Angel of Destruction (18 page)

They would be making planetfall at Port Charid very soon.

Hilton Shires had a scarf in his possession to be returned to Daigule; maybe a confrontation between the two men would shake something loose that would prove useful.

He was going to have to get back to Walton Agenis, to let her know the status of the threat to the settlement; and in the meantime he had damage control to conduct, with First Secretary Verlaine.

He wished more than anything that he had something more reassuring to transmit to the Flag Captain: but she trusted him, because he had been honest with her.

Whether or not the truth was something either of them wanted to face, he had to be honest with her.

###

Walton Agenis was weeding in her kitchen-garden when her nephew Hilton Shires peered over the short fence into the enclosure to hail her in the Standard fashion.

“Good-greeting, Aunt, how does the day find you?”

She’d been expecting to see Hilton. Sitting back on her heels, Walton wiped the sweat out of her eyes with the back of her hand, contemplating the tidy rows of tuber greens as she formulated her response.

“I’m well and doing tolerably, young Shires.” It was a joke between them to emphasize the distance between nephew and aunt, though his father was her older brother. Her brother had gotten to be an old man, and could no longer weed tuber greens. It was a shame, because weeding in a garden had been one of the things she’d missed most, during the years of the Langsarik fleet’s outlawry. “How’s by you?”

Apparently encouraged, Hilton slipped the latch on the garden gate and let himself in. He had new clothes, she noticed; the collar of the undershirt that showed its crescent of fabric beneath his jacket was a generic white. Not rose gold. Going native. She wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about that, though. Fitting in was good. Forgetting who you were and where you’d come from was not good.

“I’ve just come home with my wages for my folks. It’s a decent job, Aunt Walton. They’re talking about management.”

He squatted down in the garden as he spoke, gathering the weeds into the wastebasket that lay at the head of the row. Hilton had always been good at making himself useful. “There’ll be a lot of opportunity when the Combine’s new warehouse complex opens. I heard Modice has gone to work for the administration out at the contractor site?”

His intelligence net was working. That was always a good thing. Walton smiled at the weeds, almost despite herself; she was as proud of Hilton — tall and whipcord-wiry and beautiful, intelligent and goodhearted — as though he had been her son, rather than her nephew.

“Shift scheduler, nights. They’re keeping her busy.”

Modice’s new job had created some interesting byproducts as well. For one, there were fewer night prowlers and day callers. For another, some of the young people who had not quite nerved themselves up to go to work for outlanders had suddenly realized the dignity of honest toil — particularly at construction sites — shortly after Modice had gotten a job at the construction site. Modice had needed the distraction. Walton thought she was worrying about Kazmer Daigule.

“Um. I saw that Bench specialist in town the other day, by the way. What’s his name. Garol Vogel.”

Walton dug around the base of a sap-weed with her fingers. One needed to get as good a grip on the root as possible in order to pull it out. If you let the root break, the weed just came back, and seemed to be stronger than ever. Weed management was a near forgotten art among her fleet’s crew, but the principle hadn’t changed.

“Brought you a scarf, I expect. Were you able to return it? Because I’m absolutely not having that thing back. Not under my roof.”

Reaching casually back toward a pocket on the back side of his work pants Hilton seemed to pause, hearing her warning, and think twice. Teasing her.

“Well. All right. I’m not sure it’s safe for me to be carrying around, though. But seriously.”

He’d picked up all the weeds that were there, so he joined her at the edge of the tuber bed to help her work. “Which ones? These? No. These. All right. I’m worried about Kaz, Aunt Walton.”

He was worried, Modice was worried, why should Langsariks worry about any seventeen Sarvaw pilots? Daigule was a good-hearted man, and Hilton was fond of him. That was one thing. Modice being fond of him was something else altogether. “He was out here one night, courting your cousin. We haven’t seen him since. You?”

Shaking his head, Hilton pulled a plant up out of the ground with a stern effort, only then seeming to notice that he’d pulled the wrong thing. Replanting it hastily, Hilton scowled at the dirt while Walton did what she could to avoid noticing the error.

“Once, in port. Days ago. Going on weeks. He had something on his mind, and I didn’t want to talk to him. Pride. I was nervous about my job interview.”

The tuber was back in the ground. It would survive. Now that Hilton knew by experience which plant not to pull he would be that much more efficient, and that was all to the good.

“What do you mean, something on his mind. Worried?”

Hilton seemed to think about this, pulling weeds. The right ones. He had a good grip on things when it came to roots, Walton noticed.

“Not so much worried. He was dropping hints about his job. I didn’t care, and he got irritated at me and left. Now I wish I knew more about what he was doing here.”

Or, maybe not. Of course that was the whole problem, right there. “I can’t see that man mixed up in the sort of trade they’ve been talking, about lately.” Hilton would know what she meant. As hard as it was for her to say something nice about a brash young outlander, she had to be fair. “He’s not a killer. Still less a murderer.”

Brushing the dirt away from the roots of his latest conquest, Hilton held the weed up to the sky and squinted at it. “Here’s my worry, though. Suppose he thought I was bald-facing him. Suppose he thought I’d hired him.”

Yes, it was in fact a weed. Hilton tossed it over his left shoulder and rocked forward onto his hands and knees to seek out his next target. “Because if if if, we might have learned something. Something that might be important for a person to know.”

Or, maybe not, as before. The dirt around one of her tubers had gotten kicked up as she pulled a weed; Walton patted the earth back down around its roots, thinking.

“What did you tell Vogel?”

Hilton shook his head. “I didn’t have anything to tell Vogel. All right, I know about the problem Cheff’s had with the bottling plant, but that’s just hooliganism. There isn’t anything to tell Vogel. You?”

His job had been keeping him very busy; he’d probably had to delegate some of the intelligence work. But he was a good intelligence officer, was her nephew. He would still have heard anything that might be important.

“About the same.” So they both knew there was a problem. The Bench might lie to the public about raids on warehouses for obscure Bench purposes of its own. But Vogel would not come and ask her about it if it hadn’t happened. “There’s gossip, I expect.”

Hilton nodded, grinning. “Oh, yes. We’re much more dangerous people than we ever realized, Aunt Walton. But people do half believe murder of us, and I don’t care for that.”

Nor did any of them.

Vogel would figure it out.

If Vogel didn’t figure something out — they had more than just a problem; they had a potential crisis on their hands. That meant that she needed to think of some way, somehow, that they could protect themselves.

It was not going to be easy. The Bench had their transport, their weapons, their star charts, their communications equipment, their everything.

All they had was Langsariks.

It would have to do.

“There’s this row left to finish, then you can start in on the next.”

Walton dusted off her hands and stood up, thinking. “I’ll send someone out with a drink of water in a bit. Come into the house when you’re finished here, and I’ll tell you what you can do next.”

The muster net had been set up upon their arrival, and tested periodically since. It was time to make sure that the communications network was absolutely up-to-date. Just in case they needed to pass information in a hurry.

If they waited until they needed it, it would be too late.

“Aunt Walton, I’m on my day off. I was going to have a nap,” Hilton protested. But it wasn’t a serious complaint.

Leaving Hilton to the garden, Walton Agenis went into the house, to set the cultivation of the Langsarik self-defense communication network into order and get the weeding done while there was time.

Chapter Seven

Fisner Feraltz had gotten the word as soon as the Bench intelligence specialists docked in Port Charid. He’d hurried to Factor Madlev’s office immediately. The priority transmit equipment the Bench specialists would be wanting was secured in Factor Madlev’s office-safe within the jurisdiction of the Combine Yards, where Factor Madlev could provide oversight and regulation.

He barely had time to get settled and launch the report he’d brought to cover his errand when his quarry arrived: Bench intelligence specialist Garol Vogel, all right, coming into the room with a kind of focused determination that seemed to give him more momentum than mere mass and velocity could impart.

“Excuse me, Factor Madlev,” Vogel said. “Feraltz. If you would be so kind. I’d like to engage priority transmit, I’ll have to ask you to step outside for a moment or two.”

Vogel hadn’t called ahead; his visit was unannounced, and Factor Madlev was inclined to stand on his dignity a little. Fisner started to gather his documents up immediately, taking care to drop the odd document to the floor as he did so; nothing too obvious, of course, but Factor Madlev took the hint as though it had truly been his idea.

“I protest, Bench specialist,” Factor Madlev said mildly — but he had not stood up when Vogel entered the room. “My foreman is my second-in-command, as it were, my proxy. I need hardly point out his very personal interest in your investigation; surely he can be trusted to keep a confidence?”

Fisner said nothing, continuing to collect himself. He didn’t have to overact to make the point about how awkward it was for him to get around in the medical bracing. The awkwardness was genuine enough; the challenge was precisely how to avoid overplaying it.

“It’s rather difficult for him to get out from the new warehouse to see me, I’d rather he were allowed to stay,” Factor Madlev added, in a rather more ingratiating tone of voice. Vogel seemed to consider, watching Fisner packing, chewing on the left corner of his lower lip.

His decision when made was expressed abruptly and ungraciously, but Fisner didn’t take it personally. Vogel was clearly absorbed in his own issues, and meant no particular offense. “Very well. Feraltz, this communication is Bench-restricted, not to be discussed. Factor Madlev, if you would do the honors, please?”

Bench-restricted. Fisner felt a little thrill go through him at the phrase. He wouldn’t be hearing anything truly sensitive; if Vogel had had something important to say he would have summarily excused Factor Madlev as well as Fisner. But Fisner would get to hear the status of Vogel’s investigation up front. It would save time and effort as he analyzed the movements of his antagonist.

Factor Madlev engaged the security web that shielded the walls and coded his secures into the priority-transmit apparatus. Then he gave Vogel the nod; and Vogel spoke clearly and carefully, so that the encoders could perform their voice confirms and clear his signal.

“Bench intelligence specialist Garol Vogel, for the First Secretary. Chilleau Judiciary. Priority transmit.”

First Secretary Verlaine. Chilleau Judiciary would act as the Angel’s weapon against the Langsariks. The Bench specialist would be the man to set the wave of destruction in motion.

“Stand by for Chilleau Judiciary, Specialist Vogel. Signal is clearing.”

It was getting dark in Factor Madlev’s office. The lights were still running on summer-cycle; though the sun was going down, the lights had not come on yet. The weather was turning as well. It was getting colder day by day, and the stiffness of his medical bracing was an increasing source of annoyance to him — one he welcomed for such use as he could make of that annoyance, as in this present instance.

“Signal is cleared. Specialist Vogel, I have the First Secretary, Chilleau Judiciary. Bench concern security in effect, go ahead please.”

“First Secretary? Bench specialist Garol Vogel here. We’ve just come from the Tyrell Yards.”

“Do you have a status report, Specialist Vogel?” That would be the voice of First Secretary Sindha Verlaine. Fisner felt a thrill go up his spine: this was his man, the one who would order the dissolution of the settlement and the dispersal — death, and slavery — of the surviving Langsarik pirates.

“Looks bad from Tyrell Yards, First Secretary.” Specialist Vogel’s tone of voice was mild and considering, almost neutral. Fisner was impressed at any man who could remain neutral after viewing the carnage at the Tyrell Yards. He hadn’t seen it himself; but he’d heard Dalmoss’s report. He could imagine.

“That tells me nothing, Vogel. I’m not exposing the Judge to public criticism on a ‘looking bad.’ What have you got that I can use?”

No, naturally the First Secretary would be sensitive about the Second Judge’s position. There was the memory of the scandal at the Domitt Prison to take into account. Chilleau Judiciary would need persuasive evidence to show the media in order to justify the dissolution of the settlement; that was why those people at Tyrell had been tortured. Why those people at Honan-gung were going to be tortured.

One documented atrocity was as good as eight indications of unrest or possible infractions of amnesty. If the atrocity were grim enough, it didn’t even have to be clearly Langsariks to be convincing. That was how mob psychology worked; Fisner was counting on it.

“What we haven’t got is a body, First Secretary. The staff listing names a Langsarik warehouseman on staff and on duty at the Tyrell Yards, and there’s no Langsarik corpse. The implications are obvious.”

Fisner glanced quickly to the floor, in case any hint of an internal smile of satisfaction should show in his eye. Precisely so. No Langsarik body. Conclusion, Langsarik raid. Negative evidence would do in the absence of eyewitness testimony. There was eyewitness testimony to the Okidan raid after all — his. Carefully qualified, so as to avoid being so obvious that it might raise questions in someone’s mind by its very clarity.

“But you’ll find the body, Bench specialist. Dead or alive. I’m sure of it.”

Fisner wondered whether the note of grim amusement he thought he heard in the First Secretary’s voice was really there, or just his imagination. Vogel bowed slightly toward the priority-access channel’s portal on Factor Madlev’s desk as he replied.

“We’ll mount a quiet search, of course, First Secretary. There appears to be more than one body missing, so we have good hope of finding something.”

Vexing. They’d noticed that Pettiche wasn’t there.

Should he have done that differently? After all — to die in the service of the Angel of Destruction was to go to heavenly glory and eternal overlordship beneath the canopy of Heaven —

It was too late now. Pettiche had gone to Geraint in Dalmoss’s place, with Dalmoss’s identity papers — since Fisner needed Dalmoss to remain behind for the raid on Honan-gung. Pettiche had been gone for two days now. No, there was no profit in second-guessing himself; best simply to concentrate on the piece of the puzzle that he still held and leave the rest for later.

He held the Langsarik they’d taken off Tyrell.

Vogel continued. “The principal problem is that for all the talk of Langsariks, there’s no hints as to how the Langsariks are supposed to have pulled things off. No missing crews. No unexplained affluence in settlement. We can’t make it stick without some explanation, First Secretary.”

Verlaine wanted Vogel to find the body, very well, Vogel would find the body; and if he didn’t, it would have to be the result of determined avoidance, as cleverly as Fisner meant to arrange things. Somehow. He didn’t know exactly how it was going to be yet, but the Holy Mother would guide him, as She had before.

“The public believes that the Langsariks can do magic, Vogel, evidence or no evidence. This is five within the year, and blood makes a strong impression on the minds of governments with merchants to look out for and collect taxes from. Things are warming up uncomfortably for the Second Judge. I’m promising a resolution soon, and doing my best not to define ‘soon.’ Any assistance you can offer will be greatly appreciated.”

Fisner had assistance to offer, though nobody here could even guess.

If the First Secretary is getting pressure now
, Fisner told himself with satisfaction,
just wait till the raid at Honan-gung
. That would put First Secretary Verlaine into a position such that he would have no choice but to revoke the Langsarik amnesty. He’d have all the evidence he needed to back him up. After that the Bench specialists could leave Port Charid and go on to bigger, better, more important issues than that of determining exactly who was actually responsible for commerce raiding in the Shawl of Rikavie.

“Understood, First Secretary. That’s all I have. Bench specialist Garol Aphon Vogel, away, here.”

He’d be away himself as soon as he could be.

Now that Vogel was back in Port Charid the Honan-gung raid could go forward, just as soon as Hilton Shires could be convinced that he had intercepted incriminating and important information.

“Chilleau Judiciary off transmit. Closing session, clear.”

The Bench specialist terminated the transmit. “Thank you, Factor Madlev, I’ll be going. We have some investigations to conduct, but I have no information I can share with you at the present time.”

“Just keep me posted as you can, Bench specialist, and thank you. Don’t forget. Anything we can do to put your efforts forward. Anything at all.”

Vogel nodded and left; Fisner prepared to continue the presentation he’d used to cover his presence here for Vogel’s visit. It wouldn’t be long; he was nearly done.

Then he had things that he could do to put Vogel’s efforts forward.

And Vogel would never even know whom he really had to thank.

###

It was well past the end of his scheduled shift, but Hilton Shires had things to do before he could be comfortable leaving the day’s report for the foreman in the morning. Floor manager Dalmoss had apparently spent as much of his time in administrative tasks as in supervision, and while this new warehouse complex was still far from finished, the foreman had started to move crates into the roughed-out warehouse on overflow.

They simply didn’t have anyplace else to put the cargoes that were coming clear through to Port Charid now that they could no longer be accommodated at Okidan, at Tyrell, at the Combine Yards within the Shawl of Rikavie that had been absorbing the orphaned cargoes for months.

There were three freighter tenders on the airfield just then, and one under cover in off-load; where were they going to put all of this merchandise?

It had to slow down.

It had to.

The Combine’s cargo-handling facilities were already charging a significant premium for the service, in an attempt to bring demand into alignment with the increasingly limited supply of warehouse space and cargo-handling capability. Making money hand over fist, in Hilton’s estimation, because he knew what the Factor was charging, and for amateur handlers in an unfinished warehouse — well.

The second shift on construction had gone off; third shift was at the far end of the facility trying to get the rest of the exterior walls up before the winter rains set in. Hilton was alone at his end of the warehouse, walking from cargo tower to cargo tower as he struggled to locate all of the lots his record showed as having been off-loaded on his shift.

It was quiet where he was.

The far end of the warehouse complex where third shift was at work was out of earshot; though Hilton could see movement down at the end of the facility, it was only in a vague and generalized fashion. Quiet, and he was tired; only three more columns of figures to locate and he’d be able to sign off on the receiving report and log his duty roster and go to bed.

The dormitory building was still under construction as well, but he could sleep there free of charge and be accounted for when the midnight tally report was done. He didn’t relish the prospect of hiking all the way back out to the settlement at this hour. It was cold out there, and since the roads were not well lighted, it was a little difficult to navigate over the uneven terrain at the side of the transit track without mistaking a shadow for a rock or vice versa, with adverse consequences for one’s flesh and clothing.

The dormitory would be warm and dry, and Factor Madlev made sure there was always hot soup in the communal kitchen for people coming off shift. So that was dinner, as well, and his wages on top of it — it was a good bargain all around.

If it hadn’t been for the uncertainty that hung over the entire Langsarik settlement, life would be good. Factor Madlev firmly discounted the gossip, coming out very strongly against any loose anti-Langsarik talk on his work crews; but there would be no escaping it until the problem was solved somehow. Someone was raiding warehouses and murdering people. Langsariks had been very successful commerce raiders. Not all the public support Factor Madlev — and Foreman Feraltz, and floor manager Dalmoss, when he got back from Geraint — could give would change that fact.

Weaving his way through the towering stacks of off-loaded crates, Hilton checked crate markers against his list, filling out his tally sheet. Almost there. Less than two columns left to check, and he had hit a good grouping, the crates on this aisle seemed to have been stacked in order by accident. It didn’t always turn out that way. Hilton had almost wondered if someone had jumbled the crates on him on purpose, earlier in the day, as part of a scheme of petty harassment or something — or maybe it was just a form of hazing, on the part of the crew.

Or maybe there was no intention to blame for the confusion at all, and that had just been the way the crates had stacked. It didn’t matter. He was almost done. And he got paid for his overtime, so he had nothing to complain about.

He stopped at the end of one long row of crates to tilt his tally sheet to the light and check his figures; and then he heard something.

It was dead quiet in this part of the warehouse complex; there was no wind that night, and while the raw construction did creak and moan a bit while the temperature fell at sunset, what he thought he could hear was not the groaning of a growing building talking to itself but someone talking to himself.