Angelmass. Part 3

Forsythe snorted gently. "A confident sort, wasn't he?"

"Yes, sir," Pirbazari said. "But he was wrong about a lot of other things, too."

Forsythe smiled, feeling the bittersweet tang of memory in his throat. "He was an expert politician," he said, more to himself than to Pirbazari. "A lot of people never understood that, or else never believed it. But he was. He understood the checks and balances that make a government function-understood them better than anyone I've ever known. He knew that you had to make trades and deals and compromises if you wanted to get things done. And he got things done."

For a moment the room was silent, and Forsythe could almost see his father standing there in front of him. Laughing and joking one minute, teaching him some little secret of politics the next. "Speaking of speeches," Pirbazari said into the quiet, "you're scheduled for a broadcast in half an hour. Shall I go down to the studio and make sure everything's ready?"

The vision faded, and his father was once again just an image on a display screen. "No," Forsythe said. "I'd rather you go take another stab at talking EmDef into doing that landing check we asked for. If the Pax s.h.i.+p did drop a spy, he's got to come down sometime."

"Yes, sir," Pirbazari said, his tone markedly less than enthusiastic.

"I know it's probably a waste of time," Forsythe agreed with the other's unspoken thought. "I've already had it politely explained to me that EmDef hasn't got the manpower to sand-sift all the mining and cargo s.h.i.+ps buzzing around Lorelei system. But if we nag them enough they may agree to at least a partial check. If only to get us off their backs."

Pirbazari smiled faintly. "It's nice to work for someone who understands how people operate, sir. What about the studio prep?"

"Ronyon can do that," Forsythe told him, picking up his call stick and tapping Ronyon's b.u.t.ton three times. "Let me know how it goes with EmDef."

"Yes, sir." With a little bow, Pirbazari turned with military precision and left the room.

Forsythe looked back at the display, his frustration with EmDef shading-as frustrations always seemed to do these days-into an echo of old bitterness. Yes, he understood how people operated; but then, he'd learned about people and politics from a master. A man so able and competent at working through the system that by the end of his second term he was already being called the most effective High Senator Lorelei had ever sent to Uhuru.

And then, without warning, the system had been pulled out from under him.

His father had fought it, of course. Had argued long and hard that the newly discovered angels were far too incompletely understood to be loosed on anyone, let alone those men and women most directly responsible for the Empyrean's well-being. But the reformers were too strong, the optimism too soaring, and the tales of rampant political dishonesty and greed too deeply entrenched in popular mythology. The public clamor for the Angel Experiment had grown steadily louder... and as it did, all those who had originally opposed the plan quietly melted to the other side. Even the media, who normally salivated over the slightest hint of a controversy, just as quietly mutated into an Empyrean-wide cheering squad for the experiment.

Until, at the end, his father had stood alone. And when they'd handed him his angel, he'd handed it back. Along with his resignation.

It was the last hard, no-win decision of his political career. Perhaps the last hard, no-win decision that had been made in the High Senate chambers in the eighteen years since then.

Few people seemed to have noticed that. But Forsythe had; and this whole net-and-catapult method of dealing with the Pax's increasingly impatient thrusts into Empyreal territory was just the latest example of the High Senate's collective vagueness. It was all very well to claim, as they frequently did, that the Pax mentality was one of conquest instead of destruction; that it would prefer to absorb the Empyrean as it had all the other far-flung Earth colonies that had been sent out over the past three hundred years. It was a reasonable a.s.sessment, as far as it went.

But to then a.s.sume that such territorial ambitions would be discouraged simply by having some of their s.h.i.+ps 'pulted away and trapped out in s.p.a.ce for a few months was naive in the extreme. The only way to stop a bully was to give him a b.l.o.o.d.y nose.

And the perfect chance to do just that had been sitting in Lorelei system three days ago. A tiny change in the catapult vector, and that huge Pax wars.h.i.+p could have been sent straight through the center of a star and been gone forever. A serious b.l.o.o.d.y nose, indeed.

But the High Senators who wrote EmDef's policies wore angels around their necks, as did the local commanders who carried those policies out... and men who wore angels never lowered themselves to something as crude as killing.

So they had taken their time, and done their calculations carefully, and sent the Pax wars.h.i.+p somewhere where it would be safe. Someday, it would be back.

But before then, Forsythe would be a High Senator himself. A High Senator, with an angel of his own hanging around his neck.

Or perhaps not.

There was a diffident tap on the door. "Come," Forsythe called.

There was no response. Forsythe looked up, annoyed; and then it clicked, and he reached over to his call stick and tapped Ronyon's b.u.t.ton twice. The door opened, and the big man came almost shyly into the room. His thick fingers traced patterns in the air-You want me, Mr. Forsythe?

Yes, Forsythe signed back. Deaf since birth, Ronyon could read lips reasonably well, but one of Forsythe's standing rules was that his inner circle use hand-sign language with Ronyon whenever possible. Like all skills, signing went rusty with disuse, and Forsythe didn't want his people losing this particular ability. It was often very handy to be able to hold a private conversation across a crowded room. I'm going to be giving a speech in half an hour, he told the other, and I want you to go down to the studio and make sure everything's ready. Can you do that?

Ronyon's droopy eyes widened, his slightly slack lips curving into a smile that was pure puppy-dog eager. Yes, Mr. Forsythe, yes, he signed, his fingers moving excitedly. You mean all by myself?

Forsythe suppressed a smile. Yes, Ronyon, all by yourself, he answered. It was one of the few stable points in the otherwise s.h.i.+fting ground of Forsythe's world: no matter how simple or menial the job, you could always count on Ronyon to jump on it with all the enthusiasm his eight-year-old-child's mind could generate.

And that was a lot of enthusiasm. No one had ever figured out whether it was the task itself that excited him so much, or the more subtle concept of having been entrusted to do something right. Mr. Mils is down there now, Forsythe continued. You know how everything is supposed to be, right?

Ronyon nodded. I can do it, he signed, the child's eagerness changing into a child's determination. I can.

I know, Forsythe signed, and meant it. Unlike many of the more "mature" personalities he'd dealt with over the years, Ronyon had none of that particularly infuriating brand of false pride that kept a person from admitting when he was in over his head. As a general rule, if you sent Ronyon to do a job and didn't hear anything further from him, you could a.s.sume it would get done right. Better head downstairs, then. We can't keep the people of Lorelei waiting.

Yes, Mr. Forsythe. With one last happy smile, Ronyon turned and hurried out.

There were still occasional quiet moments when Forsythe wondered why he had kept Ronyon on. Big and bulky, with a face that was considerably less than photogenic and the mind of a child lurking behind it, Ronyon was hardly someone who fit the usual image of a politician's inner circle. Originally, it had been little more than a symbolic gesture on Forsythe's part: the big important planetary representative taking the time and effort to reach out to those even modern medicine couldn't do anything to help. As a campaign ploy it had been remarkably successful, despite the loud denouncements from critics who'd proclaimed it to be nothing but shameless emotional manipulation. He'd gone on to win that election, and had never lost one since.

But that had been over fifteen years ago. Why, then, was Ronyon still around?

Shrugging to himself, Forsythe keyed his intercom. "Mils here," a familiar voice answered.

"This is Forsythe. How are things going?"

"Just doing the final lighting checks, High Senator-elect," the other replied, sounding his usual harried self. "We'll be ready in five minutes."

"I hope so," Forsythe warned. "Because I've just sent Ronyon down to make sure you're doing your job right."

Mils chuckled. "Well, we'd better get cracking, then," he said, mock-serious. Mock-serious, but with noticeably less tension in his voice than had been there a moment earlier. "I wouldn't want him mad at us."

"I should say not," Forsythe agreed. "I'll be down shortly."

He shut the intercom off. Perhaps that was it, he thought: the fact that Ronyon was so out of place here. With his childlike enthusiasm and loyalty he was like a gentle breeze blowing through the stagnant sewer gas that so often seemed to be the essence of politics. His father, Forsythe remembered vividly, had utilized that sharp sense of humor of his to break the tension that so often threatened to overwhelm himself and his inner circle. Perhaps Forsythe's subconscious had compensated for his own lack of that particular gift by hiring Ronyon.

For a moment he gazed at the image of his father still frozen on the display, a fresh swell of an old determination flowing through him. Once, a Forsythe had resigned from the High Senate rather than accept the mind-numbing influence of an angel. With ingenuity, and a little luck, perhaps this Forsythe could have it both ways... and in the process prove to everyone that his father's warnings had been right all the time.

Switching off the display, he gathered his notes and headed for the door. The people of Lorelei were waiting.

CHAPTER 5.

"That's good wine," Chandris said, watching closely as Toomes picked up the oddly shaped bottle-a caraffa, he'd called it-and poured a little more into her gla.s.s. His hand, she saw, wasn't shaking yet; but it did take him just a shade too long to get the bottle lined up properly on her gla.s.s. A bit more encouragement on her part, and it would soon be safe to let him take her back to his stateroom. "Very sweet and mild," she continued, sipping at her gla.s.s. "You really ought to try some."

He smiled lopsidedly at her. "It may be a little out of fas.h.i.+on, my dear," he said, "but in my humble opinion Guliyo wines are strictly for young ladies like yourself. This-" he raised his gla.s.s-"is the proper drink for a proper man."

"Oh, I didn't mean to suggest it wasn't," Chandris said, smiling back. "I certainly didn't mean," she added in a lower, more sultry voice, "that you were somehow less than a real man. I know better than that."

He grinned, his old hunter's smile combined with a sort of smug satisfaction as he reached across the table to lay his hand on top of hers. Chandris let him stroke it, continuing to smile on the outside even as she fought back a sudden nervous shudder on the inside. If Toomes ever suspected she'd been scoring him for a fool the whole time, or that his entire s.e.xual performance with her these past two weeks had consisted of pawing her clothes off and then falling into a reek-induced stupor...

Stop it, she ordered herself harshly. Of course he didn't know-how could he? Besides, he'd hardly have continued throwing money away on her this whole time if he had any memories that contradicted the coy but admiring hints she always dropped the next morning about his supposed performance. Nerves-that was all it was. Nerves, and maybe the fact that she'd never done anything like this before. Quick zippers had always been her score: a few hours with the track, maybe a day or two at the most, then a fast chop and hop. Scoring the same track for two weeks straight had been a lot harder than she'd ever imagined it would be.

But it was almost over. Just one more night to endure, and tomorrow the Xirrus would reach Seraph. She'd ride a shuttle down with Toomes, give him one final kiss good-bye, and that would be the end of it. Chop and hop.

With her free hand she picked up her wine gla.s.s; and as she lifted it her gaze drifted across the dining room behind Toomes- She froze. Four tables over, that man was being seated.

The sip of wine went down the wrong way, and for a minute her body shook as she fought to clear her lungs without a loud coughing fit. "Chandris?" Toomes frowned, tightening his grip on her hand. "You all right?"

She nodded, still coughing silently, furious at herself for doing something so stupid. Between spasms she threw another quick glance at the other table, wondering if he was watching.

He was. As he had been, off and on, for the past week.

He'd come aboard at Lorelei, and as far as she'd been able to tell had kept pretty much to himself. Nothing much to look at; a couple of centimeters taller than her, if that much, with dark hair and eyes. He was a few years older, too, probably somewhere in his early twenties. And if it hadn't been for one small problem she would probably have joined with everyone else in not giving him a second thought.

The problem being that, like her, he didn't belong here.

He wasn't nearly as good at faking it as she was, either. She'd seen him make lots of mistakes, mistakes she'd learned to avoid her first day in this part of the s.h.i.+p. Little things, most of them, but stuff that any really upper-cla.s.s person would know without having to think about them.

She'd taken to watching him. And found that he, in turn, seemed to be watching her.

s.h.i.+p's security, she'd thought at first, looking for a pa.s.senger named Chandris Lalasha who hadn't gotten off at Lorelei like she was supposed to. It had seemed the most likely explanation, particularly since she couldn't find any way to check up on her attempts to erase that ident.i.ty from the Xirrus's computer. As a result, she'd wound up wasting several hours of precious late-night study time in Toomes's room setting up contingency hiding and escape plans.

But the days had gone by, and the mystery man had continued to keep his distance. In fact...

Deliberately, she looked at him. For an instant their eyes met, before he wrenched his gaze back to the menu and pretended mightily that he hadn't been looking at her at all.

Chandris looked back at Toomes, a hard knot settling into her stomach. He was probably just new to the upper cla.s.s, that was all. New to the upper cla.s.s, interested in her, and too bashful to breathe straight. That was probably it. Really it was.

But the knot refused to go away.

Abruptly, she drained her wine and stood up. "Can we go now?" she asked Toomes.

A flicker of surprise, then the hunter's smile was back. "Sure," he said, polis.h.i.+ng off his own drink and getting to his feet. Maybe he was reeked enough, maybe not; but at the moment Chandris didn't care. She just wanted out of here. And if it meant having to endure more than just Toomes's pawing hands for once, she could handle it.

Taking his arm, forcing an unconcerned smile onto her face, she led him out of the room.

Keeping his head bent over the menu as if he was looking at it, Kosta watched surrept.i.tiously as the woman and her escort left the dining room. d.a.m.n it all, he cursed himself silently. Talk about looking guilty. Why don't you just stand up, announce that you're a Pax spy, and be done with it?

He took a deep breath. Relax, he ordered himself. Just relax. He had no proof, after all, that she was even remotely connected with Empyreal security. She hadn't approached him, or sent anyone else to approach him, and with the voyage ending tomorrow morning she was rapidly running out of time to do either. No; whatever her reasons for watching him, they were probably something totally innocuous. Maybe he reminded her of someone she knew. Or maybe his table manners were even worse than he thought.

He took another deep breath and forced himself to focus on the menu, wis.h.i.+ng yet again that he hadn't insisted on going upper-cla.s.s in the first place. The theory had seemed solid enough at the time: since most scientists and students would probably be riding in cheaper sections of the s.h.i.+p, the pa.s.sengers up here would be less likely to recognize that he wasn't part of the Empyreal scientific community.

Or so the logic had gone. It had never occurred to him that the upper cla.s.s would be so h.o.m.ogeneous in dress, behavior, and style that he would never really feel like he fit in.

He ran his eye down the menu's price list, an unpleasant warmth rising to his cheeks. Yes, it had been logical... but down deep, he couldn't help but wonder it had really been quite that neat and tidy. If perhaps the real reason he'd wanted to go upper-cla.s.s had been a private desire to poke a figurative finger in Telthorst's annoying preoccupation with the Pax's money.

It was a worrying-h.e.l.l, a downright scary-thought. Because he was in enemy territory now, with his survival balanced on his ability to keep his mind completely and unemotionally on his mission. Indulging in childish displays of pique or sport, even mild ones, could land him in an Empyreal jail cell. Or worse.

The waiter-a human waiter here, not simply an intercom plate-appeared at his side. Hoping desperately that he would p.r.o.nounce everything right this time, he began to order.

CHAPTER 6.

"Your attention, please," the voice came from overhead. "Shuttle number one has now docked; repeating, shuttle number one has now docked. All pa.s.sengers holding debarkation cards for shuttle one may now prepare to board. The officers and crew of the Xirrus thank you for traveling with us, and we hope to see you again in the near future."

Don't hold your breath, Kosta thought back at the speaker as he picked up his travel bag and went over to join the line forming at the shuttle bay door. Not if he could help it would he ever fly this or any other Empyreal s.p.a.celiner again. Between that woman and his own superheated imagination his nerves were already shot to h.e.l.l, and the mission had hardly even begun. When the time came to get back to Lorelei, he vowed, he'd charter a private s.h.i.+p or something and to the laughing fates with the expense.

Unless, of course, Commodore Lles.h.i.+ and the Komitadji got here before that. Which would leave him stuck on the ground smack the middle of a war zone...

Superheated imagination, he chided himself, and put the thought firmly out of his mind.

The stairway linking the Xirrus to the shuttle seemed steeper going down, somehow, than it had a week ago when he'd been going the opposite way. An illusion, of course; just the same, he took it a shade more carefully than he probably needed to.

He was two steps from the bottom when he saw her.

Sitting between two uniformed men in the front pa.s.senger row.

Looking straight up at him.

For a single, horrible instant Kosta's brain froze, momentum alone getting him the rest of the way down to the shuttle deck. Those uniforms the men were wearing-vaguely like those of the Xirrus's officers, but at the same time markedly different from those he'd seen while aboard. And the look the woman was giving him wasn't like anything he'd seen on either crew or pa.s.sengers. It was cold and hard, and more than a little accusing.

He'd been right all along. She was indeed Empyreal security.

Run, was his first, frantic instinct. But there was nowhere to run to. Fight, then. His right hand twitched around the handle of his travel bag, aching to drop it and haul out the tiny commando-issue shocker hidden in his side pocket. Shoot all three-get to the command deck and hijack the shuttle- With a supreme effort he forced his hand to hang onto the travel bag. Forced his feet to start walking. Forced his throat to relax. Until they actually haul out their weapons and restraints and tell you you're under arrest, his instructors on Scintara had told him over and over again, always try to brazen it out. Easy enough for them to say, safely tucked away in a Pax military base; but the more his brain unfroze, the more he realized that he really had no alternative.

Directly behind the trio was an empty aisle seat; with only a brief hesitation, he lowered himself into it. You want brazen? he thought darkly back at the memories of those instructors. Fine; I'll give you brazen.

It wasn't until after the shuttle had detached and was on its way down that he remembered on a conscious level something else they'd taught him: Whenever possible, try to get above or behind your opponents.

Perhaps, he thought, they'd trained him better than he'd realized.

The trip seemed to last forever. None of the three people sitting in front of him paid him the slightest attention. For all anyone could tell, they might have been totally unaware he was even there.

Not that that was any comfort. If they didn't feel the need to keep close tabs on him it probably meant they had plainclothes backups somewhere behind him. So much for taking the high ground, he thought once. But there was still nothing to do but sit tight and wait.

Eventually, they reached ground, landing on the kind of glidestrip Kosta had seen back at the Lorelei s.p.a.ceport. From what he could see through the windows there seemed to be about as much traffic here as there had been at Lorelei, though both ports seemed to have both s.p.a.ce- and aircraft sharing the same facilities. That was a new one on Kosta; on even spa.r.s.ely developed Pax worlds like Scintara the air and s.p.a.ce fields were kept strictly separate. The Empyrean, he decided, must have far less of either kind of traffic than the Pax.

Though considering there were five Empyreal worlds to the Pax's thirty-six, that was hardly a startling revelation.

The shuttle came to a slightly b.u.mpy stop at the terminal. A second b.u.mp a moment later heralded the arrival of the ramp, and Kosta tried to prepare himself for whatever action was about to be necessary. Another small thump and a whisper of fresh air, and the door was open. Retrieving his travel bag from beneath the seat, swallowing once to clear his ears, he joined the rest of the pa.s.sengers in standing up and traffic-jamming the aisle.

The woman and her companions were first in motion, the other pa.s.sengers, not surprisingly, yielding them the right of way. Kosta took advantage of the gap to slide in directly behind them. Travel bag gripped tightly in his left hand, he followed them up the covered ramp, fighting hard to quiet his heart.