Angel of Destruction (6 page)

Who was at the window?

Walton could hear Modice, though she still couldn’t quite make out the words. Modice’s tone of voice was all surprise and perplexed joy; there was no alarm nor any uncertainty there. Whoever it was inspired no fear of any sort in Modice’s nineteen-year-old heart. But Modice was fearless.

“ — for a cargo. Of course I agreed. I haven’t seen you in more than two years.”

Walton frowned.

On the resource side of the status sheet, to judge by the sound of the voice the man who was explaining — excusing — his presence so blithely to Modice was at the window, yes, but on the other side of it yet. He was not in the room with her sister’s daughter. Modice was in no danger of finding herself overcome by instinct, let alone violence, or at least not yet.

On the draw-down side was the fact that Walton thought she recognized that voice.

Modice said something, and stifled a giggle. Walton listened carefully to the man’s reply, her suspicions mounting moment by moment.

“Forget you, never, Modice. There isn’t anyone like you under Jurisdiction, and I’ve never been to Gonebeyond space. I’d have come to see you sooner if I’d had a decent chance.”

That Sarvaw mercantile pilot.

What had his name been?

Kazmer. Kazmer Daigule.

The friend of her older brother’s oldest son, Hilton, a big lumbering barge of a man with sufficient calm quiet charisma to have almost seriously disturbed Modice’s psychological equilibrium, not too many years ago.

Modice was clearly not very disturbed right now; her voice had strengthened from a whisper to a murmur, and Walton could hear what she was saying even though Modice clearly had her back to the room, talking out the window.

“If you had the interest, you’d have come sooner. But it’s nice to see you. And Hilton will be sorry he missed you. Hilton likes you, Kaz.”

There was no venom to her scolding, but no childish uncertainty, either. Walton listened to her with pride and wonder: if only Modice’s mother was alive, to hear how her daughter had grown. Modice seemed clearly confident of her ability to hold her own with a man several years her elder. She had learned well, during the years that the Langsariks had lived as a fleet-borne community. She took after Walton herself a bit, maybe; or maybe it was just the result of having been beautiful all her life, Walton admitted to herself, reluctantly. Modice couldn’t have learned that from her aunt Walton.

“Oh, there are those in your family who don’t like me at all, Modice.” Daigule seemed to be teasing, but his tone of voice was ambiguous — was that genuine regret that she heard? “Your aunt doesn’t care for me a bit. She told me so. Well, she told Hilton.”

She would have to see his expression and his body language to decide for sure. For that she would have to be able to see into the room, to spy as well as eavesdrop.

“Aunt Walton is just a little overprotective. That’s all.”

Walton didn’t know if she wanted to hear this. Raising Modice hadn’t been her idea; she had neither expected nor been prepared to take responsibility for the child that Modice had been when her parents had been killed. She knew she hadn’t done as good a job as a real mother could have, would have done. But if she withdrew — to avoid hearing scornful words from Modice — she would be leaving the situation unresolved; and she would not be able to close the door quietly enough to avoid alerting Modice to the fact that someone had been listening.

“She’s no such thing.” Given her suspicions about Daigule’s designs on Modice, it certainly felt odd to hear him, of all people, come to her defense. “She just means to see you properly married to someone who shares your own culture. Sometimes I think she forgets that you and I have already been to bed together.”

Walton tightened her grip on her truncheon. Been to bed together, was it? She’d give him “been to bed together,” all over his foolish skull.
Been to bed together
. How dare he?

“Kazmer, no joking. That was serious. You know very well it was the only way to hide you. Shame on you.”

That Sarvaw had been fully clothed at the time. At least from the waist down, a certain degree of bareness being necessary to carry the deception off. The soldiers had been too busy trying not to stare at the blinding perfection of Modice’s flawless shoulders to think too deeply on the potential correspondences between the person of interest they were hunting for and the apparently naked young man in her niece’s bed.

Or if they had made up their own minds about what was going on, their insufferable tyrant of a junior officer had arrived at no such conclusion, and nobody had bothered to disabuse him of a notion that he had clearly felt to be near sacred on account of having been his.

“Come on, Derchie, I’m only joking, it’s just you and me. I didn’t mean any harm by it, who else can I talk to? And I’m here to tell you that any man who got to share a bed with you, and didn’t want to talk it up, would have to be crazy.”

“No jokes!” Modice sounded exasperated; she had raised her voice, but quickly dropped it again. “We’re in settlement now. We have to maintain appearances. If my aunt so much as caught you here, she’d call my cousins to beat you. And if you can’t at least respect my feelings, I’ll call for her, I’m warning you.”

That was a good idea, too, Walton thought. The one about calling Modice’s cousins to run Daigule off. How had he gotten past the perimeter watch? She’d have something to say to the night security tomorrow morning at debriefing.

Still, Daigule hadn’t done anything to deserve a beating — yet. And cousins could get overenthusiastic where they thought the honor of a girl-cousin was involved.

“I’m sorry, Derchie. I didn’t come to quarrel.” It seemed that Daigule finally realized that he’d overstepped the boundaries of Modice’s maidenly modesty. It had been three years. Modice had been much younger, so much so that Walton doubted Daigule had fully realized the potential damage his lighthearted flirting might inflict. Modice had always looked older than she actually was; her beauty surrounded her with an aura of knowledge and power that was easy to mistake for that of an adult woman.

“It’s all right, Kazmer, we’re friends. But it hurts my feelings when you make fun of me. Nobody knows about that but family.” No, they’d kept the secret of Kazmer’s escape, to avoid compromise. And to spare Modice the teasing. “Still. You should go now. Come in the daytime if you want to visit me. Bring a present for my aunt.”

Walton held her breath.

Was Modice giving Daigule permission to court her?

Or was she just pointing out the awkwardness of coming to a young woman’s window in the middle of the night?

“I did bring a present for you,” Daigule said. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing that might embarrass you. Unless you have some bizarre objection to really tasteless patterns.”

Modice almost succeeded in stifling an apparently involuntary shriek of thrilled horror, so that it came out a squeak. “Kazmer. It’s awful. What is it?”

Walton listened eagerly for the answer.

“For your hair, Modice. Head scarf. Or a handkerchief. Rolled for a fabric belt, I don’t know. Can be used to dust small and not easily breakable objects. Put this on first thing in the morning and nothing worse will happen to you for the rest of the day.”

Well, it clearly wasn’t an intimate garment, or something that would have been otherwise improper between friends. Walton relaxed a bit.

“Go away, Kazmer,” Modice said, her voice soft with what sounded like affection. “And don’t come back unless it’s to the front door. In the daytime.”

Where Walton could be waiting — with reinforcements, if necessary. Now that she knew that there was the possibility that Daigule would visit.

“By your command, beautiful Modice. Give my regards to your family. My respects to your aunt. No. Wait. Better hold off on that for a day or two. Give me time to get out of system. Good night.”

Walton had to smile.

It was a shame Daigule was so unsuitable for a Langsarik household. He already knew them so well.

But he wasn’t suitable for a Langsarik household — because he wasn’t a Langsarik.

Walton heard the shutters click against one another as Modice closed her window. She pulled the bedroom door back shut, carefully matching her movements to the sounds Modice was making in order to mask anything that might draw attention to herself.

Modice had carried the mission on her own, and hadn’t needed backup after all.

How long would it be before Modice told her about Daigule’s visit?

Would Modice tell her?

The only way to find that out was to wait and see; and that could be done just as well or better from the comfort of one’s own bed as standing barefoot in a dark hall.

Her feet were cold.

Modice might decide to visit the bathroom before she went back to sleep. The hall had to be empty in case that happened.

Satisfied with Modice’s handling of her midnight suitor, Walton Agenis went back to bed.

Chapter Three

Kazmer Daigule stood close behind the Langsarik raid leader in the dock-master’s office at the Tyrell Yards, keeping his head down and his eyes lowered. Between the visored cap pulled low over his brow and the artificial beard that covered most of the rest of his face there was little chance of anybody being able to recognize him later; but he was taking no chances.

“Sorry to make you wait,” the Tyrell Yards’ dock-master said to the raid leader, keying her transmit. “We just can’t be too careful these days. Have you heard about what happened at Okidan?”

If Kazmer tilted his head just a bit and squinted hard he could see the message the dock-master sent scrolling across the capture unit.
Request confirmation, freighter on scheduled load-out from Port Charid to receiving office in Tweniva. Tyrell Yards. Please authenticate as follows
.

This was the tricky part.

There was a small courier shuttle in the vehicle transport bay of the freighter Kazmer had piloted from Port Charid to the Tyrell Yards, here in the Shawl of Rikavie. On board that shuttle was an illegal communications intercept board, and the woman working that board had to intercept the dock-master’s signal and match it with precision and delicacy in order to ensure that it was fully damped — effectively canceled out — before it could reach Charid.

Then it was just a question of waiting for the right interval to pass before transmitting a false response with the right security characteristics to pass scrutiny.

“Okidan, yes.” The raid leader had given his name as Noman, a transparent but perfectly acceptable label under the circumstances. “And everybody has their own theory of how it was managed, too. Which they’ll tell you all about, if you don’t get away in time.”

Noman wasn’t anyone that Kazmer recognized; not that he’d really expected to — Noman had taken prudent steps of his own to disguise his identity. A beard, a little transparent gum at the corners of his eyes to change their size and shape, all the tricks — and so well done that Kazmer had to really look closely to realize the deception.

Noman’s voice was casual, even light; Kazmer envied his composure. Kazmer did his best to stay calm as the moments passed; finally, the dock-master’s board chirped its receipt announcement. Kazmer already knew what this one was supposed to read, but he couldn’t help being nervous about it.

We authenticate, Tyrell. Freighter
Sansifer
en route to Tweniva with authorization to carry manifest as follows. You may proceed with assurance.

Kazmer rubbed the back of his neck irritably as if scratching a sudden itch, just to cover the relief he felt.

The dock-master closed the transmission with a casual gesture; clearly, she hadn’t been genuinely concerned — just prudent, in unsettled times. Nor was there any particular reason for her to be suspicious; there hadn’t been a raid in weeks, and unannounced traffic was apparently not unusual.

“Right,” the dock-master said. Turning around, she started toward the door to her office that would lead back out onto the load-in docks, beckoning for Noman and Kazmer to come with her. “Let’s load cargo.”

Time to get started, then.

Noman nodded to Kazmer, who acknowledged the unspoken command with a crisp nod of his own before breaking into a quick jog-trot, heading out toward the freighter, where it waited with its load-in ramp unshipped and ready. They had cargo to unload and cargo to load, and then just before they left they’d off-load the courier so that the raiding party could make a separate escape.

That way the freighter’s cargo stayed clean, with no stray weapons or unexplained extra crew to cause suspicions in anyone’s mind when they came to pass inspection by the Port Authority at Anglace. Kazmer was just as happy to be rid of the courier. The presence of the illegal communications equipment would be a dead giveaway to any inspector, and there was no sense in risk for risk’s sake.

By the time the freighter’s crew had the cargo crates ready to move, the dock-master had called up some station resources to help; the work went quickly. There were seven large cargo crates tagged for off-load at Tyrell, and once they were on the dock the engineer took charge of getting them lined up — at right angles to the back of the freighter — as Kazmer went to let Noman know that they were ready to start the load-in.

The freighter’s crew all wore caps and gloves, but dockworkers frequently wore protective gear when load-in and unload-in cargo; it was nothing to remark upon. Meaning in turn very little danger of being recognized: final reassurance that there was to be no killing on this raid. The raid leader would hardly have gone to all the trouble he had to ensure their anonymity if he’d been planning on simply murdering any potential witnesses, after all.

The dock-master was reviewing the manifest with Noman. “This is an odd lot,” she said; and there was a little hint of discomfort in her voice. Was she beginning to suspect something? “Here, Pettiche, take a look. This could take a while, there doesn’t seem to be much coherence to the pull list.”

If he looked behind him, Kazmer could see the engineer and the fence standing with the off-loaded crates, waiting for the next phase. Freighter to the left of them, the long wall of the dock-master’s office to their right, they had a good view of the entire docking bay.

One of the people who had been helping them off-load joined Noman and the dock-master at the foot of the freighter’s load-in ramp; Kazmer thought for a moment that he recognized the man.

“Er, well.” Noman’s voice was vibrant with slightly embarrassed apology. “The fact is, we’re already late. My fault, not my crew’s fault, so I owe them considerably. But we’ll all lose our promptness bonus if we don’t deliver in good time. Is there any way to hurry this along?”

The third person looked the manifest over, then handed it back to the dock-master. “We don’t have to take all of that long.” No, Kazmer realized, hearing the man speak. He didn’t actually recognize the third person. He only recognized who the third person was, in a general sense. “If we called all available hands. They’ll complain about losing their sleep-shifts, some of them, but I imagine the cargo-master here — ” nodding at Noman — “could find some way to make it up to them, am I right?”

Kazmer was Sarvaw. He knew Dolgorukij when he saw one. The accent was as good as a star chart, and the face more so, familiar in the indefinable way that people of one’s own blood were familiar. Veesliya Dolgorukij, or Kazmer missed his guess, and he didn’t think he did. Sarvaw knew from Dolgorukij. A beaten dog never forgot the face of its tormentor.

“Oh, you can be sure of that,” Noman replied with grateful enthusiasm. “If we can get our load-out done in time to meet the schedule, you won’t be sorry. I know I’ve got something on board worth missing a sleep-shift for, I guarantee it’ll be a memorable occasion.”

The dock-master shrugged and smiled. An older woman, she had a professional smile, one of the kind that involved lips and teeth but no real feeling. It didn’t seem to be anything personal, though; it seemed clearly to be her habit to be a little reticent. Because she sounded positive about the whole idea. “Well, all right. See it done, Pettiche. The sooner we get cargo off, the sooner we can all relax and enjoy a little well-earned treat.”

Up into the freighter for the special crate, then. Kazmer and the navigator moved it down the ramp to the front of the load-in ramp, just to one side of Noman and the dock-master. By the time they got it into position cargo pallets were starting to arrive on the docks, and people with them.

Raising his head to get a good view, Kazmer scanned the busy scene quickly before adjusting his visor. There were a lot of people here, fifteen, twenty perhaps. A lot of cargo. Tyrell Yards was holding luxury fabrics and botanicals, and the freighter would carry a full load to Anglace.

With the station crew on hand to help, the load-in went as smoothly as anyone could wish. Kazmer watched the freighter’s cargo bays fill with a mixture of satisfaction and anxiety. On the one hand a load-in was just a load-in, like any other; and load-in was unexciting drudgery by its very nature.

On the other hand, he’d never been so intimately involved in a raid before. He’d moved illegal cargo, and he’d participated in the illegal disposition of somebody else’s goods, but this was the first time he’d ever participated in an actual raid. And yet what was there to worry about? These were Langsariks. They knew what they were doing.

When the load-in was finished Kazmer joined the freighter’s crew gathered around the special crate at the side of the freighter while Noman and the dock-master reviewed the cargo manifest, checking for completeness.

The seven cargo crates they’d off-loaded first were big standard pre-pack units, each just less wide than a standard freighter corridor was wide, just less tall than a standard freighter’s cargo bay overhead clearance.

The special crate was much smaller, table-top square, the sort of thing that usually held luxury goods. Specialty meats. Bulk confections and delicacies. Small containers of liquor or recreational drugs. The station crew had started to collect in the now-empty space between the freighter and the dock-master’s office, clearly waiting for the promised reward that the special crate represented; endorsing the manifest with a satisfied chop of his personal hand-seal, Noman handed the documents board back to the dock-master, assessing the assembly with a measuring eye.

“This must be everybody on base,” Noman said to the dock-master, but a little too loudly for just the casual remark that it seemed to be. “Can there be anyone at all who isn’t here?”

Looking up from the completed manifest, the dock-master went from face to face, counting bodies against the backdrop of the seven cargo crates Kazmer had helped to unload earlier. One of the men Kazmer saw there was wearing the Langsarik colors, the uniform denuded of any identification markers but unmistakably Langsarik by its cut and shade. One of the people supposedly called in from sleep-shift, obviously, or he’d be wearing a station work suit instead of his personal clothing.

“That’s everybody, all right,” the Dolgorukij at the dock-master’s side — Pettiche — answered.

Noman nodded.

“Very well, then. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m announcing a small change in plan.”

It was the signal.

The fronts of the seven cargo crates exploded with sudden shocking violence, scattering chips of structural board across the load-in bay floor.

Startled and stunned like the rest of her crew, the dock-master took an involuntary step forward, trying to see what was going on. Raiders. The crates were full of raiders, two Langsariks to a crate, moving out quickly to form a tight-curved line with weapons trained on the station crew gathered in the load-in bay.

The engineer broke into the special crate and handed out the weapons that were there. Some of the station crew were starting to step back, looking to the belly of the freighter to take cover; but Kazmer and the other freighter crew had that escape route in their line of fire, now.

No escape.

The fence nudged the dock-master in the ribs with the muzzle of an assault weapon; and slowly — with visible reluctance, her face showing her confused shock and helpless rage — the dock-master raised her open hands away from her body, with her palms flat in a gesture of surrender.

“Let’s everyone just sit down where you are,” Noman suggested. “We don’t want anybody getting hurt.”

If anybody made a break for cover beneath the freighter, they could lose control of the situation. There would be shooting. Kazmer waited, holding his breath.

Nobody moved.

Then — slowly, and with evident reluctance — Pettiche the Dolgorukij bent his knees awkwardly and sank down slowly to sit cross-legged on the floor.

“Everybody sit down,” Noman repeated. “Dock-master. We’d appreciate your cooperation. With a little luck and some common sense, nobody needs to be the worse for this. Except maybe the owners, and they’re insured anyway, aren’t they?”

Kazmer still didn’t dare relax.

But the situation did seem unquestionably weighted in the Langsariks’ favor; and nobody wanted trouble, after all.

The dock-master spoke, finally. “You heard the man.” Her disgust was clear, but so was her evident realization that they were at the mercy of the raiders. “I’m making this an official direction, one you promised to obey when you endorsed your contract documentation. Everybody sits down. Slowly. No sudden moves. Two by two. We’ll start with Gerig and Elsing, sit down on the floor and keep your hands where they can see them. Let’s go, people. Move.”

Kazmer could breathe again.

No bloodshed.

Once everyone was sitting down and under guard in the middle of the room, Noman spoke.

“Right, unship the courier and get out of here. Dock-master. New manifest. This will be easy to load. Everything’s right through there, on the other side of the security door in your office. All we need are your security codes, and we can be out of your way in no time.”

One of the Langsarik crate-raiders came around the outside of the perimeter to relieve Kazmer and his crew. Kazmer surrendered his weapon gratefully. As soon as the courier ship was unloaded they could leave.

Things were going as smoothly as any Langsarik raid should; but Kazmer didn’t like what Noman had just said about the dock-master’s secures.

And still, nothing bad had happened, at least not yet.

Why should anything bad happen at all?

It wasn’t the most welcome experience for the staff here at the Tyrell Yards, perhaps, but it was just cargo. Not even their cargo. Someone else’s cargo. And the Langsariks had been careful to leave them no choice in the matter, no choice at all.

With the courier on the floor and the freighter secured, Kazmer joined the navigator in the wheelhouse, and settled himself into the seat beside her. He was still tense; he couldn’t shake a feeling of residual apprehension, and it apparently showed. The navigator took one look at him and grinned with what seemed to be sympathy, giving his shoulder a friendly shake.