Deadman Switch (11 page)

Randon realized that, too. For a moment he just stood at the doorway, looking around as if committing the room and its occupants to memory. Then, straightening slightly, he led the way into the room.

And all two hundred people turned to look at us.

It was the sort of almost surrealistic scene you sometimes hear about but seldom actually see. The loose knots of people standing nearest to the door spotted us first, their conversations dropping off into silence and then tautly whispered comments as they realized who it was who had just arrived. The sudden quiet made those beyond them turn, many of them repeating the first groups' reactions; until, within the space of a dozen seconds, the wave of notice had rippled across the entire room.

Leaving a blanket of quiet tension behind it.

I'd expected it, of course. After Aikman's obvious anti-Watcher prejudices and HTI's more subtle version of the same antagonism, I hadn't expected open-armed greetings from anyone on Solitaire … which was perhaps why it took me several heartbeats more to realize that the cautious attention wasn't directed at me at all.

It was directed at Randon.

There was no doubt, once I finally picked up on the signs. For every subtle movement of a person's face or body there's an equally subtle reaction from those looking at him; and in this case all the reactions I could see were keyed to Randon's movements, not mine.

Vaguely, I wondered why Randon Kelsey-Ramos should make all these people nervous.

The awkward gap lasted no more than a few seconds before an elegantly dressed woman glided toward us from the side. “Mr. Kelsey-Ramos,” she nodded, her voice rich with the overtones of a Portslavan native. “I am Governor Lyda Rybakov, the Patri's representative on Solitaire; I bid you welcome.”

Randon nodded back. “Thank you, Governor Rybakov. May I present to you my aide, Mr. Gilead Raca Benedar.”

Rybakov was definitely an experienced politician. Her nod to me was almost as polite as the one she'd given Randon. At least outwardly. “Welcome,” she told me.

“Thank you,” I murmured, nodding back.

Her eyes shifted back to Randon. “We're honored to have you here, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos,” she continued. “The Carillon Group is well known throughout the Patri and colonies, and we of Solitaire system are looking forward to working with you.”

“I'm equally honored to be working with you,” Randon said smoothly, throwing a glance around the room to include all the others in that statement. “If you're as diligent at commerce as you are in throwing receptions, Carillon will be hard pressed to keep up with all of you.”

A loose, slightly strained chuckle swept the room. Rybakov smiled, the same faint strain evident there, too, and reached out to touch Randon's arm. “Come; let me introduce you to some of the other important people of our world. People much more important than I.”

With Kutzko and me trailing a step behind, she led him farther into the room; and as if that was a signal, the buzz of conversation began again. But not quite the same buzz as had been there before. The aura of tension that had taken over at our entrance still lay like bedrock beneath it.

The first group Rybakov led us to consisted of five people—three men and two women—waiting in a loose semicircle and trying hard to look relaxed. “Mr. Randon Kelsey-Ramos, Mr. Gilead Benedar,” the governor said, “may I present Danel and Debra Comarow; Dr. Sergei Landau; and Nady and Lize Arritt.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Randon said as they all exchanged nods. “Let me see: NorTrans of Starlit, I believe?”

A ripple of quiet surprise ran through them … as it did through me. I hadn't placed the names, but I'd certainly heard of NorTrans: one of the biggest corporations in the Patri and colonies, almost certainly the biggest with a license to operate in and out of Solitaire.

In other words, we'd found the leaders of the system's business community first crack out of the box. Glancing at Governor Rybakov, I saw it hadn't been mere chance.

“I'm impressed, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos,” Landau said, and I could see the comment went for all of them. “I've always thought that I, at least, was too deeply buried in the NorTrans structure for even those inside the company to recognize my name.”

Randon smiled. “Hardly, sir,” he said. “Besides, my father has made something of a hobby of knowing exactly who the major business interests and people are on Solitaire. Some of that was bound to leak down to me.”

It was the wrong thing to say. I couldn't tell why, but that much was instantly clear. Almost in unison the tension among the five of them shot up, and the groups nearest us again paused in their own conversations to listen in. “Well, we're certainly honored by your father's interest in us,” Comarow said, his voice controlled but with a predator's caution beneath it. “Though speaking for myself, I'm always a bit nervous when someone knows more about me than I do about him.”

“Especially as regards his business dealings,” his wife Debra put in, her easy laugh breaking some of the hidden tension. I sensed Comarow's approval, realized she'd picked up on whatever he was going for and was carrying on with it. “Danel always gets so paranoid when he has to start doing business with someone new.”

“Not paranoid, really, Debra,” he chided her gently. All an act; they were clearly two minds headed the same direction. Whatever that direction was. “Just cautious. As I'm sure you understand, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos.”

“Perfectly,” Randon nodded. “However, I really don't think you have anything to worry about. As I explained to HTI's managers this morning, the Carillon Group tries whenever possible to maintain continuity in the activities of acquired companies.”

“So we'd heard,” Arritt put in. I sensed Randon's quiet reaction: that the comment implied that Arritt, and possibly all of NorTrans, had a commline into HTI's top management. Not surprising, but worth noting regardless. “And you're right; continuity
is
what's on most of our minds.”

“Most
referring to just NorTrans, or to all of Solitaire?” Randon asked, glancing pointedly at a few of the eavesdroppers around us. A couple of them had the grace to blush.

“Oh, pretty much all of Solitaire,” Comarow acknowledged without embarrassment. “You'll find that people who do business here are a fairly close-knit community, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos. We have our methods … and we're always a little nervous of newcomers.”

“I'm sure you'll find that the Carillon Group business philosophy doesn't change just because we're now on Solitaire,” Randon said.

If they found that reassuring, they didn't show it. If anything, in fact, it actually made them a shade more uncomfortable.

“Well, that's nice to know,” Comarow said, the easy friendliness of his voice in sharp contrast to the sense beneath it. “I trust you'll find your visit profitable. I understand you'll be leaving for Collet tomorrow?”

“That's right,” Randon nodded. “I'm looking forward to actually seeing one of those Rockhound 606's I've read so much about.”

Comarow chuckled. “You won't believe it even then. Let me tell you about the first time I saw one of the monsters. …”

The conversation turned to descriptions of Rockhound mining platforms, drifted to possibly apocryphal stories of life aboard them. It was heading toward social life on Solitaire proper when Governor Rybakov gracefully pulled us away and steered us across the room to another group.

This one composed of the officers of the Elegy-based conglomerate DragonHoard Metals … and just as interested as NorTrans in making sure Randon knew that Solitaire had its own way of doing business. As, with minor variations in tone, did the third group we talked to. And the fourth. And the fifth.

Eventually, even Randon couldn't pretend to ignore it any more. “From the way everyone's talking,” he commented to Rybakov as they collected delicately sculpted appetizers from the serving table, “one might think Carillon just filed its corporation papers last week.”

She shrugged, long politician's practice enabling her to cover most of her own flicker of discomfort. She didn't really want to talk about it, and yet on another level knew she had to. “Solitaire is an embarrassment, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos,” she said bluntly. “The Patri can't afford to give up the wealth that flows in from the ring mines; but on the other hand, they have to condemn people to death to get it. It's not an especially popular policy.” She glanced at me, the first time since our introduction that she'd done so. “We're not just talking fanatical religious minorities like the Watchers or Halloas, either—most people on the Patri and colonies feel at least a little uncomfortable with the whole idea.”

“The Halloas?” Randon frowned, also glancing at me. I shrugged fractionally; I'd never heard the reference, either. “What is that, a religious sect?”

Rybakov waved a hand depreciatingly. “I'd hardly call them organized enough to be a sect,” she snorted. “They're a group of fanatic-mystics who believe Solitaire is the seat of God's kingdom, or some such nonsense.”

Randon glanced at me again. “Why?—because it requires a blood sacrifice to get here?”

Rybakov snorted, and I winced at the contempt underlying her political facade. Clearly, she had even less tolerance than the average citizen when it came to religious matters. Possibly one reason she was a governor. “Not that I've heard, though I wouldn't put it past them,” she said. “No, it's supposed to be something about the Cloud being the halo of God. From which it apparently follows immediately that
this
is the heavenly kingdom.” She waved a hand around her.

Someone nearby snickered, just audibly; but on Randon's face there was no answering contempt. “Sounds crazy,” he agreed evenly. “And you see these Halloas as possibly giving Solitaire even more of a bad image than the Deadman Switch already has?”

Rybakov looked him straight in the eye. “It's possible,” she told him. “Most of the corporations holding Solitaire licenses have made an effort to keep the Halloas' existence from leaking out.”

“And you think Carillon may not?”

Again, a meaningful glance in my direction. “Your father's … peculiarities … are well known.”

“So are his business skills,” Randon returned, his voice a few degrees cooler. “Or are you suggesting he doesn't understand the effect of image on public psychology?”

Surprisingly, she smiled. “Such as the effect a business renegade's image might have on those he's going to be working with, for example?”

Randon frowned, then smiled in return. “Oh, come on, Governor. You aren't going to tell me that all these crafty business professionals are
that
taken in by my father's public posturings, are you?”

She shrugged, eyes still measuring him. “As I said, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos, the business community here is a little touchy. No offense meant.”

“None taken.” Surreptitiously, Randon's fingers curved in a subtle hand signal. Beside him, Kutzko responded by reaching for his phone, as if a message were coming in. “Actually, Governor—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Kutzko interrupted smoothly. “May I speak with you for a moment? Security matter.”

“Certainly. If you'll excuse us, Governor … ?”

She nodded, and we moved back toward an empty spot on the floor. “Well, Benedar?” Randon murmured, looking at Kutzko as if discussing the imaginary security matter with him.

“The Halloa story is part of the truth, but not all of it,” I told him. “In fact, I'd go so far as to suggest the Halloas may be nothing more than a convenient excuse they're using to cover up whatever it is about you that's
really
making them nervous.”

He frowned. “What it is about
me?
I assumed
you
were the problem.”

“Not this time, sir. You're the one they're all watching like hawkrens.”

Randon pursed his lips. “Kutzko?” he invited.

Kutzko shook his head slowly. “I don't think there's any personal danger to you, sir, at least not here and now. But I'd have to agree with Benedar, that you're the one they're interested in.”

“And there's something else, sir,” I put in. “When Kutzko did his ‘security matter' gambit, Governor Rybakov reacted rather strongly.”

Kutzko frowned at me. “She did, did she? I didn't notice that.”

“She's very good at hiding these things.”

Randon eyed me thoughtfully for a moment. “And they all seem to know,” he said slowly, “about our meeting at HTI this morning, don't they?”

Kutzko and I exchanged looks. “You think they might know that Schock got away with more than HTI wanted you to have?” Kutzko ventured.

Randon cocked an eyebrow at me. “Benedar?”

I let my eyes sweep the room, relaxing my mind and letting it dig out every nuance of feeling it could. “I think it might be a good idea, sir,” I said, “to make sure the
Bellwether
is ready for trouble.”

Randon snorted gently. “Let's not get overly melodramatic,” he advised. Still, I could tell that he too was growing uneasy.

As was Kutzko. “Sir, I have to agree with Benedar again,” he spoke up. “If it really
is
those cyls that have all these people nervous, they must be blazing valuable. To someone, anyway.”

“Probably right,” Randon grunted. “All right, go ahead. Keep it quiet, though—if someone tries to get them, I want him to get close enough for us to grab.”

Kutzko was already making the connection. “Seqoya?—Kutzko. What's the status on the ship?”

I couldn't hear the answer, but Kutzko's sense indicated everything was normal. “Well, that may be changing in the next few hours,” Kutzko told him. “I want the perimeter extended fifty meters, a cat-yellow on the gatelock, and a double cat-yellow on Mr. Schock's stateroom. You'd better warn him that someone may be after those cyls he brought home from HTI today; he ought to know how to protect them.” He got confirmation, raised his eyes to Randon. “Anything else, sir?”