Traitor's Sun (34 page)

Belfontaine moved more quickly to keep the chill out of his bones. He thought about this sudden proposal, wary and suspicious. He did not like his underlings to have ideas of their own, and he was aware that such a plan was very dangerous. If it went awry, it was his head that was in the noose, not Granfell’s.

There was something about this sudden proposal that rang alarm bells in Belfontaine’s mind. What if Regis Hastur was still alive, and the entire thing was some plan to discredit him as Station Chief. It would not be the first time some ambitious subordinate had tried to further himself at the expense of his commander. He had never entirely trusted Granfell, had he? The whole thing seemed too good to be true, and Lyle had learned very early in life to mistrust anything he had not learned firsthand, for himself.

Still, he should be able to determine if, indeed, Hastur was dead. If he was, he knew why he had not been informed—Lew Alton was behind it, of course. It would be just like the man to keep him in the dark. He felt surrounded by enemies and incompetents, suspecting everyone, even the Planetary Administrator, Emmet Grayson, whom he had managed to neutralize effectively for the most part. The reorganization of the Federation bureaucracy had made it easy for Belfontaine to exclude Grayson from any real authority, but he still had a few loyal followers among the personnel at HQ. It seemed an unlikely prospect, but one which would bear considering when he was alone.

“I can only speculate about what is happening in Federation space, Miles. My best guess is that in order to keep things going they have simply closed down intersystem communication for the time being. That would keep any ambitious admirals or planetary governors from conspiring or causing trouble.”

“You think they have isolated all the member worlds, then?”

“Those that might be disloyal, certainly.”

“But why take us out of the loop?”

“A sound question, for which I have no answer. For all I know, some group has seized control of the relay station itself. The dissolution of the legislature may have triggered some crisis we cannot imagine—it was an ill-considered move, in my opinion. I have no doubt that Nagy’s Expansionist advisors assumed that they could control the situation, but I have never had a great deal of respect for most of them.”

“Politicians,” Granfell sneered.

“Exactly.” He weighed his next words carefully, wishing to seem neither too eager nor too reluctant. Granfell’s reaction to them would tell him a great deal. “Do you seriously think this funeral train can be attacked successfully?”

“I think it worth a try, yes.”

“I don’t want a try, Miles. I can’t risk violating Federation policy. It would have to appear as if it were a local action, not a Federation move.”

“Yes, that’s true. I thought that we might take advantage of our Aldaran friends in this.” The wind gusted and the words were muffled.

“What precisely do you have in mind?” Aldaran friends? He meant
Dom
Damon, who was no friend to anyone but himself. All of Belfontaine’s suspicions hardened—why bring
Dom
Damon into it? What was Granfell up to?

“If we fly some of the troops down from the Hellers, land them along the road, and attack the train . . .”

Lyle was shocked for a second as Granfell paused. This did not sound like a spur of the moment plan, but something that had been thought out far more completely. On the other hand, from the evidence of his boots, Miles had walked from wherever he had met Vancof, and perhaps he had used the time to think it through. He had never underestimated the intelligence of his subordinate before, and he was not going to begin now. “We have about a hundred useful men up there,” he answered reasonably, as if he were thinking about it, when instead his mind was racing with fresh suspicions. “The funeral procession will be heavily guarded, won’t it? The natives here may be backward, but they know how to fight.” He waited to hear Granfell’s reply, to measure it. The strange prickling he had had earlier on the back of his neck returned.

“Dress the men up in local clothing and pass them off as brigands. God knows there are enough of those up in the hills. And I am sure that a couple platoons of trained soldiers could take out these paltry guards without using blasters. We might mine the road or . . .”

“And if the Federation appears, and there is a Board of Inquiry, what then?”

“If you aren’t ready to take the risk . . .”

“I did not say that, Miles. But we have to be extremely cautious. I just want to be certain that, whatever happens, nothing can be traced to us. The idea of using men from the Hellers complex is a good one, since we can blame
Dom
Damon if anything goes wrong. We all know that he thinks that he could run Cottman if he ever got the chance. He would make an excellent scapegoat, particularly if he were dead. But I don’t want to move precipitously. It might be possible that this Mikhail Hastur would be more agreeable than his predecessor, and we could save ourselves a lot of potential trouble by trying to deal with him first.”

“I thought you would jump at the chance to get Cottman into the hands of the Federation.” Miles sounded disappointed, and a little angry, too.

Mine the road? Use blasters? Had Miles lost his mind? “There are too many random factors for my peace of mind.” When he saw the expression on the face of the other man, the look of eagerness fading away, Belfontaine felt a certain smugness. Granfell had to learn who was in charge here. “Still, it is an excellent opportunity, and I agree we should not ignore it. Go ahead. Get Vancof to work on finding a good site for an ambush, and we will try to gather more information. I want definitive proof that Regis Hastur is dead. Vancof’s word is not enough. And if I hear from Regional Headquarters tomorrow, we might have to scrap the whole idea.”

Granfell grunted, then nodded. “I’ll send Nailors out first thing in the morning.”

“Why not go yourself?” The introduction of Miles’ next in command disturbed him, for the more people who knew of the conspiracy, the greater was the danger of failure.

“Vancof hates my guts, and would do almost anything to annoy me. He was very reluctant when I suggested the idea a few hours ago—the man is a coward and a drunk. It is a pity we don’t have a better agent in place, but he is the only one that is on the route the procession will take. And we don’t have time to get another band of Travelers into position to spy for us.”

“Can Nailors be trusted?”

Granfell did not answer immediately, and Belfontaine felt a sudden thrust of unease pierce his belly. “I believe he can be,” the other man finally said.

The reply did not reassure Belfontaine, but instead caused the faint bud of unease in his mind to bloom into a full-fledged anxiety. Granfell was holding something back. He must be! What was it? He had a yearning to grab the taller man by the throat and throttle the truth out of him. For all he knew, the entire story was a fabrication, some plot to discredit him. Lyle chewed over this, hating the wind blowing against his back, the smell of woodsmoke drifting across from the city choking his throat. He looked at the decaying surface beneath his feet, the weeds that had pushed through the ancient concrete, breaking it, and held back a sudden sense of helplessness and fury.

The dilemma before him seemed hydralike. If Granfell was telling the truth, and Regis Hastur was dead, why had he not heard of it from other sources? True, Lew Alton had stonewalled him on certain matters in the past, but it seemed out of character for him not to have informed Headquarters. The man was just a bureaucrat, full of his own position and power, wasn’t he? Was there some sort of struggle going on in Comyn Castle? Perhaps this unknown Mikhail Hastur did not trust Lew Alton—which would suit Belfontaine well enough. Alton was Regis’ advisor, but was he also a confidant of this unknown man? He needed better information, and he could think of no way to get any immediately. If only that daughter of Damon Aldaran’s had been as useful as her father had suggested she might be.

On the other hand, if Granfell were playing him false, then this whole thing might be a plot to discredit him and take his place. Belfontaine played that idea out quickly. With his personal history, it would not be difficult for Granfell to convince their superiors that he had been the instigator of an unauthorized attack on the planetary rulers of Cottman IV. That was assuming that the Federation had not abandoned them to the cold winds of Cottman forever.

Why was he suggesting using troops from the Aldaran Domain? Was Granfell in league with that old fool up in the Hellers? Miles had gone to the Hellers a few months before, ostensibly to evaluate the situation there. But what if the actual reason had been to see
Dom
Damon and involve him in Granfell’s personal ambitions. If Belfontaine were removed, Miles was the logical person to step into his place as Station Chief.

What if the Federation’s planned retreat had forced Granfell’s hand? With a sick feeling, Belfontaine realized that his hatred of Cottman had led him to isolate himself, to depend on Miles Granfell, whom he knew to be a discontented and ambitious man. But until now he had always believed he could trust the man not to overstep himself.

“Let us take one thing at a time, shall we?”

Miles was not satisfied, if the angry jerk of his shoulders was anything to judge by. “Why wait? I thought you would jump at the chance.”

“There are several ways to approach this situation, Miles, and not all of them involve the wholesale slaughter of a hundred or more people.”

“Very well. But I will send Nailors off in the morning to tell Vancof to scout out a possible site for an ambush.” He paused, as if something disturbed him, something he did not want to say. “Uh, there is a little problem. Vancof says he wants written orders from you before he goes ahead. And a shortbeam transmitter, too. Funny, isn’t it, how much of our current technology fails to work on Cottman, but things we abandoned hundreds of years ago still do.”

“A transmitter? I don’t much care for that idea. The locals are backward and self-absorbed, but not so much so that they would fail to notice illegal technology . . .” Written orders? Was that really Vancof’s idea, or was Miles trying to create trouble for him? One thing the disaster on Lein III had taught him was to never leave any evidence behind, and here was Granfell suggesting that he do exactly that. The whole thing smelled. No, it stank!

“I don’t think there is much real danger that it will be discovered and recognized as prohibited technology, do you?” Granfell brushed aside Lyle’s mild objection with an abrupt gesture, his face animated in the yellow glow from a nearby light. “And perhaps we might see about creating a bit of havoc in Thendara itself—something to keep those stupid City Guards busy.”

Belfontaine gave the taller man a hard look. On the surface he seemed just as he always had, a ruthless, restless man with grand ambitions. But underneath—Lyle sensed a tension that he could not quite read. Granfell was too eager for Belfontaine’s comfort, and the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that Granfell could not have come up with such a plan on the spur of the moment. He didn’t believe Granfell was that clever. And suggesting sending a piece of off-world technology to a man who was a poor spy, although an efficient assassin when he was not drinking too heavily, made no sense and roused a finger of unease in his already unsettled belly.

Yes, it was clear now. Granfell could not be trusted, and he was probably in league with either the Planetary Administrator, Grayson, or with Lord Aldaran. Hmm . . . for all he knew, Miles was in league with Lew Alton, and this was why the news of Hastur’s death had not reached him. Stranger things had happened. He drew a breath, forcing himself to keep his imagination in check.

“Do what you can,” he answered with as much outward indifference as he could manage, while inwardly seething. “And have Nailors see me before he leaves—I’ll think about the shortbeam.”

Granfell turned and walked away without a word, leaving Belfontaine alone in the cold. After a minute, he turned and walked toward his own quarters, deep in thought. Surely he had neutralized Grayson sufficiently. Besides, the man was not much of a schemer. So it must be Aldaran. Unless Alton was part of the plot, too. No, this seemed unlikely in the extreme. It had to be
Dom
Damon, didn’t it, with his desire to become the real power on Cottman.

Abruptly, Belfontaine turned and went back into the HQ Building. He had to find out if Granfell had been in secret communication with
Dom
Damon—the idea had never occurred to him until now. What an idiot he was! He had such contempt for the old man that he had not seen the danger at all. And there were those sons of his, too. Why had Hermes Aldaran returned so suddenly? Or perhaps it was the older one, Robert, who was conspiring with Granfell. Just because he appeared the soul of probity did not mean he had no desire to succeed to his father’s place.

They must all be in this together! There was no other reasonable explanation for Herm Aldaran to have come back so conveniently. Somehow the old man or Robert must have sent for him—his return had nothing to do with the dissolution of the legislature! That had been a mere coincidence. He must find a way to get Hermes away from Comyn Castle. He knew ways to get information out of a man!

Frustration welled up in his throat, leaving his mouth sour and dry. Lew Alton had not even bothered to reply to his demand for the return of Herm Aldaran. He felt ignored—no, worse—dismissed as unimportant. Well, he would just have to do something—perhaps send a message to this Mikhail Hastur instead. Or go to Comyn Castle himself and demand a meeting. He shuddered all over. He would not risk his dignity by going—no, he would make someone come to him! And if it was Lew Alton, the man would never leave HQ alive.

For a moment, he dwelt on this satisfying idea, enjoying the images that danced in his mind. Then Lyle scolded himself. Alton was too smart to risk it, and he knew it. And he was being hasty, jumping to conclusions without enough real evidence, wasn’t he? No! On the contrary, he knew in his gut that he was right—that his constant fear and paranoia had some foundation.