Текст книги "Forge of Heaven "

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

But after the woman had left his office, on a third thought, he wished he had done it. What if this kid—this tap—found out his governor had strongly indicated Brazis shouldn’t send him, and spilled that fact back to Gide?

Governors didn’t often resign the Concord office. They died in it, more than once under very mysterious circumstances.

“Curious,” Dortland said, echoing Brazis.

“Curious. I’m sure he’s curious.” In both meanings. He never had liked Dortland. He decided today that he trulydidn’t like Dortland. The man had ice water for blood. Ran risks involving others and didn’t give a damn.

But the man was efficient. And intelligent. Give him that.

“Am I going to have to say no to this interview on my own?” It was still an option. “Dangerous, but an option.”

“You’ve gone this far. You might just see where this goes, sir,” Dortland said, “and keep meticulous records—in case this investigation widens. I would in fact have advised against your interview of this young man beforehand. Since it will take place, I’d record that session, under seal, to prove exactly what was said.”

“Who is he?” Sharp question, sudden focus of thought—on the Outsider Council at Apex, and simultaneously on the byzantine maze of Earth and Inner Worlds politics. “ Whatis he allied with?”

“Do you refer to the Chairman, the ambassador, or Mr. Stafford?”

“Gide. Mr. Andreas Gide. What possibly authorized a ship to come out here?”

Dortland never varied expression. “Some important entity, some body of very great resource and ample finance.”

“A political party.”

“Or some other entity who has a ship of this sort constantly at its disposal.”

“The Treaty Board.” That suggestion was completely askew from surmises of Earth party politics. “Do you possibly think? The Board, or someone trying to prove something to the Board?”

“It might be,” Dortland said.

“Do you have that information?”

“I don’t have it, but I suspect it, rationally.”

The Treaty Board sat aside from ordinary Earth authorities, which came and went, and combined and recombined. The Treaty Board was monolithic, quiet, and rarely moved or voted, or even surfaced, in its age-old existence. Most of its members were decrepit, dull, and scholarly, and most residents of the Inner Worlds and the Outside went about their business oblivious to the Treaty Board’s function in the universe.

But when that board did stir, when it raised any question that the Treaty, its sole business, might be endangered by some policy or action, governments shook and wise politicians thought twice and changed their tune as fast as they could dance to the other side. Nothing could generate panic in the economic markets like the Board stirring to life. Alone, it couldargue with Antonio Brazis’s authority, if it wanted to invoke its powers. It diddeal with the ondat,and with the agreements of performance that kept that ancient situation contained.

And what other Earth entity wouldlogically be investigating any serious whisper of First Movement data getting off the planet…and doing it with an armed ship as backup?

“Get your stock out of volatiles,” Reaux muttered, “if that’s the case. This isn’t a political setup. They’re serious. They’re damned serious. Do you suppose Brazis agreed to this because he suspects?”

“Let Mr. Gide meet with this young man,” Dortland said. “That’s my advice. You’re this far into it. Don’t falter.”

It was worth a shiver. He still didn’t like the prospect. But he’d asked Brazis. He’d gotten his answer.

Damn Brazis for saying yes. But now, twice damn it, the suspicion Gide held might be solid, and if it was, hewanted the answers.

A BREAKFAST BAR, a sandwich, a piece of cake and a pot of caff, precariously balanced, but Procyon had the entry to his in-apartment office down to an art. The very minute the security system would let him in the door, an elbow against the switch, a rotation of the body, entrance achieved.

After which, every morning just before 1000h, he set his breakfast and lunch down on the counter, poured himself that first cup of caff, and reclined in his working chair, feet up, to read the transcripts. This morning he had an agenda, research to do.

The room-encircling bank of monitors showed him everything from remote islands to the halls of the Refuge. He couldn’t command their search for a new one, not until he came on duty. They merely showed him what Auguste saw, at the moment, in his office several streets apart from his residence.

Nasty weather had moved in on Marak, in Drusus’s account. Marak’s party had set up the base unit, but hadn’tgotten the antenna up last evening. They’d taken to their tent and gone to sleep as the storm hit. That front they’d hoped would go slightly north, hadn’t.

And after that there was a very short file from Auguste. With the storm, disappointing news, had come a long communications blackout, lasting most of Auguste’s watch since midnight. Sand blasted into the air created static. Better if they’d been able to establish all their planetary relays by satellite. But there was upset with the ondatevery time they added a satellite. It took an act of God to get a new transceiver aloft, and here they were, communications-short and downed by a sandstorm.

Well, damn, Procyon said to himself. No new camera image from the area yet. He glanced past the images that floated before his eyes, to the rest of the monitors, scenes from off across the continent, stations either remote-dropped or precision-set by Marak or one of his people.

One of the stations, two sectors east of Marak’s position, had its lens completely obscured by blowing dust. The storm front had moved that far. Which probably meant it was clearing over Marak’s camp.

Auguste, still working, had sent over his partial transcript. The section of Auguste’s record that he could access was still brief, un-informative: storm and silence.

Well, damn and damn.

Then, from the tail of the general record, Ian’s, at the Refuge, and half an hour later—he saw there’d been worse than weather. An earthquake had hit the region this morning, a major one, with an epicenter, the team thought, in the Southern Wall, the very area they wanted to set up this string of relays to monitor.

Not unexpected, in the gross sense. Not a surprise. But a very strong movement.

An earthquake felt like an emergency stop in the lift system. That was the way he’d heard it described in his studies of planetary geology: a lurch, only with a shaking component that lasted about a minute or less. Structures fell down, poles whipped about, the taller the pole, the more violent. A tent could even pop a rope loose, and in a stormy wind with the dust flying, thatcertainly wasn’t a good situation. Canvas would bell and buck, possibly break loose and blow completely away.

Marak could certainly deal with that eventuality. He’d dealt with far worse. But the relay had clearly gone to secondary importance in their morning…witness Auguste was, in what trickled in minute by minute, still having trouble making contact with Marak, and his account of the quake slowly came trickling in, so voluminous and laced with research inserts it obscured the essential facts. From Drusus’s report, they had quit setup last night because daylight was going and a storm was coming on. And that had turned out, Auguste said, to be fortunate: an earthquake that strong, had the antenna been up without the bracing, might have added to their troubles, especially if they were in mid-process of the extension.

But things were surely all right down there. There was no one more experienced with rotten weather and the high desert than Marak and Hati.

The quake seemed right on that fault that followed the Southern Wall. And right where they didn’tyet have a camera. Marak would be very upset with that.

Procyon read, ate his breakfast, waiting for 1000h.

The clock showed two minutes to go. He waited for the final transcript from Auguste before he tapped in.

The last of the transcript came in. He skimmed it—Auguste had gotten a fleeting contact. Marak and Hati were riding off from the camp, pursuing beshti that had run away in panic, all but two of their beshti having taken off. One of the men had a broken leg and cracked ribs.

From falling off? From a kick? Or from an accident with a collapsing tent? The situation was ongoing. The report was unclear.

Not good news at all. The last of Auguste’s report was cryptic, unrefined, from a tap trying harder to listen than to write his transcription, trying to make sense of intermittent contact, unable to maintain a coherent communication. Auguste had spent the last of his watch in contact with the subdirector, who’d shunted Auguste into contact with Ian at the Refuge, regarding Marak’s situation. Hati’s intermittent watcher had been called to duty as backup, but had gained no contact, either. Auguste blamed their distance from a working relay.

He was coming on duty into an outright emergency—well, not a huge one: the communications dropout was surely the storm as well as distance, and Marak seemed to be doing what he had to do, which was to catch the runaways. But certainly it was an exciting event, a chance for him to actually work a situation. In anticipation, he watched the clock tick down the last seconds.

1000h. He made the slight effort to tap in.

And didn’t make contact at all, not even with the tap.

That was a curious sensation. Just silence. Was the tap-manager wanting Auguste to stay in charge a little longer, still trying to reestablish solid contact?

“Procyon Stafford.”

The Old Man’s voice echoed in his head. Brazis himself. Speaking directly to him. Why did his heart suddenly pound? Had something happened to Marak?

“We have a problem, Procyon. There’s a situation on station and unfortunately you’ve been selected. I want you to report to Governor Reaux’s office.”

“To the governor, sir?” Total change of direction. Didn’t the director know the staff had an emergency working? Didn’t he know Auguste had lost contact, after an earthquake?

“The governor’s a reliable ally to the PO. Don’t offend him. Do you know any reason why an authority from that ship out there would want to talk to you personally?”

“To me, sir? Ship?” He talked aloud in order to talk to Brazis, and knew that me, sir?wasn’t an adequate, even an intelligent answer. But ship. The docked ship. “No, sir. I haven’t any idea why. I have no idea. I don’t know anybody from Earth.”

“The ambassador’s name is Mr. Gide. Mr. Andreas Gide, from Earth. He likely views you as new on the job and vulnerable—maybe someone he can bully for information he shouldn’t acquire. He’s likely interested in Marak. Needless to say, we’re not pleased at this attention, but we’re curious. And very wary. Don’t take this meeting lightly.”

“No, sir. I couldn’t possibly. Take it lightly, that is. I can’t talk to him, can I? I’m not supposed to.”

“You can. You will. And you’ll do it intelligently and observantly, just as you do your job. Go to Governor Reaux’s office and get further instructions. He’s managing your visit. I’m sure he has the address.”

He was utterly appalled. “What am I supposed to say to this person, sir?”

“Answer his questions—consider him as equivalent to the governor, certainly no higher than that, but be very polite. You have skills of observation. He knows who you are and what you are. You know the Project rules. And you have a proven discretion. Use these assets.”

“Yes, sir. But…you know there’s been a major earthquake down there this morning. Marak’s out of touch. Am I—?”

“Auguste has the situation in hand. The contact is intermittent, but he has it. Marak’s situation is entirely manageable. Marak is very confident and Auguste is volunteering to extend his shift to meet Drusus halfway at noon. Don’t worry about it. Don’t think about it. I want your mind on the job at hand, which I assure you is far more critical to the Project.”

“Yes, sir.” He was concerned, humanly concerned, for a man down on the planet who in many ways had grown closer than family, and, no, he didn’t want to be shunted off on any other job, especially one where he could get into politics, where he could make a career-damaging mistake he couldn’t remedy. “Can I come back later and trade shifts with Drusus, sir? I’m sure I won’t be that tired. I want to know how this comes out.”

“You’re to talk to the governor, and then the ambassador. Find out what Gide wants and why he has an interest in you. And you’ll debrief to me after that. I’m telling you to concentrate on this job, not the other. I trust you can use that professionalism.”

Stern reprimand. Refocus. Fast. For his career’s sake. “Yes, sir, but can you tell me what I’m supposed to be listening for with this person?”

“This Earther from way high up in his government has come out here specifically asking questions he knows he shouldn’t ask—which is interference with Outsider government and interference with the Project and the PO, of which Apex takes a very dim view. Take mental notes on his questions, his attitudes, his implications. Forget nothing. Commit yourself to nothing. Give nothing away, the same as to anyone on the street. Is that a clear enough explanation for you?”

It wasn’t. He felt a rising panic. He didn’t want to sound unco-operative. “Yes, sir.”

“You have an immediate appointment at Governor Reaux’s office, in person. Dress modestly and appropriately. Don’t contact any friends or relatives while you’re under that ship’s observation, as I assure you that you will be for the next five days. Don’t answer questions relating to Project affairs, not with the governor and especially with the ambassador. You already know what you can and can’t talk about. For all we know there are a dozen bugs and all manner of truthers inside the governor’s office or inside the ambassador’s shell, so keep calm. Don’t be overawed by the governor—don’t trust him, either. Don’t talk about your work or your personal life with him and don’t talk about department business, no matter how nice and social it sounds. And damned sure don’t get friendly with the ambassador or get led down corridors where no-answer means they hit something sensitive. If truthers are an issue with the governor’s office, bet they’ll be in full force when you’re with the ambassador. In short—follow the rules you always follow, find out what he wants and what he thinks and admit only to what he brings up that’s within that level of knowledge. Don’t even think of tapping back to the PO while you’re in either office, remember every minute detail you’re asked, and don’t tell the governor or the ambassador a thing of substance. You’re a tap. You know how to do what I’m asking of you. You have that kind of memory.”

“Yes, sir.” A shiver ran through him, as if the room had gone way too cold. He decided he had the picture as clear as he was going to have it. He couldn’t imagine what the governor or the ambassador would want to talk to him about excepthis work and the department’s business, which he was ordered not to talk about. And he had no inclination to say anything about his personal life, or the personal associations the department had forgiven him, even to his own department head.

Could it be that? Could his assignment to Marak have come into question, because of those old associations, his Freethinker days?

That was a truly terrifying thought. But it was Earth, not Apex asking the questions. Earth couldn’t make any decision regarding the Project. Earth, once he thought clearly about it, wasn’t that big a threat to him no matter how much they wanted information.

“Go,”Brazis said. “Say as little as possible, and remember everything.”

“Yes, sir.” He tapped out. He got up from his chair and numbly gathered up the items he’d brought in, to take back to the kitchen. Breakfast wasn’t sitting at all well on his stomach.

Dress appropriately. That was a major problem, too. He worked in sweatpants, socks, and a tee. His Trendy go-to-dinner clothes certainly weren’t going to impress any Earther at 1000h in the morning.

He did have his reporting-to-the-office suit. The suit his parents wished he would wear every day.

He rode the lift upstairs to deposit the day’s unused snacks back into storage.

Reaux was going to give him further details when they met: that was simple enough to grasp. The governor, who didn’t—wouldn’t—couldn’t—use a tap, wasn’t going to use the phone to transfer information to him, either, and a personal courier from the governor, coming here to Grozny Close to deliver him a message, would start gossip racing from one end of the Trend to the other. So it was better, his going there.

And as for the level of what he was allowed to say– nohad to be his favorite word for the occasion. Noand no, sir.Security wouldn’t allow a member of Brazis’s staff to discuss any sort of Project business, or even what he did inside the Project, outside the department’s secure environs. Brazis was right. That instruction wasn’t hard to fix in his head: it was the rule he lived by. His own father couldn’t get the truth about his job out of him. He wasn’t about to give things away to Earthers, just because they asked.

And for that matter, and a cold second thought—these being Earthers, and neither the governor nor the ambassador having any internal tap, they wouldn’t completely understand the tech involved, its limitations or its abilities, and they wouldn’t like disrespect.

That was what he was dealing with—ultraconservatives. Think of the parentals—and their priest. Black suits and no earring, no flash on the fingers. Like dinner with the parents and all the relatives at once. Like a family funeral.

With the possibility of some really scary, state-of-the-art truthers, constantly reading everything he said and probing for what he might be hiding behind every blink of his eyes.

Don’t even think of tapping back to the PO while you’re there…

A hack? The PO’s system being a completely different piece of equipment than the public tap system—that made interference with it a whole different operation than the common variety of tap-hackers, whose routine business contacts—and their customers—ranged from Earth security to the criminal underworld. The public tap system was worm-eaten with hackers—which was why the Project tap absolutely had to be a whole different system on every level.

And because the Project tap was nanocele-based, for all the ages of its existence, it remained unhackable—so the PO insisted. So far, the Project was impenetrable.

But if anybody thought of hacking it—if anybody was going to try that—that effort, if concentrated on him, might do physical damage. He’d felt overload—he’d felt the tap-output spike when he was recovering from the implant, when it was brand new. He was going where he couldn’t even thinkabout using equipment that was supposed to be absolutely secure, equipment that was as natural for him to use now as his sense of sight or hearing. It had bioelectronic components, notably the relays that interfaced with the nanocele. That meant electronics couldinterfere with it. Could attack it.

Scary games he’d been dragged into. Marak’s World held the only politics he ever wanted to study. That world ran smoothly in the hands of those that had managed it forever, and he was at orbital distance. But now if his one teenaged flirtation with Freethinker idiots had somehow attracted the attention of authorities outside the Project, damned right he was upset. He had a right to be upset—and tooth and nail, he’d fight any implication…

Only if he had to. He had to remember he hadBrazis’s political protection. Brazis wasn’t going to have Earthers of any stripe telling him who to assign where, or demanding he fire anybody. Brazis would hire two more questionables right off the street tomorrow if only to tell Earth to go to hell.

And, always a fact of the universe, always, both inside the Project and wherever the Treaty itself was at issue… Marakhad the ultimate say about his taps. Nobody, absolutely nobody, challenged him to a duel of wills.

No. He was safe. Politics couldn’t remove him, no matter how this went. Earth could throw a screaming blue fit and it wasn’t going to scare Outsider authority, let alone Marak, who could shut down cooperation for a century or two and annoy the ondatin the process. Marak’s displeasure could shake an economy. Ruin a career. A dozen careers. Bring down governments.

Which only argued that an otherwise very junior tap should just go in calmly and confidently, do what he was told to the letter, keep his eyes and ears wide open as requested by the only authority he answered to, and do his job without making his superiors any unnecessary trouble. It was scary, but it wasn’t fatal. He just needed to look good, sound respectful, do it and get back.

Dark suit. No flash. He went upstairs, opened the closet, searched for the dark blue shirt that went with the parental-approval suit. He searched the whole closet three times and finally located the missing shirt in the shadowy back end of the freshener, where he recalled he had put it after the last holiday dinner with the parents and the relatives.

He found the conservative collar, dug up both matching socks. Head to toe, he became a good boy, as churchly-straight as possible, void of any breath of the Trend—

Well, except the hair, but he wasn’t going to cut that, not even for the Earth envoy. He clipped the locks back into head-hugging simplicity.

Rings. And earring. He stripped those off and put them in his house safe. No hint of show or display of extravagant salary. No controversy. No hint of arrogance. No problem. He looked sober as clergy.