by Chris Bunch
“No links at all,” Riss said cheerfully. “We’re mercenaries, working for the mighty credit.”
Sufyerd nodded. “My apologies, I suppose,” he said. “But living in conditions like mine, with the death chamber looming close, you become most direct.”
“Which is why,” Riss said, “we’ve got to work fast.”
“That would be appreciated,” Sufyerd said. “Although if I’m not exonerated in this life, I shall be in another.”
“Some of us,” Riss said, “don’t have the comfort of believing in reincarnation.” Sufyerd said nothing.
“First of all,” von Baldur said, “you should know that your superior, Detachment Leader Caranis, has refused to give us any cooperation whatever, and is completely convinced of your guilt.”
“Of course,” Sufyerd said calmly. “He was never my supporter, and was one of the first to decide I was guilty.”
“Now, that’s interesting,” Goodnight said. “He claimed he barely knows who you are.”
“Caranis has always been good at covering his tracks,” Sufyerd said.
“Why do you think he was so quick to decide you were a traitor?” Grok asked.
“I’m not sure I want to answer that.”
“Why not?” Jasmine asked.
“The primary reason is one that I have accepted reluctantly, and don’t like to mention, since it makes me sound most paranoid.”
“Because of your religion?” Goodnight guessed.
Sufyerd inclined his head in agreement.
“Is that the only reason?”
“That is the only one I can think of, other than that I do not have a high regard for either Caranis’s intelligence nor for his probity. And he knows it.”
“In what way is he dishonest?” King asked.
“He fiddles his expense account, to my certain knowledge. Also, he has been known to use his position to gain certain … personal favors … from some of his more impressionable female staffers.”
“We noticed his speedster,” Goodnight said. “It looked expensive for someone of his rank.”
“He is evidently of well-to-do birth,” Sufyerd said. “Or so I’ve heard. I do not,” he said somewhat primly, “make a point of being curious about my fellow officers.”
“So he cheats and likes to get laid,” Goodnight said. “But is he — could he be — a traitor?”
Only Riss noted the slight hesitation in Sufyerd’s voice.
“No. No, he couldn’t be.”
“Why not?” Riss asked. “He seems more than willing to accept you as a patsy. Villains love to do things like that.”
“No,” Sufyerd said, sounding more positive. “He’s spent too many years in the service of his system to suddenly turn traitor.”
Riss was still skeptical, but there was no point in continuing the debate.
“Very well,” von Baldur said. “Would you mind describing your office routine? No, wait. First, did you ever have access to this proposed defense system for Belfort?”
“I did not,” Sufyerd said. “I was told of its existence less than a week before my arrest. I was supposed to vet it and write an appreciation, but was arrested before it arrived. It was late, by the way.
“Someone above me, the real culprit, must have shortstopped the information and sent it on to Torguth, although how we discovered these plans had been copied is also beyond me.”
“Since we’re not getting any cooperation from IIa,” von Baldur said, “would you mind describing your section?”
“I do this with a deal of reluctance,” Sufyerd said. “I suppose the information has low classification, but I still hesitate at describing anything about Strategic Intelligence to an outsider. But I suppose there’s no harm, and I certainly don’t want to be taken as uncooperative.
“Ha works in small sections, to increase security. My own team of four was one of several dealing with Torguth.”
“Specializing in Torguth’s interest in the Belfort System?” Grok asked.
“No,” Sufyerd said. “My section worked the general field, and would be given specific assignments in any given area as our superiors saw the need.”
“No dealings with Belfort normally,” von Baldur said. “Was this brought out at your court-martial?”
“My defense, such as it was, attempted to introduce that fact, but it was denied admission.”
“Premier Reynard has given us a copy of your transcript,” Jasmine said. “That isn’t mentioned in it.”
“There was a great deal of testimony presented sub rosa,” Sufyerd said.
“I think it would be helpful if you would tell us what information wasn’t permitted,” Grok said.
Sufyerd took a breath. “Very well … but I assume any recording devices you brought along with you have been confiscated, as with all my other visitors … such that were permitted.”
“Don’t worry,” Jasmine said. “I have an excellent memory.”
Sufyerd licked his lips and began.
• • •
“So much for the exciting life of an intelligence type,” Jasmine said. “All that poor guy ever did was read reports, write summaries, and read summaries and write reports. For which they’re going to gas him.”
“Like that’s new data?” Riss asked. “Weren’t you paying attention to what you were doing when you were shuffling papers for Cerberus Systems … or when we stuck you with running the home office while we were off playing?”
“Setting that aside,” Grok said, “why was Sufyerd picked as the patsy?”
“I do not know,” von Baldur said. “If we can get a clue as to that, we might have a lead as to the real culprit. Perhaps just for his religion, even though that sounds somewhat thin.”
“Speaking of which,” Goodnight said, “M’chel, would you care to accompany me to one of Mr. Sufyerd’s group’s services? Being as how the Jilani are supposedly an ecstatic sort of cult, from what Reynard said, things might get interesting, and I’ve never been to an orgy and would hate to be unsupervised.”
“I have,” Riss said. “In the course of business.”
“And?” Goodnight asked.
“And I found out that mostly ugly people like that sort of thing. Normal folk seem to be able to get their ashes hauled without having to go to a meeting.”
“Mmmh,” Goodnight said.
“While these two are being ecstatic,” Grok said, “Jasmine, would you care to accompany me to dinner? I’ve found a new sort of eating here, and you might appreciate it.”
“Enchanted,” King said.
“Leaving me odd man out,” von Baldur said. “I guess I shall just wander over to Tournelle’s and pile on the calories in a solitary fashion.” He touched keys on the yacht’s secondary console. “Assuming no charming or powerful person has called me with another invitation …”
The screen lit. CHECKING MESSAGES flashed three times, then two items came up.
“Powerful,” von Baldur said. “I did not want someone this powerful.”
“Who bonged you?” Goodnight asked from the control couch he was sprawled on.
“We — that means Star Risk, not just me — have been contacted by a certain Mr. L’Pellerin, of the DIB, and a certain Fra Diavolo. Both suggesting a meet over dinner.”
“I’d suggest,” Riss said, “you go call on the secret policeman. Writers can always be put off until tomorrow. Even writers with their own army.”
“Only sensible, my dear,” von Baldur said. “Only sensible.” He tried to hide his worried expression.
TWELVE
The name of the restaurant was L’Montagnard. It sat down an alley, and looked to be a fairly small place.
Jasmine King looked at its entrance suspiciously. “What sort of god-awful dining experience am I to expect this time?” she asked Grok.
The alien put his nose in the air and snuffed, a new affectation he was very proud of having learned from humans.
“I’m insulted.”
“Who was
it who decided it was time for me to learn to appreciate that old Earth delight steak tartarater, or whatever it was?”
“It was steak tartar, it was raw, and it was wonderful,” Grok said firmly. “And if you did not appreciate raw animal tissue sufficiently, who was it who brought you to a place that served chocolate cake with chocolate syrup with chocolate icing and chocolate liqueur drizzled over it?”
“True,” Jasmine said. “Yum. I’m following you.”
They went in. The restaurant was tiny, a long box with an open kitchen at the back. A cheery fat man seated them, and his equally jovial and heavy wife brought them each, unordered, a glass of wine.
“I shall take the liberty of ordering,” Grok said, “since I ate here three nights ago.”
Jasmine inclined her head in agreement, sipped her wine.
Outside the two men who’d been following them conferred briefly, and one took out a com.
THIRTEEN
It had taken a bit of work, and some credits changing hands, for Goodnight to find a Jilanis service — if that was what it should have been called. It was in a small warehouse, with no signs outside.
Riss thought it was pretty clear the Jilani were at the least frowned on, if not persecuted — she’d never heard of a religion that didn’t cherish the spotlight.
The two Star Risk operatives waited in their lifter until, most unobtrusively, men, women, and children began filtering toward the warehouse.
They looked like typical residents of the working district the warehouse sat in.
Goodnight and Riss joined them. They entered and noticed — Goodnight with interest, Riss with a bit of alarm — the floor of the warehouse was covered with padded exercise mats in front of a few rows of folding chairs.
Goodnight was about to whisper something lascivious about the mats being necessary to keep your knees and elbows from getting chafed, when a lank, middle-aged man with gray hair and a tidy chin beard was at his elbow.
“Welcome, strangers.”
“Uh … welcome, yourself,” Goodnight said.
“I see you are not one of us, since you appear a bit perplexed.”
“We’re not,” Riss said. “We’ve heard of your, uh, faith, and were curious.”
The man smiled. “I’m Elder Bracken. You were expecting more panoply, perhaps?” His smile grew broader. “Or what? We don’t mind, by the way, being referred to as a cult.”
“I didn’t know what term to use,” Riss half apologized, damning herself for blushing.
“Use anything you think appropriate,” Bracken said. “Please, take a seat. I’ll be available after the lesson to answer any questions you have.”
There were about sixty people in the congregation. Bracken led the service, beginning with a prayer that could have been used in almost any church service anywhere. After that came announcements.
Riss almost yawned, then started listening, for those were a bit unusual. A child announced she wished to be raised by a couple other than her parents, with all respect. The parents had agreed. A woman said that she would be taking an additional husband by next Spring Festival. There would be a peaceful protest scheduled outside a prison against an execution.
Then a man and a woman, at either side of the room, began tapping softly on small drums. A woman got up and told a little story about seeing a woman walking along in the rain, and noting a gutter was blocked. She knelt and cleared it with her hands, an obvious good deed, since she thought she was unobserved. Goodnight rolled his eyes back in disbelief.
Two or three people got up and started slowly dancing to the drumbeat. One of them shed her clothes.
Goodnight, remembering Riss’s comment about those who go to orgies, winced. The woman would have been better advised to wrap herself in a tablecloth. A very large tablecloth.
A man stood up, shouted “Praise God,” and sat down abruptly. Others started dancing as well. A man, writhing like a dervish, began chanting in a tongue Riss had never heard. Others followed, each in a language of her or his own.
Goodnight noted that the only woman he considered pretty, other than Riss, sat primly in her chair, lips moving soundlessly.
That went on for too long. Then, without a signal, everyone returned to their seats. The naked fat woman didn’t bother to dress.
Elder Bracken recited another equally bland prayer, bowed, and the worshipers got up and started out.
Bracken came up to them. “What do you think?”
“What should I be thinking?” Goodnight asked.
“That, perhaps, our ribaldry or devil-worshiping is a bit exaggerated?”
Riss laughed.
“There’ve been quite a few other outsiders at our services,” Bracken said. “Unfortunately, few of them come more than once. And many of them leave disappointed.”
“Why?” Goodnight asked.
“They expected something different,” Bracken suggested. “We have enemies — have had them for generations — who spread the most dreadful calumny. Now, with the unfortunate incident of Brother Sufyerd, the holos are also spreading these lies.
“I fully expect, any day now, they’ll claim we sacrifice newborn infants.” He shook his head sadly.
“We’re from offworld,” Riss said, “and have wondered why you Jilani are badgered.”
“Because we live our lives separately, yet within the Dampier System’s culture, just as we do on other worlds, other systems. We do not vote, we pay taxes reluctantly, and avoid military service as much as possible, practicing pacifism. We do not espouse treason, nor even passive resistance to the state.”
“But this Sufyerd — ” Goodnight said.
“Some feel Brother Sufyerd had backslid into apostasy, but the truth is that he, and some of our more progressive thinkers, feel we should amalgamate ourselves more into society.”
He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid his current predicament suggests to me the possible incorrectness of the theory, although there are still those who persist, and who have dedicated their lives to that belief.
“On the other hand, since Brother Sufyerd’s conviction, there are those … respected members of our group … who think pacifism is an outmoded tool in a society that sneers at peacefulness and persecutes us. They think we should be willing to take up cudgels against those who are our enemies.
“I — and most other Jilani — disagree, and think the best way to end persecution is to continue to live blameless lives.”
“Boring from within?” Riss said.
“I could wish,” Bracken said. “Of course I would that everyone on this planet believe as we do. But we do not proselytize, never have, and most likely never shall. Our ultimate dream is to simply be left alone, as we attempt to leave others alone.”
“Let me ask you another question,” Goodnight said. “How many of these strangers who came to your services did you suspect were police agents, or counterintelligence operatives?”
“Such as yourselves?” Bracken said, and grinned broadly, seeing their reaction. “I just said that to see what would happen. As to your question, I’m not one of those who can recognize a plainclothesman, which I’ve heard members of the criminal class are frequently able to do.
“But there were those who had recorders, or were jotting things down that I noted. No doubt looking for material, either pro or con, for poor Brother Sufyerd’s trial.
“Why did they choose your … congregation, if that’s the right word?” Riss asked.
“Brother Sufyerd and his family have worshiped here once or twice,” Bracken said. “The interesting thing about these police spies is that I didn’t see the last of them after Brother Sufyerd was convicted.”
“Oh?” Riss said, letting her interest show, since it was obvious Bracken was on to them.
“Yes,” Bracken said. “There have been at least half a dozen visitors since the trial, which I can only ascribe to the fact we’re the most open of the various chapters here on Montrois. I just wonder what they’re looking f
or.”
“I do, too,” Goodnight said thoughtfully.
“Well,” Bracken said. “I have business elsewhere. Be advised, no matter who you’re working for, that you’re welcome back to any of our services. Even a spy might benefit from a little peaceful meditation.”
FOURTEEN
Von Baldur didn’t know what to expect from his invitation to meet L’Pellerin at his offices for dinner.
The secret police, the Dampier Information Bureau, were housed in an ominous old-fashioned steel building just off a fashionable boulevard in Tuletia. There was no security visible outside, although von Baldur knew it had to be there. Secret policemen are always more paranoid than intelligence agencies.
He’d been asked to be there around normal quitting time, and workers were streaming out to the heavily guarded parking areas down the street. He didn’t see anyone wearing a cloak, nor a dagger or a set of thumbscrews in her or his back pocket.
He entered through double doors into a blast-resistant room, quite large. There was a receptionist, male, who looked as if he’d been hired from a police emergency response team, but who was civil enough.
He asked if von Baldur had any arms, smiled politely at the negative response, and touched a sensor. Two silent men searched him, one using a handheld solid-object detector, but found nothing.
Von Baldur was given a photo badge, and the two men escorted him down an empty corridor to a lift that shot him up to the second from the top story of the building, then down another empty corridor to an unmarked door.
They bowed him into L’Pellerin’s office, a large, comfortable-looking suite. There were no papers or holos visible.
L’Pellerin came out from behind his desk, greeted von Baldur in a tone that was probably meant to be friendly, but actually sounded like a bureaucrat about to deny a last appeal.
L’Pellerin was a slight man, balding, who clearly would never bother with follicle regeneration. He had a nervous, gray face, and, von Baldur noticed, nails bitten close.
