to Ranger-Governor D’Estelle. He keeps everyone well fed and busy.”
Mahdi glanced at D’Estelle. His face revealed nothing. A working dog, Mahdi decided, no ambition. Useful type, though.
“You’ll have to explain to me,” Mahdi said, turning to D’Omaha, “how production here has managed to exceed probability.” He took off the sticky white suit and allowed his officers to help him with the toga. Then he started for the door, Calla falling in beside him. “Marmion first,” he said curtly to Calla. “Be certain he has all his records. I’ll call for D’Omaha when I’m ready. Please stand by in case I need you.”
Calla dropped back as he entered the staff room, her officers with her, leaving him with his. As soon as the door closed, he said to them, “Why’s he called The Peddler? Did anyone find out?”
“Privately owned entrepreneurships on Stokensburr and Mercury Novus,” Roma answered quickly. “They’re run for him by his sons and daughters. He supplies exoti
c goods that he picks up on his military travels. Apparently strictly legal.”
“I doubt that,” Mahdi said. “No one known as ‘The Peddler’ could possibly have a totally unblemished past. Check all his export licenses, then let me know. Any other candidates? I would really like to have one of these people bought and paid for before I leave, and the whole thing done quickly, so I can get on with the hunt. It really shouldn’t be too difficult with all of you working on pinpointing the one.”
“I would take the job myself if I could,” Roma said. “It’s completely without risk.”
Mahdi smiled. He believed it was, too, but there was always an element of doubt. “I want my mole,” he said, “just in case we need someone to open the doors when we come back.”
“They’ll open them for you themselves,” Roma said. “You are the imperator general, their imperator general.”
“That is the plan,” Mahdi said, coldly, “but there has to be a reliable alternative. Now stop admiring my brilliant plan and work on this problem. Who else?”
“The ranger-governor,” Roma said. “As a cadet he received non-judicial punishment form his local commander twenty-eight times.”
Mahdi thought for a moment. “I was that local commander . . . and I think I remember him now.” He shook his head. “He won’t do. I gave him reprimands, extra duties, forfeiture of pay, confinement on diminished rations, and correctional custody. I must have seen the man every judgment day that he was under my command, but it was always things like breaking curfew, insubordination, or for running up debts in Silvanweel that he couldn’t pay. Don’t think any of it was ever intentional. He was disadvantaged because of his background, lived by his wits, but didn’t have much in the way of wits to go by.”
“Why didn’t you dismiss him? He certainly doesn’t sound like guard material.”
“Couldn’t,” Mahdi said. “He was the son of some minor royalist. His attending the academy was guaranteed in the reparation agreement.”
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