by Timothy Zahn
This one composed of the officers of the Elegy-based conglomerate DragonHoard Metals … and just as interested as NorTrans in making sure Randon knew that Solitaire had its own way of doing business. As, with minor variations in tone, did the third group we talked to. And the fourth. And the fifth.
Eventually, even Randon couldn’t pretend to ignore it any more. “From the way everyone’s talking,” he commented to Rybakov as they collected delicately sculpted appetizers from the serving table, “one might think Carillon just filed its corporation papers last week.”
She shrugged, long politician’s practice enabling her to cover most of her own flicker of discomfort. She didn’t really want to talk about it, and yet on another level knew she had to. “Solitaire is an embarrassment, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos,” she said bluntly. “The Patri can’t afford to give up the wealth that flows in from the ring mines; but on the other hand, they have to condemn people to death to get it. It’s not an especially popular policy.” She glanced at me, the first time since our introduction that she’d done so. “We’re not just talking fanatical religious minorities like the Watchers or Halloas, either—most people on the Patri and colonies feel at least a little uncomfortable with the whole idea.”
“The Halloas?” Randon frowned, also glancing at me. I shrugged fractionally; I’d never heard the reference, either. “What is that, a religious sect?”
Rybakov waved a hand depreciatingly. “I’d hardly call them organized enough to be a sect,” she snorted. “They’re a group of fanatic-mystics who believe Solitaire is the seat of God’s kingdom, or some such nonsense.”
Randon glanced at me again. “Why?—because it requires a blood sacrifice to get here?”
Rybakov snorted, and I winced at the contempt underlying her political facade. Clearly, she had even less tolerance than the average citizen when it came to religious matters. Possibly one reason she was a governor. “Not that I’ve heard, though I wouldn’t put it past them,” she said. “No, it’s supposed to be something about the Cloud being the halo of God. From which it apparently follows immediately that this is the heavenly kingdom.” She waved a hand around her.
Someone nearby snickered, just audibly; but on Randon’s face there was no answering contempt. “Sounds crazy,” he agreed evenly. “And you see these Halloas as possibly giving Solitaire even more of a bad image than the Deadman Switch already has?”
Rybakov looked him straight in the eye. “It’s possible,” she told him. “Most of the corporations holding Solitaire licenses have made an effort to keep the Halloas’ existence from leaking out.”
“And you think Carillon may not?”
Again, a meaningful glance in my direction. “Your father’s … peculiarities … are well known.”
“So are his business skills,” Randon returned, his voice a few degrees cooler. “Or are you suggesting he doesn’t understand the effect of image on public psychology?”
Surprisingly, she smiled. “Such as the effect a business renegade’s image might have on those he’s going to be working with, for example?”
Randon frowned, then smiled in return. “Oh, come on, Governor. You aren’t going to tell me that all these crafty business professionals are that taken in by my father’s public posturings, are you?”
She shrugged, eyes still measuring him. “As I said, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos, the business community here is a little touchy. No offense meant.”
“None taken.” Surreptitiously, Randon’s fingers curved in a subtle hand signal. Beside him, Kutzko responded by reaching for his phone, as if a message were coming in. “Actually, Governor—”
“Excuse me, sir,” Kutzko interrupted smoothly. “May I speak with you for a moment? Security matter.”
“Certainly. If you’ll excuse us, Governor … ?”
She nodded, and we moved back toward an empty spot on the floor. “Well, Benedar?” Randon murmured, looking at Kutzko as if discussing the imaginary security matter with him.
“The Halloa story is part of the truth, but not all of it,” I told him. “In fact, I’d go so far as to suggest the Halloas may be nothing more than a convenient excuse they’re using to cover up whatever it is about you that’s really making them nervous.”
He frowned. “What it is about me? I assumed you were the problem.”
“Not this time, sir. You’re the one they’re all watching like hawkrens.”
Randon pursed his lips. “Kutzko?” he invited.
Kutzko shook his head slowly. “I don’t think there’s any personal danger to you, sir, at least not here and now. But I’d have to agree with Benedar, that you’re the one they’re interested in.”
“And there’s something else, sir,” I put in. “When Kutzko did his ‘security matter’ gambit, Governor Rybakov reacted rather strongly.”
Kutzko frowned at me. “She did, did she? I didn’t notice that.”
“She’s very good at hiding these things.”
Randon eyed me thoughtfully for a moment. “And they all seem to know,” he said slowly, “about our meeting at HTI this morning, don’t they?”
Kutzko and I exchanged looks. “You think they might know that Schock got away with more than HTI wanted you to have?” Kutzko ventured.
Randon cocked an eyebrow at me. “Benedar?”
I let my eyes sweep the room, relaxing my mind and letting it dig out every nuance of feeling it could. “I think it might be a good idea, sir,” I said, “to make sure the Bellwether is ready for trouble.”
Randon snorted gently. “Let’s not get overly melodramatic,” he advised. Still, I could tell that he too was growing uneasy.
As was Kutzko. “Sir, I have to agree with Benedar again,” he spoke up. “If it really is those cyls that have all these people nervous, they must be blazing valuable. To someone, anyway.”
“Probably right,” Randon grunted. “All right, go ahead. Keep it quiet, though—if someone tries to get them, I want him to get close enough for us to grab.”
Kutzko was already making the connection. “Seqoya?—Kutzko. What’s the status on the ship?”
I couldn’t hear the answer, but Kutzko’s sense indicated everything was normal. “Well, that may be changing in the next few hours,” Kutzko told him. “I want the perimeter extended fifty meters, a cat-yellow on the gatelock, and a double cat-yellow on Mr. Schock’s stateroom. You’d better warn him that someone may be after those cyls he brought home from HTI today; he ought to know how to protect them.” He got confirmation, raised his eyes to Randon. “Anything else, sir?”
And I had a flash of inspiration. “Have Calandra brought to the gatelock,” I said.
Both of them looked at me; and after a moment they both understood. “Excellent idea, Benedar,” Randon said, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Do it, Kutzko.”
Kutzko nodded and relayed the instructions. “All set, sir,” he said, lowering his hand.
“Good.” Randon glanced around. “Let’s rejoin the party, then.”
A few meters away, Governor Rybakov was talking quietly with a man dressed in the white uniform of a Pravilo flag officer. Commodore Kelscot Freitag, I remembered from Randon’s briefing: in charge of security for Solitaire system.
A man who also clearly enjoyed his vodkyas. Even as Rybakov took his arm and steered him toward us, I could see the slight glaze over his eyes and the twitching of muscles in his cheeks. “Mr. Kelsey-Ramos,” Rybakov nodded to Randon. “That security matter all cleared up, I trust?”
“Yes, thank you,” Randon assured her.
“Well, if you should have any trouble,” Freitag spoke up, “I’m the man to see. Commodore Kelscot Freitag, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Randon nodded to him, and I revised my opinion of the man a few steps upward. Despite the effects of at least three separate types of vodkyas showing in his face, his speech and eye-focus showed his mind wasn’t nearly as touched as I’d first assumed. “Thank you for your offer of assistance, but I
suspect any security problems I might have will take place on the ground.”
Again, Rybakov’s sense flickered with uneasiness. Freitag’s, in contrast, remained untouched. “Doesn’t matter,” he rumbled. “As an offworlder, you come under Pravilo jurisdiction whether groundside or out in the ring mines.”
“Though it is Solitaran law that applies,” I murmured.
Both he and Rybakov frowned at me. “Solitaran law is sanctioned by the Patri and administered by their representative,” the governor told me stiffly. “Which makes it as much Patri law as anything else.”
“Of course it is,” Randon agreed, throwing me an annoyed glance. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kutzko take a half step backward and pull out his phone, and I hoped fervently he hadn’t taken my comment to be his cue. Clearly, Rybakov had some internal conflicts about her position here, and I was going to have to give her more study before I could even attempt to bring Calandra’s case to her attention. “What Mr. Benedar was referring to, I think,” Randon went on, “was certain minor differences between standard Patri law and certain particular variations that are applied here.”
“All colony worlds have their own differences,” Rybakov pointed out, still cool. “Local customs, local requirements—all of those enter into it.”
Randon nodded. “Which is certainly how the law ought to be—”
“Sir?” Kutzko cut him off; and with that one word I knew something was wrong. “A moment, if I may.”
Randon’s eyes flicked to him, back to Rybakov and Freitag. “If you’ll excuse us … ?”
“Certainly,” Rybakov said, an almost haunted look flickering across her face as she and the commodore stepped back.
“Trouble at the ship?” Randon murmured to Kutzko as he pulled out his own phone and keyed for the Bellwether.
“Actually, sir … we’re not quite sure,” Kutzko admitted.
Randon frowned at him; and then the connection same through. “This is Kelsey-Ramos,” he said into the instrument. “What’s going on?”
I already had my own phone out. “Well, sir, we’re not quite sure,” Seqoya’s slightly embarrassed voice Dame. “We have a couple of customs people here who say they’re supposed to check on how much cargo we still have and to arrange to have it offloaded.”
“Their IDs check out?”
“Oh, yes, sir, all the way … but Ms. Paquin says they’re frauds.”
Randon threw me a quick glance. “Oh?”
“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, she can’t tell me who they are or why they’re here; just that they’re lying about being from customs.”
Randon pursed his lips. “They’re not armed, are hey?”
“No, sir.” Seqoya was on more familiar ground here. “We checked them completely. They’ve got a recorder and package reader; that’s all.”
“And you did run their IDs?”
“Yes, sir. The central Cameo computer says they’re legit.”
“They could have been suborned,” Kutzko murmured.
“Maybe,” Randon growled. “Or maybe Paquin is just jumping at shadows.” He threw me a glare … but if was a worried glare. “All right, Seqoya, tell you what. You have someone call the customs chief on duty at the spaceport and find out what you can about these two. We’re on our way; do not let them move from the gateway—in either direction—until I get there.”
“Understood, sir,” Seqoya said.
Randon signed off, threw me another glare, and nodded at Kutzko. “Let’s go,” he said grimly.
Chapter 9
THEY WERE STILL THERE when we arrived: two men in the official capelets and unofficial hauteur of customs officials, sitting at the gatelock guard station under the watchful eye of the Ifversn brothers. Outwardly, they were mad as hornets at being kept from their duties.
Inwardly, they were badly worried.
It didn’t keep them from putting on a good act, though. We’d barely gotten inside the outer lock when the elder of the two was on his feet, glaring at Randon with a fair counterfeit of righteous fury. “Mr. Kelsey-Ramos,” he snarled, “I want you to know that if you don’t call off your shields immediately and let us get about our duties I will be forced to file official and formal charges against you, them, and the master of this ship.”
“I’m sure everything will be straightened out in just a few minutes,” Randon assured him, giving a good imitation himself of being impressed by the outburst. “Excuse me a moment, and I’ll go find out just what the trouble is.”
We passed them and headed on into the ship. Calandra and Seqoya were waiting at the door to the first room, the latter looking much more justified than he’d sounded on the phone. “Well?” Randon demanded, throwing a glance at Calandra and then shifting his attention to Seqoya. “What did you find out?”
Seqoya gave him a grim smile. “Something very interesting, sir: our visitors out there don’t exist.”
Randon frowned. “Explain.”
“The customs duty officer at the spaceport doesn’t know them,” Seqoya said, ticking off massive fingers. “Neither does their central coordination office in Cameo itself. Neither do any of the customs officials, inspectors, or workers that I was able to track down and talk to.
Randon cocked an eyebrow at Kutzko. “Interesting, indeed. How do they explain this?”
“I haven’t confronted them with it yet,” Seqoya said. “I thought you might want to be here when we did.”
Randon nodded. “All right, let’s try it.” He hesitated, then turned to Calandra. “You have anything to add?”
“You probably won’t need to check their equipment,” she said quietly. “They didn’t seem at all protective of it. But you’ll need to search the younger one’s capelet—left shoulder, I think.”
For a moment Randon looked at her as if she was joking. Then, pursing his lips, he gave her a brief nod. “Call a shield to take her back to her stateroom,” he instructed Seqoya, “then meet us back at the gatelock.”
Seqoya nodded and stepped to the nearest intercom. Glancing once more at Calandra, Randon led Kutzko and me back to the gatelock. “Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen,” he said briskly to the two men. “If you’ll be so kind as to remove your capelets, I think we can clear this up right now.”
There was no doubt about it: Calandra had zeroed in precisely on target. Both men’s faces froze for a second, and the younger’s left shoulder actually twitched. The elder recovered first. “Why?” he asked.
Randon didn’t bother answering. Behind us, Seqoya ambled back into the room; catching his eye, Randon nodded toward the two men. “Capelets,” he instructed. Seqoya nodded back and kept ambling, an almost lazy glint in his eye. The others saw it, too, and by the time he’d reached them both had their capelets off.
“Thank you,” Randon said politely as Seqoya collected them. “Now, if you’ll just sit back and relax, we’ll take a look and see what we can find—”
We all heard the footstep behind us at the same time; and for the four shields recognition and reaction were virtually simultaneous. In a single catlike leap Kutzko was between the intruder and Randon, his and Seqoya’s needlers out and tracking past my shoulder. The two Ifversns were just a shaved second slower, their weapons coming to bear warningly on the customs men. Heart thudding in my throat, I spun around and dropped to one knee.
For a moment no one moved or spoke. Randon recovered his voice first. “Hello, Mr. Aikman,” he said. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. It’s bad for your health.”
Slowly, the panic frozen into Aikman’s face melted, and he lowered the foot that had ended up in midair. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You certainly won’t do it again, anyway,” Randon said. “May I ask what you did mean to do?”
Aikman’s eyes flicked past us to the customs men, his emotional balance already coming back to normal. “I heard there was some trouble at the gatelock,” he said evenly. “I came to see if there was
anything I could do to help.”
Randon gazed at him for a few heartbeats, then nodded. “Certainly. The first thing you can do is tell me if you recognize those men over there.”
Again Aikman looked, and I could sense him brace himself. “No,” he said.
“He’s lying,” I told Randon quietly.
Aikman spun to face me, a wave of hatred washing toward me like the burning wind from an explosion. “And who are you,” he snarled, “to pass judgment on another man’s mind—?”
“He’s a Watcher.” Randon’s voice was quiet, almost calm … but there was a steel underlying it that cut off Aikman’s tirade in midsentence. “And if it comes to that,” Randon continued, “who are you to lie to me?”
Aikman licked his lips briefly, the sense of him abruptly becoming cautious. “I may have seen them before,” he admitted grudgingly. “I certainly don’t know them personally—”
“Seen them at HTI?” Randon asked.
Aikman’s jaw tightened. “Perhaps. I couldn’t say for sure.”
“I see.” Randon nodded. “Well, they’ve probably changed jobs since you knew them. Happens all the time—people leave low-level corporation jobs for careers with customs.”
Aikman ignored the gibe. “What charge are you making against them?”
Randon cocked an eyebrow. “Impersonation of customs officials, for starters. Along with attempted entry into a private spacecraft and probably one or two others as we think of them.”
“They have false IDs, then?”
A touch of uncertainty edged into Randon’s sense. “Not exactly, but no one knows—”
“Not exactly? What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
Randon glared at him. “It means that, yes, their IDs check against the customs records, but none of their allegedly fellow workers has ever heard of them.”
“That won’t hold up for ten minutes before a judiciary.” Aikman was on his own territory now, and he knew it. “An ID record is both necessary and sufficient proof of employment in an official capacity.” A grim smile quirked at his lip. “Do you know what the penalty is for illegal detention of customs inspectors?”
