Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (46 page)

“You … you killed him…” Tears, real tears, tears not from the cernadine, well from the corners of her eyes.

Even from under the blanket of the drug, he feels the grief, her ties to the dying man.

Can he do anything? Has he done too much?

Martel sends his perceptions out, touches the heart, adds strength to the beat, oxygen, repairs a torn artery, a stripped vein, and, standing back in his mind and watching himself do the miraculous, finishes by rebuilding a damaged nerve chain.

His knees wobble as he staggers up and over toward the now-unconscious man. His vision blurs momentarily as he bends to pick the slugger from a flaccid hand. He removes the shells and drops the empty weapon on the console.

“You … owe … me … one … Hollie.”

He sits down heavily, concentrating on breathing for himself. Half watches the woman as she kneels beside her lover.

“I thought you'd killed him.”

“No.”
I did, but I undid it, and flamed if I know how.

“Why?”

“Why, yourself? Why did”—and he picks the name out of her thoughts—“Gates want to kill me? Given the demigods, maybe you owe me two.”

Her eyes widen. Her face crumples, gray to match her washed-out eyes. “Why? Why? Why?”

Martel echoes her thoughts silently, blocking them as well.

Gates Devero had been primed to explode as soon as one Martel, faxcaster, student, Brother, showed up at the CastCenter. But the attempt had been direct. Too direct.

Gates was supposed to fail. That meant Martel had been set up to kill the engineer, which meant … Martel shivered.

He remembers something Rathe said.

“The gods are jealous, Martel. Jealous.”

“Jealous” seems an understatement.

Martel finally answers the question Hollie asked. “Because he was supposed to fail, Hollie, because he was supposed to fail.”

“Oh, gods, no! Why us?”

“Not you. Me. Don't worry. You're safe. So's Gates. A second time would be too obvious.”
For now.

“Second time?”

“Forget it. Just tell Gates he tripped.”

Martel lurches to his feet, knees solid at last, picks the weapon off the console, and drops it into a pocket.

“Tripped?”

“Got any better ideas, smart lady?” His voice burns, and the anger in it turns the gray-faced administrator grayer.

“But the gods…”

Martel swallows, hard. Only the thoughts count.

“Gates tripped, Hollie. That's all that happened.”

And with that his thoughts follow, changing the pictures in her mind, then in Gates'. Both would remember that Gates tripped.

Martel is sure that the gods will know that the memories are false, should they check, but what really happened is erased, gone, except in his own mind.

“In answer to your other question,” he goes on as if nothing has occurred, “I'm here—”

“I don't need to know. I don't want to know.”

“—because I was Queried by the Emperor and the Grand Duke of Kirsten.”

Hollie turns her head from side to side, slowly, still on her knees by Gates.

“And the only ambition I have is to get paid for being a faxer while I sort things out.”

He looks at the time readout. Almost a full stan has passed since he walked into the CastCenter.

One stan? One whole stan?

He tightens his lips. Apparently his mental excursion into the physiology of one Gates Devero has taken longer than he has realized.

“You'd better help Gates up,” he suggests mildly as he lets the engineer wake and groan. “By the way, am I expected to follow Farell?”

“No. She'll brief you, give you a handful of procedures, and walk you through. Double duty for her. Double pay. Doesn't happen enough. So she won't mind.”

Martel can tell her thoughts are on Gates, her genuine worry about the fall he has taken. Martel heads down the corridor toward the control center.

He scans Farell from outside the control room.

She is dark-haired, from her own mental image relaxed, and, so far as he can tell, untrapped.

He waits until she finishes the locals and is into the KarNews feed before opening the portal.

“Martin Martel,” he announces quietly.

“Swear I'd locked that.”

He looks vacant.

“Guess not.” She gives him a half-smile, accented by naturally red lips. “You're Giles' replacement. Our new wunderkind from Karnak.”

“Green from Karnak,” he admits, “and so far as faxing goes, green as gold. Lots of ratings, a few degrees, and no more than the minimum uncontrolled airtime.”

“No illusions, at least.” She gives a fuller smile.

Her arm sweeps the circular room. “This is it. All older than you or me. Just a reader-feeder op, with enough of us in it to assure the touries that they're seeing real, live people before they get the latest from home.”

The control center is clean, and from his mental runover Martel knows that the equipment all works, everything except a disassembled line feed on the end of the counter where the portable faxers are lined up.

“By the time, I'm Marta Farell. You ready to start, or is this just social?”

“Ready to start. But let me get a few things straight before we start on technicals.”

Martel gestures at the old but clean equipment around them.

“From what you just said, there's no local base to the operation. No, if you will, native support. Who foots the bill?”

Marta pushes a loose strand of hair off her forehead, carefully pats it back into place.

“Not much of a bill, really. We don't have any of the extras here. No image enhancers, no multijection feeds, no strictly outside faxers. We all do the outside work. Not really news usually, but the froth.” She shrugs. “Learn a lot about the basics here. That's all we've got.”

“So it's a small bill. But who pays it?” Martel resists the urge to snap. Like everyone else Marta Farell seems to avoid straight answers.

“You do. Partly. The rest is from fees and donations.”

“Me? Fees?”

“Wait…”

Farell eases into the focal seat, uses the finger-touch controls, and settles herself into a position as the holo scanners focus on her.

“That's the stan update from Karnak. I'm Marta Farell with CastCenter … official fax outlet for KarNews on Aurore. At the chime, stan time will be fourteen-thirty, Aurore Standard, Imperial Central, Karnak Regent.

“Next we'll be taking you with Gates Devero on a tour of the eastern beaches, and a look at a few out-of-the-way spots you may have missed.”

Martel admires the way she slips into the local feed. He wonders if the Devero slot is a repeat.

“Repeat?”

“Right. Geared on the Karnak tourie. Run it twice a bloc month. Once you get the feel of things you'll be out there as well. Interests?”

“Not using my full name,” slips out before he thinks.
Flame! Why did you say that?

Marta Farell only nods. “You a drinker, adventurer, a shopper, anything like that? Rockgrubber or sailor?”

“Loner, I guess. Would a slot on places to really escape fly, really fly?”

“Martel, we got more stans to fill than you dream, and you're only the fifth faxer for a round-the-clock operation. Even an extra half-stan slot a week would help.”

“And who pays the bills…”

“If you're that persistent about faxing, half my problems will be solved. All right. There's a standard ten percent deduction from all pay on Aurore. To pay for services. And we're a service. About one-tenth of one tiny percent goes to the four faxcenters. Mostly for power costs. The fees are from docuslots. The one that's running now was picked up by both KarNews and the MatNet on Halston.

“One of mine ran prime on Tinhorn. You never know. We back-feed regularly, and sometimes they catch. You get two percent commission on the back-feed sales.”

“What's the rate?” Martel doesn't have the faintest idea of what the majors would pay for a backwater documentary.

“Average is maybe a hundred thousand credits a quarter-stan.”

Martel figures. The faxer would get two thousand Imperial credits for each quarter-stan, or four thousand for a standard half-stan bloc. Two full blocs equaled his annual contract. There had to be a catch.

“How many have you had picked up?”

“In the past ten years, I've averaged three full blocs a year. That's the problem.” Farell turns in the seat, waiting as if to see whether he can solve the puzzle.

He spreads his hands, admitting his bewilderment.

“Really good faxcaster can buy out his contract in five years, with enough left for first-class passage anywhere. But you've got to be good, because we can't doctor the tape. Edit, yes, but no image enhancement, viewpoint realterations, threshold emotionals, none of the fancy techniques they taught you at the Institute.”

“Why not?”
Stupid question, Martel!

Farell looks around the studio.

“With what? We've got two portaunits that are up, and one that sometimes works.” She catches her breath and plunges into the next sentence, again unconsciously patting a stray hair back into place. “The reason why we don't have the latest equipment is that the Empire doesn't send it. We buy second-, third-hand. Besides, I doubt that propafax is wanted on Aurore. You'll notice that our relay doesn't carry the emotional bands.”

Martel wants to ask why, but Marta Farell doesn't pause.

“Don't ask. Just say it's not wanted.”

“Stet.” It isn't all right, but what can he say? “Why don't the majors send their own teams?”

“Expensive. Fuel costs once you break sub are twice any other planet in the Empire. Second, let's just say that outside fax teams aren't exactly welcome.”

“Sort of like Imperial agents aren't welcome?” Martel asks with a grin.

“Yes. Not something I'd advise smiling about.”

Martel frowns, turns toward the monitor, rubs his forehead with the middle three fingers on his right hand. He senses the hostility his last remark has triggered.

Why? Awfully sensitive. Just take over the shift and let her go. Right? Wrong. You don't even know the feed parameters.

“Is there a center manual and a set of engineering specs I could study?” he offers.

The woman does not answer, walks over to the console, and pulls out two discs.

“Here. Why don't you use the vidfax in the lounge, second port on the right as you leave. Ought to be able to go through those in a stan or two. Then I'll check you out on the system.”

Martel feels her relief, but does not go into her thoughts to double-check.

The control lock snicks into place as he steps out.

There!
Her thought is as clear as if she had spoken.

Martel smiles. The lock had been engaged when he entered.

Gates Devero, recumbent in a recliner, nods at Martel as he enters the blue-paneled lounge.

“Martel … sorry I was so clumsy when you came in. Don't know what came over me. Really upset Hollie.”

The younger man scans the room.

Gates picks up the inquiring glance and answers. “She's left. Be back later. Getting me a coldpak for this flamed bruise.”

The cheek below Devero's right eye shows the beginning of a dark blotch.

“I hope it wasn't my fault, being later than you expected.”

“No. Need another faxer. Understand your problem. You also carry a second-tech cert?”

“Right.”

“Good. We're only a Beta Class. Means you can handle swings by yourself, long as I'm on call. Better for everyone.”

“Fine with me, once I know what's where.” Martel lifts the discs thrust on him by Marta Farell. “Where's the console?”

“Corner.”

Martel spots it before the engineer finishes his directions.

“Not much,” Gates adds. “Dates from the First Republic.”

Martel's mouth drops open. That would make the unit more than an antique. More like a museum piece.

“Not really.” Gates smiles. “Just what it feels like. Older than anything else in the station. About a century old, if you don't count all the replacements. And don't believe everything I say…”

Martel shakes his head, not fully listening to the engineer's patter, trying to remind himself to doubt things, not to be so flamed accepting.

“… more than one way to do a story, make it good without all the fancy gear those Imperial automatons deck themselves with. Hades! Done better stories myself. So's Hollie. We can't hold a pinlight to Farell or Boster. Probably not to you, if what the record says is true. Even half true.”

“Don't believe all the records, either.” Martel forces a laugh. “I've had all the courses, but no experience.”

“You'll get that quick here. Another thing those big flames on Karnak don't understand. Go there and hold faxers' disc-cases five years before you get a three-clip slot on your own. Farell'll have you out doing half-stan slots in days. 'Course, she won't use it all. Rip you pretty good. But you'll learn.”

Another voice, Hollie Devero's, breaks in.

“She already has you out of the control center?” Her tone is pleasant.

Martel automatically lets his perceptions check her over, but her pleasantness is genuine, as if her “forgetfullness” has taken fully. He hopes so.

“Not exactly. She suggested that I learn the rules, procedures, and schematics.”

“Funny, she is,” Gates comments. “Good editor, good teacher. Has to be, to get a dumb engineer like me to run sub. But sure doesn't want anyone in with her when it's hot. In the other studio, the one she uses to train, another story.” He shrugs. “All got problems. What's yours, Martel?”

Martel returns the shrug. “I suppose my biggest problem is that the Regent and the Grand Duke Kirsten don't like me.”