Deadman Switch (41 page)

“I know, sir,” I assured him. “You've done all
you
could, too.”

“Yes.” He paused, his sense turning inward. “It's interesting, you know,” he said in a meditative voice. “Ever since I took over Carillon I've pretty much had things my own way—been the man making the decisions, both the good ones and the bad ones. This commission takes me back to earlier days.”

“Days you'd rather forget?” I suggested.

His gaze came back to me. “I like having power, Gilead—I admit that. No one gets to my position who doesn't. What I hate about this commission is being saddled with a share of the responsibility for actions which I haven't really had any power to influence.”

Something in his voice … “Are you saying,” I asked carefully, “that the Pravilo had already made up their minds to destroy the aliens, no matter
what
the commission recommended?”

“Oh, come on—you don't think Aaron Balaam darMaupine originated the echo council, do you?” he growled. “Sorry to be crude, but there it is. Of course the Pravilo had already decided the Invaders were a threat; the commission's only real choice was to either rubberstamp that opinion for them or else prove conclusively that the Invaders weren't dangerous to us. I imagine you know all about proving a negative.”

As in proving the Watchers weren't a threat to the rest of humanity … “I know it very well, sir,” I said quietly.

He grimaced, and I could see he'd followed my line of thought. “Yes, well … sorry I jumped down your throat like that. As I said, I'm willing enough to accept the responsibility that goes with power, but I hate like blazing chern-fire to have the responsibility all by itself.”

I managed a smile. “That's what makes you different, sir,” I told him. “Most people prefer to have the power without any of the responsibility.”

He snorted. “Yes, we at Carillon certainly are a noble bunch,” he said dryly.

I thought about the Solitaran executives' fears that Carillon would put a stop to their profitable smuggler trade. “Yes, sir. In many ways, you are.”

He eyed me sharply, and even with the fuzzy picture I could sense his embarrassment. Nobility was not exactly the sort of image he'd tried to project to his competitors. “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” he rumbled. “Anyway, I've got to get back up to Spall, consult with my fellow commissioners. I'll be back to talk to you in a week or so—sooner if I make any headway against the judiciary.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate all you're doing.”

“No problem. Take care.”

He stood up and turned away, and I caught just a glimpse of the visiting-room wall behind him before the guard blanked the screen. For a moment I stayed where I was, staring at the blank display for lack of anything better to do. But the seething frustration within me was too great to let me sit still for very long. Getting to my feet, I went the four steps over to the cell's outer wall.

Outside the tiny window was fifty meters of open ground, ending at a two-story wing I'd been told was part of the Pravilo headquarters here. The windows facing me were black squares—polarized ninety degrees to mine, presumably, to give the officers working there privacy from prying eyes. Blank people behind blank windows, I thought with a touch of bitterness. Faceless people wielding power without having to take the responsibility for the use of that power. Doing their daily work without knowing—probably without even caring—what the ultimate results of that work would be. It was why bureaucracies grew and flourished. Why people like Aaron Balaam darMaupine had been able to seize power …

And without warning, my mind suddenly and inexplicably froze. Aaron Balaam darMaupine. Aaron
Balaam
darMaupine …

Balaam …

I have no explanation for the idea that burst, virtually full-grown, into my mind. Perhaps my back-brain had already come up with it, and had merely used the name as a trigger; perhaps it was a genuine case of divine inspiration. Either way, it was as if a star had exploded in my mind, showering light where before there had been only darkness. And in that light, I saw the answer.

Or at least, a possible answer.

For a handful of heartbeats I stood there at the window, my full attention inward as I sifted frantically through the idea, searching for errors or flaws. But if they were there, I couldn't find them. It could be done—it could definitely be done.

And then my eyes focused again, and I remembered where I was; and spinning around, I dove for the intercom.

It seemed like an eternity before the monitor answered my signal. “Has Lord Kelsey-Ramos left yet?” I snapped at him.

He frowned at my tone, but apparently decided prisoners who rated a visit from someone like Lord Kelsey-Ramos should be treated with at least marginal politeness. “Hang on, I'll check,” he growled.

“I have to talk to him right away,” I insisted as his eyes shifted to a different display.

“Yeah, well, we'll see if he wants to talk to
you,”
he grunted. “Lemme see … Rayst?—yeah; give a shout to that guy who just passed, will you? Tell him Benedar's calling for him.”

I licked my lips, trying to organize my thoughts, the taste of black irony in my mouth. Aikman's final, pitiful gesture of hatred … and it was beginning to look like it might do far more damage than either he or I had believed.

A minute later the monitor's face vanished from the screen, and I was again looking at Lord Kelsey-Ramos. “Yes, Gilead, what is it?”

“I have to get out of here,” I told him, voice trembling slightly with emotion despite my efforts to control it. “Right away. It's urgent.”

He frowned. “I just finished telling you it'll take some time,” he reminded me.

I bit the back of my lip, suddenly mindful of how easy it would be for one of the guards to eavesdrop on the line … and that my idea could very likely be construed as treason. “I know, sir,” I said, wracking my brain desperately to find some kind of private cue to feed him. Something the guards wouldn't be able to interpret … and for the second time in as many minutes, inspiration struck. “It's just that this room is so
small
—so small and so plain. I thought I could handle things being this dull, but I can't.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise; and abruptly there were tension lines in his face. “I see,” he said carefully. His eyes flicked to the side, where a guard was presumably standing. “Yes, I understand how that would be hard for you to take—you're used to so much more luxury back at Carillon. More privacy, too, naturally.”

“Exactly, sir,” I nodded, feeling a small surge of hope. He was with me, now, correctly hearing both what I was saying and what I wasn't saying. In eight years with Carillon I'd learned a great deal about the man; now, for the first time, I realized how much he'd learned about me in the process. “Besides, I hate the thought of wasting time here,” I added. “There's always so much work to be done.”

His eyes were locked with mine. “I know the feeling,” he said. “I'll talk to Commodore Freitag and Admiral Yoshida right away, see if you might at least be … reassigned, perhaps, to somewhere closer to home?”

Closer to home. Here, on Solitaire, that could only mean the
Bellwether.
“I'd very much appreciate that, sir,” I said, speaking the words clearly. “You might speak to Governor Rybakov, too—I believe she still owes us a favor.”

“I'll do that,” he agreed. “Let me get started, and I'll see what I can do.” He paused, and his gaze seemed to intensify. “Are you certain this will do it?” he asked, his voice deliberately casual.

I swallowed. Was I sure this would solve the problem of the alien ships. “I'm not certain, no,” I had to admit. “But I believe it's worth a try.”

He nodded. “All right. Sit tight, and I'll get back to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

His lip twitched in a tight smile. “I'll do what I can,” he said … and in his tone I heard a promise that went beyond the immediate situation. That if my idea had any chance at all of success, he would stand behind me all the way.

“Thank you, sir,” I said again, and watched his image blank from the screen. Taking a ragged breath, I once more went over to the window, trying to still the tension roiling within me. The aliens' lives were still hanging by a thread, but at least now I had a plan. A plan and, more importantly, an ally.

I could only hope he would be as enthusiastic when he found out what the idea was … and what carrying it out was going to cost.

T
HREE WEEKS. TWENTY-ONE DAYS.

The number hovered before me like a personal specter, its presence a black poison in the background of every waking thought. An emotional expression of the solid walls and locked door of my tiny cell; a maddening reminder of my utter helplessness.

And every morning, the number taunted me by growing one smaller.

There were a great many scriptures that dealt with patience; a similarly impressive number dealing with faith and hope. I quoted every single one of those verses to myself during those long hours, grabbing through the hurricane of growing anger and frustration for something solid to grasp onto.

It didn't seem to help. I tried to tell myself that it
was
doing some good, that without their comfort I would have sunk into a mind-crippling despair. But lurking at the edge of my mind was another, more sobering possibility: that it didn't help because Shepherd Adams had been right, that I had indeed become too entangled with the rewards of the secular world to find strength in the spiritual realm. It was a frightening and debilitating thought, a dark nightmare shadow which seemed to begin and end each day.

And finally—when it seemed as if I couldn't take the fear and forced solitude a single day longer—finally, on the afternoon of the fourth day, my cell was opened and I was escorted under guard to the Rainbow's End starport. The starport, and the waiting
Bellwether.

“It took every string I could find to pull,” Lord Kelsey-Ramos commented, offering me a steaming mug as I sat down across from his desk. “Including that favor the governor owed us,” he added, “though I can't say she was all that happy at having to pay it off.”

“I appreciate it, sir,” I said, carefully taking the mug with fingers that still trembled with vague reaction. The heat was soothing to my hands, the smell flooding my mind with memories of home and safety. It was exactly the medicine I needed, and even as I sipped at the drink I could feel the fears and doubts of the cell beginning to recede.

“I was glad to do it,” Lord Kelsey-Ramos said, frowning slightly as he gazed into my face. “I'm just sorry it took so long—on Portslava I'd have had you out in half an hour.”

“Four days was soon enough, sir,” I assured him, trying to sound as if I meant it.

He wasn't fooled. “It looks to
me
like we just barely made it,” he said pointedly.

I sighed, giving up the pretense. “It was harder than I'd expected,” I admitted. “A lot harder. Just the thought of those ships heading toward their deaths—and me locked away where I couldn't do anything about it …” I shuddered, and took another sip of my drink.

“Um,” he grunted. “Interesting. You know, I've always thought that too much of that empathy you religious types pride yourselves on might be a handicap at times.” He pursed his lips. “On the other hand … I wonder if maybe not all of it was really you.”

I frowned at the suspicion in his sense. “Are you suggesting,” I asked slowly, “that the Pravilo might have
drugged
me?”

The flicker of surprise showed that hadn't been what he'd been suggesting at all. “I suppose that's not impossible,” he nevertheless conceded. “I doubt that Admiral Yoshida would go that far to keep you out of his face for these last couple of weeks, but some eager subordinate might have thought it would make a nice early birthday present for him. I was thinking more of the thunderheads, actually.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach as, abruptly, something like a hazy curtain seemed to vanish from in front of my memory. The overall sense of tension and struggle Calandra and I had noticed on Solitaire—of course; that was precisely what I'd just spent four days struggling against. Or rather, a highly magnified form of that sense. Magnified from scientific tool or side effect into a weapon … “Yes,” I said, voice wavering slightly—with disgust, dread, or anger, I couldn't tell which. “Yes, it was them. It had to be. They were
attacking
me.
Deliberately
attacking me.”

“Don't let it throw you,” Lord Kelsey-Ramos growled, his voice rich with suppressed anger of his own. “After spending seventy years patiently leading us to this point by our collective nose, they're hardly going to look kindly on someone who's trying his best to upset their plans.”

“Then they're going to have some readjusting to do,” I gritted. The pressure was still there, I could see now, resting up against my consciousness like a dull toothache. But now that I knew its origin and purpose its power over me was gone.

Lord Kelsey-Ramos cocked an eyebrow. “Well, we'll see about that, won't we?” he said. “So, let's hear this plan of yours.”

I took a deep breath, my anger at the thunderheads fading into the distance … leaving a tinge of uncertainty in its place. Perversely, what had seemed like a gold-plated idea while I was alone in my cell was tarnishing almost visibly under Lord Kelsey-Ramos's unblinking gaze. “To begin with,” I said, deciding to go with the least arguable part first, “I'll need to talk to the thunderheads again. The only way this is going to work is with their cooperation.”

Lord Kelsey-Ramos blinked, his anticipation turning slightly sour. “These are the same thunderheads who've just spent four days trying to drive you into a nervous breakdown?” he asked pointedly.