Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks (41 page)

The Speaker’s Official Residence
Alexandria, District of Alexandria
Lower Nile Protected Zone, Terra, Sol

Back on Earth, Speaker Gautier’s mind was also focused, though in an altogether different and less pleasant way. She had just ended a highly unsatisfactory conversation with the Halith Ambassador, who had called to express ‘grave reservations’ about the ultimatum. He had information, he claimed, that showed the ultimatum to be no more than a blind for—here he paused and, adjusting his purely cosmetic spectacles (CID had verified this), said, “certain measures that did not tend towards the continued peaceful coexistence between their respective governments.”

The Speaker had no idea what he meant, but hid it well. She was less successful in convincing the gentleman that whatever he had heard, his source was most unfortunately confused, and they should be careful to avoid any untoward misunderstanding. There followed a steely silence, after which the ambassador begged that the Speaker would not take the situation lightly, and that he must seek direction from his government. In her turn, Hazen Gautier begged they would not act in a hasty or precipitous manner. That was received with no more than a cold smile, and the call ended with a rare display of artic cordiality.

Now the Speaker hurried through the splendid west wing of her official residence, the hot summer sun blazing through the noble span of tall windows, to her private office. Outside, the sunlight scattered a diamond brilliance across Alexandria’s Grand Harbor, with the towering replica of the Pharos Lighthouse on the great mole beyond—a fine day that made no impression. As she arrived at the office door, the security system recognized and admitted her.

She disliked the cramped, windowless space with its drab, utilitarian furnishings intensely; not so much because it was cramped, drab, or utilitarian, but because this had been her predecessor’s inner sanctum—his nerve center. She felt he’d never quite relinquished his grip here and she resented it. Those were private feelings; she thrust them forcefully into the background as she sat behind the unadorned gray desk. Keying on the hyperwave with her private code, she sent a connection request with a priority tag to her aide, who was at the capitol in Nereus keeping tabs on affairs. Mars was near opposition at the moment, and at that range the hyperwave would only support voice, not video, for which she was thankful. She knew herself to be quite broadminded, but the fact remained that she still wasn’t entirely used to
Nowell
being
Noelle
, and when she was tired or flustered—and today she was both—she was apt to make mistakes. Not having to talk face to face helped avoid them.

The problem was not so much the Halith ambassador: she felt she had the measure of him and was almost certain he was running a bluff. The problem was that things were transpiring which were hid from sight, and it was not impossible he’d gotten a hint of
something
somewhere, and was trying to parlay it into more. His Bannerman counterpart was a bit a buffoon, and thus probably not involved, except as a useful distraction. What then might he have heard? Or
thought
he heard?

She was well aware she didn’t enjoy the full confidence of several members of the Council, and of course they also had their own agendas (several of which she’d do well to puncture when the times were convenient), and she could well believe some staff person had been indiscreet. But not about anything that “did not tend towards the continued peaceful coexistence between their respective governments.” For a Council member to get that far out of bounds was inconceivable. And no one else, even a grand senator, had the necessary clout.

No—unless the Halith ambassador was fishing more randomly than was wise, the only plausible explanation for such a concern lay with the military or the intelligence organizations. She inclined towards the former. Admiral Westover, in particular, she thought a shade too smooth at times—his answers rather facile and too pat. The Service fairly worshiped him, as the vicar of the sainted Admiral Kasena, and that gave him a potentially uncomfortable degree of latitude. Nowell—
Noelle
, she corrected herself—had a good sense for these things.

As if summoned, the hyperwave lit up with Noelle’s code and a message scrolled across the screen: LOCKING NOW. WILL HAVE VOICE IN 2. STAND BY PLEASE. Her mental slip very much on her mind, Hazen Gautier typed her acknowledgement with care. The hyperwave beeped and displayed a ream a headers, then the
Circuit Active
indicator lit.

“Hello, Madam Speaker,” came Noelle’s voice, stripped of all tone and most inflection by the link.

“Good morning, Noelle,” she replied, enunciating precisely. “How are you?”

“Quite fine. What can I do for you, ma’am?”

Hyperwaves were not well suited to idle pleasantries and chitchat, so the Speaker relayed the essentials of her conversation with the Halith ambassador, without any elaboration, then asked, “
Are
we doing anything, Noelle?”

“Not that I’m aware, ma’am, besides perhaps that Rephidim business.”

“That’s only exploratory. We haven’t approved anything yet. It has scarcely been discussed.”

“Reconnaissance was approved, ma’am.”

“Approved, yes. But not begun. The assets are still being assembled. They won’t be ready for at least another week.”

“Quite true, ma’am.”

“And Halith has no interests in the Outworlds Border Zone. Surely they could not object to our conducting reconnaissance there. We are well within our rights to patrol that region as we choose.”

“Yes, ma’am. Though they might have an interest in the subject himself.”

“Do you think it’s possible they would have learned of the subject?”

“I’d be very concerned if they did, ma’am. Such a situation would need to be—dealt with.”

“I agree.” A pause while Speaker Gautier considered that most unwelcome prospect. She found it did not bear thinking on and retreated to her first suspicion. “Then you don’t think the admiral might be engaged in something?”

“Admiral Westover, ma’am? Do you mean an off-the-books operation?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“I shouldn’t think so. Admiral Westover isn’t much a risk taker.”

“No?”

“He’s very astute, ma’am, and administratively quite excellent. But he owes his position to his relationship with Jasmine Kasena. He’s not really what they call a
fighting
admiral. The former Speaker retained him because he runs a taut ship, as they say, and he’s not a loose cannon. The former Speaker did not tolerate loose cannons.”

Because he was one
, the Speaker thought to herself.

“I’d be more concerned about Admiral PrenTalien, but he doesn’t have the authority and if he tried to start something big enough to be of concern, I’m sure we’d hear about it.”

“Is it your feeling that the ambassador is just bluffing then?”

“Perhaps, although the ultimatum is of great concern to them. There are people listed in it that I’m sure they would very much like to see removed.”

“Such as?”

“I believe Korliss Hellman would be one such.”

She recalled the name, but not the specific connection. There was no need to ask, however—she would look this person up later.

“So a fishing expedition then. To see who we might give up?”

“More of a probe, ma’am, I believe. To gauge our reaction.”

“Indeed.” That did make a lot of sense. “Then we need to encourage him to lay his cards out.”

“Just so, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Noelle. This has been most helpful.”

“My pleasure, Madam Speaker. Will there be anything else?”

“No. I think not presently.”

“Then good evening, ma’am.”

“Take care, Noelle.”

She waited until Noelle signed off, ended the session, cleared the channel, and shut down the hyperwave.

Yes, it all made a good deal of sense. Send out a probe—gauge a response. She had been too open and conciliatory in her initial approaches, that was clear. Her efforts had not encouraged a like openness. But it had conveyed a certain impression;
that
could be useful. Time to send some probes of her own. Of course, in sending a probe, the platform was nine-tenths of the issue. Without a proper platform, nothing could be accomplished—things might even backfire.

The Bannerman ambassador would make a quite good platform, she thought. He and the Halith ambassador certainly corresponded, and not just about what was in their official ambit. Indeed not. She could certainly feed the Bannerman ambassador something that would pique his Halith friend’s interest. Something that would get him to show at least part of his hand.

And she would play hers very close.

Yes, she felt much better now. Yes, she could handle this.

Miss Goodnight, in orbit
Rephidim, Outworld’s Border Zone

Events, entangled with causal chains, whose links were made of many human foibles and most human vices, continued to unfold across distances that had reached cosmic proportions.

At Rephidim, in orbit about its yellow dwarf primary that had not the dignity of a name, only a mere catalog descriptor (Gamma Hydras LXIX-EZ1), Nestor Mankho’s factor was arguing with the master of the slaver packet,
Miss Goodnight
. He began by informing the master he was late.

Sixteen hours, the master retorted. BFD. Did the factor think he was the fuck’n post? Besides one of the cargo managed to choke herself to death on the way out—swallowed her fuck’n tongue!

The factor upbraided him for careless handling and received a rude response.

Any gate, the master went on, they picked up a replacement at Outremeria. Sweet deal. That’s why they were late—lost a day. Got some back. Did the factor wanna see the body?

Which body, the factor wanted to know.

“The
dead
one, asshole,” the master snapped.

He did. The master conducted him to the bilges and unsealed a body bag. Inside was a young woman, gray and rigid with a specially mixed dose of tetraodontoxins. The factor checked her with his outdated med scanner. Yep, dead. About a week. He wrinkled his heavily studded nose. Lucky they had a body bag.

“Want salvage?” the master asked.

“How much?”

“Twenty percent of purchase.”

“That’s fuck’n outrageous!”

“You gotta thing for dead chicks, you can pay a fuck’n premium.”

The factor told the master what he could do with his premium.

The master told the factor to go fuck an engine port. Then, adopting a more conciliatory mien, he led the factor back up the ladder.

“Wait till ya see what we got in her place. Prime. Worth two—three times asking. Ya lucked out.” On reaching the holding deck, he whistled. His men brought out a short shivering cowering naked girl, terror writ large in her beautiful dark eyes. “See?”

The factor saw, and more than his cupidity spiked. The girl wasn’t just prime, she was a treasure. The very thing his boss adored. The master was under with his three-over assessment. So taken was he, the factor hardly examined at the chip the master handed him with the girl’s bill of sale, grading certificate, ownership history and health records.

“I’ll give her to ya for just . . . one up.”

“Double? That weren’t the deal.”

“Then take the salvage and hit air.”

The factor gnawed the end of his braided beard. The girl was
easily
worth three times what they agreed for the dead one. He took another look at the replacement’s records. Copasetic—chipped too. The boss would like that.

“Okay. We’ll take.”

“All good then?” asked the master.

“Good,” the factor agreed, eyeing the new acquisition and weighing whether he could get away with a test drive on the trip down.

The master was shaking a lading chip at him. “Sign.”

The factor signed.

“Load ‘em up!” the master yelled. His men started herding the other two dozen slaves—some wondering what fate-worse-than-death one of their number had met with—into the boats that would transport them to the cargo lighter loitering in a 96-minute parking orbit just below.

“Hey?” he addressed the factor as the latter turned to accompany his shipment. “You want the salvage or what?”

The factor shook his head.

“Fine. Gonna dump her when we break orbit. Make a pretty show. If you’re lucky, you might catch it.”

The factor laughed, took Vasquez by the hand, and led her into the second boat.

*    *    *

At the same moment, five hundred light-years away, nine former slaver crew regained consciousness, dazed and confused, in the hold of a tender bearing ‘guest labor’ to a prison moon in the Halith colony system of Qokand. The security forces on Qokand V-b (the moon had not a name either) had been without fresh recreation for quite some time. The nine slavers—dazed and confused not just because of their surroundings, but because they were now mute and their bodies were undergoing a startling transformation—had been placed in that part of the shipment set aside to provide this recreation.

The transformation might not be quite complete by the time the tender delivered its cargo in a little over three weeks. Not that the men of the security forces would notice. Or care, if they did.

*    *    *

Still farther away—almost four times farther, in fact—the Speaker fiddled while the opposition burned. The previous day, when the randomly selected girl who would soon wake up in LSS
Kestrel’s
sickbay, confused but free, was being rendered a temporary corpse, the Bannerman Ambassador informed Speaker Gauthier of his government’s initial response. It was terse. The Ambassador was not.

The burden of the message was that while his government was most cognizant of the serious nature of the demands, there were difficulties that may be insuperable within the allotted time. Was some flexibility still possible? As a gesture of good faith, his government would have no objection to a fact-finding expedition to Lacaille to recover whatever might be helpful (an almost meaningless concession at this stage). More to the point, he had a list of names. Here, he produced the list.

A short list. Prominent on it was the name Clancy Rollins, formerly Security Director at Eelusis Cosmodrome, outside Nemeton on Nedaema, and wanted for questioning in the matter of the Alecto Initiative. The notation to the right of the name read
Deceased
.

“Almost certainly,” the Ambassador emended.

A much more interesting name was Korliss Hellman, a prominent Bannerman financier known to do ‘unofficial diplomacy’ on behalf of Halith, who had set up a bank to help slavers handle their business. Nestor Mankho had been a client. (His partner in this endeavor was a semi-retired official from the Andaman finance ministry, Orlando Kagan-Lazar, who’d arranged for the bank to be formed under the seal of the Sultan’s government. His name, regrettably, could not be part of the ultimatum.)

Next to Hellman’s name was the word
Accredited
. This raised even the speaker’s distinctly arched eyebrows. The ambassador spread his hands with a pained smile.

“The gentleman has been accredited by the Halith government.” He then produced a credential, showing that the Dominion of Halith had indeed seen fit to enroll the Honorable Korliss Hellman as a special envoy, and grant him full diplomatic immunity. The instruments allowing for this were attached. “Obviously, we are powerless.” He extended the documents.

The Speaker did not bother to even glance at them. “Obviously.”

Speaker Gauthier leaned back in her leather upholstered chair, regarded her magnificent hand-carved desk, and thought of probes and fig leaves. The Bannerman ambassador took his leave ten minutes later.

The next day, the Halith Ambassador announced that he was returning to Halith Evandor by order of his government for urgent consultations. He regretted that the subject matter could not be revealed. The Speaker regretted his hasty departure. Neither he nor Speaker Gautier mentioned the ultimatum by name. The remainder of the interview did not last five minutes.

Late that evening, a priority call from DCID informed her that unusual activity had been detected on the Halith Supreme Staff’s Morganatic nets—their ultra-secured command channels.

Early the next morning, she was awakened by another call, this one from the Director of ONI, with the news that the Halith Imperial Navy had dispatched the elite Prince Vorland Fleet to Janin Station in Tau Verde, which covered Halith’s end of the Novaya Zemlya transit. The Kerberos Fleet, commonly regarded as the bastard stepchild of the Imperial Navy and formerly homeported at Janin, had been recalled.

Hazen Gauthier thanked the Director in a soft strained voice, hung up the connection, and then sat unmoving in her nightgown until the rising sun began to warm the Carrara marble facing stones on the east side of her residence, and her maid rang to ask if she’d rather have coffee or tea with her breakfast.