Between the Stars (4 page)

"After you," François said, gesturing toward a door bearing Ulric's personal wolf-head crest.

Derek took a deep breath. The spin-induced gravity at Sidon was Mars-normal, about one-third of Earth's. He tried to use the gravity to achieve a confident stride as he walked into the wolf's den.

Ulric sat cross-legged on the polished stone floor, glaring up at him from beneath bushy white eyebrows. His silver hair flowed almost to his shoulders and a walrus mustache overhung his piranha mouth. His black coverall was embroidered with a wolf-mask in silver thread.

"Greetings, Elder Uncle," Derek began formally.

"Hand it over, nephew," Ulric barked, holding out a platter-sized palm.

"Hand over what?" Uh-oh, he thought.

"Don't insult my intelligence! I mean the other artifact! You found more than one, didn't you?"

Derek assumed a look of wounded innocence. "Who, me?"

Ulric's ice-blue eyes went into liquid-nitrogen mode. "Don't talk like an idiot, you product of a sperm bank for the hopelessly defective! Do you believe your elders have lost their capacity to think logically? Your recent actions are so transparent I am ashamed to call you my kinsman. I could have come up with a more convincing subterfuge while sleeping off a three-day drunk!"

Derek kept silence. This was going to be even worse than he had feared. It never occurred to him to turn and walk away, as was his perfect legal right. Clan obligations went far deeper than mere constitutional technicalities.

Ulric continued his tirade. "You're a glory-hungry young whelp, with an over-inflated idea of your own importance—a common failing of the young. Yet, after finding the now-famous green egg, you did not accompany it back! You passed up your chance to be holographed throughout human-occupied space. You'd have been famous for whole days!

"Instead, you terminated your employment and ran off as if you were publicity-shy; a laughable concept if ever there was one. There is only one possible answer: There was another alien artifact and you made off with it. Now hand it over."

"I have no such thing," Derek said, being truthful after a fashion.

"Then where did you hide it? Don't be cagey with me, Derek. Are you planning to sell it? No, you may be dumb, but you're probably not a crook." Ulric sat back and folded his arms, glaring ferociously. Derek tried not to quake. "Damn!" Ulric muttered at last. "You've given it to that woman, haven't you?" Before Derek could frame an answer, Ulric silenced him with an abrupt wave. "No, don't try lying to me, you just aren't good at it. Everybody wondered why the green egg didn't bring Sieglinde powering into Aeaea on her mythical super-luminal drive."

"She might've been on Earth," Derek said, helpfully. "Or Luna. Or even farther away. It takes a long time—"

"Silence." Somehow, Derek thought, Ulric sounded even deadlier speaking quietly than when raging. "She was here in the stronghold not thirty days ago. Now she's hiding out somewhere with that artifact you gave her, you unthinking young wretch."

Derek decided to drop all pretense. "You're acting like I gave it to some Earthie, or an outsider. Sieglinde's part of the clan; she's a Taggart."

"By marriage," Ulric grumbled. "She's crazier than the Cianos, and they're all lunatics."

"She's the greatest theoretical and experimental physicist alive," Derek said, loyally.

"So she tells everybody. Her faster-than-light schemes have never panned out, but they've cost a bundle."

Derek relaxed a little. The worst seemed to be past. "It's all been her own money."

Ulric twisted the end of his mustache and signaled to Derek to sit. With great relief, the younger man did so. A squat, domed robot with a flat bottom came gliding from a wall on a cushion of air. A pair of low-grav beakers rose through a door in its top. Bubbles rose lazily through amber liquid and raised a slow-motion spray on the surface. Derek took one and sipped it. After all these years, he still couldn't believe that Ulric's favorite drink was champagne.

"It could be worse," Ulric said at last. "My main worry is that that madwoman will destroy the thing trying to take it apart. It was another of the eggs, wasn't it?"

"Yes, identical to the one sent to the Aeaeans, as far as I could see."

"As soon as the
Althing
hears of this, and believe me they will hear of it, people will be calling for your head. Still, maybe it's not such a bad thing that two are being analyzed independently. But why did you do it?"

Derek finished his beaker and tossed it to the robot for a refill. "First of all, because I knew the McNaughtons would try to claim ownership of it, which seems absurd even if it's legal."

"I'll grant you that. And second?"

"Sieglinde's working on the Drive. Whatever these aliens are or were, they had some kind of interstellar drive to reach Rhea. If there's a chance the thing could help her to break the puzzle, I wanted her to have it."

Ulric seemed almost to smile, but it was hard to tell beneath the overhanging mustache. "So that's it. Still anxious to make the big move, are you?"

"What do you think?" He took a drink from his second beaker. At least it was good champagne. "What's left for us here in this solar system? The resources may be virtually inexhaustible, but the Earthies' patience certainly isn't. It's only a matter of time before there's another war. Anyway, I want to go and see what's out there."

"Only you don't want to spend your entire life covering the first tenth of the journey, is that it?"

"Naturally. Subluminal travel is a dead end at interstellar distances. I want to actually see what other star systems are like. Why else have I been training for planetary activity all my life? I certainly don't plan to go to Earth!" Another thought occurred to him. "When it gets out what I did, the McNaughtons will be after my blood. " His former employer seemed far more dangerous than the rather nebulous
Althing
, as the Confederate congress was termed.

"Let us worry about the McNaughtons," Ulric said. The families had at various times been friends or fierce rivals. They were connected by marriage ties, but the McNaughtons were not members of the clan. "Still, you're out of a job and you need something to keep you occupied and out of trouble. How would you like to work in security?"

This was unexpected. There had to be a catch somewhere. A man like Ulric just didn't turn off the hostility so easily. "What kind of work?" he asked, cautiously.

"Bait. The Earthies must have agents heading here by now, if they aren't here already. Most will try to break into Aeaea's infonet, but somebody will decide you're worth interrogating. That might be convenient."

At least Ulric hadn't gone soft. "It's good to know the family still finds me valuable. This sounds like dangerous work. What's the pay?"

"Pay?" Ulric looked mortally stricken. "Where's your family loyalty?"

"Where it always is. On the other hand, it wouldn't do to let people think I work cheap."

"Who would know?" Ulric said. "Besides, they'd be after you anyway, even if you weren't working security for me."

"I was thinking of going to a body shop for a new face. I already have several alternate identities worked up. They'd never find me." He watched with satisfaction as Ulric's face went through several color changes. Then he wondered whether he had pushed his luck too far.

"All right," Ulric said when his breathing returned to normal. "Third-level pay with full seniority rights."

"And you'll pick up the payments on
Cyrano
?" Derek asked.

Ulric stared at him in utter astonishment. "Your insolence surpasses belief. You talk like a Ciano."

"Hell, I'm related to them by about fifteen bloodlines, just like you."

"Out!" Ulric pointed toward the door with a rage-trembling finger. "Get out of here, and don't come back unless you have something worthwhile to report!"

"But what am I supposed to do?" He backed hastily toward the portal.

"Circulate. Go out carousing with your worthless friends. Be prominent and make a target of yourself. What do I care so long as you show results? Rig yourself with recording gear so if you get killed we know who did it."

Derek backed out and the door slid shut, almost catching his nose. He found François still waiting outside with his grin unchanged. "How did it go?" he asked.

"Not bad," Derek said, "I've been hired on with security at third-level pay with full seniority. And he's picking up
Cyrano
's payment schedule." Thhe look on is cousin's face was worth all the trepidation.

FOUR

Shevket leaned over the green baize and carefully plotted his shot. His right hand swung in a brief, precise arc. The stick slid between the gloved fingers of his right hand, and the leather tip struck the cueball on its outer surface in a perfect line with its center of mass. The white ball rebounded from two cushions and struck another white ball, this one with two black spots. The spotted ball caromed off another rail and clicked elegantly into a red ball. He stood back and lightly stroked the leather tip of the stick with a cube of blue chalk while he planned his next shot.

Larsen stood patiently, awaiting his turn. He had no interest in the game and did not play it well. Shevket was a man of action and preferred to speak while moving about and performing some function, preferably competitive. Larsen was willing to put up with it, if in the meantime the Turk would speak his mind.

"Carstairs," Shevket said, sighting along the cue stick. "He has to go. The man has stayed around too long. He is in our way."

"Carstairs did not reach his present eminence by being soft," Larsen said. "He has not stayed there by being foolish. He has dealt with attempted coups in the past, always successfully." He flicked imaginary lint from his impeccably tailored Saville Row sleeve. He detested Shevket, who was an uncultured beast from a part of the world not distinguished for its devotion to humanitarian behavior. However, the Turk was invaluable as an enforcer.

"Carstairs now is not the man he once was. In any case, he came to power in an easier world, when people still believed in a better future. He is accustomed to gaining his ends through political maneuvering, and that's a thing of the past. Only force counts now." He made another perfect three-cushion shot. "He was never a military man. He never understood the needs of the military."

"Yet he used the military quite efficiently," Larsen pointed out. "He had no difficulty in bending the generals to his will."

Shevket's next shot was a bit too forceful and he missed the red ball by a fraction of an inch. "The military system of four decades ago was weak and corrupt." He placed his stick on a rack, apparently no longer interested in the game. "In those days, the upper ranks were held by political officers—old cronies of whatever Secretary General was in power. That was why he could manipulate them. It is also why they were so easily defeated in the First Space War."

"The First?" Larsen's dark eyebrows arched. "Since it was the only space war, why this numerical distinction?"

"Don't be obtuse," Shevket said. From a shelf in the billiard room he took his riding whip and slipped his hand through its wrist thong. With infinite care, he placed his hat at exactly the proper angle. His gloved fingers left no mark on its gleaming obsidian bill. "It was Space War One because there will be another, and soon. I've completely reformed the military. My officers are superbly trained. They hate the offworlders with intense passion. They are also perfectly loyal and willing to undertake any mission of conquest upon which I order them."

"In other words, they are fanatics?"

"Exactly. But they cannot be kept waiting forever. I have forged an army of conquest, and such an army will disintegrate from sheer boredom without worlds to conquer. Come, our luncheon guests await."

As they left the billiard room, their bodyguards fell in behind them at a discreet distance. Shevket's wore the black uniform of his elite guard. Larsen's were anonymous men and women in civilian clothing.

The Great Palace of the United Nations overlooked Lake Geneva. It was a grandiose structure, architectural propaganda designed to impress the citizenry with the majesty and power of the state. Every wall, pillar and decoration was outsized, scaled to inflict the viewer with a sense of awe and of the insignificance of the individual.

Larsen considered it to be garish and horrid, but he had to admit that it served its intended purpose well. The corridor they now occupied was floored with a single Bokhara carpet more than one hundred meters long and ten meters wide. The walls were of sea-green marble, covered with famous paintings. Many of the world's great masterpieces had been removed to the Palace for "safekeeping."

Larsen paused before one of his favorites, a Picasso from the artist's Blue Period, depicting an old man playing a guitar. "So, is policy to be formulated for the happiness and well being of the military?"

"Naturally," Shevket said, ignoring the painting. "At this moment, there are only two power structures of any consequence: the Party and the military. Over the years, all other organizations claiming rival power have been demolished. On this planet, the only power that can destroy the Party is the military. The Party cannot threaten the military at all. Therefore, the military wields the whip. Logical, is it not?"

Shevket strolled across the corridor and stood before a gigantic painting of lurid color and furious action. "That is my favorite," he said. "The French of the First Empire had spirit, unlike your bloodless Picasso and his whining post-World War One generation."

The painting was Delacroix's
Death of Sardanapalus
. From atop his funeral pyre, the monarch whose city was about to be overwhelmed calmly surveyed the spectacle below him. On the slopes of the gigantic pyre, his wives, concubines, horses, dogs, slaves and treasure were being slaughtered or placed for immolation. It would be impossible, Larsen thought, to find a painting that more accurately expressed the personality of Mehmet Shevket.

Shevket pointed with the handle of his whip at the most prominent group in the foreground. A savage-looking warrior held a beautiful, naked odalisque by her pinioned wrists. The painting froze him in the action of plunging a serpentine dagger into her breast as she struggled futilely for her life. "This is a wonderful detail. Do you notice how the curve of the soldier's
yataghan
precisely echoes the curvature of the woman's body? A nice touch, the
yataghan
: It's a Turkish blade."

The idea of Shevket as an art critic was mind-numbing. "Your plans of military supremacy are a bit premature, aren't they? Carstairs is still there, and neither of us truly knows the extent of his power."

"His power is a myth," Shevket insisted, slapping the knotted thongs of his whip against the side of his boot. "Now is the time to prove it!"

"No," Larsen said coolly. "Now is the time to find out what the Rhea Object represents. A few weeks ago, I might have agreed that this was a good time for a test of power. Now, I do not. The heads of the Academy tell me that this could be one of those rare discoveries that changes everything. To act, one must have the greatest possible certainty of the situation. A situation of such fluidity, with so many unknown factors—" He shrugged his narrow shoulders. "It is not a good time to take irrevocable action."

"You think too much, Aage. If you think too much, you never take quick, decisive action. But then, that is probably why we make a good team, you and I. Rest assured, though; when I know that the time is ripe for action, I will act without consulting your overcautious advice." He whirled on a chrome-spurred heel and strode down the corridor. Larsen hurried to catch up, cursing this sudden loss of initiative.

"I agree, though," the Turk went on, "that this alien artifact business is of great importance. It could be a powerful new weapon. I've assigned some of our best teams to the task."

"I know," Larsen said. "I've gone over the reports from Intelligence. Who is your personal operative on this?"

"I've given it to Daniko Vladyka. The other teams may foil, but not Vladyka. I've also given him orders to kill the Kornfeld woman. She was our most dangerous adversary in the last war. I do not want her on the other side in the next."

Larsen stopped and faced Shevket. "You didn't consult with me about that."

"It isn't your department," said the Turk. "You are forbidden by law to order an assassination unless you have assumed your wartime powers, and that must be voted upon by the Security Council, remember? It's an old custom among military men to save their superiors embarrassment by acting unilaterally. Deniability is a wonderful thing. "

Larsen was still fuming as they entered the dining room. It was not one of the State dining rooms, where the scale was as lavish as the decor, but one of the more intimate chambers, with small tables and few distractions, as befitted a room where serious discussions and decisions took place.

Still, this was a facility for the Party elite, so a complete absence of luxury was unthinkable. The waiters were human rather than the cheaper robots, and these were all Caucasian North Europeans. This was flattering to people from the former Third World and earned the Party cheap points for respecting the sensitivity of the poorer brethren. Even in a world with an enormous and idle surplus population, human domestics were hard to find. The Party solved the servant problem by the simple expedient of using military recruits.

Four men already sat at the table, waiting for Larsen and Shevket. As two of the most highly placed Party members, it was their privilege to be late. Three of the others were also important Party members: Hua, a deputy welfare minister; Chalmers, Chairman of the Council for Military Affairs; and Ghose, secretary to the Minister for Finance. The fourth man was a nonentity—the President of Tanzania, one of the beggar nations that made up the majority of the U.N. Such persons were included at luncheons where no significant business was to be discussed in order to stifle complaints that the leaders of small nations were denied access to the inner sanctums of the mighty.

Larsen greeted the others with professional warmth, Shevket with barely concealed contempt. The waiters began bringing drinks and hors d'oeuvres and the men talked of inconsequentialities. Larsen was relaxed and charming in the familiar milieu. Shevket was bored and restless, and he drank heavily.

The Tanzanian fidgeted and sweated for the better part of an hour, then worked up his courage to break into a conversation about the upcoming Party convention.

"Sirs," said the African, "I have come here to Geneva to discuss matters of great importance, but I can find no one who will listen!"

The others were startled at this rudeness, but Hua smiled broadly. "Mr. President, you are among friends here. Speak freely. How may we be of assistance?"

"Sirs, my people are starving! I do not exaggerate here. There is real starvation in the cities and the countryside. This year, the rice harvest in China has been exceptionally abundant. The wheat harvest in North America has also been excellent. Why has there been no distribution of this grain to my nation?"

"Ah, Mr. President," Hua said, spreading his hands in an appeal to reason, "there are many needy people among whom this largesse must be divided. Some are suffering far more hardship than your people."

"Dead is dead," the president insisted. "You cannot suffer more. If you will not aid us, then you must let me open the Serengeti to farming and grazing."

"That is out of the question, Mr. President," Ghose said. "The Serengeti is an irreplaceable natural resource. It belongs to all humanity." In truth, environmentalism was a dead issue. The Serengeti was a game park available only to party VIPs and their favored guests.

"My people must have food or I shall not be able to control them!"

"Then perhaps," said Shevket, leaning over the table, "it is time your people felt the whip! Do not be so sure they have reached the limit of their capacity to suffer. I can teach them what those limits are."

He sat back and drained a wine glass, holding it out to a waiter to refill. The others stared at him in stunned silence. Such talk was simply not heard within the Palace. Hesitantly, conversation picked up and Larsen exerted his best skills to smooth over the breach. Shevket said no more for the rest of the meal.

After the luncheon broke up, Chalmers and Hua walked with Larsen on the terrace with its spectacular view of the lake.

"Bit of a shock, wasn't it?" said Chalmers, a thin man with perfect military bearing and an Oxford accent. "Shevket speaking out like that, I mean."

Inwardly, Larsen cursed the Turk's premature assertion of power. "I think the general had a bit too much to drink this afternoon. I am sure he would not—"

"Oh, not at all," Chalmers interrupted. "I think it's high time such talk was heard."

"Exactly my thought," Hua said. "It is time we curbed these petty potentates of worthless nations. We are all tired of this quagmire of sub-Saharan Africa. General Shevket is just the man to settle them."

"Oh, I don't think military action is really called for, old boy," Chalmers said. "Just cut them loose and let them starve."

"I agree," Hua said, as Larsen's mind worked furiously. "There are more important enemies to consider than the African primitives. Australia, for instance." The Australians had stubbornly resisted U.N. confiscation of their resources. The population was hard-working, independent and notoriously reluctant to part with their hard-earned wealth.

"Am I to assume, then, " said Larsen, "that you two would support the general, should he advocate, shall we say, a harder line with the member nations? Not just the rebel movements, but with the nations themselves?"

"You may," said Chalmers. "And we are not alone in this. Quite a few of us would like to see a bit of discipline thrashed into the surplus population of this planet. They've come to take too seriously all the rhetoric about freedom and equality."

"Yes," said Hua. "We have grown decadent. We need to return to the original principles of the Party. It is time for a long-needed purge as well. You may tell the general that."

Later, back in his office, Larsen thought over what he had heard. Chalmers and Hua must have been looking for an opportunity to speak as they had. Shevket's outburst had provided the excuse. They would never have spoken so, had there not been many others in the Party elite who were like-minded. Shevket was right. The time was growing ripe for a coup. If only it were not for the great unknown factor: the Rhea Object. Just what did it represent? He pounded a fist on his desk top in sheer frustration. Just what was the damned thing?