Angel of Destruction (27 page)

“We’ll wait.” The First Secretary didn’t sound convinced; the battle was half-won already. Soon it would be academic. “But not for very long. Priority call as soon as you arrive, Specialist Vogel. We’re very anxious to review your findings.”

Fisner had to stifle his grin of glee. It was an effort, but he managed.

Vogel bowed to the voice port on Factor Madlev’s desk, saluting the Bench in the person of the Second Judge’s principal administrator. “Leaving very soon, First Secretary. Vogel away, here.”

“Looking forward to it. Chilleau Judiciary, away.”

The First Secretary spoke for the Second Judge, and Vogel answered to the Bench. If the Bench decided not to wait any longer for Vogel’s solution to its problem at Port Charid, that was the Bench’s right and prerogative.

“So, we’ll be having an end to all this, soon,” Factor Madlev said. It was obviously as much as he dared say but so much less than he wanted to know.

Vogel nodded confidently. “That’s right, Factor Madlev. The information I have for the Second Judge is conclusive. Once she but sees what I have to show her, it will be all over but the deliberations.”

Vogel would never know; but the Angel of Destruction had bested even a Bench intelligence specialist and shaped Vogel to its will in the pursuit of its special mission.

Once the Fleet Interrogations Group arrived, with its Brief in full effect —

The Langsariks would die horribly, and he would be revenged.

###

Midmorning, the day after Hilton had located the battle cannon on the floor of the new warehouse, Kazmer Daigule sat before the console in the wheelhouse of the Malcontent’s shuttle, watching as Garol Vogel’s courier tracked for the Shawl of Rikavie and the Sillume vector.

“Good riddance,” Cousin Stanoczk said, from behind him. “Nothing but trouble, Bench intelligence specialists. Now perhaps we can all get on about our business here, without the interference of persons impertinently trying to interest themselves in other people’s affairs.”

It was a pretty little thing, Vogel’s courier. In his previous life Kazmer had dreamed of some year owning something like that. Now he owned nothing — but if he was to face a lifetime of service as pilot on craft such as the one Cousin Stanoczk had taken from Anglace, had he really lost? Since realistically speaking his chances of ever affording anything in either class were slim indeed —

“That’s the idea, anyway,” Garol Vogel said, from where he stood at Stanoczk’s side. There was no hint of resentment in his voice, though Stanoczk could be unpleasantly sharp when it suited him. “Has the freighter tender we want moved yet, Daigule?”

No, it hadn’t. In fact the freighter tender that Hilton had identified as the one to watch was the only one that Fisner Feraltz had not released to unload and stand by in response to Cousin Stanoczk’s request, made a day ago, for eight freighter tenders to be made available.

Kazmer keyed his window on the warehouse’s traffic monitors, just to be sure. “Stasis,” Kazmer said, pointing to the screen with satisfaction. “Going nowhere. So we can be sure that it’s the one.”

Vogel nodded with grim satisfaction, then looked to Cousin Stanoczk. “How are we doing on the cargo for Honan-gung?”

Cousin Stanoczk bowed in polite response. “In final preparation even now, Specialist Vogel. The carpenters have been working without rest at the airfield, building a transfer case for the large refrigeration unit we hypothetically expect at Honan-gung. We can load for departure by evening.”

Vogel nodded approvingly. “Fast workers, those Langsariks. I’m sorry, Daigule, but we can’t take you with us.”

Kazmer looked up over his shoulder at Cousin Stanoczk, surprised.

“Kazmer understands that he will be needed here,” Cousin Stanoczk said firmly, but Kazmer imagined that his voice was not completely unsympathetic. “If for no other reason than to be seen. Were he to drop out of sight while I remained bustling about in Port Charid, the quarry might become suspicious. We do not love each other. We are always eager to expect the worst of each other.”

The Malcontent, and the Angel of Destruction. Stanoczk was talking about the Angel. It was perhaps true that Kazmer and Cousin Stanoczk did not love each other; but love had nothing to do with the relationship. Kazmer was genuinely obliged to Cousin Stanoczk. And Cousin Stanoczk had treated him fairly enough, at least thus far.

“Also, Hilton Shires is leaving,” Stanoczk said. “Kazmer will be waiting for opportunities to slip away, while I am not watching. So that he can go and make love to the cousin.”

His role was to be that of the go-between, then, carrying messages between Cousin Stanoczk and Walton Agenis.

It was a good plan. But it meant talking to Modice. That was unkind of Stanoczk, to send him to talk to Modice, because it hurt.

He was resigned now to what he had done and what he had to do to make up for it. It was going to make him feel much better to see the murderers punished for their crimes, that was true enough. Still, the sooner he was away from Port Charid — the sooner he could start to pretend to forget Modice Agenis — the easier it would be for him to wear the red halter of the Malcontent.

“Well thought.” Garol Vogel approved, but could hardly guess at what the arrangement was going to cost Kazmer in wear and tear on his emotions. Not that it mattered. As far as Garol Vogel was concerned, Kazmer was a criminal anyway, escaped from lawful punishment by stealth and worthily deserving any punishment that came his way by way of substitution. “I’ll be seeing you, then, Cousin Stanoczk.”

“Kazmer. I am going to go visit with Factor Madlev. Would this not be a good time for you to fetch a for-hire and go out to the airfield to see if Modice is there?”

He would be the package man, then. Vogel would hide in the for-hire that Kazmer would take from the docks in Port Charid out to the airfield, and when Kazmer got to the airfield — to ask around for Modice — Vogel could slip away, unseen, undetected, to join the Langsarik ambush party load-in for transport to Honan-gung.

“You know Sarvaw, Cousin Stanoczk. We are completely untrustworthy. Ruled by our passions utterly.”

He meant it to sound like an agreement, playful, entering into the spirit of the deception; but he had not fully mastered his bitterness. He could hear it in his own voice. Cousin Stanoczk surprised him; stepping forward, putting one hand on his shoulder, Cousin Stanoczk leaned over him and kissed his forehead with grave and absolute reverence.

“You are as good man as any and better than most, Kazmer Daigule. You will see vindication, it is my sacred duty to you. — Now I am leaving, I will see you later.”

Kazmer didn’t see what vindication had to do with Malcontents. But he was irrationally comforted by Cousin Stanoczk’s gesture, nonetheless.

Chapter Ten

After his meeting that morning with Factor Madlev — with its bonus of seeing Specialist Vogel — Fisner had come back to his office in the new warehouse, taking Hariv with him to provide administrative support. He had some catching up to do, and plenty of work to keep Hariv busy; so it came as no surprise when Hariv knocked at the door to Fisner’s office for instruction.

“Yes?”

Hariv looked a little unsure of himself.

“The floor manager to see you, Foreman. The Langsarik. Shires. Asks for a word.”

Fisner thought fast. The office was well lighted; Shires had seen him in the warehouse only under conditions of low light and was less likely to make the connection accordingly. He had laid aside his over-blouse, sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves; Shires had seen him in the warehouse only fully clothed and wearing warm clothing for going out at night, so there would not be any hinted connection there either.

Since he was seated Shires was likely not to notice that he had finally laid aside his medical bracing. So as far as Shires was concerned Fisner would still present the appearance of impaired physical performance — with the unconscious assumptions of limited mobility suggested by that.

He was probably as safe from exposure by Shires as it was possible for him to be. It would only attract unwelcome attention if he rejected a normal request during the normal course of the day’s events without an obvious and self-evident excuse. Which he did not have.

“Thank you, Hariv, of course. Now?”

What would it matter if Shires did start to suspect something, at this advanced point in the campaign? To whom could Shires bring a half-formed suspicion? The Bench intelligence specialists had left. It was only a matter of hours before their courier would reach the Sillume entry vector. Once that happened they were as good as neutralized for three days, the time it took to travel on Sillume from Charid to Chilleau Judiciary via Garsite.

As Hariv opened the office door more widely to admit Shires, Fisner made another quick calculation. Shires had heard him whispering to Dalmoss in the warehouse. He would be sure to speak loudly and confidently.

“Foreman Feraltz. Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

Shires came only part of the way across the room, stopping at a polite distance in the middle of the rug. Discomfort and uncertainty seemed to discourage him from seeking eye contact; Fisner relaxed a bit, but only internally, careful to maintain his formal posture.

“Something’s come up, Foreman,” Shires said. “This is awkward. I very much appreciate the trust you’ve reposed in me, opportunity to learn, and so forth. But it’s a family matter.”

Quitting?

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Shires, what’s on your mind?”

Raising his eyes to Fisner’s face for one quick glance, Shires seemed almost to blush, dropping his gaze again immediately. “There’s a man working out in the Shawl at the Honan-gung Yards, not really my relative, but I am related to his sister. There’s a situation. His family needs him, but there’s the employment contract with Honan-gung. Hand for hand. I’ve got to get to Honan-gung so that Willet can get back to his family, I don’t know how long I’m going to have to cover for him. I’m very sorry, Foreman.”

Oh. Was that it? Or did Shires actually have something more subtle on his mind?

Disappointed understanding was clearly what was called for in this situation; Fisner frowned, to demonstrate concern. “I feel sure you wouldn’t come asking if it weren’t a real problem, Shires. But I have to note that this puts us in a very difficult situation, with Dalmoss not back from Geraint.”

Now Shires took a deep breath and threw back his head, staring up at the ceiling for a moment — as though getting his thoughts together — before he met Fisner’s gaze, very frankly. Utterly honest. “To be brutally explicit, Foreman, there’s a certain sort of irregularity involved. Personal behavior. It can be put right if an intimate friend can be identified before much more time elapses, but timing is critical. For the family’s sake.”

That was a lot of inventing to do.

If it was inventing.

Maybe Shires had thought the clues through and arrived at Honan-gung; why not? There was the question of what exact evidence Bench specialist Vogel thought he had, to present to First Secretary Verlaine at Chilleau Judiciary.

It was at least possible that Shires actually had no other motive than to address a family problem. Somebody was pregnant, without benefit of prior family negotiation and agreement. It happened. It even happened to Dolgorukij.

Shires at Honan-gung ...

Shires could not be hoping to rescue Honan-gung from a raid single-handedly; that would be insane. Perhaps Vogel had not believed him, and now he sought to put himself in a position to be an eyewitness for the Langsarik defense; but if that was what Shires had in mind, he was self-deluded. Who would take Shires’s evidence on behalf of his people seriously?

There was more.

If Flag Captain Walton Agenis’s own nephew and lieutenant should be at Honan-gung when it was raided, his presence — especially under such irregular circumstances as those represented by this sudden excuse to get out to the Shawl — would be powerful circumstantial evidence of Langsarik guilt.

“When must you go?” Fisner asked, careful to sound as reluctant as possible. Shires let his breath out in an audible sigh, as of relief.

“Willet can come back on an inbound that’s scheduled to load at Honan-gung. I can get passage on outbound freighter,
Sarihelt
stopping at Honan-gung to take on cargo tonight. Thank you, Foreman.”

He
was
in a hurry.

When his body was discovered at Honan-gung — a casualty of the firefight, overlooked by mischance — what would the Bench make of his eagerness to get to Honan-gung as soon as the Bench specialists had left, to be in place in time for the raid that was to come?

And Shires had Dalmoss’s undocumented chop, the one they had used to obtain the freighter tender’s release for the Tyrell raid; better and better.

“It can’t be helped.” Shires had apparently correctly guessed at Fisner’s permission, so he wouldn’t push that any further. “I can’t promise that your place will be held for you. But you’ve done very well, Shires, I hope you’ll give us a chance to employ you again once these domestic entanglements have been resolved. Good-greeting, then.”

Fisner turned his attention back to the administrative details of his daily tasks, smiling.

###

It was a matter of hours from Port Charid to the Shawl of Rikavie. Once the freighter came up to speed, there was little for Hilton to do but brood about how the freedom that had been their natural right had been denied them as part of the terms of the amnesty agreement. Life at Port Charid had not been torture: it was knowing that he was trapped there that had shadowed his psyche, for more than a year now.

He didn’t want to dock at Honan-gung.

He wanted to steal the freighter, hit the Sillume vector, and fly forever — or until his air ran out. It would be worth it, to die in space. It would be a good death. Satisfying. Fit. Appropriate.

He couldn’t afford the distraction.

He had work to do.

The freighter docked at Honan-gung, but nobody came out of the dock-master’s office to greet them. Hilton had his instructions. The freighter crew let down the load-in ramp, and Hilton stepped down out from the belly of the beast to the docking bay’s load-in apron. Hilton walked by himself across the empty and un-peopled warehouse floor with his documents board in his hand to pay his respects to the dock-master, who was waiting for him in her office. He could see her standing at the office’s observation port, watching him come, and someone behind her with a jelly-stick. Nasty.

What, didn’t they trust him?

Just because he was Langsarik —

He was on camera, too. He knew it; Vogel had clipped into the communications braid as the freighter neared the Honan-gung Yards, checking to be sure they knew where the eyes were. Parking an access slip in the information stream, to be ready when the time came. Hilton stopped short of the dock-master’s office and called out.

“Hilton Shires come from Charid to relieve Willet, Dock-master. We have your permission. May I come in?”

He had no intention of quarreling with a man with a jelly-stick. Get hit with a fist, and bruise your face; get hit with a jelly-stick and smash all the bones at the side of your face into a pulp. Hilton was not interested.

He did his best to look defenseless.

After a moment’s consideration the man with the jelly-stick opened the door to the dock-master’s office to let Hilton through. Hilton went, but only because he knew Vogel was watching. He hoped that someone would intervene if the dock-master decided that she didn’t like his looks.

Marching up to the dock-master, Hilton bowed politely, holding his documents board in front of him so that she could read what was there. “Thank you for your confidence. My credentials, ma’am.”

A personal request that she play along with the charade that was required to get the ambush in place without alerting the quarry; one signed by Garol Aphon Vogel, Bench intelligence specialist. Identity chops could be forged; the raiders who had vandalized Tyrell would hardly be deterred from attempted forgery of Jurisdiction chops by the relatively insignificant penalty of death for doing so.

But it was such a beautiful chop mark, crisp and sparkling and ornate and complicated, that it was convincing in and of itself. Hilton was sure the dock-master couldn’t help but be impressed. He was impressed, but he already knew that the chop mark was the genuine article.

“Are they, really?”

The station’s surveillance was focused in other directions than within the dock-master’s office, but Hilton knew he couldn’t afford anyone glimpsing any anomalous behavior. They’d start to wonder. The presence of the man with the jelly-stick was enough of a problem. If Jelly-stick turned out to be the enemy’s inside man, they would have a piece of work to do to get him taken off line without alerting his principals either directly or indirectly. Jelly-stick didn’t look Dolgorukij to Hilton, though, so maybe they were all right.

As though any seven people with jelly-sticks would present serious difficulties to people with Langsarik battle cannon tucked casually into their hip pockets, if Hilton actually had been a raider.

The Bench requests your cooperation in investigating a serious crime. Please take your cues from the bearer, Hilton Shires.

Signed and sealed.

The dock-master seemed undecided for a long and trepidatious moment.

Then she made up her mind, handing the documents board back to him with a nod of acquiescence.

“All right, Shires, what can I do for you?”

That was two.

One had been getting out of Port Charid with their cargo undetected. That left only three — getting set up here, while staying out of sight — and four.

Four.

Ambushing a raiding party, capturing the killers who had done their best to ruin the Langsarik settlement, and returning in vindicated triumph to Port Charid.

Maybe it was a little more than four, maybe that was actually four through eight, but there was no question about two, which meant four was coming.

“If you would care to accompany me, ma’am, to inspect the cargo seals in place prior to off-load. With your escort, of course.”

Garol Vogel was waiting on the freighter, out of sight. In safe concealment. The man with the jelly-stick would have to be included, because though he might not have seen the text on the documents board with its impressive official chop mark, he certainly knew by now that something was going on.

There was a lot to do.

They had to locate the raiders’ inside man, going on information from Kazmer Daigule and that Cousin Stanoczk of his. They had to get cargo into place. They had to find Willet and send him back to Port Charid. And then they had to wait.

“Lead on, then,” the dock-master said, beckoning the man with the jelly-stick with a wave of her hand to let him know that he should come with them.

Soon, soon, soon he would have revenge for the dead and the honor of the Langsarik fleet; and he was eager for it.

###

From where she knelt in the garden pulling the weeds, Walton Agenis could see the dust on the vehicle track, someone approaching the settlement — in a transport van, rather than in a for-hire or on a speed machine. It was that size of a cloud. The vehicle track was graded and paved, but the autumn rains had yet to set in; the dust on the road was as good as an advance warning signal.

Who would it be?

Midweek. That explained it. Walton watched the dust cloud for a moment, evaluating its dimensions and its rate of travel; then bent her head to her weeding once again. Yes. Midweek. It would be the supply van from Port Charid coming out to stock the little concession store that the Fleet had put out here to serve the community’s miscellaneous requirements for notions, sundries, small amounts of luxury foods. The supply van from Port Charid.

It was early for the concession truck to arrive, though, didn’t that usually show up after midday? The morning was early yet. The first shift at the construction site down the road was no more than two hours old. Traveling a little quickly for the concession van, maybe. The driver of the concession van was usually in no particular hurry to get here, and in no particular hurry to leave.

She was not liking this.

She was not liking this more and more, moment by moment.

She sat back once again, watching the dust on the vehicle track. There were more than one of them approaching.

The settlement was as deserted as it ever got. Many of the Langsariks with physical labor left in them were at the construction site. Others were in Port Charid doing entry-level administrative or custodial jobs, oiling the machinery of commerce with their low-cost labor.

If someone was going to raid the settlement –

This was not the time to do it, not with most of the Langsariks population dispersed to one job or another.

Or was it?