Angel of Destruction (29 page)

“It can’t come too soon, First Secretary. With respect.” Factor Madlev had gained his point. He could step back, lower his head, bow politely to the communications port on the desk. “Thank you.”

Agenis stood and stared at the far wall, and Chilleau Judiciary closed the communications link between them.

Madlev sighed deeply.

Then he walked over to his desk and sat down.

“Escort Dame Agenis back to the settlement,” Madlev said, to Fisner. “No contact with other Langsariks. The household is under quarantine.”

Fisner understood.

He knew there was nothing the Langsariks could do. But if they knew there was a Fleet Interrogations Group coming for them, they would unquestionably try something.

“Of course, Factor Madlev. Dame Agenis. If you’ll come with me, ma’am, and please don’t try to speak to anybody. We’ll keep things as liberal as we can.”

Everything was perfect. It had all added up, and now it was playing out beautifully.

Had Madlev published the coming of the Fleet Interrogations Group, Fisner might have had to reconsider the wisdom of the planned Honan-gung raid. It might be taken as anomalous behavior on the part of people expecting to be taken to task for their evil deeds in the near future. This way was much better. He could have his raid, his booty from Honan-gung, and his Fleet Interrogations Group, too.

Agenis looked at him, and for a moment Fisner imagined that there was something in her eyes that he did not like — wild contempt, and scorn, and challenging defiance.

It was only a flash, and only a moment.

“Very well, Foreman. Let’s go. I don’t need to make any trouble. We’ll be vindicated by due legal process soon enough.”

He had imagined it. Obviously.

Agenis turned toward the door in response to his gesture, and Fisner followed her out, to escort her back to the Langsarik settlement and place her under house arrest.

The Holy Mother smoothed the way of those who worked Her will in the world.

And the Angel of Destruction was invincible.

###

The Langsarik troops Garol had brought with him had been carefully dispersed quietly, surreptitiously, well out of the way of observation by either the station’s monitors or any of the station’s personnel — except for the dock-master herself, and the man who had met poor Shires with jelly-stick in hand and a threatening expression on his face. The maintenance chief. Garol’s pod had been wheeled into the dock-master’s safe room, where he had easy access to every incoming communication without the awkward complication of relays that could be noticed or misdirected.

The chime that went off to rouse him from his meditation was no signal incoming to Honan-gung, however.

It was Jils Ivers, in transit for Chilleau Judiciary.

Garol frowned, and toggled in.

“Vogel here.” He spoke quietly. The pod was soundproof, but there was no sense in pushing his limits. “Go ahead.”

She didn’t sound happy, but there was no reason for her to call him unless there was a problem. “Verlaine. Trouble at Port Charid, a raid on the settlement, hot cargo. Stand by.”

All right.

He was securely webbed into his station in the pod, so he didn’t more than frown to prepare himself for a confrontation. He heard the signal tone that let him know Jils had braided into skein, and spoke. “First Secretary. Vogel here, sir.”

Verlaine wasted no words: clearly under pressure. “I have Port Charid on my neck, Vogel. They raided the Langsarik settlement and found loot from Okidan. I need a convincing story if I’m going to hold action on this.”

A raid. Garol thought fast. Such a ploy was a natural part of a conspiracy; maybe he should have expected it. But if it got the conspirators what they wanted — would the Honan-gung raid be abandoned?

“This is not totally unexpected, First Secretary.” Not predicted, perhaps, but absolutely in character once it had happened. “I hold my point. My evidence will be definitive.”

He just didn’t have it yet; but he couldn’t tell Verlaine that. Verlaine was on the line with Port Charid. Garol didn’t know with certainty whether or not his quarry was listening in — one reason for the charade Jils put forward, the play that he was actually on the courier with her in transit to Chilleau Judiciary.

He could not afford to compromise his chances for the clear and undeniable proof of Langsarik innocence that he needed now more than ever.

“Reluctantly unable to accept as read, Vogel. I’ve got to think of the Second Judge’s reputation. I don’t like to override, it’s your mission, but I’m running out of time. Give me something to hold Port Charid off. Please.”

Garol had to respect the First Secretary’s frustration.

But he couldn’t say anything more, not and hope to complete the mission he had embarked upon. “I appreciate the delicacy of your situation, First Secretary. Anything you can do to suspend further decisions until I can show you the evidence will be very deeply appreciated.”

Awkwardly phrased, but with luck his sincerity would come through. The only question was whether Verlaine felt he could afford to stand behind Garol, with mounting political pressure to take action.

There was a moment’s silence; then Verlaine spoke.

“I’m sorry, Bench specialist. I have my Judge to think of. I accept as given your assertion that you can identify the guilty parties. However, I have perceptions to manage as well.”

Lost.

“Understood, First Secretary.”

Because, unfortunately, Garol did understand. Verlaine had been backed into a corner. The Second Judge had come under widespread criticism from political enemies for her failure to more aggressively detect and deter abuses of the Judicial order injurious to the rights of accused parties in detention at the Domitt Prison.

With publication of the incriminating results of a raid on the Langsarik settlement, Verlaine almost had to take action; it was either that or suffer a storm of criticism such that no responsible First Secretary could be asked to endure on behalf of the Judicial order.

Verlaine didn’t even sign off.

The signal didn’t drop; Garol listened in on Port Charid.

The Third Fleet Interrogations Group.

It was bad; but it was not over yet. He needed something to ensure that the Honan-gung raid would go off on schedule, whenever that was, and the Third Fleet Interrogations Group would have to do. They did not yet have lawful authority to make Port Charid their playground. If he got evidence before Verlaine released the Brief . . .

Now more than ever he needed the proof that only capture of the guilty during the active commission of a violent crime could provide him.

Jils came back on the line. “Garol. What do you want me to do?”

He didn’t know yet. He needed to think things through. He had to have that raid; he didn’t dare try to transmit from here to Chilleau Judiciary for fear of detection by the sophisticated communications equipment Daigule had indicated was at the enemy’s disposal.

So long as the raid came quickly enough, he could still get his proof to Chilleau Judiciary in time to prevent the release of Brief to the Fleet Interrogations Group. Once they had their Brief, they would not abort their mission for any Bench directive until they were finished — on their own terms.

Politics.

“Track that Fleet Interrogations Group for me, Jils. Let me know when they clear the exit vector at Sillume.”

And thanks.

But she knew that.

Extra words were dangerous when communications were on redirect.

Jils was off; Chilleau Judiciary was off. He was alone with his thoughts.

If there was to be a raid at Honan-gung at all, it had to happen soon, before the Fleet Interrogations Group arrived.

Could he rely on the greed of this so-called “Angel of Destruction” of Cousin Stanoczk’s to try for one last payout?

How long would the Angel keep him waiting — and how long could he afford to wait before he would be forced to admit defeat?

He was already defeated.

If he could not take prisoners in a raid at Honan-gung, there would be no proving to Chilleau Judiciary that the Langsariks were innocent victims of conspiracy.

He would hold where he was, and wait.

He had no acceptable alternatives to hope for.

###

Kazmer Daigule parked his for-hire well clear of the little house where Walton Agenis sat under house arrest. The lights that the guards had trained on the building cast shadows in sharp relief, so the scene took on an air of unreality, strange and oppressive in the darkness of the settlement. Was it some variety of harassment? Kazmer wondered. Or was it just unthinking cruelty, the sort of blind impersonal brutality that was that much the more difficult to bear for being so completely thoughtless?

The guards were warehousemen from the Combine Yards in Port Charid proper — Dolgorukij. Uncomfortable with their role as security, they gathered at the front of the house as Kazmer approached, frowning and doing their best to look stern, bulked up with cold-weather gear in the crisp night air.

When he was within easy hailing distance one of them spoke. “You, what’s your business here? You can’t go in, you know.”

The awkwardness they clearly felt in their performance of their task was eased by their quick recognition of what, if not who, he was. Dolgorukij knew Sarvaw as Sarvaw knew Dolgorukij, and honest warehousemen were naturally put at ease by their inbred knowledge of their racial superiority.

It was a useful trick of the blood, something the Holy Mother had ordained to give Her Sarvaw children an edge even in adversity against their opponents. Kazmer knew how to deal with Dolgorukij bullies. It was nothing personal, not really.

“There should be no problem, cousin, surely.” In the shadows cast by the bright lights against the greater darkness Kazmer could see eyes narrow in disdain and suspicion at his choice of words. But even a Sarvaw could lay claim to a privileged position, without blushing, when it was a Malcontent who spoke. “I’d just like to go and see Modice. She’s at home? With her aunt?”

The guards were not receptive to his powers of persuasion, however. Kazmer fingered the neckline of his blouse nervously, pulling at the fabric next to his skin as though his collar were too tight — taking care that the red ribbon that he wore next to his skin showed clearly.

The guards relaxed.

“Sorry, cousin, no offense,” the spokesman said. Kazmer was amused to note that he ranked greater kinship as a Malcontent than he could ever have been granted as a Sarvaw. “Don’t bring us shame before the foreman, though. Go on in.”

He was a Malcontent. He could go anywhere, do anything, and be bowed on his way by people who would never dream of granting such a privilege to anyone else. It
was
funny.

Crossing the brilliantly illuminated space between the cordon and the house, knocking softly at the door. “Is Modice home?”

They knew that he was there, of course. They’d seen him coming. It was almost as bright inside as if the lights had been on, and the lights weren’t on, though the windows had been only partially screened over. Frugal. Saving of energy. Why turn on the lights when Port Charid provided such ample illumination at no charge?

Modice let him in and closed the door behind him.

Walton Agenis sat in the tiny living room watching him come. The effect of the shadows on the wall from the lights outside was ghastly.

“You’re looking well, Modice,” Kazmer said. Modice had gone out to fetch the gel-sheets that she’d been preparing in the kitchen, but they wouldn’t know that, outside. They could be listening. He had to assume that someone might be listening. But whoever might be listening could only guess at the potential meaning of whatever they might hear. “Are you getting enough rest?”

Modice was back with gel-sheets in a pan, paper — thin sheets of gelatin made opaque with starch. And a stylus. “Not very well, Kazmer, I’m afraid. These lights.”

Kazmer wrote on the top gel-sheet and passed the pan to Walton Agenis.
FIG clears vector w/in 24 hrs. Must raid before pursuit possible.

It was a form of freehand code; he couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion by concentrating so long on what he needed to write that there was a break in the conversation. “Do you have something you could use as a compress, to cover your eyes? A scarf might do it. If the colors weren’t too bright, of course.”

Agenis lifted the gel-sheet from the pan and folded it up neatly. “Would you get me something to drink, girl.” Writing on the next gel-sheet in the pan. “I don’t want you coming around to court Modice, Daigule. I’ve told you before. You’re not fit to husband a Langsarik.”

Progress of organization. Contingency plan?

“Modice could do worse than take a Sarvaw sweetheart,” Kazmer protested, mildly. Even a Malcontent lover would be a better fate than the Bond, after all. “I might be able to protect her. Things don’t look very promising, you must know that.”

Quiet, no alarm. Good progress. Vogel returns PC if raid delayed.

If the Angel cut the margin for its raid too fine, Vogel would be forced to abandon the ambush; Vogel was adamant on the subject. He would be at Port Charid before the Fleet Interrogations Group arrived, one way or the other.

Kazmer had his doubts about that.

Vogel was clearly all but desperate to prevent the Fleet Interrogations Group from settling in to do its work; but without the evidence that ambushing the raid would produce, how did Vogel hope to prevent it?

“Better pure and falsely accused than soiled and safe, Daigule,” Agenis insisted, inflexibly. “Modice.”

Modice had returned with a tray and a pitcher of water, three glasses.

“Modice, I don’t want you seeing this person again. You are not to let him in, if he has the audacity to return to my house to insult me with his importunity. And in our hour of vulnerability, Daigule, you should be ashamed.”

“Aunt Walton, please. You’re just upsetting yourself. Here. I brought us all a nice glass of cold water.” Three gel-sheets from the stack in the pan had been discarded; that was one for each glass. It would be a moment before the gel-sheet in his glass dissolved, however.