Deadman Switch (17 page)

I studied him. “Sounds like a nicely self-serving plan. What went wrong with it?”

A quiet pain crossed his face. “A few months ago a mining scout ship ran across a body floating out in the rings. An illegal inzombi, dumped by a smuggling ship after getting through the Cloud. Turned out she was the daughter of an old friend.”

“I'm sorry,” I murmured.

“You belong to Carillon, Benedar. Carillon is a major corporation, based on a Patri world. That makes your offer of help suspect.”

I took a deep breath. “Commodore, there's no trickery involved here. The simple fact is that I need a smuggler—need to have him caught, tried, and convicted within the next week.”

Freitag's eyebrows rose fractionally. “You Watchers really
do
believe in miracles, don't you? What is this, some sort of private bet?”

I shook my head. “I need to find a substitute … outzombi … before our ship is ready to leave Solitaire.”

The eyebrows rose a bit more. “Something wrong with your current one?”

“Perhaps with her original conviction,” I told him. “The details aren't important; what
is
important is that I get hold of a properly convicted criminal before we have to execute her.”

Understanding came into his eyes … understanding, plus a tinge of anger. “And since the judiciary has told you that you can't have a Solitaran, you decided to come to me?”

“Yes, sir,” I said cautiously. The anger was unexpected, and it made me nervous. “But I don't understand why that matters. We would still be helping each other—”

“I don't like being used, Benedar,” he cut me off abruptly.
“Or
being toyed with. So I roll over nicely and get you your smuggler and we're all happy, eh?”

“It doesn't have to end there,” I said, finally sorting through his emotional labyrinth. “I could still help you track the rest of the smuggler connections—”

“From where?” he shot back. “Portslava? Come on, Benedar, I'm not stupid. You get your outzombi and you'll be off like a shot—leaving me with a job not even half done and with the rest of the smugglers alerted to the fact that I'm not the fool I've worked so hard to convince them I am.”

He broke off, suddenly aware that he'd been raging before a total stranger. “But as you said a minute ago, the details aren't important. What's important is that if I don't sweep out the whole smuggler web in one stroke the whole exercise will be for nothing. That, and the fact that you and your allegedly innocent outzombi have no place in that plan. Good day, Mr. Benedar.”

I swallowed hard. “Commodore, this is a matter of life and death—”

“Good
day,
Mr. Benedar.”

“Commodore—”

Behind me the door opened, and I heard the lieutenant's footsteps coming up behind me. “This way, sir,” the other said, almost in my ear. From his voice I could tell he was prepared to use force if necessary.

I gazed into Freitag's face, searching for some indication that there might still be a chance for me to change his mind. But if there was, it was buried too deeply even for me to find it.

Silently, I turned and left.

One by one, in much the same way, all the other possibilities withered and died.

It was near evening by the time I returned to Rainbow's End and the
Bellwether,
footsore and as emotionally weary as I'd been in a long time. Passing through the gatelock, I managed perfunctory greetings to Daiv Ifversn and Seqoya and headed directly for my stateroom.

I made it without running into anyone else. Flopping back onto my bed, I stared up at the ceiling … and tried to think.

Commodore Freitag, Governor Rybakov's office, the Police Coordinator's office, even the Solitaran judiciary again—I'd hit them all. Searched the Solitaran bureaucracy from top to bottom looking for someone who could help.

None could. Or none wanted to.

I closed my eyes, squeezing tears out as I did so. Tears of frustration, of helplessness. In less than twelve hours we'd be leaving Solitaire for the ring mines … and Calandra would be dead.

Even I couldn't generate any false hope this time. Once we were off Solitaire, away from the center of the system's government and judiciary, all hope would be gone. From Collet to Solitaire was a four-day round trip; with a minimum of at least a few days for a trial—even assuming the judiciary consented to the use of pravdrugs to speed things along—there was simply no way a smuggler could be convicted and sentenced in the twelve days we had left in the system. Not even if he strolled aboard the
Bellwether
and surrendered to us.

Twelve days left … and then an innocent woman would die.

Unless she was not, in fact, innocent.

I shifted uncomfortably on my bed. That was indeed the crux of the whole problem, a question that had haunted me since the moment I met her. The Outbound judiciary had convicted her, after all, based on what they had thought was good and proper evidence of guilt. Whatever that evidence was, it was light-years away, and without it I would never convince anyone on Solitaire of her innocence.

But as for myself …

So pride is a necklace to the wicked, violence the garment they wear. From their fat oozes out malice, their hearts drip with cunning. Cynically they advocate evil, loftily they advocate force. Their mouth claims heaven for themselves, and their tongue is never still on earth …

Overly poetic, perhaps … and yet, there was more than a grain of truth to be found in the words. There was indeed a sort of aura of character that rested within every person I'd ever met; an aura built up over long years of habit in thought and action until it was a clear reflection of the basic personality underlying it. My teachers back at the Cana settlement had likened it to the bedrock beneath an ever-changing surface landscape … a bedrock that could not be changed overnight by any act of will.

I'd spoken with Calandra, over several days and in several different situations. I'd read the nuances of her character in her eyes, her face, and her body … and for me, there was only one conclusion possible.

Calandra was a human being, not a saint. Her aura showed clearly the same fears and passions and weaknesses that all the rest of us possessed. It did not show the icy callousness of a murderer.

Blessed are the merciful: they shall have mercy shown them …

Let the weak and the orphan have justice, he fair to the wretched and the destitute. Rescue the weak and the needy, save them from the clutches of the wicked …

I'd tried; I really had. I'd pleaded with Randon, with Commodore Freitag, with every Solitaran official I could find. Every door I'd come up with had been slammed in my face.

Blessed are the merciful: they shall have mercy shown them …

“But I've
done
everything I can,” I snarled aloud at the thought. The thought, and the guilt playing around the edges of it. “There's nothing else I can
do.”

But there was. One more thing I could try …

And indeed, which of you here, intending to build a tower, would not first sit down and work out the cost to see if he had enough to complete it?

A shiver ran through me. Yes, there was one thing left I could try … but it would cost me. It would cost me a great deal.

Be obedient to those who are your masters …

How blessed are those to whom God imputes no guilt, whose spirit harbors no deceit …

Whoever looks after his master will be honored …

Because it wasn't just my job or even my honor that would be at risk here. My entire life would be on the line … as would the lives of many others.

I couldn't do it. I didn't
want
to do it.

Blessed are the merciful: they shall have mercy shown them …

There was no argument I could make to that. In the end, I gave in.

T
HERE ARE A THOUSAND
small sounds and vibrations that exist in a ship the size of the
Bellwether:
the sounds of movement, of machinery and equipment, even the vague background fusion of a dozen mixed conversations. Small sounds, generally: a person newly arrived aboard ship would probably be totally unaware of most of them, and within a short time wouldn't even hear the rest. For me, though, they were always there, hovering at the background of my awareness and frequently intruding on it.

So it was that I was able now to lay back on my bed, eyes closed, and listen as the
Bellwether
shut itself down for the night.

Only partially, of course. One of the senior officers would still be on the bridge, while two or three crewers would similarly be holding station in the engine room and central monitor wraparound. And Kutzko would of course have one of his shields outside Calandra's stateroom. But the rest of the off-duty officers and crewers would be in their rooms, preparing for bed … as would Randon and the other passengers.

I waited until the ship had been quiet for fifteen minutes before leaving my stateroom. No one else was in sight as I made my way forward as quickly and quietly as I could. Second Officer Laskowski would be on duty on the bridge; and if I'd judged things properly …

I had. “Mr. Benedar,” Captain Bartholomy nodded, his sense showing mild surprise at my presence as I entered the bridge. Laskowski glanced up from his status readouts, returned his attention to his work without saying anything.

“Captain,” I nodded in return, fighting to keep my voice normal. “I'm glad I caught you—Mr. Kelsey-Ramos told me you'd probably be here and could give me a hand.”

In my ears the lie seemed so patently obvious that for that first horrible second I was certain that there was absolutely no way Bartholomy could fail to detect it. My stomach knotted spasmodically, and I waited an eternity for him to call me on it—

“Yes, I usually do a quick check before I turn in,” he grunted. “What can I do for you?”

Through the pounding in my ears I dimly noticed I was holding my breath. “I need to put in a request with the tower,” I said through dry lips, beginning to breathe again. “I'm supposed to see if there's something in the way of a small insystem ship I can rent.”

Bartholomy's eyebrows rose politely. “Mr. Kelsey-Ramos has decided he doesn't trust the
Bellwether?”

I matched his smile as best I could. “Hardly, Captain. No, he's decided it might be a good idea for us to take copies of the HTI data out to the ring mines on two separate ships.”

He frowned; but in interest, not suspicion. “The stuffs that explosive, eh? I've been hearing rumors about it.”

“HTI's already tried to get it back once,” I told him, reading both him and the eavesdropping Laskowski as deeply as I could. Not a spark of suspicion in either of them; and it gave me the confidence to throw in a small embellishment. “The problem now is that Dapper Schock says there are ways of at least partially scrambling computer data from outside a ship in deep space.”

Bartholomy snorted. “That's a new one on me,” he commented. “Did Mr. Kelsey-Ramos say how big a crew he was planning to send on this sidecar?”

“Just me,” I said.

The eyebrows went up again, and I immediately wished I'd quoted a larger number. Still no suspicion, but abruptly his sense had switched from interest to uncertainty. “Just you?” he echoed.

“Yes,” I nodded, my stomach knotting up again. “Most everybody else is needed here during flight.” A flicker of an idea in his eyes—a touch of distaste along with it—distaste that seemed to indicate a personality conflict—“Besides,” I added, hoping I had read him correctly, “Mr. Kelsey-Ramos said that if too many people show up missing, Aikman is likely to notice and get suspicious.”

I'd indeed read him right. Bartholomy nodded, uncertainties fading as his own thought was quoted back to him. “Yes, I was just thinking that,” he grunted. “Well, let's see what we can do.”

Stepping back over to his command station, he sat down and keyed the phone. “Spaceport Tower,” he instructed it. “… Yes, this is Captain Bartholomy aboard the
Bellwether.
I need to locate something along the lines of a shrink-yacht, as soon as possible … no, with preprogramming capability … yes, I'll hold on.” He looked up at me. “She's going to check and see what they've got.”

The sense of him was a knowing sort of anticipation … “Mr. Kelsey-Ramos said that they
did
regularly rent out ships,” I said, daring again.

And again I'd hit the mark. “Yes, that's what she said,” he nodded. “It's just a matter of—yes?” he interrupted himself, looking back at the display. “… say again?” he said, reaching for his keyboard. “A Cricket V Rockhopper; right. Can you feed me the specs?”

The light reflecting from his face changed subtly, indicating the display had split between the phone and the tower's computer records. One look, and his sense became one of satisfaction. “Sounds good, Tower, we'll take it. When can it be ready?” He looked up at me. “How soon do you want it?”

“As soon as possible,” I said. A sense of unreality was creeping over me. This was actually working …

“We'd like it stat, Tower,” Bartholomy said into the phone. “… Yes, an hour will be fine. Provision it for a four-day trip for one, plus a double safety margin. Bill it to our account—no, wait a second.” An edge of slyness touched his sense. “Bill it to HTI Transport, care of Mr. Sahm Aikman, aboard this ship … Thank you, Tower.
Bellwether
out.”

He disconnected and looked up at me, a satisfied smile playing around his face. “You've got your ship, Mr. Benedar—launch cat fifty-seven. Better get out there.”

I licked moisture back onto my lips. “Can you really do that? Bill it to Aikman, I mean?”

He shrugged. “Oh, we'll pay the bill when it comes—no one's going to care whose account the money comes out of. But until it's paid anyone checking will find only HTI's name there. Probably won't fool anybody, but it ought to irritate them good.”