Forge of Heaven (41 page)

“It’s either a good time or a bad time for you to have close associations with the Outsider authority. It all depends on what you do with that situation, Governor Reaux.”

Him, with Jewel Sanduski in the outer office.

And from, an instant ago, him asserting authority over Gide, now Gide seemed prepared to unfold his tent and camp right in the heart of his authority, an entity outside local law, and impossible to get rid of. He didn’t know what to do.

“Let me have it clear, Mr. Gide. You think the Ila is in indirect contact with the Freethinker movement, passing information to them via the taps? And that some rogue lab on Orb is financing a cell here?”

“Yes.”

It was too incredible.

“I’m assured,” Reaux said, “that such information absolutely does not get out of Planetary Observations, sir. The Project Director reminds us this theory has surfaced every few generations, never substantiated in fact. Whatever you think of our information-gathering abilities, we’re constantly on the alert for such a move, however it would come, by some such technology as that pot you questioned, by any other means. We would be aware of any such breach of security.”

“You can’t even find Stafford after a thundering great explosion.

Do I think you couldn’t be unaware of something clandestine operating under your nose? I want out of this place. I want office facilities and staff . . .”

2 6 6 • C . J . C h e r r y h

“Staff, Mr. Gide?”

“You are required to cooperate, sir. My authority and my credentials haven’t terminated. It wasn’t my intent to establish an office of the Treaty Board here, but, de facto, it now exists, as a result of this attack on me.” Gide’s tone was brittle, his jaw alternately trembling and set hard among several chins. “I assure you, Governor, my credentials give me sufficient authority to form such an office, to engage security, to arrest and to bind for trial, in equal legal standing with the local governments and treaty-mandated offices,
including
Mr. Antonio Brazis, including you, sir. I’ll require a residency—the one you afford me is adequate. Office space—
I’ll
choose my own personnel, thank you, starting with my own security, in an office near yours. I’ll expect . . . Mr. Dortland, is it . . . ?”

“Yes.”

“. . . Mr. Dortland to present me a list of possible hires, perhaps some from your staff, but by no means entirely. I’ll want cleri-cals . . . I assure you, sir, my authority does not depend on the ship’s being at my disposal, and they may bar me from entering, but by damn, I can hold the ship here indefinitely or require they take enforcement action, if I’m not satisfied with the level of cooperation I’m receiving from your administration or from Mr. Antonio Brazis’s various imperial domains. You’ll respect those credentials, sir, or there will be consequences.”

In an inner, mostly numb spot, Reaux began to be afraid as well as outraged, while he tried to keep his expression neutral and his mind on track. This was a dangerous, intelligent man. Tranked as he was, unkempt as a drugout in a gutter on Blunt, he still tracked, still reasoned . . . still mounted a terrifying threat. What did it take to knock this man out? “I’ll make initial arrangements for office space, if you like. I understand your injuries will let you out of here in fairly short order.”

“I expect it.”

“I’ll relay your requests to Mr. Dortland.” He was scrambling, mentally, to find a pocket to drop Mr. Gide into—preferably a deep, dark one. And hit on a reassuring objection. “There is an operational precedent for cooperative administrative operations, in the Medical Authority itself, limited by the Treaty on this particular station, but having absolute powers in its sphere. And there is Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 2 6 7

the PO. There’s always the PO, on Concord.” And my relations with it, he thought, doggedly, which weren’t going to change.

“And the
ondat,
who have their own voice. Not to mention the planet itself. All of which I’m charged to keep in equilibrium. The Treaty Board has its powers, but, I’m constrained to point out, sir, the Treaty Board’s authority regulates Treaty compliance, not the planet,
or
the PO, and certainly not the
ondat,
so I must dispute your interpretation of equal standing.”

“You have no authority over my office.”

“You propose to open an office to make yet one
more
authority on Concord, which only makes one of half a dozen, Mr. Gide, and you do
not
outrank the Earth Authority, which appointed me, or the Apex Council, which appointed the local Chairman, nor yet, I assure you, the
ondat
authority, in whose territory, let me recall to you, we actually sit. You don’t even outrank the Medical Authority, which I assure you is very potent within its own sphere. As governor, it’s my job to keep all these jurisdictions in balance and keep relations with the
ondat
and Apex in good order. Your investigation of any breach of containment crosses all these jurisdictions, but most of them are foreign, and that boils down to the fact that you can’t order these other jurisdictions to act, you can only request. Close cooperation, sir, close cooperation between your office and mine is essential, and I assure you that, whatever your credentials, you and your office cannot superimpose any authority over mine. On any other station, perhaps. But try to get me replaced, and discover that you’ll disturb all the alliances and working agreements extant here, in a way very disagreeable to Earth itself. You may be the advocate for the Treaty, but you exist in a constellation of authorities on this station, and you will exist cooperatively within that framework, or you will not function with any power at all. Now let me not be rude. Let me assure you you’ll receive very good cooperation from my office. But not obedience.

You likewise need Brazis’s cooperation, to make headway in his sphere. I suggest diplomacy, Mr. Ambassador.”

It was the best speech of his life. It was absolutely his most eloquent, and after he’d delivered it he found he’d scared hell out of himself, but he meant it. And the one witness to his moment was the victim of an adrenaline load clearly running out, apparent in 2 6 8 • C . J . C h e r r y h

the droop of eyelids, the lines of pain and anger in a pasty-pale face. “Meanwhile my would-be assassin is loose on your well-run station, Governor, and you’ve conveniently misplaced Stafford.”

“We’ll find both, at high priority, I assure you. Meanwhile—”

Reaux started foolishly to reach for a pocket and couldn’t, through the isolation suit. “Meanwhile the hospital staff can reach my office at any moment. Call me if you recall any further details, anything you may have noted and failed to state in the report.”

“Quite a blank at the moment,” Gide said muzzily. He reached for a water glass on the table. It escaped his hands. It fell, spilling its contents.

A cleaner-bot zipped out of its housing in the baseboard and sucked up glass and water both.

“Do you want me to call the nurse?” Reaux asked. “I’ll get you some more water.”

“The hell with it. I’m tired.”

“I’ll be in contact,” Reaux said. “Rest.”

Gide, falling back, shut his eyes, looking like a corpse.

Reaux walked out, earnestly wishing Gide were one.

9

D OW N O N B L U N T . . . down in a maze he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten into—Procyon walked somewhere among the ware-houses that supplied the fancy shops on Grozny, somewhere near a bar he thought he recognized.

But that would mean he’d been going the wrong way.

He’d lost his coat somewhere. Stupid of him. He couldn’t remember how. He knew he was in trouble with Brazis, and he’d folded on his assignment, and the man from Earth wasn’t dead, but good as, with the suit breached. The explosion came back to him. The situation began to reassemble itself, in shattered bits, like glass, each one containing an image, and all out of order.

He did know he shouldn’t be where he was. It was a bad neighborhood. He’d thought sure he was headed right, and after a blank, he turned up here, disoriented, not even sure of the cross street. Bars and frontages changed on Blunt. They moved, sometimes color-shifted overnight without warning, and sometimes the owners just stripped the facade and glued it up somewhere else down the block, which wasn’t guaranteed to be at all where you remembered it being. Cops hated the zone. He wasn’t fond of it, himself, at the moment. He wanted to get home, was all, and he made repeated attempts to tap into the office directly from where he was, that only gave him headache.

He tried again. “Sir?”

Blood shunt and pain behind the eyes.

2 7 0 • C . J . C h e r r y h

Bad pain. Really bad pain, right to the roots of his teeth.

“Procyon.”

The tap came crystal clear for a second.

It was a woman’s voice. Downworld accent. He figured it must be somebody really senior in the offices, somebody senior like Drusus, a tap so used to dealing with the Old Ones it just crept into ordinary speech.

“Where are you, Procyon?”

Pain ebbed. He could think. “In public, ma’am. Can you ease back? You’re coming through very high. It’s painful.” Tears blurred his eyes. But the tap was working. He wasn’t cut off. He didn’t care about the pain. It was all relief. “Tell Brazis I’m sorry . . .”

“What are they doing? What is Brazis doing?”

Then, sharply:
“This is Luz. Answer me.”

It so confused him he stopped cold, out of breath and leaning against a building frontage, ducking slightly into a nook between frontages. He tried to form an answer. A coherent thought.

Luz? There was only one Luz that could be reaching him on that tap.

And she was downworld. Was he hallucinating?

“Answer, Procyon.”

“I don’t know, ma’am.”

“What happened?”

“Something exploded. Something blew up when I was talking to the ambassador. I think—I think I couldn’t hear for a while. I think the tap is damaged. My ears are still ringing. Tell Brazis.”

“Where are you?”

“On the street. I’m confused. I think I’m on Blunt. But I don’t know for sure where I am.”

“Are you badly injured?”

He looked down at himself. Except for losing his coat, except for the dizziness and the memory lapse, he didn’t look hurt. A little dust. He thought he might be bleeding here and there, but it was a dark shirt. “I don’t see anything physical. I’m just shaky. My ears hurt. I can still hardly hear the street. Like everything’s down a deep pipe. Can you help me reach the Chairman?”

“What blew up?”

“I think somebody shot through the door. I tried to help the am-

Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 2 7 1

bassador. His machine was over on its side, but I don’t think he’s dead. Somebody needs to get to him . . .” The pain in his head ebbed a little. Someone in charge of the taps had detected something way out of parameters . . . he didn’t know: he didn’t understand all that went on in Central. He only used what he was given.

Discreetly. Which this wasn’t, standing here, leaning on a frontage like a drunk. He was in deep trouble with Brazis, who wouldn’t like him talking here in public. And Luz was involved. God help him. “Can somebody please get me to the office? I’m a little dizzy.”

Sharp stab of pain.
“Marak is concerned,”
another voice said, likewise female, and in old, old downworld accents.
“Now we
know you’re alive. Good. Ignore Brazis’s orders. Marak demands your
attention. He trusts everyone in this affair less than he needs do, until he
hears from you, and he refuses common sense. Speak to him! Do you hear
us, boy?”

Female. He didn’t know who. But he had a sudden, dire suspicion who it was, besides Luz, and shivered, whispering, “Yes, ma’am.”

A third female voice interposed:
“Ila, he’s not permitted.”
Station accent. Maybe one of the taps.

“But we are permitted,”
that second voice said, autocratic and absolute. And he tried to shut it out and not to answer, but an off signal didn’t work. Nothing he did worked to protect him from that contact, loud as it wanted to be, as nothing he had done had summoned it. He leaned against the wall, unable to control the tremor in his hands, unable to see anything but black, now, and flashes of light in his eyes that tried to form patterns. And he kept thinking what that voice had said, that Marak needed to hear from him, but he couldn’t tap through.

“
Where have you been?”
the female voice demanded of him.

“Some Earth lord arrives, expecting to gain satisfaction from our servants? And local authority permits this? Brazis is mistaken in that estimation of protocols and priorities, let me assure you.”

Silence. Silence so deep and so sudden after that storm in the tap that he felt deaf and blind in its departure. His heart pounded as if he had run the length of the Trend.

Vision returned, hazily so. The lights had stopped flashing.

He tried to reach Brazis. Tried to tap into the system, but pain shot through his skull, his pulse raced, and his control was gone.

2 7 2 • C . J . C h e r r y h

Passersby on the street surreptitiously stared at him, pretending to continue their own business, but noticing, some sizing him up.

Perhaps he had gotten bad news in a tap message. Perhaps he had become ill. In this neighborhood, no one asked. Nobody would intervene—except the predators.

Flash of light. Gentler, this time.

Quieter voice.
“Procyon.”

“Sir.”
Brazis.
With ineffable relief, he turned his face toward the cold wall—not that people on the street weren’t accustomed to drunk people talking to their disembodied taps, or singing or dancing to them, but he had his wits about him now enough to remember some people read lips. “Sir, somebody shot the ambassador.”

“I know.”

“Downworld just tapped in.”

“The Ila, piggybacking on Luz. We know that, too.”

“She can do that?”

“She’s done it before, which you unfortunately now know, and we
don’t know what else she’s gotten her hands on. Don’t discuss that where
you are. Just listen. Where are you?”