Warring States Read online

  “His Excellency is very kind.” Her blush had deepened, but she gave no sign of being aware of it. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll return to my duties, now. Please clear the docks for release of convoy.”

  Koscuisko returned her salute with a cheerful, almost casual nod. He watched her back in silence for a moment before he looked around him, carefully, and spoke again. “I wish to speak to you about a matter of some delicacy, Brachi.”

  That could mean almost anything. Anything which might be interpreted from Koscuisko’s parochial Dolgorukij point of view as potentially representing a remark about deficiencies in a person’s performance of their duty was a matter of the utmost delicacy, and the Dolgorukij interpretation of “duty” extended all the way from what a man had for fast-meal to the manner in which he shat the following morning.

  It was with somewhat mixed feelings that Stildyne, taking a survey himself before responding, saw someone who was probably Dierryk Rukota by his size and shape and the color of his uniform pausing at several marks’ remove to receive the salute of the vector officer and exchange a few words with her.

  “Have to wait,” Stildyne said. “Artillery officer abaft the labbord beam.”

  He had no idea what it meant to be abaft the labbord beam, except in the general sense of approaching. The phrase came out of his mouth from the antiquated retrieval systems of his childhood memories, which was a surprise in itself as he hadn’t remembered ever having had a childhood.

  “The bonds,” Koscuisko said. “I have stolen them. I need to talk to you about what happens next.”

  Stildyne had in fact suspected as much, but Koscuisko had handled things carefully and the fact that he had had serendipitous access to a surgery where nobody was watching him come and go down here on Connaught Station meant that nobody else would have thought twice. General Rukota was moving toward them again, however, so Stildyne had to put away his feelings about Koscuisko’s confession and his apparent desire to make Stildyne his co-conspirator for later examination.

  “I’ll look out for them,” Stildyne said. “We can talk later. When we get to Emandis, or is there something I need to know sooner?”

  Koscuisko had turned around to watch Rukota’s approach. “I would want you to know before I tell them,” Koscuisko said unhappily. “Out of respect, if nothing else.” What did that mean, when “respect” was all he was ever going to get from Andrej Koscuisko? “But you are right. It will be safest.”

  Koscuisko had a privacy field available to him in his office, where it was understood that sensitive formal discussions on medical issues might take place. Koscuisko couldn’t have him in to the office for a private tête-à-tête without somebody in communications getting too curious about it, though, not unless Stildyne was under medical care for one reason or another.

  The temptation for someone to do a periodic maintenance over-ride when the standard “privacy field invoked” notification came up in the communications center might be too much to expect a bored technician to resist, and the Ship’s Intelligence Officer herself was one of the most bored people on board the JFS Ragnarok, from what Stildyne knew of her history. Either bored, or unnaturally curious — the effect was the same, and he had been grateful enough for Two’s prying in the past when he had needed to know where Koscuisko was. One way or another Koscuisko’s feeling that he didn’t want to talk about next steps on board of the Ragnarok made perfect sense to Stildyne.

  “Later, then, your Excellency, and I’ll look out for it.” Stildyne didn’t know how good Rukota’s hearing was, and did not want to risk calling Koscuisko “Andrej.” Stildyne wasn’t sure he’d ever heard anybody use Koscuisko’s name in all of the years that Koscuisko had been assigned. Except for Captain Lowden, come to think of it — Lowden had enjoyed flaunting his superior rank — but Lowden was dead, and Rukota hadn’t been with the Ragnarok then anyway. “General Rukota, sir.”

  Rukota didn’t need to tell Stildyne to stand at ease; Koscuisko was the superior officer, so it went without saying that Stildyne was doing as Koscuisko had instructed him. Rukota gave Koscuisko his salute accordingly. “Thanks, Chief. Your Excellency. Captain sends me to retrieve you as soon as possible. Wants your report on our current virus situation, sir.”

  Garrity and Hirsel had come back out of the ship and were waiting at a polite distance. Koscuisko nodded. “Very well, General, let us go to the transport ship. Mister Stildyne. Have the gentlemen pack.”

  Not as if there was much to pack, although Koscuisko would be anxious about the rhyti-brewer. He was running low. His cousin Stanoczk would be bringing a fresh supply of leaf, Stildyne guessed. “Very good, your Excellency. Right away.”

  And he’d find out all about whatever else was going on when Koscuisko got to Emandis proper. The sooner they got there, then, the sooner Stildyne would know; so there was no time to be wasted, and he went off to quarters with Hirsel and Garrity in tow to get packed and report to transport for return to the Ragnarok.

  ###

  The approach to Imennou launch-field was grimmer and more depressing moment by moment as the courier flew through great greasy clots of black soot even in the upper atmosphere. It was more similar to flying through the ash-cloud days after a volcano had blown out its side than anything Jils could think of, except of course that volcanic ash would settle and work its way back into the soil and improve the drainage of the fields and generally display its positive side in time.

  There was no excuse for the roiling gouts of ash from Brisinje’s launch-field. It would take a much longer time for each particle to settle out of atmosphere, longer still to sink into the background and degenerate and yield what nutrients or supplements the Brisinje florae and faunae could take for their use from burned fuel and vaporized metal.

  By the time the courier touched down at Imennou launch-field, Jils was even more depressed about the whole thing than she’d already been from her first glimpse of the cloud over the Reggidout River; it was out of proportion, she knew that, but all of the tension she had been unable to banish or sublimate over the months of the murder investigation seemed to have surfaced strictly in order to attach itself to the first good external cause she could find.

  Imennou was a pretty launch-field, with white walls for blast containment and cheerful green vines of crimson-and-gold trumpet-shaped flowers draped over almost every vertical surface. The architecture ran to flat roofs and low buildings, nothing more than four levels above ground; so that as the courier ran its excess momentum out on the launch-field one saw nothing more than the flower-covered vines, the brilliant white of the blast walls, and the deep blue sky beyond.

  It was a restful sight, presenting the illusion that one was almost alone. Illusion: and almost, because there were of course people waiting for them behind the window of a thermal barrier — Security by the color of the uniform — and a ground-car on the track at the back wall by the sliding gate.

  The courier slowed as it neared the waiting party. She could count the Security from her place in the wheelhouse; Security she understood, but there was someone there who was not Security, and something inside her chest-wall somewhere believed she recognized him.

  “Flown into Imennou before?” she asked the pilot, whose handling of the landing had been expert. It didn’t have to mean that the approach had been as smooth as it had been because the pilot was already familiar with the air-currents and the prevailing weather conditions, but the skill displayed in the landing had been a potential hint, and if the pilot was familiar with the area maybe he’d know who those people were.

  “Not really, Dame. Through Brisinje, mostly. Ferried your counterpart, there, from time to time, if it’s not a breach of confidence to say so.”

  No, of course it wasn’t. Not unless the pilot had been instructed to say nothing, and if he’d been told to keep shut he’d never have mentioned it. “If I didn’t know better I’d be tempted to guess that I know him,” Jils said carefully, soliciting the name without coming ri
ght out and asking for it. The closer the courier got, the more familiar that one man looked. Above average height for a Jetorix hominid, his arms crossed over his broad chest with his hands wrapped around his elbows in a very familiar fashion, an easy smile, hair that curled and waved around his temples and fell to his strong shoulders like the decoration of a ritual mask —

  “Specialist Delleroy,” the pilot said, as if he hadn’t noticed being pumped for information. “I don’t have much experience with people at your level, Dame, if you don’t mind my saying so. He’s got the common touch, though, doesn’t he?”

  And surely there was not another Bench specialist in known Space who stood quite so confidently and self-contained as that, perfectly calm, perfectly ready for any event, perfectly in command of the very ground on which he stood. Delleroy. Padrake Delleroy.

  She wasn’t going to think about his common touch, or his uncommon touch, or any of the different sorts of touches at which Padrake excelled. It hadn’t been five years; she’d thought it was hard enough five years ago, but seeing him there, now, as if he was waiting for her, was almost more than she could bear.

  There was refuge and sanctuary to be had in Padrake’s embrace. No one had ever made her feel so cherished, so vulnerable, so taken care of — all things to be avoided like a death sentence, by a Bench specialist, because any sort of loss of objectivity could be just that, and when a Bench specialist failed and died there was too good a chance that innocent civilians would suffer for the error as well. It was just the nature of the profession.

  Padrake had understood that as well as she had; they had parted by mutual agreement, severing their swiftly-becoming-too-close relationship while it could still be done without hurt and recrimination. She hadn’t seen him since because she couldn’t help remembering how good it had been with him, how it had just kept on getting better, how she could have given up her career and her duty and her mission and lived happily as Padrake’s partner if only she had not been Bench specialist Jils Tarocca Ivers. If only.

  That wasn’t the point, she admonished herself. The point was that it hadn’t been feelings of hostility that had kept them apart, but rather too strong an echo of the reasons why the connection had had to be severed in the first place.

  “I do know him, then.” She’d been silent for almost too long; the pilot would be wondering. “I hadn’t realized he was at Brisinje, though. I hope he’s not driving. He’s a demon, in a land transport.”

  “Been here about five years that I know of, Dame.” The courier was stopped; the pre-disembarking checks were running with the efficiency that characterized everything on this ship, including its pilot and crew. “There’s the all-clear. Free to disembark, Bench specialist, and it’s been the honor of the Emandis Home Defense Fleet to have provided you with transport, on behalf of the rule of Law and the Judicial order.”

  Formal and polite, as well as efficient; but there was nothing obsequious about the reading the pilot gave the standard formula. “Thank you, pilot, it’s been a very enjoyable trip.” Maybe that was the wrong word. But it was said. All she could do was move on.

  Her kit was already packed and waiting, Karol’s note was tucked into her blouse. Down the ramp and out into the all-but-painfully clear sunlight; suddenly the white of the blast walls was almost glaring, too intense to be looked at directly. Was that the reason why so much of the surface was covered with flowering vines? To cut down on the dazzlement?

  Padrake had started toward her as she cleared the ramp from the courier’s loader. Now he broke into a lazy sort of a jog, something she remembered as hellishly ground-eating even while it looked almost effortless. For a big man he was very light on his feet, as befit a specialist renowned for his subterfuges and stratagems.

  “Jils Ivers! Really you!” he crowed, and took her into his arms for a warm embrace. Which he loosed before she had a chance to decide exactly how she felt about it but not before she noted that he was using the same scent in his toiletries as he had before, something with crisp notes and elements reminiscent of roots and fragrant bark and sharp spices all at one and the same time.

  “So good to see you, Jils. I hoped it would be you, how many Bench specialists named Jils Ivers could there be? But still it could have been a ruse on the part of the Second Judge to keep you for herself, at work on a criminal case when the fate of the Jurisdiction is to be determined. Glad it wasn’t a ruse. How are you, how have you been?”

  How did he think she’d been, living under suspicion and the constant possibility of being assassinated lurking just out of sight behind her chair every waking hour? “Well, all the better for the seeing of you,” she mocked him, gently, with one of his own catch-phrases. “Padrake. How have you been keeping yourself?”

  “Busy.” Of course. He seemed to remember himself only barely in time to refrain from attempting to carry her kit bag, something a man with Padrake’s background did almost by reflex in the company of women but which she had suffered only as a special favor during the days of their intimacy. One did not presume to fetch and carry for Bench specialists; not even, or especially, if one was a Bench specialist. “This way.”

  The ground-car that was waiting for them could well be the First Secretary’s official vehicle; it almost had to be, unless Brisinje was in the habit of provoking its subordinate Courts by flaunting its wealth. Not a good idea, in Jils’ estimation, but some administrations did take the stance that a convincing enough display of power and luxury could contribute to the public weal and welfare — so long as it was perceived to be attainable. So long as people believed that anybody could grow up to be First Judge; or at least First Secretary, if they were men.

  “Nice transport, Padrake, have you been prospecting in ice-fields in your spare time?”

  He snorted. “You know better than that.” Yes. Bench specialists didn’t have any spare time. “It’s a long ride overland to Brisinje, six hours, maybe longer. No-fly zone in effect because of the unpredictable thermals and the smoke, and nobody was using this, so why not? Hop in.”

  The driver would be in the front compartment of the ground-car, shielded, isolated in the cabin. The ground-car opened its doors politely as she approached, the near recliner offering itself to her; as she sat down and let the recliner carry her into the interior of the car she felt the padding adjust itself around her body, a little more support here, a little lower for the neck-roll there. It was a very nice ground-car indeed.

  She lay back and gazed up into the star-field displayed against the inside of the roof while Padrake’s recliner moved around into its position in turn. The doors closed themselves, the security bands crept slowly and meekly across her belly, across her thighs, to meet and mesh and welcome her in so that she would be protected from translation injury in the unlikely event of an accident. Or at least prevented from becoming a translation injury herself. Security webbing could do little to stop objects from coming toward her at a high rate of speed; the ground-car had other defenses, for that.

  Suddenly she wished that Padrake had taken a much less comfortable car. She was so tired. She could hear the subtle crackling sounds in her spine and in her neck as long-tense muscles relaxed; if she wasn’t careful she was going to fall asleep, she knew it. Maybe there were stimulants on board?

  Reaching for the slider that secured the refreshments bar Jils opened it to have a look at what was available to her. Luxury goods. Expensive sweets; premium savories; small containers with some of the most intriguing names in mood-altering potables in known Space. All strictly legal, of course, that went without saying; conspicuous consumption. Jils frowned. She wasn’t sure she felt quite comfortable indulging herself in Neris extract or banner-honey or nectar of obaya while Brisinje’s launch-fields were burning.

  “Something the matter?” Padrake asked. “There’s kilpers, if you want some. Jade-pressed and shell-filtered, the best stuff, or so people who drink kilpers have told me.”

  Shaking her head Jils reached for a retort-fla
sk of rhyti. It was the least expensive drink in the cabinet, and it was expensive enough from the label — she’d learned a bit about rhyti and where it grew and what made its grades, keeping up on Koscuisko at Verlaine’s instruction.

  Most commercial rhyti was a soft sweet mild pale beverage, but what Koscuisko drank was brewed from the leaf from one series of hill-stations that caught the rain and the wind in the right way or had a unique blend of minerals in its soil or some such combination of factors that yielded an herb that steeped as red as fury and as sharp as iron. It was no wonder he put all that milk and sugar in it. Koscuisko’s favorite would take a person’s stomach lining right up, surely, if drunk incautiously.

  “I was expecting survival rations and water,” she lied, to cover her discomfort. “My pilot promised me.”

  Padrake seemed to consider this claim for a moment, his head half-inclined toward her in the soft soothing yellow cabin light. The ground-car had started moving; she could see its route-reports update, alongside the front console. She scarcely felt it. “I think I’ve seen that make of courier before. Only one in active service, if I’m not mistaken — Fleet size restrictions, of course. If it’s the ship I think it is I might have met the pilot, interesting fellow, who’d you have?”

  There was something about the rhyti that was peculiarly delicious. What was it? Surely she was not to be doomed to develop a taste for expensive leaf? Had her issue with rhyti been the result of foolishly restricting herself to what a reasonable person could afford?

  “I didn’t spend more than a few hours in the wheelhouse. I had work.” Which she hadn’t done, looking for clues about Karol’s note; but Padrake didn’t need to know that. “Seemed a competent sort. Emandisan. Ees-ihlet, I think he said.”